My Sox-obsessed husband

I THOUGHT I knew what to expect when I married my husband. We had dated for years, and while David is an even-tempered, unflappable soul, he'd told me how he'd had to stay home from seventh grade for three days after the Red Sox lost the 1975 World Series, and then I was with him through their 1986 defeat to the Mets. So it's not that I didn't know what I was getting into.

We moved to Baltimore in 1989. If we count our college years in Philadelphia, David has now lived outside of New England longer than he lived there. Maybe I thought geography would help, but the satellite dish he had placed in the middle of the azaleas allows for continued access to NESN, and the Orioles do nothing to weaken his allegiance to the baseball team of his childhood.

I was surprised to find so many Red Sox fans in Baltimore; sometimes it seems they are everywhere. Our children's pediatrician, my son's high school principal, our family dentist, to name a few. Maybe they're aren't so many -- the orthodontist is a Yankees fan and I remain happy that he has straightened the kids' teeth anyway -- maybe it's just my selective attention or the fact that when one's family members live in Red Sox attire, other fans approach. Surely, as a child I had no idea what teams my teachers and doctors rooted for. Still, when the Red Sox are in town, it does feel like Camden Yards is as least half-filled with Boston fans.

I got used to the roller coaster. Every June, David's hopes would quietly rise. He's not a believer in ''The Curse," and he'd get angry at the romanticized view of loss as destiny. Every spring he'd start off happy, proclaiming, ''This is the year." And every year, by August the Red Sox performance would slide, taking David's mood with it. Until, of course, last year when they won. For weeks after, we'd be out and people would come up to us and congratulate David, as if it was his own personal victory.

My husband was pleased. Pleased. He even used that word. Not ecstatic, euphoric, elated, or rapturous, but pleased. Perhaps I thought, after all these years of waiting, this would add some protective sheen to life, would make it impenetrable to life's blows. After all, the Red Sox had won the World Series.

I thought this year would be different. David should relax. He should not be so invested and obsessed; after all, they have already won and his goal has been met. So this year should be different, and it is -- unexpectedly, David is worse. He stands (yes, stands) in front of the television each night toggling back and forth between the Red Sox and the Yankees, yelling at the screen. They remain in first place, and he yells even when they are winning. Poor Manny Ramirez almost didn't catch a ball, and he was deemed worse than David's little leaguers. We went away last weekend, leaving the satellite dish and NESN behind, but he huddled under the covers checking the play-by-play on his Blackberry.

I'm still trying to figure it out. Perhaps it's simply a matter of wanting more. Now that David knows it can be done, well then it must be done. A goal, not a pipe dream. Why, I wonder? So he can be pleased two years in a row? In the meantime, I wake at night to find the television on -- extra innings on the West Coast -- and I look forward to the end of the season when my husband's normal personality returns and I get to choose a TV show.

Dinah Miller, a psychiatrist and writer, is a Red Sox fan by marriage.