My relationship with the Red Sox? It’s complicated

Dear Red Sox,

Hi. Hey. It's been a while, I know.

You and I, we had some great times together. I liked being a “guy with a baseball team.” I stuck with you for years, through Buckner in ‘86, through Grady in ‘03, supporting you all those times when maybe you didn't deserve it. (Do we even need to bring up a certain 7-20 record in September 2011? I didn’t think so.)

And it was worth it. In those moments when you took our relationship seriously, it paid off. You hired the right guys, you learned how to win, and I loved you for it. 2004, 2007, 2013, not to mention 2018, we were peak relationship goals. I even thought you were the one.

I thought we were in this together. I thought we were trying to make it work. Then, as if 2020 wasn’t already bad enough, you went and traded Mookie Betts — our best player in a generation — without even asking me how I felt about it.

I was furious. I couldn’t take it anymore. So I walked away.

But Red Sox, so did you.

We could have patched things up. Hell, even after I got rid of cable I was careful to subscribe to an online service that carried NESN, in case we wanted to give it another try. I left the door open. I’m not above a situationship. But you got greedy. You broke up with that service, too. I didn't understand why you kept pushing me away.

That's when we really lost contact. For the first time in my life, I was without a baseball team. My baseball team.

Breakups stink, for everyone involved. When I lost NESN, I lost touch with the Bruins, too. It wasn't their fault; I just hate it when friends have to pick sides.

For a while, I didn’t know who I was anymore without you.

I couldn’t believe it was really over. Still, when I heard you kept repeating the same mistakes, like losing Xander Bogaerts to the Padres, or sending Andrew Benintendi (a lefty for crying out loud!) to Kansas City, I figured I got out just in time. This is textbook red flag behavior, and a man can only endure so much.

But five years is a long time to go without a baseball team, and … I'll admit it. I've been keeping tabs on you, despite my better judgment. I’ve always had a weakness for Fenway in September. And when I heard you may even earn a wild card and make the playoffs this year, I couldn’t help but wonder: was I wrong to call things off?

You look good, Red Sox. I’m sorry if that makes things awkward between us, but it's true. If I’m being perfectly honest, it's all I can do to not hit send on a "u up?" message at 2 a.m. Just for west coast games. Just to talk.

What I mean to say is, I know I left you. And maybe that was rash. Maybe baseball teams really can change.

But you have to admit, you haven't made it easy. You say you want me back, but you don’t act like it.

I couldn’t help but laugh when you ditched Rafael Devers in June, thinking "Wow, all these years, and they're still the same jerk." You're hanging around with some characters with questionable pasts. And when I looked to see if maybe we could start things up again, just keep it casual, you tried to hit me up for $30 a month. Thirty dollars! I get HBO for half as much! Do you have dragons playing third base, Red Sox?

God, I'm getting mad all over again. Sorry, that's not why I'm writing, I promise.

I guess I just wanted to let you know that, even after everything, I still wish you well, and, really, I've been fine. I watch soccer now. I'm a Tottenham Hotspur fan. Ask Liverpool from that little Fenway Sports Group clique you hang with, they know the Spurs.

My friends keep telling me it's a rebound team, and they're too much like you. They're a big money club that's cheap when signing players. They had an executive that the fans blamed for some disappointing seasons, even though he did some pretty great things for the team. (Sorry to hear about Larry, by the way. I always liked him, even if I not-so-secretly blamed him for Theo leaving.) It was a team that, until recently, had a reputation for getting close to victory and then ...

I dunno. Maybe I have a type.

Anyway, good luck with your wild card games, Red Sox. I’m wishing you the best.

Yours, kind of,

Berto

P.S. I haven’t changed my number. Call me when you get your sh*t together.