Well, they did it. The Boston Red Sox won the World Series.

Even after the ALCS, I wasn’t sure this was the year. Well, a Red Sox fan is never confident, but I didn’t think our pitching could hold down the Cardinals offense. Boy, was I glad to be wrong. Looks like more evidence for the adage that the postseason is all about premier pitching. If you’d told me in advance, I never would have believed that Pujols, Rolen, and Edmonds would have one hit between them.

The World Series was a little anti-climactic after the rush of The Greatest Comeback In Baseball History. Games 1 and 2 were exciting because we seemed to be trying to lose (8 errors?!), but couldn’t. Games 3 and 4 were simply the confident administration of a methodical drubbing. A good move was watching Game 4 down at the local tavern, where we got to drink, shout, and high-five total strangers. Watching a high-stakes sporting event at home on the couch doesn’t have the same impact. (“We won!’ “Huh. Good show.” “Bed, then?”)

There has been a lot of hand-wringing in the sports press (and sour grape-ing in the New York Times) about what the “end of the Curse” means for Red Sox nation. The implication is that now that we’ve won, we won’t know what to do with ourselves. Even Rachel admitted that she was a little conflicted about winning the World Series. Once we’re not Red Sox Nation, bound together by our shared heartbreak, what are we? Just a bunch of people who all happen to root for the same consistently successful team. Like Yankees fans.

(Because let’s face it, for all of our scrappy underdog persona, we have the second-largest payroll in the Major Leagues, and we use it. Exhibit A: Curt “Bloody Sock” Schilling.)

The other day I had the chance to talk to a very nice guy, who happened to be a Yankees fan. I told him my theory that rooting for the Yankees (or any perennially successful team) must be rather unsatisfying. If they win, you’re happy, but not overwhelmed: winning is your due, it is expected. If they lose, you’re stunned and humiliated (see 2001, 2002, 2003, and 2004). What was it really like, I asked, to root for a team like the Yankees?

“It’s really, really great,” he replied.

So I’m not worried about rooting for a successful Boston team. I rooted for a (mostly) successful Cardinals team in the 1980’s, and those were good times. No, what I’m worried about what our lost humility will do to us as fans. How are we going to be identified? We’re not the eternally hopeful, eternally heartbroken group we were until this October. I just hope we don’t end up being the most obnoxious fans in the game.

Don’t get me wrong! I am completely thrilled that we not only beat the Yankees after last year’s cataclysm, but that we beat them in historical fashion. My bigoted uncle (see my “Intermarriage” essay) is a huge Yankees fan, and the thought of showing up at his son’s wedding wearing a Red Sox yarmulke fills me with such joy that I’ve actually caught myself rubbing my hands together and cackling. Cackling!

I’m worried, though, because we’ve shown some bad manners even before we had a championship under our belt. When we’re playing the Devil Rays at Tropicana Field, and the Sox fans outnumber the Rays fans, why do I hear the crowd chanting “Yankees Suck?” Even when we’re playing the hated Boys from the Bronx at Fenway, is that really called for? Sure, the Yankees are overpaid and arrogant, and I’m all about rivalry (back in the StL we used to call the Mets “Pond Scum”) but whatever else you want to say about New York, they don’t suck. At least since the late 90’s, they’ve played themselves some baseball.

And the booing. Look, we were all a little bitter about not getting A-Rod at the beginning of the year. (Although, now? Last laugh.) And yeah, he’s a bit of a punk, and has oddly purple lips. But there’s no call to boo him. In the first game of the World Series, did I really hear the Fenway crowd boo Albert Pujols? Who in their right mind would boo Albert Pujols?! (Heh. Heh. “Poo-holes.”) Our lowest moment, though, as a fan base, was during the introductions before Game 1 when the crowd booed third base coach Dale Sveum. People, I know he’s made some bone-headed decisions directing traffic over there, but to boo a coach? In his home park? On national television? At the World Series? After the ovation everyone else got? Shameful.

So we need to cut that out.

Apart from that, though, I’m not worried about life as a fan of the un-cursed Red Sox. Everyone loves a loveable loser, but everyone also loves a winner, and this bunch is so personable that they’re easy to root for. The best sign, naturally, is that I ended this season with the same words that ended last season (although with a grin instead of a sigh):

“Four months ‘til pitchers and catchers!”

This might be the best documentation of the Red Sox winning the World Series in 2004 Win It For – www.ezboard.com. It’s filled with hundreds of people asking the Red Sox to win for… Most people have a story about who they want the Sox to win for. Usually, it’s because that person either shared many memories with them, or they had been taught to love the Red Sox by them. It’s great and I consider reading it straight through this morning to be my personal celebration of the Red Sox World Series win!!!

You know what you don’t hear about too often? Air conditioners falling out the window. But it happens. It happened to me, and this was my air conditioner.

Luckily, it fell straight down because if it had fallen a little to the left or a little to the right, it would have caused a lot more damage. The air conditioner suffered massive damage and will be replaced in the next year.

Hey, America. Thanks for coming in. Look, I realize it’s been a tough couple of years lately, and I understand you’re having a little trouble getting back on your feet. I’ve been cutting you some slack, letting little things slide… I don’t mean to get all up in your face, but I think I have to say something about the airport.

I understand, America, that travel, and air travel in particular, has a mystique. There’s a sense of wonder, of unbridled possibility, of the unexpected. But here’s the thing, people: the security checkpoint shouldn’t be unexpected.

Can there really be anyone out there who doesn’t know that they’re going to have to put their bags through an X-ray machine and walk through a metal detector? Even someone who’s never been on a plane before – and there’s no way that all of the people I’ve been in line behind have never been on a plane before – must have some notion of how the security works. And yet, standing in line behind many of you, impatience turning to frustration turning to rage, I begin to doubt whether some of you get it. I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to call out two of you in particular.

Cell phone lady? Red hair, too much makeup, too little pants? Providence? Yeah, you. Look, I don’t know who, exactly, you were talking to, but I overheard your half of the conversation, and believe me, it could have waited the two minutes it would have taken for you to just hang the damn phone up and go through security. Do you not see the forty people standing in line behind you? Yeah, we’re waiting for you. Yup, still standing here. It’s your life, certainly, but it’s easier to put your oversized faux-Louis Vitton bag on the belt if you take the phone away from your ear for two seconds. God! Hang up the damn PHONE!

Ok, sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to snap at you, cell phone lady. Because, really, you were nothing compared to old guy in Nashville. Sir, seriously. I get it, you’re old. You’re slow. You have a cane. But does age necessarily have to mean a proliferation of pockets? Because you, sir, had many, many pockets. The two side pockets of your pants. The two back pockets of your pants. Your jacket had two side pockets and one inside pocket. And of course, your shirt breast pocket. Each one of these pockets, believe it or not, had something metal in it that had to go into a little tub on the conveyor belt: keys, change, pens, gum wrappers, paper clips, I don’t even know what. The thing is, you must have put these things in your pockets. It can’t have been a SURPRISE to you that you had thirty-seven pockets full of CRAP, so why did you have to stand there, patting each one in turn, looking satisfied and then remembering that wait, yes, most pants have pockets on BOTH sides, and I’d threaten to stuff you headfirst through the X-ray machine if I didn’t think that would be suspicious behavior.

Seriously, people. We all know the security check is coming. Take the crap out of your pockets, and put it in your bag. Yes, even your keys and your change and especially your cell phone. It’s not hard. It takes fifteen seconds while waiting in line. When you get to the scanner, throw your bag on the belt, put your shoes in the tub, do one last pocket pat just for show, smirk at the rubes emptying their pockets behind you, and then march through like a champion!

And then your belt buckle sets the thing off. But really, at that point at least you’ve done your best.