Being a Red Sox fan is hard enough.

The history of heartache that dogged this franchise for the 86 years between World Championships has caused mental scarring in many members of the senior members of Red Sox Nation.

As Exhibit A in this category of irreparably damaged fanatics, I would like to present to the public the man who taught me the game: my father. In his world, the sky is always falling on the Olde Towne Team, and unfortunately he has been right every season but one. This lack of faith is so ingrained in his person that I can't tell whether it has been passed on to me by nature or nurture; either way, I have also been afflicted.

Growing up in New England, you find yourself surrounded by thousands of otherwise rational people who maintain this irrational love for the local nine. Red Sox logos are everywhere. You see so many team hats and T-shirts in daily life that an outsider would have to assume they constitute some kind of dress code. We are all Patriots fans as well...but I will never forget hearing the sports talk radio conversations in Boston being dominated by hot stove talk as the Pats prepared to take on the Eagles in Super Bowl XXXIX. Baseball comes first, and baseball means the Sox.

This total immersion, however, fosters what amounts to a really unhealthy relationship between true fans and the ballclub. When the Sox lose, the region slows down; if someone asks you what is bothering you, "f'ing Sox" is a perfectly understandable answer. We've all heard that misery loves company, but who knew there was enough company to fill six states?

In this cocoon of Sox self-loathing, we at least can lean on each other for support. If fans of rival franchises try to pile on, we will always be able to outnumber them; we may not really believe that Mo Vaughn was a better hitter than Don Mattingly, but if you get enough people yelling in the right direction you'll at least get the other fan to shut up and/or go away.

Imagine, if you will, that one morning you wake up to find this comfy security blanket has been ripped off in the night. And also that your landlord turned off the heat. And took your clothes. And its February.

That's what it was like to move to New York City.

The bold crimson B's have been replaced on every hat by the pentagram-esque interlaced "NY." Self-depreciation has been replaced in the fan base by self-aggrandizement. No one knows who the Standells are, and Wade Boggs and Roger Clemens aren't the heroes you grew up imitating in your backyard but instead mercenaries who came down 95 to pick up their rings.

And everybody hates the Red Sox. And the asshole wearing the Sox hat in Times Square.

It isn't easy being Sox fan in New York, but keeping in touch with those still safe in their security blankets makes life easier. For now, the Big Apple and the Hub are united in their eagerness to begin a new season.

Pitchers and catchers report in five days.