Dear Boston, Philadelphia and Phoenix:
I’m sorry. I was only trying to help. I had no idea that my ownership of your team’s baseball cap would result in disaster.
Boston, it is well documented that, via various OCD-ish rituals, I did my best to will the Red Sox into the playoffs. Amazingly, my neurotic behavior wasn’t enough to ward off the team’s mind-bogglingly epic meltdown.
Philly, you can blame me if you want to, but your ire would be better directed at the spectacularly underachieving Red Sox. You see, in the moments immediately following their humiliating final loss of the season, I was so disgusted with them — and so eager to deaden the pain they had caused me — that I decided to fully embrace my Philly-area residency by purchasing Phillies caps for not only myself, but for my entire family. That worked out well, huh?
Phoenix, I know this won’t make you feel any better, but I feel like you deserve to know the truth: The only reason I own a Diamondbacks cap is that I coached my son’s little-league version of your team. That, coupled with the fact that I lived in your area for a few years, made me marginally interested in seeing your team advance. Clearly, that’s all it took for me to fuck things up for you guys, too.
In closing, please allow me to again apologize for purchasing your respective team’s baseball cap, and for rooting for them in general. Never again shall I underestimate the extent of my influence over events that any sane person would realize have nothing to do with me.