I’ve been a Red Sox season ticket holder for more than 30 years, sharing two lower grandstand seats on the third base side with a longtime friend, Bob Purdy.
Every year, we meet up at one of our favorite bars in December, sip martinis and write our checks for the games.
Then, we’d meet again in March — same bar, same martinis — to divvy up the tickets on our weekday plan, generally 48 games.
Not so, this year. We met up at the same bar and drank the same martinis, but we wrestled with the decision:
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Do we pony up $5,606 once again? Or do we say goodbye to something we once loved very much, but less so now?
“My heart says yes,” Bob said a couple of weeks ago, “but the analytical part of my brain says no.” I concurred.
We could both argue either side of the should-I-stay-or-should-I-go dilemma. But when the team is doing badly, as has been the case recently, trudging into games can feel more obligatory than pleasurable. Would coughing up the cash for the 2024 season be a sure sign of masochism?
