Last year, during the Superbowl, I committed an act of sports heresy. I began the game rooting for the Patriots, albeit without much interest. Halfway through, with the Carolina Panthers threatening, I changed my mind and hoped for an upset. I think that's ok during the Superbowl, because no one really cares about the Superbowl.

But last night, I discovered something else about my sports fandom: I'm not really a Red Sox fan. I'm not just saying that because I didn't feel compelled to turn my car upside down and yell at the police. I say it because, while much of New England was using words like "redemption", "angst", and "Amen", to tell the story of the last two weeks of baseball, I was a little...bored. From my perspective, the Sox were just too much better than the Cardinals for this Series to be interesting. Where was the thrilling nausea of series past?

Realizing this gave me the same feeling of sitting through someone else's wedding, watching his mother cry, and thinking, "Hmmm. Did I order the sea bass or the filet?" The event was not really about me, because a leopard cannot change his spots, and the Mets have yet to cast off their own tiny Yankee curse, one which is exactly one World Series and a few horribly lopsided seasons long.

Sitting through the drubbing that was the last four games - I didn't really think much of it when Manny Ramirez' clumsiness in the field led to Keith Foulke's first blown save of the postseason - I became aware that, yes, I do like the Red Sox. Yes, I will wear my Manny Ortez (John Kerry is going to be President of the United States of America, and he can mix up a few names if he wants to. If I wanted Jerry Remy to be President, I'd write him in.) shirt with pride, keep shelling out ridiculous prices for Fenway tickets and watery beer, and yes, I will continue to spend beautiful May Saturdays in front of the TV (ok, maybe not this coming May, but in general).

But what really fires me up is an intense, burning hatred of the Yankees. It's odd, because I was in fact a Yankee fan at about age 8. In 1984, I believe, the Mets acquired George Foster. It was exciting, because as a somewhat obsessive baseball-stat memorizer I knew that he was one of a handful of players who had hit 50 home runs in a season. Though this stat sounds like your dad talking about 5-cent ice cream cones, it was an elite club back then. This fancy number, combined with a babysitter who insisted that we watch Mets games, converted me.

So in moving to Boston, where one either must hate the Red Sox or love them, I chose love. What's to hate? Though I have taken some heat for supporting both the Sox and the Mets, and though I've cheered for the Mets to beat the Sox in Fenway, I'll stick with it. I won't claim to feel any redemption, and I can't say I've waited for 86 years for anything. Indeed, the last time the Sox were even close, I was rooting against them. But for now, I'll take my chances with twice as many opportunities to beat the arrogant and overblown Yankees each year.

Let's go Smets.

Yesterday was our first required writing class at work. The instructor, who is a freelance reporter who until two years ago was on-air talent and a copywriter at a local radio station whose tagline is "Magic 106.7," began with a joke. Bad sign. Radio that high on the dial is never funny on purpose and often includes musicians named Kenny on the playlist.

First we corrected some grammar in sentences that she had pulled from some things we had written. Since the instructor had earlier introduced herself with an e-mail that included a grammatical error, this was a surprise. But I had to respect that she went right at it. I learned that many people with whom I do not know what a compound sentence is. Jokes about "Why, the last time I had to do this..." were thick in the air.

Next, we corrected more grammar. This time it was an entire letter written without punctuation, carefully worded so that the meaning could be changed depending on where the commas and periods were placed. Like so:

"Joe - You have ruined me for other men. I yearn for you..."
"Joe - You have ruined me. For other men I yearn..."

And so on. Ostensibly, this activity was intended to show us the importance of putting punctuation in our writing. Baby, I'm a believer!

For homework, we have to write a letter about our company to either a friend or "a politician in Washington." Maybe I'll send one of you the letter. It is sure to be well punctuated.

My brother spent 10 days in Japan. Among the scenes of soothing rock gardens and glitzy skyscrapers, he photographed this.

I've said it before: if you want to amuse yourself, place an ad somewhere and wait for the awful, awful resumes to pour in. We're advertising for something, and the pouring has begun. It doesn't matter what we're hiring for, the best resume line I've ever seen appeared on one of them:

"Suitable sense of humor."

In baseball news, the Braves lose in the playoffs again. They should be required to beat some sort of spread to win that division ever again. From a friend in South Carolina who lives and dies by the Braves:

Is there a permanent position at Turner Field called "Director of Visiting Team Postseason Celebrations"?

Went to a great wedding this weekend. Man, do I love weddings. First you have excuse to have everyone you know stay in the same place for the weekend. Then there are the free dinners. Since we try to avoid being friends with people who do not have good taste in food, we have avoided being fed too many rubber chickens. Another nice touch are those little goody bags into which the bride and groom painstakingly ration peanut butter crackers and little bottles of water. At this wedding, we also got a toothbrush and a little tube of toothpaste, which could be useful after those crackers. They tend to stick to the teeth. I love a good wedding band and a nice set of vows. Be honest: when’s the next time you’re going to see anyone say such nice things about someone else in public, and then hire you a band for celebratory dancing? The answer is never.

We got home Monday afternoon and reentered reality with a trip to the always-aggravating Home Depot. I consider Home Depot the worst store in the world for several reasons. It seems to be staffed by an infuriating combination of retired contractors and Bed, Bath, and Beyond rejects. The effect of this combination of minds is to convince you that it would be worth asking someone for help to decide, as I did yesterday, what to buy to insulate the scalding hot pipes that turned our basement into a fascinating but expensive experiment in microclimates last winter. There’s a chance you’ll get to talk to a former plumber, but there’s also a chance that you’ll explain the details of the ill-conceived project on which you’ve embarked only to hear, “Um, maybe you could use, like, foil? I don’t know, really. I just started, and I work in shelves, mostly. You should find someone else to talk to.”

At our fancy grocery store, the fruit is beautiful. The meat looks nice and clean. The fish doesn’t sit in grayish pools of melted ice and fish goo. But what I like best is that when I ask where something is, someone walks me to the item in question. No directions, no pointing, no grunting. After all, they’re not performing heart surgery. It’s nice to be walked places. This does not happen at Home Depot.

Another difference between Home Depot and the supermarket is that I tend not to return from the supermarket with splinters. A lesson to anyone planning to do a little pipe insulating of his or her own: fiberglass is not just a name. There are fibers in there, and they feel like glass. Careful, my friends.