This year, in anticipation of the 100-year anniversary of Fenway Park, the ownership team of the Red Sox started selling bricks. I'm not shitting you. For $250---and that's for the smaller brick---you can purchase a brick with a personal inscription to be placed in Gates C or B at Fenway Park. But that's not all. Oh no. You also receive a replica brick, a custom case to display your brick, a certificate acknowledging your brick, and your very own map so you can point out your brick to your friends on your next visit to Fenway Park. Chances are if you can afford $250 for a fucking brick, you can also afford Red Sox tickets where you get to watch other filthy rich men underachieve to the tune of $2 million a game and, rest-assured, your brick money is helping to pay their salaries.
You see, the brick is an apt metaphor for 2011 Red Sox season---ridiculously-expensive, inert, and ultimately useless, unless all of your replica bricks can come together to make a wall.
The brick is the perfect symbol of The Pink Hat fans who have been "selling out" Fenway every night for the past eight summers, where they sing "Sweet Caroline," start a wave, and leave in the top of ninth to beat the traffic out of Boston. These so-called "fans" have no real interest in the game of baseball and could care less if the team wins or loses. My hope only is they'll stop coming to games after this season's debacle, and I'll be able to afford to take my son to Fenway like my own dad took me.
For the past month, The Red Sox also played with the emotional torque of bricks, and in the end, it was impossible to light them on fire.
And the last game on the season was definitely a brick to the nose. In fact, it almost felt like old times, and I found a trace hint of nostalgia in my anger and dejection last night.
If I had $250 to blow on a brick, I might be tempted to buy one and really personalize my inscription:
Dear 2011 Red Sox,
Go shit a brick. You suck.
The Asshole Who Bought a Brick
All in all, you were all just bricks in the wall.