Lately I have been playing some happy hour gigs with the Jazz Pharoahs, a great bunch of misfits who hold court at the Elephant Room in Austin every Wednesday from 6-8pm. During the playoffs and World Series, the clarinetist of the group, Stan Smith, periodically checks his radio to keep track of the game score. Seeing this brought back memories from long ago of sneaking my radio into grade school to do the same thing.

It was 1967, 37 years ago, and the Red Sox were in the process of breaking my heart for the first time. I was 10 years old and, like most boys in the Boston area, spent game days wearing my baseball glove and either watching the game on TV (if it was the weekend), or listening on the high-tech AM transistor radios we all sported and thought were the coolest thing since James Bond. A little bigger than a pack of cigarettes, the radio had two dials and a single white plastic earpiece and connecting wire. The only thing cooler would have been if the earpiece came in some color besides hospital white, but I guess the technology wasn’t that advanced back then.

That year the Sox lost to the St. Louis Cardinals in a drawn-out sports opera. Normal time stopped, all the daily priorities of school (the mind-boggling homework, the dreaded bullies, the nauseating smell from the cafeteria) receded before the mythical reality of 4-7 games played to completion, no matter how long it took. A batter with a 3-2 count could stop time by hitting endless foul balls; a pitcher with a man on first could throw checks while the sun arced to the horizon. There was no time limit, there was only each moment, each play, that led to the next one. And all of us 10-year-old boys hung suspended in time by the wires of our transistor radio earpieces.

We snuck our radios into class, hiding them in our desks, with the wire snaking out, or putting the radio down our pants (the radio made your pants pocket bulge conspicuously) and feeding the wire up under our shirts. Most of us were caught by the teacher, the radios confiscated until the end of the school day. But, as I remember it, at least one of us was successful and kept the rest of us updated on the score with surreptitious notes passed down the line.

The worst thing for a Red Sox fan is to care too much. Since baseball is all too often reduced to a series of crucial moments, the fan who cares too much hangs on every one of those moments. How many of us have clung by our fingernails as the Sox staved off defeat in the ninth inning, 2 outs, a 3-2 count, and the batter keeps hitting foul balls? Then, just when you’re sure he’s going to strike out, he hits a home run and the game is turned around. Conversely, how many of us have watched as the Sox squander a huge lead early in the game, pulling defeat from the jaws of victory? As I said to my father, being a Red Sox fan is good training for life. You learn to accept heartbreaking disappointment, you learn never to take good things for granted, you relish the victories but know that an evil pinstriped nemesis may be lurking around the next corner.

More than any other sport, baseball is an old-style drama, like a western, with mythical characters set against a stark backdrop. As Stan observed: “It’s the loneliest sport… every pllayer is off on his own and everyone is watching if he screws up.” It’s the sport least affected by technological advances. The equipment consists of leather and wood and archaic-looking uniforms. This year the weird haircuts and beards sported by many Red Sox players seemed to reinforce the old roots of the game. I had a feeling that Boston was consciously looking back on its own tradition, in all its eccentricities, and drawing strength from it. It was like a voice reminiscing, calling out, and the boy inside me wanted to listen, to believe in the underdog story again. I tried hard not to care.

If you care too much you become superstitious. At any moment a mistake can be made which will cost the game. Since it could happen at any time, the smallest things are magnified. For example, there were dozens of games where I turned on the radio or TV to find the Sox winning. But as soon as I started watching/listening, they lost. There was a stretch from about 1970-72 where I purposely didn’t tune in so as not to jinx my team. I know Boston fans who can’t watch a game unless they are wearing their lucky B hat or shirt. It may not make a difference, but why take a chance?

It’s a lot like love. If you care too much you’re doomed. But if you don’t care too much, is it really love? It would be nice if you could care about a couple teams, maybe several even. You love them each in their own way. But if one of them breaks your heart, you’re not totally invested. You can still love your other teams. I know some guys like that. They love their hometown team, but they also are devoted to the team of their adopted state, or maybe have a healthy respect for the abilities of another team, purely on a rational, even platonic level. I have tried to be that way. I watched the Astros, even rooted for them since I live in Texas. But when the last ground ball was hit and the runner was out at first, and I knew the Cardinals were going to play the Red Sox again, something primordial stirred in my gut. Maybe, as the romantics claim, your first love never dies.

This year I was trying to ignore the whole thing when it looked like the Yankees were going to sweep the Sox, but I had to watch in spite of myself. It was excruciating, watching the games go into extra innings, knowing that it was a fool’s hope for the Sox to survive… I anesthetized myself with many pints… and then the incredible happened. Now, 37 years later there will be a rematch between the Cards and the Sox. I’m not sure if the number 37 has some astrological significance. Maybe I should start buying lotto tickets again. I tried to resist it but I’m channeling the 10-yr-old boy inside me now, and I’m sure I’m not the only one. Maybe dreams can come true if you wait long enough. If not, there’s always beer. Besides, heartbreak builds character.