Feel Free to Panic

After starting the year 0-4 for the first time since 1995, Terry Francona and the Red Sox have put Boston fans in a familiar position: panic-mode.

In a baseball town in which fans have lived and died with every pitch for nearly a century, doubt and fear are as much a part of the Red Sox fan's psyche as faith and optimism. However, ever since Boston's incredible run of success in the past decade, many members of Red Sox Nation have forgotten what it feels like to root for the Olde Towne Team, through the good and the bad.

After coming from behind in unparalleled fashion to defeat the Yankees in the 2004 ALCS and then going on to break the 86-year Curse, Red Sox fans found themselves at a crossroads. No longer were the Sox the hometown team that tormented and frustrated you to no end, raising your hopes sky high only to smash them into indiscernible pieces at the most inopportune time. No longer were the Sox the lovable losers a la the Chicago Cubs.

Almost on cue, the team hoisted its second World Series trophy in 2007 and suddenly the DNA of Red Sox fandom morphed into something entirely different and new. Gone was the perpetual doubting, washed away by two championships in just four seasons. Friendly Fenway truly became friendly. Fans were overcome with a sense of accomplishment and pure joy. The haze was lifted. The Sox became trendy.

For the past few seasons, we've been spoiled. Every fall, it was almost a given that Boston would be playing in the postseason. And if they didn't, too bad. So what if the Sox got swept by the Angels in the first round? The Curse had been broken and that's all fans seemed to care about. Anytime the Sox missed the playoffs before 2004, it felt like our hearts were ripped out of our chests with the sharpest scalpel imaginable and no novocaine. But now? Now fans seem to adopt the old adage "there's always next year" without hesitation, all the while shifting their focus to the upstart Bruins or championship-chasing Celtics.

For those of us who have been die-hard fans before 2004, we know it wasn't always like this. The one thing that attracted us to the Sox the most was the unparalleled weight and control the team had over us. One of my fondest memories growing up was watching Nomar and Pedro lead the Sox on an improbable postseason run in 1999. Guys like Mike Stanley, John Valentin, Darren Lewis and a young Jason Varitek and Trot Nixon were my heroes. At twelve years old, I had reached nirvana watching my beloved Sox come from 2-0 down to sink the Indians in the ALDS. I bowed at the altar of Troy O' Leary after his clutch homer sealed the series in Game 5.

But then, seated alongside my eternal Red Sox partner, my dad, my twelve-year-old self cried hysterically as Bernie Williams homered off Rod Beck in the bottom of the 11th inning in Game One of the ALCS. Eventually, the Sox lost the series to the Yankees 4-1, but it was the feeling inside that stuck with me forever. Everyone knew the Sox didn't have a chance, the Yankees were in the midst of their dynasty and a far more superior team. But I didn't care. I rooted for the Sox as if they would win and no one could tell me otherwise.

Call it young, call it naive, call it immature. But, in the end, it felt different, it felt sacred. It felt pure. It was the unpolluted feeling of being entirely devoted to something beyond comprehension only to have it stolen away in heartbreaking fashion. The feeling of being torn apart inside and sick to your stomach, like the Sox losing was literally the end of the world.

That's what it used to be like being a Red Sox fan. Older generations had Bucky Dent and Bill Buckner. And we all had Aaron Boone.

Today, as the Sox stand at 0-4 to start the season for the first time since 1995, that feeling of panic and horror begins to surface in the back of our heads like a cold, familiar black cloud.

It seems to whisper: remember me?

Remember when things weren't all happy-go-lucky? When we were still cursed? When we didn't have Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford and an all-century-team in the field?

Sure, there's 158 games left this season and a baseball team is not defined by its first four games. But what's wrong with a little panic?

After all, it's in our Red Sox DNA to overreact. Don't let the last seven years fool you, after 86-years of futility and heartbreak, we've been hard-wired to panic.

If nothing else, it shows how much we care.