As her mother, I was there for her birth, her first breath. Profound, yes, but her odyssey into the world of the Red Sox fan was far more telling of what made the kid tick. Its kinship runs through her as if entwined in her DNA.

All of these United States have witnessed the saga of the Red Sox: the perennial tears of brokenhearted fans and the joyful revelry of the same devoted clan. I, however, have had the privilege of watching the genesis of one citizen of the Red Sox Nation, a Michigan kid from Detroit Tiger stock.

Tiger fans are known to be more fickle than their Sox counterparts. But when the lowly Tigers went year after year without leaving the bottom of the pack, my mother stuck with them. Her boys. With unyielding faith and my dad at her side, she watched them and never faltered. She had the same tenacity and fidelity that runs through the Boston fan base. The year after my parents passed, the Tigers went to the World Series for the first time since 1984. I think Mom must have some pull up there.

So the kid comes by it honestly.

It became evident in a rental house on Martha’s Vineyard in October 2004. A favorite family vacation, it was impossible to pry the child from the television or radio. The Red Sox were in the playoffs. This was the beginning of her induction into the vast Sox family. Whether it was her mother’s relentless musings about living out east or the mere proximity to Fenway Park, we’ll never know. She was hooked. And like a potent street drug, there was no turning back.

Soon after our return home, I noticed American Girl dolls and N’Sync were being pushed aside for pictures of Manny Ramirez and Big Papi incised from Sports Illustrated. Names like Trot Nixon and Jason Varitek became a part of our family vernacular. In the heart of Tigerland, she became notorious at school and beyond for her endless array of Red Sox t-shirts and hoodies and one very well-loved official Red Sox baseball cap.

And a 12 year old who never mentioned a member of the opposite sex with any affection whatsoever - save her father and her dog - could not stop talking about Johnny Damon. From his family background to his batting average to his favorite hair product, she had it down cold. The center fielder had stolen her heart.

My own heart broke the following year as my firstborn heard the struggling Sox lose the American League pennant to the other Sox, Chicago style. Trapped in an SUV on an interstate near Allentown, Pennsylvania, she clung to hope as a sportscaster crackled a play-by-play on a weak AM frequency. Grief stricken but not deterred, she set her sights on next season, just like generations of citizens before her.

Boston fervor was not limited to the baseball field, ESPN or my daughter‘s every waking moment. The movie “Fever Pitch” featured Saturday Night Live star Jimmy Fallon as a Red Sox devotee and Boston pitcher Bronson Arroyo had parlayed his considerable musical skills into a CD which, more often than not, pierced my car speakers. Her favorite track therein was a cover of Dirty Water (Boston, You’re My Home) including banter of her favorite players. Our daughter had latched on to these ball players at a point where they were making history on several levels, a perfect storm if you will.

Then the unthinkable happened when Damon, like Wade Boggs and Roger Clemens before him, jumped ship for the Yankees. Not only did he abandon the Nation, he shaved and cut his hair. My daughter had witnessed her first sellout and the #18 jersey was permanently retired from the middle schooler’s wardrobe. Mr. Damon was persona non grata and she was not looking back; a trait that may not bode well for any future suitors.

Her dedication to the Red Sox and their pursuits shaped a childhood. Proof of that hangs on her bedroom wall in the form of a 16 x 42 framed portrait of her beloved Sox lined up for the National Anthem on the opening night of what would turn out to be their first World Series triumph in 86 years. It seemed only fitting that this particular night was her 13th birthday as well. A room once lavender in color with a border of lilacs became a nice tone of tan with blue and red accents. A corner wall showcased a collage of the dream trip to Tiger Stadium with her dad to celebrate her graduation from middle school. As she watched her Sox collide with Detroit that day, I believe her grandmother was there in spirit, Tiger fan eternal.

Now the little kid is a young woman with driver's license in tow. The Red Sox clippings scotch taped to her wall are being edged out by pictures of some boy group from the pages of Tiger Beat. (Yes, it still exists.) The bedraggled blue cap has been relegated to the coat rack in the corner of her room and rarely does the shirt proclaiming “Ramirez 23” adorn her teen frame.

Mourning begins for most moms of daughters when they suddenly realize they haven’t seen a Barbie doll in months. That pain hit one day when it came to me that she hadn’t mentioned Jimmy Fallon of late, I couldn’t find the Arroyo CD, and I hadn’t been hit up for cash to put toward the latest Boston garment in some time. It was a brand of sadness I’d never felt.

I’ve been told membership in the Red Sox Nation is a lifetime commitment as demonstrated by all those blinded by an unrivaled brand of loyalty. How could this happen? Was the pull toward adulthood and leaving this nest so strong that she would relinquish her alliance with that populace? I felt like Puff the Magic Dragon when he realized Johnny Paper would come no more.

I knew I had to accept it and move on. I would embrace this new phase of her life and cherish the memories. But I would miss the seamless litany of the boys of summer from my smitten daughter’s perspective. I would never be able to replicate the sweet fascination of a child devoted to her heroes, a devotion unscathed by life’s disappointment.

And despite my great regret in doing so, I would have to let her go just a little bit more.

Then one spring day I heard it. As this beautiful young woman brushed by me en route to the kitchen, I heard her say, “I think tomorrow is opening day.”

Indeed it was.

Once again, the planets were aligned and all was well in the Red Sox Nation.

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