A bloody talisman

The morning after the Red Sox became AL champions, I walked down Brookline Ave to my office near Fenway Park.

Most signs from the previous night's celebration had been cleared away. Except for this:



A single sock, daubed with red.

For those unfamiliar with the symbolism of this object, here's an explanation. I particularly enjoy the line "the injured tendon in his ankle began snapping over the bone, which caused a popping sound."

It's now almost a week since the sock appeared.

There have been two World Serious games at Fenway, attracting more than 30,000 people a night. Even without the baseball-related hooplah, Brookline Ave is a pretty busy thoroughfare, thanks to the concentration of hospitals and colleges in the neighborhood, not to mention the bars and clubs facing the park along Lansdowne Street.

Each morning, the streets are cleaned, reasonably effectively, of programs, posters, plastic cups and hot-dog detritus.

And yet the sock remains.

I'd wager it will stay there, hooked on the chainlink fence next to the parking lot, until the Series is over.

Because no-one, not even the most grounded skeptic, is crazy enough to mess with the streak.