Boston knocked out

If there is any glee to be wrung from an October of missed chances in Cleveland, I think I've found it.
The Boston Red Sox have been swept out of playoffs. It probably shouldn't, but that news made me smile.
Boston fans, many of whom have become quite pretentious and arrogant in recent years with the success of the the Patriots and Red Sox, have been taken down a notch. It was needed.
It used to be the Boston Red Sox stood for the rest of us. The Red Sox were the grubby everymen who life always got the better of. They were the pipefitters, the machine operators, the coal miners who continually tried to shoot the rich, mighty Yankees out of their ivory tower.
Every time the Red Sox played the Yankees with something on the line, we'd root for our New England brothers in arms. They were human, fallible, not like the Yankees, who were a cold, micromanaged machine designed to crank out championships with awe-inspiring efficiency.
Then the Red Sox got rich. Then they won a championship. And then, they became evern more insufferable than the Yankees. The soapbox that brainwashed us into believing the Red Sox stood for the rest of us turned into a bully pulpit extolling the greatness of the Red Sox and their fans.
For a year now, Red Sox Nation (a term I abhor) has been standing in front of a full-length vanity mirror, admiring themselves, patting themselves on the back for enduring 86 years without a title.
That alone doesn't peeve me. If the Indians won a championship, I'd do some of that myself. What I can't stand is the fact that Boston is using their big, East Coast media bullhorn to make sure we all know, and never forget, how great it is that Boston won the World Series, and how happy we should be for them.
This is the neighbor down the street winning the lottery, and expecting a congratulatory card in the mail. If you're well-to-do, that's not such a bad gesture. If you're still waiting for your ship to come in, you might be more inclined to photograph a certain hand digit and mailing that.
ESPN writer and noted Bostonian Bill Simmons, who I used to like but am now finding to be just another chest-thumping New Englander, wrote a book about the Red Sox winning it all, entitled "Now I Can Die in Peace." As long as Bostonians have a bully pulpit to spew their long-suffering tearjerker drivel while a million stories just as heartbreaking are left untold (at least to the general nation) in Cleveland, I have no sympathy for Boston. I never will.
Boston doesn't give a shit about Terry Pluto's book, "Our Tribe," in which he chronicles his relationship with his stroke-impaired, dying father in light of being lifetime fans of the Indians. It was written in the aftermath of the 1997 World Series, and deals with heartbreak every bit as much as the zillions of essays written about a ground ball hopping through Bill Buckner's wickets at Shea.
But we are supposed to shed tears of joy at love finally requited because Bill Simmons and his able-bodied, quip-quoting dad can now die in peace?
Sorry, Boston. One day, you might put down the preening mirror and realize what you've become. You might realize that you are the Yankees in different clothing. Your team's payroll was well over $100 million last year, and your team is just another big-city goliath to be loathed.
As a Clevelander, I could do some of my own gloating now that the Red Sox are home for the winter. But that's of no use. It will just be thrown back in my face when the Red Sox open their massive wallet and steal Kevin Millwood away in December.