Only 84 to go.

I know a young guy that became hooked on the Red Sox during the 2004 season.

No, he wasn't one of Those Fans, the ones that jumped on the bandwagon to wave new Sox hats during the victory parade. C had been a youngster without prior proper introduction to the hometown team. 2004 provided his first trip to Fenway - relatively early in the season - first chance to gobble up statistics and the first opportunity fall in love with a baseball team.

He got lucky. He spent a season getting to know a baseball team. That team won the World Series on what amounted to his first try. As if the fates weren't smiling down upon him enough, Game 4 fell on his birthday.

We all laughed about it at the time, the way he would one day get a dose of reality and learn the other side of the team he loves. He was going to have to realize what it's really like to be a Red Sox fan.

And here we are.

Yesterday was my third consecutive "first Monday in October" spent in Massachusetts, the first time in those three years that I didn't stand in line for a seat at Fenway Park. I thought in June that the day's events were set in stone -- I attend Rally Monday once again, my baseball team off on a post-season quest, visible through live video feeds on the big screen. I'd have a towel to wave, Jerry and Don would be sitting atop the Red Sox dugout and Larry Lucchino would be pissing me off with his smarmy "look, I'm an approachable guy" shtick.

I spent my day elsewhere. The season over, ended a few innings early on account of rain, a few weeks early on account of team implosion.

Interesting, really. There's a lot of discussion about when things started to go wrong and when they officially took a turn toward disaster.

Many point their fingers at either A) the Yankees series or B) the Blackbird Game as the latter. In a season that left fans searching for silver linings, saying that one was at the Aug. 1 game when rock bottom became visible signifies grasping at straws.

It wasn't pretty, but I stuck around until the end of that game, man. I sung "Sweet Caroline." I kept on cheering. I rally-capped. I wasn't one of those that gave up and left AT THE TOP OF EIGHT (Ahem).

You take what you can get.

A few months ago, I remarked on a team that was leading the AL East by four games, had gone 12-0 with 16 straight error-less games. "Two ten-win pitchers, stellar defensive play and run support. Even when Wakefield takes the mound," I wrote before I described the feeling such a team evoked.

"I almost can't enjoy it. ... I still instinctively hold my breath when a ball is hit to shortstop. I half expect simple throws to first to sail wide. I worry that the throw from the outfield will miss the cutoff man. Now? I'm worry about when that's going to happen. We already had our magical season."

Something had to go wrong. We'd been trained to expect it. And after the All-Star break, they delivered.

EVERYTHING went wrong. The fairytale notion of a twenty year Sox/Mets reunion fell to the wayside as the team slowly staggered over to the disabled list, Tito began coughing up blood and Theo's gleaming veneer started to tarnish.

The blackbird tried to steal third base; the Red Sox dragged themselves to third place.

So now I wait for next year. I think of the amazing games I witnessed, and I grimace over the painful games I wanted to ignore. I prepare to miss Dirt-Dog Nixon in right field, I keep my fingers crossed for Loretta and Lowell. I say my goodbyes to Papa Jack and Dave Wallace, waiting to hear about who else is heading out. I roll my eyes at any word of Manny, and I start to root for Minnesota to take the Series.

And I make a note to check in with the youngster, see how he's holding up and officially welcome him into the fold.