Midnight passed before my television last Sunday night. I sat on the couch, eyes pulling themselves together, waiting patiently. Jonathan Papelbon, the Boston Red Sox closer and part time Lord of the Dance, fired strike three past some Colorado Rockies hitter I wouldn't know if he introduced himself to me, and that was it. The Sox were champs again. Key word… again. And you know what went through my head? "About friggin' time. Now I can finally get some sleep."

How the times do change. Three years ago, I was in a bar… surprising, I know, when the Sox won the title for the first time since 1776, or thereabouts. The win lifted a fictional curse over the franchise. Something that was never, ever supposed to happen happened, and the relief was monumental. People cried, hugged, slapped five, toasted a cocktail or two, and rejoiced in amazement. I’ll admit to four of the previous five. This year? Eh. I clapped to no one in particular, as I was watching alone, brushed and flossed, then fell asleep to clubhouse celebration highlights. Status quo now.

I'm so confused now. I expected the Sox to win the World Series this year and they did, in staggering fashion at that. I don't expect an error to cost them a game anymore. I don't expect an extra inning dinger by some .260 hitting schlub to smash my heart again. I don't expect the worst. Final strike‘s thrown, and I was already thinking about winning next year. What happened to me and my favorite baseball team?

Some people think the Sox are the new New York Yankees. I agree. The Sox have become the very thing their fans have so eloquently chanted against for years. I'm okay with this. Look, I didn't ask to be born in Stoneham, Massachusetts, nor raised in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. I don't feel shame in rooting for the Sox now, because – and this will sound so corny and clichéd – but I'm a hack writer, it's what I do, I was here from the beginning. I remember being yelled at for waking my sister when Dave Henderson hit a three run homer in Game 6 of the '86 ALCS. Call it posing, bragging, whatever. It is what it is, Coach B. The Red Sox are now Seattle in 1993. More importantly, they are the Yankees in 1996.

Here is the true Sox fan dilemma today. You can trade your mediocre, slugging team with one dominant pitcher and occasional playoff appearance, complete with a demoralizing ending or two, for a contending machine. You can have the pitching, the timely hitting, the rosy future of young, talented players, but you have to deal with chi-chi fans, pink hats, people singing "Tessie" that have no idea what "Do or Die" means, and the reality of attending a baseball game for the low, low price of a couple car payments. This is the bed we have made as fans. Now we must lie.

The Sox are well oiled, to say the least. Their starting pitching next season could be Josh Beckett, Daisuke Matsuzaka, and possibly Jon Lester and Clay Buchholz. Not one of them will be over 27 years old. Their everyday lineup will remain intact, the only possible exodus of relevance might be third baseman Mike Lowell. They will get a full season from the new rock star, and Taco Bell shill, CF Jacoby Ellsbury. The '04 Sox were built for a one-and-done. The '07 Sox were built for '07 through '10 and beyond. This is not a good thing if you're competing against them. But, it is a good thing if you root, root, root for the home team.

There will be no more walking up to Fenway on game day and buying bleacher seats for $20. There will be no more fourth place finishes, followed by a winter of hopelessness. There will be no more empty seats on a Wednesday night in May against Baltimore. "Sweet Caroline" isn’t going away. The pink hats and hardball aristocrats aren’t giving up those prime seats. No more whining about hard luck losses, inability to financially compete, or excuse now. The national focus, glare, and soon-to-be hatred hath descended upon Boston. The Red Sox have the fat wallet, the baseball and financial smarts, and the drive to compete every single year. Are you good with this? Yeah, me too.