My name is Paul DeCaporale. I was born and raised in the smallest state in the United States, which would be Rhode Island. Not to be confused with Long Island, New York, which is a common mistake for those not geographically inclined. Being from New England I was brought up as a Boston Red Sox fan, and when the foliage turned color and began to fall from the trees, a New England Patriots fan, a Boston Celtics fan, and a Boston Bruins fan. In my 20 years of living in this region, I can attest to the pain and suffering that we New Englanders have endured. Some people that have not grown up in these areas choose to label us as complainers or whiners, but those who have teams that have risen to the occasion and brought home the championship banners and trophies feel little pity for us lowly Chowdah Heads. We are largely comprised of blue collar workers that work hard for the food we put on the table. We ask for nothing in return for this hard work and our fierce devotion and zeal for our local sports teams…except a championship ever year.

Every season brings A New Hope, and to stretch the analogy further, a new battle against the Evil Empire. We use baseball bats as light sabers and the Red Sox Nation is the force that is always with Theo Epstein, Terry Francona, and “Big Papi” David Ortiz……

Unless of course we happen to lose, in which case the fan base abandons their beloved stars in the blink of an eye. We hold our athletes to Herculean expectations, and in many ways our life is a Greek Tragedy in and of itself. New Englanders liken themselves to Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill of achievement only to have it snorted by Len Bias or hit into the eternal October night by Aaron Boone. We love to think that the only sports teams that matter are separated by 215 miles of pavement called Interstate 95, and down that one road is our own Scylla and Charybdis (for those of you who have not read The Odyssey lately, to make a long story short, Scylla is a whirlpool and Charybdis was a 6 headed monster, and Odysseus had to choose which obstacle he wanted to take his men through to get home). Point is, it was a Catch-22, just….don’t worry about it.

Yes, as you may be able to tell, New Englanders are swept up in melodrama from January through December, every day, every year, round the clock, you can bet there is a New England fan watching Sportscenter just dying to hear what the nation thinks of us, good or bad. We like to say we don’t care, but the issue usually is the fact that we do, indeed, care way…and I mean way…too much.

There’s constantly a debate over Danny Ainge’s mismanagement of the Celtics, or arguing whether Peyton is better than Brady, or wondering if Curt Schilling really is just a big boned man with a big mouth who lost his fastball. And for those who still hold on to the belief that hockey is still a sport and may once return to the glory days before Gary Bettman, we still tend to boo the Canadian National Anthem during a playoff game with the Montreal Canadian’s.

So, this blog will explore New England sports, although it’s not the most original topic; it is certainly the most passionate, dramatic, and tragic exploration of a region’s psyche. Somehow our core, and our deepest moral convictions got tangled in Bill Belichick’s videotape and merged with our #1 priority….sports.