A Question of Conscience

"Bad news, Mom. I sold my soul to the devil this afternoon."
"Really, that recently?"
---Calvin and Hobbes

When last we left the Sox fan, he was whinging away in the grips of an 0-3 deficit incurred by his team. All he wanted, he claimed, was to get the series back to New York.

That wish had been granted. He considered what to do next.

Technically, he could not ask more of his team after his own faith in them had wavered as it had. Could he? He had to admit that he was sorely tempted to ask for more. During the last at-bat of David Ortiz, the fan could have sworn that Big Papi was wearing a yellow motorcycle suit underneath his uniform. How damaging to his spiritual integrity would it be, he wondered, to forestall his gratitude a while longer? He set about inspecting the transgressions he had already incurred while supporting his team, focusing exclusively on the seven deadly sins.

Wrath? In thought, if not in deed, he was guilty.

Sloth? Hard to say. The fan ruefully acknowledged that this was a pre-existing and more or less chronic condition with him, and so refused to lay that at the door of his team.

Pride? Check.

Lust? Thankfully, Nicole Kidman had not been sighted rooting for the opposition. His conscience was clear on this one.

Greed? Well, yes, he had to decide. A quick glance at gluttony (precluded by the tension of two extra-inning games) and envy (nothing could make him wish he were a Yankees fan) filled out the tally. One pre-existing offense, two incurred in the course of the last week. In the clear on three.

He took a deep breath. He decided to be greedy. He wanted another win. And another.