I had just turned ten when my hometown baseball team lost a one-game playoff to their arch rivals. That particular game was preceded by an epic run of losses that reduced a big lead in the standings to nothing. The events of September 1978 fully indoctrinated me into the life of a Red Sox fan. In Red Sox Nation, parents warn their children, “They will break your hearts.” But switching allegiances? Never! I returned home in time to watch the 9th inning with my Mom. I sat closest to the set, still stuck in my school uniform. She maintained hope, and an eye on our drying-out dinners, but I tasted doom. Oh, the agony. No aproned hug could make it better. My usually up-beat Dad turned despondent when he heard the news. That season became a marker for catastrophic collapse.

The events of the 1986 World Series, specifically Game Six, further defined what it meant to root for the Red Sox. Despite being one strike away from sweet sweet victory, they found a way to lose in horrifying fashion. One wild pitch. One missed ground ball. Boom! Dream destroyed. Winning the World Series became an insurmountable barrier. Like many before me, I considered the chance that my beloved, frustrating team would never be champions in my lifetime. During that particular game, I commiserated with my roommate at boarding school who had stashed a contraband set in his closet. We watched in a tight huddle. Jaws and hands clenched. Breaking the rules never felt so bad.

I watched Game Seven of the 2003 American League Championship unfold in the same room at my parents’ home that had seen so many heart-breaking losses. Once again, the Sox faced their arch rivals. This time, my perch was a clunky wheelchair, a hasty first purchase that I’d soon replace with something much sleeker. I was flanked by my Mom and kept company by my wife who tries hard to be a fan by asking a lot of questions. Why? Why? Why? Why didn’t they pull the pitcher sooner? Before everything unraveled. They were cursed! Things would never change! I felt ten again and that first rent in the fabric of my faith. My days of fielding grounders at shortstop in Little League were far behind me. I would never make the Big Leagues. I might never play organized sports again. That same high school roommate touched down from Hawaii to see the tragedy in person. Talking with him didn’t help. I sat in stunned silence, left alone to my misery.

2004 changed everything. Everything. No more so called “curse of the Bambino,” the baseball gods forever damning Boston for that stupid trade of Babe Ruth. We were vindicated with victory, again, in 2007. It didn’t seem possible.

Nine years after that World Series win and six years after their repeat championship, this 2013 clincher still does not seem real. I exchanged text messages, emails, and phone calls with the same close set of old friends, fans, and family as the Red Sox moved through the playoffs and won the World Series this fall. The scars of past failures were evident in all interactions. There were no assumptions about winning until the final out was recorded. Messages ranged from questions, “Is this really happening?” to disorientation, “Feels like the world is upside down.”

Zero chance to victory. It’s a trajectory I live. Along the way, the hot mix of conflicting emotion reflect almost two decades with disability. The bonds formed with fellow advocates and supporters of access who have fought for change are precious. Like my mates in Red Sox Nation, we discuss the often sad but sometimes sublime state of affairs: the on-field bungling and rookie mistakes, the maddening mismanagement and squandered opportunities, the euphoric breaks and unbelievable plays. Still, victories are not complete until tangible. Promises are viewed with skepticism; the scars of past encounters make forgetting unlikely. Game plans for new construction are reviewed by committees and deemed foolhardy, lowering expectations before construction has even begun. Will things ever change? Ignorance and attitudes remain arch rivals, sometimes scuppering hard-fought battles. My personal perseverance tested, I wonder, “Will this happen in my lifetime?” The odds can seem impossibly high.

When doubt threatens to cloud my perspective, I often experience and encounter its opposite. Advocacy results in new awareness where I least expected. Ramps replace steps. Parking protected and patrolled. Complaints registered and resolved. Businesses acknowledge the need for better customer service and improve it.The city agrees to invest in access infrastructure right here in my neighborhood. People who use wheelchairs will soon be able to tour on sidewalk rather than risking their safety in the street or avoiding the area all together. People pushing strollers, delivery folks hauling boxes, movers with furniture can all pass by with ease, knowing they will not suddenly crash as the sidewalk ends abruptly. Soon other city funds will create gradual curbcuts, replacing the steep versions now featured on a main thoroughfare. We are not winning every game but far more seem to go our way. When it comes to changes, I extended my horizon line. I’ve seen what marvelous, mind-bending events occur in a lifetime. As my hometown team has shown, anything can happen.