This is a local column. I say this in way of explaining why (or as some people tend to ask, why the hell) I never write about the Red Sox, or the Patriots, or the Celtics, or other things that are important.

Here’s the in-a-nutshell excuse (leaving out the part where I assert that one man’s import is another man’s trivial pursuit): Nomar and I don’t speak too often. Drew doesn’t call, even on holidays. Therefore, in order to supply you pro-sports addicts with your fix, I’d have to resort to reading the Globe and the Herald … then regurgitating it for you.

Doesn’t paint a very pleasant picture, does it?

But today, as another Major League Baseball season limps to a close, the image of retching about the Red Sox seems appropriate.

Before I get busy ranting, raving or otherwise acting uncivilized, let me assure you: This is still a local column, even if it deals with a nationally known team.

These are the Red Sox, after all. That makes this more than local. That makes it personal.

Let’s start with an assertion: With or without The Curse, or the Big Dig, or cloying Massachusetts accents, or any of those other annoying things we associate with the Sox, one thing is clear. The Dead Sox are back. Again.

It used to make me mad, this late-season swoon. Spitting, retching, regurgitating mad. Now, it just makes me shake my head.

Dan Duquette and company may think this is just another missed opportunity. But we know different. This has always been personal.

For a Sox fan, each yearly flop is filed away on life’s timeline. … to be joined by another … next year.

For me, it looks like this:

. 1967. At this point, the only Red Sox I know about are on my 3-year-old feet. Later, I find out that Yaz won the Triple Crown. Nobody’s done it since. I also learn that Bob Gibson fired a three-hitter in Game 7 of the World Series, smacked a homer for good measure, and denied my future team a title.

. 1975. By this point, I’ve been afflicted by pennant fever. I know every player’s number. I know the pitching rotation, and the batting order. Carlton Fisk hits one off the foul pole in Game 6. I leap around like crazy for days, mimicking his frantic gyrations. The Sox lose in Game 7. … and some longtime friends who were fourth-grade classmates still maintain that I refused to let anyone tear down my carefully crafted Red Sox poster from Mrs. Hill’s classroom walls (I don’t remember that part, but I may have blocked it out).

. 1978. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me. I turn 14 on Oct. 2, the same day the Yanks and Sox battle for the AL East crown in a one-game playoff. Despite a broken arm, I pedal off to watch my Pop Warner football team practice. A transistor radio hangs from my handlebars, and I update my teammates from the sidelines.

When Bucky Dent hits his Corkball-Heard-Round-The-World, I feel sick. When Yaz pops out … with two on in the ninth … I nearly cry. It’s a long pedal home.

. 1986. Where to start. I’m in college, and the Sox are finally going to win it all. About 50 of us are at an Old Town apartment, doing what college students do in Old Town apartments.

As the game enters the ninth, many of us stand on a well-worn couch, hopping up and down in anticipation. Stanley throws a wild pitch. Buckner does what Buckner did. We all stop hopping and vanish.

. 2001. The Sox are poised to make a late-season run. This will be the year. Pedro’s back. Nomar’s healthy. Jimy Williams continues to make something out of nothing.

Williams gets fired. Nomar gets hurt. So does Pedro. The Sox lose nine straight. By now, I’m used to this. There’s only one thing to do. Only one thing to say.

Wait ’til next year. … Again.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter. His e-mail address is jholyoke@bangordailynews.net