I loved Uncle Carl with all my heart. Had to. He was the toughest guy I ever met.

Jumped at D-Day. Spent the rest of the war in a German prison camp, tortured because he was a German-American. He came home to Widgeon Pond with the bloody bandage still stuck to his chest. He died a dozen years ago, laughing at the doctors that suggested that an amputation or two would give him a few more years.

I loved him although he was a Yankee fan in Boston, the only one I knew. I forgave him because he was born in New York City and knew no better. He bet on the Yankees every year in the Watertown bars and made a fortune.

I could never understand how anyone could bet on the Yankees. Now I do.

Terrance Fitzpatrick is as rabid a Red Sox fan as Carl was a Yankee supporter. Terrance runs an egg-and-coffee joint on Camden Harbor. Every few years, he tries to sell the place, but buyers look at the profit-and-loss statement and realize that you have to work seven days a week, 50 or so weeks a year (like Fitzy does) to make a buck.

So Terrance stands over his grill, dreaming of a Red Sox victory in the World Series. That hasn’t happened since 1918, but that doesn’t bother Terrance a bit. Every May, he is convinced that “this is the year.” Every October, he burns the home fries in protest, once the Sox lose, one way or the other.

Now I am as rabid a Red Sox fan as Terrance is, but I had Uncle Carl on my side. Each May, I hear Carl, whispering in my ear, “Bet on the Yanks.”

For the past six years, the Yankees have won the division and I have won six bets with Fitzy. The problem is, we can never remember how much we bet.

Each year, we tell his angelic wife, Denise, about the bet, hoping she will remember. Like most women, she has better things to do with her mind, such as ordering enough potatoes to keep the restaurant running. She never remembers the bet, either.

This year, the Red Sox got off to their typical good start and Fitz got cocky. He claimed that we bet $50 and he offered “double or nothing.” I took it.

The way I figure it, if I had to pay him $100 for the Sox to finish ahead of the hated Yankees, it would be money well spent. Hell, I would have spent $100 for every year since 1918 if the Sox beat the Yankees for the division. Forget the World Series. Beating the Yankees was far more important than a measly $100 or even the series.

If the Yankees won, at least I had $100 to buy more honey wheat and sourdough bread at the Market Basket.

I hate to admit it, but I bet a few hundred in 1978 that the Yankees would, once again, beat the pathetic Red Sox. When Bucky Dent hit that infamous home run, I stood and cheered, an act that Walter Griffin has yet to forgive. Hey, money is money.

I had Carl on my side.

Now that the Sox are headed for their seventh straight division loss, I have a problem.

Should I take the cash? Or should I hold out for 20 breakfast meals, watching Fitz sweating over his grill, with me laughing at his counter.

Tough choice.

Maybe I will ask Uncle Carl.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.