In the decades spanning the New Democrats, "Wall Street," the Disco Craze, the Summer of Love, the Kennedy Assassination, the Silent Generation, World War II, the Big Band Era, the Great Depression, the Roaring Twenties, World War I and T.S. Eliot, Boston has grooved to the Red Sox.

They are part of the Beantown zeitgeist. To crib a phrase from Mel Brooks, their trails and ultimate failures are of world-wide importance. As far as the average Hub resident knows, the front page of the International Herald Tribune reads "SOX WIN (Berlin: It's War, see page 3)" every day.

Or, more properly, "SOX LOSE." The Red Sox haven't won a World Series since 1918, and this rankles the New England soul. Several expansion teams have won the World Series, but the Sox? Never.

When the Red Sox won the American League pennant in 1986, the Boston Globe published a special section of famous New England authors waxing poetic on the spiritual ramifications of Dave Henderson's home runs.

Suffice it to say this doesn't happen in Atlanta, or in Chicago--where the City of Big Shoulders hasn't seen a World Series champion since 1917.

With the intense pressure and amazingly high expectations (if it's not a World Series ring, it's a failed season), Boston tends to display violent mood swings with very little provocation. A four-game winning streak? Gonna challenge for the pennant. Two losses in a row? Fire the manager. Six losses in a row? The season's over--trade everybody for good young talent.

The best display of this occurred this spring, when the Sox jumped out to an 11-3 start and opened a 3-game lead over Toronto and New York, Just 14 games into the season, every major publication, broadcast center and sports authority east of the Hudson River anointed Boston the division champs and settled back to see who would win the AL West.

So when the Sox went into a deep tailspin in May (falling 10 games back), the city reacted as if it had been dumped. The love, the romance and the warm, happy moonlit nights were all gone. Sox Manager Butch Hobson was nearly fired over this breach of trust. Daily, he would be tarred and feathered in print, radio and television.

But in around the All-Star break in July, the Sox put together a long winning streak and climbed back into first place. Lo and behold--pennant fever all over again. People started talking 1986. And in the most amazing reversal of all, Hobson got a two-year contract extension.

Now the Sox are 10 games back again and on the brink of elimination. But people still care. In the last five months, Hobson has gone from "most likely to be the first manager to be fired" (spring training) to "genius" (April) to "embattled" (May-June tailspin) to "unparalleled motivator and baseball mind" (July revival) to "he's not great, but he'll do" (now).

Amusement parks charge $20 for that kind of ride.

Boston is known for its knowledgeable sports fans, but even more for its passion and love for the games these people play. It is not, however, like the North Side of Chicago and their "those lovable losers, the Cubbies." "The Friendly Confines?" Sorry. In Boston, the Cubs would be ripped limb from limb (as would Cubs fans).

Perhaps befitting its tradition of rowdy politics from whence this metaphor traces its roots, Boston is a bandwagon town. Show us a bandwagon, we'll jump on it. One going the other way is even more alluring.

Now, across the river, Harvard football has a bandwagon of its own to jump on. The Crimson looked good, real good during its 30-3 rout of Columbia last Saturday.

Columbia had won its final two games last season and entered Harvard Stadium with a talented senior quarterback and several key players on defense. Harvard, beyond quarterback Mike Giardi and the offensive line, was a great big question mark. No matter, Harvard dominated.