We deserve to win Series, maybe even 3 or 4 of them

Red Sox fans have more Gordon Gekko in them than George Bailey. It’s probably hard to be that honest, but mark these words.

Surely the movie “Wall Street” and Michael Douglas’ character hit home in an ugly-but-true way because it’s the American way to never be satisfied.

If Boston baseball fans are fortunate enough to enjoy a World Series championship for the first time in 86 years, it would change everything. That much is true.

But how would it change us? I think the answer would surprise most of us.

After the rioting, partying, crying, hugging, high-fiving and binge drinking subside, what would we be left with? (By the way, I’m so unbelievably uncomfortable writing this for superstitious reasons, it isn’t even funny.)

Being a Red Sox fan means being fixated on fatalism and devoted to the dynasty of dysfunction and disappointment. But the self-deprecation and self-actualization we’ve come to embrace is not that bad.

And it isn’t that real.

We really don’t like being losers and we really don’t like our team being a perennial punch line.

Even if Boston wins, it’s not like we’re going to be so thankful for the gift after winters of second-guessing and depression that we suddenly realize what a wonderful life it really is.

Spare me the melodrama.

I like Gordon Gekko’s outlook: “The point is, ladies and gentlemen, that greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right. Greed works.”

Red Sox Nation will become the land of manifest destiny. What is ours is ours and we deserve it. Heck, we deserve more.

Super-size my World Series, please. I’ll take four, a 64-ounce Diet Pepsi and a million fries with that, thank you.

One of the biggest fallacies I’ve heard over and over is that Red Sox fans secretly live for the train wreck that comes with caring so much and coming so close. Yeah, I’ve been caught up in it myself. Most people who know me have heard my story of Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. They’ve heard how the Red Sox were one pitch away that fateful Oct. 25 and blew it on my 14th birthday. (By the way, that was Pedro Martinez’ 15th birthday, for those scoring at home.)

But I’m done with that. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself anymore. I don’t want some odd coincidence and the worst single-game collapse of all time to define me.

I’ve never really enjoyed it. If anything, it just made a nice story.

But there is no pride in people’s pity.

Maybe pride is a better word than greed to describe what will drive fans if our victory finally arrives.

After the Patriots won their first Super Bowl, I cried. Yup, I’m that silly. I also waited outside Boston City Hall for three hours on a February morning two days later to see my team bring the Lombardi Trophy to the Hub.

But I never once saw the look of satisfaction on a fan’s face. I saw surprise, joy and a childlike amazement.

The most common expression was, “The Patriots won the Super Bowl.”

But it wasn’t as much an exclamation as it was a question.

More like, “The Patriots won the Super Bowl? Pinch me, it can’t be true.”

I giggled to myself for weeks. I still do sometimes.

But satisfied? Nope.

Now I’m driven by greed and pride. It’s OK to be proud of the Pats. It’s OK to expect a winner.

We should win, damn it! We deserve it.

It may be popular to be a fatalist, but it isn’t very becoming. We don’t wear our crown of blunders with pride. We wear it with shame, but we’re too stupid to stop giving Yankee fans fodder to make fun of us.

Red Sox fans utter words like “curse,” “Bambino” and “1918” more than our opponents’ fans. God knows why. It’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s like me constantly telling people, “Yeah, I hate being bald,” or “I’m too short to be good at anything.”

I don’t really like being bald or short, I’m just trying to make light of it as a kind of therapy.

Life would change with a championship. The short bald guy would be Mr. Universe and win the slam dunk contest in the same week.

Beer would flow from my kitchen faucet.

Money really would grow on the trees in my front yard.

My kids would get full scholarships to Dartmouth for both academics and hockey.

I love to tell people about my best golf outing to make a point. My best score was the worst thing that ever happened to me.

Why?

Because I started expecting to win the Masters.

That’s what success does.

It makes us better.

It makes us worse.

Sure, misery loves company, but I’m sick of the crowd.

Greed is good.