Growing up in my parents' house, there were Rules, lower-case-C "commandments" that we would follow if we didn't want to get grounded or disowned: Don't eat the last cookie or take the last scoop of ice cream. Don't bring the car back with no gas left in the tank. Don't chase your sisters around the house with Cutco knives, what were you raised by wolves or something?
I have broken every single Rule my parents had, I think, or at least every single one I knew about, except for that which I considered to be The Big One: "Thou shalt not ever, under any threat or circumstance, become or date a NYC-metro-area sports fan. Ever. (And not Notre Dame, either, if you know what's good for you.)"
Obviously the Commandment of Lunatic Sports Fealty came from my father. My mom is a sports fan, too, but my father ... well, let's just say I now know which side of the family the gene that makes you yell obscene things at blind umpires, biased referees, and idiot wide receivers comes from. Not to mention my frothing insane hatred for the New York Yankees, which has only been compounded by ten years of marriage to a formerly closeted Vichy Boston baseball sympathizer.
So I suppose it will come as a shock to exactly no one that we are raising our daughter as a Red Sox fan:
We're working on the booing, the heckling, and the infield chatter, although I'm not sure how much progress we're making. And every time we try to get her to say "Go Sox!" she just starts examining her toes for fuzzies. And she kind of thinks Wally the Green Monster is the same guy as the Phillie Phanatic, which ... well, last time that didn't end very well. But we're getting there.