Last night after the game, I hung around the dugout to shout Jefeeeeeeeeeeee! to David Ortiz and chant Whos your Papi? with the rest of the diehard Faithful. When I finally got out onto Yawkey Way it was two oclock, and most of the players had left. On Brookline Ave, the riot cops were standing in close formation on the bridge to Kenmore Square, forcing us stragglers to walk down Lansdowne and then along the scuzzy streets bordering the Mass Pike. I didnt mind. There were a couple other fans in sight, and we were all ditzy from the win and just how very late it was. The street I was on curved up to Boylston, and as I reached the intersection, a motorcycle cop came wailing up on his Electra Glide and stopped in the middle of the street. He hopped off and started pointing to the oncoming cars, waving them to the side of the road, and as it dawned on me what was happening, here came the Yankees team busappropriately from Yankee Bus Lines, and appropriately yellowand my legs found a strength and a spring I thought Id lost back in the fifth inning, carrying me to the exact spot I needed to be in, the right place at the right time. I watched heads inside turn toward me, bleary faces puzzled by this apparition in black in a PawSox hat standing in the vacant other lane, lit like a devil by the red stoplight, proudly holding up his middle finger. Today the guys show up at the parking lot before Game 5 wearing their very best suits and wheeling luggage like its any other travel daya good sign, I think. Yesterday when Mark Bellhorn walked by, a few people booed, and he didnt look over. Today I holler, Hey Mahk, dont let the bastards get you down! and he smiles and nods. Johnnys had an adhesive Ace bandage on the meaty flat of his right hand (his lead hand) for a couple of weeks now, and I wonder if he can grip the bat correctly. Every day I ask, Hows the hand, John? and he says its okay, but without conviction, as if its still bothering him. These are the guys we need to set the table for Manny and David. If they dont pick it up, were going nowhere. Just before game time, I visit with Bob the usher over in Section 32. We chat and then say goodbye, shake hands. Its our last home game of the ALCS, and theres a fall feeling of the season being over, things being packed away, but I cant let it stand. Ill see you for the Series, I say. I hope so, he says. I know so, I say, full of false bravado. Right here, baby. October 19thALCS Game 5 It probably wasnt the greatest game in postseason historyId still pick Game 6 of the 1975 World Series, the one where Red Sox catcher Carlton Fisk waved his extrainning walkoff home run fair, for that honorbut it was almost certainly the greatest game to be played since the major leagues went to the League Championship format. At five hours fortynine minutes it was the longest, and the teams who engaged in the struggle were surely the most evenly matched. When it ended, the Red Sox had scored one more run (five to the Yankees four) and managed one more hit (thirteen to the Yankees twelve). Each team used seven pitchers, and each committed a single error. The game, which began in broad daylight at 520 in the afternoon, ended just an hour shy of midnight, in the bottom of the fourteenth. I have never been so simultaneously drained and exalted at the conclusion of a sporting event; would have believed, prior to last night, the two states of emotional being were mutually exclusive. According to this mornings box score, there were 35,120 in attendance, but if the Red Sox pull off the ultimate miracle of St. Fenway and go on to the World Seriesunlikely, especially with the ALCS now returning to Yankee Stadium,but no longer wildly improbableten years from now therell be a million New Englanders, most of them from Massachusetts, telling their children, grandchildren, bar buddies and anyone else who will listen that they were there on the night the Sox beat the Yanks in fourteen. Both managers used up almost every damned reliever they had once the starters (Martinez for Boston, Mussina for New York) were gone. Boston finished up with Tim Wakefield, the goat in last years ALCS Game 7 (the Boone home run), the hero last nightin spite of Jason Variteks miseries with the knuckleball behind the plate. The Yankees finished with EstebanLoaiza, who barely made the New York playoff roster. Loaiza, nothing short of horrible for the Yankees during the regular season, was terrific last night until the fourteenthand even then he did not beat himself. David Ortiz, who has pretty much carried the Red Sox offensively this postseason, beat Loaiza and necessitated Game 6; if the Yankees win the ALCS and then lose the World Series, it may be Ortiz who they will blame. Mark Bellhorn led the bottom of the fourteenth doing what he has, unfortunately, done best offensively for his team in the postseason he struck out. Then Johnny Damon, who had a good ALDS and is having a hideous ALCS (in his previous atbat, he popped out weakly to Jorge Posada while trying to bunt, effectively killing what might have been a gamewinning rally in the eleventh), worked Loaiza for a walk. Cabrera struck out. Manny Ramirez coaxed a second walk from Loaiza, and that set the stage for Papi. Ortiz, who won Game 3 against the Angels with a walkoff home run and beat the Yankees in the twelfth the same way two nights ago, has been little short of Jacksonian this October (that would be Reggie, not Andrew). All he did last night was get the first RBI of the game, scoring Cabrera with a single, and then plated the second run himself (basesloaded walk to Varitek). In the eighth, he struck a solo home run to leftcenter, meaning that of the four runs Boston scored in the first nine innings, Ortiz was involved in three. What I remember most clearly about his last atbat are the fans to the right of the backstop as I looked toward home plate. They were leaning over the low railing and pounding on the padded face of the backstop, screaming for a hit. Everyone in the park was on their feet. The kids in front of me were wearing their hats on backwards, and turned insideout for good measure. For the first time since Ive known him, Stewart ONan turned his hat around backwards and insideout. I dont do that; for me, the rallycap thing has never worked. I took mine off instead and held it with the bowl up to the sky, shaking it in that ancient rainmaking gesture. Two guys in the row behind me started doing the same thing. Ortiz put on an incredible tenpitch atbat. Loaiza must have made a couple of bad pitches in there, because the count eventually ran to 22, but I barely remember them. What I remember are those people to the right of the backstop, leaning over and pounding, pounding, pounding on the green. What I remember is Stew in his rally cap, looking weirdly like someLe Mans racecar driver from 1937. What I remember is thirtyfive thousand people screaming and screaming under the lights as Big Papi fouled off pitch after pitch, one to the backstop, one to the glass of the .406 Club, one up the leftfield foul line, one screaming down the rightfield line, just on the wrong side of the Pesky Pole. Finally, on the tenth pitch of the atbat, he hit one fair. The sound of the bat was spongy rather than sharp, not the authoritative crack of good wood, but Ortiz still got all of his broad back into it. The ball flew between Derek Jeter and Miguel Cairo, and well out of reach of either man. Damon was off and running at contact, and the mob was waiting for him at home plate. I thought I was gonna be the first one to get to [Ortiz], Doug Mientkiewicz is quoted as saying in todays paper, but Johnny Damons hair was already in my face. So tonight Father Curt Schilling will get what he probably never thought he would a second chance to shut up those fifty thousand Yankee fans. Hes got a special boot, they tell us, and several million faithful Red Sox fansin New England and scattered all across the countrywill be praying for that boot. Not to mention the ankle inside it. The big chant last night was Gary Sheffields Whos your dealer? The big pitch was Pedro going up and in and putting Matsuiwhos been lunging across the plate all series and hitting .500on his big Ultraman ass. The big runbesides the gamewinnerwas pinch runner Dave Roberts (once again) scoring on a sac fly to tie the game in the eighth. The big hit could have easily been Tony Clarks. In the ninth, with the score tied at 4, two out, and Ruben Sierra on first, he fought off Keith Foulke with two strikes and laced a ball down the rightfield line. It hopped off the track, struck the top of the low wall along the corner and popped almost straight up, into the very first row of the stands, for a ground rule double. Sierra, who would have scored easily, had to go back to third, giving Foulke one more chance to work out of the jam, which he did, getting number nine hitter Miguel Cairo on a popup. So the Yanks lost this one, literally, by an inch. Its the kind of breaklike El Jefes humpback singlewe never get, and the kind of break the Yankees always seem to, and I gotta say, it feels good. And the big stats our pen threw eight scoreless, and the Yanks left 18 on base. So dont feel too bad for them, they had every chance to win. Driving home late this rainy morning, I flash on a usually blank Mass Pike message board on an overpass just before the tollbooths at Newton. There, for every westbound traveler to appreciate, including the several hundred New York fans whod hoped to drink champagne in our ballpark, instead of a construction or accident report, is a simple message, easily decipherable by our wouldbe alien invaders RED SOX 5 YANKEES 4 No team in major league history has ever come back from an 03 hole to win a postseason series (no team in an 03 hole has even forced a Game 7), but its been done twice in the NHL. The last time it was done, it was done to my team. I was a Pittsburgh Penguins fan in 1975 (Im still a Penguins fan, dammit) when the New York Islanders came roaring back from 03 to shame us, winning by the slimmest of margins game after game, several of those in overtime. I was at Game 6 at the Civic Arena, and there was a dispiriting sense in the crowd that we were doomed to lose even though we had a 32 lead in games and were playing the last two on home ice. It was like a nightmare, knowing the horrible thing was going to happen but being powerless to stop it. Once wed lost Game 6, there was hardly any point in playing Game 7, and everyone knew it. We were cooked, broken, useless. We barely showed up, and the Isles pushbroomed us into the dustbin of history. Now, granted, the New York Yankees arent the Pittsburgh Penguins, but I must say that these Red Sox are as hungry as those young Islandersa team, you might remember, that matured and went on to win four straight Stanley Cups. SK Almost game time. Will they play? I think maybe they will. And Mr. Schill? Father Curt? I think maybe he will. And if the Red Sox do instead of die, Ive made arrangements to be in Yanqui Stadium tomorrow night for the kill. Drive those banderillas home, boys! One from Arroyo! Two more from the magickal Mr. Lowe! And one morein the ninththe killerfrom Pedro, the Closer from Hell. SO Its on. Gotta hit, and gotta field behind whoevers on the hill. Weve overcome big injuries all year, so why change now? I hope to hell you are there tomorrow, and the boys bring it home. And if not, we made em sweat blood. Billy Mueller in the 2 slotgood move. Bellhorn and Cabrera werent getting it done. Billy Mueller, Yankee Killer! October 20thALCS Game 6 At Fenway Park this morning, the groundskeepers will continue their little fieldgrooming chores instead of embarking on the larger chores that go with making a major league baseball field ready for winter. The concessionaires remain on standby, and the spectator gates will still be up on Yawkey Way. Incredibly, long after the baseball pundits on ESPNs SportsCenter and the sports cannibals in the Boston media had given them up for dead, the Boston Red Sox remain alive; in the words of the immortal Huey Lewis, the heart of rock n roll is still beating. Terry Francona kept Mark Bellhorn on the field and in the lineup even though the abovementioned pundits and cannibalswere by yesterday morning all but screaming for the manager to slot Reese in at second base, and Bellhorn responded with a threerun home run in the fourth inning. The rest of the night belonged to Father Curt, who dominated the Yankees for seven innings (his only mistake was a fat 31 pitch to Bernie Williams, who made him pay by stroking his 22nd postseason home run), and to Red Sox relievers Bronson Arroyo and Keith Foulke. The former ran into trouble when he gave up a double to Miguel Cairo and a single to Derek Jeter; the latter nearly gave me heart failure by walking Matsui and Sierra in the bottom of the ninth. In the end, however, Tony Clark ended the game by doing what he did so many times for the Red Sox in clutch situationshe struck out. Last night, and in the seasons most crucial situation, the Yankees stranded their comeback on first base. The worst moment for Sox fans came during ARods atbat in the eighth, following the Jeter single. Rodriguez hit a squibber between the pitchers mound and first. Arroyo fielded it, saw that his first baseman (Mientkiewicz, at that point) was out of position, and went to put the tag on ARod himself. Rodriguezslapped the ball from Arroyos mitt, and Jeter raced all the way around to make it 43. After Sox manager Terry Francona came out to protest, the umpires put their heads together and reversed the original decision, which had Rodriguez safe at first, and ruled him out on interference, instead. A sulky Derek Jeter (who slapped a phantom tag on David Ortiz and got an out call in Game 5 at Fenway) was forced to return to first base. He was still there when Gary Sheffield fouled out, ending the inning. Fans pelted the field with various objects; police in riot gear lined the foul lines in the top of the ninth; eventually the Red Sox did what no team has ever done before, which is to come back from a 30 deficit to tie a postseason bestofseven series. Whether or not they can go all the way and win Game 7 tonight is very much in question, but I intend to be there and see for myselfI called around and wangled a ticket to the game. Yankee Stadium is a horrible place for a Red Sox fan to be at the very best of times, if not Hell itself, then surely the very lowest cellar of purgatory, but I think it must still beat television. After three cold nights at Fenway and one warm one in front of Harlan Ellisons glass teat (when the Bronx fans were clearly freezing), I am prepared to testify in any court of law that being there is better. I think that if Fox had shown me one more shot of Curt Schillings bloody ankle last night I would have screamednot in horror or pity, but in rage. And anyone with a lick of sense watches such bigmoney games only with the volume turned all the way down. Listening to the endlessly blathering announcers always makes me think of what my mother used to say about the village idiot when she was growing up in Prouts Neck back in the late 1920s Hed talk about moonlight on a sunny afternoon. But never mind. That sounds bilious, and Im not in a bilious mood this morning. Far from it. Now that the Red Sox have come so far, I find it nearly impossible to believe they will come all the wayyet notcompletely impossible. I know this much if theres to be a miracle, I intend to see it with my own eyes. Time to hit save, eject the disc, and shut this machine down. Ruth Kings boy is going to New York City. SO Marky Mark made those boobirds from the other night eat their words. ARod slapping Bronsons glove off was a weird counterpoint to Byo hitting him to start the brawl in July. What a baldfaced cheater. And, man, Joe West has to be the worst umpire in the leaguethe 21 to Sierra was down the pipe. But the person at Yankee Stadium I feel sorriest for is the fan who had Bellhorns homer in his hands and dropped it. Come on, dude! Nice that the umps finally got that one right. Overfuckingjoyed, Stew SK Thank God Tony Clark still owed us a couple of Special Ks. Off to NYC. SO The rule book calls what ARod did an unsportsmanlike act. Fans everywhere are calling it an unmanlike act. So our 340K pitcher once again beat their 252M hitter. Justice prevailsfor now. Just remember the price of freedom is eternal vigilance. And cheaters never win. ALCS Game 7 Im not planning on going to Game 7. I dont have a ticket, Im exhausted from four straight late nights and rockhard hotel beds, and the last time I was at Yankee Stadium we didnt do so well. I figure Ill watch Steve on TV from my warm comfy couch. Then at three our Fenway neighbor Mason calls. If he can swing me a ticket, do I want to go? Because he just might be able to, but he needs to know right now. Im thoroughly burnt from the weekend. I mean, Ive got nothing leftno voice, no energy. But if were going to win tonight, Im going to be there. I dont care if we loseI do, but I think the way weve battled, weve got nothing to be ashamed of one way or the other. And if the guys dont do it, Id like to be there to applaud them for the great run theyve given us, and the great year. I dont want them to hear nothing but silence or, worse, ugly catcalls. Yeah, I tell Mason. Come on, how can I not go? Ive got a good feeling, he says. I do too. We really do have nothing to lose. If we lose, so what? Could it be as bad as 1986? I dont think so. But if we winIf we win it will be one of the greatest wins in Red Sox history. In baseball history. And those are the only two possible outcomes win or lose. Ill take those odds. Let me check and Ill call you back, Mason says, and then when he does, its a go. I toss my stuff in a plastic bag, kiss Trudy goodbye (Be careful! she urges, sure the Yankee fans will beat me senseless), hop in the car and zoom off to the Bronx. Last year I didnt go to Game 7, and I was glad. This year, one way or the other, Im not going to miss history. I get into the Stadium a half hour before game time, and its oddly quiet. I expected a seething full house, but here and there are empy seats, and the Yankee fansthough decked out in some of the ugliest team gear Ive ever seenare muttering to each other. Wheres the crude, inyourface stupidity? The 1918 banners? The guys with paint all over them? The crowd seems wary, tight. I see far more Sox hats and shirts than I did last month. Its like were taking over. David, the Yankee fan I sit beside, is incredibly polite and wellversed in the gamehes a baseball fan first, and only then a Yankee fan (he began as a Giants fan, and still owes some allegiance to them). Its an unexpected pleasure to sit with him and swap lore. The Yanks call on Bucky Fucking Dent to throw out the first pitch, hoping to stir up old ghosts. Yogi Berra, who watched Mazs homer go over the wall in Forbes Field, catches for him. Maybe they should have let Bucky start, because Kevin Brown has nothing. In the first, after Johnny is thrown out at the plate on a Manny singleon the very next pitch!Brown tries to sneak an 88 mph fastball past David Ortiz. Never happen. El Jefe lines it into the short porch (in Fenway it either falls for a single or Sheffield catches it racing in) for a 20 lead, and the Yanks never dig themselves out of that hole. With bases juiced in the second, Johnny Damon greets Javier Vazquez with a linedrive grand slam into the same short porch that has padded so many Yankees power stats over the years, and the thousand or so Faithful drown out the rest of the Stadium. And thats basically it. Tonight Derek Lowe, who was supposed to be the best number three pitcher in the majors, is just that. He gives up one hit in six innings. Ill say that again he gives up one hit in six innings. As in Game 4, DLowe rhymes with hero. Johnny hits a second dinger off Vazquez, just like he did on June 29th, and were up 81 and chanting Reggie Damon! The crowd is totally poleaxed, as if theyve shown up on the wrong night. They revive only when Pedro comes on for a vanity appearance in the seventh and gives up two runs, one of which Mark Bellhorn (from now until eternity Mark Fucking Bellhorn to Yankee fans) immediately gets back with a towering blast off the rightfield foul pole. Another garbage run on a sac fly, and yes, finally, that is it. Im behind home with Steve as we nail down the last outs. We dont even need our closer. Its 103, and no one can hit a sevenrun homer. Jeter looks sick. ARod and Sheffield have both gone 0forcomplete and total justice. Its as if the Sox have walked through the Stadium driving stakes through every single ghosts, vampires and Yankee fans rotten, cobwebby heart. Its quiet and the upper deck is halfempty. The Yankees are cooked, and their fans cant believe it. In the biggest game ever played in this rivalry, the Red Sox have beaten the Yankees at home, by a touchdown, on Mickey Mantles birthday. At one minute after midnight, the start of a new day, when Sierra grounds weakly to Pokey Reese, and Pokey flips to Doug Mientkiewicz (so simple!), the most expensive baseball team in history is history. And were sorry, George, but thats more than half a billion dollars youve spentfor nothing. Come on now Whos your Daddy? Diamondbacks. Angels. Marlins. Red Sox. Its like Papa Jack says aint nuthin for free. SOMEBODY gotta pay. And, Yankee fans, the one you just bought has a lifetime guarantee. October 21st Last night, in a game that was never supposed to happen, the Boston Red Sox completed the greatest comeback in the history of American professional sports. In light of that accomplishment, an inningbyinning postmortem would be pretty anticlimactic stuff, and not very helpful in understanding the magnitude of the event. You might as well try to describe a camel by describing a camels eyeball. Is winning the American League pennant an event of magnitude? We are, after all, fighting some kind of screwedup war in Iraq where over eleven hundred American soldiers have already died, not to mention at least two hundred American civilians. We are fighting (or trying to fight) a war on terrorism. We are electing a president in less than two weeks, and the dialogue between the candidates has never been hotter. In light of those things, does winning the pennant even matter? My answer you bet your sweet ass it does. One of the eeriest things about this years justconcluded BostonNew York baseball tussle is the way it mimicked this years ongoing political contest. John Kerry, a Massachusetts resident, was nominated in Boston and threw out the first pitch at a crucial Red SoxYankees game. George Bush was nominated in New York City, and Dick Cheney attended a YankeeRed Sox game, wearing a Yankees cap over the old solar sexpanel while snipers stood posted high above the fans. As with the Red Sox in the ALCS, Kerry started far behind, then pulled even in the polls. (Whether or not he can win his own Game 7 remains very much open to question, and even if he does, it probably wont be by the electoral college equivalent of seven runs.) The four playoff games in New York transcended mere sport for another reason. Except for the Irish tenor warbling his way through God Bless America during the seventhinning stretchnow a tradition at most or all parks, I thinkthere was little or no sign of 911 trauma at Yankee Stadium. The Yanks have had their trials and travails this year (poor pitching chief among them), but the need to provide therapy for their hurt and grieving city by winning the American League pennant was thankfully not one of them. Yet a comfy tradition of winning leaves onewhether that one be an individual or a sociological overset combined of several million fansunprepared for loss, especially when the loss is so shocking and unexpected. The headlines in this mornings three New York papers express that shock better than any man or womanonthestreet interview ever could. From the New York Times RED SOX TO YANKEES WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR and MONUMENTAL COLLAPSE. From the Daily News THE CHOKES ON US and (this is a classic, I think) HELL FREEZES OVER. Accompanying the latter is a picture of Pedro with his hands upraised and the caption Pedro Martinez celebrates in his daddys house. From the New York Post, sad and succinct DAMNED YANKEES. After the game, out by the gigantic bat in front of Gate 4, most Yankee fans were downcast but magnanimous, considering the fact that the Red Sox fansthere were plenty of themwere delirious with joy, pounding each other on the back, giving and receiving high fives, pogoing up and down. One large, hairy man grabbed me around the waist and whirled me around thrice, screaming, Stephen! Stephen! We won, ya scary sonofabitch! I LOVE YA! GO, RED SOX! I screamed back. It seemed safe enough, and besides, it was what I felt. GO, RED SOX! the large, hairy man screamed. GO, JOHNNY DAMON! GO, MANNY! GO, YOU LONGHAIRED SONSABITCHES! Then he was gone. From behind me there came a dissenting notethree Yankee fans, teenagers by the sound (I did not turn around to see), who wanted me to know that Red Sox suck, and you suck too, Steve. A mounted cop clopped by, leaned down, and said, Tell em to blow it out their asses. Tell em you been waitin eighteen years. I might just have done that little thing, but he clopped on, magnificent on his steed and in his riot gear. Such memories are like raisins in some fabulous dream cake. There are othersthe churlish, childish failure of the Yankees to congratulate the Red Sox on their electronic scoreboard; the downcast Yankee fan who hugged me and said he hoped the Red Sox would go all the way this time;two crying children, a boy and a girl, slowly mounting the steps and draggingtheir big foam Number One fingers disconsolately behind them on the concrete, headed out of Yankee Stadium hand in handbut mostly what I remember this morning are the lights, the noise, the sheer unreality of watching Johnny Damons grand slam going into the rightfield stands, and being wrapped in a big Stewart ONan bear hug while he screamed, Were going to the World Series! in my ear. And thats a fact we are indeed going to the World Series. Right now, after coming back from the dead to beat the Yankees four straight, it almost seems like a postscriptbut yes. Were going to the World Series. It starts in Boston. And it matters. Its part of an American life, and that matters a lot. SO We DID IT! And it was great to be there with you to see it. Its a win no one can ever take away from us. History, baby. The starting pitchers in tonights NLCS Game 7 are both products of the Red Sox Roger Clemens and Jeff Suppan, who started with the PawSox tenplus years ago and then returned for the last half of last season. In this one Suppan outpitches and outhits Clemens, executing a beautiful suicide squeeze that scoresof all peopleRed Sock spring training hopeful Tony Womack. SO So its gonna be the Cards. Welcome to 1967. Except this time its the Possible Dream. SK Somebody play me the Lullaby of Birdland. We got fucked over by the Orioles. We did okay against the Jays. How you feeling about the Cardinals? SO Dont bring the Os into this. Just dont. Miguel Tehater. And Im glad its the Cards, winners of 105 games and by far the best and most consistent team in the majors this year. If were going to finally win it all, I dont want it to be against a patsy like the Braves or Padres or Mets. Degree of difficulty counts, and whatever we achieve (or fail to achieve) the Cards will make us earn it. Within hours of last nights win, our email inbox began filling with satirical Yankeebashing pages. The classic was an advisory from the Red Cross informing us that the international signal for choking (a man holding his throat with both hands) would now be replaced by this more recognizable symbol (the intertwined N and Y). Marky Marks head was cutandpasted into a cast picture of Saved by the Bellhorn, and a shot of Derek Jeter and ARod glumly watching from the dugout rail bore the caption Not Going Anywhere for a While? and a Snickers logo. And, God help me, until they started repeating, I laughed at every single one. October 22nd There will be baseball tomorrow night under the lights at Fenway Park. In the meantime, these intermission notes OneDan Shaughnessy, Boston Globe columnist and author of The Curse of the Bambino, has been in full damagecontrol mode since Boston did its Rocky Balboa thing to win the pennant. Shaughnessys trying to convince joyful New Englanders that the Curse of the Bambino (largely created by Boston Globe columnist Dan Shaughnessy, who has book royalties to protect) is still in full force; beating the Yankees is not enough. Now Wait Just a Minute Series Still Must Be Won is the heading of todays column, which begins, Lets get one thing straight the Curse of the Bambino has not been lifted. The job is not yet done. I happened to catch Shaughnessy on one of the cable news channels last night not long after I arrived home from New York, spinning pretty much the same line. He was on the phone; Red SoxYankees highlights were playing on the screen. When he paused for breath, the newscaster asked him what he and Boston baseball fans would talk about visvis the Red Sox next year if Boston did happen to win the World Series. Either the query or the concept behind it seemed to catch Shaughnessy by surprise. There was an uncharacteristic pause, and then he said, You know, thats an interesting question. Which to my mind is always aninteresting response, meaning the person to whom the question has been directed has no freakin idea. Sure enough, Shaughnessy never did really respond to the newscasters question. Without the curse to fall back on (or the Curse, if you prefer), they might have to actually write about the games? You think? I know some of the Boston sports cannibals would find that a daunting proposition at the outset, but most of them (their taste for the golden flesh of athletes to one side) are pretty damned good writers, and Im sure theyd rise to the challenge in short order. TwoDuring the weehours postgame celebration outside Fenway Park, a twentyoneyearold Emerson College student named Victoria Snelgrove was killed when she was struck by a plastic ball filled with pepper spray. Boston police commissioner Kathleen OToole accepted responsibility for the young womans death (handsome, and no doubt of great comfort to her family), and in the next breath condemned the punks who seized upon the Red Sox victory over the Yankees as an opportunity for violence and destruction. Running beside this story is a picture of the late Ms. Snelgrove, looking not like a punk but a Madonna. Boston mayor Thomas Menino says the city is considering a ban of liquor sales during the World Series (think how proud his Puritan predecessors would be of that), and also of banning live TV coverage of the games in bars and restaurants, because it incites fans.This is causing the predictable howls of outrage from bar and restaurant owners, and they may have a point, especially since Menino failed to mention the sale of beer within Fenway Park itself while the games are going on. ThreeIts going to be St. Louis rather than Houston when the Series convenes tomorrow for another of those hateful (perhaps even beerless?) night games. The Rocket gave it his best shot last night in Game 7 of the NLCS, and the Astros even led for a while, but in the end the Roger Clemens tradition of just not being able to win the big game again held true. Red Sox rooters looking for additional reasons to believeand surely any would come in handy, considering that the 2004 Cardinals won more games than any other pro baseball teammight consider this in theNLCS, the home team won every game.


And in this World Series, the Red Sox have the home field advantage. And have it thanks to Manny Ramirezs firstinning home run in the AllStar Game off ofRoger Clemens. Yogi Berra was a Yankee, but how could you not love a man who said, When you come to a fork in the road, take it? My favorite Yogi Berra story features Hank Aaron. Yogi was a catcher, of course, and when he was crouched behind the plate, hed always talk to distract the hitter. During the 1958 World Series, he kept telling Henry Aaron to hit with the label up, Hank, you dont want to do it that way, hit with the label up. Finally Hammerin Hank looked back over his shoulder and saidnot unkindlyI came up here to hit, not to read. On the night after the final game against Anaheim, I dreamed that Johnny Damon and I were digging through mounds of discarded equipmentgloves, pads, shin guardsin some filthy, forgotten equipment shed, looking for a magic pitching machine. I think that hitting a few balls thrown by this machine turned you into Mark McGwire. We never found it. It needs to be pointed out that, due to Bostons ferocious lateinning assault, not even those 6 runs were enough to assure the Yankees of the win. Due to the baseball scoring systemand we could argue about whether or not its fair to Father Curt in this case; there are points to be made either waySchilling takes the loss, but the runs which really sank us were the two driven in by Bernie Williams, against Mike Timlin, with two out in the bottom of the eighth. The good news by the bottom of the fourth inning, all but the most abysmally drunk Yankee fansthe twentyyearold nakedtothewaist males with large blueblack entwined NYs painted on their chests, in other wordshad given up on the mocking Whos your Daddy? chant. The bad news Pedro was behind 10 from the first inning (Derek Jeter, the first batter he faced, scored), left trailing 30, and eventually took the loss, 31. The fact that we had to open there at all is something I blame on the LEBsLoathsome El Birdos. In the only one I can remember, I was trying to work some kind of trade with George Steinbrenner, who was laughing at me and telling methis is probably the only interesting part, and surely the most significantthat I needed a haircut. Clark, a Red Sox castoff who specialized in strikeouts and earnest postgame interviews while with Bostonwhich sounds snottier than Clark, one of the games truly nice guys, probably deservesplayed first for John Olerud last night. Olerud was struck by a bat during the Saturday Night Massacre and showed up at the park Sunday on crutches. On second because Roberts flat out stole it off Rivera and Posada, both of whom knew he was going but could do nothing to stop him from getting into scoring position. Without this steal, our seasons over, and Roberts made it look easy. Theos very last trade before the deadlineRoberts straightup for PawSock outfielder Henri Stanleymay have been his best of the year. SO Thanks a pantload, Baltimore. Not to mention one cannibalette. That would be Jackie MacMullan of the Boston Globe, who spanked Manny Ramirez for keeping the bat on his shoulder too much after Bostons twelveinning 64 victory in Game 4. In that game all Manny did was reach base five times in six atbats, including the walk which preceded Big Papis walkoff. I have an acquaintance from Brooklyn who says that he and his friends call Rodriguez Show Pony, because of the seemingly ostentatious way he runs. And for all of you Hanshin Tigers fans out there, a measure of revenge Johnnys granny, like Jefes tworun shot, goes over a sign on the wall touting the Yomiuri Corporation. Ganbatte! And monster props to Terry Francona for engineering this matchup. Its like Bill Belichick drawing up a play that isolates our hot receiver on their weakest corner. Its a flatout mismatch, and at an absolutely crucial time. After Game 3, Franconas consistently outmanaged Joe Torre, whether its using the pen, changing the lineup around, or bringing in pinch runners and defensive replacements. Every move seems to have worked out for Tito, while Joe, with a deeper bench and pen, keeps fucking up. George, are you watching? Are you taking notes? No word yet on whether or not Menino is considering a ban on peppersprayfilled plastic balls, which seem to incite Boston police. The World Series The Possible Dream October 23rdWorld Series Game 1 SK I think Wake is a GREAT choice for Game 1. Sure hes a risk, but hed be MY choice; he might tie those big thumpas in knots. Even if he doesnt, I give Francona kudos for giving Timmy the ball. And for Gods sake, hes gonna put Mirabelli behind the plate, right? Right. Seeya 530, Steve I Still Believe King Id violently disagree with SteveWake is his boy as much as Dave McCarty is mine, and Wakes been plain awful this year, besides the few usual wins in Tampa; the best thing he did was volunteer to mop up in Game 3 against the Yanks and give Lowe his spot in the rotationbut Im out the door and sailing across I84 before Steves email reaches me. Its been a long time since Ive been to a World Series, and I aim to get my fill. The souvenir shops around the park dont open until noon. At eleventhirty, lines of eager buyers stretch far down the block. The amount of free junk people are handing out is astoundingpapers, posters, buttons, stickers, pictures, temporary tattoos, Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Fans are staggering around with bags of the crap, in total material overload. When the stores open, barkers with bullhorns herd customers into switchbacked ropesThis line only for World Series and AL Champion merchandisethis line only! Hanging out by the parking lot eight hours before game time, the autograph hunters are treated to an impromptu concert by Steven Tyler as he runs his sound check for tonights anthem. Steven doesnt actually sing the song, he just blows an A on his harmonica and runs through an ascending series of bluesy scales, and sounds greata cool reminder that Aerosmith started out as an electric blues band influenced by the early Stones, the Yardbirds and Muddy Waters. After that, PA announcer Carl Beane warms his pipes, rumbling Ladies and gentlemen, please welcomethe National League Champion, St. Louis Cardinals, over and over, as if he might have trouble with it later. He goes through a fantastical lineup Batting first, number oneCarlBeane. A minute later, Batting fourth, number nineTedWilliams, and the crowd outside applauds. Batting fifth, number sixStanMusial. And speaking of oldtimers, rumor is that Yaz is throwing out the first pitch, a sentimental touch, and overdue, since its said that Yaz and the club havent had the best of relationships since he retired. The new owners may be trying to patch things over. We also witnesswell in advancethe return of Lenny DiNardo and Adam Hyzdu, two guys who spent time with the club early in the year. Its nice to see the Sox are giving them a taste of the big show (though, of course, the guy we really want to see is Dauber). Two other early arrivals of note team physician Dr. Bill Morgan and, fifteen minutes later, wearing a brace on his right leg and no shoe in the cold, Curt Schilling. Before Game 6, Dr. Morgan sutured Schills tendon to his skin, a procedure he practiced first on a cadaver. Rumor (again, rumor, the outsiders substitute for information) is that hes going to stitch him up again for tomorrows start in Game 2. On those few threads, our whole season may depend. Inside, there are more banners than Ive seen all yeara lifting of the normal ban, for TVs sake, I expect. Its cold, with a wind whipping in from straight center, which should give Wakes knuckler more flutter. Even the stiff wind isnt enough to keep David Ortiz in the park tonight. In the first, in his very first World Series atbat, El Jefe busts out with a threerun golf shot OVER the Pesky Pole. We chase Woody Williams early, giving Wake a 72 lead going into the fourth. Beside me, Steve is smiling. Kevin, the usher who comes down between innings with a camp chair to keep people off the wall, is overjoyed with how things are going. No, I say, glum, just watch Wakell start walking people. He always does when we give him a big lead. And I dont say this to jinx anything, I say it because Ive seen Wake all year long, and thats just what he does. And thats just what he doeswalking four in the fourth to break a World Series record, and soon after hes gone its 77. Its like they used to say about Fenway when it was a launching pad no lead is safe here. Man, that was ogly, Orlando Cabrera said in a postgame interview. He paused, then added, But we won. Ogly pretty well sums up the first game of this years World Series, which ended with a thing of beauty Keith Foulke striking out Roger Cedeno a few minutes after midnight. Speaking of ogly, Orlando wasnt looking so good himself in that interview, and he seemed uncharacteristically solemn. A Woody Williams pitch hit him on the shoulder in the first inning, then bounced up into his face, leaving him with a bruised chin, a fat lip, and a temporary inability to smilewhich, under ordinary circumstances, Mr. Garciaparras replacement does often. Pain or no pain, Cabrera must have been at least tempted to test that smile when the Red Sox finally escaped with an ogly but serviceable 119 win in spite of four errors (one by Bronson Arroyostarter Tim Wakefields fourthinning reliefone by Kevin Millar, and two by Manny Ramirez). Every one of those errors led to runs, leading me to wonder if any of the Red Sox players felt tempted to visit the Cardinals clubhouse after the game and assure them on behalf of the home team that Boston doesnt play that way every night. Cabrera might have been even more tempted to test his swollen lip if informed of this statistic in World Series history, the team drawing first blood has gone on to win the Fall Classic 60 percent of the time. Still, theres that other 40 percentand the fact that the Cards have yet to lose during this postseason on their home field. Butfingers crossed, nowyouve got to like the Red Sox going into Game 2. Theyre nice and loose (what could be looser than four errors and four walks issued by Red Sox pitching?), their demonic archrivals are behind them and theyre riding a nifty fivegame winning streak. Last nights game began with a moment of silence for Victoria Snelgrove, the young woman killed by a peppergas ball during riotcontrol operations outside Fenway following Bostons final victory over New York,and while it was both decent and brave of the current ownership to remember her (one is tempted to believe that the previous bunch of caretakers would have swept Ms. Snelgrove under the rug as fast and as far as possible), it was also a reminder of what is truly ogly in our brave new world, where all game bags are searched and the clocks tick on Osama Mean Time. There were lines of Boston police, looking like puffy Michelin Men in their riot gear, watching impassively as the happy and largely wellbehaved crowd left the old green First New England Church of Baseball with the strains of Dirty Water still ringing in their ears and the memory of Mark Bellhorns gamewinning, foulpolebanging home run still vivid in their minds. To me those dark lines of armed men outside such a place of ancient and innocent pleasure are a lot harder to look at than the mark on Orlando Cabreras face, or his swelled lower lip. 119 is a crazy score for a World Series game; so is a total of 24 hits and 5 errors. But the bottom line is that we won, Father Curt takes the mound tomorrow night on home turf with his freshly restitched ankle, and thats a beautiful thing. (A remarkable one, anyway.) I only wish Torie Snelgrove was around to see it. The most surprising thing to me about Game 1 was how the Faithful booed Dale Sveum during the pregame introductions. I suppose its a delayed (or should I say sustained?) reaction to Johnny being thrown out at home in the first inning of Game 7 of the ALCS. Whatever it is, I dont like it. And despite the win, I dont like the way Kevin Millar played, leaving ten men on, making essentially two errors on the same play (doubleclutching that cutoff, then throwing the ball into the dugout), and later not getting anywhere near a ball hit down the line that both Mientkiewicz and McCarty handle easily. By contrast, the Cards Larry Walker took to the big stage in a big way, making two great catches in right (a Manny liner down into the corner with men on, and a windblown pop he had to run a long way and then lunge for at the last second), and hitting a double, a homer, a single and another double. This is Walkers first World Series, after a long and brilliant career in the hinterlands of Montreal and Colorado, and it was heartening to see him show the world his A game. If Pujols, Rolen and Edmonds had done anything to help him out, wed be down 01. Mark Bellhorn, meanwhile, seems determined to enforce the curse of the exCubs (that is, the team with more exCubs is bound to lose the Seriesthe Cards have five while we only have two, Marky Mark and Billy Mueller). Before his home run off Julian Tavarez, he was 2 for 3 against him lifetime, so his success didnt surprise me, only the magnitude of it. It was no fluke. Tavarez didnt fool him at all. Marky Mark ripped the pitch before his Pesky Pole shot high and deep down the line in right, but foul. All he had to do was reload and straighten it out, making him one of a very rarefied clubplayers whove homered in three straight postseason games. October 24thWorld Series Game 2 On the street outside the players lot I run into Andrew on his way out to buy some salads for the guys. Were surrounded by a crowd of tourists hoping to catch a glimpse of the stars. Camera crews, cops. Andrew still cant believe this is all happeninga common reaction among the Nation, even those deep inside it. I ask him about Schills ankle, and tell him about seeing Dr. Morgan yesterday. Yeah, he says, they had him on the table, but he tried to stay away from there. Hows he look? I ask. Andrew just shrugs. Well have to see. Inside, I catch Tony Womack along the leftfield wall, joking with an old friend in the stands about beating him at golf next week. When he gets a break, I ask him how his collarbone feels after taking that David Ortiz smash off it last night. Im fine, he says, and I tell him how much Id been rooting for him in spring training. You ran great, bunted great, stole bases. I wish you could have played the field. Man, he says, shaking his head, they didnt want me. We shake hands, and a minute later he calls Larry Walker over. Walker looks puzzled until he sees Tonys friend. You know this guy? Tony asks. Know this guy? Walker says. This guy owes me eight grand! Its Sunday, and in the concourse crowds are gathered around the wallmounted TVs watching the Patriots beat the Jets for their twentyfirst consecutive win. If the Pats can win twentyone straight, the logic goes, why cant we win eight? Our seats are down in the corner where I normally post up for BPbetter seats than Im used to. How good? Above us in the Monster seats is Jimmy Fallon, and two rows in front of us, so close I could lean forward and tap his shoulder, is Eagles QB Donovan McNabb. He played an outstanding game today in Cleveland, his long scramble setting up an overtime win. He must have showered and gotten right on the plane. Hes so tired that the only time he stands up during the game is to go to the restroom, but, like us, he stays for every drizzly, windswept pitch. October 25th One summer night in the mid1960s, right around the time the Beatles were ruling the American music charts, a young music producer named Ed Cobb happened to be walking with his girlfriend beside the Charles River in the quaint old city of Boston, Massachusettsor so the story goes. Out of the shadows came a thief who tried to mug him out of his wallet (or maybe it was out of her purse; on that the story is not entirely clear). In any case, the musically inclined Mr. Cobb foiled the thief and got an idea for a song as a bonus. The song, Dirty Water, was eventually recorded by a group of Boston protopunks called the Standells and released by Capitol, who wanted a record Cobb had produced for Ketty (Anyone Who Had a Heart) Lester. No one expected much from the raw and raunchyDirty Water, but it went to 11 on the Billboard pop charts and has remained a standard on the Boston club scene ever since. It was revived by the new Red Sox management and has become the goodtime signature of Boston wins. For the Fenway Faithful, theres nothing better than seeing the final out go up on the scoreboard and hearing that sixnote intro with the familiar firstnote slide leading into the verse Down by the riiiiverAnd so it seemed a particularly good omen to see the resurrected Standells in deep center field before the game last night, a lot grayer and a little thinner on top but still loud and proud, singing about that dirty water down by the banks of the River Charles. A great many things about baseball in general and the Red Sox in particular are about the bridges between past and presentthis was just one more provided by a current Yawkey Way administration that seems pleasantlyaware of tradition without becoming enslaved to it. And when the Red Sox had put this one away in the cold mists of a late Sunday evening, the sounds of Dirty Water rang out again, this time with the tempo a little faster and the tones a little truer. And why not? This was the one recorded when the Standells were young. This is the version that hit the charts four months before Curt Schilling was born. He was awesome last night. The word is tired, clappedout from overuse, but Ive had a 170mile drive to try and think of a better one, and I cannot. The crowd of just over thirtyfive thousand in the old green Church of Baseball knew what it was seeing; many of them may have been in Fenway Park for the first time last night (these Seriesonly fans are what Globe writer Dan Shaughnessy so rightly calls the Nouveau Nation), but even they knew. The galaxy of flashbulbs that went off in the stadium, from the plum dugout seats to the skyviews to the distant bleachers to those now perched atop the Green Monster, was chilling in its cold and commemorative brilliance, declaring by silent light that the men and women who came to the ballpark last night had never seen anything quite like it for sheer guts and never expected to see anything quite like it again. Not, certainly, with their own eyes. Edgar Renteria, the Cardinals leadoff hitter, battled Schilling fiercelyfirst six pitches, then ten, then a dozen, running the count full and then spilling off foul after foul.He might have been the games key batter, and not the ones Schilling had to face following more Boston miscues (another four) that allowed the Cardinals extra chances upon which they could not capitalize. Before finally hitting sharply to shortstop (and the oftenmaligned Kevin Millar made a fine pick at first to complete the play), Renteria tried every trick in the book. Every trick, that is, save one. He never attempted to lay down a bunt. In three starts on his bad pegtwo against the Yankees and now one against the Cardinalsno one has tried to make Curt Schilling field his position. Im sure the Red Sox infielders have discussed this possibility and know exactly how they would handle itbut it has simply never come up. And when this thing is over, when the hurlyburlys done, all the battles lost and won, someone needs to ask the Yankee andCardinal hitters why they did not bunt. Of course I can imagine the boos that would rain down on a successful bunter against Father Curt at Fenway, but is it beyond the scope of belief to think that even Yankee or Cardinal fans might find it hard to cheer such a ploy for reaching first (wellmaybe not Yankee fans)? Could it have beendont laughactual sportsmanship? Whatever the reason, the Cards played him straight up last nightI salute them for itand for the most part, Father Curt mowed them right down. Tony Womack and Mike Matheny had singles; Albert Pujols had a pair of doubles. And, as far as hits against Schilling went, that was it. He finished his nights work by striking out the side in the sixth. For the Red Sox, it was a continuing case of tworun, twoout thunder. Two runs scored after two were out in the first; two more after two were out in the fourth; two more in the sixth, the same way.By the end of the game (Mike Matheny, groundout), the deep green grass of the field and the bright white of the Red Sox home uniforms had grown slightly diffuse in the thickening mizzle. The departing fans, damp but hardly dampened, were all but delirious with joy. One held up a poster depicting a Christlike Johnny Damon walking on water with the words JOHNNY SAVES beneath his sandaled feet. I heard one fansurely part of Mr. Shaughnessys Nouveau Nationactually saying he hoped the Red Sox would lose a couple in St. Louis, so the team could clinch back on its home soil (yes, Beavis, he actually said home soil). I had to restrain myself from laying hands on this fellow and asking him if he remembered 1986, when we also won the first two, only to lose four of the next five. And when a team is going this well (RED HOT RED SOX, trumpets this mornings USA Today), one loss can lead to others. Winning two at home, within a sniff of the River Charles, may have been vital, considering the fact that the Cardinals have yet to lose a single postseason game in their own house. Tomorrow night, Pedro Martinez will face the Cards near the dirty water of a much larger river, in a much larger stadium. It will be his first World Series start, and given that no team has ever climbed out of an03 World Series hole (and surely that sort of thing cant happen twice in the same postseasoncan it?), I think its going to be the most important start by a Red Sox pitcher in a long, long time. Certainly since 1986. October 26thWorld Series Game 3 SK Dear StewartUndertheArch Heres my idea of the doomsday scenario, also known as the Novelists Ending. The BoSox win one game in SaintLoo. Come back to Boston up three games to two. Lose Game 6. Andhave to start Father Curt for all the marbles in Game 7. Stewart, this could actually happen. SO Im hoping we can steal one out there, and hey, if we get two, I wont be crying about eating my Game 6 tickets. Its just like the Yankee series we just have to win one gamethe game were playing. SK All lookin good. Now, if Pedro can only do his part. You know, I think he will. SO Pedro remains inscrutable. We cant hit like its a regular Pedro game; we have to pretend its John Burkett out there. Think seven or eight runs. Go Sox! The Sox are up 40 as the game rolls into the ninth, and I find I cant sit down. As Foulke comes in, Im muttering the lyrics to his Fenway entrance music, Danzigs Mother (And if you want to find Hell with me, I can show you what its like). He gets Edgar Renteria, then has Larry Walker 02 when he just lays a fastball in there, and Walker golfs it out. I watch Johnny turn and watch it, then Im out of the room, swearing and pacing through the house. Its okay, weve got a threerun lead and theres no one on. Foulkie just has to go after hitters and not walk anybody. Pujols gets behind and jaws at the ump after a borderline call, then skies one deep to left (oh crap) that Manny settles under (whew)thats two. Scott Rolen, 0 for the series, is taking, gets behind, then inexplicably takes the 12 pitch, which, while slightly in, is clearly a strike, and the ump punches him out to end the game. Were up 30 and Im jumping around the room. Petey came through so big, and Manny, and Billy Mueller hitting with two down. Were a game away. Ive been a strike away before, so Im already trying to play it down, but, damn, I didnt expect us to ever be up 30 on the Cards. The idea of winning it all sends me romping through the house, bellowing the Dropkick Murphys Tessie, even though I dont know all the words Up from third base to Huntington, theyd sing another victry sooooooongtwo, three, four! Boston has now won seven in a row (tying a postseason record), pushing the Cards to the brink where the Red Sox themselves stood only a week ago. The most amazing thing about the World Series part of the Red Sox run is that the Cardinals have yet to lead in a single game. Their manager, Tony La Russa, certainly knows this, and while his part of the postgame news conference seemed long to me, it must have seemed interminable to him. He looked more like a middlelevel racketeer being questioned in front of a grand jury than a successful baseball manager. Part of the reason for La Russas long face may have had to do with the games key play, which came in the third inning, when Cardinals base runner (and starting pitcher) Jeff Suppan was thrown out at third. Suppan led off the inning with a slow roller to third. Mueller handled it cleanly, but not in time to get Suppan at first. Edgar Renteria followed with a double to right that had Trot Nixon falling on his ass because of the wet conditions in the outfield.Suppan probably could have scored right there, tying the game, but perhaps he was held up by the thirdbase coach. (Well give him the benefit of the doubt, anyway.) So with runners at second and third and nobody out, up came Larry Walker, a gent who is absolutely no slouch with the stick. He hit a ground ball to Mark Bellhorn. At that point the Boston infield was playing back, conceding Suppans run, which would have tied the score, 11. But Suppan didnt score when Walker made contact, nor did he when Bellhorn threw Walker out.Instead he broke toward home, broke back toward third base, then broke toward home a second time. Meanwhile, Bostons new kid on the block at first base, David Ortiz, in the lineup because the designated hitter doesnt exist in National League parks, was observing all this. From Ortizs side of the diamond, Suppan must have looked as frantic and disoriented as a bird trapped in a garage. He fired across the diamond to Bill Mueller just as Suppan darted back toward third base a second time. Suppan dove for the bag, but Mueller was able to put the tag on him easily. The result of this beerleague baserunning was that instead of tying the score against one of the American Leagues craftiest power pitchers with only one out, the Cardinals found themselves with two outs and no runs scored. Albert Pujols followed Walker, grounding out harmlessly to end the inning. The Cards would not score until the bottom of the ninth, and by then it was too late. The irony (La Russas long postgame face suggested he did not need this pointed out to him) was that the National League team had been screwed by the very rules that were supposed to tip the scales in their favor. It was their pitcher who made the baserunning blunder, and our erstwhile designated hitter who saw it happening and gunned him down. Although Boston got a pair of insurance runs in the fifth, more twoout thunder from Manny Ramirez in the firstand Bill Mueller (batted home by Trot Nixon) in the fourth were all the run support Pedro Martinez needed; he, Mike Timlin and Keith Foulke spun a gem. Following Edgar Renterias double in the third inning, Red Sox pitching retired eighteen Cards in a row. Larry Walker broke up the string with one out in the ninth, turning around a Keith Foulke fastball to deep left center for a home run. So now the St. Louis deficit is 03. One would like to say that lightning cannot strike twice on the same patch of ground, and certainly not so soon, but in truth, one cannot say that. Especially not if one happens to have been a Red Sox fan for the last fifty years and has had the cup snatchedaway from his lips so many times just before that first deep and satisfying drink. I dont think Ive ever been so aware of the limitations of this narratives necessary diary form until today. You sitting there with the finished book in your hand are like an astronaut who can see the entire shape of the earth where every sea ends and every coastline begins again. I just go sailing along from day to day, hoping to avoid the storms and writing in this log when seas are calm. And now I think I can smell land up ahead. I hope Im not jinxing things by saying that, but I really think I can. Not just any land, either, but the sweet Promised Land Ive been dreaming of ever since my Uncle Oren bought me my first Red Sox cap and stuck it on my head in the summer of 1954. There, Stevie, he said, blowing the scent of Narragansett beer into the face of the bigeyed sevenyearold looking up at him. They aint much, but theyre the best we got. Now, fifty long years later, theyre on the verge of being the best of all. One more game and we can put all this curse stuff, all this Babe stuff, all this 1918 stuff, behind us. Please, baseball gods, just one more game. SK Ah, but I begin to smell exotic spices and strange nerdser, nardscould these be the scents of the Promised Land? I can only hope they are not scents sent by false sirens on hidden stones beyond a mirage of yon beckoning shore But I digress. We rocked tonight, dude. SO Its good to be up 30 instead of down 03, but the jobs the same win the game were playing. The guys have to stay on top of it. SK You must have been eating the postgame spread with Tito. ) October 27thWorld Series Game 4 Its Trudys and my twentieth anniversary today. We were supposed to be in Chicago last weekend, eating at Charlie Trotters and the Billy Goat Tavern (the honesttoGod home of the Cubs curse as well as the cheeburger, cheeburger skit from SNL), but those plans dissolved in the face of Games 1 and 2. Tonight, at Trudys insistence, I call and cancel our longstanding dinner reservations at the best restaurant in town. I dont tell the maitre d why. Enjoy the game, he says. Signs and portents everywhere. Tonights the eighteenth anniversary of our last World Series lossGame 7 to the 86 Mets. Not only is there a full moon, but right around game time theres a total lunar eclipse. By the time I go outside to see the lip of the earths shadow cross the Sea of Tranquility, Johnny has us up 10 with a leadoff home run. Later, when Trot doubles on a basesjuiced 30 green light to give us a 30 lead, the eclipse is well under way, casting a decidedly red stainblood on the moon, or is it a cosmic nod to the Sox? For the third game in a row, Lowe pitches brilliantly, giving up just three hits in seven innings. Arroyo looks shaky in the eighth, but Embree relieves him and is perfect for the second straight outing. As Foulke closes, Im standing behind the couch, shifting with every pitch as if Im guarding the line. At this point, for no other reason it seems than to torture us, Fox decides to show a montage combining all the horrible moments in Red Sox postseason history, beginning with Enos Slaughter, moving through Bucky Dent and Buckner, and finishing with Aaron Boone. I hold a hand up to block it out (to eclipse it!). At this moment in Red Sox history, I do not want to see that shit. Its not bad luck, its bad taste, and whoever thought it was appropriate is a jerk. With one down, Pujols singles through Foulkes legs, right through the fivehole, a ball Foulke, a diehard hockey fan, should have at least gotten a pad on. Were nervousanother runner and theyll bring the tying run to the platebut Foulkes cool. Hes got that bitter disdainthat nastiness, reallyof a great closer. He easily strikes out Edmonds (now 1 for 15), then snags Edgar Renterias comebacker and flips to Mientkiewicz, and thats it, its that simple the Red Sox have won the World Series! While were still hugging and pounding each other (Trudys crying, she cant help it; Stephs laughing; Im just going Wow. Wow. Wow.) Caitlin calls from Boston. In the background, girls are shrieking. Shes at Nickerson Field, formerly Braves Field, where B.U.


is showing the game on a big screen. I can barely hear her for the noise. They did it! she yells. They did! I yell back. Theres no analysis, just a visceral appreciation of the win. I tell her to stay out of the riots, meaning keep away from Fenway, and she assures me she will. Its not until I get off the phone with her that I realize the weird parallel when I was a freshman there, my team won the World Series too. Its more than just a win; its a statement. By winning tonight, we broke the record for consecutive playoff wins, with eight straight. Another stat that every commentator unpacks is that were one of only four championship teams to have never trailed in the Series. Thanks to Johnny, O.C., Manny and Papi, we scored in the first inning of every game, and our starters, with the exception of Wake, shut down St. Louiss big sticks. Schill, Petey and DLowe combined for 20 shutout innings. Much respect to pitching coach Dave Wallace and his scouts for coming up with a game plan to stop the Cards. As a team, they batted .190, well below the Mendoza Line. Scott Rolen and Jim Edmonds went 1 for 30, that one hit being a gimme bunt single by Edmonds against a shifted infield. Albert Pujols had zero RBIs. Reggie Sanders went 0 for 9. Its not that we crushed the ball. We scored only four runs in Game 3 and three in Game 4. Essentially, after the Game 1 slugfest, we played NL ball, beating them with pitching, and in the last two games our defense was flawless. In finally putting the supposed Curse to rest, we dotted every i and crossed every t. And to make it all even sweeter, the last out was made by Edgar Renteria, who wearsas a couple of folks notedthe Babes famous 3. October 28th It came down to this with two outs in the St. Louis half of the ninth and Keith Foulke on the moundFoulke, the nearly sublime Red Sox closer this postseasononly Edgar Renteria stood between Boston and the end of its World Series drought. Renteria hit a comebacker to the mound. Stabbed by Foulke! crowed longtime Red Sox radio announcer Joe Castiglione. He underhands to first! The Red Sox are World Champions! Can you believe it? I hardly could, and I wasnt the only one. A hundred miles away, my son woke up his fiveyearold son to see the end. When it was over and the RedSox were mobbing each other on the infield, Ethan asked his father, Is this a dream or are we living real life? The answer, it seems to me this morning, is both. The only newspaper available at the general store was the local one (the others were held up because of the lateness of the game), and the SunJournals huge frontpage headline, of a size usually reserved only for the outbreak of war or the sudden death of a president, was only two words and an exclamation mark AT LAST! When the other New England papers finally do arrive in my sleepy little pocket of New England, Im confident they will bear similar happy headlines of a similar size on their front pages. A game summary would be thin stuff indeed compared to this outpouring of joy on a beautiful blue and gold New England morning in late October.Usually when I go to get the papers and my 8 A.M. doughnut, the little store up the road is almost empty. This morning it was jammed, mostly with people waiting for those newspapers to come in. The majority were wearing Red Sox hats, and the latest political news was the last thing on their minds. They wanted to talk about last nights game. They wanted to talk about the Series as a whole. They wanted to talk about the guts of Curt Schilling, pitching on his hurt ankle, and the grit of Mr. Lowe, who was supposed to spend the postseason in the bullpen and ended up securing a magickal and historickal place for himself in the record books instead, as the winner in all three postseason clinchers Game 3 of the Division Series, Game 7 of the League Championship Series, and now Game 4 of the World Series. And while none of those waiting for the bigtime morning papersthe Boston Globe, USA Today, and the New York Timescame right out and asked my grandsons question, I could see it in their eyes, and I know they could see it in mine Is this a dream, or are we living real life? Its real life. If there was a curse (other than a sportswriters brilliantMacGuffin for selling books, amplified in the media echo chamber until even otherwise rational people started to halfbelieve it), it was the undeniable fact that the Red Sox hadnt won a World Series since 1918, and all the baggage that fact brought with it for the teams longsuffering fans. The Yankees and their fans have always been the heaviest of that baggage, of course. Yankee rooters were never shy about reminding Red Sox partisans that they were supporting lifetime losers. There was also the undeniable fact that in recent years the Yankee ownershipcomfy and complacent in their much bigger ballpark and camped just downstream from a waterfall of fan cashhad been able to outspend the Red Sox ownership, sometimes at a rate of two dollars to one. There was the constant patronization of the New York press (the Times, for instance, chuckling in its indulgently intelligent way over the ARod deal, and concluding that the Yankees were still showing the Red Sox how to win, even in the offseason), the jokes and the gibes. The ball through Bill Buckners legs in 1986 was horrible, of course, but now Buckner can be forgiven. Whats better is that now the Bucky Dent home run, the Aaron Boone home run and the monotonous chants of Whos your Daddy? can be forgotten. Laughed off, even. On the whole, I would have to say that while to forgive is human, to forget is freakin divine. And winning is better than losing. Thats easy to lose sight of, if youve never done it. I can remember my younger son sayingand there was some truth in thisthat when the Philadelphia Phillies finally won their World Championship after years of trying, they became just another baseball team. When I asked Owen if he could live with that as a Red Sox fan, he didnt even hesitate. Sure, he said. I feel the same way. No one likes to root for a loser, year after year; being faithful does not save one from feeling, after a while, like a fool, the butt of everyones joke. At last I dont feel that way. This mornings sense of splendid unreality will surely rub away, but the feeling of lightness that comes with finally shedding a burden that has been carried far too long will linger for months or maybe even years. Cubs fans now must bear the loser legacy all by themselves. They have their Curse of the Billy Goat, and although I am sure it is equally bogus,they are welcome to it. Bottom of the ninth, two out, Albert Pujols on second, Red Sox Nation holding its breath. Foulke pitches. Renteria hits an easy comebacker to the mound. Foulke fields it and tosses it to Mientkiewicz, playing first. Mientkiewicz jumps in the air, holding up the index finger of his right hand, signaling Were number one. Red Sox players mob the field while stunned and disappointed Cardinal fans look on. Some of the little kids are crying, and I feel bad about that, but back in New England little kids of all ages are jumping for joy. Can you believe it? Joe Castiglione exults, and eightysix years of disappointment fall away in the length of time it takes the firstbase ump to hoist his thumb in the out sign. This is not a dream. We are living real life. While the Babe may be resting easier, I barely sleep, and wake exhausted, only to watch the same highlights again and again, seeing things I missed while we were celebrating. As the Sox mob each other, in the background Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore are kissing, shooting their fairytale ending to Fever Pitch (nice timing, Farrellys!). In short center, right behind second base, Curtis Leskanic lies down and makes the natural grass equivalent of a Patriots snow angel. The crawl says RED SOX WIN WORLD SERIES, and I think, yes, yes they did. It did happen. It was no dream. Were the World Champions, finally, and theres that freeing sense of redemption and fulfillment I expectedthe same cleansing feeling I had after the Pats first Super Bowl win. The day is bright and blue, the leaves are brilliant and blowing. Its a beautiful day in the Nation, maybe the best ever. And yet, the seasons over, too. There will be no more baseball this year, and while Ive said I wouldnt mind eating my tickets to Games 6 and 7, it feels wrong that I wont be back in Fenway again until April. Just for fun, I go to the website (choked with new World Champions merchandise) and poke around, looking for spring training information. Theres a number for City of Palms Park, but when I call it, its busy. Its going to be crazy there next year. If I want to get in, Id better start working on it now. I flip the pages of our 2005 calendar to February and March and wonder when Trudys school has its break. I wonder if theres a nicer hotel closer to City of Palms Park, and whether theyd have any rooms left at this point. I have to stop myself. Okay, calm down. Theres no need to hustle now, the very morning after. I can take a day off and appreciate what weve donewhat theyve done, the players, because as much as we support them, theyre the ones out there who have to field shots wed never get to, and hit pitches that would make us look silly, and beat throws that would have us by miles. And the coaches and the manager, the owners and the general manager, who have to make decisions well never take any heat for. They did it, all of them together, our Red Sox. Congratulations, guys. And thank you. You believed in yourselves even more than we did. Thats why youre World Champions, and why well never forget you or this season. Wherever you go, any of you, youll always have a home here, in the heart of the Nation. Go Sox! SO You know how the papers are always saying you bring the team bad luck? Well, the one year you write a book about the club, we win it all. Another fake curse reversed. Not in your lifetime, huh? Well, brutha, welcome to Heaven! SK How do you suppose Angry Bill is doing? SO Hes in that box of a room in Vegas, grumbling about somethingprobably the Bruins. SK Are you going to the VR Day Parade? SO No, but tonight I ate that Break the Curse cookie I got on Opening Day. A vows a vow. Washed that stiff sixmonthold biscuit down with champagne and enjoyed every morsel. Life is sweet. Off to drink more champagne. You (and Johnny D) are still The Man. SK No, Stewart, you (and Papi) are The Man. Im giving you the two PointyFinger Salute. SO Right back atcha, baby. Keep the Faith. All right, Im no ingrate he saved our bacon in extras in Game 5, holding the Yanks scoreless for three nervous, passedballfilled innings and picking up the win. In my high school, the phrase lovers, muggers and thieves was routinely construed to be either lovers, junkies and thieves or lovers, fuckers and thieves. To prolong or deepen this drama, the pitchspeed display above the wall in leftcenter was tantalizingly blank for this halfinning. Who knew what Schill had? Only Tek and the hitters. SO Respectively Tek with a triple to the triangle thats out if the wind isnt blowing straight in; Marky Mark with a similar bomb off the wall in dead center; and OCab, who was uncharacteristically ahead in the count all night, bonking one off the Monster. SO It rained heavily in St. Louis right up until game time, and the warning track was a swimming pool. I hate it when teams are forced to play ball under these conditions, but its the same old sordid story when Fox talks, Major League Baseball walks. If this is going to continue, the Players Association ought to consider insisting on pads and helmets (at least for the outfielders) after October 15th. Followed, in the bottom of the inning, by Mannys perfect onehop peg on a short fly to nail Larry Walker at the plate and keep us up 10. This moment of redemption after Manny had made errors on consecutive and very ogly plays in Game 1. Cardinals third base coach Jose Oquendo, like so many other baseball people, mistook Mannys spaciness for lack of ability. Anyone whos watched Manny throw knows hes amazingly accurate and that Walker had no chance. SO Along with Tony La Russas 1989 As, the 66 Os and the 63 Dodgers. All three, like the Sox, had a pair of acesDave Stewart and Bob Welch with the As, Jim Palmer and Dave McNally with the Os, and Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale with the Dodgers. And the summary is simple enough once again last night we hit and pitched. The Cardinals did neither. Only one Cardinal starterJason Marquismanaged to stay in a Series game for six innings, and the heart of the St. Louis batting order (Pujols, Rolen, Edmonds) got only a single run batted in during the entire fourgame contest. It came on a sac fly. Not so! That ones real, and solidly documented. SO So many story lines wrapped last night Manny, who went unclaimed on waivers, is the World Series MVP (and very possibly the regularseason MVP as well); Lowe totally vindicates himself, making him an incredibly attractive free agent; the same with Pedro; Terry Francona goes from The Coma to a legendary Red Sox manager; Orlando Cabrera, who stepped up big in the number two slot and fielded brilliantly in the postseason, makes us forget Nomar. The year is signed, sealed and delivered. All thats left now is the Boston Duck Tours parade and the team deciding who gets a World Series share. As always, I hope Daubers not forgotten. Acknowledgments For our baseball widows, Trudy and Tabby And for Ted, Johnny, Yaz, Lonnie, Rico, Tony C, Boomer, Luis, Spaceman, Pudge, Rooster, Bernie, Jim Ed, Freddy, Eck, Ned Martin, Ken Coleman, Dewey, Hendu, Bruce Hurst, Sherm Feller, John Kiley, Marty Barrett, The Can, Mo, El Guapo, and yes, for you, Billy Buck, and even you, Rocket, and finallyfinallyfor you, Babe. All is forgiven. Boston Red Sox 2004 Stats