I love the Red Sox so much it's not even funny. If Oct. 27 became the new Christmas for New England, then the day after surely must be New Year's Day - it became a fresh start for generations of millions of Red Sox hopefuls. The Red Sox won the World Series. No matter how many times I say it, hear it, read it, could it be true? It is surreal, dream-like; only Tim McCarver doesn't usually call my dreams, and the Red Sox are never champions when I wake up.
People keep saying it is going to be different now, no more loveable losers and no more "curse" to secretly revel complaining about. People snidely sneer that there is no more reason for us to care. No reason to care? If I didn't care, would I be sitting here, not even 24 hours since the Greatest Victory in Sports History, watching reruns of this season's extra inning games on NESN? Would I still be getting chills watching Big Papi hit that Easter day game winning home run in the twelfth or be clapping as Timlin gets the last out in a mid-season Yankees game? I am a Red Sox fan. If it weren't repetitive, I would say I bleed red - but I do.
Standing in line for over two hours the other day outside Fenway, waiting just to get a glimpse of the exorbitantly priced World Series memorabilia that waited inside, there was only one way to describe the mood at the Fen. It was the same feeling that raced through my mind when 27 outs were finally and officially recorded, it was the same feeling that washed over the face of every Red Sox fan I hugged that wonderful night, it was the same feeling that has draped itself over Boston like a blanket we've been missing for far too long. Happiness: genuine, pure, blissful happiness. No Fenway Faithful or proud member of Red Sox Nation knew what that word truly meant until 86 years of "what ifs?" were finally washed away. But have we changed? Ask those fans already looking forward to opening day against the Evil Empire, and you'll get your answer.
Bill Buckner, Bucky Dent, Bob Gibson, Bambino: like Tom Petty sang, "don't come around here no more." No more curse; we can now talk about the cure of 2004. Fifty years from now we'll be telling our grandchildren about the exploits of these new inductees to that exclusive club of Boston legend. Generations from now the renown of Schilling and Ortiz, Martinez and Ramirez, will forever be reminisced and adored by the city of Boston - while the likes of Bellhorn and Kapler and Roberts will remain with us diehards until the day we die. I never believed in the curse, but looking up at a blood red moon that night made me believe in destiny.
I cannot help but think of the countless men who have graced the ranks of the Red Sox and have come as close as many of us thought would ever be possible. 1946, 1967, 1975, 1986 ... Ted Williams, Johnny Pesky, Jim Lonborg, Jim Rice, Carl Yastrzemski, Carlton Fisk, Luis Tiant, Bill Lee, Wade Boggs, Roger Clemens, even Bill Buckner. Those dates and those names are each synonymous with greatness and misery - scorn and admiration for countless Red Sox fans - but they can all take comfort now, because this victory was far too important to be constrained for this one team and this one generation of fans. This was for everyone.
It just hit me. For the umpteenth (but certainly not the final) time, the local news is showing the video of that infamous last out rolling between the unsure feet of Bill Buckner. In the past, I've felt physically sick, but not this time. For once I smiled, because the Boston Red Sox are the greatest team in baseball, and it is not only we loyal fans who know it.
I cannot wait for spring training and opening day, waking up on that glorious morning in early spring when Sox tickets go on sale. Have things changed? Of course they have. The Boston Red Sox are World Series Champions - but I am cheering again watching NESN run the highlight reel of Mark Bellhorn score the tying run in the bottom of the ninth against the Royals. It goes without saying, but I love the Red Sox.
Andrew Bauld is a sophomore who has not yet declared a major<$>.
