It was worth the wait.

What does it mean to be a Red Sox fan?

Being a Red Sox fan means belonging to one of the most tightly knit brotherhoods in sports.

Beaing a Red Sox fan means seeing a guy in a Sox hat in a foreign city and greeting him with a smile, realizing that despite your differences, his heart aches just as yours does.

Being a Red Sox fan means that there is baseball at Fenway on Patriots Day. And there might be some sort of race in the city that day, too.

Being a Red Sox fan means engagements, weddings, reunions, and vacations are scheduled for September or November, but never October. Just in case.

Being a Red Sox fan means Thanksgiving dinner is spent breaking down the next season's starting rotation while everyone else watches football in the next room.

Being a Red Sox fan means wanting something so badly it hurts.

Being a Red Sox fan means coming so close you can taste it, only to be told you'll have to wait another year. Again.

Being a Red Sox fan means that despite the drought, you wouldn't trade your Sox memories for all the championships in the world.

Being a Red Sox fan means pouring over message boards like SOSH, spending your lunch break calculating your new shortstop's VORP, talking to fellow Sox bloggers more than your own family.

Being a Red Sox fan means you are passionate about and devoted to a group of 25 men you've never met.

Being a Red Sox fan means "there's always next year."

Being a Red Sox fan means getting chills every time you walk into Fenway.

Being a Red Sox fan means hearing Sweet Caroline will always make you smile.

Being a red Sox fan means loving that dirty water.

Being a Red Sox fan means waking up this morning and realizing that this is next year.

Finally.

After game 3 of the ALCS, I sat in this very chair and poured my heart out concerning the situation the Sox had put themselves in. Down 3-0 to the Yankees, their ace gone with a bloody mess of an ankle, and the Nation's hopes for a happier ending all but dashed. I sat here for what felt like hours, opening myself to the only kind of therapy I know, writing and writing until I felt a bit more at peace. I wrote about all of the heartbreaking seasons I've endured since I started following sports twenty five years ago. I wrote about the ability of the heart to surprise you and move on even when you think you can't sit through another season so devastating - because you always come back the next year, just as hungry and even more dedicated. When Game 4 finally came, I was calm and ready to accept any fate bestowed upton the 2004 Boston Red Sox.

We all know what happened next. The last week (has it really only been one week??) has been dreamlike, and I'm finding myself wishing I had it all on video, to relive during the offseason, and every offseason for the rest of my life.

So here I am with a handful of blog posts that are more pure, honest, and sentimental than anything I have ever posted, and they will go to waste. Mind you, I am not complaining. But I, ordinarily a very private person, am drained, as far as sharing my emotions goes, and so I am offering that as an excuse as to why I have barely posted anything in the last week. Here's another.

Watching the Red Sox make history against the Yankees and do something most of us have dreamt about for years was exhilarating. And yet - I never even touched on it here. The other Sox blogs have written thousands of words on the events of the last 8 days. Me? I can't find the words to express how I am feeling right now, watching a team of 25 men I have grown completely in love with leave their blood, guts, and hearts on the field to make their dreams come true. I have waited 25 years for this, these 25 guys have waited a lifetime for this, and it's happening before our eyes.

There are articles to read, message boards to post on, and blogs to update. And I feel like there's no time. For the first time ever in my life, I don't feel like writing. I feel like living. I want to experience every second of this, and I fear finding that it passed me by. There's no time to sleep - I can do that in November. There's no time to read all of the incredible articles in the Globe and on ESPN - I'll just print them all out and read them during the long winter. And there's no time to write - I'll do that next week.

Right now there is only time for living, for baseball, for celebrating, for soaking in everything that comes with watching a team - YOUR team - fight for the ultimate prize.

This is what sports is about. This is why we watch, this is why we come back year after year, heartbreak after heartbreak. This is happening now.

And I don't want to miss a thing.

We have been waiting for this forever. This game, this series, this opportunity.

Go Sox.

24 hours and it still hasn't fully hit me. I mean, I know the Red Sox are in the World Series, and I remember seeing them celebrate on the Yankee Stadium field...but did that all really happen? It's still so incredibly surreal to me.

Here...this is what I mean.

The Yankees were 3 outs away from sweeping the Red Sox en route to yet another World Series...with Mariano Rivera on the mound. And they blew it.

Can you read that and fully comprehend every word? I can't.

The Red Sox were the first team in MLB history to win a series after going down 3-0. And they did it against the Yankees.

No comprende.

The Red Sox not only beat the Yankees in a playoff series, but handed them their worst defeat OF ALL TIME.

I'm sorry...what did you say?


I keep replaying the events of last night over and over in my head, starting with Kevin Brown's inevitable breakdown on the mound and ending with Pokey's toss to Mientkiewicz. They beat the Yankees. They were 3 outs away from booking tee times. The World Series begins Saturday at Fenway. At Fenway!

Factually, I understand. But emotionally, it still has not hit me. And it probably won't until the Sox meet the Yankees next year in the regular season and the fans at the Toilet are just a little bit quieter than usual.

I can't wait.
___________________

The last week has been one of the most fun and time consuming weeks ever. I've been splitting my time evenly between struggling to keep my eyes open at work and watching the Sox games at the bar down the street. I assume I spent some time in the car but I don't remember it. If you asked me what color my house is, I couldn't tell you, considering the last time I saw it in daylight was probably two weeks ago. Needless to say, I've really been slacking when it comes to the blog, and unless Christie's Sports Bar installs laptops with wireless internet, that will continue through the next week (at least). Anyway, these are some of my favorite memories of the last week, all of which should fit somewhere and seem to fit nowhere. So here they are.


*Game 5 at Christie's. 14 looooong innings. Fat Tire on draft. When the winning run crossed the plate, my cell phone rang. It was my friend Matt calling from Fenway. No conversation..he just held up the phone so I could hear the crowd. I'll never forget the sound of that crowd.

*Tuesday night. After watching the first 6 innings of Curt Schilling's Game 6 (which is how it should always be referred to from hereonout), I set my VCR and leave for the Pixies show. We make our way to get wristbands, my mind focused on the game I'm missing. I'm looking forward to the show, but part of me just wants it to be over so I can return home and finish the game. As my wristband is being put on my wrist, I look down a realize at that second that the Red Sox are going to force a game 7. Why? Most wristbands have ads for beer or the venue on them. That night's wristband? A Reebok ad, featuring one word: outperform.

*Game 7. We're at our lucky table at Christie's, 5 feet from the 98" projection screen that is currently showing the Red Sox leading the Yankees by a shocking score of 8-1. As Johnny Damon, the hero of the night, steps up to the plate, John, a coworker of mine, walks into the bar. Now, this is not just any coworker. This guy could pass for Charles Manson on a dark night, but when he puts on his favorite Red Sox hat over his mess of hair, he bears a striking resemblance to Johnny Damon. So as Johnny steps up to the plate, John walks into the bar and the place erupts. I mean, erupts. Screams, cheers, people chanting Johnny's name, drunk guys getting their pictures taken with John...it was insane. And it still makes me smile.

*Throughout Game 7, my cell phone was ringing constantly. I had friends at bars all across Boston, and though we couldn't watch the game we'd all been dreaming about together, we weren't going to be stopped from celebrating together. The bar I was at was packed and loud. The bars they were at were packed and loud. Conversations were not actual conversations but rather random words chosen carefully to express our joy.

"Oh! My! God!"

"Too loud...call later..I love you!"

"I'm coming to Boston! I'm coming to Boston!"

The only thing better than watching something like what happened on Wednesday is having people you love to enjoy it with.

*Back in August, my password to log on to my computer at work expired. It had been "Fucktheyankees" for months, so when it came time to change it, I entered the first thing that entered my mind.

RedSoxin7.

I have typed that into my computer every single morning for the last 3 months. Words can not describe the feeling I had typing that yesterday morning. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't tear up.

*Thanks to two of my favorite coworkers, I was able to thank Gabe Kapler (and in turn, the other 24 guys) on the air yesterday for making this the most memorable Red Sox season of all time. None of us will ever be able to repay these guys for what they have done, and we will probably never be able to personally thank them for making an entire Nation's dreams come true. But it was a nice start...

"...let's start off with baseball, where the Red Sox have pulled off quite possibly the most amazing feat in playoff history and are going to the world series..."

I just woke up to those words on the radio. It was not a dream.


This is going to be a fucking wonderful day.

And the way I feel tonight
I could die and I wouldn't mind
And there's something going on inside
Makes you wanna feel
Makes you wanna try
Makes you wanna blow the stars from the sky


So there I was last night, 10 feet away from the Pixies, who were putting on one of the most incredible rock shows I've ever seen. After destroying the crowd with Debaser, Caribou, and Gigantic, they dove into Head On and then - it happened.

Tears.

At that same moment, halfway across the country, Curt Schilling was putting forth one of the most awe-inspiring performances any sports fan has ever seen. A blood soaked sock and excruciating pain could not stop this man. He was on a mission. And the rest of us followed happily and blindly, daring to dream, allowing our messiah to make our dreams come true.

I had sat glued to the TV until 20 minutes before the Pixies took the stage, and then went to watch one of the most influential rock bands of all time, secure in the knowledge that Schilling and the boys would hold on to their 4 run lead.

Throughout the Pixies' a! ma! zing! two hour set, I tried to stay focused. Really, I did. But while my lips were mouthing the words and my ass was shaking, my mind was imagining what it would be like to see a World Series game in Fenway. What it would be like to stand on Boylston Street with hundreds of thousands of other people that would understand what I'm feeling at that exact moment. What it would be like to see tears of joy roll down the wrinkled old faces of grandfathers and great grandfathers who have been waiting forever for this.

And then, the Pixies brought me back.

And the way I feel tonight
I could die and I wouldn't mind
And there's something going on inside
Makes you wanna feel
Makes you wanna try
Makes you wanna blow the stars from the sky

Sure, it's probably not what Frank Black meant when he wrote the words so many years ago. But wait a minute. The Pixies are from Boston.

Maybe they do understand.

Are you fucking kidding me?

A baseball game is simply a nervous breakdown divided into nine innings. ~Earl Wilson

Truer words have never been spoken. Last night was more than a game. It was a battle, an event, an excruciating test of will and character, and like the night before, the Sox were triumphant.

At a time when much of the Red Sox lineup is struggling at the plate, they prove they are the ultimate TEAM, as other guys sacrifice everything to fill their shoes.

Dave Roberts' incredible baserunning. Tim Wakefield's selfless attitude and his flawless knuckleball. Jason Varitek's thighs, which should be bronzed after catching 26 innings in less than 30 hours. Bronson Arroyo, Alan Embree, Keith Foulke, and Mike Myers pitching scoreless innings to give the Sox a chance to win. Curt Schilling and Derek Lowe's offer to pitch in extra innings, if necessary. David Ortiz's unveiling as Senor Octubre.


There is nothing like playoff baseball. And there is nothing like being a Red Sox fan.

the resemblance is uncanny.

What a night. What a game. There are no words for what happened tonight (well, technically last night - Saturday night - Game 3 - The Ultimate Choke). Well, except maybe these from Maureen in the 6th inning.

"I hate life. I hate everything. I hate oxygen."

There are a million blogs that will break down the massive beating the Sox took tonight. This is not one of them. I will, however, give advice to Yankees fans watching a crucial Sox/Yankees game in a bar in Dallas.

1. The "Who's Your Daddy" chant sounded weird enough at Yankee Stadium. When it's just you and eight friends in the corner of a sports bar in Texas, it sounds ridiculous. You realize you're screaming the word "Daddy" repeatedly, right? I wonder why you're going home alone tonight...

2. If there are two female Yankee fans and two female Sox fans at opposite ends of the bar, and you are deadset on trying to get laid, your best bet is with the Yankee fans. If you attempt to hit on the Sox fans, you deserve any ridicule they heap upon you. If the Sox are losing by 10 runs, and you are still hitting on the Sox fans, you should be neutered. With a butter knife.

3. If you are trying to convince people that you're an actual fan, and your team is up by 10 in what is a must-win game for the enemy, you might want to avoid sitting with your back to the TV. It's a dead giveaway that you are a complete jackass.

4. If you have been an enormous douchebag since the first pitch, and the game is now out of reach, and you offer to buy the Sox fans drinks from across the bar, you should expect any of the following things to happen:

*Sox fans will order $20 glass of scotch...the most expensive item on menu.
*Sox fans will proceed to pour the glass of scotch on the floor, oohing and ahhing as those $20 drops of scotch hit the dirty hardwood floor
*Sox fans will not thank you for said scotch, and will not give you the time of day, except to occassionally look over at you in pity

On second thought, you should expect all of those things to happen. And you will deserve them.

Today I spent 13 hours at the Texas Motor Speedway. Under normal circumstances, it would have been considered a tragedy. A racetrack, the loud whirr of a souped up chevy going faster than it should, and thousands of rednecks in stonewashed denim, mullets, and leather Dale Earnhardt jackets. (By the way, how is it that all of these people can afford leather NASCAR jackets but not a dentist? Has this been researched?) Anyway, today would have ordinarily been something I feared for weeks, but in light of recent events, it was exactly what I needed.

13 hours without a computer. Without Boston Dirt Dogs. Without message boards. Without blogs. Without attitude from holier-than-thou Sox fans who feel the need to tell you how you should feel at all times; who mandate when it's ok to 'give up' and when it's not.

Surrounded by people who consider corn dogs one of the five major food groups, the ALCS was only brought up a handful of times.

#1 - 10:09am
I made the mistake of peeking at the Dallas Morning News' sports section. The first headline I see: "Sox done as Yankees take 2-0 lead"

They're done? Really? If the MLB decided to make the ALCS a best of 3 series, I would have thought it would have been bigger news. Like, front page and shit. Once I mainted my composure, I decided to skim the article. Just for fun.

Big mistake. According to a respected Dallas sports journalist, Pedro choked in Game 2 and is completely to blame for the Sox failure to advance.

At this point I'm gripping the table, knuckles white, trying not to swallow my own tongue.

#2 - 12:30pm
We're at lunch. I'm able to eat and digest food properly for the first time in days. I'm demolishing the chips and salsa, as well as anything else that comes near me. And then...

"Hey Mer, Johnny Damon and I are batting the same in the ALCS right now..."

Silence.

Does anyone want my enchiladas? I'm not so hungry anymore...

#3 - 9pm
I work with a Yankee fan. He's from Connecticut and his entire family are Sox fans, but something went wrong and he roots for the pinstripes. His poor parents! Imagine the guilt of raising a Yankee fan. It's a wonder they can sleep at night. Anyway, despite the questionable roots, he's one of the best Yankee fans I know. He'll never rub in a Yankee victory and he'll always admit when he's scared of the Sox (like last year prior to Game 7 and this year prior to Game 1). Oh, and he'll let me occassionally tease him about a Sox victory, which I appreciate. And so, after a long break from in-depth baseball conversation, we talked at length about the series. And then, just before it's time to head home, he tells me the Sox will win the next two. At Fenway. To tie up the series. He knows it. He fears it.


So here I am, rested, relaxed, and ready for Game 3. I am refreshed. I am torn down a bit, I'll admit, but I am not broken. The Red Sox MO has, all year, been to break you down and then just when you think you can't take anymore, they suck you back in.

The Sox win tomorrow night. Because they must.

we are masochists.





This morning, all I can offer is a bit of advice....

Ok. I've calmed down. This morning I was a zombie on the outside, and in a heartbroken rage on the inside. But I've had all morning to work on what I learned in the 12 Step Program called "How To be a Red Sox Fan" and I feel remarkably better.

Sure, we may have lost our ace last night. The guy who made it his mission to lead an entire Nation to the promised land. The guy who talked the talk and, on most occassions, walked the walk, is now out with a bum ankle and may not pitch again in the post season. And sure, our bullpen didn't hold the line when we needed them to. Where is the Mike Timlin of 2003, who approaches the mound with balls of steel and sits batters down one by one? Where is the Tim Wakefield that throws a wicked knuckleball that leaves opponents bufuddled and crying in the dugout? And yes, our manager made a few questionable calls last night, starting with allowing an injured pitcher to take the mound, and ending with his patented slow hook and mismanaged bullpen. And sure, the strike zone was as elusive as Waldo last night, but that's neithere here nor there. And yes, our leadoff hitter, the 9th toughest player to strike out in the league, struck out every time he stepped up to the plate last night. You'd also be correct if you pointed out that our outfielders didn't perform at their highest level last night, often playing too shallow and misplaying balls.

All of this is true. The Sox are down 1-0 to the Yankees, yes, but things could be worse. The Sox did, after all, stage a comeback that was thisclose to being enough. They forced the Yankees to use their shaky bullpen, including a Mariano Rivera that had just spent ten hours on a plane. They showed the Yankees that they, too, will never die.

Yes, we're still in this thing. Oh, and one more reason to look on the bright side...

No matter how down we all are right now, it's nothing compared to how we felt one year ago this morning.

This time, there is still baseball to be played.

go sox.

we finally have a team built to beat the yankees, and our ace is hurt in game 1.

of course.

fun at work:

________________________________

From: "Meredith"
To: "Mike"
Subject: Prize question
Date: Tue, 12 Oct 2004 10:06am

Mike,

Do you know anything about a pair of Cowboys tickets you gave away on the show last night? Any idea where they are? The prize sheet is up at the front desk....

thanks,
meredith
________________________________

From: "Mike"
To: "Meredith"
Subject: Re: Prize question
Date: 10/12/04 3:11PM

Danny told me to leave the winners info at the front desk. He said the tickets would be at the front desk, which they obviously are not. I'd talk to Danny ASAP cause we've redsoxssuck got 3 more prizes to give out this week.

Mike
________________________________

From: "Meredith"
To: "Mike"
Subject: RE: Prize question
Date: Tue, 12 Oct 2004 3:14PM

Danny took the prize up to the front desk when he finally arrived fucktheyankees at the office at 11am this morning.

thanks!
m
________________________________

From: "mike"
To: "meredith"
Date: 10/12/04 3:29PM
Subject: RE: Prize question

Good, hopefully we whostheredsoxsdaddy won't run into the same problem again.

Mike
________________________________

From: Meredith
To: Mike
Date: 10/12/04 4:29PM
Subject: RE: Prize question

good luck tonight. may the best team youbetterhopethereisacurse win.

m

2pm CST.

5 hours until game time. So far today, I've checked SoSH 23 times, the Boston Globe 13 times, various Sox blogs 15 times, and the SG message board 19 times. Oh, and I spent 12 minutes pouring over the results of a Google search of the words "Mientkiewicz" and "ass."

I wish I was kidding.

Especially about that last one.

2:04pm CST.

296 minutes until game time. I can't believe ESPN hasn't updated their site since 1:30pm. Typical Disney.

2:08pm CST.

My hair is now twice as long as it should be. What will it look like if I don't cut it until after October 31st?

2:14pm CST.

286 minutes until 1st pitch. Maybe there's some breaking news on SoSH.

2:15pm CST.

Nope.

2:20pm CST.

I wonder if Bernie Williams actually did have a peanut for a head, would that affect his range in CF?

2:28pm CST.

must. stop. having. dirty. thoughts. about. mike. mussina.

2:32pm CST.

I love this team. I am so happy to be a Red Sox fan. This season has been magical. Everyone should be able to root for a team like this at least once in their life. I am, once again, drunk on the Red Sox.

2:36pm CST.

Is it 7pm yet?

I just caught myself doing it again. It happens more often than I'd like to admit. Any time, any place. In the shower, in the car on the way to work, in the middle of a promotions meeting, when I'm brushing my teeth...you get the point. I'll be minding my own business when, without warning, my mind starts to wander. Before I know it, I'm in that same familiar place at that same familiar time.

Fenway Park. Game 7 of the World Series. The Sox lead the Cardinals by three runs. Top of the ninth. Two outs. Keith Foulke is on the mound. Albert Pujols hits a hard grounder towards right field which Mientkiewicz predictably dives and grabs between 1st and 2nd. He tosses it to Foulke, who covers first for the third out. The cheers are deafening. Hugs. Tears. A wild celebration on the field.

That's when I catch myself, lost in a daydream, with a huge smile on my face. I shake my head furiously, as if I could destroy the image I had just been enjoying. "Don't think like that;" I tell myself, "don't tease yourself. "

But it's too late. We've all imagined it. Sure, the details in our daydreams and fantasies are different. Some see Mark Bellhorn hitting the game winner walk-off homerun. Some see Schilling pitching a complete game shutout in Game 7. Some see the Sox using the last man on their bench, Nelson de la Rosa, to pinch hit in the bottom of the 17th inning of Game 7.

Ok, maybe not that last one.

But we're all thinking about it. Visions of champagne celebrations and ticker tape parades interrupt our thoughts. The Standells have been playing on repeat in our heads for the last week. We've lost our voices in anticipation of what could be. We -

Uh oh, I've got to go. My boss just called and asked me to - well..to be honest, I don't know what she asked.

All I know is that it's the top of the 9th, Foulke is on the mound, there are two outs, and Albert Pujols is walking up to the plate.

This is my third attempt at starting this post. I've been sitting here, lights out, in the glow of the computer screen trying to convey my thoughts about the upcoming ALCS. But I realized, in the middle of writing about how confident I am that this is the year the Sox finally dispose of the Yankees, that I was lying.

I am terrified.

Not of the Yankees themselves, but of history. May the best team win? I wish it were always that simple. The 2003 Boston Red Sox were better. The 2004 Minnesota Twins were better. The Yankees always find a way to win, even when they are outmatched on the field. That's what makes them The Yankees.

Last night I stood in the rain, waiting for a table at my favorite sushi bar, peering through the window of a fancy martini bar at the widescreen plasma TV that was being ignored in the corner. I stood watching, waiting, enjoying the last few moments of the stress-free 24 hours I'd been blessed with since David Ortiz's walkoff homerun. Standing there, praying for any outcome other than the one I knew I'd get, I watched the Yankees win on a wild pitch, or, more accurately, a passed ball. A fucking passed ball.

So here we are again. My heart beats a little bit faster this morning. When I close my eyes at night I see pitching matchups, ERAs, and injury reports. When they open in the morning, I'm wondering if Curt's ankle will hold out. Gone is the giddiness of advancing past the Angels in a dramatic three-game sweep. Gone is the glued-on smile, the skip in my step, the glow of a girl basking in the success of a team that has its followers trained to expect heartbreak. They have all been replaced by the telltale signs of playoffitis. Shaky hands, rapid heartbeat, a stomach tied up in knots, a mind that can not process even the most simple thoughts if they're unrelated to baseball. How much tip should we leave on a $38.57 bill? If I can't use Pedro's ERA to figure it out, then don't bother asking.

And here I am, again, at a standstill. I wish, more than anything, I could write that, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the Sox are going to defeat the Yankees en route to the Word Series. On paper, it's no contest; the Sox are the better team. I think they can win it. No, I know they can win it. But in sports there are no guarantees. A Red Sox fan does not have to be reminded of that.

Given our team's storied history, Red Sox Nation should have the white flag grasped in our collective fist, ready to be raised at any given moment. We should be exhausted, we should be pessimistic. We should remember seasons past and assume the Yankees will, once again, find a way to beat a better team, as they have done time and time again.

But this is the great thing about Red Sox fans. They want the Yankees. Hell, they were practically begging for it last week. As scared as I am for what the next week and a half holds, I'll admit that I wanted the Yankees, too. Some may call it naive, some may say we're fools. Really, it all boils down to this:

We kept the faith.

And hopefully this is the year that we're rewarded.

_______________________

Today's fun NFL trivia:

What do Tony Siragusa, Lisa Guererro, and Melissa Stark have in common?

They all have tits and are equally as worthless on the sidelines of an NFL game.

If you've ever seen 10 minutes of an NFL game on Fox, chances are you are repulsed by the vision of Tony Siragusa on the sidelines. If you've seen even one of his sideline reports, you know he has nothing worthwhile to say but, nonetheless, his mouth is constantly moving. Just when I thought he could not annoy me more, he finds a way to top himself. During today's Cowboys/Giants game, he interrupted the broadcast for this:

"How about them Yankees, baby?"

The man is on the sidelines of an NFL game and that is his contribution? He gets paid for that?

As if I needed another reason to want to see the Yankees lose....

there are no words.....



Eight to go.

You know it's October when it's 1am on a Wednesday night, you're sitting in a dark house lit only by the glare of the TV, your stomach still not able to fully digest dinner, your fingernails bitten down to stubs, legs aching from pacing for so long, alarm clock set to go off in a few short hours, and yet - there isn't anywhere else you'd rather be.

Last night's game had the excitement, emotion, and ups and downs of an entire series - all of it jampacked into 4 excruciating hours. There are loads of things to talk about. Bellhorn's gaffe at 2nd, the offense's failure to capitalize on two bases loaded situations, Manny and Cabrera's crossed signals in the field, Pedro's inspiring performance on the mound, Tito's flawless use of the bullpen...

But I'll leave that to the countless other Sox blogs. Because this morning, all I know is this - I am exhausted. I am sleep deprived. I am popping Tylenol like Bonds is steroids. And this - I am completely in love with this team.

I love every single member of the roster, from the MVP candidate to the 4th outfielder to the last guy to warm in the bullpen. Hell, if Cesar Crespo were still here, I might even be tricked into loving him, too. I love their celebrations in the dugout. I love their ridiculous hair styles. I love their ability to come back from any deficit. I love their passion for the game. I love their confidence in winning any, and every, game. I love their dirt dog style. I love the fact that they have taught an entire Nation that it's ok for men to hug. I love their ability to shrug off an error. I love their selflessness. I love the fact that they think This Is The Year.

And most of all, I love the fact that we agree.

This was originally posted at 8:30pm CST on Wednesday - 30 minutes before gametime. After Bellhorn got picked off second, Cabrera and Manny screwed up a pop fly, and the Sox left the bases loaded TWICE in TWO innings, I deleted this post because, well, everyone knows the baseball gods do not like confident Red Sox fans. The Sox went on to win a thriller, one that I will most likely write about once my heartbeat stabilizes and the vomit has been cleaned off my living room floor. So again, I will attempt to post this now-outdated entry. All apologies to the baseball gods, but nothing can stop us now.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

9-3.

That's probably something that an unbiased baseball analyst could have predicted. I mean, Schilling on the mound against Washburn, Boston's league leading offense against...Vlad - a 9-3 shelling isn't that big of a surprise.

Unless, of course, you are a Red Sox fan. Being a Red Sox fan means breaking into a sweat 24 hours before gametime, pouring over stats, and convincing yourself that despite the fact that your team is better, they'll find a way to lose. All we know is history. Sure, deep down we believe that this is the best team out there, and if games were decided on stats alone, we'd be planning a parade in Boston tomorrow. But in the playoffs, crazy things happen, and no one knows that better than Red Sox fans.

So when the Anaheim Angels attempted to stage a comeback last night in the 7th inning, the members of Red Sox Nation reached for the jumbo sized bottles of Tums that we keep by the TV. "But we had an 8 run lead! There's no way we'll blow that!" we told ourselves. But buried deep in the back of our minds, wedged in between Bill Buckner and Aaron Boone, was the fear that this game was about to get out of hand.

And then, with Johnny Damon on third and two outs, Doug Mientkiewicz laid down the perfect bunt and brought Damon home, sealing the victory for the Sox. Was it a ballsy move by a defensive replacement with 2 outs in the bottom of the 8th? You bet. Would he have been skinned alive had it not worked? Most likely. Did it pay off? Of course it did.*

Because this is the 2004 Boston Red Sox. The Tums are now in the trash. The Maalox has been buried in the medicine cabinet. Because we know. Curt knows it. The team knows it. And now we know it.

This is the year.

___________________________

*Was this entire post just a poor excuse for another sass-a-thon masturbatory celebration of our gold glove first baseman? You bet your ass it was.

Game on.

There are certain things you can't put a price on. Sure, I probably should have saved my money instead of shelling out $130 for a plane ticket, and $70 for tickets to three Sox/Orioles games. I've got bills to pay, houses to save up for, and all the other stuff that comes with being a responsible adult.

But standing outside Camden Yards on Saturday night, on the eve of the playoffs after the Sox had just defeated the Orioles in both halves of a doubleheader, singing Sweet Caroline with thousands of other drunk, jubilant Sox fans, I knew I made the right decision.

hands….touching hands...

Baltimore was a total love fest this weekend. Inside the dugout, Pedro was dancing and drawing caricatures of his teammates, Millar and Manny were cuddling for what seemed like hours, and the rest of the guys had smiles glued on their faces. In the stands, and in the bars surrounding Camden Yards, thirty-five thousand Red Sox fans hugged, high-fived, and drank their way through the last stress-free weekend of baseball that Red Sox Nation will enjoy for quite some time.

reaching out…touching you…touching me…...

The weekend started with what we all took as a sign of the good things that were to come. Maureen and I stood waiting at Gate C5 at BWI Airport for Claudia and Dave. My cell phone rings.

"Hey, we're sitting on the runway...we'll be out in a minute."

"Ok, Maureen and I are waiting at the gate, so we'll look for you."

"Ok, well look for Theo too, cause he's sitting right behind us."

I try to maintain my composure, but it's no use. "Theo is on your plane?!" He's not a celebrity. I know this, and I hate myself for turning into a 12 year-old girl. But I know that I am about to be in the presence of the man that could, thirty days from now, be responsible for bringing unprecedented joy to an entire Nation. We say nothing to him as he walks from the long hallway towards baggage claim, but we all steal quick glances, just to see what a 28 year-old genius looks like. We decide that Theo's presence is an excellent way to kick off the weekend, as well as a sign of things to come. We were hopeful, but we had no idea what we were in store for.

sweet caroline...

After dropping our luggage at our hotel and making an obligatory visit to Inner Harbor, we made our way to Pickles, which is the closest bar to the gates at Camden Yards and not a gay bar, despite what those who named it would have you believe. Pickles, along with Sliders, the bar next door, shut down an entire street and serve beer outside when the Sox come to town. We were gawking at the size of the crowd, all of whom were covered in red and blue, when we saw the signs.

DOLLAR DRAFTS

They were begging us to come out and play. And so, for the next two days, Pickles became a home away from home for us and a couple thousand other Sox fans.

good times never seemed so good...

The next two/three days were a blur of baseball, Sox shirts, cheap beer, hangovers, tasteless pizza, baseball, greasy spoon diners, laughs, crab cakes, and…did I mention baseball? There were, however, more than a few moments that, alone, made the entire weekend well worth the price of admission.

Being a part of the standing ovation for Ellis Burks' final major league start, and seeing Ellis cross home plate for the final time in his career. Doug Mientkiewicz's 2 RBI game winning triple. Triple! Watching Pedro and Manny model their matching headbands and wristbands in the dugout. Spending nearly 8 hours on Saturday at one of the league's most beautiful ballparks with incredible friends. Seeing the signs that read BELIEVE all over Baltimore and convincing ourselves they were meant for us.

(Supposedly they are meant to inspire confidence in the city's ability to become, as the local put it, "a place where you don't have to walk down the street and worry about being shot." But we adopted them as our own because let's face it - who will appreciate the message more, Sox fans or Baltimore crackheads?)

And of course, the shining moment of the weekend - the Sweet Caroline sing-a-long. Does the idea of sucking down a few beers, watching a doubleheader, and singing a Neil Diamond song at the top of your lungs with thousands of other people who are just as excited/nervous/hopeful as you bring tears to your eyes? It does if you're a Sox fan.

so good, so good...

And so, the 2004 season comes to a close, my final record a respectable 6-3. It's not bad when you consider the horrific 0-3 start. But now, that's history. The new season begins tomorrow, and everything that happened before is out the window.

This is it. Starting tomorrow, an entire Nation will put work, relationships, love, and hobbies on the back burner. We will make late night runs to CVS to pick up Tums. We will try to be productive at work, and then convince ourselves that spending 10 minutes on SoSH for every 5 minutes of work that we finish is fair. I have had permachills since Saturday night - goosebumps that show no sign of disappearing until the playoffs are but a distant memory. I am excited. I am terrified. I am hopeful. I am doubtful. I truly believe this is the year, and I am scared to death to be wrong.

I believed they never could...

I am a Red Sox fan.