Friday, October 29, 2004

A 'Dear John' letter I can live with

For obvious reasons, Bambino's Curse - a blog which has tirelessly devoted itself to the trials and tribulations of the Boston Red Sox during their 86-year streak of winlessness- signed off for good yesterday (although the site and its archives will remain online). It's not every day that I'm happy to see a favorite blog go silent, but under these circumstances I'll happily make an exception.

As for me, what can I say about the World Series except:

Holy freaking dogshit!

I had written the Sox off so many times over the past decade that quite frankly I didn't see how different this team was from its previous incarnations until David Ortiz's walk-off home run in Game Four against the Yankees. Down by three games, down to their last gasp, these guys didn't admit defeat and surrender to the timeless tragedy their predecessors had but hung in there. Time seemed to stand still as the fourth game went into extra innings, the two archrivals locked into a standoff that seemed as if could go on forever until - like the god of Euripides - the Sox found a way.

And then the tragedy became New York's.

To be honest the World Series was an afterthought. No one, not even the St. Louis Cardinals with their impressive 105-57 season record, was going to prevail against a team which had resurrected itself from the dead. The hapless Cards weren't able to win one measly game against the team which had slowly but inexorably fought its way through the month of October to become not just another failed attempt by Red Sox Nation to exorcise the ancient shade of the Bambino but a force of destiny stronger than any curse. Who can blame the Cards for rolling over in the face of an opponent that had just routed Babe Ruth himself?

So what now? A parade, a postseason full of happy memories for a change and not the bitter slug of regret and the sting of opportunities lost, perhaps the makings of a baseball dynasty in seasons to come. Whatever the future has in store, things will never be the same for the Fenway Faithful, age-old devotees of a Dying God that forgot to keel over as scripted one fateful autumn...

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