Andy Carvin's Waste of Bandwidth

A Miracle in the Bronx

"Somebody needs to fire Johnny Damon," I remember saying to Susanne several days ago, after the Red Sox outfielder had whiffed another at-bat. "And Mark Bellhorn while they're at it."

Like so many lifelong Red Sox fans, I was frustrated. Damn Frustrated. Ever since watching that ball go through Buckner's legs nearly two decades ago, I'd questioned whether the Sox would ever get it right. Last year just exacerbated that sense of doubt. My faith had lapsed long ago.

So as the Red Sox fought their way back against the Yankees in game four, I felt very happy for them that they were regaining their dignity, but I refused to let myself believe they really stood a chance of capturing the pennant. The players said they'd take it one day at a time, which seemed like sound advice, but in my heart I knew that Beantown was setting itself up for another heartbreak.

Then I watched game five, just down the street from Fenway at An Tua Nua. When they finally won after nearly six hours of play, we rushed into the streets and joined the throngs of people exiting the park. Like I wrote in my blog that night, it was like Paris for New Years 2000. Sheer joy, sheer revelry. (I even screamed "Bonne année!" in the Red Sox parking lot.) Of course, the Sox had two games to play in the Bronx, so I decided to enjoy the moment and not worry about the potential let-down that lay ahead.

But as game six played itself out, with Curt Schilling pitching a masterful game as blood ran through his sock, I realized that while my faith had been shaken badly over the years, this team's faith had not. Stat for stat, they may not have been the better of the two teams -- I still am in awe by the Yankee's lineup -- but the Sox had a fighting spirit that burned in their souls. It was a spirit that seemed sorely lacking whenever you watched Jeter, A-Rod or Matsui at bat. They may be great players, but their hearts didn't seem in the game. And as Schilling left the mound for the last time, I felt that ray of hope. Is this really the year?

Last night's game was sheer anxiety. It didn't matter they spanked the Yankees from every conceivable angle; even until the bottom of the ninth I wondered exactly what the Yanks would do to pull it off. In retrospect the anxiety made no sense, but 86 years of history tugged at my rationality. I had to spend the rest of the inning standing; I just couldn't sit down knowing what was about to happen. The Red Sox were really going to beat the Yankees and go to the World Series.

My mom called me at midnight from her hospital room in Florida, in the final commercial break before the game ended. She was recovering from surgery and had a bit of a fever, but she sounded on top of the world. The game wasn't over, but for all intents and purposes, we knew it really was.

"Your grandfather is smiling right now," she said. He was a star high school pitcher in Worcester back in the 1930s, and even tried out for the Boston Braves, just before he got drafted - by the army. The Red Sox last won the Series when he was six years old, and he spent the remaining 72 years of his life wondering if they'd ever do it again.

They haven't done it yet, Grandpa. But they beat the Yankees in seven, and that's one hell of a start.... -andy