Even the moon turned blood red in support.
My friends, the Red Sox have won the World Series. That bears repeating: THE RED SOX HAVE WON THE WORLD SERIES. They swept the World Series. They ended it with a shutout. The Red Sox have won the World Series.
And we rejoice! Boston wholly rejoices that the curse is lifted, that the grandfathers of the Red Sox nation who lived until this day will not go into the dark without knowing that sensation of victory! We do not yet truly believe it in our hearts, but with our minds we know that the thing which is both impossible and greatly desired is NOT impossible. That sometimes, your best hope instead of your worst fear comes to pass.
The Red Sox have won the 2004 World Series.
In the rejoicing, however, there is a sense of loss. I think it’s like watching your child get married. You are happy, so happy for them. But yet, you know your relationship to them will never be the same. And in the first and closest case, it means that you will not be with them while they are having a marvellous time on their honeymoon.
It is the best lonely period to be hoped for. I find it impossible to be glad that the baseball season is over. I find myself jealous for just another day or two of baseball, please. But it is over. Gone. I am left alone — gaily waving with tears in my eyes at the door of the church. Five months of happy memories, but no new ones.
Do you believe me that my life changes when there is no baseball on? The sound of it. The schedule. The way it slips easily into my ears and keeps me company as I work, rest, travel. Football is no replacement. NPR is too depressing. Music insufficiently engaging.
A sacrifice I am happier to make this year than ever. You bunch of Idiots, who have become my friends unbeknownst to you, enjoy your offseason. Many of you I will see again next year. Others will go to other teams, where I’ll secretly root for you as long as you pose no threat. And in spring, new faces will be on the field.
World Series winning Boston Red Sox, thank you. Thank you for 85 years of anxiety, and one of exultation. Thank you for 170 games of baseball, sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly, sometimes heart-dropping, sometimes boring. Thank you for getting into fights with the Yankees, saying dumb things in post game interviews, and growing some of the world’s worst-concieved hair styles. Thank you for a year of fun baseball.
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