Liberating A Nation

I married into The Nation 10 years ago. I cheered for my husbands team, and I called myself a fan. I had no idea what that meant until I found myself sitting on the floor in front of my tv, crying. Why? Why did Pedro come back out? I don't get it, I don't understand???? I looked over at my husband, and with such calm he said "It's ok, there's always next year." Well next year came, but my husband left. He's been in Iraq since March of 2004. Static filled phone calls at odd hours to ask "How did my boys do?" made me feel like he was right back on my couch and not thousands of miles away. Checking the scores, checking the stats, watching the games, all of it has gotten me through 7 months without my husband. If that doesn't make sense to you, I'm sorry. I don't know if I have the words to explain. If the Sox were okay, so was my Husband. When the boys were 10 games back, I knew it didn't matter. My husband was fighting, the Sox would fight too. Those men have not only carried each other through a year, they've unknowingly carried me along with them. I will forever be connected to this team, and I will forever be in their debt. I started this essay as a letter to my Husband, to sort of explain to him why This Is The Year. It took on a life of it's own from there.

Liberating A Nation

After watching the post game press conference after game 2 last night, I had one immediate thought. We are going to win the World Series.Suddenly it was all clear. This is destiny. This is finally The Year.

We were never going to win game 7 last year. Pedro could have come out in the 6th, and we still would have lost. We weren't meant to win. It wasn't time yet. The manager was wrong, the clubhouse was wrong, even the NL team was wrong. The Red Sox were not going to play their first world series in 17 years against the Florida Marlins. No way, No how.

Oh, but the Joy that is 2004. Everything adds up, all the pieces are in place, all of the signs are there. This is it. 86 years ago we won the World Series. 86, a number that'll live in the bowels of Sox history forever. 100th World Series, a new Century of baseball. A year in which no other 2 teams have the right to play in, except the Sox and The Cards.

It all started on an October night in 2003. Tim Wakefields tears on the mound after that fateful homerun didn't signify the end of a dream, instead it was the beginning of one. His tears soaking into the ground at Yankee stadium set the wheels in motion.

Grady never stood a chance. MY Boys Of Summer needed more than a coach, they needed a father. A man that could see past the hair, the uniforms, the antics, someone who understood that behind the aloofness they were warriors. Battle scarred, weary, but not yet broken. Men who wanted to play baseball in it's purest form. For the love of the game, the thrill of it.These boys don't always perform like Champions, running into outs on occasion, throwing to the wrong base once or twice. Even with their faults, you can see their happiness, their desire, their passion. New York can have discipline, we have Joy.They needed someone who "got it", and Theo went out and found him. From that, The Sons of Francona were born.

A Thanksgiving dinner was about to once again make history in New England. Theo Epstein sat down and broke bread with Curt and Shonda Schilling. Come heal these hurt and heartbroken men Curt, pick up the pieces and give them faith in themselves. Take them to the World Series. Lead them into battle. Right all the wrongs of old, and deliver us from "The Curse"
Even with Tito and Curt on board, something was still wasn't clicking. We saw it and felt it, but couldn't put our finger on it. We weren't winning. Falling farther and farther behind the Yankees, hopes and dreams quickly fading away. 10 and a half games behind the Yankees on July 31st. Once again, you could hear sighs echoing through a Nation in Despair.

Mere moments before the trade deadline on that seemingly hopeless July day, a Nations sorrow turned to Rage. How dare Theo Epstein. Has he lost his mind? Along the crawl screen on ESPN, millions of viewers saw the words...Nomar Traded To Cubs. Surely there was a mistake. Nomar is an icon in Boston. Even worse, we traded him for nothing, 3 nothings to be exact. Dave Roberts, Doug Mientkiewicz and Orlando Cabrera. WHO?? Our season was all but dead and buried. Or so we thought.

Click.Click.Click. Pieces started falling into place. Click, no errors. Click, moving over runners. Click, turning double plays. Click, playing small ball. Click, Francona and his boys.Click, Minky, Cab, Roberts. Out of the ashes, slowly The Sox started to rise. And as they rose, we began to see one of the most beautiful teams in the history of baseball.

Quietly Jason Varitek orchestrated the men on the field. Steadily Curt lead a Bullpen of fighters, scrappy warriors willing to leave their hearts on the battlefield and their fates in the hands of the men behind them. Mannys crack of the bat woke up the sleeping giants. Ortiz, Damon, Kapler.Click. Slowly the injured soldiers trot back on the field, one by one. Their bodies bruised and beaten, ready to fight another day. Click. Suddenly the Sox had the best record in baseball in August. They were down, but never out. 10 games, then 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4,3....Be Careful Yankees, The Boys are ready for another round.

The past has never been kind to Boston. Instead of fighting History, this rag tag brand of warriors decided to change it. The Sox clawed their way into the wild card, facing the Angels. 3 games later the Angels were gone and history was altered. The Angels had never been swept in the Post Season. Until they were faced with men determined to right the wrongs of 2003.
New York Yankees vs. The Boston Red Sox for the Pennant, part 2. Curt Schilling takes the mound for Game 1 and the Nation knows we'll win this night. How can we not? The plight of the Sox struck again as we realized immediately that whoever was on the mound, it wasn't Our Curt Schilling. This was 3 horrible innings of batting practice for The Yankees. Mussina was throwing the ball like he was getting paid per pitch, and our boys looked as though it was day 1 of little league. 7-10. We lost 7-10. That's ok, Pedro pitches tomorrow. Same story, different night. Pedro pitched well, Lieber pitched better.1-3 Yankees. It's ok, tomorrow we're at Fenway. 9 innings and 19 Yankee runs later, The Red Sox are down 3-0. No team in history has come back from a 3-0 defecit. Curt Schilling is out for the season, Derek Lowe is starting game 4 and our hitters have left the building. Hopeless. Not only are we going to lose the series, but we're going to do it in humiliating fashion.The curse rears it's ugly head again.

Let the game begin, quickly, lets get this over with so I can look forward to next year. But wait...something is different this time....Somehow we managed to pull off Games 4 and 5 with stellar performances by 2 unsung hereos. Derek Lowe, a star in the playoffs of 2003, had become an emotional, unpredictable pitcher, banished to the bullpen, brought back to a starting position in a leap of Faith by Tito, and Tim Wakefield,the knuckleballer whose tears stained the ground as he watched his dreams fly over the left field wall in game 7 last year. These men took the mound, and with each pitch, chased their own demons away. Each strike eased the burden they've carried this year, each out lifting the hearts of a nation, each inning laying to rest the doubts they had in themselves. The grit and determination from both pitchers allowed this story to go on. They forced a game 5, as well as a game 6...and that game 6 my friends, is where this story takes on a life of it's own. This is when I began to realize that forces greater than you and I were at work.

The fog swirled around the mound at Yankees stadium on Oct 19th. The mist drizzled down and dampened the spirits of so many fans. Until we saw what seemed to be unreal. Curt Schilling walking to the mound. His ankle bloodied and bandaged, his face tired and determined. Visions of Roy Hobbs were inevitable. Across New England, a sense of surrealness descended, we knew something was coming, and we were ready for it. With the first pitch it was obvious that this was our Curt. Our Warrior, Our Hero, Our Deliverance. Here was a man who had dug down inside himself and found what he needed to get him through this night. For us. For his team, for himself. Curt Schilling stood on that mound, head held high, defiance in his eyes. He stood in The House That Ruth Built, bleeding for a Nation, onto that Yankee soil, the same soil that swallowed Tim Wakefields tears one year ago. Blood and Tears together washed away 86 years of baggage. Blood and Tears exercised the ghosts of our past. The battle the Sox waged that night came not from Money, or Discipline, or pretty uniforms. No, it came from the hearts of men who had found their home, found their brothers, and found their place in a clubhouse filled with 25 of the strongest men in baseball. The 2004 Boston Red Sox don't play for Glory, they don't play for money or rings. They play for each other. They play baseball because they have to, because it's who they are, and what they believe. They fight and win and soldier on because they love each other as much as they love the game. No man wants to let his brother in arms down . Leave no man behind. If you stumble, your brother will pick you up. If you fail, he will succeed in your name. There is no curse on Boston. The pieces just hadn't been in place until now.

Guts, Bravery, and determination got them back to Yankees Stadium and Respect won them the game. Those men, those beautiful boys of summer, gave everything they had that epic night, they laid it all at the feet of Terry Francona. They gave him their trust, their respect,and their hearts. Tito understood these men and loved them anyways, for that his sons delivered him a win in a bloody 14 inning battle for the history books. Game 7 was merely a whimper from the Yankees. The Dynasty had crumbled without even a fight. The Sox had liberated a Nation. The past has been washed away in blood, sweat and tears. It couldn't happen any other way. This is our destiny, fulfilled by 25 men who banded together and refused to lay down and die.
The Sox took the field in Fenway for game 1 of the World Series. They walked out there a different team then we've ever seen. The Nation has always believed in the Red Sox, but it is only now they believe in themselves. They believe in each other. They have been to War and they came home changed men.

I feel blessed to watch this team play. They are the embodiment of baseball, and a team like this we will never see again. A team whose history together has entitled them to the 100th World Series Ring.