This is the story of my four days in October….

On the afternoon of October 21st, 2004 I felt like a burden had been lifted, never again would I be speechless within a group of people when the conversation turned to baseball. But it wasn’t until I got to work, that I realized the magnitude of what had occurred over the previous four days, it had truly galvanized a nation, and not just red sox nation.
Answering phones in the Boston Globe sports department that day, was quite literally off the hook. I had to turn phones off, because I couldn’t keep up as people from all over the country called, simply to congratulate me on my victory, and objectivity be damned I obliged and thanked every caller.
It was also the first time I had the chance to look back at the craziness that had unfolded over the last four days.

The story of those four fateful nights of October for me, truly begins on a heart wrenching evening exactly 365 nights before as a first pitch knuckleball from Tim Wakefield landed in the Yankee Stadium bleachers.
I never saw the home run, I was on the phone in the other room during a commercial break, and I remember the other end going silent, and the sudden shriek from my Yankee fan roommate as he ran out into the hallway and onto the streets of Boston where he stayed for a few hours as I locked him out. The full living room had disbanded almost instantly leaving myself, and the third roommate Matt, a Red Sox fan and close friend since junior high school questioning our existence.

There was no offseason that year, every day the newspaper was full of speculation of who might be coming or going with the 2004 Sox. After a solid month of grieving and watching the Pats I was excited to read everything I could on the acquisitions of Curt Schilling and Keith Foulke, and the impeding move to bring Alex Rodriguez to Boston.
Of course the last move didn’t happen, and when he was acquired by the Yankees it was another unfair stomach punch in a month where no baseball is even played. This only added to the feeling that no matter what the Sox would never win.
When the season started in April I was there to boo A-Rod, and repeat derisive steroids chants to Gary Sheffield and Jason Giambi, if I knew then what I know now, I could have had some fun with A-Fraud too.
After starting out 6-1 against the Yanks, the Sox stumbled for three months before charging hard to get into the playoffs. They had a couple chances to overtake the Yankees, but in the end they couldn’t get the job done when it mattered most, so we thought.

After dispatching the Angels in three games, with a champagne celebration of our own after David Ortiz’s first walk off hit of the postseason, the Sox and Yanks were set for Armageddon II.
Game 1 did not go remotely as planned. Curt Schilling, the man who thought destiny and aura were dancers in a nightclub, proved to be much more hurt than any of us realized as the Yanks battered him around. The Sox got back to within a run, but as had been the story of our lives as Sox fans, it wasn’t enough.
With Pedro Martinez going in game two there was some optimism among us, especially against Jon Lieber. But Lieber proved to be as unhittable as Mussina was for six innings the night before. Pedro matched him pitch for pitch but as has often been the case he made the one big mistake and the Sox were going home down two games.
Optimism was waning, the rational sox fan knew they’d likely have to win twice in the Bronx on consecutive nights, with or without Curt Schilling a scenario that seemed highly unlikely.
Game 3 the Boston Massacre Redux.
There was nothing even remotely redeeming about this evening. The final four innings made me question life, our purpose on this earth, whether or not there was a god, and most importantly why did my parents raise me a Red Sox fan. You can convert religions, but in New England there is only one baseball team we all worship, and unlike Christianity, there was no promise of a heavenly afterlife for a Red Sox fan, only a lifetime of Puritanical suffering, and at this point I think hell would have been a better place.
As the score ran up, sadness had given way to bitterness and utter vitriol, and with it, some questionable decision making on my part.
I watched the final outs at a bar on Boylston street with a close friend, and as we sat down at the table we found a cell phone. I opened the modern (for 2004) looking flip phone, I immediately saw the Yankee logo wallpaper. Absolutely zero chance was I giving this back.
After a couple of taunting phone calls to people, and the possibility we might have called that person’s office (people don’t put “Work” into your cell) and quit in a blaze of glory, we played a little wiffleball on my front lawn with the phone.
A few demons were exorcised….and with it came some key signs a Baseball Apocalypse was coming.

Sunday, Game 4…The First sign
For anybody who claims they kept the faith and never stopped believing, they’re either a pink hat who had no understanding of the baggage true fans carried like a cross to bear, or they’re the yahoos who call WEEI with trade suggestions like JD Drew and Ryan Kalish for Adrian Gonzalez, and “we’ll just move Youk to right, cause he’s versatile.”
There was only one true way a Sox fan could have kept the faith. Fully expecting doom, but quietly thinking “Pedro goes tomorrow, Schilling might be able to give us 5 and no way does he suck like that again in the postseason, and then anything can happen in a game 7.”
However there was still the little matter of actually winning game 4. I admit I couldn’t watch pitch for pitch, it was still to frustrating.
There was a new addition to the apartment on that Sunday, a Styrofoam Red Sox cooler that had been brought home by Matt after the previous night’s festivities. We left it in the corner of the kitchen, where it would stay for the next eight nights like a baseball menorah without the candles.
With football on and some actual homework to do I was sufficiently distracted from watching the final eulogy on the 04 season. I checked the score, but the Yankee fan roommate’s yelling from his room was a good indicator of what was going on.
As the 11 p.m. hour approached I headed off to bed, fully anticipating going to sleep angry.
The Sox trailed 4-3 in the 9th, and I watched sports final with Bob Lobel talking another Patriots win with Fenway in the background.
But I couldn’t avoid watching the final trainwreck, that was Mariano Rivera putting the finishing touches on the most embarrassing four days of my life. I didn’t care about the series at that point, I just didn’t want to get swept.
With my better half (at the time) laying next to me I watched Millar walk and I’m getting sucked in because I know Dave Roberts is available to run.
After what seemed like an eternity, largely because Rivera makes molasses look like Usain Bolt, Roberts took off for second…SAFE!!!
This was the first sign of the baseball apocalypse.
I get a grouchy growl from my other half. Now I’m really talking myself into it, after all Bill Mueller “owns” Rivera. Moments later Mueller slaps one up the middle Roberts rounds third and ties the game! Now I’ve jumped out of bed celebrating, and I am quickly banished to the living room for being too loud (in my own room at my apartment, true love indeed).
The tie game had summoned Matt out of his room and we decided we had to watch how this season “ended.”
I took a seat on the green couch, Matt on the red…this would be “our spots” for the next 8 nights.
As we moved to the 11th we now started speaking aloud what all fans had at least thought privately.
“You know Pedro’s going tomorrow, he always pitches well at home.”
When Ortiz came to bat in the12th we knew this had to be our inning, otherwise it was over, the bullpen was empty of anyone we’d want pitching a meaningful inning.
Fortunately Paul Quantrill made a mistake, and Ortiz turned on it and found the bullpen.
“We’ll see you later tonight” Joe Buck quipped, as Matt and I jumped off the couch at 1:21 a.m. embracing in a brief and awkward Rocky/Apollo man-hug. “We didn’t get swept wooooo!”
Then we quickly broke for our rooms, and said, “same spot in 12 hours or so.”

Game 5
In what seemed like only a few hours later Matt and I were back in our strategic spots on the respective couches, and after the Yanks took the lead on Pedro in the middle innings, I forced my other half to move to the easy chair, or go in the other room, because clearly the couch was only good luck for me.
The Sox got an early lead on Mussina, so at least the pressure of the perfect game was off. The Yanks grinded away on Pedro until Jeter came through with the big hit, down the right field line. This time we’re done, same old Pedro, against the Yankees.
Even Ortiz’s leadoff homer felt like a classic Mo Vaughn, too little too late blast. But then it seemed like an instant replay, Millar walked, Roberts ran for him and he moved to third on a single from Trot Nixon, before scoring on Varitek’s sac fly. But the Sox couldn’t get the go ahead run.
What followed was what seemed like an eternity, an interminable period of slow paced agonizing, twist the knife extra inning baseball prominently featuring guys in our bullpen who we’d never want pitching in meaningful situations.
For game 5 there still wasn’t any belief in winning the series, it was still too big a mountain to climb, but the hope was to prevent the Yankees from celebrating on our field.
In the 9th the Yankees looked like they’d take the lead, and probably should have, but Tony Clark’s double bounced into the right field stands, not allowing Ruben Sierra to score and ultimately leaving runners stranded.
This was the second sign…
The game dragged on into its fifth hour like a tennis match at Wimbledon. The sox left Doug Mientikwich at third in the 10th, and two more runners in the 11th.
In the 14th the Yanks had a runner at third with Tim Wakefield fluttering knuckleballs to Jason Varitek, who hadn’t caught him all year, and allowed three passed balls before the runner reached third.
I think that inning took two years off my life, Varitek caught every ball, and Wakefield got out of it.
In retrospect this was the third sign…
Going into this inning was really the first time I remember thinking ahead to games in the Bronx, and the “What if” I mean surely Schilling couldn’t suck like he did in game 1 right?
Johnny Damon, who was virtually hitless on the series reached on a walk, and got into scoring position. A walk to Ramirez brought Ortiz to the plate again with a chance to be a hero.
In an epic at bat that is listed as 10 pitches in the boxscore but I swear took 35 or 40, Ortiz fought off pitch after pitch before fisting a single to center to score Damon.
Ortiz’s incredible extraordinarily clutch efforts on consecutive nights, <strong>proved to be the fourth sign….
There wasn’t much celebration this time around, just total relief, and exhaustion after nearly six hours of baseball. There would be no Yankees celebrating on our field and with Schilling going tomorrow night the words of the great philosopher Lloyd Christmas began to come to mind “So you’re saying there’s a chance!”

Game 6
By the time Tuesday night rolled around, I had started to think about the possibilities, but wouldn’t speak of them out loud. After all to do that was to risk the open humiliation when the baseball universe turned back on its proper axis and the Yankees would advance.
Normally I hold my breath during every pitch expecting the worse, but this time I was holding it between every pitch too, I really have no idea how I even breathed at all. It was because of how Schilling’s ankle would hold up, it literally felt like it could snap on any given pitch.
And he closed out the first by sprinting over to cover the bag it felt like he might be able to gut this out.
But there was still the matter of hitting the latest incarnation of Cy Young, one Jon Lieber, who had dominated the Sox in game 2.
But the fourth inning the Sox broke through with more uncharacteristic baseball in the Bronx, a two out rally and an umpire’s call going our way.
Millar doubled and Varitek followed with an RBI single bringing the previously 0-October Mark Bellhorn to the plate breathing new life into the dream thanks to a three run homer to left. It was a ball that barely sailed over the fence, but it fell back into play, and was originally ruled a double. But for the first time probably in baseball history the umpires convened and reversed the call giving Bellhorn the homer,
and with it the fifth sign…
Schilling threw seven ridiculous innings, before giving way to Bronson Arroyo, not exactly the ideal setup man, but the bullpen being shot that’s who was available. Trailing 4-1 the Yanks weren’t going to go away. Miguel Cairo doubled, and Jeter singled him home, and it felt like 2003 all over again.
By this point I am pacing from the living room couch in the front of the apartment, all the way out to my back deck, and my pulse is racing to a level never seen before, or since.
With a tenuous two run lead, up came A-Rod, who in the minds of Sox fans was a dangerous October hitter, thanks to a solid performance in games 1-4, but he was invisible in game 5 and heretofore in game 6.
But Rodriguez weakly grounded up the first base line, Arroyo fielded it, and reached out to tag A-Rod, but the highest paid player in the history of the sport resorted to a pathetic attempt to avoid an out. He slapped the ball out of Arroyo’s glove. The ball bounded down the right field line, Jeter raced around and scored, fist pumping with that arrogant smirk as he crossed the plate and A-Rod stood at second base with Yankee stadium exploding in a roar that could only be described as the sound of arrogant entitlement come to life.
I’ll be honest, I don’t really know what happened next, I was so angry, frustrated, and emotionally spent I stormed out of the room and out to the back deck muttering the whole way, and nearly kicking the enchanted Red Sox cooler and a thousand Styrofoam pieces.
“I can’t believe they sucked me in again, it’s never gonna happen.”
And for it to be A-Rod made it so much worse he should have been ours. As I stood outside I heard a loud roar in the neighborhood, a little confused I went back inside and asked Matt what happened, he told me they ruled A-Rod out, and sent Jeter back to first base…
the sixth sign.
I was thoroughly confused but completely elated and began to sit down in my seat again.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Matt said. “while you were outside, they reversed the call, that’s good luck, you gotta go back out there and stay there til it’s over.”
I didn’t even argue, he was right, in fact I ran back outside so I wouldn’t curse us for a single pitch. I sat on our outdoor couch and listened to the neighborhood. If I heard a muffled roar, I knew it was a Yankee success, and the loud roar indicated Sox success. The first loud roar I heard signaled the end of the 8th, and I tried to find a radio during the commercial break for the 9th. I didn’t find one til the middle of the 9th, as well as a sweatshirt and shoes, since it was cold.
I listened to the 9th, as Keith Foulke battled with Tony Clark for what seemed like an eternity before getting the strikeout, and with it came a roar as loud as I had ever heard in Mission Hill, and that included the Super Bowl win earlier that year.
To that point the best words I had ever heard in my life, “Game 7 Later Tonight!”

Salvation
I tried to accomplish work that day, I really did. But I didn’t get much done, I did cover a high school soccer game for the Globe, so technically I have a byline in the most widely read newspaper day of the last century, but all day long I couldn’t stop thinking about the game.
“It couldn’t really happen right? I mean Derek Lowe has been awful this season, but then again a sinkerballer on short rest is sometimes more effective”
I went back and forth all day, but in the end, I refused to let myself think of the possibility of a win, I prepared myself for a loss with “well at least they got to a game 7, no team had ever done that before and didn’t embarrass us as a city and a region.”
My dad came over after the soccer game and we cooked up some steaks, and introduced him to the enchanted Styrofoam Redsox cooler, which at this point hadn’t moved in three days and was sitting in the kitchen like a holy grail. We took it so seriously, that when Yankee roommate tried to grab it and trash it, my dad of all people threatened in a rather grisly way to kill him should it move an inch…and so it stayed unharmed.
As the game approached even closer Matt said what we all felt, “I have butterflies in my stomach, it’s like I’m actually playing.”
Yankee fan roommate couldn’t face us, and stayed in his usual perch in his bedroom after his safety and good health was previously threatened. But he could not avoid the wrath of Dad, who was needling him constantly from the doorway.
We had more friends over, and at the very least it was going to be a party, and we’d either celebrate with copious amounts of alcohol, or drink away our sorrows.
Ortiz jumped on top of a fastball and drilled it into the bleachers for a two run homer in the first, but I was still skeptical, I remembered the year before, when we led throughout only to have my hopes and dreams snatched from under me.
I was still pacing from the living room to the back deck, in the bottom of the first, but all of that was allayed when Johnny Damon launched a Javy Vasquez offering into the bleachers for a grand slam and a 6-0 lead in the top of the second.
I can honestly say to that point I had never been so happy in my life. I raced down the hallway to Yankee Fan’s doorway where my Dad was standing and leaped into his arms, briefly forgetting I wasn’t a gangly 10 year old, but in fact a 200 pound adult.
The partying commenced, and for the first time I allowed myself to think about the ramifications of the win, even more so when Damon homered again for an 8-0 lead. But when Pedro came in I thought it might collapse. But the “who’s your Daddy” chants were just totally amusing this time around.
We continued to party, and the late innings felt like a coronation, and because it wasn’t a sudden victory in a close game, we were able to enjoy the moment and at the same time reflect on every crushing memory, and every jubilant victory, and know that it was all worth it to be a Red Sox fan.
The seventh sign, was really the entire seventh gamegame, but can be summed up best in the resurrection of Damon who was virtually hitless in the series, but came through to help David finally slay Goliath.
When the last out was recorded we poured out into the streets where we stayed into the wee hours of the morning. When I finally returned I couldn’t go to bed, I had to watch the local news and Sportscenter, and CNN and the weather channel (!?!). I made it to bed at 5 a.m. and woke up just in time to slur my way through a speech about Fenway Park in my debate class, still beaming about the greatest night of my life.

Author’s Note/Epilogue:
I am no longer in the journalism industry, in fact I am a coach. I have experienced my own version of those four games at the college world series, and while I didn’t win a national title, I went through the same ups and downs, and a racing pulse and rising blood pressure, on a roller coaster ride that was incredible to be a part of.
But with that said, truly nothing compares exactly to those four days in October 2004 when the baseball gods stepped in and unleashed an apocalypse on the baseball universe. I can honestly say still to this day, seeing and experiencing every pitch will never be replicated, and there will never be another moment in my life as a fan that brings as much satisfaction and joy.
While coaching, there was no burden of generations past, no ghosts, or demons, and no fear of embarassment in defeat, it was just pitch to pitch, and game to game, and that experience helped me realize how those ballplayers were able to accomplish the unthinkable.
I’ve always struggled to find full acceptance and belief in organized religion, and its honestly because after all the years of blind faith, prayer, and repentance, I experienced salvation. My tortured soul was freed that year to live a gleeful burden free existence for the remainder of my lifetime and that of my parent’s, grandparents, and children.
And absolutely none of that is hyperbole, and like a Baptist, or a Catholic or a Muslim, trying to explain their beliefs to nonbelievers, only a lifelong Red Sox fan can truly understand and agree.