Out of the Ashes, Part III (A question of fatherhood)

After the fight in mid-July, the Red Sox went on a tear, winning 80% of their games for the remainder of the season, easily securing a playoff berth as the wild-card team. They never did catch the Yankees for first place in their division, and an interesting thing happened in late September.

In a game played at Yankee Stadium, one of the Red Sox top two pitchers - Pedro Martinez - lost to the Yankees for something like the 7th straight time, and in an interview in the Red Sox locker room afterwards he said the following: "What can I say? I guess the Yankees are my daddy", a statement that would throw gasoline into an already raging brushfire.

So onward we moved to October, and the playoffs. First up was the California Angels, and the Red Sox made short order of that series, but not without significant development. In game 1, Curt Schilling - the man who came to Boston "to make 55,000 people in Yankee Stadium shut up" - was running over to cover 1st base in a routine play that pitchers make every game, and something happened. After catching the ball and stepping on the base, he started limping quite noticeably. He's alright, Red Sox Nation though to themselves. We have a big lead, take him out and let him ice it, then he'll be back for the next game.

Or not...

The 2nd significant moment was in the 10 inning of the 3rd and decisive game. With the score tied, David Ortiz came to the plate with a runner on first base, and proceeded to launch a massive shot that rattled off the "Sports Authority" sign above the left field wall and seats. Game - set - match, Mr. Ortiz. Red Sox Nation was now starting to see the trend. With the game on the line, David Ortiz - nicknamed "Big Papi" - had the extraordinary gift bestowed on very few in history of being able to change the outcome with a single swing, regardless of the pressure of the moment.

Meanwhile, the Yankees were also winning their best of 5 series in 3 games as well, setting the stage for the clash of the baseball titans, round II. The prize once again being a trip to the world series.

Game 1 was played in Yankee stadium, and in the days leading up to the first battle, the people of Boston were informed in all its ingloriousness of the extent of Curt Shilling's injury. He had incurred a dislocated tendon, and the Red Sox medical staff was hopeful a specially designed brace would hold the tendon in place well enough to allow Schilling to pitch.

It didn't.

In what would seem to the Red Sox faithful one more incident in the cruel and on-going saga of Red Sox futility, their best pitcher during the season could go no farther than 3 innings, surrendering 6 runs and putting the Sox in a hole, 1 game to none.

Game 2 didn't go much better. Pedro Martinez, serenaded for 3 solid hours with chants of "Who's your Daaaaaady", "Who's your Daaaaaady", lost his eighth straight to the Yankees.

Game 3 went back to Boston, and history said the Red Sox needed to win this game in order to have any chance at all of advancing to the world series. You see, no team in the history of baseball - heck, no team in the history of sports in America - had ever come back from a 3 games to none deficit to win four in a row. The time was now, and the Sox needed to pull it off.

About 11:30 that night, with the score Yankees 17, Red Sox 7, my son was sitting on the floor in front of a sofa, softly pounding his fists on the carpet. "How could this be?" "They're getting killed by these guys". I told him to go ahead and go to bed, that it was ok. "Dad, don't give me that 'it's only a game' stuff, because we both know it isn't". As he entered his room, I remember telling him "Welcome to Red Sox Nation. You are an official member now. How do you like the pain?"

As I fell asleep in my own room, I turned the TV off with the final score being Yankees 19, Red Sox 8. My faith, tested so many times over the years - and strong as any faith can be - had fallen. I know longer thought 2004 was going to be the magical year...I had given up and resigned myself to Yankee fans once again looking down on Red Sox fans as second class citizens in the sports world.

Maybe...just maybe...the Yankees were our daddy.