Out of the Ashes Part VIII (For someone's uncle, grampa, dad, or mom)

The World Series was anti-climactic in every sense of the word. After the 2 previous years with the 7-game prize fights between the Yankees and the Red Sox, the World Series between the St. Louis Cardinals had none of the flash or bravado of the Yankees/Red Sox. For starters, Cardinal fans are steeped in middle American tradition and values. They're nice Missouri people, all apple pie and blue jeans. There wasn't a 3000 year feud going on between Boston and St. Louis. The players didn't dislike each other, and the series was conducted in a mild and professionally respectful manner.

All that, plus the fact the Cardinals never had a chance.

Karma and good fortune were definitely residing in Boston, and there was no livin' way this one was getting away. In both games 1 & 2, the Red Sox made 4 errors...fatal under any other circumstance...but just a minor bump in the road for these guys. They won 4 in a row against the Yanks, and they just kept bulldozing their way to a championship ring by doing the same to the Cardinals.

On the night of the 4th and final game, a complete Lunar Eclipse was present in the Western Hemisphere. A great red moon hovered above Busch Stadium in St. Louis during the night of the last game, as if the heavens above were acknowledging their role in this most dramatic of Octobers.
But the games played were not the story here. The games were nothing but minor pieces in a game that had gone on for 86 years.

Eighty-Six years. Four-plus generations.

Thousands and thousands had come and gone. The Boston Globe newspaper sold more copies of the October 28th edition morning paper than any in its history...and even with that, they still didn't print enough to meet the demand. Reports came in from all over New England that people were waiting on street corners at 4:30 am for the first of the papers to arrive, many of these same people still awake from the night before. And that's what this thing was about. Thousands went out on a cold New England morning, picked up the paper and headed to the local cemetery. Buried there was Uncle Bob, Aunt Sarah, grampa, mom, or whoever. The newspapers were lovingly laid on the stones, along with blue hats with the "B" on the front, triangular pennants, and whatever else they could think of to honor the memory of their long-since departed loved ones...loved ones that didn't hang around long enough to see the day the perennial losers finally put it together and conquered all the demons.

These people simply wanted to share their happiness with those they knew would be happy as well. Such is the nature of baseball in New England; such is the love New Englanders have for their team located in the Back Bay region of Beantown. It's the place with the funky little ballpark built on an Indian burial ground; a ballpark that will soon be 100 years old; and a ballpark that no one will allow to be torn down and replaced. Grampa went to games in that park, and we all want to take our kids and they their kids to the same place. We don't need new and shiny; our little brick and wooden building is fine by us.

There will be no more "1918" signs; no more Babe Ruth and "Curse of the Bambino" talk; no more snide comments from Yankee fans; and any talk by those Yankee fans about 26 championships could now forever be countered with "Do you remember 2004? You do? Ok, shut up already".

In December of the same year, Sports Illustrated magazine declared the Boston Red Sox Nation - not the team; the fans - the annual "Sportsman of the year". All over America, cries of "foul" rang out. People not of the RSN were outraged that Sports Illustrated could have the audacity to do such a thing. But the thing is, Sports Illustrated "got it". They understood what others did not.

You see, like a father once explained to his son on a previous occasion, sometimes it is more than just a game.

Sometimes.