For 10 glorious days in October that year, church bells rang, Handel’s Messiah pierced the night and — exactly nine months later — there were maternity wards filled with little Papis, Mannys and baby Perdros.
We, drank, laughed and cried, as no championship could ever satisfy as sweetly (with exception for the 16 NBA titles the Celtics had hoarded, along with the three Super Bowls that lived in Foxboro and multiple Stanley Cups that were paraded around Boston Common, all during the Red Sox championship drought).
And then it happened again in 2007 — before the hangover from 2004 had barley even worn off.
The funny thing was there weren’t any more poets or church bells in 2007. No one was writing any plays or crying at the graves of departed Sox fans (although it was still an awfully good reason to drink). Even when I when to buy my celebratory beverage at the liquor store, my hand drifted right past the Dom Pérignon of 2004 to a nice California Asti costing about $7 a bottle.
My God, how excited can you really be beating the Colorado Rockies? I pondered. Were there even any settlers in Denver in 1918? The Red Sox had become just another team with a couple of recent championship rings, like the Florida Marlins or Carolina Hurricanes — the flavor of the month. In fact, after last year’s last place finish did anyone even care anymore? Maybe Cub fans.
So am I complaining about Red Sox fans’ new view from the top of Mt. Olympus? Maybe a little. After all, Zeus rarely runs the weed eater and I’m always on Apollo about parking in front of my driveway. Gods are funny that way.
But it seems the Red Sox are back, this time without any bloody socks, but with beards that would easily earn them a guest spot on Duck Dynasty.