What the Red Sox hath wrought

Who said God isn't on our side?

By Jake Coleman

A

re there any fans out there of the old sitcom M*A*S*H? Wow - quite a few. On a site like this, I'm not surprised. Remember the great episode about the shell shocked bombardier convinced he was Jesus Christ?

As the man was about to leave, Radar O'Reilly asked him a question.

Radar asks, "Is it true that God answers all prayers?"

"Is it true that God answers all prayers?"

Yes, the man said. And sometimes the answer is no.

For fans of the Red Sox, that was the answer this year. But lest we forget, it was most assuredly not what we heard in response last year.

In fact, what the Red Sox accomplished in 2004 went far beyond the realm of one painfully belated victory in the World Series.

Red Sox prove that God exists

That lovable band of idiots proved something I have long suspected - that God is real.

Let's start with the fantastically improbable nature of the Sox even getting to the Series.

The team they faced for the league championship, the New York Yankees, was the very nemesis that ! had most stymied their hopes for more than eight decades.

The Red Sox had not won in the Series since 1918, after winning four in seven years to that point, aided by the godlike talent of a player named Babe Ruth.

The curse of the Bambino begins

With the sale of Ruth to New York in 1920 - to finance (sign of the cross here) a musical - comes Boston's original sin. For the next four score and six years, a time frame of biblical proportion, the Red Sox and its fans will wander the desert of eternal hope dashed by garish ineptitude, feeble management and devilish bad bounces.

A Red Sox no more after 1920

New York, meanwhile, becomes the most successful professional team in history, winning more World Series than whole baseball divisions combined.

Consider the differences in temperament between the two cities - New York, a sprawling metropolis build around a Dutch trading post and long devoted to commerce, finance - to Mammon - compared to Boston's puritanical City on a Hill.

The contrast allows generation of Sox fans to sniff in disdain at their grubby, acquisitive cousins in the boroughs while Yankees fans are provided with the endless joy of witnessing the finest talent on baseball diamonds, generation after unfailing generation.

In the fall of 2004, this cycle is on the verge of renewing itself, ad infinitum. The Yankees are ahead, 3-0, their third victory a soul-crushing rout of the Sox.

Boston goes into the last inning of the fourth game hanging on by a feeble heartbeat, when suddenly ... the patient shows life ... the pulse is getting stronger ... well, you know the rest.

We rose from the dead in 2004

It was as if the Almighty were saying: bear with Me, I know you have suffered, but it will all be worth it in the long run.

In finally winning against New York, the Red Sox rose from the dead in a way that no professional baseball team had ever done - and transferred the label of "choker" to the same team that had long thwarted them.

The wildly unlikely nature of Boston's victory brings to mind the observation from theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking that the sheer improbability of the Big Bang leading to creation of the universe is proof of a divine intelligence at work.

It was as if the Almighty were saying: bear with Me, I know you have suffered, but it will all be worth it in the long run.

When Boston finally, finally defeats New York, a torrent of pent-up jubilation is unleashed, more than can be controlled by the feeble ministrations of men in uniform. A young fan pays with her life, right in the shadow of the Green Monster and the celebration is eternally marred. The fan's name - Victoria.

The front pages say it all

Boston has still not won the Series, the naysayers point out, and hence the Curse of the Bambino has not truly been lifted. But the true believers reject this, because we know that New York was always been integral to the curse. Only by beating the Yankees can it be broken and the biblically-named Ruth finally buried.

As if ordained, the Red Sox go on to defeat St. Louis in four straight, another old nemesis but without the animosity, just as they had set down California without a loss to get to the fateful match up against New York.

On the night the Red Sox win the Series, the shadow of the Earth passes over the moon and casts a reddish glow onto t! he lunar surface.

And God sent the Angels

If not the work of the Almighty, surely an augury worthy of Shakespeare.

Another lunar eclipse will not be seen for several months - until the death of the Pope.

A year later, Red Sox fans are left to console themselves with the afterglow of one sublime postseason, an ephemeral prize that would be diminished if commonplace, in the same way that no Yankees fan can ever know true joy.

And speaking of the Yankees, did you catch the name of the team that just booted them from the playoffs?

They call themselves the Angels.

A formerly long-suffering Red Sox fan, Jake Coleman is a freelance writer, copy editor, blogger (windfarmblog.com) and occasional sportswriter.