I sat down this morning with every intention of writing up something about the five year anniversary of the 2004 World Series. But nothing I could come up with seemed sufficient and not a rehash of something I'd already written. And so I mulled. And I hemmed and I hawed. And I stalled. And morning became afternoon and eventually became night and soon is going to be morning again. So I'll have to make do.
The truth is I hated that team. I loved them to death but deep down I hated them. I hated what they'd always been able to do to me and, probably, were going to keep right on doing to me. Right up until the end, I had visions of Keith Foulke lobbing that ball into the stands, St. Louis coming back, momentum shifting, and 2004 becoming just another pathetic chapter in the annals of Red Sox lore. They'd once and again always be the Red Flops. But he didn't and everything changed. Which seems like a ridiculous hyperbole but it's true; "Maybe next year" really does mean "Maybe next year"now. And for that I can't thank them enough.
Because the traditional fifth anniversary gift is wood, I've decided to mark the occasion with a David Ortiz baseball bat. Use it in good health.
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