Hours before the fourth and final game of the most cathartic World Series ever played, the frustrated, fanatic but ever faithful fans of the fatalistic franchise from the Fens gathered outside Busch Stadium. This, at last, was the end of the pilgrimage.
All were dressed proudly in their Red Sox regalia. Some even wore caveman wigs that went halfway down their backs with mock beards to match. A group of adult Johnny Damon duplicates each wore their Red Sox caps perched atop their Cro-Magnon hairdos. A couple even carried the "W.W.J.D.D." signs ("What would Johnny Damon Do?") seen in Fenway Park.
And what, in fact, did Damon do? What symbolic act did the man who cheerfully dubbed his teammates "The Idiots" provide for his Nation? As the very first batter of a game that could give the Boston Red Sox their first World Series victory since 1918, Damon lashed a line drive home run into the St. Louis bullpen, scattering Cardinals relief pitchers like startled birds.
That breathtaking leadoff blast proclaimed like a cymbal crash that "It's finally over." The last competitive life left in these Cardinals and the last ounces of those thousand-pound saddle bags on the shoulders of every Boston player were finally lifted.
This was the night when, after an 86-year wait, Red Sox fans were allowed to savor their delight -- no more anguish allowed -- as they relished an incredible Series sweep of the 105-win Cardinals in which the Red Sox never trailed at the end of a single inning. Damon's home run put them ahead instantly.
Then Derek Lowed slammed the door on the Cards with seven innings of three-hit ball just as Pedro Martinez and Curt Schilling had erased the offense of the best-hitting team in the National League in the previous two games. The combined ERA for the Boston trio: 0.00. Meantime, the Cards' four starters in this Series allowed 18 runs in 17 1/3 innings.
The analytical core of this Series turned out to be elementary. Both teams had exceptional lineups. But only the Red Sox had starting pitchers with the raw stuff to miss the bat of their foes and make the Cards' best hitters become defensive. Boston batters had no fear, even with two strikes. The best of the Cardinals progressively deteriorated. Scott Rolen: 0 for 15. Jim Edmonds: 1 for 15. Had this Series been longer, the Red Sox dominance might even have with more familiarity.
In the last 11 days, the Red Sox have provided baseball with enough drama, lore and incredible improbability that one winter may not be sufficient to discuss it all. To realize what the Red Sox have done, with an eight-game winning streak that is the longest in the history of postseason play, we must go back and take the pulse of sentiment on Oct. 16. That was an absolute bottom, the kind of nadir that must sometimes be reached before redemption can start.
The Red Sox new ownership had assembled a $127 million roster -- the richest ever in baseball, except for the Yankees. Finally, Boston had a team that could match the Steinbrenner Yankees talent for talent and almost dollar for dollar. Owner John Henry, President Larry Lucchino and General Manager Theo Epstein thought that, for the Red Sox to remain a viable enterprise for another generation, the Yankees, the curses and the Game 7 losses in the World Series finally had to be extinguished.
Then came what seemed to be the ultimate Red Sox indignity. Having reluctantly emulated Yankee spending while adding a heavy dose of New England Moneyball-style brains, the result was a three games to none Yankees lead! How could this be? Are the gods truly crazy or just vindictive? At that dismal juncture, I got a brief message on my home answering machine from a lifelong Red Sox sufferer. "They killed my father," said the voice, "and now they're coming after me." Maybe he was kidding.
The next night, as midnight approached, New York handed a one-run ninth-inning lead to Mariano Rivera to protect yet another Yankees pennant at the Red Sox' expense. The beginning of my column was already written: "Unplug the life support system. Let great-great-grandma slip peacefully away. This may take another 86 years."
As midnight approached in the Bronx, I thought of Sisyphus, the character in mythology that had bad luck with rocks, and the Red Sox, who have similar endlessly repeated misfortunes with the Yanks. When Sisyphus pushed his boulder to the top of the hill, it would roll down the other side. That's the kind of tragedy and poetry New England wishes its team represented. When the Red Sox, however, get their huge rock to the top, it doesn't just bounce harmlessly down the other side. Instead, it rolls backward over them, squashing them flatter than Wiley E. Coyote. Forget tragedy. The Red Sox are Looney Tunes buffoons.
Well, not anymore. With four straight wins over the 101-win Yankees and four more wins in a row over the 105-win Cardinals -- the longest postseason winning streak on record -- the Red Sox have changed how they will be perceived for at least a generation.
This week, many voices have already said that the so-called Red Sox Nation, with a World Series crown on its collective head, will suddenly be disoriented and suffer an identity crisis.
Why, what will fans of the Red Sox do if they cannot recite, chapter and verse, the catechism of woe that has been befallen them and their forbearers? How boring for Red Sox fans to be just another franchise with no uniqueness, no aura of mythology.
These skeptics are, no doubt, the same clods that wonder how Washingtonians will cope with getting the Expos after 33 years without a major league team. What will we do without our angst-ridden identity as baseball lovers who're denied a team?
The answer, of course, is the same for both groups of the long-time baseball disenfranchised, whether they're in Boston or Washington. After a certain necessary period of numbness and disbelief subsides, we will gradually become very, very happy. We will have a parade. Coping will be blissfully simple after a brief adjustment. And, every spring, Boston fans will be delighted not to answer questions about 1918, just as Washington fans will be pleased not to answer, "Will you ever get a team?"
This evening, there was a lunar eclipse that began about an hour before the game, a rarity which would have produced a blood-red moon during the game if only the sky had been clear instead of cloudy.
However, lunar eclipses are so mundane, if you think about it. Why, another one is due in 2007 -- barely a blink in baseball time. The victory that arrived on this evening for the Red Sox and their true believers was far too rare and precious, too long overdue and spectacular in its consummation, to be upstaged by something so commonplace as the earth, moon and stars.