Joy in Beantown

As promised we will talk some more about the Chinese yuan, but first we must pause to honor a momentous occasion - the second World Series victory by the Red Sox in the last four years (that's two more than the New York Yankees in that time span, in case anyone was wondering).

Ever since elementary school, the Red Sox have contrived to regularly break my heart. While older and quite a bit more jaded now, I still have fond memories of Yaz, Rico Petrocelli, George "Boomer" Scott, Fred Lynn, Dewey Evans, Carlton Fisk, Luis Aparicio, who shares a birthday with me, and the rest of the rag tag Red Sox of the 1970s. The TV jingle that preceded Red Sox games on local TV in New England went like this back then:

Take your shoes off

Put your feet up

And you'll meet up...

with the Boston Red Sox

Boston-born and Boston-bred Sox

Relax...relax...relax...

And be a Sox watcher!

As a true Red Sox fan, I automatically change the channel when Joe Morgan is commentating on a game, I refuse to think of the name Mookie as cute, I have not yet brought myself to be able to forgive Bill Buckner, and I have started to believe that perhaps our most hated Yankee nemesis of all was born Bucky F*****g Dent, since that is the only way I have heard him referred to since October 2, 1978.

Having lived in Chicago for a year, I have firsthand knowledge that during our long years in the wilderness together with Cubs fans, we were not like them in a very important way. Cubs fans deep down don't really want to win the World Series. They want to preserve their snakebit status as some twisted kind of badge of honor, like the ivy on the walls of Wrigley Field, or their tradition of throwing home run balls by opposing teams back onto the field.

Boston fans, on the other hand, have always really wanted to win the World Series, and that was why our pain was so much deeper and purer than that of Cubs fans. And unlike the Cubs, who seem to just have incredibly bad luck, our hurt has always run deeper because it was primarily self-inflicted. Boston "managers" sent Bill "Spaceman" Lee back out on the mound for the seventh inning of Game 7 of the 1975 Series after he had just been shelled in the sixth, left Mike Torrez on the mound in the seventh inning of the one game playoff to determine the American League East champion in 1978 after he had just given up two hits, sent Bruce Hurst back out for the seventh inning of Game 7 of the 1986 Series after he had barely pitched his way out of a bases loaded jam in the sixth, and most inexplicably, left Pedro Martinez on the mound in an almost identical situation in Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS against the Yankees.

The worst part of being a Red Sox fan was the fatalism that you developed. Watching a Red Sox Game 7 was like watching a train wreck. True story - on that fateful day in 2003 when Grady Little forgot that the reason that his job title was "manager" was because he was expected to "manage," I was watching the game on a TV set in my office while doing some work. A contractor was doing some kind of construction work in and around our office that day and he came in to announce that he was off to lunch. He glanced over at the TV and asked who was winning. I told him Boston was, but not for long, because it was the fifth inning. When he asked what I meant, I told him that Martinez would get tired in the sixth and pitch his way out of a jam. Then the village idiot Grady Little would send him back out to the mound for the seventh inning and allow him to blow it once again for Red Sox fans worldwide. He commented that was a pretty detailed prediction, and I told him it was not a prediction, it was exactly what would happen, using the same tone as the Waterboy's girlfriend talking to Lynn Swann. When Martinez came back out on the mound for the seventh inning, I beseeched Grady Little through the TV to re-think his non-decision. When he walked out to the mound later in the inning as Martinez was in the middle of being shelled mercilessly, and then left him in the game, I cursed Grady Little and all of his ancestors.

That is why today we must give praise to Terry Francona, who in both the 2004 and 2007 playoff runs managed his bullpen exquisitely, which made all the difference in the world. When Matsuzaka started crumbling in the fifth inning of Game 7 of the ALCS, I almost cried in gratitude as I saw Francona stride purposefully to the mound, a place he never ventures to tread without a good reason and a well thought out plan. When Okajima gave up two hits in a row in the eighth inning of today's Game 4, Francona again did not hesitate. We must also give praise to Theo Epstein, who used sabermetrics to assemble a roster of sound team players, and to John Henry, who opened the purse strings and gave Theo the monetary ammunition he needed. No Barry Bonds or A-Rod on this team!

I think what I enjoy most is that for the first time in more than 30 years of watching the Red Sox, I never doubted this year that they would somehow find a way to win either the ALCS or World Series, or for that matter any of the individual World Series games. Even in 2004, there was a vague feeling of foreboding and dread as you waited to see how the Sox would choose to choke once again on baseball's biggest stage. I hate to put it this way, but this year for the first time ever Red Sox Nation got to experience what it must have felt like to be a Yankees fan growing up. It's a pleasant feeling -and what makes it sweetest of all is that for the first time ever Yankees fans now know what it felt like to be a Red Sox fan for all of those years. They had better get used to that feeling, because the Wheel of Karma has turned.