2004 was the once-impossible realization of a lifelong dream, and because of that, 2007 became an embarrassment of riches.
But 2013 was a magical bolt from the blue; we had recently suffered the collapse of 2011, fueled by beer and chicken, which was followed by the thankfully brief indignity of the Valentine era, foisted upon us by a misguided ownership. It felt like a downward trough that might take years to escape, but no. The horror of the Marathon bombing was remarkably salved by Ortiz's profanely defiant rant and then Nava's game-winning home run, and so the Sox were off and running on a magic carpet ride that would conclude with them winning the World Series trophy in front of the Fenway Faithful for the first time in almost 100 years.
Whereas 2004 and 2007 were capped off by anti-climactic sweeps, 2013's title required more fight. It even involved some controversy, courtesy of the Middlebrooks obstruction call, which ultimately allowed the series to go back to Fenway, so all's well that ends well. In the meantime, Ortiz donned a Superman cape and never took it off. 2013 was... it was how you'd want to write it, if you could. 2004 was a terrified daze, a rollercoaster that somehow cruised gently to a benevolent stop. 2007? It meant something, it was a justification, but it was played against an inferior opponent and was yet another comedown after a hard-fought ALCS battle. 2013? That was a gauntlet. The Tigers series was nails, and that year's Cardinals were no joke. Those were battles.
Yet there I was on October 30, wired up so high I was bouncing off the walls for Game 6, feeling it my bones that the Sox were going to win the whole effing thing, and wanting it all the more because it would be at Fenway. I paced. I clapped. I couldn't sit down. My kids wanted nothing to do with me. Once I had prayed that their lives would be blessed by a Red Sox World Championship; now they were so jaded to it that my agita was annoying the fuck out of them.
Social media played a role that had been nonexistent for me in 2004 and 2007. My Facebook profile page became a game thread for 15 or so friends during Game 6, resulting in over 700 posts that I read to this day when I want to relive that moment. I documented the calls I made: to my father, to my cousin, to far-flung friends. 2013 was the case of a fat guy asking for his Baked Alaska just so and getting it without hesitation. I should feel guilty about it, but I don't, not one bit. I had my cake and ate it, too. God bless that year.
But 2013 was a magical bolt from the blue; we had recently suffered the collapse of 2011, fueled by beer and chicken, which was followed by the thankfully brief indignity of the Valentine era, foisted upon us by a misguided ownership. It felt like a downward trough that might take years to escape, but no. The horror of the Marathon bombing was remarkably salved by Ortiz's profanely defiant rant and then Nava's game-winning home run, and so the Sox were off and running on a magic carpet ride that would conclude with them winning the World Series trophy in front of the Fenway Faithful for the first time in almost 100 years.
Whereas 2004 and 2007 were capped off by anti-climactic sweeps, 2013's title required more fight. It even involved some controversy, courtesy of the Middlebrooks obstruction call, which ultimately allowed the series to go back to Fenway, so all's well that ends well. In the meantime, Ortiz donned a Superman cape and never took it off. 2013 was... it was how you'd want to write it, if you could. 2004 was a terrified daze, a rollercoaster that somehow cruised gently to a benevolent stop. 2007? It meant something, it was a justification, but it was played against an inferior opponent and was yet another comedown after a hard-fought ALCS battle. 2013? That was a gauntlet. The Tigers series was nails, and that year's Cardinals were no joke. Those were battles.
Yet there I was on October 30, wired up so high I was bouncing off the walls for Game 6, feeling it my bones that the Sox were going to win the whole effing thing, and wanting it all the more because it would be at Fenway. I paced. I clapped. I couldn't sit down. My kids wanted nothing to do with me. Once I had prayed that their lives would be blessed by a Red Sox World Championship; now they were so jaded to it that my agita was annoying the fuck out of them.
Social media played a role that had been nonexistent for me in 2004 and 2007. My Facebook profile page became a game thread for 15 or so friends during Game 6, resulting in over 700 posts that I read to this day when I want to relive that moment. I documented the calls I made: to my father, to my cousin, to far-flung friends. 2013 was the case of a fat guy asking for his Baked Alaska just so and getting it without hesitation. I should feel guilty about it, but I don't, not one bit. I had my cake and ate it, too. God bless that year.
