15 Years


Lifetime Member
SoSH Member
Mar 30, 2004
Our experiences were pretty parallel, except I think your ticket budget was way higher than mine (college-student) at that point.
Yes, pretty similar (and love the Game 6 story) , but my tickets were pretty cheap. Actually that’s a good part of the story. I had season tickets for the Sox (notwithstanding that I lived in Hoboken). That was my first year, which was excellent timing. The way I got tickets for Le Stade Faciste was kinda funny though. This was before stubhub became so prevalent. The tickets went on sale one evening. I stayed late at work and literally had every single PC, Sun workstation and Bloomberg terminal PC (we barely had room for a piece of paper on our desks back then) in my group working the Virtual Waiting Room to get them. It was probably around 30 terminals in all. I just walked up and down our row on the trading floor for an hour or two and snagged tickets to games 6 and 7 that way. I was in the Tier Box for both of those games.

jose melendez

Earl of Acie
Lifetime Member
SoSH Member
Oct 23, 2003
Washington DC
I've loved this thread.

However I realized that I'm as close to being 58 as I am to that magical year, and that ruined everything.

Thanks for nothing,



PN23's replacement
SoSH Member
Jul 15, 2005
Hingham, MA
The Game 6 Slappy McCheaterface play and aftermath... [Hard to see what they were throwing on the field, souvenir balls?] [Also remarkable in a cringey way watching Torre argue some sort of case. What can you say with a straight face there? You'd think he was above it, given how sanctified he was by the NY media, but you'd be wrong.]
View: https://youtu.be/lxPNcrvR46Q
Yeah I wrote it earlier in the thread - his finger pointing in the ump's face was disgusting and embarrassing.
The Game 6 Slappy McCheaterface play and aftermath... [Hard to see what they were throwing on the field, souvenir balls?] [Also remarkable in a cringey way watching Torre argue some sort of case. What can you say with a straight face there? You'd think he was above it, given how sanctified he was by the NY media, but you'd be wrong.]
View: https://youtu.be/lxPNcrvR46Q
Yeah, as I had said earlier:

That, and Yankee fans throwing trash on the field until Bob Sheppard had to (unsuccessfully) beg them to stop, and the field had to be surrounded by riot police - I can't believe anyone ever took any of them seriously after that.


empty, bleak
Lifetime Member
SoSH Member
Jul 14, 2005
Vancouver Island
In 2013, I talked to Dave Roberts for the book Don't Let Us Win Tonight:
Was there anything special about Game 4 as far as you getting ready for possibly playing as opposed to the other three games? Or were you doing the same things?

No, I was doing it every day. Tito told me that your role is obviously limited, but when we call upon you, it's going to be a situation where it's going to be important for this ball club. Whether we're tied or down a run, or whatever, letting me know, and impressing upon me, the importance of my role. And it just didn't work out until Game 4. I tell people there was a series in September when we were in New York and that's the one I remembered with me and Mariano and I always remembered that – in that certain situations, if I ever get that, I know what he's going to try to do to defense me and that's the way it played out.

You've talked about Rivera holding the ball, holding, holding, was there anything else about him?

No, because I knew that he was going to be quicker. I think that as a base runner, it's one of those things to know that he's not going to try to quick pitch you once he gets set. It gives you a couple tenths-of a second to calm your nerves and stay relaxed and then be ready to steal second base. And so that was what I was banking on right there. Instead of him – if he would have come set and went right to the plate, I wouldn't have been ready to go because I was waiting for that hold, that 2/10 of a second hold, that extra-long hold.

I want to talk more about that, but I want to go back a few innings. Was there a time when you were on the bench and you left to go look at video or get warmed up? What were you doing in the 6th, 7th?

I was up in the clubhouse, down in the tunnel, kind of running around at about the 5th or 6th inning, to get my legs loose and run around in the clubhouse instead of being in spikes. Did all my video work already beforehand so I was done with that. But it was now more preparing for that moment and realizing that you may be facing Flash Gordon or Mariano.

You said in one interview you had noticed something about Rivera's move, something that he did gave you the knowledge that he was going to the plate. Are you able to tell me what that is?

Honestly, the main thing for me is I knew I was going to get a great lead. And my mentor, Maury Wills, always professed to me get a good lead, a strong lead is what he said, and keep your eyes soft. And I had soft focus, waiting for that move for him to go to the plate. As far as like a key, whether it be a knee or hip or shoulder, it was nothing like that. Or his head. It was more of me waiting for movement – and once I saw movement, I was gone.

How did you know he wasn't coming to first again?

It's a baseball kind of instinct, I guess. A base stealing instinct. You know, I was ready to go and he threw over one time and then two times and then three times. After that third time, it was like I hadn't missed a beat. I got a sweat, my nerves were – had dissipated, you know, I was ready to do my job.

Fenway Park is known for being crowded and cramped. A batter can go to a cage and take some swings. But as a pinch-runner, was there really room to get ready?

(laughs) You know what, we had a smaller clubhouse. And I was jumping up to the ceiling and trying to get my legs loose and energized and obviously it was kind of cold in October but I remember doing high knees up and down those wood planks down in the tunnel. So yeah, it's not really conducive to a pinch-runner getting loose, but you gotta make do.

And you only get the one shot to run. You don't get a practice run once you're out there. It's tough.

That's right.

Francona had spoken to you down in the tunnel that if someone got on in the ninth, you'd be running.

Yeah, he did. And it's true, he told me that before. And so I am at the end of that small dugout and here comes Kevin Millar with this fantastic at-bat against Mariano. And grimy. And he gets on base – and so he looks at me and gave me a wink and that was basically my cue to go out there. I had my helmet in hand. I was ready. And it's funny, I get to first base and Lynn Jones says, Okay, here comes the bunt sign. Dale Sveum, our third base coach, gave the bunt sign. And I said, hey, I'm going to steal this base. He's not bunting. I'm going to steal this base. And so he looks in at Tito and then they take off the bunt sign.

So was the bunt sign really on?

The bunt sign was on. I think that Dale was assuming that hey there's going to be a bunt on. And so they take the bunt off. And Lynn Jones says in my ear, he said, Okay, do what you do. And then that was it. And that's why I applaud, I can't say enough about Terry, because for a manager, in a game of that magnitude, to not play it safe with a sacrifice bunt – and realizing who is on the mound, and to try and play, to give up an out against a guy like that, it's tough to overcome. And so for him to let it play out that way, I don't know many managers who at that point would have done that.

So Dale Sveum goofed in giving the bunt sign to Mueller?

No, I think it was more of, Who wouldn't bunt in that situation? (laughs) Obviously, he was on the same page with his manager – and he's thinking, okay bottom of the ninth inning, we're down a run, we gotta bunt.

I got to say, watching on TV, you had a huge lead. You had a ridiculously huge lead. Was that your normal lead or if it was a little more?

Yeah, that was my normal lead. I always try to get my maximum lead. I had one goal in mind, you know? That was my job. Like I said, it was a big lead, but I practiced that a lot and had confidence, obviously, when I get on base.

Did the throws over make you shorten that lead in any way?

No. Not at all.

One of the throws was really close.

Yeah, the second throw over was very close and it's funny, even if he would have – it really helped me out a lot more because the whole – the first throw over, all the nerves and all the stuff that is a part of your body, that's in you, and the nerves and the fear, and after the first throw over, I was in there pretty good, but it just kind of subsided a little bit and the second one was really close, but that got me really kind of dialed in and after the third throw, I kind of had my radar locked on that I was ready to go.

I wonder if the Yankees realized that was going to happen from those throws.

Yeah, it's funny. A friend of mine said that he talked to Derek and he said – I told him that he needs to throw over one more time, because if he would have thrown over one more time, they would have picked me off. It's funny, because after the third throw I was thinking there's no way somebody throws over four times.

I don't know if he's a guy that throws over a lot. He often has no one on base.

No. One of the big compliments that I got was Joe Torre saying that after that series, Mariano really went to work on trying to quicken up his time to home and also – which is pretty quick – try to be pretty quick with me and then also working on holding runners on because – that's the way guys are going to try to score a run against him.

The play was so close – it seems like everything had to be perfect. Your jump, the direct line to the bag, the speed, the lead, when to hit the ground to slide. Everything had to be perfect because Posada made an incredibly fast throw.

Yeah, Brad Mills said it was the fastest time that he had recorded all season. I don't know the exact number, but it was lightening quick.

That was in Francona's book, it was the fastest time Mills had ever recorded. And the play was close. You were safe by maybe six inches, no more than a foot.

When I was in the moment, I thought I was in there pretty good, but then you go back and you look at footage and you realize how close a play it was. And I always make that joke that the more I watch the play, the closer I am to being called out, and hopefully down the road, Joe West doesn't change his call.

It's far too late for that. You mentioned being the moment and everything being quiet. Can you talk a little more about that?

I look at footage and you see the buzz, you see people and you hear, but then once I got summoned to go up there and run, there was a peace, a calm, and obviously the nerves are internal, but once we got into that sequence with Mariano, then it was dead silent. Like I said earlier, I remember Lynn telling me, you know, do what you do. But then after that, I can't recount anything. The next thing I heard was Derek Jeter putting the tag on me and me brushing the dirt off and him saying, "How the heck did you do that?"


Game 4 gets all the attention, but I think your running and scoring in Game 5 is just as important. It gets overlooked. It was kind of the same thing. You didn’t steal, but Millar walked, and you went in. It was the eighth inning that time. And you had an intense cat-and-mouse game with Tom Gordon.

That was great. In that situation, Flash knew what I was there to do and he was there to thwart it. And really, for him, historically, he doesn't hold runners well. And he has a bigger leg kick and doesn't like to throw over, but I think if you see the sequence, he held a lot, threw over, and he was distracted. And so I think that for me – at that point – I had won already. We had won in that situation because he was already distracted and I got his attention and his times are so much quicker than he liked to be, felt behind in the count to Trot, and once he got to 3-1, I knew I got him, I'm going to try to – I'm going to run on 3-1 and Trot got a good pitch out over the plate and base hit up the middle and so I ended up taking third base. And Tek hits a fly ball to score me and tie the game up again and it's one of those – I feel it just as much about Game 5 as I do about Game 4 because if we don't win Game 5, then we don't talk about Game 4. That just plays to the momentum for our ball club.

Were you planning on stealing in that situation?

I was. Yeah. Absolutely, I was. But I wasn't going to just try to run to run and to run into an out. Because once I see the times, I mean he was around a 1.2 to the plate, really quick to the plate, and obviously Jorge was throwing the ball pretty well and I'm not going to just run into an out. So I felt that if I could get him to quicken up, I've done my job already, but then once the sequence started to play out, I was going to pick a spot and 3-1 was the time I was going to pick a spot and fortunately Trot hit the ball in front of me, I could see where the ball was in front of me and took the extra base.

I read somewhere Tom Gordon's son told you about how nervous his dad was.

Yeah, true story. We were in spring training and Dee came up to me and said, "Hey, I love watching you play" and I reciprocated because he's a young base stealer type and he said "I just wanted always to tell you that I've never seen my dad more nervous than when he had you on base in Game 5 of the ALCS."


A New Frontier butt boy
Lifetime Member
SoSH Member
It all started because of a word that has often been used in countless threads on the popular Boston Red Sox message board, “The Sons of Sam Horn,” over the years.


Mojo, according to Webster’s Dictionary, is a noun with an intriguing denotation: “A magical power or supernatural spell.”

After the last out of Game 3 of the 2004 American League Championship Series, nearly every member of SoSH – some nineteen hundred strong at the time – had called upon whatever mojo they could muster to help their Sox stave off the shackles of elimination against their arch-rivals, the New York Yankees who, at the time, had a seemingly insurmountable three games to nothing lead and had just humiliated the Red Sox at Boston’s Fenway Park, 19-8.

From the inclusion of the complete text of Act IV, Scene 3 of Shakespeare’s Henry V (“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers….”) to the publication of a series of montages depicting heroic players from Boston’s sports past, nearly every poster had beseeched the sporting gods on behalf of their beloved baseball team.

As a Red Sox fan who had followed the team on a pitch-by-pitch basis since 1963, I had experienced enough pathos to turn me into the ultimate oxymoron – a raging existentialist. Still, as the 2004 playoffs unfolded, I, like countless other Sox fans, didn’t allow myself to wallow in abject misery this time.

The next morning, I appeared on a local New York radio station and proclaimed: “Listen, folks, there has never been a curse. The only reason we haven’t won it previously is that we’ve always lacked the pitching needed to win. This year, we have the pitching. If we can somehow win Game 4 of this series, the Yankees will be in trouble. We CAN win these next four games. You watch.”

William Jennings Bryan once wrote, “Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for; it is a thing to be achieved.” I wore a Red Sox baseball cap to work each day that week.

I believed.

Miraculously, the Red Sox won the next three games, two of them in extra innings, to tie up the series.

Accordingly, at 11:25 am on the morning of October 20, 2004, I sat down at my teacher’s desk in Room 7 of the Upper School at The Greenwich (CT) Country Day School and began pounding away on my then Dell laptop keyboard, crafting my own particular mojo that – I hoped – would ultimately defeat the despised Yankees.

I called the thread, “Win it For.”

“Win it for Johnny Pesky, who deserves to wear a Red Sox uniform in the dugout during the 2004 World Series, I began. “Win it for the old Red Sox captain Bobby Doerr, who, through the sadness of losing his beloved wife, Monica, would love nothing more than to see his Sox finally defeat New York in Yankee Stadium. Win it for Dom DiMaggio, the most loyal and devoted of men. If he hadn’t gotten hurt in Game 7 of the 1946 World Series, Enos Slaughter never would have scored – and the Red Sox would have been champions.”

I then urged my SoSH compatriots to win it for other Red Sox icons and personal favorites – Carl Yastrzemski, Ted Williams, Tony Conigliaro, Jack Lamabe, Luis Tiant, Dewey Evans. For Red Sox announcers who had helped hone our love for the team before they had passed on – Ned Martin, Ken Coleman, Jim Woods, Sherm Feller.

I encouraged them to win it for our cherished Red Sox friends, and for other SoSH members who had devotedly followed the fortunes of the franchise, each of them marking their own time with each passing season.

And finally, most of all, I urged them to win it for my father, James Lawrence Kelly, 1913-1986, who “always told me that loyalty and perseverance go hand in hand. Thanks, Dad, for sharing the best part of you with me.”

As I looked over my copy on the SoSH website, I realized that there may be a few others who’d want to dedicate a possible championship to those individuals in their own lives who had loved the Red Sox through thick and thin.

I was right.

In the end, the original thread would contain hundreds of tributes from the populace of Red Sox Nation. Ultimately, 51,000 entries were submitted by posters and lurkers from forty-seven different states, thirty-nine foreign countries, and six continents. By the time the “Win it For” thread was purposely shut down eight days after it began, each poster had added something unique to what became an utterly compelling Red Sox mosaic. Later that winter, it would be converted into a bestselling book with the proceeds going to both the Jimmy Fund and Curt Schilling’s “Pitch for ALS.” (Thanks, Dean Miller!)

In a column paying tribute to the thread, Bill Simmons, who then wrote for ESPN The Magazine, deftly crystallized the uniqueness of it: “Plow through the ‘Win it For’ posts and it's like plowing through the history of the franchise – just about every memorable player is mentioned at some point – as well as the basic themes that encompass the human experience. Life and death. Love and family. Friendship and loss.”

What made the thread were the assorted posts that poured out of the hearts of Red Sox fans across the globe and reminded us all that the bonds we had created around the team had never died.

“Win it for my grandfather (1917-2004), who never got to see the Red Sox win it all – but always believed. And for my Dad who watches each and every game wishing his dad were there to watch it with him.”

“Win it for my mother who died of ALS in 1999. The only personal item I have left of hers is her Red Sox visor.”

“Win it for my ten-year-old son, Charlie, who fell asleep listening to Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS assuming the Sox would win. When he woke up the next morning, he asked me eagerly, ‘Did we win, Dad?’ When I told him, gently no, we did not win, his anguished moan startled me. I knew I had raised him as a Red Sox fan, and I began to question whether that was a good thing.”

“Win it for my grandfather, who succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease in 2002. In one of my last conversations with him, he asked me how Ted Williams was doing. During Game 7 on October 20 against the Yankees, his birthday, he was smiling down on the Red Sox.”

“Win it for the elderly Sox fan that I hugged at Yankee Stadium last Wednesday night after Game 7 of the ALCS. Seeing the look of relief and jubilation on his face was one of the most emotional experiences I have ever been through. Yes, baseball has the power to unite generations of strangers.”

“Win it for my Little League coach, Ralph Retera, a tough man who landed on Omaha Beach, and yet a tender man as well who always gave on an extra pat on the back of those of us who frankly weren’t very good. ‘Baseball is a game of failure, boys,’ he’d say, ‘look at the Red Sox. But that doesn’t mean we can’t give it our best!’ Coach Ralph used to wear a grungy Red Sox cap that he bought in the 1950s and would take us to games at Fenway when we played for him. When he died in 1988, Coach Ralph’s tattered Bosox hat adorned the top of his flag-draped casket.”

“Win it for my boss, a dear friend, who lost his dad unexpectedly in March of this year. More than once this season, I’ve seen him glance at the phone after a game, half expecting his father to commiserate, rejoice, or just shoot the breeze about the game that just ended. I’ve seen the sadness in his eyes as he realizes that the call isn’t coming. Win it for his dad, a lifelong fan who never had the opportunity to witness his beloved team taking it all.”

“Win it for my buddy, Brian Kelly, who worshipped at the feet of Tony Conigliaro growing up. He even used to copy Tony C’s swing and was devastated when Jack Hamilton almost killed him. Brian’s favorite time as a Red Sox fan was that magical summer and early fall of 1967, two years before he went off to Vietnam. If the Sox win this whole thing, I plan to go on down to the Vietnam Memorial Wall where you can find Brian’s name. God, he would have loved this team.”

“Win it for my aunt, God rest her soul, who, at her funeral, the priest said, ‘She was a woman of great faith. She believed that she’d see a Red Sox championship in her lifetime.”

Within 48 hours of the inception of “Win it For,” political columnist, Andrew Sullivan linked it on his highly popular political blog. Newspaper reporters from Kansas City to Tampa, San Francisco to Baltimore began to write comprehensive pieces on the thread. Before Game 1 of the World Series, the gang on ESPN’s Baseball Tonight began to refer to the magic of “Win it For” as “the Red Sox’ secret weapon.” Radio commentaries on the thread surfaced in Dallas, New York, Los Angeles, Albany, Seattle, and Atlanta. The thread itself garnered more than fourteen-million Internet hits.

On the evening of October 28, 2004, the day after the Red Sox had swept the St. Louis Cardinals, 4-0, to win their first World Series in 86 years, Peter Jennings ended his nationally televised ABC News Tonight broadcast with a piece that paid tribute “to the power of an emotive Internet thread and its eloquent posters, followers of a championship team that came to define the word - hope.”

Six weeks after the season ended, author Leigh Montville dedicated 33 pages to “Win it For” in his narrative on the 2004 Red Sox, Why Not Us? He entitled Chapter 7 of his book, “The Story of the Amazing Thread.” In an interview after the publication of his remembrance of a remarkable season, Montville maintained that...“at the very least, one-hundred years from now, ‘Win it For’ will be THE historical record of what happened here. The other works – mine included – will have faded away, but the ‘Win it For’ thread on the Sons of Sam Horn website will remain as the voice of all voices concerning the 2004 Boston Red Sox.”

What made the thread so unique were the individual anecdotes that connected generations of fans together. In page after page, the singular stories of Red Sox fans formed bookends to the notions of both loyalty and passion:

TrapperAB: “Just like last year, there will be an empty spot on the couch as I watch Game 7 of the ALCS tonight. Dad cheered for the Sox from the age of eight in 1930. He went to games at Fenway with his father and told me about it when he took me to the most glorious stadium on God’s green earth. My father passed away in 2001, which means, of course, that he never saw the Sox win one in his lifetime. One of his final moments of clarity was seeing Rivera blowing a save and the D-Back’s winning the World Series that year. That was also his last smile. I believe that my father has been busy lately, along with a lot of other fathers and grandfathers and brothers and sons – helping umpires see the truth and helping David Ortiz lead the way. That hand that Curt Schilling talked about last evening after Game 6? It was the legion of dearly departed Red Sox fans – of which my father was one. Once again this year, there will be that empty spot on the couch…reserved for my Dad. I can only hope that he’s sitting there with me.”

Monbo Jumbo: “Shaun – add my old man to your list (1909 – 2000). He saw Ruth pitch, and he saw Pedro pitch. And now, he’s upstairs playing gin rummy with Joe Cronin between games.”

Sooner Steve: “Win it for my old man, who taught me how to love the game and this team; who taught me what it means to be a man; who, even in his darkest hours facing the end, still wanted to talk about his team; who never saw them win it in his lifetime, but who loved every minute of the Impossible Dream to Morgan’s Magic; who worshipped ‘The Splendid Splinter’ and extolled the virtues of Yaz. Win it for me so I can pay a visit to Dad’s grave and toast that title we always dreamed about. Here’s to you, Pops – in loving memory…DW Gibbs (1936-1993).”

Norm Siebern: “Win it for my Granpa Harvey (1974) who would rise up from his seat along the right-field line in the grandstand and defend Scotty from the boo birds, even if Boomer was only hitting .170 in 1968. Win it for that seven-year-old kid who fell in love with a game and a team that long ago magical summer of 1967. And for that eighteen-year-old young man who sat in the left-field grandstands and watched a little popup hit by Bucky “Bleeping” Dent nestle into the screen on October 2, 1978.”

Ramon’sBrother: “Win it for a certain nineteen-year-old who cried himself to sleep in the early morning hours of October 17, 2003.”

An unknown lurker: “Some morning next week, in the hours just before dawn, the cemeteries all over New England will be filled with middle-aged men, standing by ancestral graves marked - whatever the headstone - with the same bronze veterans’ plaques at the foot – First Sergeant, Staff Sergeant, PFC, served some range of years beginning with a high school graduation and ending with the year, 1945. We will be reading aloud from tear-stained newspapers, sharing our first too-early libation of the day. (A Gansett? A Ballantine Ale?) We will be drinking to Cabrera’s defense; Foulke’s grit; Damon’s grace; Ortiz’s incredible sense of timing. MAYBE we will even have a reason to toast Manny. We will be waving the bloody sock – thanking God and Theo Epstein for sending us Curt Schilling, on whom all our hopes rested, and did not die in vain. Remembering all those who came so close but did not get there, like Yaz and Boomer and Rico and Hawk and El Tiante and Dewey and Jim Ed, even Nomar. Remembering all those who did not live to see us get there, like Ted and Tony C and my Granpa Dan. The clock will be unwinding; the pages will be flying off the calendar; the earth will tilt slightly on its axis. I will be there. My brothers will be there. Get there early. It’s going to be crowded.”

Tedsondeck: “Win it for my brother, Johnny, who left Boston in 1944 for the South Pacific, a Red Sox hat planted firmly on his head. He was a nineteen-year-old kid who loved three things – the Red Sox, Fenway Park, and Ted Williams. He lost his life in a hellhole called Okinawa. There hasn’t been a single day that hasn’t gone by when I don’t think of him. This one’s for you, JB.”

SFGiantsFan: “Win it for the people of Red Sox Nation. You people are the legacy of what this great game is all about - or should be about…the love and support of your team through good times and bad. People like you, and teams like this one, have brought me back to baseball after the shame of 1994. Thank you all. You truly deserve this.”

PUDGEcanCATCH: “Win it for my brother, who worked on the 94th floor of the North Tower, and who died on September 11, 2001. He used to look out the window and stick his tongue out in the direction of the Bronx. Above his desk, he had a framed picture of Fenway with two baseball cards scotch-taped to the bottom, Reggie Smith and Pudge Fisk, his two favorite Red Sox players growing up. Many times when he worked, he would proudly wear his Sox hat. After the plane hit his building, I have a strong hunch that he then put his Sox hat on for the last time.”

BasesDrunk: “My mother-in-law was as diehard a Red Sox fan as they come. She died of cancer in February 2003. My wife was born on October 7, 1967, literally in the middle of Game 3 of the World Series against the Cardinals. Her mother kept asking the nurses for updates while in labor. No doubt she now wants revenge for St. Louis ruining an otherwise perfect day.”

Lurker OregonSoxFan: “Win it for my dad who passed away on 10/20/93. When I was a seven-year-old boy, he introduced me to – and shared – the Impossible Dream, which was where my love for this awesome team began. Last night, I watched the greatest Sox victory (so far this year) with his eight-year-old grandson, Jeremiah, who, in turn, is catching the fever. We talked about Dad and all that he taught me about the game. Mom called after the game, and we shared tears of joy, and a tear of grief.”

BoSox Lifer: Win it for that little boy who was sitting with his dad and his uncle at Game 7 at Yankee Stadium last October. With him crying as the game ended, I leaned over, and holding back my own tears, I told him with as much conviction as I could muster to cheer up because next year we were going to win it all. Somewhere I know - that little boy is smiling today…”

Curtis Pride: “I want the Red Sox to win it for my mother. She became a fan in 1967 and has followed them faithfully via radio to this very day.”

“I was born deaf, so growing up was difficult for me. But then I discovered the Red Sox in 1977, and my parents took me to Fenway that summer, which made me a Sox fan for life. And since then, I would sit with my mother by the radio while she listens to the Sox and relayed the events to me as they unfolded.”

“We still discuss the Red Sox today, but I want them to win so that she can experience that sweet taste of victory that has been denied her for so long. I know how it feels to finally overcome an enormous obstacle, and I want her to feel that as well.”

Cheekydave: Win it for my father, who had a love for numbers and baseball and passed it on to me; it was the only way we could communicate. But it was always a safe haven, and at least there was ONE way to communicate between us. He died last year on his birthday, October 20th, one year to the day that the Red Sox beat the Yankees! Also, win it for my mother, who died when I was nine on October 2, 1967, the day after the Red Sox won the pennant, and the day I became both a Red Sox fan and also a single parented child.”

A lurker from Australia: “Win it for all of you New Englanders who deserve at least one warm winter.”

“I became a Red Sox fan when I first read Roger Angell’s account of the Impossible Dream team; I became an official citizen of Red Sox Nation when I walked into Fenway on a dreary night in 1985.”

“I ended up living in Boston until 1993 when I returned to Australia. October is the spring down here, but not a baseball season has passed by without me thinking of you hardy New Englanders preparing for a winter that most of my countrymen couldn’t even comprehend; dreaming of Spring Training, and thinking that maybe next year will be ‘the year’ for the Red Stockings.”
“Well, next year is here! This week, all of your dreams will come true. And when it’s time to rake the leaves and put up the storm windows, you’ll be thinking, “Next year – back to back…”

Lurker Nomarfan31: “Win it for my mom, Mary, who died of lung cancer on July 9, 2003, and who loved to declare, “They’re gonna lose,” while inside wildly rooting for them to win. I cried when Nomar was traded, not because it wasn’t time for him to go (sadly, it was) but because it was the loss of another link to Mom, who always call me whenever he did something spectacular in a game.”

Red Sox Owner John Henry: “There was a point during this season that was very, very tough. But I came here, Shaun, and read your Bandwagon thread, and was uplifted by the depth and breadth of your faith. It was at the time the best thing we were reading anywhere. These guys – I’m so proud of them – they refused to lose for the faithful this week. I’m proud of everyone who refused to get off the bandwagon.”

Sargeiswaiting: The Mekong Delta is a long way from Boston. During the summer of 1969, I found myself as a private in the army, fighting in a war that was becoming increasingly unpopular at home. When I was homesick for Boston, a fellow private named Kevin, born and raised in the Boston area, kept my spirits up. We used to listen to the radio after the hell of a patrol. There was one song by Neil Diamond that we used to love listening to in the outskirts of the jungle. We would scream it out at the top of our lungs. The girl in the song was the girl in our dreams! Kevin was a big Sox fan. He especially loved the Boomer, George Scott. Kev got Agent Orange and began to fade away in the early eighties. The war killed him, of course. Earlier this August, I attended a Sox game against the White Sox. It was cold as hell for a summer afternoon, and the Sox lost in disappointing fashion. Still, at the bottom of the eighth inning, I began to hear the strains of that song that Kev and I sung so well back in Vietnam –‘Sweet Caroline.’ Jesus, Kevin’s favorite, playing at Fenway. The tears are flowing now as I write this. Win it for Kevin. Win it for Sweet Caroline.”

In early November 2004, ten days after the last out of the 2004 World Series, I received a note from a most perceptive lurker to the website. He wrote: “You know, Shaun, I really believe that the ghosts that we all beckoned, our dearly departed fathers and grandfathers, sisters, brothers, neighbors, coaches, and friends, had a hand in the astonishing two weeks that we’ve just experienced. In a way, it was their last loving act to us. And we, in turn, responded as only we could…in the posts that we ultimately submitted.”

I concluded the “Win it For” thread on the morning of October 28, 2004, with the following entry, written seven hours after Keith Foulke had stabbed Edgar Renteria’s one-hopper for the third and final out of the ‘04 Series:

“In the end, people talk about the ghosts Red Sox fans live with, but they have it all wrong. It isn’t the ghost of Babe Ruth or Bill Buckner or all the names associated with a curse that never really existed. Instead, it is the ghosts we can still see when we walk into Fenway Park. It is our fathers and mothers and grandparents. It’s our next-door neighbors and our baseball coaches and our aunts and uncles. Those are the ghosts that matter to us. Those are the specters we see, huddled together, watching their team and the game so intently.”

“For those of us who have followed the fortunes over an extended period, a Red Sox World Series championship marks a beginning – and an end. While we have made peace with all of our relatives and friends who have passed on over the years, there was always a little unfinished business between us – and them. Now with this incomparable victory, that too is complete.”

“And so, after all of these years, we can finally have a clean goodbye to our dearly departed. Perhaps that is why so many tears were shed in living rooms all over New England and beyond in the early morning hours of October 28, 2004.”

The “Win it For” thread, a small idea in the beginning, was formally inducted as a literary entity into the writer’s section of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York in the summer of 2007.

“Win it For’ seamlessly connected six generations of Red Sox fans together as no other document ever has,” wrote a publicist for the Baseball Hall of Fame upon the thread’s induction.

Even today, fifteen years after it first was published, the original “Win it For” thread still has the capacity to bring tears and smiles together as close as they can ever be.
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“Win it For.”
I was just lurking here at the time, but I still kick myself over not mentioning my mother's parents. I had told my grandfather after 2003 "Don't worry, the next season will be here soon" and he reminded me not to just toss away time like that. They both lived to see 2004, thank goodness. Before the end of the 2005 playoffs, they had both passed away - 2004 was indeed their last chance to see the Red Sox win the World Series, and I'm so thankful that they did.

Lose Remerswaal

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From five years ago

Worth the read


Nov 18, 2006
Fifteen years ago, in the glorious autumn of 2004, I was teaching English in Warsaw, Poland. I watched every game in Boston's historic championship run, but it wasn't easy: because of the time difference, games began at 2:00 a.m. So I did a lesson plan, grabbed a little sleep, then went to a 24-hour internet café, full of young men playing video games. As the playoffs wore on they got used to the old guy in the "B" cap and his occasional outbursts of rage or joy. I won't reminisce about the details, especially of the ALCS -- we all vividly remember them. After we won the first two games of the Series -- despite making four errors in each game -- I made up my mind that this WAS the year: the heartbreak of 2003 and all the disappointments before it were going to be effaced. I went and bought an expensive Havana cigar -- legal in Poland -- and when the end came I bought a Zywiec beer for everybody in the internet café, lit up my stogie and contentedly walked the dark, early-morning streets of Warsaw. Then I went to class and tried to explain to my Polish students the globe-rocking importance of what had happened. No sports experience, and few life experiences, can match it, or even come close.
Epilogue: on my flight home in June, I clicked on what seemed to be a baseball movie -- Fever Pitch. Thus was I introduced to one of the greatest (for a Red Sox fan) films ever produced.