My youngest daughter is nine years old. She's seen the Red Sox win three World Series championships. My grandfather is 94. He's seen the Red Sox win three World Series championships.
The day after the Sox clinched the 2004 World Series, I wrote this on the late, not-really-lamented Misery Loves Company, "Somewhere, Charlie Brown is smoking a cigarette, the Little Red-Haired
Girl's head nestled against his shoulder as they lay in the afterglow of
beautiful cartoon lovemaking. Lucy's sitting outside wondering how the
hell he kicked that ball so far."
Forgive that purple prose - I was pretty damn over the moon. 2013 is necessarily different than 2004's once in a lifetime fortnight, but my jump off the couch after Koji Uehara struck out Matt Carpenter wasn't a whole lot different.
I said last night that 2004 team will always occupy a place of honor in my personal sporting pantheon. But the 2013 squad is close second. Hirsute goofballery both served to tighten the bonds of teamwork and mask (pun only minimally intended) a very resolute, disciplined, and professional group of ballplayers.
Ten years ago, I couldn't imagine saying this, but Sox fans are a pretty goddamn blessed bunch.