Ten Years Gone: Red Sox vanquish Yankees; Nation rejoices

The popular opinion is that Dave Roberts’ ninth inning swipe of second off Mariano Rivera and the Yankees in Game 4 in the 2004 ALCS was the turning point of the series.

But Game 5 made you truly believe.

After 19-8 on Saturday night and a Sunday night tilt that stretched into the wee hours of Monday morning, the Red Sox and Yankees responded with another candidate for The Greatest Game Ever Played (non-Francis Ouimet division).

“Fifteen hours and forty-nine minutes after Ortiz rounded the bases to end Game 4, Pedro Martinez threw the first pitch of Game 5 to Jeter. It would turn out to be the longest postseason game in history.” – Dan Shaughnessy, Reversing The Curse

As fans, we were up. We were down. We labored through every at-bat as the bullpens staved off a resolution to the conflict. I bit off fingernails that weren’t even there in the first place.

Martinez again failed to exorcise his Yankee demons. I remembered the previous fall: all the hype about Pedro-Clemens going into Game 7 of that year’s ALCS, and the fact that Grady Little leaving Pedro in for the eighth was the predominant storyline in the aftermath. Clemens had been pulled in the fourth; the winner gets to write the history books.

Then, there was “Who’s Your Daddy?” And after a great start against the Angels in the Division Series, Boston’s once-omnipotent ace was snakebitten by John Olerud and a lack of run support in Game 2 of the ALCS. He wouldn’t factor in the Game 5 decision either, going six innings and allowing four earned runs on seven hits and five walks, striking out six.

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Once again, down 4-2 in the eighth, the Red Sox found themselves with their backs against the wall. Take a look at the win probability on Baseball Reference as the contest moved to the later innings: 12 percent.

Then, Big Papi heaved another heavy stone upon his Hall of Fame pile of clutch hits with a solo shot off Flash Gordon. They clawed back with a Millar walk, a Christopher Trotman Nixon single that moved Pinch Runner of the Century Roberts to third, and a sac fly by Varitek (off Rivera). The Sox were all Duncan Sheik and barely breathing, but they were alive at 4-4.

Five hours and forty-nine minutes after the first pitch, Red Sox Nation was a puddle. Ortiz strode to the plate in the fourteenth, looking to don the Superman cape twice in the same calendar page. He fouled off what seemed like a dozen Esteban Loaiza offerings before he dumped a gork into center field. It was enough.

On to Game 6.

Whatever the story behind Schilling’s bloody sock, a performance like this from a healthy pitcher: seven innings, four hits, one earned run and four strikeouts in an elimination game, alone, would have been stuff of legend. The fact the veteran essentially sacrificed his 2005 season to take the ball is enough for me.

By the time A-Rod and his Hamburger Helper batting glove slapped the ball out of Bronson Arroyo’s mitt in the eighth inning as the pitcher attempted a tag play, it was clear the Yankees had reached Boston’s level of desperation.

Only, while the Red Sox and their fanbase thrived on the breathless at-bats, close plays and sleepless nights, the Yankees forgot to set their alarm for Game 7. Or at least New York starter Kevin Brown did. It was over from the first inning: Ortiz again, then Damon, with a GRAND SLAM that turned Joe Castiglione up to Trupiano-like levels of bombast. Damon struck again in the fourth. With Derek Lowe taking the ball on two days’ rest, his sinker ball sunk the Yankees once-majestic battleship.

Even an “oh my gosh, what is Terry Francona doing?” moment with Martinez on in relief and three of the first four batters reaching base, with two scoring, wasn’t enough to slow this train.

Between 12:30 early Sunday morning and a single tick of the minute hand past midnight Wednesday night, the Red Sox had taken four consecutive games from the New York Yankees, two of them at the House That Ruth Built and Steinbrenner Renovated, all of them do-or-die.

No team had recovered from a 3-0 deficit in a best of seven series in North American professional sports since the 1975 New York Islanders.

And though the sporting landscape has produced a handful of amazing comebacks since (some even at the expense of Boston teams), none will ever match the significance of that place and time, with those two teams, and the visceral fan experience of subsequent gut punches followed by seemingly impossible triumph.

I was 21 years old that year and, for those four days and nights, nothing else mattered. I didn’t realize it then, but it was probably the last time I’d be able to say that about sports. Ten years later, my friends and I, who that night celebrated in the Commonwealth Courts at Stonehill College in Easton, MA, have things like jobs, children, and mortgages.

Our affections are split, and that’s a good thing. Our attention is split. That’s a healthy thing.

Notwithstanding, the autumn of 2004 was a good time to have a one-track mind about baseball. And for once, the relationship between the Red Sox and their fans wouldn’t go sour before the Halloween candy was distributed.