Thoughts on the 2004 Sox

On Friday night, October 29, Chad and I went to the Cask N' Flagon across from Fenway Park for dinner and a few drinks before settling into our tent at Boylston and Kilmarnock in preparation of the "rolling rally" to celebrate the Red Sox winning the World Series. About 95% of the patrons in the Cask had some item of Red Sox clothing on. The music was a medley of Sox-related songs (Dirty Water, Tessie, Sweet Caroline, old radio station mixes), with most people singing along or dancing with strangers. Every few songs, the middle-aged guys at the end of the bar would start a new chant, often directing different sides of the bar to chant different phrases. We high-fived friends and strangers alike.

This went on for hours. That was two full days after the Sox clinched the World Series victory. If you were living under a rock and finally pushed it aside and walked into the Cask that Friday night, you'd have been sure the Sox had won it just moments before. The celebration was that exhuberant.

And it will be that exhuberant for a long, long, long time.

Many players have talked about wanting to bring the championship to Boston for the fans. They speak of knowing how much it means to the fans, what joy it would bring. If you're not from Boston, if you haven't lived and died with this team your whole life, and your parents and grandparents before you, I'm not sure you can truly understand the pure, unadulterated joy that this championship has brought to the members of Red Sox Nation.

But I suppose if any group of guys could understand, it's our beloved Idiots. I can't recall another professional sports team that so clearly enjoys playing the game with each other. These guys truly played as a team. Can you imagine Sammy Sosa on this team? Barry Bonds? Even Nomar, no matter how hard it might be to admit? Not a chance. But Papi, Millar, Johnny, Manny, Tek, Schilling, Trot ... These guys never seemed to forget that playing a game is supposed to be fun, and it's never more fun than when you win it all.

And it all felt so genuine. "That's just Manny being Manny" became an oft-heard phrase around Red Sox Nation this summer, but the same could be said for virtually everyone on this team. They were just being themselves, and they just happened to be a bunch of fun-loving idiots who were really good ball players. They didn't seem like superstars; they seemed like the people you hung out with every day.

Picture your best friend who has to sit in the same spot and wear the same shirt every game because he's utterly convinced that this affects the outcome; when he goes to Fenway he listens to the radio broadcast on his headphones and scores the whole game; and you don't talk to him about any of this because it all seems to work --well, he's your Curt Schilling.

Think about your friend who has their share of personal problems, who drops off the face of the earth for months at a time and then suddenly shows up again as though they never left, and you're always happy to see they're still alive and kicking -- that's your Derek Lowe.

Think of your friend who's well past college but still smokes pot on a regular basis -- that's your Johnny Damon.

Think about the smartest kid in your high school, the one motivated beyond all reason for a teenager, voted most likely to succeed, who you're glad you stayed in touch with because you knew it would pay off some day -- that's your Theo Epstein.

Think about your impossibly good-looking friend, who always attracts all the members of the opposite sex, but you can't hate them because they're just too nice -- that's your Pedro Martinez and Gabe Kapler.

Think of that friend who doesn't do a whole lot of talking, but when the chips are down, he's the first to lend an ear -- that's your Jason Varitek. And if that friend is out of town when you need him, his brother is sure to take care of you -- that's your Doug Mirabelli.

Think about that asshole who keeps showing up at parties uninvited and trying to start fights -- that's your Byung-Hyun Kim. Aren't you glad you locked him out of the house for the playoffs?

Think about your most devoted church-going friend, the one who never has a bad word to say about anyone and always tries to find the positive in every situation -- that's your Bill Mueller.

Think about your college football buddy, that huge hulk of a guy who most people assumed was one mean dude from the look of him, but as soon as you started talking to him his huge smile revealed the heart of a teddy bear -- that's your Papi Ortiz.

Think about that one friend who never shuts up, but you don't really mind because he never fails to crack you up; he's the guy you're afraid to pass out around because you know you'll wake up with one less eyebrow -- that's your Kevin Millar.

Think about the one guy you want with you if you ever get in a bar fight -- that's your Trot Nixon.

Think about your whitest of white friends who grew up in an affluent suburb but listens to rap, wears baggy clothes and big gold jewelry, and speaks in ebonics -- that's your version of Bronson Arroyo.

Think about that cousin of yours who's always saying off-the-wall things, and you think it's just to get attention but eventually you realize that's just the way they are -- that's your Manny Ramirez.

Think about the friends who you haven't known for all that long or don't see very often, but you know you can count on them in a pinch -- they're your Doug Minkskjdfiustz, Dave Roberts, Orlando Cabrera, Pokey Reese, Kevin Youkilis, Mark Bellhorn, Alan Embree, Mike Myers, Curtis Leskanic, Ramiro Mendoza, Ricky Guitierrez.

Think about your friend who starts off the night really impressing the hottest woman in the bar, but takes a bathroom break and when he comes back your other friend is walking out the door with her. That's your Mike Timlin and Keith Foulke.

Think of your dad, who sometimes guided you with the most seemingly illogical decisions and made you want to scream in frustration, but he always had the best interest of the family in mind, and he never, ever gave up on you -- that's your Terry Francona.

Think about your oldest friend, the one who's always been there to do whatever you ask of them, even when they didn't really want to -- that's your Tim Wakefield.

You see, any group of guys could have been the ones to win the first Red Sox World Series Championship since 1918, and it would have been great, we would have been ecstatic, it would have been historic.

But with this group of guys winning it, it was like your own friends and family winning it -- a quirky, crazy bunch of people who occasionally let you down but always made up for it, who sometimes made you want to pull your hair out but who you wouldn't trade for anything, who brought you some pain but far, far more joy, and most all, who no matter how many years pass you will never, ever forget.