Stephen King - Faithful

The four playoff games in New York transcended mere sport for another reason. Except for the Irish tenor warbling his way through “God Bless America” during the seventh-inning stretch—now a tradition at most or all parks, I think—there was little or no sign of 9/11 trauma at Yankee Stadium. The Yanks have had their trials and travails this year (poor pitching chief among them), but the need to provide therapy for their hurt and grieving city by winning the American League pennant was thankfully not one of them.

Yet a comfy tradition of winning leaves one—whether that one be an individual or a sociological overset combined of several million fans—unprepared for loss, especially when the loss is so shocking and unexpected. The headlines in this morning’s three New York papers express that shock better than any man- or woman-on-the-street interview ever could.

From the New York Times: RED SOX TO YANKEES: WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR and MONUMENTAL COLLAPSE .

From the Daily News: THE CHOKE’S ON US and (this is a classic, I think) HELL FREEZES OVER . Accompanying the latter is a picture of Pedro with his hands upraised and the caption: “Pedro Martinez celebrates in his daddy’s house.”

From the New York Post , sad and succinct: DAMNED YANKEES .

After the game, out by the gigantic bat in front of Gate 4, most Yankee fans were downcast but magnanimous, considering the fact that the Red Sox fans—there were plenty of them—were delirious with joy, pounding each other on the back, giving and receiving high fives, pogoing up and down. One large, hairy man grabbed me around the waist and whirled me around thrice, screaming, “Stephen! Stephen! We won, ya scary sonofabitch! I LOVE YA!”

“GO, RED SOX!” I screamed back. It seemed safe enough, and besides, it was what I felt.

“GO, RED SOX!” the large, hairy man screamed. “GO, JOHNNY DAMON! GO, MANNY! GO, YOU LONGHAIRED SONSABITCHES!” Then he was gone.

From behind me there came a dissenting note—three Yankee fans, teenagers by the sound (I did not turn around to see), who wanted me to know that “Red Sox suck, and you suck too, Steve.”

A mounted cop clopped by, leaned down, and said, “Tell ’em to blow it out their asses. Tell ’em you been waitin’ eighteen years.”

I might just have done that little thing, but he clopped on, magnificent on his steed and in his riot gear.

Such memories are like raisins in some fabulous dream cake. There are others—the churlish, childish failure of the Yankees to congratulate the Red Sox on their electronic scoreboard; the downcast Yankee fan who hugged me and said he hoped the Red Sox would go all the way this time;two crying children, a boy and a girl, slowly mounting the steps and draggingtheir big foam Number One fingers disconsolately behind them on the concrete, headed out of Yankee Stadium hand in hand—but mostly what I remember this morning are the lights, the noise, the sheer unreality of watching Johnny Damon’s grand slam going into the right-field stands, and being wrapped in a big Stewart O’Nan bear hug while he screamed, “We’re going to the World Series!” in my ear.

And that’s a fact: we are indeed going to the World Series. Right now, after coming back from the dead to beat the Yankees four straight, it almost seems like a postscript…but yes. We’re going to the World Series. It starts in Boston. And it matters. It’s part of an American life, and that matters a lot.

SO:We DID IT! And it was great to be there with you to see it. It’s a win no one can ever take away from us. History, baby.

The starting pitchers in tonight’s NLCS Game 7 are both products of the Red Sox: Roger Clemens and Jeff Suppan, who started with the PawSox ten-plus years ago and then returned for the last half of last season. In this one Suppan outpitches and outhits Clemens, executing a beautiful suicide squeeze that scores—of all people—Red Sock spring training hopeful Tony Womack.

SO:So it’s gonna be the Cards. Welcome to 1967. Except this time it’s the Possible Dream.

SK:Somebody play me the Lullaby of Birdland. We got fucked over by the Orioles . We did “okay” against the Jays . How you feeling about the Cardinals ?

SO:Don’t bring the O’s into this. Just don’t. Miguel Te-hater.

And I’m glad it’s the Cards, winners of 105 games and by far the best and most consistent team in the majors this year. If we’re going to finally win it all, I don’t want it to be against a patsy like the Braves or Padres or Mets. Degree of difficulty counts, and whatever we achieve (or fail to achieve) the Cards will make us earn it.

Within hours of last night’s win, our e-mail in-box began filling with satirical Yankee-bashing pages. The classic was an advisory from the Red Cross informing us that the international signal for choking (a man holding his throat with both hands) would now be replaced by this more recognizable symbol (the intertwined N and Y ). Marky Mark’s head was cut-and-pasted into a cast picture of Saved by the Bellhorn , and a shot of Derek Jeter and A-Rod glumly watching from the dugout rail bore the caption: “Not Going Anywhere for a While?” and a Snickers logo. And, God help me, until they started repeating, I laughed at every single one.

There will be baseball tomorrow night under the lights at Fenway Park. In the meantime, these intermission notes:

One—Dan Shaughnessy, Boston Globe columnist and author of The Curse of the Bambino, has been in full damage-control mode since Boston did its Rocky Balboa thing to win the pennant. Shaughnessy’s trying to convince joyful New Englanders that the Curse of the Bambino (largely created by Boston Globe columnist Dan Shaughnessy, who has book royalties to protect) is still in full force; beating the Yankees is not enough. “Now Wait Just a Minute: Series Still Must Be Won” is the heading of today’s column, which begins, “Let’s get one thing straight: the Curse of the Bambino has not been lifted. The job is not yet done.”

I happened to catch Shaughnessy on one of the cable news channels last night not long after I arrived home from New York, spinning pretty much the same line. He was on the phone; Red Sox–Yankees highlights were playing on the screen. When he paused for breath, the newscaster asked him what he and Boston baseball fans would talk about vis-à-vis the Red Sox next year if Boston did happen to win the World Series.

Either the query or the concept behind it seemed to catch Shaughnessy by surprise. There was an uncharacteristic pause, and then he said, “You know, that’s an interesting question.” Which to my mind is always aninteresting response, meaning the person to whom the question has been directed has no freakin’ idea. Sure enough, Shaughnessy never did really respond to the newscaster’s question.

Without the curse to fall back on (or the Curse, if you prefer), they might have to actually write about the games ? You think? I know some of the Boston sports cannibals would find that a daunting proposition at the outset, but most of them (their taste for the golden flesh of athletes to one side) are pretty damned good writers, and I’m sure they’d rise to the challenge in short order.