Stephen King - Faithful

I feel the same way. No one likes to root for a loser, year after year; being faithful does not save one from feeling, after a while, like a fool, the butt of everyone’s joke. At last I don’t feel that way. This morning’s sense of splendid unreality will surely rub away, but the feeling of lightness that comes with finally shedding a burden that has been carried far too long will linger for months or maybe even years. Cubs fans now must bear the loser legacy all by themselves. They have their Curse of the Billy Goat, and although I am sure it is equally bogus, [91] Not so! That one’s real, and solidly documented. SO they are welcome to it.

Bottom of the ninth, two out, Albert Pujols on second, Red Sox Nation holding its breath. Foulke pitches. Renteria hits an easy comebacker to the mound. Foulke fields it and tosses it to Mientkiewicz, playing first. Mientkiewicz jumps in the air, holding up the index finger of his right hand, signaling We’re number one. Red Sox players mob the field while stunned and disappointed Cardinal fans look on. Some of the little kids are crying, and I feel bad about that, but back in New England little kids of all ages are jumping for joy.

“Can you believe it?” Joe Castiglione exults, and eighty-six years of disappointment fall away in the length of time it takes the first-base ump to hoist his thumb in the out sign.

This is not a dream.

We are living real life.

While the Babe may be resting easier, I barely sleep, and wake exhausted, only to watch the same highlights again and again, seeing things I missed while we were celebrating. As the Sox mob each other, in the background Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore are kissing, shooting their fairy-tale ending to Fever Pitch (nice timing, Farrellys!). [92] So many story lines wrapped last night: Manny, who went unclaimed on waivers, is the World Series MVP (and very possibly the regular-season MVP as well); Lowe totally vindicates himself, making him an incredibly attractive free agent; the same with Pedro; Terry Francona goes from The Coma to a legendary Red Sox manager; Orlando Cabrera, who stepped up big in the number two slot and fielded brilliantly in the postseason, makes us forget Nomar. The year is signed, sealed and delivered. All that’s left now is the Boston Duck Tours parade and the team deciding who gets a World Series share. As always, I hope Dauber’s not forgotten. In short center, right behind second base, Curtis Leskanic lies down and makes the natural grass equivalent of a Patriots snow angel. The crawl says RED SOX WIN WORLD SERIES, and I think, yes, yes they did.

It did happen. It was no dream. We’re the World Champions, finally, and there’s that freeing sense of redemption and fulfillment I expected—the same cleansing feeling I had after the Pats’ first Super Bowl win. The day is bright and blue, the leaves are brilliant and blowing. It’s a beautiful day in the Nation, maybe the best ever.

And yet, the season’s over, too. There will be no more baseball this year, and while I’ve said I wouldn’t mind eating my tickets to Games 6 and 7, it feels wrong that I won’t be back in Fenway again until April.

Just for fun, I go to the website (choked with new World Champions merchandise) and poke around, looking for spring training information. There’s a number for City of Palms Park, but when I call it, it’s busy. It’s going to be crazy there next year. If I want to get in, I’d better start working on it now. I flip the pages of our 2005 calendar to February and March and wonder when Trudy’s school has its break. I wonder if there’s a nicer hotel closer to City of Palms Park, and whether they’d have any rooms left at this point.

I have to stop myself. Okay, calm down. There’s no need to hustle now, the very morning after. I can take a day off and appreciate what we’ve done—what they’ve done, the players, because as much as we support them, they’re the ones out there who have to field shots we’d never get to, and hit pitches that would make us look silly, and beat throws that would have us by miles. And the coaches and the manager, the owners and the general manager, who have to make decisions we’ll never take any heat for. They did it, all of them together, our Red Sox.

Congratulations, guys. And thank you. You believed in yourselves even more than we did. That’s why you’re World Champions, and why we’ll never forget you or this season. Wherever you go, any of you, you’ll always have a home here, in the heart of the Nation.

Go Sox!

SO:You know how the papers are always saying you bring the team bad luck? Well, the one year you write a book about the club, we win it all. Another fake curse reversed.

Not in your lifetime, huh? Well, brutha, welcome to Heaven!

SK:How do you suppose Angry Bill is doing?

SO:He’s in that box of a room in Vegas, grumbling about something—probably the Bruins.

SK:Are you going to the V-R Day Parade?

SO:No, but tonight I ate that Break the Curse cookie I got on Opening Day. A vow’s a vow. Washed that stiff six-month-old biscuit down with champagne and enjoyed every morsel. Life is sweet.

Off to drink more champagne. You (and Johnny D) are still The Man.

SK:No, Stewart, you (and Papi) are The Man. I’m giving you the two Pointy-Finger Salute.

SO:Right back atcha, baby. Keep the Faith.

And for Ted, Johnny, Yaz, Lonnie, Rico, Tony C, Boomer, Luis, Spaceman, Pudge, Rooster, Bernie, Jim Ed, Freddy, Eck, Ned Martin, Ken Coleman, Dewey, Hendu, Bruce Hurst, Sherm Feller, John Kiley, Marty Barrett, The Can, Mo, El Guapo, and yes, for you, Billy Buck, and even you, Rocket, and finally—finally—for you, Babe. All is forgiven.

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Copyright © 2004 by Stewart O’Nan, Stephen King

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2004063398

ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-7244-5

ISBN-10: 0-7432-7244-7

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