For me it started with my wonderful grandfather and his  box seats behind the Red Sox dugout. That was about 1950 or ‘51.  As a kid of about seven or eight, the best week of each year would be when school was out, and I went to Boston, prior to going to camp for the summer. Pappy, my mother’s father, would take me to Fenway early on game days to watch batting practice and have extra time in the park.  It only took me one day to get hooked.

For the next 54 years, I suffered along with most of New England as the Sox would occasionally get close to a World Series title but always seemed find some way to lose at a critical time.

My grandfather died in the ‘60s, and something happened to his box seats but not to my fierce following of the team. Sparing you the reader the tortuous times when they almost/shoulda/coulda/didn’t win it all, something happened in 2004 to change everything.

I was sitting in my study watching the third game of the World Series against St. Louis, following the most amazing choke in history by the Yankees in the League playoffs. The Sox were now up on the Cards two games to zero.  When it looked as if it was about to be three games to zero, I began to think about going to St. Louis. How could I not be there if by some chance the Sox would finally win it all for the first time since they sold Babe Ruth in 1918?

Well, I thought, of course they could find a way to screw it all up. My 54 years of ‘schooling’ had taught me never to count on anything with Boston.  But wouldn’t Pappy want me to be there? And even if they lost game four, I could stay for game five. If they lost that game too, I could come home, licking my wounds and they’d still be up 3-2 heading back to Fenway for two more chances.

Suddenly, about 11:30 PM, they won game three. I called the airlines, got the last seat on the only available flight the next day from Baltimore to St. Louis.  At 7:30 AM I was in the air on my way to St. Louis (much to my wife’s surprise).  With her assistance, however, checking out prices on-line, I paid $750 for a single seat about 20 rows off the field, just opposite first base. I was surrounded by St. Louis fans who said ‘no way would they allow a sweep in their park’.

But they weren’t like Yankee fans. They didn’t hate the Sox; they just didn’t want to be embarrassed. And after all, they had won the most games of any team in the Majors that year (104), and the Sox had just barely squeaked into the WS. I tried to tell them how long I had been waiting for this day. I told them about my grandfather. I told them about my daughter who was now suffering along with me (albeit far away in NYC).  They weren’t convinced.

The first batter up for the Sox, Johnny Damon, hit a home run into the bullpen, and the excitement went out of the St. Louis fans. I told them it was a long game, and the Sox had a way of messing it up. But somehow that happen didn’t this time. When relief pitcher Foulke tossed the ball to first basemen for the final out, I just sat in disbelief.

I looked up at the scoreboard, and it already said, “Congratulations to the Boston Red Sox, 2004 World Champions.”

My cell phone rang three times, my two daughters and wife each calling in their disbelief and joy.  A group of St. Louis fans congratulated me and stayed around to take my picture and watch the celebration with me.

If Pappy could only have been with me, the night would have been perfect.

When I arrived home late the next night, I found the following e-mail printed out and left for me on the kitchen table.