When it was all said, the World Series was a technicality, a new t-shirt, something to be humored. Boston got what they wanted when Visa stopped running that “Steinbrenner’s arm” commercial twelve times a night. They got it every time The Jeter’s nostrils flared in disbelief.
Think about it: the moment Johnny Damon said “idiots,” the Boston Red Sox cast themselves in the role of every Ragtag Band Of Misfits since Centre and Harvard went 6 and 0. It would have worked even if Manny Ramirez hadn’t been a gamble, or if Curt Schilling hadn’t bled with every pitch. It would have worked even if the Yankees hadn’t been the sneering big-money boys in black hats. It would have worked even if they didn’t already look evil–has anybody else noticed that all this year’s Yankees appear to be turning into Joe Torre, with their eyes a dead yellow and an unhealthy gray under their skin?
The comeback started in the bottom of the ninth, naturally, three outs from elimination yet again. Winning four games after losing three in the postseason was, until 2004, unprecedented in baseball. Winning four games to start with was not.
There was no fire in the World Series. Nobody in St. Louis really hated Boston, they just wanted their guys to win. And to Boston, St. Louis was just an bystander–one who happened, unfortunately, to be bystanding between Boston and something really important. They didn’t slow down or detour; they pushed St. Louis out of the way. They did what they had to. You’d have done the same.
I mean, hey, it’s the Cardinals, right? Nice guys, guys you’d like if you met them in the supermarket.