Today marks the ten year anniversary of game six of the 2004 ALCS, which will forever be known, at least in France, as “Le Game de Bloody Soque.” To recognize this holy day of obligation, I decided to take the day off and drink myself into a coma. And present the post I wrote ten years ago tonight, immediately following that game.

Thanks, Curt, for doing just what you promised in that truck commercial–namely, coming to Boston to help break an 86 year-old curse. No, not Cloris Leachman. The other curse.

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See the guy in the photo above? He has balls of steel.


They are steel.

The children he purports to have are not his spawn. Because his body does not create the chemicals necessary to produce offspring.

Because, as I mentioned, his balls are composed of steel.

Curt’s testicles = steel. Like, the metal.

Sure, they’re heavy and cause a bit of chaffing. Also, trouser shopping can be adventurous. But they serve him well.

Like in last night’s ALCS Game Six. My man had his ankle taped up and shot to high hell with pain relievers and wedged inside a magic boot concocted by the good folks at Reebok. There was rain in the air, wet grass all around, and 55,000 people bearing down on him.

But then the balls took over, and he shut the Yankees down.

The absolute fantastic-ness of this event is impossible to overstate. Two days ago, he was a gimp. A horrific footnote [pardon the pun] to the 2004 season. A million dollar horse that went tits-up when we needed him most.

But then the balls took over. And he was literally a one-legged guy at an ass-kicking contest. And his cleat did find ample ass to strike. And he turned in a one-run-over-seven-innings performance with blood soaking through his socks and sweat coating his back.

It was simply the gutsiest thing MLB has witnessed all year.

On the flipside, we had A-Rod resorting to schoolboy tactics, blatantly knocking the ball from Arroyo’s glove on a close play at first, then whining incessantly when he was called out for it.

Maybe God’s finally paying attention. Maybe he sees what’s up.

Suddenly, the impossible is possible. The economy will rebound. My boss will give me that raise and fit me for the company hovercraft. Angelina Jolie will return my calls. I will get a tan.

My head is spinning and my feet can’t touch the ground and we know that this is a different team, because the old team would have given up a three-run jack to former Sox Tony Clark, who represented the winning run at the plate when Keith Foulke whiffed him and made sure we’d be up all night.

I can’t sleep. Christ, I can barely breathe. There are blog entries to write. Blog entries to read. Message boards to lurk. Rem-Dawg post-game shows to watch.

And then there’s my man Larry Young, who keeps it real on the west coast, whom I e-mailed what seemed a short eternity ago with one simple message: “When the Sox win it all, I’m flying to Cali and kissing you full on the lips.”

Tonight, as the Sox romped on the field at the Stadium and the riot police held their ground, he sent his reply: “When do I pick you up at the airport?”

I dare not think it. I dare not speak it. But there’s something magical going on. Maybe, just maybe, the ghosts of October can be vanquished once and for all.

And we owe it all to a set of metal onions.