Postscript: Deliverance

"I

I was explaining, on the morning after the seventh game, when the Red Sox finally beat the Yankees to go to the Series, what "goading" means, and "gloating"—and why these were two things the Sullivan children were not to do on this day. They were new words for the kids, and Caroline, as team leader, had asked for a parsing.

"Particularly with Reed," I continued as the kids munched their Cheerios thoughtfully. Reed was a colleague six-year-old of Caroline's, and he would be at the bus stop in a half-hour's time—unless he had killed himself. "Reed takes the Yankees seriously , so he'll be having a rough day. I'm going to be nice to Mr. Stanski on the train, and I want you to be nice to Reed on the bus."

"Okay," Caroline said. "Can I wear my B-hat?"

"Sure," I said, taking note that Wendy, our nanny, had already issued Jack his Bosox T-shirt for use on this glorious day. "It's okay to wear stuff, and it's okay to be happy. Just don't brag, and don't rub it in. We're going to take the high road."

"To where?" Jack asked.

"It's an expression."

"What's that mean?" asked Caroline. "What's an expression?" I was still befogged from my delirious experience at the Stadium the night before, and was obviously struggling with breakfast.

"It means," I said, "we're going to be classy."

"What's that mean?" asked Jack. "Like Mrs. D'Agostino's class?" Mary Grace, Jack's four-year-old twin, was letting her brother lead; she was happy that the Sox had won because it made Daddy happy, but she didn't really seem to care what any of this meant.

"When do the Red Sox play again?" Caroline asked.

"Saturday night. Against either the Cardinals or the Astros." Jack perked up at that word. The girls had no reaction. If it wasn't the Sox playing the hated Yankees, it meant little to them.

And, interestingly, their old man was having similar feelings in the immediate aftermath of the Greatest Series Every Played. Our boy wonder GM Theo Epstein probably expressed it best for Red Sox Nation when he said, after getting by the Yanks, "Now we have to beat Finland." That was about right. You might remember that the 1980 gold-medal ice hockey team beat Finland to win the Olympic tournament, and then again you might not. But you sure remember that, earlier, they beat the Russkies.

We had beat our Russkies.

"Are you going to the game on Saturday?" Caroline asked. There was something in her voice that implied she preferred I not fly off to Boston yet again, and I was happy to tell her: "No. I'll stay and watch with you."

Which is exactly what I told all of you one week ago in this precise electronic space, at the end of a windy and turgid account of the ferocious, historic ALCS. I told you I was going to hang with the kids for a while, stay close to home in Westchester County. We had all this family stuff to do—parties, parades, soccer games. I wasn't going to go chasing another series, no matter how consequential it was.

More than a few of you chose not believe me. You said you'd tune in again when I did my World Series wrap-up. More than a couple of you graciously offered to accompany me to games in Fenway if, perchance, I had a ticket going begging.

Thanks to you all.

But I meant it, I was going to do the Series from the couch, Professor McCarver's annoying commentary notwithstanding. (I decided to go with the radio as a soundtrack for much of it; the humorous, smart, self-effacing, altogether exemplary Jon Miller is pure balm in a world of smarter-than-thou announcers.) I would perhaps watch an inning or two with Caroline, maybe as many as six or seven with Luci, then take in whatever excruciating endings were in store by my lonesome (with my sister, Gail, always available on the other end of the cellphone line).

As I walked down the hill to the train station on the morning after Game Seven I tried to come to terms with who I wanted to join us at the dance, Houston or St. Louis. I found two compelling factors for either. With Houston you had the fun of facing Roger, and of course, cosmically, there's a whole Massachusetts-Texas mishigas right now with the election. St. Louis, for its part, was legendarily the world's best baseball town with the world's best fans, and also: Two of the last four Sox World Series, 1946 and '67, were lost in seven exciting games to the Redbirds. This was about baseball, not politics, and so I developed a rooting interest for the Cards in their impending decisive game against the 'stros. The Sox going through California, New York and St. Louis to win this fateful championship: That's a proper way to get it done.

I was extremely gentle with Stan—Mr. Stanski—on the train ride to Gotham. The entire 52 minutes was spent talking baseball, of course, and we pretty much stuck to the technical details and what Steinbrenner's wrath might now mean for assorted coaches and how Kevin Brown was a chump (no argument there) and . . .

Only once did I veer perilously close to meanspiritedness. "Stan," I said, "How do Yanks fans feel about A-Rod at the end of Year One?"

"I think he's the best player in the game," answered Stan.

Okay. Fine. New topic.

Stan and I survived the commute with our friendship intact, and I made my way through the labrynthian tunnels of Grand Central's Northwest Passage to the Madison Avenue sidewalk. In the five city blocks that I walked to the office, four or five people yelled or quietly offered congratulations and wishes of "Good luck." (They were reacting to my cap.) One woman, trailing me, shouted something likes "Yeeee-ahhhh!" The two folks in front of me turned with a start, thinking someone was being mugged or murdered. They looked around in a darting fashion, saw nothing that they either did or did not want to get involved in, then proceeded on their way.

That night I rooted home the Cards over the Astros. (I did get a slight shiver of delight seeing Fatass Clemens go down.) Then I began putting on my game face. Next morning, I went to the city similarly accoutered as on the day after the Day. I received a different reception. "Take off the damned hat!" This was issued by someone on the other side of the street, passing the other way. That evening: "Boston sucks." All goodwill was gone, and I realized: I'm gloating. Yesterday, we were still in the event, and Yankee fans were passing a torch. Today, I'm wearing a hat indoors, in someone else's house. It's impolite. I would, I resolved, only wear the B-hat during the games. (And maybe at breakfast after a win.)

What was my favorite sporting event last Saturday? Caroline's soccer game, swear to God. I had encouraged her to show a little more spark when getting to the ball—she's a fast runner, but would slow down when she got anywhere near the heavy action—and, sure enough, she enjoyed a couple of breakaways. After the game, she was so happy with her progress that she wanted to practice one-on-one with Daddy for 20 more minutes. The day was cool and gray, the foliage enclosing the field was stunning—is it coincidence or providence that this glorious fall of the Red Sox is also the most beautiful in the Northeast's recent memory?—and the 20 minutes were, for Dad, as good as it gets. Was I glad I wasn't running off to catch the Shuttle? I honestly was.

The agreement with Caroline was: If she chilled in her room while we put the twins to bed, she could come downstairs and watch some baseball. That, too, was a treat for her dad. She snuggled between me and Luci and set off on a series of intelligent questions. "Did the Cardinals beat the Yankees, too?" "Is Aunt Gail there?" "Why do you get scared, Daddy, every time he throws."