Eight and oh? Whoa!

The next-to-impossible has happened, the Boston Red Sox have actually won the World Series! No groundball through the legs, no losing the ball in the sun, no rending apart of the sky and beginning of armageddon in the decisive bottom of the ninth: just pure, sweet, long-anticipated victory. They were even cocky, with Schilling shooting off his mouth before the series with the Yankees. I was sure that that was tempting Fate, and that their doom was sealed. Yet, strangely, no.

"Pride goeth before a fall," and here was unexpected hubris from a team that ought to know better. But they seized victory from the jaws of defeat, breaking a record by coming back from a three game deficit to beat the mighty Yankees. What had promised to be a ho-hum Yanks-Cards World Series turned into a real spectacle. And with the unceremonious sweep of St. Louis, the most important eight-game winning streak the Boston American League franchise has ever seen draws to a close. Maybe we need to re-evaluate the saying.

Now, understand, I deeply appreciate the Red Sox; I would root for them over any team but one, any day of any year. As a lifelong, die-hard Cubs fan, I consider myself an honorary member of Red Sox Nation. I know all about the defeatist attitude, the self-loathing, the sinking feeling of seeing Bill Buckner at first base, the tears shed over the cruel ways of outrageous fortune. Despite what some Boston commentators might say, we Cubs fans know suffering, too -- and for longer than the Red Sox (now, much longer). And now that the Red Sox have made good on their promise, in the face of overwhelming odds, perhaps we Chicagoans (and exiles) can begin to dare to dream again. Perhaps now that the next-to-impossible has happened, even the impossible might happen, and the Cubs win the world series.

...Or at least win a series against the damned Mets.