01:00 AM EDT on Thursday, October 28, 2004

There were two outs in the bottom of the ninth when Edgar Renteria's ground ball was bounced back to Red Sox closer Keith Foulke.

He ran over toward first base and tossed the ball gingerly to Doug Mientkiewicz for the third out.

But it wasn't the ball that went into Mientkiewicz' glove.

It was history.

And when the game ended, after the Red Sox had finally won their first World Series in this star-crossed quest that's gone on since 1918, there they all were in joyous celebration in the middle of the Busch Stadium infield in St. Louis.

Finally.

The greatest night in the history of New England sports.

The night we've been waiting for so so long now.

And if you looked real hard you could see so many others out there, too, in the incredible celebration in the middle of the Busch Stadium infield, all the ones who came before and never had a night like this, the past and the present on the same scorecard, the past and the present merging together in memory and incredible joy.

You could see Teddy Ballgame, the most towering figure in Red Sox history, arguably the greatest hitter in the history of the game, but a man whose enduring fate was to never win a World Series, the one blemish on his storied career.

You could see Carl Yastrzemski, the man who gave the Sox one of their greatest baseball summers ever in 1967, only to come up one game short in the World Series. You could see Luis Tiant and Carlton Fisk, the heart and soul of the '75 team that had come close, and Roger Clemens, Wade Boggs and Billy Buckner, too, who had come even closer in '86.

There they all were dancing and hugging togther with Pedro Martinez and Manny Ramirez and Derek Lowe, who pitched the game of his life. The past and the present, all together in the infield of Busch Stadium. Right there with Trot Nixon and Johnny Damon, and even Terry Francona, who just managed his way into Red Sox immortality.

If you looked real hard you could see them all.

Right there with Jimmie Foxx and Bobby Doerr, with Johnny Pesky and Jim Lonborg, too. With Harry Agganis and Tony Conigliaro, the two local heroes who died too young, and George Scott and Jim Rice, two men who also had to be racial pioneers for a franchise that once had been the least progressive in all of baseball. For Jimmy Piersall and Rick Burleson and Wade Boggs and anyone else you can name in this long conga line of Red Sox players that dips back through the generations.

And if you looked real hard you could see Tom Yawkey, too, the man who loved this team and its players more than anything in the world, but spoiled them too, creating the atmosphere that poisoned the clubhouse for decades. You could see John Harrington and Dan Duquette, Dick Williams and even John McNamara, and all the other Sox managers who gave blood, sweat and tears to this franchise, only to never win the big prize, to always fall short.

Last night was for all of them, too.

For everyone who ever was a part of the Red Sox.

For all the years and all the frustration, all the times they came so close and didn't win and for those years where dreams had turned to dust by the dog days of August. For all those years when the World Series was always being played in some other city, all those years when there was never enough pitching, and rooting for the Red Sox was like rooting for a broken heart.

And last night was for the fans, too.

No doubt about that.

It was for growing up with the Red Sox and hearing all the stories, growing up with the Red Sox always on the radio, the soundtrack to all the childhood summers. It was the Sox always on the TV somewhere, in the other room maybe, or over the bar, off in the distance maybe, but always there. As much a part of sumer in New England as going to the beach and frozen lemonade.

It was for all the innumerable people who followed this team year after year even though they began to turn losing into an art form, became far more known for what they did not do, than for anything they did do. The Curse of the Bambino. This has been the Red Sox for too long now, the supposed metaphor for a star-crossed franchise forever doomed to always come up short.

So last night was for that, too.

A night for reversing curses and changing a franchise's history.

For sweet redemption.

Most of all?

It was a night for the ages.

A night of when history was made in Busch Stadium in St. Louis.

The greatest night in the history of New England sports.