Thursday, October 7, 2004: Red Sox fans carry two things with them at almost all times: An almost inexplicable sense of hope, and an impending sense of dread. To know a Red Sox fan is to know someone deeply internally conflicted. There is no doubting our love for our team, a love that I would argue surpasses that of any other fans for their team. I’ll argue it because it is impossible to prove. But that dread, which of course stems from doubt, is borne of hard-lived experience.

Right now the hope prevails, it is the dominant trait, it is pushing dread into the recesses of our consciousness. The Sox have taken a 2-0 lead in this series against the Angels and we did it in ways that cannot help but draw a smile from even the most hardened soul in Red Sox Nation. They took two games in Anaheim. They won both by (seemingly - as I’ll soon explain, last night’s game was a whole lot closer than it seemed) handy final scores. Pedro, who went into the series with all sorts of creeping doubts as a result of a September that will go down as the worst month in his hallowed career, was sterling last night. And we get the next two games in the hallowed ground of Fenway, where we can imagine the stuffed-past-capacity crowd (there were thousands of Sox fans in Anaheim the last two nights, a trend that will not be reciprocated in the Fens, one can rest assured) providing Bronson Arroyo with the push that he needs to get him over the anxiety he is sure to be feeling in his first playoff start. The team that led the majors in runs and several other batting categories will pepper the Monster with rocket shots, knocking a few over it in the process. The relievers will come in and close the door. The Sox will celebrate a division championship, a small but critical step en route to the final goal.

That’s the optimist speaking.

But deep in every Red Sox fan’s heart we fear the opposite. We fear some sort of epic collapse. We fear having to go to Game Five, even if we know we’ll have Schill on the mound. We fear that something will happen again to break our hearts.

The optmist, the hope, however, prevails. Not this year. No chance. Not against the Angels, not in Fenway, not with this bunch of self described baseball idiots.

This is our year.

And what of the other division series? What is a good Sox fan to think? What is the loyalist, brimming with hope, pushing away the dread, who is prepared to pull out a “Yankees Sucks” chant at any moment - a Patriots Super Bowl parade, say, or a friend’s wedding where there are Yankees fans who have slipped through the cracks - to think about the Yankees-twins series that is now tied at one game apiece after the Yankees slipped by the twins in 12 innings last night after Rivera blew a save? For whom do we root? Obviously we cannot root for the Yankees per se. At the same time, while there will be nothing to diminish our conquest if it goes through Minnesota and the Dome, don’t we all know in our hearts that there would be nothing sweeter than vanquishing the Yankees? That there would be nothing that could surpass drilling those arrogant bastards and their troglodyte fans in the Toilet Bowl in the Bronx? That capturing the American League pennant by defeating New York is the way the fairytale has been written? (Yes, yes, and yes).

And so what do we do? Well, the last two times we went to the ALCS we faced the Yankees. We took our division series all five games, both times coming from a 0-2 deficit to win in dramatic, epic, heart-palpitating fashion. The Yankees had a much easier road. They could rest, work their pitching staffs, and come in with the ideal lineup and rotation to face us while we went with whoever was freshest. It would be nice if we could take care of this early, if we could win in a sweep, or at most in four, setting Schill up to pitch the opener of the ALCS. So what we want is for these two teams to pound the hell out of one another. We want extra innings. We want games where the teams combine for 400 pitches, four relievers each. We want a war. Good for the fans, good for the networks, good for the Red Sox - this would best serve the common good.

Just a few words on last night’s game: Pedro showed a lot of heart. He also consistently showed a 94-95 and even once or twice a 96 mile-an-hour fastball. He gave up three runs, but two of those should have never happened, as in the bottom of the second a lazy can of corn fell in between many and Cabrera, neither of whom had any idea what the other had in mind. The Angels squeaked across two runs that may never have happened. Our lineup also squandered not one, but two bases loaded situations, in the first and second, that could have opened things up. But when we most needed it, Pedro gave us seven innings including a seventh in which he battled and won the tenacious but slightly overmatched Angels, especially pain in the ass David Eckstein who fouled off ball after ball before Pedro got him to fly our harmlessly to left. Pedro’s last pitch was a 94 mph heater to end the inning on a K, and to bring his night to a halt. In the top of the inning Manny had driven in the go ahead run with a sacrifice fly (the Red Sox have done a far better job of manufacturing runs than the haloes even though that was one of their stocks in trade coming in to this series), so Pedro left with the lead, and when he hit the dugout there were hugs all the way around. Those guys know how much that appearance meant for Pedro, but as importantly, for the team (and its faithful throngs.) The Sox opened it up in the top of the ninth, getting to that vaunted Angels bullpen and showing that we are not afraid when another team’s supposed shut down arms come in the game. Our much less ballyhooed pen, meanwhile, mowed the Angels down, with Timlin continuing his postseason excellence, Mike Myers (whom I did not want to see, to be honest) and Foulke (who secured the last four outs) taking care of business.

In the internal battle, then, hope is kicking the crap out of dread. We feel good. Red Sox Nation is smiling. This is the year.