and from your lips she drew the 'Hallelujah'.

When I decided I was going to write a Red Sox related entry, I had the plan of thanking the Red Sox for winning it for a litany of reasons. There's a lengthy list of people on my whiteboard. It's a compilation of the greatest, and some of the lesser-known Red Sox who never got the chance to celebrate, to rejoice. They ranged from the five men who've had their number retired by the team, Doerr, Cronin, Yastrzemski, Williams, and Fisk, to the two Red Sox I admire most for their unheralded roles in the teams of the '90s, Valentin and Merloni.

But that's up for everyone to see. There are at least two dozen names there, but the three at the bottom are the important ones that nobody can understand.

One of those names belongs to a high school Drama teacher of mine. She asked us to call her simply, 'Donna.' No last name, no 'Ms.', just Donna. There aren't enough words to describe her compassion and empathy, even for someone who claims to have a reasonable command of the language, as I do. I remember asking her once, in October I believe it was, whether she thought I came across as abrasive. I'd received the criticism from another teacher with whom I can no longer get along, due to an incident much better described in person than in print. Instead of giving me the standard teacher response, 'Who told you that?!', Donna told me that she could see how people would take my personality as abrasiveness. She also said that she didn't feel it was abrasive, but that it was confident.

This isn't even the most important part. Donna remembered the brief encounter when she wrote a recommendation for me. This was far and away the longest, more detailed recommendation I received, of the nearly ten I needed for various applications. It was also far and away the most heartfelt.

In October of last year, Donna and I followed the Red Sox playoff run with ardent fervor. We would discuss the previous nights' results every morning, as I showed up for a capella group rehearsals. We shared the depression of falling behind to Oakland, and the joy when they came back. We shared the home runs against New York, the fights between pitchers and aging bench coaches, the clutch performances from John Burkett. And we commiserated after Aaron Boone's home run.

Fast-forward to March. Both of us were excited about a season with amazing promise, with the additions of Curt Schilling, Keith Foulke, Mark Bellhorn, Pokey Reese, and others. We knew that this was finally the year. The season began and the debates with it. We debated whether Nomar would be better than Pokey Reese when he got back. We debated over whether Kapler and Millar were adequate replacements for Trot Nixon. We agreed that Bronson Arroyo was a much better pitcher than Byung-Hyun Kim. And we agreed that Dale Sveum was inept.

The mid-season swoon of the Red Sox brought much hair-pulling, second-guessing, and gnashing of teeth. We questioned every personnel move made, and every game's result. This was a topic no other student had invested in as much discussion with her.

But, as a senior, the inevitable arrived. By mid-May, when the Sox were beginning their .500 period, I was in my last week attending. That Monday night was the Cabaret and Banquet, an event in which the seniors get to perform one last time, and are given an opportunity to make a speech before friends, relatives, and other Drama Company members.

As Donna read the list of students who fulfilled their duties to the Company, my name grew nearer and nearer. Finally, when she got to the point where I knew I was next, she paused. She said that the next student was one with whom she'd gotten the chance to share her other passion in life, the Red Sox. As everybody had a program and knew my fierce devotion to the team and Donna and my collective criticism of the same, it was pretty clear who was about to ascend the staircase.

And I made my speech. Like I've written in past entries, I'm much more coherent and articulate when typing than I am when speaking off-the-cuff. I made a promise that I would return when, not if, the Red Sox made the World Series. I knocked on the particleboard podium to ensure I wasn't jinxing the team.

Well, I wasn't able to get back to Framingham. And I feel really guilty about it. I completely forgot that she'd given me a number to call to commiserate or celebrate with her. I can only guess that she's wondering why it is that I haven't called or even emailed. Well, I haven't forgotten my promise. Donna, if you're reading this, you will see me in the very near future.

And thank you. For being the only person at school who understood my passion, despite living only twenty minutes from the Hallowed Halls of Fenway Park.

At this rate, this is going to be the longest entry I've written. And I'm OK with that. I'm not going to be the person who does the typical, "I love the Red Sox because they won and I live near the Park" comments. This is real.

The second name on the board, below the twenty-four former Red Sox, is that of my grandfather. As soon as the final out was recorded, when Foulke underhanded the ball to Mientkiewicz at first, his was the number set to go on my phone. He's been a Red Sox fan since birth. He was there for all four unsuccessful World Series bids before this year. He lived through Pesky holding the ball, and Denny Galehouse's appearance in 1946, through the Impossible Dream season, with Bob Gibson crushing that Dream in 1967. He lived through Carlton Fisk's Game Six home run in 1975, but was also there for the Big Red Machine closing the door the next day. He was there for Mike Torrez-to-Bucky Dent in 1978. He was there for Bob Stanley's wild pitch, for John McNamara inexplicably not pulling Bill Buckner, for the result of that action in 1986. He saw Aaron Boone break the hearts of an optimistic Red Sox Nation last year.

And now, though he's no longer young enough to physically jump in ecstacy, he's witnessed the Red Sox do the impossible, in coming from down 0-3 to World Series Champions in a week and a half. The Sox did this for him, and all the other fans who have waited more than one lifetime to be able to say 'They did it.'

They did it, Grandpa. It's been a long time coming, but they did it.

The third name on the bottom of the whiteboard, beneath the litany of players past, is my mother's. She is the one most responsible for my devotion. She told me of when she was my age, listening on the radio to the Sox games while doing homework in the living room in Meriden, Connecticut. She was there for Carlton Fisk, and for 'Yastrzemski won't get there.' And she was tired, but there for Buckner, Schiraldi, Stanley, and Oil Can. She and my father baptized me into the Red Sox that year. I, being only an infant of three months, likely slept through the whole thing, but I was held before the television as Mookie Wilson grounded a ball softly down the first base line. Of course, my father remains convinced it was Game 7, which it wasn't.

My mother, after the Red Sox fell down to an 'insurmountable' 0-3 hole to the Yankees, informed me the season was over. She didn't watch Aaron Boone. She knew we would lose, and didn't want to put herself through it. After each successive victory the Red Sox rattled off against the Yankees, I called and informed her she was wrong. As I'd said when she told me it was over, there's always a first. Nothing is over until the 27th out, as 1986 proved to all of us. I was able to call her four times in a row and tell her she was wrong.

Thanks, Mom. And I will always be there to tell you you're wrong when you think it's over. Stop becoming Dad.