David Ortiz.  Big Papi.  Didn't quite work in Minnesota, so he ended up in Boston.  And all he did there, with a little help from Pedro Martinez, Dave Roberts, Keith Foulke, Orlando Cabrera, Tim Wakefield, Jason Varitek, Trot Nixon, Curt Schilling, Terry Francona, oh alright Johnny Damon*, the now-infamous Manny Ramirez, a boy wonder GM, and the spirit of Ted Williams, was dissipate an 86-year-old curse and make an entire faithful (TM Stephen King and Stewart O'Nan) fan base say "Now I can die in peace" (TM Bill Simmons). 

 2004 ALCS, Game 4, Papi hits a walk-off 2-run 12th inning homer that begins what is only the biggest playoff comeback in the history of baseball.  The next night, Game 5, he hit a walk-off 14th inning single.  From there, fate takes over, on our side for once.  We embarrass the Damn Y****** in their own House That Ruth Built in Games 6 and 7, then the Cardinals pretty much fail to show up for the World Series, and before you know it Foulkie's fielding a weak grounder under a total eclipse of the moon and shoveling it over to Mientkiewicz and October 27, 2004 becomes one of the top 10 greatest nights of my life (and of many others' lives as well). 

Four years and an incredible second World Series ring later, he spends the 2008 season battling some kind of hand injury, and he's not the only one with medical issues, and the team comes up just short in the ALCS against an awful fakey expansion team that plays on a plastic field named after juice.  The year after that, he's just not the same hitter anymore.  Now, it's perfectly logical that a power hitter in something like his tenth season who's pushing his mid-30s will simply not be the same hitter because of (a) general wear and tear and (b) the after-effects of the injury, hands being, oh, somewhat important in hitting.

But then there's (c).  This is the Seligroid era.  Any Papi and Manny were good friends when Manny played in Boston.  And Manny left for LA during the 2008 season.  And Papi's hitting decline occurred over the course of that season.  And Manny's been found guilty of using a banned substance.  And there are over 100 names of players who tested positive still floating around out there, casting a shadow over everyone in the game.

Randy Johnson.  The Big Unit.  Took the Seattle Mariners, of all teams, to the post-season.  Literally larger than life at 6'10", amazing velocity, cast another kind of shadow of his own.  Everyone was always scared of him (John Kruk was even afraid to bat against him in the All-Star Game), but he could also sell out a visiting ballpark full of fans who wanted to see singular greatness in action.  They'd cut into other broadcasts all around the league to record his milestone strikeouts (he's first among lefthanders all-time and second only to some guy named Nolan Ryan) and the conclusion of his perfect game back in 2004 (a good season all the way around). 

This week he won his 300th game, pitching against the Washington Nationals, who are the relocated and if possible now even cheesier first major league franchise he ever pitched for, the Montreal Expos.  Analytical concensus is that he'll be the last 300-game winner, at least for awhile, because of pitch counts, 5-man rotations, specialist relievers, and various other "innovations" in the sport over the last few decades.

Me.  Baseball fan extraordinaire.  Survivor of decades of mostly disappointed devotion who finally got justification to create a tribute to the Red Sox  on one wall of my living room one to the Phillies on another.  Who always told myself that if either one of my teams ever won a Series in my lifetime that it would be magic, like at the end of The Return to Oz when all the statues come back to life, and everything that was wrong in my life would come right.  Between the two of them, they've brought home three Commissioner's Trophies in the last five seasons.  And in those five years I've screwed up relationships with two great men so effectively that it's hard to believe I didn't do it on purpose, and my house isn't neat, and I can't live on broth so I couldn't stay a size 4, and my mom's dying so even if I do have children I'll never have the multi-generational family I planned on . . . I just hope the Damn Y****** don't win the Series this year.

Cue Don Henley singing "The End of the Innocence."  On so, so many fronts. 

 *Now forever followed by "Looks like Jesus, acts like Judas, throws like Mary."