Our team

Even as Red Sox faltered, my 9-year-old boy never lost faith

By Mark Godich, SI.com

Early on the morning of Oct. 17, 2003, I was awakened from a deep slumber by my son, Steven, who was standing next to the bed. "Dad," he said, more than a hint of trepidation in his voice, "did we win?"

We would be the Red Sox, the team that Steven loves more dearly than any other. He had passed out in front of the television the night before, his Red Sox sitting on a 5-2 lead. Everyone knows the rest of the story, and now it was my responsibility to ease the pain. I talked about the tremendous character the Red Sox had shown, how they had battled to the end, how the game would be remembered as one for the ages. But third-graders don't want to hear that. Tears welled in Steven's eyes, and as he crawled into bed with my wife, Leigh, and me, he said, "Now I have to wait until next year for the Red Sox to win the World Series."

This was no time for a history lesson, so Leigh and I tried to change the subject, mentioning to Steven that he had his birthday party to look forward to later that day. "I don't care about my birthday party," came the reply. Then when he came downstairs for breakfast, he showed that he was fast becoming a seasoned Red Sox fan, announcing, "I'm going to be dead and buried before the Red Sox win the World Series."

In June, Steven and I made our first visit to Fenway. He was starting to show the same interest in sports that I had developed as a kid. Growing up in the Dallas area, I had been to countless sporting events with my dad, and now I was getting to share the same experience with Steven. The Sox lost to the Twins the first night, and staring at a two-run deficit the following afternoon, my colleague Peter King, a diehard Sox fan himself, leaned over and whispered, "Mark, we just can't let Steven walk out of here without a win on his first trip to Fenway." Of course, the Sox would tease us, rallying to tie the game before losing in extra innings, but Steven, energized by being a part of Red Sox Nation for the first time, walked out of the park that day more convinced than ever that this would be the year.

That's why he hardly blinked when he woke up the morning after Game 3 of the ALCS to find that the Sox had been shellacked 19--8. A 9-year-old doesn't know that teams don't come back from 3-0 series deficits, so before Game 4 he made signs (Keep the Faith! and Year of the Sox!, to name two) and posted them around the family room. For the next three nights, he fell asleep before the outcome had been decided, and on the three mornings that followed he awoke to learn that his team had lived to fight another day.

By the fourth inning of Game 7, the number of signs around the family room had grown to 14. I watched the game with mixed emotions. My dad had died on this day 11 years ago, but the sadness of the occasion was more than balanced as I watched my son celebrate the impending triumph of his team, a team that he never lost faith in. We cheered every Red Sox run, and as we exchanged double high-fives at the end of the sixth, seventh and eighth innings, I reminded Steven how many outs we -- yes, we -- needed.

Still, I couldn't help thinking about my dad. So as the game wound down, I shared a story with Steven. For Christmas 1993, my mom had gotten everybody in the family a special gift to remember Dad by. Mine was a big-screen TV, because when we weren't sitting in the Cotton Bowl or the Astrodome or Dodger Stadium, Dad and I were parked in front of the TV watching a game. Steven never got to meet the man after whom he is named, but he asks about Grandpa Steve often. Now Steven and I were watching history unfold on that 35-inch Mitsubishi. It was a small, but significant connection between three generations.

Moments later, Steven shot off the couch even before the ground ball -- the 27th out -- had settled in the glove of Pokey Reese. I picked up Steven and gave him a bear hug; he let out a scream. To get that final out, Boston manager Terry Francona had made a seemingly meaningless pitching change. If he hadn't made the move, the game would've ended a couple of minutes before midnight. Instead, the final out was recorded at 12:01 a.m.

Not a bad birthday present. Happy 10th, Steven.

Mark Godich is the NFL Editor for Sports Illustrated.