Oct. 16, 2003. Red Sox vs. Yankees. Game 7; ALCS .

My mother had been a lifelong Sox fan. And she’d instilled in her children that love of the game and of the team. So many heartbreaks endured—until now.

This was it. We were on the brink. The last game before a chance at redemption. Seventeen years since ‘86. Eighty-five years since … since the last time Beantown lived a baseball championship.

Just once in our lifetime, that’s all any of us was hoping for. That’s all anyone hoped for, year after devestating year. There was always something to derail the ride.

But not this year. This year it was different. Bottom of the eighth. Up 5-2; Pedro pitching. Nothing can go wrong. And then it does … again … as always.

The change is made, but Wake looks on. He should have come in. Instead, he becomes the fall guy just a short time later.

And again, after so many years, another let down. And our mother has to wait … wait until next year.

Such a haunting refrain—it was her last game.