How do you reverse 86 years of history in four days? It can't be done.

On Saturday morning, October 16th, 2004 I gleefully read the daily New York newspapers who were smugly proclaiming the death of the 2004 Red Sox. Boston had had a great season, but staring at 3-0 deficit, the unstoppable destiny of the Yankees would once again force the Sox to assume their honorary place as the cursed club of baseball. I could virtually see the network execs and Steinbrenner, happy as the Grinch before his big Christmas eve heist, count their future earnings as they started to make arrangements for the World Series to take place in the revenue generation machine that is New York.

That evening late into October, 8 innings into game 4, I was even more sure the Yankees would take their annual place in the World Series. The Red Sox, three outs away from being swept from the playoffs, faced the Sandman, Marino Rivera. But instead of a 1,2,3 inning Riviera gave up a walk to Millar allowing the Red Sox to tie the score in the bottom of the ninth. Three innings later Ortiz hits a Roy Hobbs style, game winning home run (a feat he would all but repeat the following night). All of a sudden the Red Sox were doing their best imitation of the Yankees. Something had been reversed. For the night at least. No matter, I thought, even the Red Sox fans should know that this series was over. No team has ever come back from 3-0. Yet you could almost hear the collective wheels of Red Sox Nation churning, "we got Pedro, then maybe Schilling pitching for us next…." Don't be silly, it can't be done.

But the Red Sox came back again to win Game 5, and now that churning had found its voice on countless navy blue and red shirts through out New England. "Why not us?" and "Believe." It had gone from annoying to downright worrisome. But still, I reassured myself we're coming home. Surely the Yankees would regain their luster in the Bronx. It's never been done.

I couldn't possibly have known that Boston's heroics had only just begun. Schilling, with sutured tendons, and a blood soaked sock would take the mound against one of the most powerful line ups that money can buy. And like a 21 year old Clemens he shut them down. Leaving the Yankees to face what the NY post described as the "single biggest game in the history of New York."

Still destiny can't be stopped. The Yankees have to win, they always do. But game 7 proved to be the most lopsided of them all. And as I sat in the stands, beer in hand, dip tucked into my protruding lower lip, I realized what it was to be true champions. The heart of a champion can be seen in the team, who's been beaten down countless times, who's history and statistical probability dictates a failure, but can look into the face of this sure defeat and can yell, "I BELIEVE." And then mount an impossible victory. And that Henry is not only what your Boston Red Sox's have done, but what you have done time and time again, by remaining my friend. In the face of unbearable snobbery, and East coast elitism, you've found away to look past my numerous faults and cling to my few admirable qualities. And for that I am forever grateful. You've proven yourself a true champion of friendship and I hope to one day prove worthy of your friendship.