Two nights ago, I had the dubious fortune of listening on the radio as one of baseball's most cherished traditions was violently rooted from its moorings and the ghost of the Bambino was finally allowed to rest in whatever Elysian field exists for the immortals of the diamond. With fierce determination and a seemingly charmed World Series, the Boston Red Sox did not trail the St. Louis Cardinals a single inning, after accomplishing the unthinkable and snatching victory from the jaws of defeat in the ALCS to obtain their Series berth.

There is much joy in Boston, as there should be.

But with the joy there should exist a certain measure of sadness. No more are the excuses of "the curse of the Bambino" going to hold water, since the now legendary night of October 27, 2004, a night the moon was swallowed by the shadow of the Earth and a night the Boston Red Sox ended 86 years of frustration.

No longer will tradition be sufficient to carry these men, they've exorcised their demons and now they dwell among mere mortals, and must play as mortals and without the shades of the curse, whose legend will now be buried along with the infamous asterix-burdened significance of the number 61, which found its own grave a number of years back at the end of Mark McGwire's bat, a record which met its own demise at the end of Barry Bonds' bat.

Records are meant to be broken, curses are meant to end.

Now can someone please forward this memo to the Cubs and White Sox?

Respectfully submitted,

Gideon MacLeish