Then came Game Two. The supposed pitching classic: Doc against the Rocket. Well, it was more like Abbott vs. Costello. Gooden was horrible, and Clemens was something less than mediocre. The Sox won a sloppy one 7-4.

Games Three and Four are blurred together. The Sox lost them both, I know that. But Game Five was a must. The Sox turned to Bruce Hurst, and he came through. They went back to the Shea Stadium jungle, up 3-2.

I was confident. But then again, I was young. I had only seen the collapse in '78 and even then, I was just five years old.

But there was my dad, a hardened, seasoned veteran of Red Sox chokes. He saw the dream slowly disappear in '75 as Joe Morgan's bloop single found the outfield grass. And he watched Bob Gibson and the Cardinals remove the glass slipper from the '67 Cinderella squad.

My dad was ready. He knew in his mind, even though he hoped in his heart he was wrong, that 1986 would join the list of disappointments. So there we were, sitting in our den, anxiously waiting for the last pitch.

There was my dad in the recliner, insisting that the Sox would lose. There was my mom on the couch, saying little. And then there was my brother, myself and our two friends--possibly the four most fanatical fans on the planet, alternating between praying and cursing.

In the eighth, when Clemens left the game and the Sox had a 3-2 lead, my friend boldly exclaimed "Five more outs!" My dad scoffed, and my brother told him to shut up. But it was too late, the damage was done--the game went into extra innings.

Then in the 10th came Henderson's homer. Our place went berserk. (The neighbors called the police, thinking someone had been shot.)

But as the horrors unfolded in the bottom half of the inning, the place was silent. And when Vin Scully exclaimed to the nation that the ball had gone through Buckner's legs, it got ugly. My brother cursed. My dad threw things and I think attacked the television. I was in shock.

I promised never to watch the bums again. And I didn't...until the third inning of Game Seven, two nights later.

John C. Ausiello is a Crimson staff writer.

Darren Kilfara

The symmetry is absolutely haunting.

The first baseball memory that I can consciously remember was from the 1980 World Series. Tug McGraw, the Phillies closer, comes on in the ninth and strikes out some faceless Kansas City Royal to win the Series in Game Six, and the Vet goes crazy.

And the last recollection I will have from this year of baseball: Mitch Williams, another lefty Phillie reliever, punching the air in ecstasy after the same strikeout, in the same stadium, after another Game Six. And it's an ex-Royal, Bill Pecota, that goes down swinging.