In Game 3 of the 2004 ALCS, the Red Sox were battered to the ground in their own ballpark by the Yankees, 19-8, humiliated by their own ineptness and consigned to the netherworld by every fan they thought had loved them.
They were alone. They had only each other, a band of Idiots. Then they won and won -- eight victories in a row, building each day on their sense of pregnant destiny, until they had swept a superb 105-win Cardinals team in the Series as if St. Louis wasn't even allowed to present a lineup card.
That's where the Cubs are now.
Of course, Boswell points out that the Scrubs are almost surely doomed. He's no dummy. But just the same, he sees the magic that could be:
Now the Cubs need to sacrifice a goat, slap a few pundits and wake their fans, who at this moment stand at the edge of the cliff, pondering the familiar view.
If the North Siders want to win the Series this year, not just reach one for the first time since '45, then lose with dignity to the better league, they need something special. They need a magic cloak, a powerful mojo, an event of their own creation that makes them feel calm, invincible and chosen. They need to beat, beat, beat on the Dodgers.
