Hub fans bid curse adieu...

By John Breneman Diamond rings the size of baby’s fist. Fighter jets tearing across the sky and soldiers in wheelchairs rolling across the Fenway grass. A Red Sox championship banner billowing from the Green Monster. All of a sudden, 1918 doesn’t seem so long ago. Not when Johnny Pesky (circa 1942 Sox) is standing right there soaking it all in with Dom DiMaggio, Dewey and Yaz and the rest of us 35,000 lucky stiffs, all crammed into this hallowed baseball artifact, swept up in the emotion of a shared dream. Everything is different this spring, right? The Sox made history, choked the Yankees, broke the curse, swept the Cards and made grown men cry. World champs. Aw yeah. It feels good. What, you say the Yankees are back in town? OK, now that another New England winter has frozen the exhilarating memories of last October into Red Sox lore, it’s time to come out and play once more. But first we have a couple small matters to attend to. You know, distributing gaudy and symbolic chunks of etched gold. Singing songs to honor the glory of Red Sox past and present. Unfurling gigantic World Series banners … in your stinking Yankee faces. Or cheering like idiots when the announcer calls out “Mariano Rivera.” You didn’t have to be at the park to hear Fenway erupt with a standing O for the once-dominant closer turned hapless tomato can. “What can I say — just tip my hat and call the Red Sox my daddy,” Rivera said in my imaginary pre-game interview. He scoffed at any suggestion that the tables have turned, that perhaps now the Yankees will be haunted by the Curse of the Splendid Splinter, and said, “Wake up...