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COPYRIGHT 2004 All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of The Condé Nast Publications Inc.
Baseball, the other great fall distraction, has removed itself from the stage with its customary clarity and dispatch, but not before revealing itself to be a Lab puppy at heart. The Boston Red Sox, after eighty-six years of dreary or spectacular failure, stand as Champions of the World; the Evil Empire and the St. Louis Cardinals and the Curse of the Bambino have been carried away, one after the other, dead as doornails; and the engrossing anxieties and preposterous turns of fortune that had run up cell-phone charges and damaged sleep up and down the land ever since September--Curt Schilling's sutured and seeping ankle, A-Rod's skulky hand-chop, "Who's Your Daddy?," and the certified greatest team comeback in history--are gone away, clearing our brains and restoring a vivifying boredom to breakfast. Non-fans can expect relief from the daily clutter of reference and nicknames and "how 'bout that"s, but even the loftiest of them must sense that this time around...
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