E-Mail This Article to a Friend You can’t be Series BY CHRISTOPHER YOUNG

Confident. Disappointed. Frustrated. Devastated. Pleased. Surprised. Rejuvenated. Ecstatic. Confident.

The pair of "confidents" bookends how Red Sox fans felt before and after the recently completed ALCS dethroning of the Yankees, while the seven other adjectives describe the spectrum of emotions that Boston supporters collectively experienced following each of the series’ seven games. It was a roller-coaster ride like no other, or at least like none since 1986, when the team was deemed equally out of it until a late-game miracle in Anaheim helped lift the Sox out of a 3-1 hole and ultimately propelled them to the American League pennant.

This year’s remarkable reversal was different, yet no less stunning, and put Sox fans’ passions through the wringer over the course of nine nights. It was equal parts shock and awe, and fans went from bemoaning the poor timing of Curt Schilling’s balky ankle, to hoping that the local nine could salvage at least one game to garner a smidgen of respectability, to sounding a crescendo that rallied the team for four straight games to topple the Best Team Money Could Buy (on paper) and end for now the most one-sided post-season rivalry in baseball history.

Though not experienced equally by everyone — particularly after the grisly debacle that was the Yankees’ 19-8 thrashing of the Sox at Fenway in game three — hope was the common denominator. "Believe," or some incarnation of that imperative, was thrown at Sox fans in every way, shape, and form by the Red Sox marketing whizzes.

One tends to "believe," though, or "keep the faith," when some kind of hope exists, and last Sunday morning — when Schilling apparently was on the shelf for the duration of the post-season, Pedro Martinez had received another pinstriped Father’s Day card in the game-two 3-1 setback, and all six Sox pitchers were scored upon in the game-three massacre — only the most optimistic Boston baseball fan had any reason to believe, or hope, that anything good would come out of this much-hyped match-up.

Aura and Mystique, the Pinstripers’ tag-team that had led them to 26 world championships since 1923, were dancing up a storm, while Agony and Heartbreak, the Sox’ annual dynamic duo, were doing stretching exercises in the wings.

There was absolutely no reason for any fan of the local nine, armed with logic and knowledge of past history, to continue to hitch his wagon to their fortunes. The Sox had brought their fans this far, but now the yearly destination — a bitter ending — was approaching even faster than could have been reasonably imagined. Meanwhile, fans in Anaheim, Oakland, and probably even Texas were saying, "Hey, we could have put up a better fight than those guys!"

The Yankees had won the first three games in the best-of-seven series, and for the potential series-ender Boston would have to throw out on the mound its fifth starter, Derek Lowe — a man whose September struggles seemingly had relegated him to bullpen duty for the duration of the playoffs. This was to be the savior? This was the man who would accomplish what neither Schilling, Martinez, nor Bronson (nor Brandon) Arroyo nor a host of relievers could muster: shutting down the vaunted Yankee offense, a juggernaut that had already posted 32 runs over the course of three games? This was the chosen one in whom Sox fans would believe?

Surprisingly, yes. D-Lowe, while not overpowering in game four, pitched five-plus innings of six-hit, three-run ball, and though Mike Timlin ultimately blew Lowe’s 3-2 lead in the sixth inning, the rest of the bullpen miraculously (given its performance just 24 hours earlier) kept the Empire Staters off the scoreboard for the next six innings. This gave David Ortiz another chance to be a hero, and he obliged, smacking a two-run homer in the bottom of the 12th that lifted the Sox to a 6-4 victory.

Fine, Sox fans said as they exulted, now we haven’t been swept, but the end is still very much on the horizon, especially with only one more game in Boston. Yet the nature of the victory boded well for the Red Sox, especially considering that Schilling’s return was now a possibility for game six (provided the team got to that point), but game five loomed, and it was now on Martinez’s shoulders to keep things going in the right direction. Pitching this time without the catcalls of "who’s your daddy?" ringing in his ears, Pedro pitched well into the sixth, but a bases-clearing double by Derek Jeter erased the 2-0 lead the Sox had established in the first, and NY took a comfortable 4-2 lead into the eighth. But, as during the night before, the Sox bats foiled another Mariano Rivera save, and the Panamanian closer blew his second opportunity in as many nights. The Yankee offense again went silent in the late innings (eight straight innings of zeroes after Jeter’s two-bagger), opening the door for Ortiz to build upon his "Hendu"-esque status: the burly DH’s single in the 14th vaulted Boston to another spine-tingling victory, 5-4.

What in the name of Bucky Bleepin’ Dent was going on here? The Yankees had this series in the bag, and just two nights earlier had inflicted the worst-ever ALCS defeat on the locals’ home field. They weren’t going to blow this thing, were they?

The Sox’ continued success in game six depended on Schilling’s ankle, and despite eschewing a specially made boot in favor of pitching with his frayed tendon stapled down, Schilling took on Roy Hobbsian status by throwing seven solid innings of four-hit ball. In addition, Mark Bellhorn shed his goat-horned reputation to hit a critical three-run homer in the fourth, a two-out smack that stood up as the winning margin in the 4-2 victory. Even more eerie: umpires reversed not one, but two calls that originally went against the Bostonians. Bellhorn’s "double" was corrected to a round-tripper, and Alex Rodriguez’s Hai Karate chop to reliever Arroyo’s glove was properly deemed interference, negating a potentially game-turning play (and a third Yankee run).

Still, the Bombers had another chance in the ninth to steal the game and the pennant, but Tony Clark whiffed with two men on. The series was implausibly, impossibly, unbelievably tied at three.

Never had Red Sox fans been through four nights of baseball such as these. The 19-8 shellacking seemed to sound Boston’s death knell, but almost imperceptibly the prolific Yankee bats had begun an irreversible trend: that is, doing little. In game four, when Torre’s crew was just three outs from the AL flag, New York’s top five (Jeter, A-Rod, Gary Sheffield, Hideki Matsui, and Bernie Williams, collectively earning nearly $73 million) combined to go 5-for-25; in the 14-inning affair that was game five, the quintet went 4-for-29; and in Schilling’s gem, the siesta continued (4-for-19).

But still, the Yankees couldn’t lose four straight to a team whose history commonly dictated it would find a way to lose . . . could they? New York had dropped four in a row only once this past season — and that was in April — so it seemed unlikely.

But weaknesses in the Yankees’ pitching had been exposed, not only in the depth department, but also in a supposed strength: the bullpen. From July on, I had preached that the overuse of Rivera, Paul Quantrill, and Tom Gordon, all being in the top seven in appearances, none being a young buck, could cost the team eventually.

It did, though that was about the only thing I predicted correctly. The Yankees were indeed thin in the pitching department, and when they were forced to start Kevin Brown in the deciding game — a guy who had given up eight runs in fewer than three innings in his two previous outings against Boston — a pinstriped pennant was far from preordained.

Boston’s comeback from 0-3 already was historic, and winning the damn thing after digging such a hole was equally unprecedented, but while the Yanks had Big Mo in the pen, the Sox had even bigger mo: -mentum. And when Ortiz’s two-run dinger in the first helped assuage Sox fans’ disgust with Johnny Damon’s getting thrown out at home, the rout was on. An interesting absurdity unfolded when the two pitchers that New York quickly snapped up upon the Sox’ acquiring Schilling — Brown and Javier Vazquez — were the ones who surrendered Boston’s first eight runs over the course of the first four innings. Never has an 8-1 lead felt less safe for Sox fans, but the Yanks were done, and their big five again proved to be high-priced frauds, going a collective 4-for-20. A-Rod, exposed as a thug and then a punk in his two clashes with Arroyo this season, hit only .258 in the ALCS, capped by a 2-for-17 output over the final four games.

So let it be written, so let it be done. Of all teams, the big-dollar Yankees had been the first ever to surrender a 3-0 series lead, and New Englanders exulted in the splendor of seeing their team finally win a game (and series) of note against their bitter rival. Next improbable stop: the World Series.

Will it be anticlimactic? Perhaps, but I think I speak for many in Red Sox Nation when I say I was getting a little tired of seeing Jeter, A-Rod, Jorge Posada, and the waggly bat of Sheffield in my living room nightly. Some new faces will be welcomed.

A year ago, Sox fans came to work in a dazed trance on the morning after game seven; this past Thursday, they were again dazed, but it was certainly a different brand. The Red Sox had been released from the chains of Yankee domination, and finally, finally — all was right in the baseball world.

The Yankees are gone, the Sox are not, the Cardinals await, and eight playoff teams have been whittled down to just two.

Four wins from post-season glory. In Boston? Could happen. Why not them?

Sporting Eye runs Mondays and Fridays at BostonPhoenix.com, and Christopher Young can be reached at cyoung[a]phx.com