E-Mail This Article to a Friend I lived for this BY CHRISTOPHER YOUNG

So-called journalists are expected to appear unbiased and disinterested in print. That is obviously not the case in many instances, with Rush Limbaugh and Al Franken serving as prominent examples.

In sports journalism it is a little trickier. It’s no secret that many sportswriters in Boston are indeed fans of the local sports teams, and while many of them make their preferences fully known (as to appear as one of youse), others remain in the closet while covering the games and writing about the teams they secretly endorse in their private lives. There are homers, and there are those others, and it’s often a fine line, and a harrowing one at times when your inner fan wants to scream out — but decorum and professionalism take precedent. Subsequently, cheering in the press box is verboten, and fraternizing with the players is looked upon with disdain.

I myself have tried to maintain a veneer of impartiality, even though it oftentimes is compromised when writing about players or teams I loathe. My long-time readers probably have a pretty good idea where my sports loyalties lie, despite my best efforts to keep them distinct from my "Sporting Eye" responsibilities.

I am a sports journalist in Boston, and I have in the past and will in the future remain unprejudiced, even-handed, and detached when it comes to the sports I cover.

But not today. Nope, not on this day. For on this day I am writing the column I have longed to write. I am writing about a subject I sincerely doubted would ever see the light of day, much less come to pass. I am here today to tell the world that for approximately the last quarter-century I have been a card-carrying member of Red Sox Nation. Yes, I am a Sox fan, and while it has at times been painful and frustrating to say the least, that is certainly not the case right now. For all of us who share my affiliation, the world championship captured by the Red Sox this past week was a huge source of pride, a tremendous weight lifted off our well-worn shoulders, and an opportunity for redemption and emancipation. In our lifetime, it happened.

So many things have gone through my mind since 11:40 p.m. EST Wednesday, not the least of which is how to properly comprehend and accept this incredibly rare gift. I think about the depths of despair experienced by so many on the night of Saturday, October 16, when the hopes of post-season splendor were marred by the 19-8 thrashing the Yankees gave the Red Sox in game three of the much-hyped ALCS. The match-up had been so anticipated and so desired by so many people around here — Would the road to a Boston world title be fulfilling without a stopover in the Bronx? — and instead here were the Sox, on the verge of getting swept by their most hated rivals. I think about game four, which I almost didn’t want to watch after the previous night’s debacle, and how Boston was just three outs away from the ignominy of a four-game whitewashing before Kevin Millar worked a walk. What if pinch-runner Dave Roberts had been a tad slower and was thrown out on his attempted steal of second? What if Yankee closer Mariano Rivera’s reflexes were a split-second faster, and he snared Bill Mueller’s shot up the middle, likely creating a series-ending double play?

It could have been over just like that, and another winter of discontent would have settled over New England. Instead, that night we stayed up late for extra frames, and were rewarded. The next night, we did the same, despite another what-if? moment when Yankee first baseman Tony Clark’s double to right bounded into the seats for a ground-rule double instead of clanking around the corner. If that ball doesn’t go into the stands, then Ruben Sierra scores and New York scores the go-ahead run in extra innings. But Tim Wakefield escaped, no one scored, and David Ortiz delivered another game-winner in the wee hours.

I think about the incredible fortitude of Curt Schilling, who won a crucial game six in New York and posted another sterling outing in game two of the Series in Boston despite a badly mangled ankle. I think about Johnny Damon and Mark Bellhorn delivering key hits when their earlier performance suggested they would do anything but. I think about Derek Lowe, who’s probably seen his last action as a Soxer but chalked up wins in each clinching game of the three series — even though some pundits wondered if he’d see any action out of the bullpen (given his poor outings down the stretch in September).

Yet when Doug Mientkiewicz caught the flip from Keith Foulke for the final out of the 2004 World Series, my mind was flooded with so many other thoughts that ordinary celebration had to be put on hold while the information was being processed.

I thought about all those days on the beach with my headphones on, listening to Joe and Jerry broadcast innumerable Sox contests. I thought about all those weekend afternoons when I should have been doing yard work or otherwise, but instead turned on the tube to catch the action from Fenway Park — thereby depriving myself of a productive day. I thought of all of those hundreds of days and nights in the Fenway bleachers during the years I first lived in Boston in the mid ’80s, and the memories of always going to the line of my favorite beer gal/crush, Jeanine, who still works in the concourse below the bleachers and still is my favorite. I thought of the countless Opening Days I’ve been to (19 and counting), usually with a sizable group of friends who took me up on my offer to take one of a dozen $5 tickets I had purchased (those were the days). I thought of the 1986 season, when I went to nearly half of the season’s home games — a lot of ’em stag because all of my friends were dating people and I wasn’t — and getting caught up in the wondrous surprise of that pennant-winning team. I thought of the (to me, logical) first date I had with my future bride — a late-summer Friday night at the pahk, natch — and the difficulty she had in the weeks to follow wresting my attention away from the ’86 pennant chase and the subsequent playoffs. I remembered the thrill of Morgan Magic in ’88, of catching a foul ball in ’91, the Good-Friday grand slam by Mo Vaughn that won the ’98 home opener, and the playoff teams that captured the area’s attention back through all of those years after the ’86 heartbreak: ’88, ’90, ’95, ’98, ’99, and last year’s Cowpokes.

Maybe I didn’t think about all those things in the immediate moments after the Series was won, but I certainly have since.

A lot of folks from my past and present have called and e-mailed to congratulate me about the Sox’ championship, as if I had something to do with it. They mean well, and I’m grateful; they did it because they know that I have a soft spot for the team. While I don’t consider myself an over-the-top Sox fan, a lot of my circle of friends would likely beg to differ. Me? I like to think that I just follow the team, and yet seemingly against my will I am affected by their successes and disappointments.

As most know, the latter has been more prevalent than the former for the vast fandom of the Olde Towne Team. But implausibly, incredibly, and without precedent, the gloom has lifted — replaced with euphoria and celebration. I still don’t know quite how to comprehend the recent turn of events, and only at random parts of the day does it sink in and give me the warmest of feelings and nearly bring a tear to my eye. But there are others for whom I am happy; for them a Red Sox championship may be even more gratifying than it is for me.

I think of people like Gary H. up in my old hometown in upstate NY, who has been a lone wolf in a sea of Mets and Yankees fans — a guy who has always worn a Red Sox hat and in the last decade has seen two of his favorite cursed franchises (the New York Rangers and the Sox) end their lengthy title droughts. I think of Dan D., up in Vermont, who has also been the most optimistic of Sox fans, even when there was seemingly no reason to believe. I think of Mark V., in Albany, who no longer has to hear it from the Yankee fans who made his life miserable. I think of my three late friends whom I wrote about a month ago, and what this would have meant to them. I think about Bill and Sally, who are also no longer with us but in their generosity at holiday time always gave me my most cherished Red Sox–related gifts. I think about Dave F., who was a Sox diehard with a dream job at NESN until this past summer, when he decided to drop everything and follow his gal to San Diego, thereby missing what would have been a life’s highlight (also moving out of Boston recently and missing the festivities were Jim J. in New York, Dave G. in Chicago, and Robin in Virginia — former Phoenicians all). I think of the Orloves, season-ticket holders since 1968 who really deserved this, and Tim and Sue, who kept the faith even in New Jersey. I think of Nunzi, and Pat D., and Rock, and Michael S. (who can safely shave now without fear of jinxing the team). For all those people and many, many more in my life, the Red Sox’ title perhaps meant even more than it did to me, even though they might scoff at the idea.

And while they probably didn’t appreciate being woken up to see Daddy’s greatest sports moment come to fruition, my young daughters got the chance to see something the other night that most of us never expected to see and hear: "The Red Sox Are World Series Champions."

From my high-school days (when I wore a Sox hat as a member of the tennis team) to my first hours as a Boston resident (spent in the Fenway bleachers), to the agony of ’86, all the way to the team that brought glory and redemption to all of us — it’s been a wait, but this improbable dream has come true, thanks to those 25 nutcases.

It has come to pass, and we lived to see it. The Red Sox — are world champions. Really.

Faith rewarded. Mission accomplished.

Now we can die in peace.

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