I know exactly where I was on October 16, 2003. The date that marked the last time the Yankees eliminated the Red Sox from the playoffs, until last night. I was in my grandparents’ living room at an acreage outside a small town in Saskatchewan. I watched that game with my grandfather, a notorious Yankee hater. My aunt and her two young daughters slumbered below.

I watched Grady Little leave Pedro Martinez in. I hoped. I watched the Yankees rally. Jorge Posada celebrating at second base is engraved on the inside of my eyelids. I exulted. I watched Aaron Boone go deep in extra innings to left field to walk it off against the late, great Tim Wakefield, whose knuckler had previously flummoxed all foes. I celebrated — as quietly as possible, as my grandfather threatened to kill me if I woke up

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