I’ve long believed that in my three decades of writing about Boston sports — and in my entire life, really — there are two teams/seasons so magical that they can never be equaled, let alone surpassed.
The first, obviously I hope, is the 2004 Red Sox. Their comeback from a 3-0 deficit against the Yankees, an October after the soul-crushing 2003 ALCS defeat, en route to winning their first World Series in 86 years, wasn’t just a once in a lifetime thing. It was a once-in-a-many-lifetimes thing, a triumph generations of Red Sox fans had pined for amid heartbreaks, a triumph delivered in the most cathartic, ghost-exorcising way imaginable by a team stacked with charismatic personalities.