Father Baseball can be a capricious monster. Almost every team’s fanbase has stories, nay legends, of the particularly cruel ways their postseason hopes have been first crafted into a fine sculpture, then smashed into dust in front of them and forced into their lungs, so that each breath carries the dusty flavor of soul-crushing defeat.

Baseball slices up UCLs and takes away superstar pitchers for 12-18 months at a time. It conjurs up curses from Babes and from Goats until one day, out of pure arbitrary flippance, it decides to turn the tables, and give, for example, the Red Sox their long-awaited redemption not just by allowing them to win a World Series, but by paving the path there with the only 3-0 comeback in a 7-game series in baseball history, and against their most-hated rivals, no less.

The emotional impact, of course, usually depends on your perspective. For every surrender-cobra Red Sox fan who cursed the name of Bill Buckner for decades, there was a Mets fan who created a shrine to Ray Knight’s exultant jump-sprinting disbelief. For every Texan with Nelson Cruz sports-PTSD, there is a four-year-old in Missouri named David. To each Carter, a Williams. Each Pujols a Lidge, and so on and so it goes.

But occasionally, Father Baseball listens to us all.

We asked for this.