How strange it felt to watch the Boston Red Sox play in the recent post-season. Once they had come from behind against the Indians and advanced to the World Series against the Colorado Rockies, we all knew, this time around, that the Red Sox would win.

How different from 2004. Then we had hope, of course, but hope seasoned with the recognition that something bad would almost surely happen, as something bad had always happened for almost a century. The curse was still alive and well then, and we knew better than to expect victory.

Even as the regular season ended this year, we were confident. There would be no Bucky Dent, no Bill Buckner, no Bob Gibson. The curse was dead, decaying in its grave. We had lived to see the World Series Trophy hoisted high in Red Sox Nation once, and we were confident it would happen again.

So lay the curse to rest forever, and let us move on to view a new world from the vantage point of a great nation, its capital Fenway, its sacred shrine the great green wall towering in left field.

As the golden glow from baseball’s promised land radiates throughout the Northeast, casting its beams even on distant climes, let us watch with awe a world reborn.

The Golden Age has returned, and humankind has been restored to its primal innocence – all greed gone, all cheating corrected, all performance-enhancing substances poured down the drain.

In this newborn world, justice, love and harmony have come even to the Big Apple. The world has turned back on its axis, and the misdeeds of yesterday (and of many yesteryears) have been reversed.

In New York, George Steinbrenner calls Joe Torre into his office and tells him to forget those naysayers who criticize his not winning the World Series recently. “Some may ask ‘What have you done for me lately?’ George says, “but I believe in loyalty. Twelve years in a row making the post-season would be good enough for anyone else, and it’s good enough for me. Joe, stay.” And Joe stays.

Switch your gaze to Alex Rodriguez. Having just finished watching yet again his favorite film, “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Alex, wiping tears from his eyes, answers the phone. It is his agent, Scott Boras, who suggests that A-Rod opt out of his current contract and demand $350 million as a starting point for negotiations.

“Scott!” Alex responds, horrified, “I’m not even worth the $252 million I’m getting under my current contract. Have you been watching me in the post-season? By the way, a commitment is a commitment, even if legally I’m entitled to break the contract. Besides, there’s too much greed in baseball right now, and I have no intention of becoming the poster boy for greed. I just want to give my best and bring pleasure to my fans. Maybe next year I’ll finally come through in the clutch.” Scott, chastened, hangs up his phone.

Across the country, smoke wafts upward from a bonfire outside the home of Barry Bonds. Firefighters arrive quickly, mindful of recent wildfires that have decimated so much of California. What they find is the longtime slugger quietly watching the flames, a shovel in his hands just to make sure that no stray embers escape.

Barry turns to the firefighters, and a smile lights his countenance. “Finally, I have seen the light,” he says. “I took all my drugs and placed them on a framework of old bats and set fire to the whole shebang. But that was just the starting point because I realize what an unpleasant, yes, even surly, person I’ve been.”

“Then,” he continues, “I wrote on little pieces of paper the names of everyone I have mistreated over the years, everyone I have been rude to, everyone I have hurt. It took a long time and a lot of writing, and, frankly, my writing hand is plenty sore right now. Then I tossed the names into the fire, symbolizing my rejection of my past hateful ways.”

As one might expect, the firefighters, who have seen much in their careers, but have never seen anything this remarkable, simply stand speechless, listening to Barry. “Now,” Bonds adds, “as soon as this fire dies down and my hand recovers, I’m going inside and phone all of these folks and apologize to them, especially the sportscasters and writers I’ve snubbed and ridiculed these many years. I am a changed person.”

Thus, the new order has come to pass, spreading from shore to shore, blue skies replacing dark clouds, soft breezes whispering sweet assurances. And it all started in Red Sox Nation.

Edward J. Rielly is a Westbrook resident, English professor at St. Joseph’s College, and widely published author with three books on baseball and American culture.