One of the best pieces of advice my father ever gave me came after Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. "Never place the burden of your life's happiness in the hands of others," he said, "especially the Red Sox." I was only eight years old and devastated by Boston's loss at the hands--or feet--of Bill Buckner. My dad, himself a diehard fan for now more than 50 years, was trying to put a brave face on things while also teaching me an important "life lesson."

Thirteen years later, after I had devoted three weeks and countless hours of my senior year to watching postseason baseball both on TV and (thanks to the kindness of friends) at Fenway, the phone rang. It was my dad, repeating his old mantra, holding back his own frustration. I like to think I've learned a bit from my relatively short career as a Red Sox fan, that each loss is a little less painful than the one before, cushioned by the memories of errors more egregious and runners stranded even closer to home. Maybe I have, but Monday night's sad loss to the Yankees was catastrophic and in some ways seemed for a while worse even than that '86 series.

It was worse because this year, for the first time in about half a decade, the Red Sox reminded me how much I love baseball. Busy college life and an ever-shorter attention span had weakened my passion for the sport (though not for my team), and I'd taken to following college basketball and tennis more religiously than the national pastime. But Jimy Williams' Red Sox renewed my love of the game, and I became transfixed every time Pedro Martinez took the mound or even when the old warhorse Brett Saberhagen tested out his reconstructed shoulder. As Williams said in postgame interviews Monday, this is a team that the city of Boston loves, both for its flashy stars (Martinez and Nomar Garciaparra) and its less shining, but still stellar, players (Troy O'Leary, Jason Varitek, Derek Lowe--the last two products of a wonderous trade of Heathcliffe Slocumb to Seattle).

It's true that Boston lost this series with a spate of disastrous fielding errors and a horrific batting drought that reminded fans of old Sox teams, who would regularly load the bases with one out and fail to bring anyone home. But the natural highs and lows of this series (juxtaposed so stunningly in Games 3 and 4) will forever be stained by the artificial interference of poor umpiring calls in Games 1 and 4.

While the Sox have many lessons to learn from the postseason (how to turn a double play, how to bring Nomar home from third), Major League Baseball itself also has to learn that it must reform the way the game is officiated--by instituting the use of instant replay or, at the very least, requiring the conferencing of all umpires on questionable calls. Ignorance and stubborn independence are not virtues in an umpire.

Yankee owner George Steinbrenner said he no longer supported Jimy Williams for manager of the year after the Red Sox leader threw his cap in protest of the second poor call of Game 4 and got himself ejected. As far as I'm concerned, Williams' actions just tightened his lock on the award. Williams was taking the only recourse he had at that moment, declaring his frustration with an umpiring system devoid of any checks or balances.

Rick Reed and Tim Tischida were honest in admitting their errors, but honesty comes more easily when a million fans see the replay on their screens at home. It's the old problem of apology (or, in this case, just admission) without consequence--what good does it do the Red Sox or the sport in general if the umpires can blow such obvious calls, ignore the possible help of their peers and wait until the game is over to admit their mistakes?

When the Red Sox commit errors, they often lose the game (as they did in this series). When the Yankees play Roger Clemens (now in better shape than he ever was in his last years with the Sox) against Pedro Martinez, they lose the game. There are consequences to actions. When the umpires mess up, they suffer only momentary embarrassment, but the teams and the fans all lose, because the game has been interfered with. Change the rules; hold the umpires accountable.

But poor calls and errors aside, I return to my father's advice not to place my life's happiness in the hands of the Red Sox. I've learned that lesson; this year I placed only my temporary happiness in their hands. And while I'm tired from staying up late night after night and cheering myself hoarse from the grandstand, while I'm sad that the hated Yankees are in the World Series yet again, I have to say that the Sox delivered for me. Their gutsy play and come-from-behind victory against Cleveland were inspiring; I won't soon forget O'Leary's two home-runs in Game 5. Watching Martinez mow down the Yankees one right after the other in Game 3 of the ALCS was a sight for the ages.

The Red Sox, in the midst of all the pain they've caused their fans over the last 81 years, have also brought us a great deal of joy. Just wait 'til next year.

Susannah B. Tobin '00 is a classics concentrator in Lowell house. Her column appears on allternate Thursdays.