Suddenly, though, weird things started happening. A line drive on the final out of the seventh by New York's Marius Russo shattered the kneecap of Fat Freddie Fitzsimmons, who had shut out the Yankees in Game Three. New York scored the deciding run via four straight singles off luckless reliever Hugh Casey in the eighth.

The Dodgers seemed poised to avenge this loss in Game Four after taking a 4-3 lead into the ninth. But Casey's apparent game-ending third strike on Tommy Henrich eluded luckless catcher Mickey Owen, and the Yankees rallied once more, for a 7-4 win. New York subsequently took Game Five to clinch a deflating Series for the Dodgers.

This year, success eluded a similarly-likeable ballclub against the Yankees, although the original Boys of Summer didn't have TV announcers thoughtfully brandishing Babe Ruth graphics, or considerately bringing up the Curse of the Bambino.

Two blown calls deflated Red Sox rallies. Troy O'Leary and Jason Varitek missed home runs by decimal points. History repeats itself, 58 years later.

Yet I compare the Red Sox to the Dodgers in a positive sense. The link between teams placed half a century apart is that both succeeded in rekindling a small light of hope that is too often extinguished.

Much like Tiffany's to Holly Golightly in Hepburn's greatest movie, baseball can offer a haven of peace in a world of turmoil. The promise of renewal held in baseball--for there is always another game and, as the Red Sox and Dodgers would remind us, another season--offers a sense of security and continuity.

And when a Dodger team consistently consigned to last place finished first, or a Red Sox crew in which everyone knew their role and surpassed it, it reminded us of our remarkable capability to defy our doubters and briefly illuminate the world with the inner light that drives us.