The year it all changed

It was the year of Marcaine, "Tessie," and the pink hats.

The year of Doc Morgan and the cadaver, Pedro and his Mini-Me (Nelson de la Rosa), and Damon's Disciples.

The season of Curt in the Car, Gehrig38, and the Sons of Sam Horn.

It was the year hell froze over (the New York Post said so), when the Red Sox ended 86 years of cruel misfortune, avenging a calamitous history of late-season horrors (2003, 1986) and heartaches (1978, '75, '67, '49, '48, '46). It was the year the Red Sox bade the ghosts of October gloom adieu.

It was 2004, when a merry band of self-proclaimed "Idiots" forever changed the face of the franchise by winning its first World Series since 1918 and proving that the "curse" was nothing more than a five-letter punch line. No more "1918" chants in the Bronx. No more fans mythically lining up like lemmings on the Tobin Bridge.

It was the year the Red Sox conquered the "mediots," as Curt Schilling dubbed the curse jockeys and gloomsayers in the Boston media, stewards of the club's legacy of failure.

It was the season that changed the way generations of New Englanders gave their souls to the Red Sox. Because of that season, the 2007 team's sensational comeback against the Indians in the American League Championship Series, which once would have seemed unfathomable, instead unfolded like a logical sequel to 2004's "Faith Rewarded."

It was a year like no other.

"It's not the fact that we won the World Series, it's how we did it," said the goofy reliever, Curtis Leskanic, in the frothy aftermath of the franchise's Liberation Day. "We did it like no other team in the history of baseball."

It was the year the Evil Empire crumbled. The year the Red Sox shocked the world (Kevin Millar said so) by laughing off an 0-3 deficit in the best-of-seven ALCS and humiliating the Yankees in The House That Ruth Built.

It was the year the Red Sox completed their sweep of the Cardinals in the World Series at Busch Stadium in St. Louis, beneath a canopy of clouds that masked a blood-red moon.

It was the season of the bloody sock, "Animal House," and clubhouse hijinks, from Martínez's naked rally laps to Damon's naked pullups.

The season Derek Lowe went from "Mental Gidget" to postseason savior.

The year Terry Francona masterfully guided a traveling circus to glory.

It was 2004, when Theo Epstein went from Pearl Jam-loving general manager to demigod. The year when Epstein and his fellow "computer geeks," as Martínez dubbed the (Bill) James Gang, relied on "quant" (computer-assisted quantitative analysis), old-fashioned scouting, and character judgments to construct a team that defied history and convention.

No rule went unchallenged. No deficit was too large to overcome, no gaffe too embarrassing for Francona's renegades. If they forgot the number of outs, threw to the wrong base, or lost track of the score, they had a ready excuse.

"We must have been looking at the chicks in the stands," Johnny Damon said.

One of the team's late-night ringleaders, Damon all but embraced his pal Jason Giambi's wish to "play like an All-Star and party like a rock star."

It was the year of the Hair Club. Damon went all Jesus of Nazareth ("What would Johnny do?" read the placards his disciples carried). Trot Nixon sported a Mohawk (he called it "The Bosworth"). Bronson Arroyo visited a Roxbury stylist who weaved his blond-streaked hair into cornrows, a la Bo Derek. Martínez and Manny Ramírez let their Jheri curls flow. Mark Bellhorn, too. And Pokey Reese stuck mostly with his cornrows, though he sometimes let his Afro breathe, prompting Damon to liken him to Buckwheat of "The Little Rascals."

They were a clique-free menagerie of brothers: evangelical Christians, Jews, conservative Southerners, an assorted liberal or two, a few Dominicans, a couple of African-Americans, a Colombian (Orlando Cabrera), Korean (Byung-Hyun Kim), Panamanian (Ramiro Mendoza), and two sons of American servicemen who met their wives while they were serving in Asia (Damon and Dave Roberts).

For sheer camaraderie, their unifying forces were Millar, a Harley-riding Texan with an Amish goatee and a spirited appreciation for team chemistry, and David Ortiz, a big-hearted Dominican who helped bridge the divide between the club's Anglos and Latinos, pitchers and hitters, players and mediots. It was one of the most diverse teams in professional sports.

The clubhouse soundtrack was a mix of reggaeton (Ortiz), salsa (Ramírez), bachata (Martínez), rock (Millar), and country (Mike Timlin, among others). High on the playlist was Toby Keith's "Whiskey For My Men, Beer For My Horses," which made sense when a few of the Red Sox ceremonially raised shots of Jack Daniels and Seagram's Crown Royal before the final postseason games.

It was the year when Ortiz became Big Papi, Ramírez became an American citizen, and "Mr. Boston," as Damon referred to Nomar Garciaparra, became a Chicago Cub, shipped out in a blockbuster deal that made a world of difference.

It was the year when Jason Varitek, hailed by one of his teammates as the club's "Mandingo Warrior," rallied the Red Sox toward greatness with a two-handed shove of Alex Rodriguez. And the year when one of A-Rod's most memorable images was him silly-slapping a ball out of Arroyo's glove in a pivotal postseason play.

It was the year of the T-shirt: "Screw the Curse," "What Curse?" "Cowboy Up for Christ," "Tell 'Em We're Coming and Hell Is Coming With Us," and "Why Not Us?"

The year Martínez declared the Yankees his daddy.

The year of Dr. Charles and the Cowsills. Dr. Charles and the Standells. Dr. Charles and James Taylor.

The year when Stephen King went from horrormeister to Red Sox diarist and led the parade of writers who cashed in on the Red Sox making history.

It was the year that compelled Dan Shaughnessy to find a new moonlighting job. He had chronicled the so-called curse the way Tolkien had tracked the civilizations of Middle-earth.

It was the year of RemDawg, D.O., T.C., Frede-O, and Hazel Mae. The year of Joe ("Can you believe it?") Castiglione and Jerry ("Way Back") Trupiano.

It was the year when Hollywood made a movie, "Fever Pitch," at Fenway Park and needed to scurry to remake the ending at Busch Stadium when the Red Sox changed history.

It was the year of postseason celebrations, the good and the bad.

The bad: a riotous melee beyond the Green Monster, where fans burned cars and a police officer fired a pellet gun, killing an innocent reveler, 21-year-old Tori Snelgrove.

The good: a rolling rally with the Red Sox riding Duck Boats and millions of fans commandeering sidewalks, bridges, riverbanks, tree limbs, window ledges, rooftops, any piece of the Back Bay, Beacon Hill, Government Center, and the Cambridge riverside they could stake out to herald the new world champions.

As the boats rolled toward Bowdoin Square, Al Bazzinotti, an Army officer and diehard Red Sox fan, held high a placard that addressed the heartache generations of New Englanders had endured before the great emancipation of '04. The sign read, "All is forgiven."

It was the year of Boston Dirt Dogs, an Internet fan site that grew so popular the Globe's parent company bought it in midseason.

"Breaking news from Boston," the Big Dog informed the masses after the World Series triumph. "There is a God."

It was the year the baseball gods finally forgave the Red Sox for turning their backs on the likes of Jackie Robinson and other great African-American players the franchise had insulted a half-century earlier.

It was the year Johnny Pesky, Bobby Doerr, and Dom DiMaggio finally got their World Series rings. The year Pesky shed a tear for the friends who died without rings, none greater than Ted Williams.

It was 2004, the year that gave the Red Sox and their fans reason to believe they no longer would wait generations for another championship. It was a harbinger of hope, a springboard to 2007.

Bob Hohler can be reached at hohler@globe.com.