October is the cruellest month

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
-- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land, 1922.

As Curt Schilling tentatively labored through three dreadful innings in Game 1 of this ALCS, the epitaph for the 2004 Red Sox may very well have been written. An in-game autopsy of Schilling's outing revealed that he brought to the mound with him little else than a handful of dust; splitters with no bite and a fastball that limped plateward as slowly as 87 mph at times. The Yankees were suitably underwhelmed and methodically went about the business of piling six earned runs atop the fallen figure of one of the most successful postseason pitchers of the modern era.

Expectations may cloud an honest assessment of the wreckage, but it certainly appeared clear that Schilling was more than simply off his game. He did not pitch like a man without his best stuff. He pitched, and sat despondant in the dugout, like a man who could not unlock his best stuff. He reacted not angrily, but helplessly. His face showed the frustration of seeing himself going full bore on the other side of the looking glass and being unable to reach through and retrieve that mantel of his own command. It hurts to lose a baseball game. It hurts far more to lose the cooperation of one's own anatomy.

The offense mounted a stirring charge as, once more, the curtain came up early for Mike Mussina. Perfection melted away from the Yankees' starter, and the Sox, on the strength of another jumpstart home run from Jason Varitek, mustered five runs to make a game of it. Were it not for Terry Francona's curious preoccupation with employing the services of nearly every available pitcher in his arsenal, including giving the Yankees a look at likely Game 4 starter Tim Wakefield free of charge, Varitek's momentous shot would have pulled the visitors within a single run.

Though early reports have been diplomatic about the impact of Schilling's balky ankle, Sox fans may be permitted more than a bit of trepidation concerning the health of the first half of their pair of aces. Pedro Martinez, he of the uncertain padre, will hit the hill for Game 2 seeking to answer questions regarding his parentage and allay a jittery Boston fan base. Will his be the roots that clutch, the branches that grow from the stony rubbish of Game 1? The challenge lying at Pedro's feet is to provide a reason to forget about mourning the shadow of Curt Schilling and to glare unfazed as the lights come up in the Bronx and another October evening rises to meet him.