It was some time after midnight when we left the Bronx, sneaking the back way out of the Yankee Stadium traffic by scooting up the Grand Concourse to the Mosholu Parkway. One minute, you're in the South Bronx, with its gritty old buildings lined with fried chicken stands and dollar stores, the next you are sailing along a wooded lane, into a dark and peaceful night.

Players talk about how the plane ride home seems much shorter for them when they win. They're not the only ones.

According to Mapquest, it is 206 miles from my house to Yankee Stadium, a trip that--barring pit stops--should take 3:26, coincidentally about the same amount of time as a baseball game. But, well, we need our pit stops and Mapquest doesn't take into account things like game traffic. Add a half hour for miscellaneous snack and bathroom stops, an hour for how backed up the Hutchinson Parkway always is on a weeknight, another hour for how long it may take to get into a parking garage... suddenly you're looking at having to leave the house at 2pm for a game with an 8:19 pm start time.

So, corwin took off early from work, picked me up at the house, and we were on the road by 2:07 pm. It has been a mild autumn here in New England, at least as far as temperature is concerned, and the leaves did not really turn until last weekend. The trees along the Mass Pike were brilliant in yellow and orange and "Go Sox" red. We listened to WEEI, Boston's top sports radio station, enjoying the wailing and gnashing about Schilling's ankle, speculations about Derek Lowe, and other amusements supplied by Red Sox Nation until the signal faded in Connecticut. There we switched to 1050 ESPN from New York to catch some pre-game interviews, and then to WFAN AM 660, "The Fan," to hear Mike and the Mad Dog break down the Game One win from an N-Y-centric perspective. We stuck with them until the New York border approached, when finding a traffic report became more important.

I knew luck was on our side when they said the Deegan was traffic-free. I've approached Yankee Stadium from every direction, and although the Deegan always looks like it should be one of the fastest ways, the traffic on it often dictates that we take an alternate route. In fact, in the past, traffic has ALWAYS dictated that we either avoid the Deegan or bail out after a mile or so on it. So this was the first time we actually came down I-87 and exited at Yankee Stadium.

As we circled around on the off ramp, hoping to get into Parking Lot #1, our favorite and the best for tailgate parties, we saw an extremely well-lit stretch of grass. There by the ramp, no fewer than six different television crews had set up to be able to film their reporters saying whatever they say "Live from Yankee Stadium," where the Stadium could be seen in the background.

Lot 1 was full, already crammed, the tailgate parties in full swing at 6pm, more than two hours before the first pitch. NYPD had closed off the road and directed us up Jerome Avenue. "This is where I got stuck last month," I told corwin with some slight worry in my voice. We had arrived for a Red Sox game in the regular season--also against Pedro--and I had spent over an hour trapped in the traffic while looking for a space. I had let corwin out of the car to try to make it for the first pitch. I didn't make it until the fourth inning.

But that would not happen tonight, a night when luck was going our way. Extra traffic cops kept the cars moving, preventing gridlock, and we made it around to the parking garage under the elevated tracks by seven p.m., with room for another hundred cars still to go in the lot. That left plenty of time to grab a slice of pizza at Yankee Pizza on 161st Street and wander River Avenue looking for freebies. We found some: a company I never heard of was handing out baseball-shaped stress balls--something I figured we might need--and 1050 ESPN handed out "Who's Your Daddy?" posters showing Pedro and the Bambino. Lots of people took the posters but I did not see anyone in the Stadium actually holding them up. On the other hand, there were a plethora--as always--of handmade signs, reading things like "I'm Your Daddy" and "Jeter is Yo Mama!" as well as some that were not directed at Pedro. "Lieberation Day" read one banner by an enterprising crew who had brought one, it seemed, for each player. "Lightning 'Rod" was another of theirs.

The "Who's Your Daddy" stuff, in case you somehow missed it, was all the result of Pedro making an offhand comment after the Yankees beat him twice in September, once at the Stadium, and once at Fenway. Pedro isn't dumb, he knows the numbers, and for some reason the Yankees have this way of beating the Sox when he pitches. (The Yankees are 27-11 against the Sox in Pedro's starts, Pedro himself 10-12 in those decisions.) During his postgame press conference after the Fenway loss, Pedro basically admitted that he couldn't figure out why the Yankees always seem to beat him, saying ""What can I say, I just tip my hat and call the Yankees my daddies."

There has been a thriving cottage industry of "rivalry" T-shirts in both Boston and New York ever since the 1970s, when the very first "Boston Sucks" shirts and buttons appeared on street corners in the Bronx. In Boston, the slogan has become a multi-purpose rallying cry, as the "Yankees Suck" chant has been heard breaking out at events like the Patriots' Superbowl Victory Parade. It not only appears on shirts, hats, and bumper stickers, but you can get all kinds of variations, including ones that look just like the opposing team's player number t-shirts, except that it reads "______ Sucks" instead of just the player name. And of course, "Jeter Swallows." Which this year was followed by an even more vulgar variation: "Jeter Swallows A-rod." And then there are some that have sprouted this year on other vulgar themes, including "A-rod Is An A-Hole" and "Posada Is A Little Bitch." ("Take Your 26 Rings and Shove 'Em Up Your Ass" remains a popular choice. If you don't believe me, just visit http://www.yankee-hater.com to see some of the selection.)

In New York, the shirts tend not to be quite as vulgar, but just as merciless. "Hey Boston, there is no curse, your team just SUCKS" is one of the cruder ones. Another lists "Five things you'll never hear in Boston." Among them, "1918 wasn't that long ago" and "Steinbrenner? I love that guy!" Red Sox honcho Larry Lucchino's comments about the Yankees being the "evil empire" have engendered a lot of "Evil Empire" shirts, and last year's ALCS brought about the "Killer B's" shirts that read "Babe, Bucky, Buckner, Boone: The Curse Lives!"

But when Pedro admitted back in September that the Yankees were his daddy, a light went on in the head of many T-shirt makers. In fact, one of them went so far as to get the official approval of Major League Baseball to produce a shirt that read "Who's Your Daddy?" and depicted a baby pacifier with the Boston logo on it. MLB suddenly realized that condoning something like that might seem like a questionable judgement for the governing body of the sport, and they pulled the license. But there was nothing to stop T-shirt makers not using MLB logos from going to town. As we walked from the pizza shop down to the stadium I counted no less that six different sellers, each with a different variation on the "Who's Your Daddy?" theme. A report in Newsday counted closer to a dozen variations. "The mother of all slogans" they called it. As we walked along I asked corwin if he thought Pedro wasn't, in some way, sort of relishing it all. "Don't you think, whether he makes the Hall of Fame or not, that this sort of thing really cements him a legacy? How many athletes can be the focus of so much stuff?" There was more Pedro stuff than Jeter stuff.

But the signs, and the shirts, were nothing compared to the chants of the crowd. As Petey went out to the bullpen to warm up, it began, and just got louder as the night went on. As Pedro took the hill in the bottom of the first, he pointed to the sky, as if to say "that's my daddy up there." The chant of "Who's Your Da-dee" only intensified. "You know," I said to corwin (or, well, shouted, so I could be heard over the crowd), "I feel like this isn't Pedro against the Yankees. It's Pedro versus the Fans." A unique situation. Sure, there have been some position players who get intense boos when they come to the plate. But a starting pitcher is out there, the center of attention, for so long...

My feeling was that with the weeks he had to prepare for the start, Pedro was not going to be rattled by the crowd. He was going to be fully expecting it, and he was going to be tough. He was going to be focused, and adrenalated, and tough as nails. His first pitch was 94 miles per hour. Jeter took it for a ball. Jeter's approach against Pedro, which he has had success with, was usually to be aggressive. When Jeter homers off Pedro, it is usually on the first or second pitch of an at bat. But this time he took it, and then stared at three more, all out of the strike zone, trotted to first, and channelled his unused aggression into baserunning, stealing second on the very next pitch. Varitek made a laser throw, but the ball popped out of Bellhorn's glove. Otherwise, maybe Jeter is out, maybe not. He came home with the first run of the game when Sheffield singled into left. A little nick, a mere scratch of first blood, was all Pedro would allow, shutting the Yankees down after that.

Pedro also pitched slowly, very very slowly. I don't know if that was his way of maintaining his focus with men on base, forcing the Yankees and the crowd to adapt to his tempo, or if it was a tactic to lull the crowd to sleep. It was working: in the fourth and fifth we were actually yawning while Pedro was on the mound, the chants getting feeble as the tension in the game hit a plateau. Lieber was pitching a one-hitter, but you knew it was possible the Sox might explode for four or five runs at any time.

They didn't. There were two turning points of the game after that. One: Posada working his second walk of the night off Pedro, followed immediately by John Olerud hitting a two-run home run on a Pedro fastball he handled. Two: Jon Lieber battling Johnny Damon in a 16-pitch at bat, that finally ended when the crowd stood (how did we know?) and Damon lined a ball right to Bernie in center.

Pedro was good this night, as good as he has been in recent years, a tough cookie who performed well under pressure, and he gained some respect from me for that. But Lieber was simply better, keeping the Sox quiet into the 8th, leaving having given up only three hits.

It couldn't be that easy, of course. The Sox did have the tying run at the plate five times in the final two innings, but then it was Mariano Rivera's turn to be better than anyone else, and he was.

So it was that we tumbled out onto River Avenue, the air still warmish for an October night, singing Sinatra and thanking what powers that be for the good fortune to be up 2-0 in the series. The day before, corwin had asked me for my prediction. I thought about it for a while before I answered. "You know, they could sweep us. Or we could sweep them. Or any scenario in-between." It was easy to picture the circumstances under which the breaks could go either way. Well, thus far, the breaks have gone the Yankees' way. Mussina and Lieber were both brilliant (Moose perfect through six innings!), while Schilling hurt his ankle and could hardy pitch, and Pedro, good as he was, still got beat. If Kevin Brown and El Duque can keep the streak alive, we might have a couple of days off to recover before the World Series.

That would be good--some time to refocus. Last year's team definitely were so drained from beating Boston that the Marlins seemed less consequential somehow. In fact, the abstract idea of facing Houston or St. Louis seems insubstantial and unimportant compared with the hot, close confrontation with Boston. corwin said it as we sat in the upper deck, looking at the wall of people in front of us, all chanting in unison. "There's no way a World Series would be more intense than this." The Subway Series had some of it--with the whole Clemens-Piazza thing and the crosstown rivalry--but the Cardinals? Not that many fans are looking for revenge from 1964 (though Mel Stottlemyre might be). And the Astros? Piffle. Until last week, they had never won a postseason series.

No, as with last year, the highest stakes are with the Red Sox. The greatest feeling of accomplishment comes from defeating them--even Joe Torre said so himself, after Game Seven, when he said "It couldn't be more satisfying."

The Red Sox got on a plane for Boston and got in around 3:30am. I am sure there were many brooding thoughts on that plane. Was Damon thinking about going 0-for-7? Was Arroyo thinking about what will happen if he accidentally drills Alex Rodriguez? Was Manny Ramirez thinking anything at all?

Meanwhile, in our car, we were thinking "what a game." We sped through Connecticut, the roads dark and empty in the overnight hours. The Sox certainly have the capacity to make a series out of this, especially with how well they play at Fenway and the questions that remain about the health of Brown and Duque. But I wasn't really thinking about that. I was just enjoying the feeling of floating home on a win.