Okay, so the Sox lost. And the Yankees won. Twice. Dude, we knew we weren’t going to win every game. Bottom line is that the Sox are still rolling, on a magnificent tear, and have only lost a staggering five of their last 29 (with Wakey accounting for three of those losses).

Back in July, when this team was embracing — and dare I say revelling in — its own mediocrity, and fans wanted to see Kevin Millar dipped in chocolate, rolled in coconut and shipped to New Guinea (alright, maybe that was just me), did we ever think such heroics even slightly possible?

No, we did not. So rather than wallow in a disgusting blip on the 2004 season (read about it here if you must), I’ll focus on the things that we, as Red Sox Nation, can be happy about this morning:

Curt Schilling is pitching tonight. His heart is cast in iron and his balls power the eastern seaboard (Like using your plasma TV? Or your microwave oven? Or your hair dryer? Thank Curt Schilling’s balls). He is the horse, and he is beckoning the entire Nation to jump upon his back and gallop into October. Of course, he’s also on the cover of this week’s SI, so watch out for the inevitable “slipped on soap in the tub and broke his ass” drama.

The Sox are still going to make the playoffs. There will be baseball in October at Fenway Park, and heart attacks in living rooms throughout New England. But this is what we live for, people. Otherwise, we’d follow badminton.

Tim Wakefield will get himself back on track for the ALDS. I mean, he has too. Right?

Manny and Ortiz. Manny and Ortiz. Manny and motherfriggin’ Ortiz.

In just one short month, Tito Francona has transformed from Gump to Gazoo. Doesn’t that instantly make anything possible in this suddenly magical season?

Scott Williamson. Pokey Reese. Trot Nixon. Back!

There was a time when our bench depth could be measured in Lee Tinsleys and Bernard Gilkeys. Now we’ve got the Hebrew Hammer, David McCarty and Kevin Youkilis. Thanks, God.

Brooke Hogan. Daughter of Hulk Hogan. As seen on TRL. Can she sing? Dude, I don’t even know if she speaks English. But does it matter?

We’ve got six games left with the Yankees. Think our boys aren’t sitting up at 3am every night, gnawing on chains and guzzling motor oil at the prospect of what could be? Christ knows I am.

Schilling. Tonight. See you at church.