AN: Alyssa is the only character that's mine. If you're a Yankee fan, I'd advise you not to read this, because I don't want a million anti-Sox comments in the reviews.

Chapter 1: ALCS Game 3

Lyss buried her face in her hands. "19-8," she muttered angrily. "Holy shit, guys, 19-8? Seriously! And now you're down 3-0. No team has ever come back from a three-zero deficit in a best of seven series!"

"I thought two hockey teams did that once," Riley said.

Lyss shot Riley a Look. "I meant baseball, Riley," she snapped.

Riley wasn't fazed by his girlfriend's rudeness. He sat down next to her and put a hand on her back. "Lyss, it's all right," he said. "You never know. The Red Sox could –"

"Ri, it's im-freaking-possible!" Lyss interrupted, tossing her well-worn Sox hat to the floor. "It's all Harry Frazee's fault! He never should have sold Babe Ruth! He cursed us!"

"Come on, Lyss, there's no such things as curses," Riley said, wanting to believe that himself. He did, after all, make a living on treasures and puzzles and such.

"Prove it," Lyss shot back. She was not in the mood to argue the existence of the Curse of the Bambino. "Tell that to people that have been at this for 86 years, wishing and hoping, and constantly being let down like you don't even want to believe."

Riley sighed. "You want me to prove it? Fine. I'll call Ben."

"Are you out of your mind? Trying to tell Ben Gates that curses don't exist is like trying to tell Bill Gates that Macs are better than PCs."

Riley ignored her remark. He scooted over to the phone, dialed Ben, and hit speaker. "Y'ello?" came Ben's voice.

"Ben, hey, it's me. I got you on speaker phone."

"Oh, hey, Riley, what's up?"

Riley sighed. "Lyss is going nuts. I need you to help me convince her that the Curse doesn't exist."

Ben made a funny noise. It sounded like a combination of a snort and a cough. "What, are you kidding? There's nothing else that can really explain everything that's happened over the past 78 –"

"Eighty-six," Lyss yelled irately into the phone.

"Fine, eighty-six years, to the Red Sox. You've got Bucky Dent in '78, the 'Impossible Dream' in '67, Enos Slaughter in '46, the Big Red Machine in '75, Bill Buckner in '86, Aaron Boone last year –"

With each hardship Ben named, Lyss became more and more tense. "STOP IT!" she finally shrieked, making Riley jump. "Haven't I been scarred enough for one night?"

"Sorry," Riley and Ben said in unison.

Lyss grimaced. "Whatever. I'm going to bed." She got off the couch and stomped up the stairs, swearing all the way.

Riley groaned. "Thanks a lot, Ben," he said sarcastically.

"There's another game tomorrow, isn't there?" Ben asked.

"Yeah, but see, the Sox are down three games to none."

Ben paused. "You got your computer on? Check to see what the Red Sox's odds are for coming back."

Riley punched a few numbers into his laptop. A screen came up, and Riley let loose a very audible groan.

"Well, what are the odds?" Ben asked.

"Let's just say, the Red Sox coming back from this is less plausible than the sun becoming a supernova."

Ben gagged. "But our Sun isn't the kind of star that can supernova, Riley."

"You think I don't know that?" Riley barked. "What I'm trying to say, Ben, is that the Red Sox are screwed."

AN: Please review! NO ANTI-RED SOX COMMENTS!