By Jenna Furdon
Special to the Reporter

I hate amusement parks. I am deathly afraid of heights, I have no desire to drop 100 floors in an elevator, I don't like riding backwards, and you can just forget about going upside down. I like simple water rides, fried dough, the ring toss and whack-a-mole. And that's about it.

When I do get dragged onto a roller coaster during a weak moment, I have a tendency to cover my eyes for the entire romp around the rails and yell at the top of my lungs, "IS IT OVER YET?"

Kind of like this year's ALCS.

By last Sunday morning, I had all but lost the will to watch another inning of baseball. I wanted it to be over. This year's healing process had to begin. Immediately.

By Monday morning, I was convinced that David Ortiz's game- and dignity-winning home run was what I needed to put the postseason to rest if it had to be. I could accept going down 4-1. Losing 4-0 had been unacceptable, simply because we are better team than that. Slump or not, Schilling or not, Damon or not, we are better than that.

By Tuesday morning, I was crazy to think I'd find momentary peace in a Red Sox playoffs series. ºMalaise had become anxiety-ridden excitement. And panic. And hopeful unease. I was on the train now and couldn't get off. We were back.

By this morning, Wednesday, my work productivity level has reached an all-time low. I've become a rabid animal overnight, lashing out at everything from the inert to the breathing. I'm suffering from sleep deprivation, stomach ulcers, couch sores and muscle atrophy. I can't remember how to hold a normal conversation because I've been yelling at the TV for the last four nights in a row.

This morning, on deadline and before Game 7, here we are again, waking up in our fear-gripped city, wondering if tonight is this year's last night of baseball for us. Are we facing another long, torturous winter of what-ifs? Will we, once again, be rooting for the National League in the World Series?

But in case you've been living under a rock the last few days, we've done the unthinkable. With the two longest games in playoff history under our belts, we've become the only team in history down 3-0 to force a Game 7. We have, once again, taken it to Game 7. To the Bronx. To Yankee Stadium. Could we be on the verge of facing the ultimate revenge?

We can't afford to rehash the last few days. Besides, everyone in the country knows what happened. So let's keep it short and simple.

Congratulations, Curt Schilling. There aren't even words that come close to describing your performance. Gutsy. Courageous. Immeasurable. The absolute definition of a world-class, selfless athlete. Your wish to silence 55,000 New Yorkers came true. Don't let anyone tell you that the police in riot gear, pouring from the dugouts like clowns out of a clown car, contributed to that. You had silenced them long before that.

And Mark Bellhorn, welcome to Boston. You know you've been officially inducted into the city when every resident spends all day bashing you in every medium available, and you got 'em eating their words like Big Macs hours later.

Most of us thought our journey was over days ago. We're The Faithful, We Believe, we're the "Why Not Us?" Team, but we're still Red Sox Nation. We've had lots of practice saying goodbye. Most of us thought we were getting ready to again.

Yet we've staged the potential for the most mind-blowing comeback in sports history. And I don't know about you, but I'm not ready to say my goodbyes yet.