In 2004, best-selling authors Stephen King and Stewart O’Nan teamed up to write Faithful, a day-by-day account of the Boston Red Sox championship season as experienced through the eyes of two diehard fans. Now that Boston has once again climbed to the summit of their sport, we here at Yard Work are proud to re-team these two literary titans for more Sox talk in today’s installment of our 2008 Season Preview.

STEWART O’NAN (SO): Yeah, this winning stuff. I could definitely get used to it. 2004 was all nervous jitters and Pepto Bismol, waiting for that inevitable Red Sox Luck to come back and bite us. But through it all — the Vlad Guerrero grand capicola, Schill’s bloody ankle sheath, Bellhorn’s homer off the guy in the stands, A-Rod’s slap, Manny tripping the grass fantastic — the Red Sox did something they’ve never done before. They persevered. Hell, they thrived. It was like watching Crispin Glover finally ball up his fist and cold-cock Biff Tannen in the first Back to the Future movie. And after the roller-coaster ride of that year — and what a ride! — 2007 was a breeze. Down 3-1? Feh — we were down 3-zip to the Yankees. Rockies come back within a run? Meh — we were down twice against the Yankees, once with only one out between us and going golfing. I’ll admit it — when Little Papi threw that final pitch in Game 4, I wasn’t wringing my hands and cursing my god. Anymore than usual, anyway. No, I was strutting around. I was saying: “Here we are, baseball, the new dynasty in town, come and get us.” And it felt really good.

STEPHEN KING (SK): You know what was even better than see the Sox prevail yet again? Seeing the Yankees finally get the karmic comeuppance they’ve been asking for all these years. How great was it seeing those midges swarm Jacobs Field and nestle right into the meaty neck folds of the Next Big (And I Mean Big) Thing to hit the Big Apple? I swear, I’m not a violent man, but every time I turned on the YES Network, and I heard those half-dead choads go on about how this kid can throw 500 MPH and clean the Aegean Stables with a 16 ounce bottle of Poland Spring, it’s all I could do to keep myself from breaking into one of their homes and making with the wetwork. I’m talking about full-on splayed-out Hannibal Lecter slice and dice. High school. Dull scalpel. Earthworm.

SO: Yeah, and it doesn’t stop there. You see this thing about the new Joba? Hey, maybe we can wait until the old Joba actually becomes a bonafide Joba before we start giving out Hall of Fame plaques. Meaning that throwing all of twenty-four innings doesn’t mean all that much. I saw Matt Young pitch well for twenty-four innings once. I also saw a monkey write As You Like It by throwing feces at a Compaq laptop. Folks gotta realize that it’s those other hundred-plus frames that are the problem. Either way, I guess it shows how bad things are for the Evil Empire, when they have to rely on a bunch of unproven kids to pull their overpaid bacons out of the fire every year.

SK: Just to show you how stats and stats alone don’t mean a thing — this place claims that Joba’s ERA+ (which is some averaging ERA thing) from last year is 1192. Josh Beckett’s ERA+? 145. Guess who I’d rather have on my team?

SO: Becks straight from the tap! That guy, what a champ. A consumate professional, and a Dirt Dog like good old Trotter. He really stepped up last year and showed the world what he could do. If only Tommy Brady was as clutch. Watching him pitch in the playoffs was like, I dunno, someone seeing Da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa, or being on set as Mel Brooks directed Young Frankenstein. He was beyond fantastic. (Sorry for all the pop culture references — been reading this great columnist on ESPN.com called The Sports Guy. HUGE Boston fan. I heard someone call him “the Stephen King of sports journalism.” You should check him out!) Between Becks’ pitching, and Mikey Lowell’s big bat, I think it’s safe to say that the Red Sox won that Marlins trade going away.

SK: Speaking of Lowell — he’s a real Red Sox guy. I’m so glad Theo & Company bit the bullet and brought him back, because he’s worth every penny. Just like Tek. Hell, even MORE than Tek. Not to disparage the Captain — without him, we’re playing all sorts of Rich Gedman wanna-bes. But Lowell’s leadership, his charisma in the clubhouse, all those intangibles — he could hit like Ted Williams’ frozen head, and he’d still be worth the whatever-million he’s getting. The fact that he can take folks yard (like a certain heavy-set Yankee phenom) just means he’s a steal at twice the price. Unlike some former National League players I won’t mention by name.

SO: Aw, Steve-o, you’re not talking about Drewpy, are you? Even after that HUGE olive loaf he bashed against the Cleveland Indians?

SK: Yes, it is he of whom I’m pissed off about, verily forsooth and all that. Everything surrounding him and his coming to Boston stank like wet rabid dog. I didn’t like it when they gave eleventy million to an injury-prone clubhouse cancer. I didn’t like it when his batting average resembled the blood alcohol level of a teetotaller and he walked less than an 8th place hitter in the NL. I didn’t like it when balls that Trotsky would’ve caught went over his head or through his rickety wickets. And I sure as shit on the soles of my Converse didn’t like it even when Mr. RBI Guy finally, after six months of clutch double plays and pop-ups, came through with a big RBI hit. The only way I could like this gentleman and his dispassionate style of play even less is if he was of French-Canadian descent and had a fastball that was straighter than Colin Farrell. (Hi there, I read ESPN.com’s Sports Guy too!) If John Henry can extend a coveted Red Sox Nation membership to one of George’s broken condoms, then he can surely issue that overpaid chump in RF a Get The Hell Out of Fenway Right Now card.

SO: Wow. Remind me not to ask you about Juilo The Lugo. Anyway, what do you think about our chances this year? I’m going to miss Schill’s presence in the rotation, and I hope Becks’ back isn’t shot, but I’m sure Lest and Buch and even Loco Tavares can do just fine in their stead. Manny being Manny is good for thirty-thirty (that’s thirty HRs, and thirty helmet-flips rounding third base), and Papi being Papi is good for half-a-century and all sorts of clutch godliness. Youk, Peddi Crack, and now The Mayor off the bench? I’ll be disappointed if they average LESS than five runs a game.

Also, count me in among the many folks that can’t wait to see what J-Ells can do for us over the course of 162 games, as much as I’m going to miss Coco Puffs’ defense and resplendant afro. And, while I’m here, kudos to the front office for holding their cards close to their chest and waiting for someone to come up with an offer that actually matches Coco’s worth. It’s not like the 3rd best center fielder in the game (behind only Carlos Beltran and Grady Sizemore) (OK, and Ichiro, too) (and maybe Torii Hunter and Vernon Wells and Aaron Rowand and that speedy guy on the Rockies and some other guys) will come cheap.

SK: Well, let’s do the math. The best pitching staff in the game plus the best hitting lineup in the game plus the best bullpen in the game plus the best manager in the game plus the best front office in the game plus the best farm system in the game plus (of course) the best fans in the game equals another World Series ring? I’ll buy that. And I’m sure someone at the Ministry of Yankee Truth is working double OT to try and put some pinstripe-positive spin on this incident involving a Yankee fan getting his just desserts and paint us fine folks in the greatest Nation in all of sports as the sort of boorish fist-first louts that lurk in the bowels of The House That No, No, Nanette Built. Hope that poor jerk gets hazard pay, too.

SO: Meanwhile, the Yankees will have to distract their fans with super-loud renditions of “Cotton-Eyed Joe” to make them not realize that they’re paying over twenty million dollars for a first baseman that hits like Carlos Quintana and fields like Billy Buckner, and another fifteen or so to a pitcher that can’t even remember how many times he cheated. Oh, and look whose fanbase is harping on that Red Sox scout misunderstanding. Figures they’d leap all over that tawdry little tidbit and ride it into a fake sunset. I can’t wait for the season to finally start.

SK: You said it, Stew-Bot. Boston (by way of Bangor), you’re my home. (Can someone get Ryan Adams or Vampire Weekend to cover this already?)