And with that, the Chicago White Sox dispatched the ghosts of their shoeless forebears back into the ether from whence they came. The ghosts – the ghosts of corruption and human fallibility, this time, not of billy goats and Billy Buckner – instantly vanished into the night. 88 years of futility resonated as emphatically within the hearts of the respectful throng in Houston as 88 piano keys struck all at once; as the music faded, so did the Chicago White Sox’ reputation as baseball’s penultimate losers.

In the end, it was smallball, after all, which on this late October night wrought its imprimatur in luminous script upon the blank horsehide slate – the White Sox dispatching the hapless Astros 1-0 less than 24 hours after the conclusion of a 14-inning marathon, the Astros’ power aces bowing to the White Sox’ finesse quartet. Not a flamethrower is to be found in the White Sox’ rotation – lefty Jon Garland barely fits the bill – but when it comes to painting the black, they’re Mick Jagger, Ron Wood, Keith Richards, and Charlie Watts.

I grew up on the South Side of Chicago. Mine was a childhood fraught with misery, enduring the slings and arrows of enemy Cub fans; the decades between World Series in Chicago were bleak and barren, but the White Sox never had Ernie Banks or Ron Santo to root for. If the White Sox have a defining mythology, it is of the ungainly stepsister, and if their tale has a redemptive ending, it is of the sweet champagne-drenched kiss Jermaine Dye placed upon the golden base of the coveted trophy on Wednesday night. Yes, that Jermaine Dye. Even Carl Everett – badder than King Kong and meaner than an old junkyard dog – played a key role. How fitting that longtime manager and White Sox stalwart Al Lopez lived long enough to see it happen; like Johnny Pesky, his peer in Boston, Mr. Lopez never lost faith in his team over the years.

A day after the ticker-tape parade wound its dizzying way through the gritty streets of the Second City, there was a macabre epilogue – Mr. Lopez suffered a heart attack and passed away at age 97. One hears told tales of Boston families who held vigils over the bedsides of their sickly elders last year, hopeful that they would outlast the Curse of the Bambino; indeed, a popular literary postmortem even bears the title “Now I Can Die in Peace.” As a White Sox fan, it is hard not to take that literally as it pertains to Mr. Lopez’ death; a smile must have been on his face as he finally departed this mortal coil.

In the first moments of the postseason lull, it is hard not to contemplate the future. What does the future hold for curses great and small, for the Astros, Rangers, Nationals, and even those dreaded Cubs? Consider the newest one of all. If the Red Sox were conceptual artists, they’d be post-modernists – theirs is a curse that knew it was a curse, an infinite feedback loop that supplied New England with generations of angst and its sportswriters with columns and columns of ink-drenched pathos. When the Red Sox were summarily eliminated by their pale-hosed nemeses, there was nary a blink from the Boston naysayers; so quick was the Red Sox’ transition from doomed franchise to media darlings that the return voyage seemed like a quick slip across the river Styx, back to the friendly confines of loss.

Don’t think for a second, Red Sox fans, that team leadership doesn’t recognize the substantive advantages of being affiliated with all that romantic failure; imbued with the memory of 2004, there is no great demand in Red Sox Nation for the team to aspire to anything greater than competence. Satiated, the Red Sox stand to lose touch with the ascetism that defined their passion throughout the years; there is no culture of fear and resignation in Miami or Anaheim or Phoenix, and as the years pass and the Red Sox keep winning and losing like any other team, they will lose the identity they cultivated for so long.

The Red Sox’ ownership apparently fully believed in this theory. Keeping a stiff upper lip in their negotiations with wunderkind GM Theo Epstein, they stonewalled his contract demands until he left of his own accord; in his absence, the Olde Towne Team will be left to the stewardship of the kind of baseball minds that thought it a good idea to give bull-market money to Jose Offerman and Troy O’Leary. As it well should be.

Indeed, in the public arena, the Red Sox’ 86 years of futility have already been eclipsed by the White Sox’ 88-year quest for redemption. In the short term, the Fenway summers may loom bleakly, but both the Red Sox and White Sox would be wise to follow their predecessors’ decision-making over nearly a century of comic ineptitude if they intend their next World Series win to be as remarkable and meaningful as the last one. A drink of water never tasted so sweet as after a long walk in the desert.

William C. Rhoden is a columnist for the New York Times.