Five hours and forty-nine minutes. That’s how long it took. If you were a Red Sox fan sitting in Fenway Park on October 18, 2004, you didn't just watch a baseball game. You survived a marathon. Most people remember the Dave Roberts steal from Game 4, and sure, that was the spark. But the 2004 ALCS Game 5 was the actual furnace. It was the night the "Curse of the Bambino" didn't just crack—it was systematically dismantled by a group of guys who were too tired to be scared.
Think about the stakes for a second. The Yankees were up 3-1 in the series. Boston had just pulled off a miracle the night before, but history said it didn't matter. No one had ever come back from 3-0. The Red Sox were essentially playing with house money, except the house was a century of heartbreak and the debt was due.
The atmosphere in the Fens was weirdly quiet early on. Nervous energy is heavy. It's thick. You could feel it through the television screen. When Bernie Williams and Jorge Posada started carving out a lead, the familiar "here we go again" dread started to seep into the concrete. But this 2004 team was different. They were "idiots," or so they called themselves. Kevin Millar, Johnny Damon, David Ortiz—they didn't care about 1918 or 1986. They just wanted to hit.
The Pitching Duel Nobody Expected
Everyone talks about the hitting, but Game 5 was a masterclass in gutting it out on the mound. Pedro Martinez started for Boston. He wasn't the "1999 Pedro" who could blow a fastball past a God. He was the 2004 version—crafty, slightly diminished, but still terrifyingly competitive. On the other side, Mike Mussina was dealing. Mussina had that devastating knuckle-curve that looked like it was falling off a table.
Pedro went six innings. He gave up four runs. It wasn't perfect. In fact, when the Yankees took a 4-2 lead into the eighth, the vultures were circling. The Yankees had Mariano Rivera. Game over, right? Usually. But the 2004 ALCS Game 5 refused to follow the script.
Tom Gordon came in to relieve Mussina in the eighth. This is where the game turned. People forget that Joe Torre didn't go straight to Rivera. Gordon walked Millar. Then, pinch-runner Doug Mientkiewicz (try spelling that three times fast) moved up on a Trot Nixon single. Suddenly, Jason Varitek is at the plate. A sacrifice fly later, it's 4-3.
Then comes Big Papi.
David Ortiz and the Art of the Clutch
If you want to understand the legend of David Ortiz, you start here. Not with the home runs in 2013, but with the gritty, soul-crushing at-bats in this series. In the eighth inning, with the Sox trailing by one, Ortiz didn't try to win it with one swing. He just kept the line moving. He was the heartbeat of that dugout.
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The tying run eventually scored on a wild pitch and a sacrifice fly by Jason Varitek. Fenway erupted. It wasn't the roar of a crowd that expected to win; it was the roar of a crowd that realized they weren't dead yet.
Then came the extra innings.
And more extra innings.
The 10th. The 11th. The 12th. The 13th.
The tension was so high it felt like the stadium might actually collapse. Every pitch felt like a season-ender. Every foul ball was a heart attack. You’ve got to remember the personnel here. The Yankees were throwing Tanyon Sturtze. The Sox were relying on a bullpen that was held together by athletic tape and prayer.
Tim Wakefield: The Unsung Hero of 2004 ALCS Game 5
We need to talk about Tim Wakefield. In 2003, Wakefield gave up the home run to Aaron Boone that ended the season. He was the goat. Not the GOAT, but the "it's your fault" goat. In the 2004 ALCS Game 5, Terry Francona called his number in the 12th inning.
Think about the mental toughness required to walk onto that mound against the same team that ruined your life 365 days earlier. Wakefield didn't just pitch; he danced. His knuckleball was dancing, too. It was fluttering like a butterfly in a hurricane. He tossed three scoreless innings. He kept the Yankees off balance while the clock ticked past midnight.
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By the time the bottom of the 14th rolled around, it was technically the next day. The fans were exhausted. The players were delirious.
Esteban Loaiza was on the mound for New York. Johnny Damon walked. Then he moved to second on a ball that got away. Then, the moment. David Ortiz stepped up. He’d already won Game 4 with a walk-off homer. Surely he couldn't do it again.
He didn't hit a homer this time. He hit a bloop. A soft, beautiful, dying quail of a single into center field. Damon rounded third. Bernie Williams picked it up. The throw was off.
5-4. Ballgame.
Why This Specific Game Changed Everything
If Boston loses Game 5, the "Idiots" are just a footnote. They’re a trivia question. "Who almost came back against the Yankees?" But by winning this specific game—a grueling, 14-inning slog—they broke the Yankees' spirit. You could see it on Derek Jeter's face. You could see it in Alex Rodriguez's body language.
The Yankees were the "Evil Empire" back then. They were inevitable. But after Game 5, the inevitability shifted. The Red Sox had spent nearly six hours proving they wouldn't go away.
There are a few things most people get wrong or forget about this night:
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- The Attendance: 35,120 people were officially there, but if you ask anyone in Boston today, about 300,000 claim they were in the stands.
- The Pitch Count: The teams combined to use 13 pitchers. In modern baseball, a game like this would probably see 18 pitchers and take eight hours.
- The Defensive Gems: Everyone remembers the hits, but Pokey Reese and Orlando Cabrera played shortstop and second base like they were vacuum cleaners. They saved at least three runs in the late innings.
The Strategy That Won the Night
Terry Francona doesn't get enough credit for how he managed the bullpen. He used Mike Timlin and Alan Embree perfectly to bridge the gap to the late innings. He trusted the knuckleball when everyone else would have been too scared.
On the flip side, Joe Torre took a lot of heat for how he used his relievers. Why was Loaiza out there in the 14th? Why not burn another starter? These are the questions that haunted New York for years.
But honestly? It didn't matter who was pitching. The Red Sox were on a collision course with destiny. They had decided they weren't losing. It’s rare to see a team's collective will overpower a more talented roster, but that’s exactly what happened during the 2004 ALCS Game 5.
The Legacy of the 14th Inning
This game is the reason the "Bloody Sock" in Game 6 mattered. Without the 14 innings of Game 5, Curt Schilling never gets the chance to become a legend. Without this game, the sweep of the Cardinals in the World Series never happens.
It was the ultimate stress test. It proved that the Red Sox could win a "Yankee game"—a long, dramatic, high-pressure affair in the Bronx-style spotlight.
If you’re looking to revisit this game, don’t just watch the highlights. Watch the full broadcast if you can find it. Watch the fans' faces in the 11th inning. Watch the way the players were leaning over the dugout railing. It was pure, unadulterated baseball drama. No pitch clocks. No shift restrictions. Just two giants swinging hammers at each other until one finally stayed down.
Actionable Insights for Baseball History Buffs
If you want to truly appreciate the magnitude of this game, take these steps:
- Compare the Box Scores: Look at Game 4 and Game 5 side-by-side. You'll see that Game 5 was actually more statistically improbable given how deep the Red Sox had to go into their bench.
- Watch the "Four Days in October" Documentary: It’s the definitive 30 for 30 on this stretch. It captures the exhaustion of Game 5 better than any written summary can.
- Analyze the Matchups: Check out how many times Ortiz faced Loaiza in his career. That specific 14th-inning matchup was a chess game that Loaiza lost the moment he fell behind in the count.
- Visit the Hall of Fame: If you're ever in Cooperstown, look for the artifacts from this series. They have the spikes and the jerseys. Seeing them in person makes the "marathon" feel much more real.
The 2004 ALCS Game 5 wasn't just a win. It was an exorcism. By the time it ended at nearly 1:30 AM, the Curse wasn't just gone—it had been buried under 14 innings of Fenway dirt.