Any naysayers to the notion that the Boston Red Sox recent World Series victory over the St. Louis Cardinals affected millions of people should take an amphibious duck boat of their own down the Penobscot River and out onto the Atlantic Ocean until they reach the Charles River in Boston and navigate the same path the World Champions did a few days ago.

What these folks would find is a region still in blissful awe of just exactly what the Old Towne Team accomplished in late October on baseball diamonds in Boston, Anaheim, New York, and St. Louis.

The celebration continues, and from my little corner of the world, I’m not sure exactly when it may end.

Let’s face it. People were visibly touched by the hardball proceedings in Beantown this season, and in my family, the revelry may go well into the holiday season.

My oldest son attends graduate school in Boston. What a summer he had there following the Red Sox. He was also lucky enough to attend the now-famous duck boat parade of the Boston Red Sox. He told me that the thing that impressed him the most was how touched the Red Sox players were by the 3.2 million people watching on a gray, rainy day in Boston. He’s been around sports long enough to have seen many professional athletes, but the parade gave him the chance to see them in a different light.

Heck, I’m glad we all had the opportunity to see the Red Sox in the winner’s circle after so many near misses.

In 1986, as Game 6 of the Series drew to a close, I turned to my wife in our living room to say, “Hey, they’re finally going to win one!”

She was nowhere to be found.

“Honey, you don’t want to miss this!” Now, my curiosity was up. Where is she, I’m thinking?

Then, I heard a muffled sound coming from the kitchen closet. With one eye on the TV and the other eye on the closet, I yelled again.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t watch,” she said. “Something bad will happen.”

Boy, was she right!

The other night at the end of Game 4 in St. Louis, she left the room again. This time, she heard me yelling and clapping. She raced back, crying, then toppled me over on the couch.

“Can you believe it?” she yelled. “Can you?”

Yes, I could. I really could. The Sox finally found a way to win the whole thing, and, ironically, with very little difficulty the last four games. The proverbial monkey was clearly off their backs.

In September of 1960, my father helped me begin this love affair with Red Sox baseball. I reminded him of that day during one of the recent playoff games.

We were living in Winterport, and he was in our den which overlooked the Penobscot – gosh, I loved that house – watching a ball game.

“Son, come here!” he hollered.

In my father’s house, when you were beckoned, you came. It was as simple as that.

“You need to see this,” he said. “You’ll tell your own kids what you are about to watch.”

There before us on the black and white TV – no color set for us back then – was Ted Williams, getting ready to take his final at bat as a member of the Boston Red Sox. He would retire the next day.

My father was correct in my memory of that cool, fall day, for Williams’ last swing connected and the ball sailed over the fence. 1960 was the year all of my baseball memories began, and I have Dad to thank for pointing out that special day to me.

My father had an Uncle Roscoe who died a few years ago at the ripe old age of 89. He, too, was a big Red Sox fan. He and my great Aunt Dorothy used to visit us at our Branch Lake camp. They hailed from Lubec.

Uncle Roscoe was a unique Red Sox fan. In all his years, he never saw his team play in-person at Fenway Park – or on the road, for that matter – he never watched them play on TV; and, he never read about them in the newspaper. The point here is this: This big hulk of a lobsterman – he also had been a lighthouse keeper – couldn’t tell you the physical difference between Carlton Fisk and Carl Yastrzemski. He didn’t know Bill Monbouquette from Bill Lee. He couldn’t pick Dwight Evans out of a lineup. But, my, would he have loved listening to this year’s team.

He told me once that “baseball was meant to be followed on radio, not television. It should be played during the day.” (He was against fields with lights.) And, perhaps most importantly, he said “we need to get back to the point where kids can enjoy the games like we did when we were growing up,” meaning, of course, not having postseason games start so late in the evening.

Uncle Roscoe knew the game, but he also was a hardball philosopher. I have fond memories of just sitting and listening to him. He knew statistics. He knew pitching. He completely understood all of baseball’s nuances, and all this knowledge came from radio.

I thought about my great uncle the other night when Keith Foulke made that underhand toss to first base, and all of New England held their breath until the umpire signaled “you’re out!” Even though Roscoe remembered 1918, the last time the Sox were World Champs prior to this year, he could also recall 1986. Sox fans hadn’t had much luck with plays at first base in deciding games of the World Series. Roscoe would have turned his radio off and filed the whole experience in his baseball memory bank. No, he wouldn’t have seen that final out on TV, but WEEI radio broadcaster Joe Castiglione’s question would have made him smile. “Can you believe it?” the longtime announcer asked.

Yes, sir. We all can – finally.

NEWS columnist Ron Brown, a retired high school basketball coach, can be reached at bdnsports@bangordailynews.net