Far be it for me to tell Joe Buck and all of the other play-by-play guys who had the final call of last night’s game how to do their job, but the Boston Red Sox first world championship in 86 years could have been summed up in three words from the moment the final out settled into Doug Mientkiewicz’s glove.

It’s all over.

No more curse talk, curse signs, curse songs or poems. No more curse books, curse t-shirts or other cottage curse industries.

No more news anchors or out-of-town columnists asking “Is this the year they break the curse?”

No more curse-related publicity stunts with somebody trying to pull some piano out of a lake or putting Babe Ruth’s picture on the summit of Mt. Washington.

No more stories about the kid who lives in Ruth’s old house getting his teeth knocked out by a foul ball.

No more black-and-white footage of the Babe during FOX baseball telecasts.

No more references to Harry Frazee or No, No Nanette.

No more jackasses dressing up like ghosts and running around Yankee Stadium, at least not when the Red Sox are in town.

No more essays from snooty academic or literary types trying to draw analogies between the Red Sox losing and the meaning of life.

No more smarmy talking heads on television predicting a Boston collapse just because “that’s what the Red Sox always do.”

Okay, so they were usually right. From now on, no more paranoia or angst that they’ll be right again.

No more waiting for the other shoe to drop.

No more “long-suffering” Red Sox fans. Just Red Sox fans.

No more 1918.

No more feeling like you’ve been kicked in the stomach any time someone innocently mentions the years 1918, 1946, 1949, 1967, 1975, 1978, 1986, or 2003.

No more of having the joys of being a Red Sox fan overshadowed by the disappointments.

No more ridiculous omens.

No more adding the numbers of the left fielder and right fielder, multiplying the sum by the square of the hypotenuse and then dividing them by three to come up with 1918.

No more holding grudges against Johnny Pesky, Jim Burton, Don Zimmer, Bob Stanley, Bill Buckner or Grady Little.

No more “Wait til next year.”

No more hoping we’d live to see them win it all.

No more wondering what today would feel like.

It’s all over.

Randy Whitehouse is a staff writer who can be reached at [email protected].