I can't think of any other postseason pitcher who has the status Schilling has now. Not a one. Is he the greatest postseason pitcher of all time? I don't know. But I know his greatness is more palpable to more people (and only part of this is a function of living in a televised, Internetted world) than any other.
One thing's for sure, though: Bill Simmons remains the G.O.A.T. of Boston sportswriters:
Sorry I couldn't come up with a column for you today ... I've been busy struggling with the loss of my identity. Like every other Red Sox fan, I defined myself by the fact that my baseball team couldn't come through when it mattered. I liked supporting a loser. Deep down, I was always terrified that they would win the World Series, only because I wouldn't have any reason to follow baseball anymore. I don't enjoy baseball, or following a team of 25 guys, or the ups and downs of a six-month season. I just thrived on that familiar pain every October when the Red Sox choked again. Now it's gone. And I'm useless.
(See how ridiculous that looks in print? We just wanted to be another baseball team again! Why can't anyone understand this? To every radio host and columnist who tried to argue the logic of the previous paragraph in the past 24 hours -- and expected people to take you seriously -- kindly stab a pencil into your neck. I'm not kidding. Jam a pencil right into your jugular vein. Do us all a favor.)
P.S. Hey A-Rod, Who's your daddy?