khaosworks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
khaosworks) wrote2004-10-21 12:23 pm
khaosworks) wrote2004-10-21 12:23 pm
I (heart) Kurt Busiek and Peter David
"LET IT BE KNOWN, in the County of Middlesex and all the civilized lands beyond, that on this day and in this place, a proclamation is made, issued by the good citizens of the City of Boston and the surrounding region, and most particularly by enthusiasts of the Red Stockings athletic club, to the worthies of the Borough of the Bronx, the City of New York and contiguous areas, and in specific those followers of the sporting organization known as the Yankees, offering those greetings and felicitations common to well-mannered discourse, all good wishes for continued health and prosperity, and an inquiry as to the identity of their father."
YANKEES AT THE BAT
By Peter David, with apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Red Sox fans that day
The series, three to zip, with surely one game left to play.
For the Yankees were their daddy, and the Red Sox Nation wept
At the prospect of their team being ignominiously swept
A faithful few would hold up hope, but certainly the rest
Had given up the hope that sprung eternal in their breast.
“If only Lady History could be made into our bitch
If we could turn the tables on the Yankees for a switch.”
But history said down by three was far too deep a pit,
No team in all of baseball ever climbed up out of it
Plus upon that stricken multitude a grimmer specter sat
‘Twas the Curse of the Bambino that had made their hopes go splat.
So the fourth game was to be the last, the Sox just weren’t that great
It seemed that merely second best was their eternal fate
The third game, after all, had been such vast humiliation
They’d lost it 19-8, a death blow to the Red Sox Nation.
From millions of Yankee fan throats rose a great and lusty yell
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell
It started down in New York and in Fenway it would settle
For the Mighty Yankees were about to test the Red Sox mettle
There was ease in Yankee manner as they entered the fourth game
There was pride in Yankee bearing, and they smiled at Red Sox shame
And when, responding to the jeers, the Yankees doffed their hats
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ‘twas Yankees at the bats.
The Fenway bunch recoiled as Yanks took their place of honor
The Curse of the Bambino meant the Sox would be a goner.
The question wasn’t “if” or “how,” the only thing was “when?”
When would the Red Sox break their hearts? They surely would again.
But the fourth game was a shocker, for Rivera blew a save
While a timely homer rocketed off of the bat of Dave.
A five-plus hour marathon, and the Sox some left for dead…
“It was a fluke,” said Yankees. “Game Five!” the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the
Beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“They’re screwing with us!” some fans cried out, their torment on their sleeve
To hold out hope the Sox might win was too much to believe.
But the fifth game was much like the fourth, albeit slightly longer
Ortiz would save them yet again, the Sox were looking stronger.
The Red Sox Nation dared to dream, the Sox were halfway there.
Some found themselves afraid to hope, and more, afraid to care.
With a smile of New York charity great Yankees’ visage shone
They stilled the rising tumult, they said, “We’ve tossed a bone;
We’ll wrap this up in game six, in the Bronx where our fans deafen.”
But game six didn't go that way, and the umpires said, “Game seven!”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened Yank fans who despised the umpires’ calls
For the home run that was not, but was, and A-Rod’s smacking balls
And then the Yanks grew stern and cold, they saw the muscles strain,
And they knew the Yankees would not lose another game again
The sneer is gone from Yankee’s lips, their teeth are clenched in hate
They pound with cruel violence their bats upon the plate
And now Babe Ruth is looking down, the seventh game is on
And now comes crashing history, and now the game is gone.
Oh, somewhere in the Bronx this day, you’ll find there’s no Bronx cheer
Commuters looking shellshocked and the future isn’t clear.
And somewhere, fans feel lousy, and somewhere, George feels worse
But there’s only joy in Boston
For the Yankees caught the curse.
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I agree with your sentiment entirely.
re: Bronx Cheer
Yankees at the Bat
I've also printed it out, to lay upon the desk of a co-worker who was paying-off bets yesterday morning, having put her money where her mouth was as a Yankees fan.
I personally wish it HAD been the Astros against the Sox, but then I grew up near Houston back in the days when everybody thought Roy Hofheinz, original owner of the Astros, was
'absolutely bonkers, bouncing off those padded walls
completely crackers, looney toons, ba-dip ba-dip ba-dip that's all'
for building a baseball stadium with a roof, air conditioning, and artificial grass for his team to play in.
*snort*
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OMG, can I foward this paragraph to my coworkers at Fenway??? It's beautiful! (And if so, how shall I attribute it?)
-Hunty
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Thanks.
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--Lisa Hertel
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'twas writ' 'for my Red Sox won...
they never gave them half the chance
before the curse was done.
there was no curse and i am sure
they just played a baseball game.
we came, we saw, we kicked their ass
we put their ass to shame...
:D