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 By John Small of Concord, a member of several local acting groups including the Concord Players, and son of William Small, principal of both the Willard and the Ripley schools in the early 1960s.
In the tradition of recording heroic deeds in story and song, I wrote "The End Of The Curse Of Bambino", a parody of Gordon Lightfoot's folk-ballad "The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald", to honor and celebrate The Boston Red Sox' World Series victory. You can hear me singing this ballad here. This isn't my first song parody; find my entire catalog here.
The End Of The Curse Of Bambino
(to the tune of "The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald" by G. Lightfoot)
The legend lived on from 1918 on down
Of the big boy they call "The Bambino"
Red Sox, it was thought, were accursed and could not
Win the prize of October's Series-show
With a load of contracts twenty-six billion bucks stacked
Yankees' Steinbrenner's wallet's not empty
His overpaid crew was a bone to be chewed
When the games of October left Fenway
 The Yankees' blitzkrieg in the American League
Was a force 'gainst which most teams had no chance
As the big egos go, theirs was bigger than most
With a crew and an owner well-financed
Concluding three games with the Sox all but tamed
The Red Sox picked up two games in Boston
They went back to New York, where they'd soon pop the cork
'Cause old Boston's the last town they lost in
At first the fans screamed for their pin-striper team
And the crowd was sure they'd be winning
But soon they all knew, as the Yankees did too,
'Twas their doom to lose in extra innings
The Red Sox played great, fought back to win four straight,
In the games of October's fall classic
The World Series came, with Babe's curse to blame,
For no Sox wins since days called Jurassic
 That source of Sox' dread, the Babe's Ghost reared his head, sayin'
"Fellas, it's been fun to hurt ya."
From heaven's grandstand, the Babe's Ghost waved his hand, he said
"Fellas, it's too long I've cursed ya."
The Cardinals, in vain, fought with what strength remained,
Giving every last ounce, pound, and kilo
But later that night, in the lunar eclipse light,
Came the end of the curse of Bambino
Is anyone here still alive from that year
When the Red Sox last won the World Series?
The pundits still bet they'd have beaten the Mets
If Bill Buckner'd blocked that ball with his knees
They might have slipped up or they might have just died
They might have choked deep and been slaughtered
But now what remains are the faces and the names
Of a Red Sox World Champion roster
Fenway Park's old, endearingly so
With her Green Monster and foul-pole-stanchions
Her bleacher bums scream with a young fan's dreams
A shrine of nostalgia for sportsmen
And up to the show, the Paw-Sox will go
Taking what the Red Sox can give 'em
And with draft-picks and trades, ever-better teams are made
For the games of October they've striven
In a charming old church in Boston they prayed
Giving thanks 'neath rose-petal-shaped windows
The church bell chimed 'til it rang eighty-six times
For the end of the curse of Bambino
The legend lives on from 2004 on down
Of the Red Sox' victorious mission
Superior they are, never more to be barred
From World Series wins by superstition!
©2004 John Small
Artwork: Courtesy of ArtToday.
 
 
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