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I've been busy, you know. After 18,230,478 mentions in the national media in the last 30 days, I'm a little worn out.
What a journey it has been, over all these years. I've seen the advent of commerical air travel, man on the moon; countless wars, presidents, and crises; and the addition of two states to the United States. I've seen my beloved game of baseball change countless times, with new teams added, and other teams move.
Throughout it all, one thing has remained constant. I've lived and lingered, somehow thinking the party's over each and every time the Red Sox got close. And boy, were they ever close. You may not believe it, but curses have fingernails, and let me tell you, they were all gone in '86. I thought my job was in jeapordy, that I'd have to retire. But I called for every last ounce of strength in my well, and watched with glee as a future Hall of Famer by the name of Bill Buckner let the ball roll through his legs. Poor guy. He really was a great player, I feel bad. But I've got a job to do, you know.
I've also had to rely on help from the Yankees many times. I'm sure you know the years, Bucky Bleeping Dent and all. And don't forget about Grady Little-- I tried a Jedi mind trick on him as a desperation measure and I was as surprised as anyone when it worked. I sat right above him, whispering "Pedro's still throwing hard. Keep him in." Seconds later, I heard Grady say, "Pedro's still throwing hard, I'm going to keep him in."
And watching the tribulations of the Red Sox fans has been a real treat. They tried to raise the Babe's piano, re-record 86 year old songs, recite Native American incantations, issue fake orders from courtroom judges... you name it, they've done it. Some people thought I would be killed off when a kid who lives in the Babe's house got his teeth knocked out by a foul ball. And they're even trying to raise money for Lou Gehrig's Disease this year. Twisted, twisted, mixed up, superstitious people. How are they even sure that I exist?
So this year, I thought my work was done when I had the Yankees up 3 games to none. I even booked my yearly winter ticket to Florida. The Sox were humiliated at home 19-8 on Saturday. No team could ever come back from that, so Sunday I got cocky. I took a cab to Logan and hopped a flight; my hope was that when I landed, I would hear the news of the sweep.
No deal. I got to the Keys and heard that my arch-nemesis David Ortiz won that one. Hey, no problem, the Yanks are still up 3 to 1 and have two games at home. No panic.
Then, game five. Pedro. Pitches his heart out. Who's his daddy?
Game six, surely the Yanks will pull it out. Once I heard they were putting Schilling out there, I relaxed on my hammock and popped open a Corona. The guy who limped off the mound after getting shelled in Game One-- the one who needs an operation-- there was NO WAY he could win that game!!! But somehow, some way, his ankle was stapled, injected, and held together. The guy was in pain, and I commend him for a legendary, superhuman performance.
So hey, no problem. They're going to throw Lowe on the mound for Game 7. Haven't I been there before? Oh yeah, I certainly have. So I said to myself, "well, maybe I should go back to the Bronx, and make sure that this thing gets finished. How much brush can a curse possibly clear?"
But in my laziness, I decided not to go. I relaxed on my beanbag chair with my parrot, who I named Aaron Boone, opened up a beer, and watched the game.
And if you wanted to ask the question, "can a Curse curse?", I'm sure the residents of Key West will tell you the answer. "G*DDAMN*D DEREK LOWE THAT WRETCHED @!@*&@#^&&@^&^@$@$ PITCHED SIX INNINGS OF ONE HIT BALL? DAMON WITH A GRAND SLAM AND SIX BLEEPING RBIs? WHAT THE F@!#&*@#@&$@^&@^$&@^!!!!!!!!! AND THAT ORTIZ??? HOW MANY DAMN RBIs DOES HE HAVE!??!?!! ARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
It was at the end of that game that my red phone rang. Yup, you guessed it-- it was my boss, the Babe himself, calling from Beyond. Let me tell you, the man (or spirit I should say) was not happy.
"Cursey, where in the name of creation are you?!?!" he asked.
"Ummmmm, boss... I'm still down in the Keys."
"Why the Hades are you down there? Is there a Mrs. Curse distracting you these days?"
"Well, no, I figure the Sox were toasted. I mean, boss, we were up 3 to nothing. It's never been done, ever ever ever. Do you really think I was needed?"
"WELL OBVIOUSLY YOU ****WERE**** NEEDED, IMBECILE!!! Why didn't you go back north when the Sox started winning?"
"It's nice here. And I'm getting a pet iguana named Grady Little."
The Babe took a deep breath.
"Listen closely. If you don't get your invisible ass back to Boston for game one of the World Series, I'll curse YOU by making you an eternal Expos fan."
This was a threat I couldn't take lightly. I got a bird cage for Aaron Boone and headed for the airport.
But when I got to the airport, I ran into something disturbing. The ghosts of millions of Red Sox fans, from many a generation... all standing, blocking my way on the tarmac. After all, a ghost is the only thing that can block a curse.
They walked toward me and said, "Mr. Curse, I'm afraid if you want to get back to Boston, you're going to have to get by us. We just can't let that happen. You've tested and tortured the fans of the Boston Red Sox for too long, and it's high time it stopped. It's been a good gig for you, for sure... but we can't let this go on. We need to release the bonds of cursedom from our descendants, and call them back from all corners of the earth, wherever they are, whatever continent they reside on....
"And they will gather with friends, around Fenway, around the television, around the radio... lovers will kiss, estranged friends will talk, cats and dogs will live together, world peace will ensue, pigs will fly, and hell will freeze over.
"And in one voice, they will pop open the champage we left behind for them, pour a glass... and with a tear in their eye, and a nervous hand, raise their glasses high. And they will toast. They will toast us, the ones that came before, the ones that always dreamed of this, but never got to see it. They will honor our heart, our memory, our perserverence, and our legacy. They will then, slowly and with deep feeling, raise their glasses to their lips.
"And they will finally, finally, finally, taste the sweet taste of victory."
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