A Ballad of the Bronx

(by David Ray [my uncle], with apologies and credit to Ernest L. Thayer)

It looked extremely good for the Boston nine that mid-October day;
The score stood five to two, with but two innings left to play.
And, when Nomar hugged the tired Pedro who looked a little lame,
A pallor wreathed the features of the New York patrons of the game.

Still none got up to go, for they’d seen Chicago’s mess,
And with that hope which springs eternal within the human breast,
They thought: "Let’s put the Red Sox in a bind, let’s make them pass the test.”

The Moose, he did his job and mowed the Cowboys down.
The Sox bullpen must do the same to move on toward the crown.
What’s this? Why it’s Pedro striding boldly to the hill.
“He’s been there for us all year long”, thought Grady. “I’m giving him the pill.”

The Sox Nation held its breath as Johnson made an out.
Five more to get and on we go; we still can win this bout.
But the next batter’s name was Jeter and he would not be denied.
He battled hard and hit a pitch and to the wall it flied.

OK, no panic. We’ve got relievers champing at the bit.
Let’s bring in Timlin for the frame; they won’t get a hit.
But Little does not make a move, he’s sticking with his ace.
Bernie Williams strikes a blow and there’s hope on Derek’s face.

Now here comes Little to the mound, he’s got to make a change.
But no, he has a little talk and does something really strange.
He leaves our tired starter in to face the lefty from the East.
The painful, bleating sound from fans is like a wounded beast.

What are you thinking? What is your plan? How could you do this thing?
Pedro’s pitching has been the best, but he’s plainly tiring.
“Take him out. Please take him out.” The Red Sox nation screams.
But it will only happen that way in their fitful dreams.

The rest is too raw to recount on this the day that follows.
A double by Matsui and the weak, but fatal Jorge hit that sent us to the gallows.
The extra frames held little hope for Rivera was outstanding.
Too much to watch, too hard to not; a drama, sad, commanding.

Wake’s knuckler fluttered not enough; the result was all too plain.
We slumped, we swore, we prayed and hoped, but it still came out the same.
The Fenway gang got up two times, but could not push one across.
The end came quickly from a guy named Boone; its over, we lost.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in the Red Sox Nation, its Cowboy Up and Out.