COMPOSED BY YESYESNANETTE
It finally looked hopeful for the Boston nine that day.
The score was three to zip with but six innings left to play.
So when Derek Lowe retook the mound, and Marquis phoned it in,
The pale-faced Northern fans thought that their team might really win.
A few Cards faithful left their seats, leaving there the rest
With dismay so far unknown, for their team had thus far been best.
And Damon, he of grand slam fame, had started with a dinger,
So Red Sox nation saw the fat lady now would be the singer.
But Marq preceded Heren; Isringhausen his loins girt;
And like Marquis before them, they both threw into the dirt.
So, on that stricken multitude a quite rare silence sat,
For they knew it didn’t matter if A. Pujols came to bat.
The Sox fans, in strange setting, had no wonderment at all,
When long-haired Johnny Damon tore the cover off the ball.
And when the dust had settled
in the crucial inning third,
There was Nixon safe at second, and Jace had scored from third.
Then from the Beantown faithful all went up a joyous yell.
It rumbled in the Berkshires, and it rattled in LoWELL.
It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat--
For Ketih Foulke,
humble Keith Foulk,
Was still silencing the bat.
There was ease in Keith Foulke’s manner as he held onto his place.
There was calm in Keith Foulke’s bearing and a smile on his young face.
And unlike Jason Marquis, he did shake not off the signs,
Pitch and catch could talk as if just through their minds.
Millions of eyes watched him as he threw the ball toward plate.
Likewise millions reveled as it stayed out of the dirt.
And as the steady pitcher lined the ball up from his hip,
Unease was in Scott Rolen’s eye, no sneer upon his lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Rolen swung his bat and watched
it cut the humid air.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped.
“I couldn’t get wood on it,”
And, “Strike one!” the umpire said.
From the benches black with people there went no muffled roar,
They had seen the team collapse, they cared not anymore.
“How can we lose so badly?”
someone cried out from the stand--
But Boston fans were grinning,
For the end was now at hand.
With a smile of great excitement humble Keith Foulke’s visage shone.
He stilled the not-there tumult. He bade the game go on.
And Rolen popped out silently,
And watched the ball get caught,
But two outs remained, surely
This work would not come to naught.
The Cards won one-oh-five this year,
It must be yet a fraud
But silent bats and lousy throws had made them all too awed.
How could the curse land on the Cards?
How could they feel such pain?
And they hoped an E-3 would still keep alive the game.
Jim Edmonds strikes out swinging
One-two-three and he is gone.
And Edgar Renteria sees Pujols move one base on.
And Renteria grounds out,
And to first base it MUST go,
And now the dreaded curse will hold its grip on Sox no more.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land, Menino plans parades,
The band is warming up there, and they’re selling lemonade.
And somewhere men are giving thanks
And all schoolchildren shout.
For there is joy in B-town
For the curse has been thrown out.
