Written in those glorious days when the Yankees always beat the Red Sox in the playoffs. For eighty-six years, the Curse of the Bambino helped the Bronx Bombers defeat the Boston team.
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Red Sox owner Harry Frazee sat behind his large mahogany desk and savored, along with a fine Corona Gigante, a taste of the best Courvoisier V.S.O.P. his lads could bootleg from the Quincy Street waterfront amid the disruption of the Palmer Raids and despite the even greater menace of the newly instituted Volstead Act.
He looked at his calendar: January 3, 1920. With a sigh, he rang his secretary. “Send him in, Dolly,” he barked, abrupt and resolute. Into the office strode a large man with hair parted neatly down the middle and a nose flattened by one too many bar fights.
“Siddown, Babe,” said his boss. “Ya wanna cigar?”
“I’m already smokin’ one, boss,” said Babe.
“Indeed you are,” said Frazee, who, looking lapward, commenced a lengthy examination of his hands.
“Whazzup, boss?” asked the large man patiently.
“Aw, Babe, it’s this gal I been seein’, well, ya know how that goes,” said Frazee.
The Bambino snorted and looked around the office.
“Listen, Babe, I gotta deal all sewed up with the Yankees. If I sell you, my biggest asset, for $125,000 cash money and a $300,000 loan, then I can finance this sure-fire Broadway hit—it’s called No, No, Nanette: you’re gonna wanna see it while you’re in New York—and it’s gonna star my—ahem—girlfriend.”
“Shrewd,” said Babe, and took a puff of his Esplendido.
“Gosh, Babe, you’re a lucky guy to blow Beantown. I live on Park Avenue. You know I always say that the best thing about Boston is the train ride back to New York.”
Again Babe snorted.
“Now, Ed Barrow says I’m makin’ a big mistake. You’ve been the franchise, and we all know it. But there’s plenty ’a young talent comin’ up, and to tell ya the truth, Bambino, your powerhouse days are over. Sure, we won five straight World Series because of you, but the last one was in 1918. What happened last year? Hmm?”
“Last year I hit 29 home runs, more than any other team combined. Sorry it wasn’t good enough for you, boss. But it’s your call. I think you’re makin’ a mistake, too, by the way. I’d be surprised if your boys ever win another Series. If your heart is only half in baseball, and the other half, Broadway, don’t expect a success either way.”
Then the Bambino got up and shambled out of the great man’s office. He went to New York, built a dynasty there, and since his time, the Yankees have won 26 World Series titles, far more than any other team has. The Red Sox have won no more Series titles.* And No, No, Nanette was a flop.
*Clearly written before 2004.
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Red Sox owner Harry Frazee sat behind his large mahogany desk and savored, along with a fine Corona Gigante, a taste of the best Courvoisier V.S.O.P. his lads could bootleg from the Quincy Street waterfront amid the disruption of the Palmer Raids and despite the even greater menace of the newly instituted Volstead Act.
He looked at his calendar: January 3, 1920. With a sigh, he rang his secretary. “Send him in, Dolly,” he barked, abrupt and resolute. Into the office strode a large man with hair parted neatly down the middle and a nose flattened by one too many bar fights.
“Siddown, Babe,” said his boss. “Ya wanna cigar?”
“I’m already smokin’ one, boss,” said Babe.
“Indeed you are,” said Frazee, who, looking lapward, commenced a lengthy examination of his hands.
“Whazzup, boss?” asked the large man patiently.
“Aw, Babe, it’s this gal I been seein’, well, ya know how that goes,” said Frazee.
The Bambino snorted and looked around the office.
“Listen, Babe, I gotta deal all sewed up with the Yankees. If I sell you, my biggest asset, for $125,000 cash money and a $300,000 loan, then I can finance this sure-fire Broadway hit—it’s called No, No, Nanette: you’re gonna wanna see it while you’re in New York—and it’s gonna star my—ahem—girlfriend.”
“Shrewd,” said Babe, and took a puff of his Esplendido.
“Gosh, Babe, you’re a lucky guy to blow Beantown. I live on Park Avenue. You know I always say that the best thing about Boston is the train ride back to New York.”
Again Babe snorted.
“Now, Ed Barrow says I’m makin’ a big mistake. You’ve been the franchise, and we all know it. But there’s plenty ’a young talent comin’ up, and to tell ya the truth, Bambino, your powerhouse days are over. Sure, we won five straight World Series because of you, but the last one was in 1918. What happened last year? Hmm?”
“Last year I hit 29 home runs, more than any other team combined. Sorry it wasn’t good enough for you, boss. But it’s your call. I think you’re makin’ a mistake, too, by the way. I’d be surprised if your boys ever win another Series. If your heart is only half in baseball, and the other half, Broadway, don’t expect a success either way.”
Then the Bambino got up and shambled out of the great man’s office. He went to New York, built a dynasty there, and since his time, the Yankees have won 26 World Series titles, far more than any other team has. The Red Sox have won no more Series titles.* And No, No, Nanette was a flop.
*Clearly written before 2004.