by Dick Flavin
Whenever I need a good cry
I stop and think
Of when the Sox were on the rocks
And how they’d stink
I’d take some glee from misery
I confess
And what is worse, I miss the curse
And the stress
I see Billy Buckner bending
And all our hopes are ending.
The ball is rolling through
His legs before our gaze.
And that horrible truth
When we learned they sold Ruth
Those were the good old days.
I see Bucky Dent of all guys
The weakest of the small guys
That cheesy little homer
Floating through the haze.
And my heart is at risk
They forgot to sign Fisk
Those were the good old days.
I know it’s not pretty to wallow in pity
There’s nothing of value one can gain.
Then all of a sudden I see Don Buddin
And again I’m awash in wondrous pain
(Is everybody crying?)
I see Grady Little snoring
While Yankee runs are scoring
Pedro’s out of gas
But in the game he stays
And there’s Slaughter’s mad dash
Another late season crash
Those were the good old days
Oh I’d complain and I’d beef
But I miss the grief
Of those good old days.
Boston broadcaster Dick Flavin is considered the Poet Laureate of the Great Fenway Park Writers Series.
