Do you remember August 1? I mean, for some other reason than it being the day after the trade deadline. That’s right: that was the night that an injured crow was flitting (never sitting) feebly around the bases at Fenway. And remember how funny it was? Remy and Orsillo spent most of the ninth joking about how said crow was trying to swipe second base. The Globe ran with the same joke the next day. Ha ha.
It doesn’t seem so funny anymore, does it? Since that time, the Sox have been swept by two out of three last-place teams in the league, and two out of three first place ones (they did manage a single win against both Detroit and Tampa Bay). Against Kevin Millar-less clubs, the Sox are 5-21. Even more ominously, the number of players with broken wings, er, serious injuries is growing by the minute. It won’t be long before the Fenway scoreboard installs a (corporate sponsored) injury ticker with up-to-the-minute updates.
From what I understand, this whole made-up curse thing can be pretty lucrative, and as I pondered, weak and weary, the state of the Sox I realized: Boston is currently dealing with the Curse of the Gimpy Crow. (Take that, Chicago: you’re no longer the only city that suffers at the hands of the animal kingdom.) Before you cry shenanigans, let me remind you: Indian tribes from Puget Sound (you know, Mariners country) knew the raven — and really, what’s the difference between a raven and a crow? — as the trickster god, and believed he created the human world after dropping a stone in the ocean. Not a good dude to piss off.
So I am sorry, Mr. Crow, and truly your forgiveness I implore for any offense I might have caused. Now please, let us play the rest of the season in peace. And to this curse I say: Nevermore!