It was a cold, dark night in 2004,
Down 3 games to none, and history’s door
Was pinstripe-locked and destiny-closed,
Another year of thorns without any rose.
But then, in the extra innings of fate,
David Ortiz stepped up to the plate,
And that queen bee in victory’s hive
Lifted Boston to wins in Game 4 and Game 5.
By the end of Game 7, the Babe’s jersey was torn,
And the glorious legend of “Big Papi” was born.
For 86 years we had gazed in our beers,
Shrugged in the shadows, and fought back our tears,
From Bucky to Boone to Buckner, they’d lose,
They hadn’t won a World Series since selling Babe Ruth.
The past became past in a glorious way
When David took charge on Yawkey Way.
And all of New England started to sing
When one night in St. Louis, the Sox won the ring.
Years went by and the ring seemed to fit,
The Red Sox were winners, Big Papi could hit.
But the strength of the man at Fenway Park
Showed on a day when the day was dark,
Dark with the sadness of the madness of hate
David stepped to the soul of the soul of the plate.
He did not bow to sorrow, succumb to pity.
He stood on the grass and yelled, “This is our city!”
We salute a ballplayer, one of the best in the land
But we also pause to remember the man.
He’s big enough to knock it out of any park,
But not a field in the world is as big as his heart.
Thank you, David Ortiz, oh shining star
For showing us how good we can be, and how good we are.
Listen to Carl’s poem: