How is it that only two years after winning the World Series, the Boston Red Sox feel cursed all over again as if the 2004 season never happened? While you meditate upon this holy mystery of Boston sports faith, here's the opening paragraph to my short story "Bambino," written in the Spring of 2003. I've decided to make it an Opening Day tradition to post a link to it here at The Jersey Exile. Enjoy!
Seventh son of a seventh son, Flynn had been a hot dog vendor at Fenway Park since he first could lift the big metal steamer and strap it over his shoulders. His father had sold franks at the beloved Boston ballpark until he was an old man and permanently stooped; so, too, did his father's father, when they were still called frankfurters and the Red Sox were still winning the World Series. Grandpa Flynnie may have been a seventh son himself, if he'd known how many brothers he actually had, but Mother never mentioned the ones that died early, either here in the States or back in Ireland. Selling hot dogs wasn't just something Flynn did for some summer cash - it was his birthright, and he accepted the family vocation with the same seriousness that a scion of a prominent Brahmin on Beacon Hill would reserve for his decision to go to Harvard, like all of his other distinguished ancestors.
(Click here for the whole story!)