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The Curse. (12/10/04) | |
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I was born in 1881. Though of Scottish descent, I never publicly corrected the journalists who often printed I was Jewish, which some later found very ironic ideed. On the morning of January 6th, 1920, a statement I had released the day before was printed in newspapers all over the country. I had sold George "Babe" Ruth, the pride of Boston, to the New York Yankees. "The Bambino" was leaving town. I was a theatrical producer with growing Broadway credentials when I bought the Red Sox, then known as the Pilgrims, for $400,000 in 1917. The year before the team had won their fourth World Series title in seven years, and in the history of the fifteen Series held, the Sox had won five of them. In their 1916 and 1918 appearances, Babe Ruth had started three games and won each of them, boasting an earned-run average of 0.87 during that time while throwing an astonishing 29 2/3 shut-out innings in a row; in 1919, he had belted out 29 home runs, an all-time record then. After the 1918 Series win, Ruth demanded $10,000, three thousand more than the previous year. I was furious, and hollered, "For $10,000 I'd expect at least John Barrymore!" We shook hands on a 3-year deal worth $30,000, but I knew in my heart it wouldn't happen. Ruth started using his leverage as a premium player in 1919, walking out twice during the season feeling he was worth more than his ten thousand annually. My theatre's main office was just two blocks from the Yankee's office, and Colonel Tillinghast L'Hommedieu Huston, co-owner of New York's team, was a regular drinking buddy. He saw my need to compensate for dwindling Broadway tickets as World War I dragged on. The tension mounted between Ruth and I that winter, and I sold him to the Yankees in January for $125,000, which was double any previous price for a player, as well as a $300,000 loan. When I told Ed Barrow, my team's manager, the news on December 28th, he sadly mumbled, "You ought to know you're making a mistake." When it was found in 1920 that the Chicago White Sox had thrown the 1919 World Series, Babe Ruth was baseball's larger-than-life savior. He hit 54 home runs that year for the Yankees, and led the league in long shots eight of nine years starting in 1923, peaking at 60 in 1927. On October 15th, 1923, the New York Yankees won their first World Series in the brand new Yankee Stadium, eventually known as "The House That Ruth Built". On October 27th, 1999, the Yankees closed out the century by winning their 25th Series title, firmly establishing themselves as professional sport's elite franchise. I admit "The Curse of the Bambino" is a bit scary even for a non-believer in Destiny like myself. Many Bostonians were glad I sold the last-place Red Sox for $1.25 million in 1923, but their luck wasn't about to change anytime soon. From 1920 to 1938, the team placed last in their division nine times and didn't win a pennant again until 1946. They lost the World Series that year, as well as three other appearances in 1967, 1975, and 1986, each time in seven games. In every case, the momentum seemed to be in their favour only to fade after bad umpire calls or uncanny blunders by players. Overlooked, however, are the many ill decisions by Red Sox management over the years; Danny Cater traded to the Yanks in '72, Curt Shilling and Brady Anderson traded in '88, and Jeff Bagwell sold from their Double-A farm team in '90. Every decision Boston made for almost eighty years seemed to end in disappointment. One night before I sold the Red Sox, I caught a cab with a young lady-friend and told the driver to take us to Fenway Park. The cabbie overheard me boasting about owning the team in my attempt to impress her, and asked if I really owned the Sox. I proudly said I did, and he flattened me with one punch. The woman caught a different cab home. The only thing I can say in defense of the team's demise is that every decision I made was a business move, and I was never influenced by superstition or karma. "While Ruth without question is the greatest hitter that the game has seen," I wrote in a 1,500-word statement, "he is likewise one of the most inconsiderate men that ever wore a baseball uniform." And I stick by that, even now. On June 4th, 1929, I died of Bright's Disease, a form of kidney failure. I stood at the edge of Kevin Costner's corn field and watched the game's greats take the diamond; they thought I would jinx them if I stepped on the field. Today, I stand on the left-field foul line anxiously awaiting Curt Shilling to start off Game 1 of the 2004 ALCS between the Yanks and the Sox in Yankee Stadium. No one in the packed stands can see me, but if they could their eyes would see a desperate soul on one knee pleading to the New York sky with clenched fists. Between you and me, I have never forgiven myself since The Bambino left town. My name is Harry Frazee...and "Go Sox!" |
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