Babe is pacing around his room…fuming…the steam coming out of his ears matched by the endless stream of cigar smoke as he puffs furiously on a Cuban stogie. Without warning, St Peter materializes next to Babe, carrying a dusty chest labeled “Ruth, G. H.”
{St Peter} Babe, what were you doing just now? You know very well we sent Frazee down there undercover.
{Babe} But he’s making a mistake.
{St Peter} He’s doing no such thing. The Boss sent him on a mission.
{Babe} Steinbrenner sent him?!?!
{St Peter} Not Steinbrenner, you oaf. THE BOSS. The Big Guy himself. And he wants to see you. Now.
St Peter opens the chest, revealing dozens of dusty scrolls of parchment. He picks out one, which is labeled “Sins, venial, Jan-Mar 1923.” The parchment is covered with an extensive list of illicit and lecherous acts. St Peter gestures to the scroll.
{St Peter} Before you see him, remember something Babe. We overlooked a lot of – ahem – transgressions to get you in here. Time lasts forever up here. We can always revisit that decision.
Five minutes later, Babe is standing in The Boss’s office. God is making notes on a wall map of the world. His long flowing robes are entirely white, except for a conspicuous red 9 on the back.
{God} Ah, George, so good to see you. Please, sit down. Now what’s this I hear about you pestering Frazee again?
{Babe} He’s messing everything up.
{God} No, my son. He’s doing exactly as I asked. See this plan has been in the works for years.
{Babe} Really? That SOB is working with us now?
{God} Watch your language George. Peter is running out of room for parchments in your chest. Frazee has always been with us. He’s a bit of a bumbling fool, but he’s not evil.
{Babe} But what about the curse of the bamb…uh…the curse of me?
{God} That heretic Shaughnessy came up with that to sell books. Don’t worry, his time will come. There was no curse George. There was a deal. A sad one, but a necessary one. See, you remember 1918, don’t you?
{Babe, with chest proudly puffed out} Of course, I helped Boston win their 5th world title.
{God} Yes, that’s all nice, but there was the tiny matter of The Great War. It had been raging for 4 years in Europe, the US had just gotten involved in 1917, and that doofus Wilson was about to make things much worse. I sent Debs to straighten this out, but as often happens in times of war, they jail the only people who make sense. So things were getting ugly.
I called our friend down below, and oh was he ever beside himself with glee. But his greatest weakness is his pride, and that’s where I knew I had him. You know he’s a huge Yankees fan right?
{Babe} He is?
{God} Of course. Inside joke, but it was he who insisted on naming that musical “Damn Yankees.” But I digress. You might remember that until 1918, the Yankees were, well, let’s just say pretty terrible. So I offered Satan a deal. I’d have Frazee send you to New York, along with every other stitch of talent the Red Sox had. The Yankees would turn into a powerhouse and would win dozens of world series. This piqued his interest, but you know what a sadist he is, so I had to sweeten the deal. Not only would his beloved Yankees win, but the Red Sox he loathed so much would lose. Sometimes they’d just be terrible, sometimes they would come ever so close, tantalizingly close, but lose. Their fans and players would be heartbroken. The schadenfreude of it all is what tipped the scales. In return, well, we got just about everything. We got the end of the war. We got Roosevelt, Truman, and Johnson. The New Deal, The Great Society. Basically everything I’ve been talking about for 2 millenia. We got it all done in a couple of decades, and all I had to sacrifice was the happiness of the Red Sox and their fans. Sacrifice, George. That’s what it was. Like a deftly executed bunt.
{Babe} No curse?
{God} No curse George. Of course, that fellow Yawkey almost made me glad I did it after his atrocious behavior toward African Americans. But the team was already suffering. No need to make it worse. Which brings us to today. You see, Satan has been licking his wounds ever since, and oh how he loves this Bush fellow. Cheney too, and Rumsfeld, the whole lot. They’re all golfing buddies. Satan’s got a vicious slice though, too stubborn to take lessons, so he always ends up buying the drinks on the 19th hole. Boy can that Bush fellow put ‘em away. But again I digress.
So, Bush loses the election in 2000, but Satan has his minion Scalia overturn that. Still he knew he was going to lose this year. And I saw a chance to undo the Red Sox’ pain. I sent Frazee down there to tell Satan he could have the election. Kerry’s a good guy, but I have other plans for him, got some work for him to do in the middle east. And I’ve got another fellow waiting to take the White House in ’08. Cubs fan. You’ll like him.
Another bunt George. And in return, I’ve got the Red Sox out of their bargain. Now they’ll win it all this year, and in a way that will just torment Satan and his ilk. And they’ll win again from time to time, just like anyone else. No more torture. Just another baseball team. Albeit my favorite one.
{Babe} Gosh, you’ve thought of everything, haven’t you.
{God} That’s my job George. Oh, and speaking of that, one more thing. I need you to do something for me.
{Babe} Anything God, what is it?
{God} How’s your swing these days?
Babe assumes his stance and takes a mighty cut, driving an imaginary ball deep in the right field bleachers.
{God} Perfect. I need you to work with this young fellow on Boston. Name of Ortiz. He’s going to be a big part of my plan.