The following is part of Fenway Fiction, written by Jonathan P. Winickoff, who is a pediatrician at Massachusetts General Hospital.
Well, mostly written by him.
What's he that wishes for more pitching?
My cousin Manny? No, my fair cousin. If we are mark'd to fail, we are enough
To do our Nation loss; and if to win,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Tito, I am not covetous for Steinbrenner's gold,
Nor care I who doth cheer that California club;
It yearns me not what men those pinstripes wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet the World Series,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not an extra set-up man.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Manny, through the clubhouse,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart. His passport shall be made to exit Red Sox Nation,
And crowns for Amtrak put into his purse.
We would not play ball in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to play ball with us.
This day is call'd the feast of the Red Sock.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Red Sock.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, "Tomorrow is Saint Red Sock."
They will Schilling with bloody stocking donned again
Up roll his trouser and show his scars to all,
And say, "These wounds I had on Red Sock's day."
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in the Nation's mouth as household words,
Ortiz the King, Cabrera and Bellhorn,
Lowe and Damon, Martinez and Varitek,
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good fan teach his son;
And Red Sox's Red Sock shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the Curse,
And on to posterity,
But we in it shall be remembered,
We few, we happy few, we band of idiots.
For he to-day that sheds his ankle blood with me
Shall be my fellow idiot; be he ne'er such a Yankees fan,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in Boston now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their Sox caps cheap whilst any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Red Sock's day.