It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 36: Chapter XII (Cont'd)

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

There were three events that gave birth to Alan Carr.

The first was the night that the Specter pulled his son from bed, and threw him on the stage of the Sparrow.

The last was The Woods.

The middle episode took place on October 7th, 1967. It was Saturday, and the friends, as usual, sweltered in Colin's apartment. The windows of the living room were thrown open in the hopes of enticing some cool, Fall air, but like the environs around, the air was still and mournful. Twelve hours prior, the emergency vehicles, with their bright, flashing lights, had been summoned to Bailey Road. Everyone in the parish stood in reverent silence as the body of Mrs. Nora Lynch was lifted out of her rocking chair, and carried towards the waiting ambulance.

The last of Old St. Gregory's, the Queen of the Story, had gone as she had lived her whole life: Sat upon her throne, draped in a cape, on the stoop of the best place anyone could ever hope to be born.

'End of an era,' wept Mrs. Fitzgerald from under O'Toole's bar. Those that had gathered to toast the memory of Nora Lynch couldn't help but agree.
But this was October of 1967, and for those of you who may not know, mourning in Boston could not last long in the hearts of the faithful. Not even for someone as esteemed as Nora Lynch.

1967. The year that Edward Towne's wish had come true. 1967. The great year! Bill Herman had been fired, and for the first time since Stan Musial beat Johnny Pesky's thrown in the '46 dash to end all dashes, the Boston Red Sox had made it back to the World Series. They needed only four more wins to be crowned champions, four more wins to break the well-earned stigma of failure. Only four more wins, and Mother-City would be exalted again!

The excitement was contagious. The whole of New England sat on pins and needles. Sleep was an after thought.

It was going to finally happen!

It had to happen!

This was it!

Next year was finally here—

'I don't give a shit about the Red Sox,' said Colin. He was at wit's end with Bud and Ed. They had no mind, nor care, nor respect for the traumatic tragedy of Roddy McCorley, a song near and dear to Colin's heart that told the tale of the hanging of one of Ireland's numerous hanged heroes.

'Pa, don't say that!'

'I'll say what I want—'

'Nah,' interjected Ed, for he could not stand any slander on his most beloved team. 'See, look...Colin...here's the deal—'

'Did ya just call me Colin?'

'Yeah, I'm tryin' to get you to understand—'

'Don't call me Colin!'

'But it's the Sox! The Sox! You don't get it. Last year, they sucked, right?'

'Liked really sucked, Pa,' added a helpful Bud.

'But this year—Oh my God! Colin! Colin! They're incredible! They're the best!'

'I don't—IT'S MR. MALONE TO YA!'

'Tell him, Bud! Tell him how amazin' they are!'

'They're amazin', Pa. It's a miracle!'

'Halle-fuckin'-lujah. Do the song again!'

'But Col—Mr. Malone! We gotta watch, they're on now, we just gotta watch, or they're gonna lose!' Distress suddenly crossed Ed's face. He had uttered a blasphemous sin! He had given voice to the unmentionable thought that his team might not be good enough, and now he was racing against time. He needed to make up for his transgression before the Ghost of the Babe was risen from its slumber, and made his fears come true. Ed ripped off the stained cap from his head, and performed a ritual he'd developed during the regular season that consisted of kissing the dirty B, then waved his hands like a heathen shaman above his head, and then placed the cap on the ground, where he danced around it three times, all the while panting: 'imsosorryimsosorryimsosorry!' as fast as he could get the words out.