Potter47
A/N: A year ago, the Boston Red Sox made it to the American League Championship Series, to face the New York Yankees. I wrote this short chapter — only a page-and-a-half at the time — on the spur of the moment. I came up with the title first (I had planned on submitting it to Mugglenet's list of never-gonna-happen book titles) and the idea sprung from that.
A little while later, I wrote the second chapter — "An Unforgivable Curse" — detailing (or, more accurately, avoiding details at all costs for sake of error) the loss of the Red Sox, in seven games, to the Yankees.
In the time that has passed since, the response to this story has been decidedly split: those who felt happy for Harry (otherwise known as Yanks fans) and those who thought it cruel to bring such memories back (the Sox fans). I've wanted to clarify that I AM A RED SOX FAN. I was born in Boston and have lived in Massachusetts my whole life.
I present now the revised and updated edition of Harry Potter and the Curse of the Bambino. I'd like to think I'm a much better writer now — best overall at Sink into Your Eyes' canon challenge! Hurrah! I'm a pair of trousers, and a good one at that! — and I've removed the mistakes that have been wicked annoying over the past year.
Factual Error: The Curse of the Bambino didn't technically exist until '88, when a Boston sports writer wrote a book about it. Too bad. Deal with it.
The Curse of the Bambino
Harry Potter was not a happy little boy. His Aunt and Uncle, the Dursleys, had dragged him halfway across the world to see some Americans play ball.
Harry was six years old, and he was now in the rear of the rental car that Uncle Vernon had secured for the trip. They were on their way to see a World Series game.
Yay,
thought Harry sarcastically. I really care!"Game six," Uncle Vernon said for what Harry thought must have been the twelve-thousandth time. "If that team wins tonight, we win tonight." He grinned to himself in the rear-view mirror, looking quickly back down as he accidentally turned into the wrong side of the street. He corrected it quickly, cursing under his breath, "Damn Americans, don't even know how to put a street together properly..."
Harry's uncle was meeting some very important business partners from Massachusetts today at the game, and they would be very happy to see their team finally win.
Apparently, there was some kind of a curse on the Massachusetts team. The curse of the bambino or something, Harry had heard. The Boston Red Sox had not won the World Series in a very long time. Of course, normally Harry's uncle did not have anything to do with curses, but if it meant good business, he would take out a magic wand and start cursing people himself.
No he wouldn't,
thought Harry. He'd never have anything to do with magic.The Red Sox were now closer to winning than they had been in years. If they won today, the curse would be broken, everyone would be happy, and the Dursleys would be vacationing in Majorca.
The Dursleys really wanted to be vacationing in Majorca.
Vernon parked the car in some parking garage that Harry felt looked just the same as the one across the way and the one next to that, and the young boy got out of the car just as soon as his cousin had got out of the way.
Harry walked behind the Dursleys from there, and he thought it was a rather amusing sight, really, to see the three caricatures of snobbishness all dolled up in Red Sox jerseys and Red Sox caps. Harry himself even had an old hat with a 'B' on it jammed down over his lightning-shaped scar.
They took their seats, and soon the game had started. A man named Roger Clemens was the starting pitcher for Boston. They were playing the New York Mets.
Harry still could not believe that the Dursleys had taken him all the way to America. He was not enjoying the trip one bit and had many a time found himself wishing that he had been left with Mrs Figg.
It was really something special to make Harry wish to be with Mrs Figg.
Harry was not very pleased when the Red Sox had the lead — that all signs pointed to them as World Champions. Harry didn't really like any sports. It was strange really — he felt as though something was missing every time he played one at primary school.
It was the bottom of the ninth, and the Dursley's were still quite happy. Boston was still leading.
Harry accidentally knocked over the small box of peanuts the Dursleys had been so gracious to buy him.
"DAMN IT!" Vernon suddenly shouted, and for a moment Harry was sure that his uncle was mad for the spilt peanuts, but it seemed that instead the Mets had tied the game. Harry glanced at the man beside Uncle Vernon, the business associate, and saw that he did not look happy.
There were now two strikes on another batter. The pitcher threw the ball towards the plate and the batter hit it toward first.
Dudley jumped out of his seat, knocking Harry headfirst into the one in front of him.
Harry wanted nothing more in that moment, than for something to wipe that big grin of his cousin's face. Something to make him miserable.
(Harry had the feeling Dudley hadn't noticed that the Mets had tied it up; he was grinning like a six-year-old about to go vacationing in Majorca, if there are any six-year-olds that know where Majorca is, which Dudley didn't which wasn't all that surprising on account of his lack of brain cells, in Harry's opinion.)
Harry concentrated on making Dudley miserable (his favourite pastime, when he got the chance), as he started to stand back up.
Then, to his amazement, Dudley started wailing.
Harry scrambled back into his seat to see what had happened.
The ball had gone through the first baseman's legs. Bill Buckner or something like that. It led to the loss of the game, and eventually the world series.
The Dursleys were furious. They had been so close! So very close to Majorca despite obvious geographic long-distances!
Harry was trying to hide his happiness. Little did he know, of course, that by wanting to make Dudley miserable so desperately, he had caused nearly all of New England to be miserable for years to come.
Eighteen years, to be exact.