
Thatâs such a beautiful tribute from your sonâheartfelt, innocent, and pure rock ânâ roll. Here’s a 900-word piece inspired by your story, capturing the spirit of your son’s love for Ozzy Osbourne:
“Little Prince of Darkness: My Sonâs Tribute to Ozzy Osbourne”
Since the day the world heard the heartbreaking news of Ozzy Osbourneâs passing, something remarkable has taken over my household. Not grief in the usual senseânot just tears or sorrowâbut a kind of resurrection. A spark. A swagger. A growl.
Because my 9-year-old son has decided, in his own magical and mischievous way, to keep Ozzy Osbourne alive.
Every morning now begins with a dramatic entrance. The door to his bedroom creaks open, and there he isâtiny and fierceâdraped in a black coat from the costume bin, sunglasses slightly crooked, hair messily tucked under a black wig, or just tousled like heâs rolled off a tour bus. He struts into the kitchen, arms out like heâs greeting a stadium, and says in the most exaggerated British accent youâve ever heard, âWhereâs me tea, Sharon?!â
And I canât help but laugh. Itâs like watching Ozzy reincarnated in miniature formâcomplete with mumbles, stage walks, devil horns, and spontaneous a cappella versions of Crazy Train. If we let him, heâd wear eyeliner to school and insist on being called “The Prince of Darkness Jr.”
Heâs not doing it for attention. Heâs doing it out of love.
It started with the music. Something about the haunting melody of Dreamer or the wild energy of Bark at the Moon just clicked with him. Then came the deep dive: Black Sabbath, solo albums, live concerts on YouTube. And finally, âThe Osbournesâ reality show. That chaotic, hilarious, and oddly touching series captured him like nothing else. Now, he quotes Ozzyâs mumblings from the show as if they were Shakespeare.
Weâre halfway through binging every season of The Osbournes now, and Iâm watching more than just a showâI’m watching a bond grow between a little boy and a rock legend he’ll never get to meet, but somehow already knows.
âDad,â he said the other night, curled up on the couch, âOzzy wasnât just cool. He was real.â
And thatâs it, isnât it? Thatâs why Ozzy spoke to generations. Why heâs still speaking nowâeven to children born long after his last tour. He wasnât polished or perfect. He didnât pretend to be a saint. He was vulnerable, messy, magnetic, and fiercely himself. And to a young boy trying to figure out the world, thereâs something inspiring in that kind of authenticity.
My son walks around now mimicking the âbat incidentâ (thankfully with a rubber toy), reenacts Ozzyâs shuffling walk through the house, and occasionally ends his sentences with a gravelly âGod bless ya, mate.â He even wrote a short tribute in crayon for a school assignmentâcomplete with a stick figure of Ozzy on stage under a full moon. The title? âMy Hero: Ozzy Osbourne.â
People might think itâs strangeâa child channeling a heavy metal legend. But to me, itâs beautiful. It shows how timeless Ozzy’s impact really is. How his music, his personality, and his spirit transcend generations. This isnât just fandomâitâs a celebration of legacy.
And as a parent, I see more than just impersonation. I see a kid discovering courage in expression. I see empathy in the way he talks about Ozzyâs struggles. I see creativity in the way he blends fantasy and memory, constructing his own little rock star persona in honor of someone who lit up the world with fire and vulnerability.
We talk now about what it means to be remembered. About what it means to be legendary. And I tell him that legends donât fadeâthey evolve. They live on in art, in stories, and in the people they touch. In the end, Ozzy gave the world more than musicâhe gave us moments. Wild, tender, chaotic, powerful moments.
And now, through the eyes of my son, I get to experience them all over again.
Just last weekend, we made our own mini tribute. We built a cardboard stage in the living room, hung some cheap red lights, and printed out an Ozzy banner. He stood on that “stage,” holding a toy mic, fog machine blasting (well, a humidifier), and screamed, âLet me hear ya!â at the top of his lungs. For two minutes, the living room wasnât just a living roomâit was the stage of Ozzfest, and he was the man himself.
He bowed afterward, eyes shining, and said, âThis oneâs for you, Ozzy.â
Weâll probably keep this going for a while. Maybe forever. Maybe, years from now, when heâs older and the costume doesnât come out as often, the music will still play from his playlist. Heâll tell people, âYeah, when I was 9, I was Ozzy.â And maybe his own kids will hear the thunderous beginning of Paranoid and feel that same jolt of connection.
So, from our home filled with laughter, eyeliner, and off-key renditions of No More Tearsâthis is our little salute:
Forever Ozzy.
Forever loved.
And forever alive in the heart of one passionate, spirited, and rock ânâ roll obsessed 9-year-old boy.
đ€đ»đ€
Let me know if youâd like a version of this for social media, a printout, or something more poetic!
Leave a Reply