
Thatās such a beautiful tribute from your sonāheartfelt, innocent, and pure rock ānā 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 Sonās Tribute to Ozzy Osbourne”
Since the day the world heard the heartbreaking news of Ozzy Osbourneās passing, something remarkable has taken over my household. Not grief in the usual senseānot just tears or sorrowābut 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 isātiny and fierceādraped in a black coat from the costume bin, sunglasses slightly crooked, hair messily tucked under a black wig, or just tousled like heās rolled off a tour bus. He struts into the kitchen, arms out like heās greeting a stadium, and says in the most exaggerated British accent youāve ever heard, āWhereās me tea, Sharon?!ā
And I canāt help but laugh. Itās like watching Ozzy reincarnated in miniature formācomplete with mumbles, stage walks, devil horns, and spontaneous a cappella versions of Crazy Train. If we let him, heād wear eyeliner to school and insist on being called “The Prince of Darkness Jr.”
Heās not doing it for attention. Heās 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, āThe Osbournesā reality show. That chaotic, hilarious, and oddly touching series captured him like nothing else. Now, he quotes Ozzyās mumblings from the show as if they were Shakespeare.
Weāre halfway through binging every season of The Osbournes now, and Iām watching more than just a showāI’m watching a bond grow between a little boy and a rock legend he’ll never get to meet, but somehow already knows.
āDad,ā he said the other night, curled up on the couch, āOzzy wasnāt just cool. He was real.ā
And thatās it, isnāt it? Thatās why Ozzy spoke to generations. Why heās still speaking nowāeven to children born long after his last tour. He wasnāt polished or perfect. He didnāt pretend to be a saint. He was vulnerable, messy, magnetic, and fiercely himself. And to a young boy trying to figure out the world, thereās something inspiring in that kind of authenticity.
My son walks around now mimicking the ābat incidentā (thankfully with a rubber toy), reenacts Ozzyās shuffling walk through the house, and occasionally ends his sentences with a gravelly āGod bless ya, mate.ā He even wrote a short tribute in crayon for a school assignmentācomplete with a stick figure of Ozzy on stage under a full moon. The title? āMy Hero: Ozzy Osbourne.ā
People might think itās strangeāa child channeling a heavy metal legend. But to me, itās beautiful. It shows how timeless Ozzy’s impact really is. How his music, his personality, and his spirit transcend generations. This isnāt just fandomāitās 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 Ozzyās 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 donāt fadeāthey evolve. They live on in art, in stories, and in the people they touch. In the end, Ozzy gave the world more than musicāhe 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, āLet me hear ya!ā at the top of his lungs. For two minutes, the living room wasnāt just a living roomāit was the stage of Ozzfest, and he was the man himself.
He bowed afterward, eyes shining, and said, āThis oneās for you, Ozzy.ā
Weāll probably keep this going for a while. Maybe forever. Maybe, years from now, when heās older and the costume doesnāt come out as often, the music will still play from his playlist. Heāll tell people, āYeah, when I was 9, I was Ozzy.ā 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 Tearsāthis is our little salute:
Forever Ozzy.
Forever loved.
And forever alive in the heart of one passionate, spirited, and rock ānā roll obsessed 9-year-old boy.
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Let me know if youād like a version of this for social media, a printout, or something more poetic!
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