Someday, when I'm old and gray and eating creamed corn for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the nursing home, I will think back on these days, these glory days for my sports teams, and I will smile. In 2004, I had the Red Sox, who won a World Series title after an 86-year drought. Then the New England Patriots, at one time the most hapless team in football, won three Super Bowls in 2001, 2003, and 2004 (and nearly another one last year). Though, I should add that the Pats are not really my team -- the Oakland Raiders are -- but that's neither here nor there at the moment. Then the Red Sox again last year, which was good, because I don't think I could have waited another 86 years. While we're at it, let's throw in Italy winning the World Cup in 2006.
And tonight, TONIGHT, the Boston Celtics won their 17th NBA Championship, their first since 1986, ending a twenty-two year drought. It's a beautiful thing. When I was growing up, the Celtics were expected to win year after year. With Hall of Fame players like Larry Bird and Kevin McHale, great players like Dennis Johnson, Danny Ainge, Robert Parrish and Cedric Maxwell. They won three championships in 1981, 1984, and 1986. Up in New England, we took it for granted. We came to expect the Celtics to win. We thought they'd ALWAYS win and that the good times would never end. But they did, quite abruptly in fact. As soon as that '86 banner went up in the old Boston Garden, it was as if someone took the Celtics Leprechaun and shot him in the head. Their number one pick in the 1986 draft, Len Bias, died of a cocaine overdose, two days after the Celtics selected him at No. 2. Then Bird, McHale, and Parrish got old and retired. Then, in 1993, their best player, Reggie Lewis, collapsed and died of a heart condition at the young age of 27. That wasn't even rock bottom. Though they picked up a couple of decent players, most notably Paul Pierce, the team sucked for the next decade and a half. Oh yeah, I forgot. In September 2000, Pierce, the best Celtics player since Larry Bird, was stabbed 11 times in the face, neck, and back at a Boston nightclub, and nearly killed. It was a miracle he survived. THAT was probably rock bottom.
So it's been a long time coming, a long walk in the wilderness. And tonight I'm happy. Most of all for Paul Pierce, who suffered though some atrocious seasons, especially last year's when they only won 24 games all year, and re-signed with the team before they got good again. For Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen, both of whom played on bad teams of their own and never won a championship until tonight. For the unsung guys, Leon Powe, who was homeless as a child for several years after his family's house burned down; P.J. Brown, who came out of retirement to make some big shots; James Posey who made some HUGE shots in the playoffs; and Eddie House, who came up big off the bench; and most of all, for my favorite player, one of the youngest and shortest guys on the team, and easily the most-criticized, point guard Rajon Rondo, who never gave up, even after being benched and who had something like 8steals to contribute to this massive 39-point blowout tonight against the Lakers. You can have your selfish, me-first Kobe, I'll take Rondo any day of the week.
Last, but not least, big props to General Manager Danny Ainge, who orchestrated the megadeals that brought over Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen (with a colossal assist from GM Kevin McHale of the Minnesota Timberwolves, who I do believe is still a Celtics fan) and coach Doc Rivers, who everyone wanted fired last year, but who proved his skill and value this year. Sometimes it's the players folks, not the coach.
The Boston Celtics are World Champions again. I can't fucking believe it.
Lefty Jon Lester, a 24 year-old cancer survivor, threw a no-hitter tonight. Unbelievable. The 18th Red Sox pitcher to throw a no-hitter. That non-trade of Lester and Jacoby Ellsbury for Johan Santana is looking pretty good right now. And how about Jason Varitek? He's the first baseball catcher in history to catch 4 no-hitters (Hideo Nomo, Derek Lowe, Clay Buchholz, and Jon Lester). After Buchholz's last year, I didn't think I'd see another one for a long time, but this one might be the sweetest of them all.
Twenty-two years ago, on a day that shall live in infamy, a man named William Joseph "Bill" Buckner committed an egregious error on a world stage, a colossal mistake to dwarf all others. It mattered not that this transgression took place on something as trivial as a baseball field. For to many -- including the long-suffering fans of the baseball team on which Mr. Buckner played, who had not celebrated a World Series victory for sixty-eight years -- the stage was far from trivial. It was, to put it simply, larger than life.
It was October 25, 1986. Mr. Buckner's team, the Boston Red Sox led the New York Mets in Game 6 of the World Series 3 games to 2. One more victory would win the World Series and give the dry, cracked throats of Red Sox fans a much-needed quaff. Boston had a two-run lead with two outs in the bottom of the tenth inning. Boston was one out away, one strike away, from victory. Then, in a shocking turn of events, the Mets tied the game with three straight singles and a wild pitch.
At this moment, Mr. Buckner was playing first base. Normally in this situation, with the Red Sox tied or ahead in late innings, the Boston manager would replace Buckner with Dave Stapleton, a younger, more agile first baseman. You see, Billy Buck was 36 in October 1986, fairly old for a baseball player. He had gimpy knees and ankles so weak that he played virtually the entire season with these hideous black hightops, which gave support to his sore ankles but impaired his running. But the Boston manager was a sentimental fellow, and he had a special place in his heart for Billy Buck, who played balls-to-the-wall the entire season, hit .340 and had 22 RBIs in the month of September alone, and almost single-handedly got the Red Sox into the playoffs. The Boston manager wanted Billy Buck on the field when the Red Sox won it all for the first time in 68 years.
Things did not go according to plan. With the game tied, Mets player Mookie Wilson fouled off several pitches before hitting a ground ball to Buckner at first base. Here's what happened next:
Dang, seeing that still makes me wince. The slow-rolling ball dipped under Buckner's glove, through his legs, and into right field. It's still the most famous error in baseball history. Maybe in all of sports. And it changed Bill Buckner's life forever. Imagine your most embarrassing moment. The time you sneezed and blew snoggles on your friend. The time you got dumped in public. The time you ran an entire 3-mile cross country race with your nylon runners shorts inside out (that one's mine). Now imagine the entire country watching your fuckup. The media asking you about it day after day. Replaying it on ESPN night after night for months. Seeing it played again in every World Series when any player commits a seemingly significant error.
Charlie Sheen paid $93,000 for that ball.
Buckner retired from baseball in 1990 and was forced to move his family to Boise, Idaho to escape the abuse from baseball fans and the media. And for years afterwards, Bill Buckner's downcast face after that error became a symbol for failure, for the Red Sox consistently finding a way to lose on the biggest stage, at the loudest moment. "Pulling a Buckner" became synonymous for fucking something up royally. It wasn't nice, it wasn't fair, it just was.
Ignored in all of this, of course, were the man's respectable stats in a very successful, 21-year baseball career: .289 batting average, 2715 hits, and 1208 RBIs. People don't remember the things you did well, of course. They only remember your mistakes. That's life, baby!
But there's a happy ending. In 2004, the Red Sox won the World Series after an 86-year drought. When that happened, the albatross was finally lifted, and people began to take a second look at Bill Buckner and the way he was treated. Perhaps we were too harsh on the man, said Boston fans. Maybe it wasn't all his fault that the Red Sox lost in '86. I mean, the game WAS tied already, after all, and they'd already blown a two-run lead for goodness sake. No man deserves such vitriol, such hatred, such humiliation. Certainly not a decent, stand-up guy (ahem) like Bill Buckner.
They invited him back to participate in the celebration after Boston won the World Series. It was a gesture of healing after too many years of pain. Bill wouldn't come, said he had other commitments. His feelings were still raw, even after 22 years. Some wounds don't heal easily.
Boston won the World Series again last year. (Woot! woot!) This time they invited Bill to come back to Fenway Park and throw out the ceremonial first pitch to open the season. This time, he came:
Well, what have we here? This Roger Clemens saga keeps getting more and more bizarre. If you haven't been following, here's the Cliff's Notes: Roger a/k/a The Rocket a/k/a arguably the best baseball pitcher in the past 100 years, was recently implicated in a steroids scandal by his former trainer, Brian McNamee. McNamee claims that he injected Roger with human growth hormone and steroids 16 times towards the tail end of his career (no pun intended). Roger, of course, denies it. He claims that the only injections he received in the ass were Vitamin B-12 shots.
What's followed has been a high-stakes, winner-take-all public relations campaign, with each calling the other a liar to anyone who will listen. Desperate to save his reputation and his Hall of Fame legacy, Roger appeared on 60 Minutes, denying everything in a not very convincing interview with Mike Wallace, and shortly thereafter, gave a raucous press conference in which he excoriated the press for prejudging him. Then he played a secret tape of a conversation he had with McNamee, which he said would exonerate him. In actuality, the tape made him look worse. Clemens didn't call McNamee a liar, he didn't accuse of him of dragging his name through the mud, he didn't call him all those nasty swearwords you would have expected. The Rocket, who's known for having a bit of a temper, didn't even raise his voice. The phone call was almost friendly. It was obvious that Roger was trying to entrap McNamee, and McNamee, who's a bit of a weasel himself, didn't bite.
So a few days ago, Roger testifies before Congress in a private session and denies everything. He doesn't take the Fifth, he doesn't admit he used HGH or steroids, he denies it all. Under oath. Which means perjury and possible jail time if it turns out that he lied. Then it was McNamee's turn to testify. But here's a twist. McNamee brings to his deposition a package containing the following: used needles, bloodstained gauze pads, and an old, crumpled Miller Lite beer can, where he says he put the used needles after Clemens used them several years ago. This evidence, he claims, contain HGH and steroid residue, along with Clemens' DNA. Oh my! It's the baseball version of Monica Lewinsky's blue dress! Unbelievable. Why did McNamee save this stuff for seven years, you ask? According to him, it's because he's an ex-cop, it's evidence, and his intuition told him that someday he might need it to defend himself. And he didn't trust Clemens, apparently for good reason. You see, HGH and steroids are illegal. So is lying to Congress. So McNamee saved the evidence to cover his ass. Wise decision.
But that's not all. Roger Clemens isn't the only person McNamee says he injected with performance-enhancing drugs. McNamee claims he also injected Andy Pettite and Chuck Knoblauch with HGH. Knoblauch is a former Yankee second baseman. Pettite is a current Yankee pitcher, close friend of Clemens, and most importantly, a born again Christian, who takes his religion extremely seriously (cheating notwithstanding). Knoblauch, who doesn't play anymore, hasn't denied McNamee's accusations. Pettite, to his credit, admitted that McNamee injected him with HGH twice, when he was trying to recover from elbow problems. Pettite's admission blew a big hole in Clemens' PR strategy of denigrating McNamee.
But that's still not all. Yesterday Clemens' case hit a nadir when McNamee disclosed that he also injected Clemens' wife, Debbie Clemens, with HGH. Now why in the world, you wonder? She's a housewife with four kids and all the money in the world. Why the hell would she want to use HGH? Well, you see, a few years ago, Sports Illustrated came out with a pictorial of players and their wives to accompany their annual Swimsuit Issue, which comes out in February (speaking of which, note to self, pick up the SI Swimsuit Issue). A bunch of players' wives appeared in the issue, including Debbie Clemens. Her picture appears above. Notice how relaxed and happy Roger looks. It turns out, according to McNamee, that Debbie wanted to look ripped for her photo shoot. It's understandable how she might want to get into decent shape before being splashed across the pages of hundreds of thousands of magazines in a bikini. But like her husband, she decided to take a shortcut. With Roger's consent and involvement, McNamee injected Debbie Clemens with HGH to speed up the hotness process. Or McNamee alleges that he did. "Alleges" is a word lawyers use when accusations have yet to be proven. McNamee claims he did this. What's telling though, is that neither Clemens nor his lawyers have denied it.
(She looks great though, doesn't she? Check out those arms, those abs! My, my.)
Roger Clemens is going to testify before Congress next Wednesday in a public hearing that I personally hope to watch on the Internets while I'm supposed to be working. Unlike before, he's now aware that McNamee has turned over the HGH and steroid paraphernalia to Congress. He's also aware of McNamee's revelation regarding his wife and that Pettite testified before Congress last week. Who knows what Honest Andy told them?
It's going to be high theater, folks. The Rocket is either going to continue to deny, deny, deny, in which case he could go to jail if it's later found he committed perjury, or he'll come clean and admit everything. Or perhaps he'll take the Fifth Amendment after all, and refuse to testify. Which do you expect? My bet is on the first one. Roger has always been a stubborn MoFo and a little deluded about himself. He probably thinks he can still get out of this mess. What he doesn't understand is that this time, it's Congress who will be throwing the brushback pitches, not him. I'm guessing that once he's under those hot lights for all the world to see, The Rocket's in for a crash landing. Get the popcorn.
The Super Bowl is the quintessential American spectacle. It's Christmas and the World Series rolled into one. Instead of rushing home with gift-wrapped presents for loved ones, people rush home with nachos, salsa, pizza, and beer, and settle in front of the flatscreen to see a winner-take-all extravaganza. One game. One winner. One loser. The hype is beyond anything in American sports, probably even in global sports, save soccer's World Cup, which virtually no one in the United States cares about. The Super Bowl is our World Cup, and it's beyond huge. Even the multimillion dollar Super Bowl commercials attract oversized attention. It's said that some companies spend more money on Super Bowl ads than all their other ads combined during the course of the year. Wowza.
This year was no different. Except this year, the hype was even bigger, if that's possible. This year, one of the teams playing in the Super Bowl, the New England Patriots, came into the game with a perfect 18-0 record. They hadn't lost a single game all year. Not one. That incredibly difficult feat has only been accomplished one other time in the history of the National Football League, by the 1972 Miami Dolphins, who went 17-0 and, most importantly, won the Super Bowl that year. That's once in 42 years. The Patriots came into this game needing only one more win, a Super Bowl win, to make history. No team has ever gone 19-0.
But they couldn't do it. They came close. Verrrrry close. Incredibly close. But in the end, they couldn't get it done. Why? Lots of reasons, most of which have to do with the New York Giants defense. There was zero pressure on the Giants in this game. They were huge underdogs and weren't expected to win. All the pressure was on the Patriots to close the deal on a perfect season. So they not only had to contend with the Giants, who, notwithstanding all the prognostication, were formidable, having nearly beaten the Patriots six weeks ago, but they also had the pressure of history working against them. The pressure of trying to be perfect. The pressure of not losing. The pressure of virtually the entire country outside of New England and maybe Michigan, rooting against them. The unwashed masses hate perfection, don't they? Nobody likes a know-it-all. Somehow, by having won 3 Super Bowls in the last 5 years, the Patriots have become football's version of the New York Yankees in the minds of most people. Everybody hates them now. Myself, I think that's kind of funny, since when I was growing up, the Patriots were abysmal. I remember lots of 2-14 seasons and a colossal blowout loss to the Bears in the Pats' first Super Bowl in 1985. As previously related, they sucked so bad, I abandoned ship for the Oakland Raiders when I was only six years old. Now the Patriots are the Yankees? Brotha please!
In my mind, karma is the culprit behind tonight's Patriot debacle. First, in week 1 of this season, in a game against the New York Jets, the Patriots got in trouble with the league for videotaping the Jets' defensive coaches in the first quarter of the game. That's illegal (even though plenty of other teams probably do it). The Jets caught the videotaper in the first quarter and threw him out of the game, but the damage was done. The Patriots tarnished their reputation and embarrassed themselves. The NFL fined the coach $250,000, the team $500,000, and stripped them of a first round draft pick. And as they kept racking up victories, the jealous and the petty (i.e., New York fans) kept insisting on an "*" next to the Patriots' undefeated record, to footnote the fact that they cheated in that one quarter in their first game. (I wonder if the New York Post minds if we put an * next to all those World Series Championships the Yankees won with their steroid-infused players.) But the karmic capper for the Pats came a few days ago, just before the Super Bowl, when some idiot in the Patriots organization decided to trademark the phrase "Perfect Season." Now THAT is fucking stupid. Everyone knows you don't screw with the sports gods this way. You just don't.
And so, the Patriots lost tonight. They end the season an imperfect 18-1, the New Jersey, I mean the New YORK Giants are the Super Bowl Champions, and the 1972 Miami Dolphins are popping champagne corks.
But don't worry, Tom Brady, you've still got 3 Super Bowl rings, those GQ good looks, and slinky Gisele, who I am sure will, uh, dress your wounds tonight.
It's that time of year, again, people. It's Halloweens! This year, instead of waxing erotic over Slutty Nurse and Trampy Schoolgirl costumes, I thought I'd go old school and try to induce a few bloodcurdles by providing you with a short list of things I think are kinda scary.
Airport Screeners. It's no secret to any regular reader of this blog that I've had my share of run-ins with airport fascists and have come to detest the bullshit one must now deal with to get from point A to point B on an airplane. Flying has never been worse. But after reading this week's Time magazine, maybe it's time for me to just be happy that I'm landing in point B in one piece. Those TSA screeners we're paying through the nose for? The ones who look like they were dragged out of retirement homes and Off Track Betting lines by the busload? Well, they're not working out. A recent study found that these geniuses missed over 75% of simulated explosives at LAX (that's L.A. airport for you out-of-towners). TSA screeners at Chicago's O'Hare Airport missed more than 60% of test bombs. If these results are remotely accurate, this means that a terrorist has a 3 in 4 chance of sneaking a bomb onto a plane at LAX and a nearly 2 in 3 chance of doing it in Chicago. Now, I'm no math wiz, but those numbers don't sound very good to me. In fact, those would be pretty good odds in a casino. Here's an area where perhaps privatization, i.e., getting private companies to do this work, makes a lot of sense. In San Francisco's international airport, which employs private screeners, only 20% of the fake bombs were missed. Not great, but not bad either. Wonder what the success rate is at JFK and LaGuardia? Hmmmmm.
Guinean prisons. I'm currently representing a man from Guinea who is trying to get political asylum in the U.S. He was arrested by Guinean authorities last year for engaging in political activities against the state, which basically involved: (i) being a member of an opposition political party; and (ii) participating in demonstrations in favor of student, teacher, and union rights. The police arrested him at his party office, then took him to prison, where they stripped him down to his underwear, interrogated him on and off for 48 hours straight, and beat the hell out of him with rubber batons, rifle butts, and billyclubs. When they were done, they threw him into a 5 x 8 cell (measure it, it's fucking tiny) for two weeks with three other men who were hardened criminals. He was barely fed. Some days he didn't eat at all, and when he was fed, all he got was bread and hot water.
The cell had no windows, no light, and worst of all, no toilet. To go to the bathroom, they had to bang on the iron door (which also had no window) and beg the guards to take them to the bathroom down the hall. Virtually every time, the guards wouldn't answer, so these men had to relieve themselves on the floor of their cell, which again, was no bigger than the area in front of the desk in my office. Then the guards beat them up for defecating in their cell and gave them dry (not wet, dry) rags to clean up the mess. At night, there was no place to sleep because the cell was so small. Only one or two men could lie down at a time, if they even wanted to, given the abhorrent conditions I just mentioned. My client was the smallest of the group, so he ended up sleeping on his knees most nights.
Imagine it. How long could you last in that situation? He was that hell-hole for two weeks and only got out when his wife paid the police a bribe, after borrowing the money from a friend, who also helped him escape the country. Last year, 98 prisoners in that prison died of neglect. After hearing his story, I was surprised the number was that small. The capacity of human cruelty is truly boundless.
The Superbug. As if we don't have enough diseases to worry about. First we had AIDs, then we had the flesh-eating Ebola, then the SARs, and then we got the bird flu. Now we have to worry about the Superbug, i.e., methicillin-resistant staphylococcus aureus bacteria. Say that 20 times fast. You can call it MRSA. Or "staph." This thing is on the march and it's killing people left and right, mostly kids and the elderly. A seemingly healthy 17 year-old in Virginia died of it a month ago, and a staph infection just killed a 13 year-old in Brooklyn the other day. They call it the "Superbug" because it's resistant to penicillin (thanks in part to all you morons who use antibacterial soap every time you wash your hands). It's prevalent in locker rooms and hospitals, where it kills 1 in 20 patients who get it. The scary thing is, staph lives on the skin and in the noses of healthy people. It only becomes deadly when it enters the bloodstream. So think about THAT the next time you're showering at the gym or grabbing a doorhandle with that open boo-boo on your index finger. Mmmmmooohahahahahaha!!! (Knock on wood -- it's just a joke, bad spirits, so back the fuck off).
The deadly brain-eating amoeba. Ooooh, this one's my favorite! She's like MRSA's psycho cousin. Apparently kids, there's this deadly organism that lives in lakes, hot springs, and even dirty swimming pools that just looooves to eat brains. You see, when you go swimming and you happen to snort a little water up your nose (pretty common, yes?), the organism enters your body by latching onto your olfactory nerve. Then it moves up your nasal passage until it reaches your brain, which it feeds on until you die, usually within two weeks. (Gives new meaning to the term "brain food," heh heh.) You get minor symptoms at first, a headache, a stiff neck, or a fever. Then, before you know it, come the hallucinations, the crazy visions. Then, after a little while uh... comes uh... Death. Eeesh. This thing's right out of a Stephen King short story, I tell ya. The brain-sucking amoeba has killed 6 people so far this year, and scientists expect the body count to climb rapidly due to global warming. It seems the brain-eater or Naegleria fowleri, really likes warm water. So pack those noseplugs, peeps! And wear a brain helmet, cuz the amoeba's comin' to GET YA!
Scary Ha-Ha Bonus Round: Hank Steinbrenner. Gotta end this on a light note, of course. Just when I thought George Steinbrenner was on his way out, and getting set to ride off into that baseball diamond in the sky, in walks his son, Hank Steinbrenner, Blowhard Extraordinaire to carry Dad's torch. It's amazing, the man looks and acts exactly like his big-mouthed father. First he takes on, and ultimately shitcans, Joe Torre, one of the most respected managers in the game. Then he goes and puts a big ol' boot into the ass of the Yankees' best player and this year's likely MVP, A-Rod. Keep it up, Hank! We love you in Red Sox Nation. Loveitloveitloveit! Pretty soon, you'll have the Yankees back where your egomaniacal father had them in the 80s: in the friggin' turlet. If you're a Yankee fan, Hank Steinbrenner is truly scary. If you're a Red Sox fan, he's scary ha-ha.
And with that nonsense out of the way, I'm off to wait for the Great Pumpkin to arrive.
When I was eight years old, my father took me to my first baseball game at Fenway Park. Dad was not one to drive into Boston -- he hates driving in cities -- so we took his Chevy Malibu into Melrose, a Boston suburb, where we picked up the T train. After a couple of switches, we exited at Kenmore Square, near Fenway Park.
When you're young, your senses are heightened and raw. Every perception makes a laser impression on your eyes, your ears, your nose. My first memory of that summer day is of walking towards Fenway, over a small overpass with the iconic Citgo sign in the distance. Back then, the sign was made of fiberglass, and it was absolutely huge. I wondered to myself exactly how big did a gas station have to be to have a sign that tall? Today, the sign's still there, except it's electric and lights up in neon red, purple, and white. Some things should stay the way they are. It was one of my first visits ever to a city, and I also couldn't believe how many people were walking around and how big the buildings were.
Outside the Park, on Lansdowne Street, vendors were everywhere, cooking up all these strange things I'd never smelled before. One of them was grilling sausages and peppers, which smelled amazing. Another was selling these roasted peanuts. I didn't even know you could roast peanuts. Still others were hawking baseball paraphernalia, and I whined to my father to buy me literally everything I saw: Red Sox hats, jerseys, keychains, pins, caps, baseballs, programs, you name it, I wanted it. Dad typically gave me the Heisman stiff-arm upon gratuitous requests like these, but on this special day, he was decidedly more generous. First he bought me a white painter's cap that had the name of every Red Sox player on it, and the number 8, for Red Sox legend Carl Yazstremski, on the top.
Then we walked into one of the enormous sports stores near the Park and I could not believe how much Red Sox stuff they were selling in there. They had everything the vendors had and more. Dad gave me the option of picking any player jersey I wanted, and I was torn between Yaz, his favorite player, and Fred Lynn, my favorite player. After considerable vacillation, and with the game start rapidly approaching, I went with Yaz at the very last minute because he had the number 8, which was my favorite number. Plus, I was 8 years old, and at the time, I felt an appropriate symmetry to my getting a jersey with the number 8 on it to commemorate my first baseball game. (Even back then, numbers mattered to me.) Plus, it made Dad happy, and well, you know, he ponied up for the tickets, so it was the least I could do.
Our seats were in the bleachers (the cheap seats, of course), but since Dad was a sentimental guy, he wanted my first vision of Fenway Park to be from behind home plate, just like the players saw it. So he walked me around the inside of Fenway to the entrance behind home plate. When we got to the ramp, he let me go slowly up the ramp by myself to the stadium entrance to take it all in. As I walked up the ramp, the field slowly opened before me, getting bigger and bigger in front of my eyes. When I finally got to the top of the ramp and walked into Fenway Park for the first time, I remember how in awe I was. It was as if I'd entered a holy shrine. I'd seen it on t.v. before, but it was so much bigger in person. The sky was a brilliant blue, with a high afternoon sun that reflected off the bleacher seats in right field, where we would soon be sitting. The thing I remember most is the grass. It was the greenest grass I'd ever seen. Certainly greener than the dried out patches in front of our house in New Hampshire, which Dad had always struggled to maintain. The Fenway grass was imbued with a deep forest green and it extended everywhere. Since one of my chores at home was to mow the lawn, I took particular notice of how nicely trimmed the Fenway grass was, and how they'd inlaid it with a nice criss-cross design. Didn't even know you could do that. Then I saw the infield, and it too looked much bigger than it did on television. I couldn't fathom how a third baseman could make such a long throw to first with such accuracy. And last, turning to my left, I saw the Green Monster, which looked as high as a mountain to my eight-year old eyes.
My Dad let me take it all in, before showing me a few things about the park I wouldn't have noticed. He pointed to a seat in right field that Sox legend Ted Williams once hit with a home run many years ago -- the longest one ever hit at Fenway Park. Today, in Ted's honor, the seat is colored red and surrounded by a sea of blue seats. Before our visit, my father had told me that my initials, T.E.D., were given in Ted's honor. My father was a huge fan of Ted's, not only because he was a great baseball player, but also because, like my father, Ted was a military man. In fact, TW missed four of the best years of his career serving as a jet fighter pilot during World War II, and he still set records that have yet to be broken.
Eventually, we made our way to the bleacher seats, and for the next three hours, we watched the Red Sox play the Chicago White Sox, who wore these hideous black jerseys with collars (collars!), that looked ridiculous. Their uniforms paled in comparison to the old school bright red and white of my Red Sox. For the record, that day I recall eating 2 Fenway Franks, 1 cotton candy, 1 bag of peanuts, and washing it all down with one or two Cokes. Healthy fare, to say the least. While I remember what I ate, for the life of me, I can't remember if the Red Sox won or lost. I think they may have lost -- they always lost to the White Sox back then -- but it didn't matter. I'd seen the Red Sox play, I'd seen Fenway Park with my father, and that's all I cared about.
In the long years since, I suffered along with my father as we watched the Red Sox approach the door to the Promised Land, a World Series title, only to have it slam on their fingers time after time. Each year, like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the mountain, some obstacle, some unexpected turn of events, would interfere with a surehanded victory. The boulder would roll backwards at the most inopportune time, flattening my team and crushing my dreams.
In 1978, it was light-hitting Bucky Dent's corked bat home run, which just barely reached the top of the Monster, that killed the Red Sox in a one game playoff against the Yankees. That year, they'd held a 14-game lead over New York as late as July. That game was the first time I realized that I wasn't following a normal baseball team. The Red Sox could rip your heart out.
Probably the worst disappointment, of course, was in 1986, when I was 18 years old, and the Red Sox looked like a team of destiny. When Boston went up 3 games to 2 in the World Series against the Mets, the result seemed assured. It was going to happen. At the time, I was in college in Worcester, Massachusetts. I watched Game 6 with a bunch of my friends in a tiny dorm room. A bunch of Mets fans from New Jersey were watching the game in the adjoining room, and every time something good happened for the Red Sox, we would beat on the cinderblock wall with an aluminum baseball bat to rub it in. Whenever something good happened for the Mets, my colleagues in the next room reciprocated in kind.
The game went into extra innings, and, in the top of the 10th, Boston went ahead on a 2-run home run by Dave Henderson, to take a commanding lead. In the bottom of the 10th, the Red Sox got two quick outs, the second coming on a fly ball to Henderson, which he caught one-handed and nonchalantly, as if to say "Yeah man, I'm a stud, and this game is O-V-E-R." At that moment, I thought back to my Dad's admonition in Little League whenever I would try and catch the baseball one-handed: Two hands! Always use two hands when you catch the ball!!! (The danger was, the ball could pop out of your glove by accident, and if you didn't have another hand covering the front of the glove, you'd drop it.) When I saw Hendu catch the ball with one hand, something in my mind said He should've used two hands. Something isn't right. And that old Calvinist doubt began to claw its way out of my cerebellum and into my consciousness.
Still, it was a faint doubt. Like everyone else in the room, I still thought the Red Sox were going to win the World Series for the first time since 1918. "I can't believe it, I can't believe it," we all kept saying. Superstition did not stop us from whacking the hell out of the adjoining wall with our trusty aluminum bat. When Boston got within one strike of winning the game and the Series, one of my friends pulled a bunch of Budweisers out of the mini-fridge under the television and distributed them to everyone in the room. We all wanted to have a cold one in our hands when the Red Sox finally won the whole thing. We wanted to celebrate the long-awaited victory by metaphorically drinking the blood of the vanquished. We were ready. The scoreboard at Shea flashed "Congratulations Boston Red Sox -- 1986 World Champions." We were close. So very, very close. My right hand was on the pop-top of my can of beer, so I could time it with the final out.
The next sound I remember hearing after Hendu caught out number two was the pfffffft of some jackass prematurely opening his beer. Not good. This was extremely bad luck. Extremely. We all yelled at him, because as any Sox fans knows, you do NOT fucking celebrate too early. That's just stupid. That's just raising a middle finger to the Baseball Gods and saying, "We don't need your stinkin' help. Fuck you." It's fine to give up on your own team too early -- in fact, eighteen years later, I'd learn that doing so can help turn bad karma into good karm. But you do NOT celebrate until the last zombie is dead. It's baseball fan 101.
The rest of the game is a bit of a blur. I remember back-to-back hits by Gary Carter and Kevin Mitchell. I remember us taking all of our beers and putting them back into the mini-fridge, even the a-hole who opened his too early. I remember the distinct sound of an aluminum bat from the next room hitting our wall repeatedly. I remember Calvin Schiraldi, the rookie Red Sox pitcher with deer-in-headlight eyes being replaced by Oh-Shit-Here-Comes-Gasoline-On-The Fire-Bob-Stanley. I remember Mookie Wilson fouling off a bunch of pitches and the Red Sox being one strike away 10 times before Mookie dodged a wild one from Stanley that got past the catcher, Rich Gedman. Mets score, tie ballgame. (A lot more aluminum bat from the next room.) I remember Mookie hitting a ground ball to first base. I remember Bill Buckner, an old ironhorse at the tail end of his career, who had chronically bad ankles and knees, bending over at the waist like a diseased tree to pick up the easy grounder. I remember the ball going underneath his glove and into right field. I remember the announcer Vin Scully's nasally voice saying "Little roller up along first... behind the bag! It gets through Buckner! Here comes Knight, and the Mets win it!" I remember the Mets going nuts.
To this day, the sound of Vin Scully's voice makes me nauseous.
That night, I left my friends' dorm and walked back to mine feeling like someone had cut my guts open with a pocketknife. I was crying, that's how bad it was. An eighteen year-old crying like a little girl over a baseball game. Sad. Once I got back to my dormroom, I called my father. He was incredulous himself and extremely pissed, which made me feel better. He reminded me that these were the Red Sox, and he'd suffered a long time too, but there was always Game 7. They'd bounce back. They'd win Game 7. I was nowhere near as optimistic as he was though, and of course, he was wrong. After a psyche-twisting debacle like this, Game 7 was a foregone conclusion. Boston lost. Again.
The Red Sox didn't get that close to champagne again for a long time. In fact, they wouldn't get that close to a World Series for another 17 years. In 2003, I was 35 years old and living in New York. Ironically, I'd fallen in love with the city of the team I grew up hating with a passion. (Truth be told, I grew up hating New York City too. But once I got here, I discovered that her ass looks great in a thong and she's pretty damn good in bed. So I got over it.)
During my time here, I'd had to endure the resurgent Yankees winning four out of five World Series between 1996 and 2000. The Yankees were the opposite of the Red Sox. They had 22 World Series rings when they started in the 90s. By the end, they had 26. They were a force, and they made winning look easy. In 2003, Boston had put together a great team, one that was arguably better than the Yankees, and they were facing New York again, mano-a-mano, in the most important game between the two teams since that one-game debacle in 1978. I was a nervous wreck the entire series. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. It's fine for Boston to lose in the playoffs -- I almost expected it -- but please, please, please, do not let it be to the fucking Yankees. Why did this have to happen? Why did they get stuck playing New York, of all teams? It just wasn't right.
Of course, the series went to a Game 7. Another one-game playoff, except this time, the stakes were bigger. The winner got to go to the World Series. To my utter surprise, Boston actually took a 5-2 lead into the eighth inning, with Pedro Martinez, one of the best pitchers in the game, on the mound. I was pacing my apartment like a man possessed. Six more outs, six more outs, six more outs, I kept chanting to myself. I sounded like a baseball Rain Man. I could not sit still. Friend P. had called earlier, when Boston was well ahead. He sounded confident, happy. He felt good. "These are the Red Sox we're talking about," I'd said. "Don't get your hopes up, there's a lot of game left." He agreed and we promptly got off the phone.
I won't recount the entirety of what happened in the eighth inning, but Boston blew its three-run lead when the manager left Pedro Martinez in the game too long. The Yankees tied the game and ended up winning it in extra innings on a home run by Aaron Boone. After the game, I felt like someone had kicked me in the balls with steel-toed combat boots. My angst surprised me. I'd actually started believing in them again, and they screwed me good, again. This time though, I was thirty-five, not eighteen, so instead of crying like a baby, I swore a blue streak for about two hours and went to bed. Living in New York really sucked right about then, as Yankee fans were partying like it was 1999. All night long, I heard horns honking and people yelling outside my apartment. To Red Sox and Yankee fans, beating the other team in a Game 7 playoff is baseball nirvana. A sports orgasm, if you will. It simply does not get any better. Except maybe winning the World Series.
In 2004, everything somehow changed. I don't know what karmic forces reversed themselves, or why they did, but they did and in dream-like fashion. In a repeat of the prior year, the Red Sox faced the Yankees again in the ALCS and promptly lost three games. The last game they lost in Boston by a score of 19-8. They got pounded. I thought it was over. Everyone did. But it wasn't. Boston came back to win the next four games. They beat the Yankees and got to the World Series. It was unbelievable. It was historical. And it was payback. To see the Red Sox jubilantly dancing on the grave of the pitcher's mound at Yankee Stadium after Game 7, as stunned faces of Yankees players and more importantly, Yankee fans, looked on, was... just... precious.
Then, THEN, Boston swept the St. Louis Cardinals in four games to win the whole thing. They finally did it, they won the World Series. So close, so very close, so many times, and it finally happened. It was surreal. So surreal in fact that there was a total eclipse the night they won.
Afterwards, I did not know what to feel. Have you ever wanted something so badly to happen that seemed totally impossible, like the gods were against it, and then it finally happens, in the most improbable way, and you're like, holy fuck, it just happened. I can't believe it. It's like you've grown up your whole life thinking you had a certain place in the universe, that you were a serf, a slave, who's not supposed to achieve anything more than your station, and there's this big ass giant in front of you who cracks a whip on your ass to remind you of the order of things every single time you get a little uppity. And then, one day, one of the serfs who's sick of it all and can't take it any more, takes a slingshot out of his back pocket that he's been saving for a rainy day, puts a rock in it, pulls the band back, and lets it fly right at Goliath's forehead. And down he goes. The giant is dead, the boulder is finally resting peacefully at the top of the hill, and now what? You finally get what you want in life, and it feels like an out of body experience. At least that's how it felt to me.
Tonight, the Red Sox are on the verge of winning the World Series for the second time in four years. I was happy with one, I never thought I'd see two. Strangely, they've become a lot more like the Yankees now. Gone is The Curse of the Bambino. Gone is expecting to lose. Now we expect them to win. Some of the media are saying how funny is that today's young Red Sox fans are oblivious to the many disappointments experienced by older Red Sox fans before 2004. Today's youngins are only used to winning. They don't know what it's like have their team lose important games. They're used to seeing Ortiz hit clutch home runs, and Pedro, Beckett, and Schilling dominating the opposition That's all they know. Bucky Dent? Mookie Wilson? Bill Buckner? Who are they? The youngins have no recollection of the Red Sox losing the World Series in 1946, 1967, 1975, and 1986, all in seven games. They're used to the Red Sox winning World Series games. They're used to four-game sweeps!
The older generation (uh, I guess that's me now) know better. They know to take nothing for granted, still, and that nothing is a given with this team, still. The older ones are leaving room for the possibility that Colorado can still come back in this series, may still come back, and that it's not over until it's over. Everything is conditional until the last out is made.
But if (when) the Red Sox win tonight, or tomorrow night, or on one of the nights after, my first thought will be of my father and the first baseball game he took me to when I was eight years old. I'll remember how proud he was to introduce me to the Red Sox and Fenway Park in person. I'll remember how big the field looked to my young eyes and the sweet, pungent smell of grilled sausages on Lansdowne Street. I'll remember how, on that day, my father cemented my love for an amazing game, where every pitch matters, where there is no clock, only outs, and where, just like in life, there may be disappointments along the way, but sometimes the impossible can and does happen. And when it does, it's a beautiful thing. It makes all the bad times worth it.
When Boston wins, I'll remember all of this. And then I'll call my father.
Oh man. Haven't written much lately because I've been neck-deep in the baseball playoffs. With the Red Sox facing down two elimination games in a row, I'm too distracted. So you will have to indulge me and my Red Sox-centricness at the moment. It's the only time of year when this happens, and it could end any day now. But not yet. They're not dead yet -- far from it. They won again last night, coming off the mat again for the second game in a row, and it was a friggin' PARTY. I watched the game at Professor Thom's, along with about 60 other Sox fans, complete strangers all at the start of the game. It was lose and go home for my team (again). They were down 3-1 in this series two games ago, and I'd given them up for dead. I'm not embarrassed to say it. 2004 World Series or no 2004 World Series, these are the Red Sox and I still have scars. But they're proving me wrong once again. I gave them up for dead in 2004 against the Yankees and they came back to win the whole thing. I hope lightning strikes twice.
All the same, the more pessimistic among us (me) were a little on edge when the game started last night, wondering which versions of Curt Schilling and Fausto Carmona were going to show up. You just never know. Then.... Boston loads the bases in the first with nobody out. Then.... they get two outs and I'm thinking, damnit, they're going to blow this silver platter opportunity and not score. It's not good when you let chances like this pass in elimination games. Then, THEN! the much maligned, sleepy-head J.D. Drew, the Sox fans' punching bag the entire year, hits a totally unexpected GRAND SLAM to the deepest part of the ballpark, off of one of the best pitchers in the league, on a 97 mile-an-hour fast ball.
The place. Went. Apeshit. Yells, screams, arms in the air, strangers high fiving, hugging, beer spilling everywhere. I'm Shipping Up to Boston by the Dropkick Murphys starts pounding on the loudspeakers. I was jumping up and down and yelling louder than I have since I was seven, when I got a Six Million Dollar Man doll for Christmas (along with rocket ship and mission control center accessories). Apoplectic, that was it. I'll tell you, it's an amazing feeling when you have so many people in such a small space completely losing it together over the same exact thing. It's a euphoric unity unlike anything else. If you've never experienced it, I suggest you try it sometime. The high is stratospheric and it lasts longer than most controlled substances. That's why I went to PT's to watch the game instead of watching it in my living room. I wanted to feel the game, not just watch it. And feel it I did. Boston blew the doors off the place and now we have a Game 7.
So of course I called dear friend P. in Boston after the game to celebrate. He, a Red Sox season ticket holder, soon informed me that he just happened to have an extra ticket to Game 7 at Fenway tonight. Hmmm, should I go? I wonder. Uh, yeah, I will be shipping up to Boston in a few hours. Not to find my wooden leg, but to see my beloved team hopefully win and get to the World Series. Anything can happen in a Game 7, but win or lose, it's been one hell of a ride. That's why I love baseball.
Think the Cleveland Indians aren't desperate to close out the series tonight? In an unprecedented move -- certainly something I've never seen before -- they actually got Danielle Peck to sing the national anthem before tonight's game. Who is Danielle Peck, you ask? She's a country music singer and the ex-girlfriend of the Red Sox starting pitcher tonight, Josh Beckett. Unbelievable.
Here's what Indians spokesman Bob DiBiasio had to say about it:
They know damn well who Josh Beckett dates. That's what scouts are for. As if SHE didn't know! And Cleveland Indians fan my ass. Here's a picture of Ms. Peck from her Beckett-shagging days. She's the second one from the left. The one in the Red Sox shirt and cap:
Manny ends a tight one with a two-out, walk-off home run in the bottom of the 9th....
After Danny "The Anti-Bartman" Vinik pulled the ball out of Angels catcher Jeff Mathis' glove in the fifth inning to keep hope alive and help the Sox tie the game.
The kid even got a high five from the immortal Stephen King, a huge Red Sox fan, who was sitting a few seats away. Propah!
Oh and the $pankees lost and are now down 0-2 to the Tribe. All in all, a damn good night.
Unbelievable. Rookie Clay Buchholz, Red Sox pitcher, 23 years old, just threw a no-hitter in only his second major league start. He's just the second pitcher to do it in his second start since 1900. First rookie to ever do it in a Red Sox uniform. Un-friggin' believable.
To put it in perspective, here are a few great pitchers who have never thrown a no-hitter:
Roger Clemens Pedro Martinez Mike Mussina Curt Schilling Josh Beckett Greg Maddux John Smoltz Steve Carlton Tom Glavine Whitey Ford
Together, those guys have probably pitched in over 5000 games. Clay Buchholz has pitched in exactly two games, and he's thrown one. This is why I love baseball.
Okay, so the Sox are losing 5-0 in the bottom of the 9th inning. They are three outs away from losing the game. I, of course, shut off the MLB.COM simulcast in the 8th inning when it became clear to me that the game was over. I mean, c'mon, 5-0, it's over, right? Are you with me? You don't come back from that in your last at-bat.
Nay Nay, good sir. The Red Sox scored six -- count 'em, six -- runs in the bottom of the 9th to steal this game from the sad, truly sad, Baltimore Orioles. An Ortiz double, a clutch Varitek single with two outs, and a couple of helpful bloopers by Baltimore turned the game Boston's way. You don't see a six run, 9th inning comeback every day people, and I feel this magic moment in the 2007 baseball season warranted a mention right here, right now.
The cherry on the cake? The Yankees lost 2-1 to Seattle with Pettite pitching. They're now 8 games out and two games under .500.
Can-I-getta WOT WOT?!
Detroit's coming to town next. Time to take them to the woodshed and give them the beat-down they've been waiting for.
I can't decide what I liked most about this past weekend. The incredible weather, starting my new fiction writing class, or watching the Red Sox sweep three games from the New York Yankees. Hmmm. Let me see. I think I'm going to go with the sweep for $300, Alex.
Sweeps are nice, clean fun when they go your way. Completely demoralizing when they don't. In the Yankees' case, it couldn't have been fun to take a 6-2 lead into the 8th inning of the first game on Friday night and then have your Hall of Fame closer, Mariano Rivera, blow yet another save at Fenway Park. They've got his number, as Dad likes to say. This is why he got an appropriate standing ovation from the Fenway Faithful when he walked into the bullpen on Saturday. (He returned a good natured smile to the Sox fans. The man is a class act.)
And tonight we had not one, not two, not three, but FOUR back to back to back to back home runs by Messrs. Ramirez, Drew, Lowell, and Varitek. I have never seen that before.
Of course, it's only April. And the Red Sox faced two rookie pitchers and a pretty banged up Yankee lineup. But Jeter, A-Rod (who is playing like a man possessed right now), Giambi, Damon, and Cano were all present, so I'd better not hear too much whining from my Yankee friends at work tomorrow. Whether you win them in April or September, these games count.
Rematch at the Stadium next weekend. Be there or be square.
Snowed in here, as I am in Brooklyn, the likelihood of my making it into Manhattan on this St. Patrick's Day is quite slim. I think I'm in hibernation mode. There is plenty of beer in the fridge, however, and many suitable pubs in Williamsburg, so I shall be fine.
In honor of the day, and to give the long-awaited baseball season an early start, here's a vid by the Dropkick Murphys, playing in the Baseball Cathedral that IS Fenway Park, singing the Red Sox rally song, "Tessie."
Wha will tae Cupar maun tae Cupar A aye, better gang than be ta’en. (Or, sae gang tae Cupar an’ be damned!)
-- Old Scottish Proverb (I think)
It's a global village, it truly is. With modern technology blazing forward at lightning speed, it has never been easier to reach out and touch someone a world away. Indeed, every time I get into a cab here in New York, it's not three seconds before the cabbie's jabbering in foreign tongue to someone in Calcutta, Karachi, or Kiev (how's that for alliteration?). Telephone fees have fallen so much that talking to friends and family overseas now costs a mere pittance. Those Verizon and T-Mobile stores in Queens must be making a killing on Bluetooth earpieces and cell phone cards.
Anywho, about a week ago, I had the pleasure of engaging in my very own transatlantic pow-wow with R., a friend who happens to reside in Scotland, of all places. Scotland's a kick-ass country. My interest therein began as a child with that old documentary show In Search Of, hosted by Leonard Nimoy. You remember -- the one where they searched for mysterious things like Noah's Ark, the Giant Squid, and Bigfoot? I was fascinated by the search for the Loch Ness Monster and the foreboding pictures of Loch Ness where he/she/it supposedly hid. In 1995, just before I started working as a lawyer, I traveled to Scotland and absolutely loved it. If you've never been there, you should definitely check it out. Castles, haggis, the lochs, open spaces, not too crowded, and very scenic. Edinburgh is one of the most beautiful cities I've seen. The Scots also have an independent streak that is to be admired. If you've seen "Braveheart" or "Rob Roy," you know what I mean. How do you say: Hard. Core.
The only problem with Scotland? The people are often impossibly difficult to understand. Even though I spoke the same language, I may as well have been in Namibia. Example: we got lost once going south from Inverness and pulled over to ask directions from a kind-looking old guy who was walking by the side of the road with a cane and two or three sheep. He looked like he'd been living in the neighborhood for awhile. No matter. I swear, he gave us the same directions 4 times -- in English, no less -- and we still left the scene not knowing what the fuck the poor man said. Nice guy though.
Another problem is the local fare. Specifically, McEwan's Scotch Ale. You see, when I travel, I like to partake of the food eaten by locals, get a little flavor of the place, so to speak. I'm pretty adventurous in this regard, within reason. That's why, against the advice of many, I tried haggis, a traditional Scottish dish consisting of the following: sheep's heart, liver and lungs, minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock. This wonderful melange is traditionally boiled in a sheep's stomach for about an hour, and then served piping hot. Mmmm, mmmm, good! I actually liked it -- it tastes like beef hash.
McEwan's Ale, however, was terrible, and almost made me reconsider my "adventure" policy. Background: I'm a beer drinker. I like beer. You fancy-pants Yuppies can have your wine -- your Bourdeaux, your Pinot Noir, and your Chardonnay. My father weened me on Lowenbrau and Pabst Blue Ribbon. I like beer. Thus, when I was in Scotland, I was eager to try a local beer. So, at one point during our travels, we ventured into a pub, and some wise ass bartender suggested, again, in indecipherable English, that I try a McEwan's Ale. With great enthusiasm, I obliged.
Sporting a mischievous smile, he popped open a bottle of McEwan's and slid it my way. Unaware of what was coming, I took a deep, long, first swig. As the Ale swirled around my tongue, my gag reflex immediately kicked in, and I almost puked right there on the bar. That shit was nasty. While I've mostly banished the lousy experience from my memory, as I recall, the taste was a warm combination of alcohol, caramel, malt, butterscotch, and goat piss. I couldn't finish it, though I gamely swigged a couple more gulps, so as not to offend my hosts, and because I wanted to be sure that I had tasted it correctly the first time. I had. Even the word "ale" gets me nauseous now.
Anyway, back to my conversation with R. About a week ago, she sent me a text message to let me know that two of the best soccer club teams in the world -- AC Milan v. Celtic Glasgow -- were in the playoffs for the European Cup. It so happens that I'm an AC Milan fan, the result of a summer spent in Italy when I was 6. Two of my Italian cousins, Claudio and Massimo, lobbied for my loyalty to one of their respective teams, AC Milan or Inter Milan. Back then, I couldn't have cared less about soccer; I was in love with football and baseball. But in Italy, soccer is Everything, and my cousins forced me to choose one Milan team or the other. (A pretty limited choice, when you think about it, given that there are plenty of other teams who play in the Italian League.)
It ended up being a pretty easy choice. AC Milan's jerseys were red and black; Inter Milan's were blue and black. Red was my favorite color at the time, so I chose AC Milan. Claudio was thrilled, Massimo, not so much. I haven't really followed club soccer that avidly since then. My enthusiasm was substantially dampened when I learned that supporting AC Milan was a bit like supporting Microsoft, or the New York Yankees. They always won because they had a shitload of money and always bought the best players. As a Red Sox fan, I wasn't too happy when I learned this. Thankfully, teams like Juventus, Real Madrid, and Manchester United have now made things more competitive.
Even though I don't follow European soccer as closely as the American sports, once in awhile, if there's a big game, I will check in to see how Milan are doing. So last week, when R. let me know that her team, Celtic, were playing my team, AC Milan, my interest was piqued. At my suggestion, we placed a little wager on the game, whose terms shall remain undisclosed. She proceeded to watch the game on her t.v. at home in Scotland, while I was forced to follow it on ESPN Gamecast at work, the equivalent of watching a virtual NFL football game on one of those electric, vibrating metal game tables from the '70s.
For the next two hours, we traded intermittent, transcontinental trash talk. I told her that the Italians are the ones who really know how to play soccer, and that if she wanted to follow a real team, a WINNING team, perhaps it was time for her to start following AC Milan. She in turn called me a "Yankee Motherfucker." Actually she didn't do that at all, she's far too polite, but it makes my story slightly more interesting, doesn't it? In truth, she held her own, suggesting that one of the referees -- a Sicilian -- was paid off, perhaps by the Mafia. Bah, as if that would ever happen in Italy.
Things got awfully quiet on her end though, after Milan scored in overtime, making it 1-0. Shortly after Milan won the game, R. gave me a call, and I again raised the prospect of her switching teams. It's not hard to do. See here. True to her heritage, she declined my cynical offer, like that die-hard William Wallace. Then I made an embarrassing mistake. I mispronounced her team's name, calling it "Kel-tic." What a maroon. That's like a tourist coming to New York and calling Houston Street "Hew-stun Street," like the city in Texas.
"It's SSSeltic, not Kel-tic," dear R. corrected me.
"Ah, like the Boston Celtics, okay," said I, pretending that I really knew better.
Fortunately, R.'s accent is more decipherable than the aforementioned gentleman by the side of the road, but I do sometimes need her to repeat herself, so I can understand what she's asayin'. It's charming, confusing, and funny all at the same time.
All this reminds me that I really must get my Self back to Scotland soon. Only this time I'll be sure to bring a dictionary and one of them computerized pronunciation jobbies, so I can get by with minimal confusion. Oh and one more thing. Hold the McEwan's, please.
I am a bit OCD about reading the New York Sunday Times. It's quite troubling. When I take it in my hands, feel its heft and girth, something comes over me and I feel compelled to read it in its entirety, page by page. Sometimes the situation gets so bad that I can't do anything else until I'm done reading the whole thing. If someone calls me in the middle of my 2.5 hour binge, I get seriously annoyed. Maybe I'm in the middle of the City section reading a little ditty about an old lady who's had two cats as roommates on the Upper West Side for the past 50 years. Or perhaps a story about a nutty miscreant in the East Village who is terrorizing people because he likes jelly donuts. One of my favorite sections happens to be "Modern Love," which contains anecdotes about life and love in 21st Century New York as told by one of my fellow inhabitants. If I get a call in the middle of my Times Trance, I start hopping around like Bugs Bunny over buried gold and my left eye starts twitching. Pity the fool who calls me on a Sunday afternoon and incurs my wrath.
Yes, there is something wrong with me. But if I do not adhere to the calling, I will be left with the nagging sensation that I missed something important, perhaps a story or piece of information that could change my life. Melodramatic you say? Pisshaw!
The upside is that the NYST is a font of inspiration, and there is always something in there that spurs a motivation in me, a blog entry, or the kernel of an idea for future exposition. Today, I came across a story that I found both timely and interesting on this, the Holy Day of Our Super Bowl. Sometime, around 9:30 p.m. tonight, one of the two football teams playing in the Game of Games is going to win. Trust me, it's true. When that happens, an enterprising fellow or feline is going to run out onto the field carrying t-shirts and hats emblazoned with either "Indianapolis Colts Super Bowl Champions" or "Chicago Bears Super Bowl Champions."
We, the viewers and fans, take for granted that Peyton Manning or Brian Urlacher will be wearing a champagne stained version of one of the above this evening. But what of the loser hats and shirts? You see, the NFL has to make both versions, one for the winners, one for the losers. No one knows who is going to win the big game after all, and commercial bets must be covered. What happens to all that useless garb that says "[LOSING TEAM] Super Bowl Champions"?
I always assumed it was thrown away or perhaps torched in a ritualistic bonfire in the parking lot after the game, along with a sacrificial virgin. No, no, no mon frere. According to the NYST, the NFL gives the loser vestments to charity, specifically, to World Vision, a great organization that provides clothing, health care, and food aid to impoverished children and families all over the world. This is why there may come a day when you're watching a Sally Struthers commercial or a 60 Minutes expose on governmental graft in Africa, and all of a sudden you catch view of a young child in Uganda or Nigeria standing in the background, proudly donning a Buffalo Bills 1993 Super Bowl Champions t-shirt or a Seattle Seahawks 2006 Super Bowl Champions hat. (Another thing I have wondered is why the fuck I keep seeing pictures of young kids wearing New York Yankees caps in remote outposts like Namibia, Nepal, and Burma. Before reading this story, it drove me to fits of paranoia -- "Y-Y-Yankee fans.... T-T-They're everywhere!!!") Obviously, these kids know nothing about the Super Bowl, much less who won or lost, so they don't care what's on their clothes. They're probably just glad to have them; they couldn't care less if what they're wearing fails to comport with historical fact.
And therein lies the sad part of the story. As usual, the poor of the world are left with the crumbs off the world's dinner table. They're an afterthought. "Here, don't spend it all in one place. After all, what else were you going to wear? Be happy with what we're giving you, assholes. The historically accurate hats and t-shirts are for US, for OUR stores, OUR people, the righteous and just, the fortunate. Take the loser shit and be happy. You don't have a t.v. anyway."
This is not to denigrate the NFL or World Vision, of course. They are both wonderful organizations and should be commended for doing more than most of us do. At least they're doing something. But what of the moneybag corporations who are spending all that cashola on commercials tonight? How many millions and gajillions of dollars did they spend this year alone? What are THEY doing? Couldn't they pop a couple of bucks to get these poor kids some accurate clothing, or better yet, some food and health care? Just once, I would like to see an ad that says simply: "The money we spent on this ad was donated to X Charity or Y country." That would be impressive. If Tampax put an ad out like that, I would run out and buy myself a box of tampons, I swear.
Until that special day arrives, I suppose it is somehow fitting that the world's "losers," the poor, the dispossessed, are left to wear the unwanted never-to-be-seen-again-except-by-accident apparel of the losers on the world's biggest (second biggest if you count the World Cup) and most expensive stage -- the Super Bowl.
Stay calm, people. It appears that today's plane incident on the Upper East Side was not terrorism, as many people feared (including my mother, who has called me twice in the past two hours), but rather, an accident. The small Cirrus SR-20 (in case you're counting) that flew into the Belaire Condominium on East 72nd Street was flown by none other than Yankee pitcher Cory Lidle, whose passport was just found on a New York street. What a bizarre fucking story. Only in New York.
Here's an eerily prophetic comment that Lidle gave to a newspaper only a month ago:
Fly guy
The Phillies weren't enamored of pitcher Cory Lidle's hobby of flying a four-seat airplane.
But now that Lidle is with the Yankees, it's an especially sensitive topic.
In 1979, Yankees catcher Thurman Munson died when a plane he was piloting crashed near his home in Canton, Ohio. Lidle earned his pilot's license last offseason, and has insisted his plane is safe.
"The whole plane has a parachute on it," he told The New York Times. "Ninety-nine percent of pilots that go up never have engine failure, and the 1 percent that do usually land.
"But, if you're up in the air and something goes wrong, you pull that parachute, and the whole plane goes down slowly."
And so the vaunted Yankee$, with their $194 million payroll, their juggernaut lineup of current and former All-Stars -- Giambi, Sheffield, Jeter, Rodriguez, Posada, and Matsui -- and their deep pockets owner Georgie "Money Is No Object" Steinbrennaaahh, learn, yet again, that money can't buy you love in the wonderful world of baseball. And so did all the "expert" pundits, who virtually awarded the Yankee$ the World Series before a single game of playoff baseball had been played.
For shame, for shame, for shame, ALL of you!
I hope the Yankee$ keep making the same mistake, year after year, and that they continue to strip their farm system bare in exchange for overpriced players long past their prime (i.e. Randy Johnson). Yes, the strategy worked pretty well in the late 1990s, when you bought the best free agents available, but back then you were smart and bought the best PITCHERS available. That approach can actually work if no one gets injured. But lately, you've been going for broke with bloated, empty calorie hitters with marginal defensive capability like Giambi, Sheffield, and Rodriguez. That strategy will never work.
Yankee fans have now been eating crow for six years, and they no longer walk around with the same cocky, arrogant sense of entitlement they used to have. In fact, a lot of the time they look as nervous and scared as Red Sox fans. Funny how things change.
Let the record reflect that the Yankee$ 2006 season lasted approximately one week longer than that of the Red Sox, and both teams will be watching the World Series this year from the sidelines.
Congratulations, Detroit! You took care of business, and I hope you go all the way. Your young pitchers are exciting to watch, and I love your manager, Jim Leyland (Boston tried to hire him out of retirement years ago, but he wisely demurred). I also get pumped watching a World Series-starved city lose it when their team wins. Hopefully you will get it done. Just ixnay on the riotsay this time, k?
When I was a kid, I used to be a huge football fan. In fact, I loved football even more than baseball, and followed it with a passion. I collected football cards with all of the players' names on them the way kids collect baseball cards today. (Only my love for "Star Wars" cards exceeded my obsession with football cards.) I knew every major player on my favorite team, the Oakland Raiders: Ken "The Snake" Stabler, Dave Casper, Cliff Branch, Fred Biletnikoff, Mark van Eeghen, Ted "The Mad Stork" Hendricks, Lester Hayes, Gene Upshaw, Clarence Davis, Art Shell, Pete Banaszak, John Matuszak, George Atkinson, Willie Brown, and last, but certainly not least, Jack "They Call Me Assassin" Tatum, to name a few. Dave Casper, No. 87, the tight end of the Raiders, was my favorite player. (I still have the plastic Dave Casper coffee cup that I made in the third grade, which featured Casper's name and a hand-drawn Raider helmet.)
Since I never managed to collect a complete set of football cards for the entire Raider team on my own, I would survey my friends, cousins, and adult strangers in cars to see if I could work a trade for those that still eluded me. When this proved fruitless, I relentlessly whined to my father to drive me to "Handy Dan's," a convenience store in the next town -- the only place nearby where they sold these fucking things -- to buy me some new bubble gum packs in the hope that I would magically open one to find a critical, missing Raider or a dupe of Dave Casper or Ken Stabler. Of course Dad could have saved himself a lot of trips to Handy Dan's if he just would have broken down and bought me the whole fucking NFL set for a lousy $25. But Dad was, and still is, how do you say, "frugal."
This may all sound silly in the age of eBay, but kids, back then, we didn't HAVE eBay. There WAS no Internet. We had to get by on sheer pluck, our wits, and pure serendipity, to survive. I don't know how we did it. We were like 17th Century fur traders. It was the barter system, and we were on the frontier. I was the only Raider fan in my 4th grade class, so during recess and sometimes even in class, I would aggressively negotiate with all the pathetic Patriots fans (of which there were many) for the outstanding Raider cards that I needed. This was our eBay, and you had to act fast or someone else would horn in on your trades. When weather permitted, we gathered outside during recess, on the schoolyard blacktop and jockeyed trades like jaded Wall Street brokers on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange:
"Hey Lee, I'll give you a Steve Grogan for a Ken Stabler -- do you have one?"
"I don't know, I have a couple Stablers, but I'm really looking for a Stanley Morgan -- do you have one of those?"
"No.... damnit. I just traded him to Mike for a Franco Harris, and then traded Franco Harris to Tom for a Steve Grogan, which is what I thought you wanted, because Matt told me you already had three Stanley Morgans and needed a Grogan."
"No buddy, you got some bad information. You should have come right to me -- I already have plenty of Grogans. I need a Stanley Morgan."
"Shit. I'm going to kill Matt."
This is how it went, the entire fall and into winter, and the same was true for baseball cards and Star Wars cards. Speaking of winter, the coolest thing for boys to wear on the grade-school catwalk during the wintertime was a jacket, hat, or gloves -- or preferably all three -- emblazoned with the logo of your favorite football team. These winter clothes were everywhere, and all the young, cool dudes wore them, straight from that bastion of cutting edge, designer chic for the elementary school set: the Sears catalogue. It was as if we were all members of a bizarre football cult. The coolest color -- a neon acqua blue and orange -- belonged to the Miami Dolphins, and there was always some freak, outlier fan of the Dolphins who, nonetheless, looked quite smart in his acqua/orange ensemble. I envied the look, but would not sacrifice my intense loyalty to the Raiders just to accommodate my fashion sense.
One might wonder how a small-town boy from New Hampshire became a Raider fan in the heart of Patriot country. Well, boys and girls, it began like this. In the fall of 1976, I, like my father, was a Patriot fan. Not an avid fan, mind you. In fact, before my football flame grew into a bonfire, I did not follow the sport or the Patriots with any passion at all; I was just rooting for my father's team, with half-hearted interest. It was all I knew. One reason that I was not feeling the love for the Patriots was their lousy uniforms, and in particular, their helmets. The Patriots' home uniforms were a combination of bright, crimson red jerseys, with nautical blue highlights, and white pants, with red and blue stripes. Not so bad -- similar to the Red Sox actually -- very patriotic.
But the Patriots' helmets were another story. They were all white, and on each side there was a Minuteman, Patriot, or colonialist -- whatever you want to call him -- who wore a three-point revolutionary hat, blue, dandy waistcoat with huge, fancy white, rolled cuffs, and bright red boots. Macho, yes? To make matters worse, Mr. Patriot was presented leaning forward, legs spread wide, with his right hand resting on a football on the ground. Wait, we're not done. Inexplicably, Mr. Patriot wore this pinched, wincing grimace on his face. He looked somewhat aggressive -- almost angry -- but at the same time, he seemed to be cracking a smile, as if he were kind of enjoying himself. Anticipating something. Something nice. As he was bending forward at the waist. Expectantly. Get my drift? If you don't believe this homo-erotic imagery, judge for yourself:
See what I mean?
There was just something wrong about Mr. Patriot, and needless to say, he did not generate much enthusiasm from an 8 year-old realist like myself, who believed a football mascot should be tough and a little bad-ass. This was fucking football, not a damn history lesson! Mr. Patriot was too effeminate for my taste. He looked ready for a gay porn movie set in 1776, not football. So, while I followed the Patriots with some enthusiasm, I never developed a real passion for the team. I was looking for a reason to cheat. And in December 1976, the Oakland Raiders gave me one.
To a young Patriots fan in 1976, the Raiders were a sexy, attractive, dangerous, slightly crazy girl from the wrong side of the tracks. They tempted me with their gangster image, their bad-ass uniforms, and their renegade players, who were always getting into trouble. I couldn't stop thinking about them. I knew it was wrong. I knew that I shouldn’t. But I couldn’t help myself. They were everything that the Patriots were not. They had balls. Moxie. While the Patriots never made the playoffs and perpetually lost games they were meant to win (much like the Red Sox), the Raiders were different. Led by coach John Madden and southpaw quarterback Kenny Stabler, with his long hair, moustache, and beard:
the Raiders miraculously pulled out wins when all seemed lost. Indeed, the Raiders often won in ridiculous, controversial, fashion.
Case in point: In one legendary game in 1978 against the San Diego Chargers, later dubbed the “Holy Roller” game, the Raiders were losing 20-14, with 10 seconds left to play in the game. They had the ball on the Charger 14-yard line and needed a touchdown to win. Kenny Stabler, who was about as mobile as an 80 year-old with gout, took the snap and was about to be sacked by a Chargers player on the 24-yard line. Stabler was quite wily, however, and he knew he was a dead duck. So he intentionally “fumbled” the football towards the Charger goal line. Running back Pete Banaszak “tried” to recover the ball on the 12-yard line, but he um, lost his footing, and sort of pushed the ball forward even closer to the end zone. Dave Casper was the next player who "tried" to recover the ball, but he just wasn't able to get a grip on it until he had batted and kicked it into the Charger end zone, where he jumped on it for the game-winning touchdown as time ran out. Miraculously, the Raiders kicked the extra point, and took home a 21-20 win. The game officials ruled that Banaszak and Casper's actions were legal because it was impossible to determine if they intentionally batted the ball forward, which would have been ruled a penalty. The NFL backed up the official’s call that Stabler had fumbled the ball instead of throwing a forward pass.
After the game, however, when he was asked by a radio announcer if he intentionally fumbled the football, Stabler -- who hailed from Alabama and was totally fearless -- said, “You bet your ass I did.” Banaszak and Casper also admitted that they deliberately batted the ball towards the end zone. “Just win, baby!” Here's the video, along with more commentary than I'm sure you want, from the key players involved:
You had to love these guys. They were larger than life characters who did whatever they had to do to win, even if they had to push the rules a bit. The “Holy Roller” game became so notorious that the following year, the NFL changed the rules to restrict fumble recoveries by the offense. Now, a fumble in the final two minutes of a game, or on fourth down at any time in the game, cannot be advanced by the offense beyond the spot of the fumble unless the player who fumbled recovers the ball.
Apart from their controversial ways, I loved the Raiders’ uniforms. Their jerseys and pants were a nasty silver and black, like an outlaw motorcycle gang, which is how they lived and played. Instead of an ambiguously gay Mr. Patriot, the Raiders had a logo of a pirate wearing a helmet and a black eye patch, with two swords crossing behind his head. No homo-erotic overtones here, buddy! It was the coolest helmet in football, and I loved it. Here's a closer look:
So, in December 1976, the Patriots miraculously made the playoffs (I think it may have been their first time doing so after the AFL-NFL merger, but I might be wrong), and they met the Raiders in the Divisional Playoff. The Raiders had gone 13-1 in the regular season, and they flew into the playoffs sky high, a team of destiny. My team (the Patriots) was meeting my team of temptation (the Raiders) in Oakland, California, for the ultimate showdown.
Watching the game with my father, we were pumped when the Patriots took a 21-17 lead deep into the fourth quarter, and it looked like they were going to pull off a huge upset. But I’ll admit, I was torn. With less than a minute left in the game, the Raiders moved the ball to the Patriots’ 20-yard line and needed a touchdown to win. It was third down. Stabler went back, back, back, and threw the ball. It fell incomplete. This would have made it fourth down, giving the Raiders one last chance to win. But wait. The referee called a penalty on Patriot Ray “Sugar Bear” Hamilton for “roughing the passer,” i.e., hitting Stabler late, after he had already thrown the ball. Unbelievably, the replay showed that Hamilton hadn't even touched Stabler, but there was no instant replay rule back then, so the penalty stood, and gave the Raiders an automatic first down deep in Patriots territory. My father was apoplectic. Conversely, I was strangely pleased. Two or three plays later, Stabler scrambled for the game-winning touchdown. My young heart raced.
As my father was swearing a blue streak at the referee, I found myself inexplicably excited and happy. I subconsciously had been rooting for the Raiders the entire time, and I had no idea why. I thought to myself, “These guys know how to win. They keep coming back, over and over. They are cool, the uniforms are cool, the players have personalities. That’s it. I’m done. I’m switching sides.” And that's when Anakin Skywalker took a walk on over to the Dark Side.
With the naïve, impeccable timing of an 8 year-old, as the Patriots were walking dejectedly off the field, I told my father right then and there what I was thinking.
“Daddy, you know, I kind of like the Raiders. The Patriots are losers. They don’t know how to win. I think I’m going to make the Raiders my team now.”
“What?? You can't do that, you're a Patriots fan!”
He was incredulous. But perhaps feeling a little guilty at having bequeathed me the Red Sox, and the accompanying, potentially-lifelong misery that went with my inheritance, my father ultimately relented and gave me his blessing.
"Ahh, you might as well cheer for a winner. The Patsies aren't going anywhere anytime soon." How right he was.
When the Raiders went on to win Super Bowl XI against the Vikings, their first ever Super Bowl win, my father celebrated along with me, vicariously happy and, no doubt, bemused at my first-ever taste of a championship, the direct result of an obscenely blatant bandwagon jump three weeks earlier.
In ensuing years, Dad would get the Friday edition of the Boston Globe, which had in it a section called "Sports Plus," which contained a tongue-in-cheek analysis of each NFL game by Globe (and now Sports Illustrated) sportswriter Leigh Montville. Right next to Montville's analysis was a chart showing each Globe sportswriter's predictions against the spread. My Dad introduced me to gambling by patiently explaining to me what the "spread" meant. But we picked the games straight up, blindly, so that we couldn't see each other's picks. Then we wrote them onto the "Sports Plus" chart and competed against each other with our predictions each Sunday.
When I picked more winners than him, I gloated. When he won, he did. (Good sportsmanship was not our strong suit; ball-busting was.) At the end of the season, the winner got a trip to Papa Gino's, or a toy I wanted. Since I had a fairly limited income at the time, even when I lost, I won.
The Super Bowl was our season finale, and we celebrated in style in front of the t.v. with healthy fare comprised of Planter's peanuts, Fritos, and nachos with meat salsa and cheddar cheese, which my mother graciously made for us, even after we banished her from the living room. Occasionally, Dad even let me take a sip or two of Pabst Blue Ribbon, Stroh's, or Lowenbrau, whichever one of these fine brews happened to be available. (Back then, I hated the taste of beer, so a sip was all I wanted.)
Somewhere, there is a cassette tape of my Dad and I doing a "pre-game show" before Super Bowl XII between the Denver Broncos and Dallas Cowboys. My father speaks as the lead commentator, feeding me softball questions like they do on t.v., with an almost absurd sense of seriousness directed toward soliciting the opinions of a 9 year-old. He asks me to prognosticate the offensive and defensive matchups for the upcoming game, to predict a winner (I correctly picked Dallas -- I absolutely hated the Broncos, the Raiders' archrival), to give my views of how the season went for the Raiders, and last, but not least, how I was emotionally dealing with the Raiders' playoff loss at the hands of the Broncos. Nearly 30 years later, it is absolutely hilarious to hear myself answer my father so earnestly, in a squeaky, high-pitched, pre-pubescent voice. I took it so damn seriously.
Today of course, the world is different. Techology has advanced to the point where you can follow every football game on your computer, as I was doing at a coffee bar when I began this entry. Now you can get instantaneous updates of football scores on your cell phone on demand. If you are willing to shell out the buckaroonies, you can subscribe to watch your favorite team play every Sunday, even if they are three time zones away. Today, football is a global sport. There is a well-established league in Canada, a nascent league in Europe, they have played games in Mexico, and next year, they're going to play an exhibition game in China for the first time.
As for my Raiders, well, let's just say that the 8 or 9-year old me would not be pleased. They have sucked for years, and right now, they are the worst team in football. Today, they blew a 21-3 lead -- at home no less -- to the second worst team in football, the lowly Cleveland Browns. I don't think they will win a single game this year. Oh, where have you gone, Kenny Stabler, Dave Casper, Cliff Branch, and Lester Hayes, with all that "stickum" on your hands? Sadly, the Raider glory years are long, long gone.
Ironically, in the past four years, my personal football world has come full circle. In 2002, the Pats got their revenge on the Raiders for that bad referee call in 1976 by becoming the beneficiary of an equally atrocious referee call in the controversial "Tuck" Game in Foxboro. They went on to win their first Super Bowl that year, and eventually took home an amazing three Superbowl victories in four years. The Patriots now have as many Super Bowl wins as the Raiders. Young T. would be shocked.
This time, I'm not switching teams, even though the Patriots sweetened the pot in 1992 by dispatching their Mr. "Porno" Patriot symbol in exchange for the more modern "Patriot Elvis" logo that they wear on their helmets today:
I refuse to bite. As painful as it is, today I'm a loyal Raider fan. Having had 26 years of (extremely bloody) practice with the Red Sox, I am going to ride this shit out and wait for ancient, stubborn, micromanaging, and completely incompetent Raider owner Al Davis to (please will you fucking) retire. Maybe then, the Raiders will finally stop living in the glory of their past and start hiring people who actually know how to evaluate talent and run a football team.
Until that magical day, each fall the Raiders are going to continue to make me feel a lot like "Mr. Patriot." Bent over at the waist and flinching.
