The 70's...

Below you will find photographs/album covers of some of the 70's dance bands, found on the website http://www.knuthaugen.no/danseband/14.php
They are all European, but before you go off bopping the Euros, remember we here in the states were caught up in a huge way as well. Actually, to set the record straight - YOU - were caught up in it...I chose to listen to rock and roll while wearing jeans and a T-shirt. I did have the funky glasses and the moustache though. What on Earth was I thinking?

Without further adieu...









We start our journey with "Garvis", a peppy little 5 member band who had such huge hits as "You gave me the wrong phone number on purpose", and "My chest hairs double as a bow tie".









This band has so many issues in one picture, it's difficult to know where to begin. Shall we start with the cross-eyed Mitch Miller look-a-like second from the left, or the grown man who still lets his mom cut his hair using a bowl? The colors of newborn baby poop brown and deep maroon capture the boring nature of these guys more than any interview ever could.








The forerunner of the popular "Where's Waldo?" series, this band standardized the "Rock in the middle of the woods" album cover. Evidently, somebody did fail to receive the message about the attire for the photo shoot.












Hjarter Fem. Truer words have never been uttered. The Swedish on the bottom translates out to: "See you in the men's room in 5 minutes".








Not sure why the band's name is made to look as if it's streaming out of the tall dude's head, but look at the blonde haired guy. Does he have a "I hope the authorities never see this photograph" look, or what?








Another variation of the rock in the woods. Simsalabim, huh?
Try Himhaveanissue.








Absolutely beyond words or comprehension. Seriously...what could anyone add to this picture?








1-2-3-4- ummmm 5-6. Lemme try again. 1-2-3-4-uhhhhh 5-6. Nope, I get 6 each time.












No rock, but it is in the woods. However, these woods look familiar. Isn't this just outside of Camden, New Jersey? Hey, that's my second cousin Vinny and his friend Tony. This isn't a dance band at all....this is...this is....












The Torleners. I would call them a four-member band, but after viewing the dude on the far right, I'm hesitant to use the word "member".

And there you have it 70's affictionado's. Look on and druel over the sharp dressing dudes and ladies. You were once there...

Stayin' Alive...Stayin Alive

Pride

This won't be long. American Floyd Landis won the Tour De France Cycling race last week, in what was being called one of the greatest achievements ever. He made up slightly over 8 minutes on the competition in Stage 17, something at the level these men compete is akin to making up a 4 touchdown deficit in the 3rd quarter of the Super Bowl. He went on to win the entire event.

Today it was announced his urinalysis after stage 17 had an extremely high level of testosterone, indicating Mr. Landis was probably taking a performance enhancing drug or blood doping of some sort. As of this writing, everything is in limbo.

Ok. I said it would be short, and here it is. If you're going to compete, compete like there is no tomorrow. If you win, that's great. If you lose, you lose.

But you must do so with dignity, either way.

Nuff said.

The news o' the day

26 July 2006

In the news today:

Lance Bass of N'Sync says he's gay. Here's the deal with this one. You have a guy who is part of a band that doesn't even perform any more, correct? I for one had no idea who he was, and didn't know anything about him until today's fascinating news story. How sad is that? Four years after their last appearance as a band, and most people are hearing about this guy for the first time, and it's this. News? I think not.

Andrea Yates is pronounced insane and "not guilty". Insane? Absolutely. The thing with a not guilty verdict is it is the same verdict that an accused murderer would get if they found out halfway through the trial that someone else actually did it. In this case, we know she did it. Not guilty? Not hardly...Guilty as all hell.

Indiana teen accused of fatal sniper shootings said he only did it to relieve pressure. Hey, I can't fault him here. Some people play golf, some people have a glass of wine or two, and some people go on a blind shooting spree. I see no harm in that. They should just let him go now that he feels better.

N.J. Stripper on the lamb. Stripper Linda Kay of New Jersey skipped her court hearing today. Apparently, she kept 6 human skulls and a human hand in mason jars in her home. Think that's bizarre? Keep reading. Bizarro #1: She was charged with improperly disposing of human remains. Riiiiight. Bizarro #2: She was a stripper at a juice bar. Juice bars have strippers? According to the news, the crack Plainfield NJ police department was investigating the origin's of the body parts. Wow! Can't get anything past those guys.

U.S. rejects proposal to kill wolves in Wyoming. Instead, Feds would rather shoot cats in Florida. Easy - Easy PETA people...that's a joke. I meant dogs.

Matthew McConaughey admits he's gay. Ha! Just kidding. He's not gay; he's just stupid.

Hispanic Lawmaker Blasts English Proposal. Congress' standoff over immigration legislation flared into emotional rhetoric Wednesday over a House proposal to make English the nation's official language. A Hispanic lawmaker said that was "code for official discrimination." I - like millions of others - was under the impression that English was the official language of the U.S., but evidently it is not. Rumor has it that Swahili, Persian-Farsi, Spanish, Esperonto and Klingon are the front-runners to assume the official designation in 2007.

Anheuser-Busch quarterly profit tops estimate. And they would like to thank all the rednecks everywhere for keeping the Budweiser label sharp, even if those drinking it aren't necessarily the same.

AOL Co-Founder Offers Merger Apology. AOL co-founder Steve Case has offered a qualified apology for his role in architecting the online company's disastrous combination with Time Warner Inc. "Yes, I'm sorry I did it," Case said on PBS's "The Charlie Rose Show" last Friday. "I thought for sure I would meet more chicks and actually go out on my first non-976 number date, but it didn't happen".

NY Times. The New York Times reported today it has been nearly 8 months since the last time any of their reporters made up stories and quotes or plagiarized anything. They did say that they heard President George Bush once pooped his drawers after supposedly successfully completing potty-pants training, but their sources for this story were being protected under the provisions of both the First and the Fourth Amendments.

G.M. Reports a $3.1 Billion Loss. General Motors said today that it lost $3.1 billion over-all during the second quarter and continued to lose money in its North American operations, the focus of a turnaround effort by its chief executive, Rick Wagoner. Fortunately for Mr. Wagoner, Budweiser sales are flying, so he should have no problem locating some brew to drown his sorrows tonight.

Hussein Says He Prefers Firing Squad. Saddam Hussein, looking healthy despite a hunger strike the led him to be fed with a tube, said today that he had been forced to attend his own trial, and that if he is convicted, he preferred to be shot, not hanged. Yeah well Saddam my man, courts are picky that way with respect to attendance. They really prefer the defendants show up. As far as your preference, either one is fine with me.

Sports: Barry Bonds head expands again. Barry Bonds, professing his innocence as far as steroid use is concerned, had his head measured for a new cap today. The 434 inch circumference is reputed to be the largest in human history.

And finally.....a new show on the WB Network for the fall of 2006. "Queer Eye for the Designer Clothing guy's American Idols Group Dancing with the Stars because what happens in Vegas...stays in Vegas, metrosexual fear-factor competition". It promises to be reality TV at it's all-time best, and you won't want to miss a second of it.

Gert Jonnys, the pre-show favorite to
take the top prize.

What most cannot see...

Apparently I've gone all Rip Van Winkle on you all, because I awoke the other day, turned on the TV, and noticed that I can hardly tell the difference between men and women any more. Has political correctness and the desire to assimilate everyone into the same mold completely taken over our lives? And the interesting thing about it is in an effort to somehow distinguish ourselves as individuals we have only succeeded in grouping ourselves even closer than we ever have been. Remember when the man was the guy who took out the trash, mowed the lawn, and stood in front of his family fully prepared to ward off any and all that were dangerous to that family's existence?

For that matter, does anyone remember families? You know, that old and apparently outdated concept of a husband, wife, and kids? Doesn't ring a bell, eh?

It started in the early 80's with names. Recently married women started to eschew the tradition of talking the husband's surname. Susan Rhodes became Susan Rhodes-Washburn, or whatever. Somehow words like "to have and to hold", "in sickness and in health" - words that in essence are about teamwork and togetherness, lose all their meaning when the woman insert's a "me" in the equation.

Then many of the same dip-wads did a similar thing to their female offspring. A couple of people had the idea to change the traditional "Y" at the end of the name Patty to make it now read Patt-i. Ok, I was good with that until the idea evidently spun out of control and we suddenly had 25,345,943 Brandi's and Ashli's running around the country.

After 10 years of the "I" generation (yes, pun intended - absolutely), all the Kathy Thomas-Kincade-Capote-Short-Matthews-Burke-Summer's people went after the boys names, and that's when the emasculation of America's male population began. "Hey dear, I have an idea. Let's take a last name and make it a first name". "We'll be the most unique people in the entire community, and they'll just love us at the soccer fields".

And so the nauseating litany of Connor's, Brandon's, Dylan's, Tyler's, Emery's, and Tanner's was born. Try going to a little league game nowadays and see if you can find a roster that doesn't contain at least 1 Taylor. Good luck. And be sure to say "hi" to his sister Christi...or is that Kristi?

Keeping with the names theory, we now move up to the late 1990's and early 2000's, and the metrosexual period is born. Names - for boys mind you - that have been deemed the most recently popular are as follows: Dakota, Devon, Montana, Bailey, and Thai. All of these names were - to my understanding - 100% girls names just a few years ago. The emasculation rolls onward.

TV has in no small way contributed the last few years, with HGTV, Bravo, Sundance, and a few scattered networks offering any number of shows where the lines of gender are even more bent or at the very least blurred.


New phrases have popped up in the past 25 years, "Dead-beat Dad" being the most prevalent. Now before anyone gets their panty hose in a tangle, I think dead beat dads should be hunted down and forced to pay what they owe. However, the inescapable fact of life is this: There are about 30 million children in this country living without fathers. 80% of all divorces are initiated by the wives, while 90% of all support monies come from the husband. Factor that in with formal complaints in over 22% of divorces where there is joint custody yet the mom keeps the dad away anyways, and you have a recipe for disaster. And here is another little tid-bit for you to chew on: 40% of all males owing child support are delinquent to some degree. 57% of all females who are legally obligated to the same are delinquent, a 17% difference.

Ever hear the term dead-beat Mom? No? I didn't think so.

So what does all of this mean? It means as a society we have systematically downgraded and downplayed the role of men, to the point where we have lost sight of reality. We have argued, fought, and litigated our way into an uncompromising position where it will be all but impossible to turn the train back around. In an effort to attain a necessary balance in the sexes, we have pushed too far and created an imbalance that is bound to confuse and confound our youth of today; youth that will one-day be the leadership of our nation. When we have put petite fashion sense on a level of importance above and beyond concrete values and ideas - simple things like holding the door and saying "Yes sir" or "Yes ma'am", we are providing a pathway to destruction that no terrorist organization could come close to matching.

When the family unit...the cornerstone of our nation for over 230 years...is floundering in a 1 in 3 divorce rate; where unwed celebrity parents are glorified in gossip magazines; where marriage is discussed as a political topic with a baseline principle of IRS Tax rights as opposed to the love of one person for another; and when single moms are considered strong and forthright, while single dads are never spoken about, then we have already lost it as we speak.

And as sure as my name is Gale, you can take that opinion to the bank.

No kidding. Really?

I was hungry today at around 11:30. Not hungry as in, "I think I'll go and grab a bag of chips". Nope, I was hungry as in "Get the hell outta my way, I'm eating whatever falls in front of me first, and that includes your dog."

Hungry.

So I went down the street to "Sobik's", a Central Florida Based sub shop in the mold of a New York or New England deli. I ordered a 12" meatball sub, all slathered in melted cheese, Parmesan cheese sprinkled all over the top of it, and a bag of Baked Lays potato chips. Baked of course, because I don't want anything unhealthy to go into my body - like fried foods, for example. This sandwich is a cholesterol bullet, fired from a 12 inch bleached white bread howitzer of a roll, and I friggin' love it!

I grabbed a free magazine from the rack. My choices were several real estate periodicals and a magazine that I had not seen before called "Florida Sports". Cool, I can woof my sub and read about sports while I do it. I sat down, opened the bag of chips, broke off half of the sub to eat, and opened the magazine. Turns out, it wasn't about sports at all. It was about running, triathlete's, triathlons, and cycling. I suppose technically that stuff is sports, but so is NASCAR and skateboarding if you want to get technical.

As I sat there reading about fitness freaks, no less than three times the tomato sauce from my sub splatted on the pages of the magazine. It takes someone like me to see the humor in that. Anyways, looking at that magazine got me to thinking about one of the most annoying segments of our society, and that is the "Running Crowd".

Last November I was at one of my son's soccer games. A mom of another player on my son's team had been gone for a week or so. I walked over to her and had the following conversation:

Me: Where ya been?
Her: I ran the Grand Canyon last week.

Is anyone out there familiar with that awkward moment when one person is trying to think of what to say to another, while simultaneously struggling mightily to keep their facial expressions as passive and unresponsive as possible? Well that was me, except the pause was more like 8 to 10 seconds, an eternity in awkwardness. Of the 35 different responses that flew through my mind in those 10 seconds, the only thing that escaped my mouth was:

Me: You did what?
Her: I got on a plane, flew to Flagstaff, rented a car and drove it to the Grand Canyon. When I got there, I ran it.

Again, the internal struggle to both comprehend this topic and maintain an air of normalcy was overwhelming.

Me: Wow.
Her: No kidding, huh? It was a seriously tough run. 13 miles total, with the last 4 a grueling uphill climb out of the canyon.

Why in the hell would anyone want to do that? The plane fare was probably $650 round trip - and for what? To bust your own chops doing something that is totally unnecessary. I don't get it. I was in the service for 21 years, and we ran 2, 3, 4, 6 miles - whatever they felt like doing - 5 days a week, 52 weeks a year, rain, sleet, or snow. I did it because I had to, not because it was fun. When I retired, I said I wasn't going to do it any more, and I haven't.

I think it's nice that many people take fitness seriously, but you can go overboard with it too. While your weight stays similar to that of an anorexic church-mouse, your knees and ankles are silently breaking down from all the pavement you're pounding. But I think the thing that makes them totally annoying are the excessively boring conversations about the topic, especially the food conversations.

Me: What is that you're eating?
Her: This? Oh this is a watercress sandwich with a side of ginger root sauteed in a dandelion and lizard gill sauce, which is enhanced with crushed lava rock. It's not only delicious, it will aid your digestive tract like nothing else and has 0 calories and only 4 carbs. The proteins will boost your energy levels and grow thicker and healthier hair.

Again...the awkward moment.

Ma'am, can you spoon me out a couple extra meatballs on the side? I'll pay for them.

Two men

This posting is about 2 men.

The first is an African American son of a famous baseball player, born in 1964 and weaned on the game by spending the greater part of his youth hanging around the San Francisco Giants clubhouse and dugout. His father was a star player, and best friends with Hall of Fame inductee and All-American baseball hero, Willie Mays, who also happens to be the first man's godfather. The pedigree goes even further, as another Hall of Fame player, Reggie Jackson, is a distant cousin. His aunt Rosie finished 8th in the women's 80 meter hurdles at the 1964 Olympic Games in Tokyo, Japan.

The second is a Caucasian man, born in Plano Texas in 1971, with no athletic pedigree to fall back upon.

The first man went to Arizona State University, a hot-bed of college baseball supremacy long before college baseball was shown on ESPN. The man was drafted number 1 by the Pittsburgh Pirates, 6th overall. After 1 year in the minor leagues honing his considerable skills, Barry Bonds was called up to the major leagues to play for the Pirates. In 1993, Barry signed a lucrative contract to go home and play for the Giants, his life-long wish.

Man number 2 became a professional cyclist in 1987 at the age of 16, and in 1991 won the National Championship. In 1992, he finished 14th in the Olympic Cycling Championships, and in 1996, he finished 12th. Between those 4 years, he did manage to win a competition or two, and was recognized as a talented cyclist, to say the least. At the end of 1996, Lance Armstrong was diagnosed with testicular cancer; a cancer that had spread to his brain and his lungs and was now considered life-threatening. He went through an excruciatingly difficult year of radiation and chemo therapy; one in which his strong athletic frame was decimated by the disease and the drugs meant to treat it.

These two men are linked and they're not linked together in this year of our Lord, Two Thousand and Six.

They are linked and they are not linked? What the hell does that mean? Lemme 'splain Luzy...

Both men reached the pinnacle of their professions. Following Lance Armstrong's recovery from cancer and the subsequent treatment, he went on to win 7 consecutive Tour De France road races, the most grueling and celebrated race of them all. He was number 1 in the world, and he stayed there until his retirement.

Barry Bonds set the single season home run record of 73, and has recently passed the legendary Babe Ruth to sit at second on the all time list behind Hank Aaron. As of this evening, Bonds has 720 home runs - 6 beyond Ruth and 35 shy of Aaron.

These first bits of career information link these two men as bona fide superstars in the world of sports; of that there is no question. The second link they share is a dubious one, indeed. Both are and have been the subject of a world of conjecture regarding the use of anabolic steroids, specialty "designer steroids", so-called because their chemical make-up renders them impervious to testing, and suspicions of any number of other performance enhancing drugs. The use of such drugs is of course forbidden in each sport, and it is also illegal to possess or use such drugs without a prescription from a doctor for a quantified medical problem. Neither man has ever tested positive for any illegal substance, but both have been accused repeatedly for years now. Of course they both deny their use, and they both want to protect their athletic stature and historical place...and rightfully so.

Here is the part where they are not linked. Barry Bonds has a reputation as a surly, condescending, arrogant, elitist athlete. Lance Armstrong has the reputation of being a friendly, outgoing, courageous cancer survivor, overcoming the greatest odds ever to become a champion. Bonds is black...Armstrong white. Bonds plays baseball, an essential part of the American sports scene - Americana itself, if you will. Armstrong cycles, and not many people give a hoot about cycling. Bonds started his career tall and thin, but still he possessed the type of skills that had many believing he would end up in the hall of fame. Now Bonds looks as if he could bench press the Empire State Building. Armstrong was above average for the most part, and after enduring all he endured, came back to be the greatest in his sport - ever.

The questions about both are quite obvious.

In less than 1 year, between 1999 and 2000, Bonds put on nearly 35 lbs of weight, while lowering his body fat from 18% to something close to 12%, and his arms, chest, legs, neck and head seemed to nearly double in size. He went from a darn good home run hitter to a flippin' beast who hit the most monumental length home runs anyone had ever seen, and all of this while going from age 36 to 37, a time when every other ballplayer in history started the inevitable downward spiral towards retirement. This was also during the time period that many, many former baseball players are coming out now and saying steroid use was rampant and out of control.

Armstrong competed in a sport that had doping issues as far back as the early 1960's, with a rider in the Tokyo Olympics being so hopped up on amphetamines he collapsed and died during the Olympic race. It was a well know fact for nearly 40 years that cycling was dope-central, and the only way to compete was to become a doper yourself, otherwise you couldn't keep up because the playing field was not level. But here was a guy who not only survived cancer and it's devastating effects on the body, but he came back after the recovery and zoomed forward from a middle of the pack guy to the best ever, as if the cancer had never occurred and he was always that good to begin with.

One is revered, and one is reviled. One is facing grand jury proceedings regarding potentially lying about the use of steroids, and the other is hosting ESPN's ESPY awards for athletic excellence in the previous year this coming weekend. As a matter of fact, the awards were taped last week, and it has been reported that Barry Bonds showed up, tuxedo and all, and was told there were no seats available for him. I find that interesting...ESPN...Mecca, for lack of a better term with regard to sports and sports programming, had no room for the man that could very possibly be the greatest home run hitter of all time? Really?

Personally, I don't like either of them. I can see Bonds and his arrogance - that's not very difficult. But I have always had my suspicions that something was amiss about Armstrong as well, even before the accusations started. There was something about the way he conducted himself that made me uneasy. If you've ever known anyone that went through the whole chemo/radiation thing....and I admit I've only known two people that have...it has been my experience that walking down the street and going to the movies after it was all over was as exciting as it ever got. I've never heard of anyone going through all that - then becoming something they never were to begin with - and I'm just talking about normal people doing normal things. Not world class athletes doing world class athletic things.

Do I think Bonds and/or Armstrong did steroids? That's not for me to say. Do I think there is a double standard of treatment going on here? That I have no problem saying. If Bonds is a suspect and is going to be found guilty in the court of public opinion, then Armstrong should be as well. If Armstrong is given a free pass - based upon his word that he didn't do it and a lack of scientific proof - then Bonds should be given the same pass.

But that is not how this thing is working.

You see, Bonds has messed with too many of our precious numbers. 73 home runs in a season. Babe Ruth's 714 washed away. And now he's setting his sights on our most precious sports number of all- 755.

Armstrong threatens nothing. He's a cyclist, and nobody gives a rats-ass about cycling. He conquered cancer, and is rightfully a role model for that accomplishment, and we don't want that tarnished. Problem is - if the accomplishments after the medical accomplishment are bogus, what kind of message is that to send...especially if the recipients of the message are kids?

Especially... if we find out somewhere down the road there were some things done that were improper, and we choose to further brush it aside and ignore it as we seem to be doing now.

Think about it...

The horizon

I would say I am spiritual, but not religious.

Religion to me conjures up too many negative images...on the bottom scale, some southern United States preacher saying the words Jee-sus, or possibly Ayy-mayn-nah!

On the upper end, you have Islamic terrorists blowing up trains and flying aircraft into skyscrapers.

Somewhere in the middle you have some claiming to be "the chosen people", while others hang out at the airport passing out flowers and asking you if you've found someone..."Uhhh, no dude, was I supposed to be looking? Nobody told me what I was supposed to do".

But I was looking at the world today...something American's usually find boring and not within their purview or busy schedule, and I noticed something very peculiar. While the network news here in the States is focusing on who-told-what-to-who-regarding-who-was-in-the-CIA-and-who-wasn't, the rest of the world seems to be on the brink of falling apart. Personally, I don't give a flying-**** who turned in who, and for what reason - if someone did something wrong, I hope they go to jail for it. What I was wondering about is how the news keeps ignoring the obvious.

For example...

First you have "the chosen people" once again responding to a spitball being thrown at them with an all-out attack on anyone and everyone wearing a pair of sandals and moving. They started with Gaza three days ago, moved further into the West Bank yesterday, and today started an all-out assault on Beirut...yes, the one in Lebanon. All this because a couple of Israelis soldiers were taken captive by the Hizb Allah (and yes, that's the proper transliteration).

Yo! Israelites? Ever heard of the word diplomacy?

And for those of you who think I'm picking on the Israeli's, that's total bullshit. Those people are as much to blame for the problems over there as is anyone else, and it's high time we started calling that spade for what it is. If you're living in Boca Raton, Florida and your name is Berkowitz and you find this offensive - let me tell you something. Those folks in Tel Aviv no more relate to you than some Irish guy in Killarney would relate to me if my name was McNamara...so cut the "my brothers in the old country" crap and get real. You're an American, they're an Israeli. You share the same religion, but your politics are as opposite as battery acid and ice cream. Stop thinking it's otherwise, because it's not.

Then I see a bunch of trains were bombed simultaneously in Mumbai (formerly Bombay) in the exact same fashion as the trains in Madrid were bombed in 2003.

In Iraq, things are much the same in principle, except the violence seems to have escalated and expanded. Obviously, outside groups are having a hey-day there, knowing we have dug ourselves a hole that we can certainly dig out of, but it will be tough.

Kim Il Sung of North Korea is a complete nut-job who is living in and on his own "fantasy island", and Hugo Chavez of Venezuela is purported to be in cahoots with North Korea in a cheap oil-for-weapons deal and a potential oil producing countries scam with Iran to keep prices up and damage the U.S. economy. Just in case you don't know it - and you won't learn it watching reality TV - no country in South America has an Army to speak of, so if Chavez stockpiles enough weaponry and builds the force to use them, there is no one to oppose him. Helooooooo!

"You will hear of wars and rumors of wars. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom."

I do believe I read that in a book somewhere. And I seem to remember this as well:

"Because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall grow cold"

Well, that one can't be true, because we don't live in a shallow, self-absorbed society...right?

Ok, before anyone thinks I've gone stark, blibbering coo-coo...here is what I'm saying. We need to stop what we're doing...right now, wherever we are...and take a few minutes to do a couple of things.

1) Take a look at our surroundings. Is everything in its place and seemingly normal? If so, you're good to go. If not, do something to fix it.

2) Take a good look at your loved ones and friends. Are they as they seem, normal and functioning properly? If not, fix the loved ones and advise the friends that maybe they could and should re-think their priorities.

3) Pay attention to things that are happening elsewhere. This is two train deals in 3 years. The Israeli's are bombing the Arabs again, and it's pissing the whole lot of them off.

4) Think about the fact that the only reason September of 2001 stands alone is because they haven't figured out how to beat our defenses, our security, or both. It is NOT because they don't want to, or they're going to go away because Woody Harrelson said they would if we just asked them nicely.

5) Again, look at the world and realize this deal is for real, and it doesn't have anything to do with President Bush. He's just the guy that's here right now. This stuff started back when we had President Clinton, but they were just cutting their teeth in the mid to late 90's - even though at the time we didn't know it. They're coming for more, and some of our "allies" are making things harder for us. To be totally honest with you, the only true ally that is also a friend right now is England, and that means if you're keeping score it's us 2, the other team about 400 when you compare country versus country.

Ahhhh hell...never mind. You're not paying attention anyways. You're still too worried about why Chris didn't make it to the finals of "American Idol" to think about the possibility of WWIII. Just remember to give me dibs and props when it happens. You heard it here first.

And trust me on one more thing - you may think our President is a doof (and I do - I really do), but we may find ourselves in a position where we must stand behind him as we fight the ultimate fight, like him or not. He's all we have in the event of a big stand-off - and wishing we had someone else isn't going to get us anywhere.

One more thing - about halfway between the West Bank and Beirut, give or take a few miles - is Megiddo...the biblical site of Armageddon. Take it for what it's worth, it's halfway between the two places the Israeli's are attacking right now.

Like I said in the beginning - I'm not religious, but I am spiritual - and by that I mean I do not necessarily agree with nor do I discount any Bible prophecy...especially the "Book of Revelations".

If we don't take notice now, we all just might be forced to be helpless spectators sooner rather than later.

Peace.

Out of the Ashes Part VIII (For someone's uncle, grampa, dad, or mom)

The World Series was anti-climactic in every sense of the word. After the 2 previous years with the 7-game prize fights between the Yankees and the Red Sox, the World Series between the St. Louis Cardinals had none of the flash or bravado of the Yankees/Red Sox. For starters, Cardinal fans are steeped in middle American tradition and values. They're nice Missouri people, all apple pie and blue jeans. There wasn't a 3000 year feud going on between Boston and St. Louis. The players didn't dislike each other, and the series was conducted in a mild and professionally respectful manner.

All that, plus the fact the Cardinals never had a chance.

Karma and good fortune were definitely residing in Boston, and there was no livin' way this one was getting away. In both games 1 & 2, the Red Sox made 4 errors...fatal under any other circumstance...but just a minor bump in the road for these guys. They won 4 in a row against the Yanks, and they just kept bulldozing their way to a championship ring by doing the same to the Cardinals.

On the night of the 4th and final game, a complete Lunar Eclipse was present in the Western Hemisphere. A great red moon hovered above Busch Stadium in St. Louis during the night of the last game, as if the heavens above were acknowledging their role in this most dramatic of Octobers.
But the games played were not the story here. The games were nothing but minor pieces in a game that had gone on for 86 years.

Eighty-Six years. Four-plus generations.

Thousands and thousands had come and gone. The Boston Globe newspaper sold more copies of the October 28th edition morning paper than any in its history...and even with that, they still didn't print enough to meet the demand. Reports came in from all over New England that people were waiting on street corners at 4:30 am for the first of the papers to arrive, many of these same people still awake from the night before. And that's what this thing was about. Thousands went out on a cold New England morning, picked up the paper and headed to the local cemetery. Buried there was Uncle Bob, Aunt Sarah, grampa, mom, or whoever. The newspapers were lovingly laid on the stones, along with blue hats with the "B" on the front, triangular pennants, and whatever else they could think of to honor the memory of their long-since departed loved ones...loved ones that didn't hang around long enough to see the day the perennial losers finally put it together and conquered all the demons.

These people simply wanted to share their happiness with those they knew would be happy as well. Such is the nature of baseball in New England; such is the love New Englanders have for their team located in the Back Bay region of Beantown. It's the place with the funky little ballpark built on an Indian burial ground; a ballpark that will soon be 100 years old; and a ballpark that no one will allow to be torn down and replaced. Grampa went to games in that park, and we all want to take our kids and they their kids to the same place. We don't need new and shiny; our little brick and wooden building is fine by us.

There will be no more "1918" signs; no more Babe Ruth and "Curse of the Bambino" talk; no more snide comments from Yankee fans; and any talk by those Yankee fans about 26 championships could now forever be countered with "Do you remember 2004? You do? Ok, shut up already".

In December of the same year, Sports Illustrated magazine declared the Boston Red Sox Nation - not the team; the fans - the annual "Sportsman of the year". All over America, cries of "foul" rang out. People not of the RSN were outraged that Sports Illustrated could have the audacity to do such a thing. But the thing is, Sports Illustrated "got it". They understood what others did not.

You see, like a father once explained to his son on a previous occasion, sometimes it is more than just a game.

Sometimes.

Out of the Ashes Part VII (Dreaming)

October 20th, 2004

Game 7 became officially known as “Walking the dog night”. The night before, just before game #6 started, I was talking to my brother on the phone, and he was worried that the Sox were going to win game 6 – making it 3 straight – and then fall in some spectacular fashion as they were predestined to do. I told him that I didn’t believe that any more, but in my heart I knew that was always a possibility. I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous and as emotionally charged for anything that did not directly involve me as I was that night.

Yankee Stadium was buzzing as the game got underway. Yankee fans were out in full force, with their stupid “Babe-on-a-stick” or “Babecicles” as I liked to call them. It was a picture of Babe Ruth’s head mounted on a flat 12 inch stick, and there were tens of thousands to be seen throughout the stadium, as were the equally idiotic “1918” signs. It had been well documented the last time the Red Sox won the World Series was 1918, and Yankee fans delighted in reminding Sox fans with their babecicles and signs.

Yeah, yeah, 1918; we get it. Yuk yuk. Do you have something new and original? No?

At 8:30 PM the first pitch was thrown. Within 5 minutes, it became apparent what the deal was going to be, as David Ortiz put a huge notch in his Yankee-killing belt, launching a 2-run homer into the right field seats. In the second inning, Yankees pitcher Kevin Brown loaded the bases, and was subsequently replaced by Javier Vasquez. Vasquez’s first pitch to Red Sox center fielder Johnny Damon was sent deep into the New York night for a grand slam that left the stadium in stunned silence. Damon added a 2-run jack 2 innings later, and the score was 8-1 after 4 innings.

I remember sending an e-mail to a friend that said:
Six to nuthin, smuthin!
We need to keep pounding these guys until they are truly dead and gone.
I don’t know what “smuthin” means, but it sounded ok at the time.

I didn’t see any of the Yankees at-bat’s. Each time an inning ended, I would take the dog out with me for a walk on his leash. I carried with me a pocket radio with which to listen to the game. I couldn’t take the pressure, even with an 8-1 lead after 4. So in essence, the dog got over a week of walks in about 3 and a half hours. I’m fairly certain he was exhausted by nights end…I know I was.

In the 7th inning, the Red Sox put Pedro Martinez into the game. To this day, I’m not quite sure why, since he was scheduled to pitch in the upcoming World Series. In any case I was out with the dog, and I could hear the Yankee fans louder than they ever have been chanting “Who’s your daaaaady?” “WHO’S YOUR DAAAADY?”

I remember being angry and yelling into the pocket radio “Get him out of there!!!” Upon reflection later, it did strike me as strange that the Yankee fans, trailing 10-1 at the time, were actually up to it. Usually when you’re getting your ass kicked, you go home or at the very least, you go silent. I guess beer and one last chance to stick it in Pedro’s craw was too much to resist, so they chanted away into the night.

As the clock struck 12:04 on October 21st, 2004, Cinderella’s carriage arrived. Ruben Sierra hit a ground ball to Red Sox second baseman Pokey Reese, who threw the ball to Doug Mionkw…Doug Mankezzex…that guy who now plays for the Royals….and the game was over.

Ding-dong the witch was dead. Everywhere in this country where a Red Sox fan was standing, the desire to dance, to cry, and to scream out to the sheer ecstasy of the moment had overcome us all. For the first time – probably ever – the thought of winning a World Series had become secondary to the moment. We had slayed the dragon; the Evil Empire had been destroyed; the Yankees had been defeated by the Red Sox in the most unimaginable way possible.

If you asked a script-writer to write this for a movie, he would have laughed you out of the room. “Yeah, sure. The Red Sox trail the Yankees by 3 games, and then win four straight to capture the championship? No one will believe that.”

I could tell you now that I called my dad and my brothers and sisters. I could tell you I woke up in the middle of the night, sat on the edge of my bed and cried. I could tell you I recieved probably 100 e-mail at work the next day from current, long time, and long lost friends who wanted to ask me if I was happy or tell me how happy they were for me. I could tell you that I cried at my desk at work probably 10 times that day - and by cry I mean openly wept - the emotion and the thoughts of family and friends completely overwhelming me. I could tell you my sister sent me an e-mail saying one of the doctors who works at her hospital in Maine came in wearing a Red Sox hat and did a hand-stand in front of dozens of medical professionals. I could tell you this and many other things to end this chapter, but I won't.

I know a man who did it better than I could ever think to. His name is Bill Simmons, a young and very talented guy who writes for ESPN.com. Here is what he said, in a nutshell:

I went to my Dad’s house in Boston, the party still raging outside and downtown as far as anyone could see. I walked into the living room, and my dad was asleep in the recliner, TV remote firmly clutched in his hand, the local news running a continuous loop of the game highlights as well as the live party going on in the streets of Boston at that very moment.

“Dad”, I said softy. “You awake?”

“Dad?”

My dad stirred in his chair and opened his eyes. “I can’t believe it”, he said. “I can’t believe we beat the Yankees”.

That’s right dad, and this time it wasn’t a dream.

June Allyson

I woke up this morning, flicked on the computer, armed with my coffee, and I saw that June Allyson, aged 80-something, had died.

Normally in this situation I make a joke about how the article stated "Friends and family were shocked at the untimely death of the movie star". To which I would crack, "I too was shocked. I thought she had been dead for decades".

But not in this case, because I have no idea who she is beyond the name. I Couldn't place her face, and never saw any of her movies, yet here she was on the front page of MSN.com, nearly every paper I saw, and I even understand she got a 15 second epitaph on the evening news last night. So I started thinking...

What qualifies a person for front page or national attention when they die? Should a guy who spent 2 seasons as the 5th supporting actor in the sitcom "Barney Miller" get top billing other than in an LA based newspaper? I don't believe he should, but I thought I'd ask you.

Now, understand the criteria for death is old age - natural causes. If Kelley Clarkson is murdered by a guy that they find in his apartment wearing a clown suit, watching porn flicks, and drinking his own urine through a curly straw, that's front page stuff. But if she dies 50 years from now in some town in Iowa, should my great-grandchildren's children have to google her name to find out who the hell she is because they saw her on the news?

And so I ask you out there. Here is a list of names. When they die - like I said of old age and natural causes - are they:

A) National News
B) Local News
C) Local News, back page

Hint: If you don't know who they are, they're damn sure nothing better than B or C, but I would be willing to bet everyone on this list will be grouped in A, and get national exposure.

Max Baer
Larry Bird
Taylor Hicks
Bronson Pinchot
Bob Denver
Alan Hale
Joe Theisman
Carl Yaztrezemski
Linda Lavin
Victor Sen Yung

Ok....just a few names of people that I know that are moderately famous in one way or another. But who gets what as far as final recognition goes?

Taking a break

It's time to take a break from the game...we'll call it our 7th inning stretch. Here are some of the finer quotes ever made by the 26 time world championship players. Yes indeed, they're ballplayers, not Rhodes Scholars, and the Yankees seem to have cornered the market on imbeciles as well as trophies:

"It was hot out there today. Must have been 100 miles per hour". Mickey Rivers

"Baseball is 90% mental and the other half is physical". Yogi Berra

"Good pitching always beats good hitting, and vice versa". Casey Stengal

"If you can't imitate him, don't copy him." Yogi again

"The Babe is one fellow, and I'm another and I could never be exactly like him. I don't try, I just go on as I am in my own right." Lou Gehrig


And some by a Red Sox pitcher named Bill (The spaceman Lee):

"The more self-centered and egotistical a guy is, the better ballplayer he's going to be. You take a team with twenty-five assholes and I'll show you a pennant. I'll show you the New York Yankees."

"The other day they asked me about mandatory drug testing. I said I believed in drug testing a long time ago. All through the '60s I tested everything."

"I think about the cosmic snowball theory. A few million years from now the sun will burn out and lose its gravitational pull. The earth will turn into a giant snowball and be hurled through space. When that happens it won't matter if I get this guy out."

And finally, my favorite writer, Dave Barry of Miami:

"If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant’s life, she will choose to save the infant’s life without even considering if there are men on base."

Out of the Ashes Part VI (Cadavers and a "Slap-stick moment)

Back in New York the next night, the Yankees were firmly convinced the Red Sox had used home-field advantage, spurred on by late heroics by David Ortiz to win those two games. The Sox batters hadn't been very effective - save for Ortiz - but the pitching had been pretty good, something the Yankees were sure was going to come to a close this evening. All things considered, the Yankees were back home and fairly certain tonight would be the night this whole comeback charade ended.

Curt Schilling, he of the bad ankle and the wish to "make 55,000 New Yorkers shut up", was minute to minute as far as pitching was concerned. Warming up in the bullpen prior to the start of the game, no one - and I mean no one - had any earthly clue whether he was going to pitch or not, and that wasn't even taking into consideration how effective he was going to be. In any case, it was no big deal really. Only the hopes, dreams, frustrations, and 86 years of torment were on the line here....so it's not like anyone was counting on him or anything.

Back in Boston early that morning, Dr. Bill Morgan, Red Sox physician and doctors from Massachusetts General Hospital had performed surgery on Schilling, creating an artificial sheath to protect and stabilize the ruptured tendon sheath. The materials they used for this sheath were taken from a cadaver, and the whole deal was stitched together in a way to keep the tendon itself from flopping over the ankle bone, which I can only imagine might hurt a tad. The only medication Schilling could take was a topical anesthetic and probably an Advil or two. The damage was to the right ankle, which is the one he puts all his body weight on and then pushes off of to pitch. The FOX cameras were on him as he nodded to the pitching coach in the bullpen, and everyone knew he was at least going to give it his best shot. The bell was ringing, and it was time to get it going.

A classic game it was not. Not in the suspense-filled extra innings manner in which they had played the last two games in Boston. Whether it was divine intervention, serious guts and determination, or a combination of both, Curt Schilling pitched what could easily be described as the best game of his life. Certainly in New England in 50 years or so, that's what they'll be saying. The now famous visual of Schilling's sock, soaked in blood while he labored through the evening is the stuff of legend, and as a matter of fact the bloody sock is now a display under glass at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. In seven innings pitched, Schilling surrendered a couple of scattered hits, and one home run to Yankee Bernie Williams. However, the game was not without it's share of drama, for sure.

In the fourth inning, Red Sox second baseman and resident strike out specialist, Mark Bellhorn - incredibly - amazingly - Brett F. Booned the Yankees in their own house. With the pitch count 0 balls and 2 strikes, and looking for all the world like he was going to strike out again - over 200 times this season alone as a matter of fact - Bellhorn sent a screamer to the opposite field and over the left field wall for what looked like a 3-run homer. In the midst of recovering from my mild arrhythmia, I saw the left fielder for the Yankess throwing the ball in, and Bellhorn was stopped at 2nd base.

What's this? I clearly saw that ball go over the wall and hit that fan in the navy blue sweatshirt right in the chest...or did I? Now I wasn't sure.

There is no instant replay used in baseball like it is in football...all decisions are final, and the umpires were all huddled near shortstop discussing what they saw - or thought they saw - all the while trying to do this while Red Sox manager Terry Francona was having a coniption fit trying to convince them they were all going blind. On the TV, the entire country could clearly see the slow motion replay of the moment, and the ball did indeed clear the wall and bounce back onto the field...it hit the person in the blue sweatshirt...who later turned out to be a young teenage girl. Finally, through the haze of screaming, frustration, and probably a bit of panic...the head umpire gave the signal for a home run, setting off the already frustrated Yankees crowd. But the umps got it right, which everyone else in the country could see.

The umps got it right. Thank goodness that would be the last major incident of the night...ummmm...well, not quite.

With the Red Sox leading 4-1, the Yankees mounted a mini-charge in the 8th inning. Schilling was out, replaced by Bronson Arroyo....remember him? The guy who hit A-Rod and started the fight at Fenway? Well, Arroyo comes in, and the Yankees, energized at Schilling no longer being in there, scored a run. With only 1 out, Derek Jeter singled, bringing Alex Rodriguez to the plate. Arroyo and Rodriguez, in their first on-the-field meeting since that fatefull July game.

Business as usual, eh? Not a chance.

A-Rod hit what will someday be known as one of the most famous squibblers in history. With the ball dribbling up between first base and the pitchers mound, Arroyo came off the mound and picked it up with his glove as A-Rod was streaking towards first. Sox first baseman, Doug Makniutsnzzsaxxv was also headed towards the base to cover the eventual throw. Arroyo decided to chase A-Rod down as Mekunkunkkkliysz attempted to get out of the way. As Arroyo stretched out his arm with the glove to tag the Yankee out, A-Rod (wearing some sort of Hamburger Helper looking gloves) slapped the ball out of his glove and proceeded on to first. The ball ended up being kicked by Arroyo, towards the Yankees dugout. Jeter came in to score, Arroyo was on his knees - arms outstretched in disbelief - and Minklszzwwcsxz had run to pick up the ball. A-Rod was standing at second base.

Left to Right: Bronson Arroyo, A-Rod, and Doug Mienkeqaswesztcz








Time was called and once again, the umpires were gathered. Once again, the TV showed that Rodriguez had indeed slapped the ball out of the pitchers hand. I sat there stunned. The last time I had seen someone do that was probably close to 40 years earlier - in a little league game. Never -ever - had I seen, or would even imagine a professional doing such a thing, but here it was. And the umpires were still discussing what to do.

If they let it go, the Yankees would only trail by one and have a runner at 2nd base. If they called interference...well, besides A-Rod being out, I didn't know what the ruling would be. Along with the Red Sox manager and some of the players - Mankirrweczsz among them - more than likely 10 million Red Sox fans nation-wide were screaming at their TV sets.

I know I was.

Finally the umpires broke it up. The head umpire looked at A-Rod and gave him the "out" sign. They pointed into the Yankees dugout and told Jeter to go back to first base. With Joe Torre - the Yankees manager - now storming out of the dugout, Yankee stadium suddenly became an unsafe place to be. The Yankee fans, still enraged about the overturned home run, call lost it. The umpires had changed two calls - and CORRECTLY changed them, by the way - but that didn't matter to the 55,000 assembled. They did not have the advantage of TV replays, and they only knew what they thought they saw. Bottles, balls, mini-bats, and every kind of solid object you could imagine came flying out of the stands. The Red Sox players hurriedly made a safety exit from the field, and riot police were called in to silence the crowd and maintain some order. The riot police stayed for the remainder of the game...a sad testament to how our society can sometimes behave. Unprecedented in American sports, this was the first - and only - time before or since that police dressed in protective riot gear had to remain around the field while play continued. The people of New York City, so strong and heroic three years prior, had stooped to the level of a British or South American soccer hooligan crowd, and the image of that really spoiled an otherwise fun, exciting, baffling, but oh-so-interesting evening. The two teams would meet one more time, tied 3 games apiece, the next evening.

The Yankees were now reeling...while the Red Sox were rolling. I was starting to believe that foot on the neck just may have been replaced with God extending a hand to help us get back on our feet.

Out of the Ashes Part V ("He didn't do it again did he? Yes he did")

Faith is a fickle concept. By definition, faith is the giving of one’s heart, soul, and mind for something intangible. In our world we have Religious faith, sometimes blinding in its dedication. We like dog’s that are faithful to their master, and then we have non-important faith, like that employed by the members of Red Sox Nation.

Non-important?

Game 5 began at 5:10 p.m. on the evening of Monday, October 18th, just 16 hours after Game 4 had ended the previous night. They played the game early because –believe it or not – there was a playoff series going on in the National League between the Cardinals of St. Louis and the Houston Astros, and at least 35 people wanted to watch that. So they wanted to get the Red Sox – Yankees game over so they could show the NL series in prime-time.

Mike Mussina led the Yankees against Boston's Pedro (Who’s your daddy?) Martinez. The Red Sox drew first blood this time, as Ortiz (there he is again) drove in a run and Varitek walked with the bases loaded in the first inning to give Boston a 2-0 lead. Bernie Williams homered in the second inning to close the gap to 2-1, a score which would hold up for several innings.

Despite seven strikeouts by Martinez, in the top of the sixth inning Jorge Posada and Rubén Sierra singled with one out. After Miguel Cairo was hit by a pitch to load the bases, Derek Jeter cleared the bases with a double, giving the Yankees a 4-2 lead. The Red Sox threatened in the seventh inning, but came up short. It was starting to look as if the Red Sox comeback was going to be only 1 exciting win, then the inevitable was going to happen. The Yankees brought in Tom Gordon, their excellent (and Ex-Red Sox) pitcher to hold the 2 run lead for Rivera. Even though Fenway Park was rocking and rolling, it didn’t look too good.

And thennnnnn….

David Ortiz, soon to be nominated for sainthood by all the Massachusetts-based Catholics, incredibly smashed another home run, making it a one run game. Kevin Millar followed with a walk and was again replaced by pinch runner Dave Roberts. Roberts went to third on Trot Nixon's single. Gordon was replaced by Mariano Rivera with the lead still intact, but Jason Varitek's sacrifice fly tied the game, setting up another extra-inning marathon. You could almost feel the FOX sports executives simultaneously squealing with joy about the Sox/Yankees, but moaning because of the other game they were having to put on the FX channel.

Each team got its share of base runners in scoring position in extra innings, but things just kept happening in crazy ways, ways that benefitted boston. For example, before the two teams went to extra innings a once-in-a-lifetime moment happened. In the 9th inning, with 1 out - the score tied - and a runner on first, the Yankees sent Tony Clark to the plate as a pinch hitter. Clark had played for Boston the year before, and in my opinion he was the worst player I had ever seen in a Red Sox uniform. He was terrible, and at the end of the season the Red Sox rightfully let him go. But now here he was at the plate for the enemy, and everyone who had ever been a Red Sox fan knew exactly what was going to happen.

He was going to get a hit of course, something he couldn't do when he was a member of the Red Sox. He was going to hit it, and shred our hearts.

I looked at my son as he stepped into the batters box and I said, "If this sonofabitch gets a hit, I'm commiting suicide". No sooner did the end of the last word get out of my mouth and he was cracking the ball towards the right field corner. And then something peculiar happened. Something that for 86 years had been happening to the Red Sox and for the Yankees - reversed itself. Before my disbelieving eyes, the ball hit the turf, bounded up into the right field wall - and then climbed up the wall and went into the stands. Ruben Sierra, the runner on first had scored the go-ahead run, but according to baseball rules, that batted ball was a "ground-rule double", and in being so, Sierra had to return to 3rd base. The Red Sox got out of the inning without letting Sierra score what would have been the winning run.

How did this happen? How did the ball bounce UP the wall and climb over? To be honest, I have no idea. You'd have to ask the Yankees and their fans, since in my lifetime this was the ONE SINGLE INCIDENT OF GOOD LUCK I had ever experienced as a Red Sox fan...but I'll take it. I'm sure the Yankees can tell you of hundreds of good luck moments...we only have this one, so we're not quite sure what to make of it.

Boston's Doug Mientkiewicz (Pronounced Minkykayviamich – oh hell, I don’t know) doubled in the 10th and moved to third, but couldn't score. Two Red Sox led off the 11th with two singles. The Yankees got Sox shortstop Orlando Cabrera to ground into a double play, and that ended that. Knuckleballer Tim Wakefield came out to pitch the 12th, and he got through it, but it was scary. There were 3 consecutive passed balls, as Jason Veritek – not normally the catcher for Wakefield – couldn’t find the handle of the knuckleball. Somehow though, the Yankees failed to score.

By now, the other game had reached the 6th inning – so much for getting the National League game on prime-time.

In the bottom of the 14th, Red Sox center fielder Johnny Damon walked, followed by a walk to Manny Ramirez. Coming to the plate to bat? Yes, him again. On what appeared to be a an un-hittable pitch Ortiz looped a single into center field, allowing Damon to score, and setting off another frenzied celebration at Fenway Park.

In the immediate aftermath of the hit, Fox showed a replay of the swing. Ortiz’s continued heroics prompted FOX TV announcer Tim McCarver to gush shortly afterwards, "He didn't do it again, did he? Yes he did."

At 5 hours, 49 minutes it was the longest playoff game in history time-wise, and the National League game that started 2 hours later just missed finishing before this one. The Red Sox were halfway to doing the unthinkable – and what had never been done before – but they had to go back to Yankee Stadium, and they had no idea who was going to pitch game 6. Curt Shilling and the Red Sox had enlisted the help of the world famous Massachusetts General Hospital, and they were trying to find a way to make his ankle work even with the ruptured tendon. Remember that Bruce Willis movie The Sixth Sense? The kid in the movie (Haley Joel Osment) had what became an infamous line:

“I see dead people”.

Out of the Ashes Part IV (A sign in the stands, a really fast guy, and Papi)

David Ortiz, quoted in the Boston Globe, Sports Illustrated, and numerous other places in the months following the Yankees/Red Sox series, said he was walking the streets of downtown Boston in the early morning hours of October 17th, after showering and leaving the Fenway Park locker room following the 19-8 thrashing the Sox had taken less than an hour before. As he was walking down the street a woman walking his way recognized him and burst into tears. He stopped and watched as she walked by sobbing, not wanting to meet his gaze. Above him on the street was a billboard with a photo of teammate and best friend Manny Ramirez on it, and the billboard said "KEEP THE FAITH".

Suddenly it hit him. The woman crying, the billboard, the passion that 37,000 screaming Sox fans bring to the stadium every game. Big Papi had an epiphany. This was bigger than him, bigger than any of the competitors. The hopes and dreams of millions were on the line here, along with the sanity of the same, and Mr. Ortiz knew they had placed those hopes squarely in his charge. The crying passerby confirmed that fact in no uncertain terms. Later that evening, as the Red Sox prepared for game 4 in their locker room, Ortiz spoke to the players about his experience. He let them know how important they all were, and he stated in no-uncertain-terms the Red Sox had an obligation to "turn that woman's tears into a smile".

In the beginning of the game, FOX sports showed a Boston fan with a sign, inspired by the old "Peanuts" cartoon where Lucy would always pull the football away as Charlie Brown approached. The sign said, I CAN'T BELIEVE I FELL FOR IT AGAIN. Yeah, and neither could I.

As the game moved to the bottom of the 9th inning, the Yankees led 4-3, and Mariano Rivera had entered the game to pound the final nail into the Red Sox coffin. The game had been the best played so far, with tremendous catches and clutch hitting ruling the play. In spite of the quality of the play, I thought long and hard about it, and pulling the covers up...I decided to turn off the TV in my room. About 20 seconds later, I turned it back on...then turned it off...then turned it on again.

My wife, half awake and half asleep, told me to make up my mind. I chose to leave it on, resigned to another bout of clinical depression. Without question, Rivera was the greatest closer in the history of baseball, especially under pressure...but with the fight game back in July where he surrendered 2 runs, to include the game ending shot off of Bill Meuller, there was always the slim chance the Red Sox could catch lightning in a bottle a second time.

Wait. What the hell was I thinking? That wasn't going to happen. Click...off with the TV. Click...back on again.

Was Rivera looking nervous up there? He had thrown 3 rather poor looking balls to Kevin Millar of the Sox, and he looked a bit out of sorts. Rivera never chokes, and rarely looks rattled...but for some reason the slightest hint of worry was etched on his face.

Ball four. Millar walked and was immediately substituted for a speedy runner by the name of Dave Roberts. As Roberts left the dugout to take Millar's place at first base, Red Sox manager Terry Francona winked at him, a gesture that said "You know what we need here, and you have my blessing to try it". By the way, the TV was staying on at this point.

Roberts took his lead at first, and everyone of the 50 million people watching on TV, the 37,000 assembled in Fenway, and the players on both teams knew what was going to happen next. The batter at the plate was Bill Mueller, the guy that had hit the bomb off of Rivera back in July. Rivera looked uncomfortable. Dave Roberts' mission was to steal second base and get himself into scoring position. Rivera's job was to make sure between he and catcher Jorge Posada that did not happen...but the concern on his face was still there, and I thought for a second I even detected an increase in his anxiety. Roberts took his lead, Rivera wound up....and threw to first, forcing Roberts into a diving retreat. Again, Roberts took his lead, and again Rivera threw over. As he wound up for the third time, Roberts could be seen on the camera angle wiggling his fingers in anticipation. Rivera threw home....and Roberts blasted towards second base. A perfect throw from catcher Posada followed, shortstop Derek Jeter was in perfect position to take the throw, and Roberts hand just did slide into the base a flash of a second before the gloved tag of Jeter.





The ballpark erupted in noise, hope was still alive, and I was now sitting up in my bed, trying to keep it all in perspective. We were still behind, it was still Mariano Rivera...but there was a sliver of hope. With the count 1 ball and 1 strike, Bill Mueller ripped the next pitch up the middle and past the sprawling Rivera who tried to make a miracle catch...Roberts came racing around third and slid into hame plate...the game was tied, and the place was shaking with the noise.

The night wore on into morning, and the game stayed tied at 4. In the bottom of the 12th inning, well past 1 am, Yankee pitcher Paul Quantrill - a former Red Sock - was on the mound. With a man on and no one out, our man David Ortiz came up to the plate, and in his best turn that woman's tears into a smile routine, promptly hit a massive shot into the right field bull-pen, setting of an explosion of sound in the stadium, and prompting one of the greatest TV calls by an announcer I've ever heard.

At the crack of the bat, announcer Joe Buck said, "Ortiz lifts it towards right - Sheffield back - and we'll see you later tonight", a reference to the fact that it was around 1:30 am and the now-necessary game 5 was only hours away. Instead of saying home-run or something like that, Buck had grasped the moment and its impact on history. He knew these teams were so evenly matched that even the slightest bobble or failure to close the deal could be disastrous to either side, and the Yankees had blinked first...at least this night/morning they had.

God had at least slightly loosened his foothold on our necks, or so we thought. He had done this before, only to dash our hopes in cruel and unusual ways later.

Maybe though...just maybe.

Out of the Ashes, Part III (A question of fatherhood)

After the fight in mid-July, the Red Sox went on a tear, winning 80% of their games for the remainder of the season, easily securing a playoff berth as the wild-card team. They never did catch the Yankees for first place in their division, and an interesting thing happened in late September.

In a game played at Yankee Stadium, one of the Red Sox top two pitchers - Pedro Martinez - lost to the Yankees for something like the 7th straight time, and in an interview in the Red Sox locker room afterwards he said the following: "What can I say? I guess the Yankees are my daddy", a statement that would throw gasoline into an already raging brushfire.

So onward we moved to October, and the playoffs. First up was the California Angels, and the Red Sox made short order of that series, but not without significant development. In game 1, Curt Schilling - the man who came to Boston "to make 55,000 people in Yankee Stadium shut up" - was running over to cover 1st base in a routine play that pitchers make every game, and something happened. After catching the ball and stepping on the base, he started limping quite noticeably. He's alright, Red Sox Nation though to themselves. We have a big lead, take him out and let him ice it, then he'll be back for the next game.

Or not...

The 2nd significant moment was in the 10 inning of the 3rd and decisive game. With the score tied, David Ortiz came to the plate with a runner on first base, and proceeded to launch a massive shot that rattled off the "Sports Authority" sign above the left field wall and seats. Game - set - match, Mr. Ortiz. Red Sox Nation was now starting to see the trend. With the game on the line, David Ortiz - nicknamed "Big Papi" - had the extraordinary gift bestowed on very few in history of being able to change the outcome with a single swing, regardless of the pressure of the moment.

Meanwhile, the Yankees were also winning their best of 5 series in 3 games as well, setting the stage for the clash of the baseball titans, round II. The prize once again being a trip to the world series.

Game 1 was played in Yankee stadium, and in the days leading up to the first battle, the people of Boston were informed in all its ingloriousness of the extent of Curt Shilling's injury. He had incurred a dislocated tendon, and the Red Sox medical staff was hopeful a specially designed brace would hold the tendon in place well enough to allow Schilling to pitch.

It didn't.

In what would seem to the Red Sox faithful one more incident in the cruel and on-going saga of Red Sox futility, their best pitcher during the season could go no farther than 3 innings, surrendering 6 runs and putting the Sox in a hole, 1 game to none.

Game 2 didn't go much better. Pedro Martinez, serenaded for 3 solid hours with chants of "Who's your Daaaaaady", "Who's your Daaaaaady", lost his eighth straight to the Yankees.

Game 3 went back to Boston, and history said the Red Sox needed to win this game in order to have any chance at all of advancing to the world series. You see, no team in the history of baseball - heck, no team in the history of sports in America - had ever come back from a 3 games to none deficit to win four in a row. The time was now, and the Sox needed to pull it off.

About 11:30 that night, with the score Yankees 17, Red Sox 7, my son was sitting on the floor in front of a sofa, softly pounding his fists on the carpet. "How could this be?" "They're getting killed by these guys". I told him to go ahead and go to bed, that it was ok. "Dad, don't give me that 'it's only a game' stuff, because we both know it isn't". As he entered his room, I remember telling him "Welcome to Red Sox Nation. You are an official member now. How do you like the pain?"

As I fell asleep in my own room, I turned the TV off with the final score being Yankees 19, Red Sox 8. My faith, tested so many times over the years - and strong as any faith can be - had fallen. I know longer thought 2004 was going to be the magical year...I had given up and resigned myself to Yankee fans once again looking down on Red Sox fans as second class citizens in the sports world.

Maybe...just maybe...the Yankees were our daddy.

Out of the Ashes, Part II ("Who you callin' punk?)

July 24th, 2004.

In their traditional late July meeting in Fenway Park in Boston, the Yankees are practically running away with the American League East, holding an 8.5 game lead over the struggling Red Sox. At this point in the season, even hope for obtaining the wild card playoff spot - awarded to the team who does not win their division, but finishes with the best overall 2nd place record in the league - was looking bleak. You can't beat the Yankees in the playoffs if you're not there, and they were playing terrible. On this day as a matter of fact, the Red Sox trailed the Yankees 9-4 after 5 innings.

In the top of the 6th, up to the plate came Alex Rodriguez, nicknamed not so originally, A-Rod. A-Rod is an enigma as a player and a person. By far the highest paid athlete in all of baseball ($25 Million a year for 10 years), he's indeed the highest paid athlete of all time - in any sport. He's handsome, intelligent (to a point), probably the most gifted player in the world, but people don't like him. Most are jealous of his money. Many are suspect of his ability to perform under pressure, and his statistics in clutch situations in both the regular season and the playoffs would suggest that he does indeed have an issue with tight situations and low performance thereof. Personally, he always seems to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, irritating not only fans, but his fellow teammates and opposing players as well. Furthermore, he is forever complaining that "nobody likes me", and he sees a sports psychologist on a regular basis to help him "better rationalize the fans and fellow athlete's perspectives".

I can rationalize it for him right now. Get some big hits in big games, prove that you're worth the zillion dollars a week you get paid, and everyone will leave you alone. That'll be $100 for my services A-Rod, leave the payment at the door.

So A-Rod steps up with the 9-4 lead, and the Red Sox pitcher, Bronson Arroyo, promptly hits him with a fastball. Here is what happened then:

• A-Rod stares at Arroyo; Arroyo asks for the ball with a small grin on his face. Why was he laughing? Who knows? Perhaps a reaction to the crowd who clearly enjoyed A-Rod being plunked? Perhaps it was intentional? Who knows, but he had a small grin for sure.
• A-Rod takes offense to this grin and starts yelling F--k you to Arroyo repeatedly.
• Red Sox catcher Jason Veritek starts walking A-Rod down the line to get him to first without him going after the pitcher, proper protocol. The home plate umpire is between them. A-Rod continues yelling at Arroyo. Varitek says something, at which point A-Rod's attention turns to Varitek.
• Clearly visible on the TV, you can read A-Rod's lips inviting Varitek to hit him. "F--k you motherf--ker, come get me". "Come on, punk!"
• And as fast as lightnig, as soon as the word "punk" was uttered and A-Rod gave that little hand gesture....BAM!!!
  
  
  
  

And theeeeennnnnn.....

Suddenly, apart from the incredible noise because the Boston crowd was going berserk...apart from the blood being spilled...seriously...this was a real fight, not the usual baseball "fake fight" where no one does anything...but apart from that, something else happened. Something strange and esoteric. Somehow a feeling came out - call it a Karma if you will - a feeling that spread through the stadium and throughout the nation...the Red Sox nation....and anyone who was watching that day. You could sense it, and the feeling was palpable. Tim McCarver, covering the game for FOX Sports called it "Disgusting. The worst game I've ever seen in my life".

Really? The worst game EVER? I think Tim McCarver needs to get out more, or at least lighten up in a big way. In any case, I saw the game as kind of an epiphany of sorts...and the Red Sox players and fans were the recipients of the heavenly guidance.

After a 67 minute long inning, one in which about a half dozen players total for both teams were ejected and later suspended and fined by the league, the Red Sox started coming back. Although they gave up 1 more run and going into the 9th inning they were behind 10-8, they had erased the majority of the five-run deficit, but they were facing the greatest closer in major league baseball history in Mariano Rivera, a man that had only surrendered 4 leads in over 300 chances the last 4 seasons. But karma had entered Fenway Park, and karma is never denied its rightful place. A double, followed by another double closed the gap to 10-9, and Bill Mueller (Pronounced Miller) slammed a pitch over the right field wall, setting off a frenzied celebration in the ballpark that carried on throughout the town for days after that one game.

My son, who had for 13 years not given a rats-ass about baseball, the Red Sox, or sports on TV for that matter (he was and still is an excellent athlete, but at the time he didn't care to watch others play as opposed to him playing himself), told me excitedly "Dad, dad...they were seriously fighting...I mean, for real dad...these guys hate each other". "There was one guy with blood all over his face". In front of my very eyes, I was witnessing the birth of another fan. A fan who by the way started faithfully following every single game, every day, from that point on. All it took was a little taste of the competitiveness between these two teams and these two cities, and he was hooked for life.

8.5 games behind or not, the Red Sox had just found their motivation to salvage the remainder of the season and see just how far this newfound karma could take them.

The game was on...

Out of the Ashes (Subtitled: How to earn a famous middle name)

On a very cold October night in 2003, Thursday the 16th to be exact, the New York Yankees and Boston Red Sox were playing game 7 of the American League Championship Series. Third baseman Brett Boone stepped to the plate in the bottom of the 11th inning at Yankee Stadium, also known as "The hell-hole that Ruth built", and the same thing happened that had been happening for the better part of an entire century to the Red Sox and for the Yankees.

Before I go any further, let's step back an hour or so and examine the latest catastrophe.

Roger Clemens, perennial Red Sox pitcher and future Hall-of-Famer, had defected in the mid-90's, and after a stop in Toronto, had wiggled his way into a Yankee uniform. Clemens' leaving was traumatic enough for the long-suffering people who preferred to call their flock "Red Sox Nation", but a Yankee!!??! Good Lord in Heaven, a Yankee? Anything...any team...any time...anywhere.

But not that team.

That team had won 26 World Championships since the Red Sox traded Babe Ruth to them in 1920, and the Red Sox were sporting the big goose-egg. To make matters worse, in 11 of the Yankees appearances that resulted in a championship, the Red Sox were the team the Yankees nudged out of the chance to play in the World Series. In all those years, the Sox had only been a participant in 3 World Series, and they agonizingly lost them each in the 7th game, each final game finding the Sox ahead and finding some sort of bizarre way of losing. The Yankees, on the other hand, found 26 different ways to win.

Be that as it may, here he was and here they were, the Red Sox and the Yankees, vying for the chance to go to the World Series, and each team had won 3 games in the best of 7 series, and it was all coming down to this game right here. Naturally, the Sox struck first, getting to Clemens and knocking him out of the game with 4 early runs by the 3rd inning. By the 7th, the lead was 4-2, and then in the top of the 8th, David Ortiz of the Red Sox hit a bomb of a home run, a feat which was the beginning of a still on-going drama today. Time and time again, Ortiz stakes his claim to being the biggest Yankee-killer of all time, and this was the first major battle in the war on the Yankees.

But back to the game. Ortiz homers, the Sox take a 5-2 lead into the bottom of the 8th, and Red Sox Nation is holding its collective breath. Could it be true? Could we finally be going back to the Series, and doing so at the expense of the Yankees? Whooda thunk that?

In the bottom of the 8th, the Sox start pitcher - Pedro Martinez - was running out of gas, and the tens of millions watching on TV knew it as well. The Red Sox manager, Grady Little, went to the mound in what was surely the moment he would pull the star pitcher from the game, get a fresh pitcher to finish this game off, and then go on to the World Series.

But he didn't replace him.

He left Martinez in there because the pitcher said he still felt like he had something left. I walked outside my home in Orlando, and I swear I could hear the collective groan of 8 million Red Sox fans all over America. The rest is history. Two singles followed by two doubles consecutively, tied the score at 5. Now the manager pulled out Martinez, but it was 4 batters too late. Millions of Red Sox Nation heads nodded almost imperceptibly, their fate sealed long ago in some predestined celestial joke that the God's of suffering had inflicted upon us and our offspring for eternity. The score was still tied, but we all knew it was over.

In the 11th, the aforementioned Brett Boone stepped to the plate and forever changed his name. You see, the Red Sox never lose gracefully, oh no. It always has to be some unkind or atrocious happenstance that causes the defeat. A case in point is this particular batter. In the previous 6 games, Boone had 1 hit in 25 at bats, and that was a squibbling ground ball that died before it even got to the 3rd baseman, resulting in a little-league looking infield hit. Boone was so pathetic at the plate that he had been benched by Yankees manager, Joe Torre for game 7. Inserted as a pinch-hitter in the bottom of the 11th, he was the perfect anti-hero to another imperfect Red Sox calamity, and he promptly sent the first pitch off into the night, sending the Yankees to the World Series again, and the Red Sox, well...

The name change I mentioned? Oh yeah...from the moment that ball rocketed off of his bat, he forever became known as Brett #^%$#* Boone, or Brett F. Boone for short.

Shocked and dismayed once again, I didn't know what to do. It was nearing midnight, I had to go to work in the morning, but I couldn't sleep. I paced and I cursed, and I walked the dog as fast as he and I could move together, but nothing would relieve my anxiety.

Gotdamit, sonavabitching, stupid #%$#* Red Sox bastards ripped my heart out again. 47 years of the same old stuff, and that's not mentioning the previous 38 years before I was born that I wasn't a part of. I was a Sox fan, tried and true, and by that I mean I'm not greedy and whiny like Yankee fans are. I didn't need 26 World Series to justify my existence and be happy; I just wanted one. Hey God, if you're listening, can ya take your foot off of our necks long enough to give us just one?

Still despondent, I went upstairs to my 12 year old son's room. He was asleep, and I sat down on the bed next to him and brushed his hair away from his forehead. He stirred, looked up at me and said, "What's the matter, Dad?"

I told him about the Red Sox, and with a puzzled look on his face that just screamed out, you woke me up for this? looked at me and said, "Like you always tell me dad...it's not life, it's just a game". "Now go away and let me sleep".

As I went downstairs to my bedroom, the thought occurred to me that we all sometimes ask our children to do as we say, not as we do. The truth of the matter was when it came to the Yankees/Red Sox, it had never been just a game to me, and probably never would. The next day after I came home from work, I told my son the truth. I still wanted him to conduct himself with sportsmanship and aplomb, but I let him know that maybe a bit of fire and passion can actually add to the fun of it all, and that...yeah...I lied...sometimes it's a lot more than just a game.

Once a man, twice a child is true, I guess.

As a post script, in the World Series the Florida Marlins shocked the world, the Yankees, and more than likely themselves and beat the *&^%#$# in 6 games. Good.

During the winter months, both the Yankees and the Red Sox reloaded with more talent, and set the stage for 2004. Most notable was the addition of Curt Shilling to the Red Sox roster, a shoe-in hall of fame pitcher, former world series champion against the Yankees, and a very outspoken athlete. He hated the Yankees and their dynasty, and came to Boston to put a stop to it. He made public statements in the press like "Nothing would make me happier than to go into Yankee Stadium and make 55,000 people shut up". He wasn't alone, as Yankee players and Red Sox players threw verbal punches at each other all through the winter, and the newspapers and national media like ESPN were more than happy to enlighten the public to each and every quotable quote.

The century-long fierce competition had erupted into a heart-felt disdain for each other, and for the first time ever, the players on both sides were reflecting the sentiments that each fan base had for as long as they had been playing. This was going to be good drama, and I had a sneaking feeling the next season was going to be filled with a moment or two to remember.

I had noooooo idea.

Think

Ever go to a major metropolitan airport and just sit and look?

Try it sometime.

You will see more people passing by than you could ever guess or comprehend. And that’s just your little portion of the world in your small time-frame that you sat there watching. The vastness of the planet and the absolutely frightening expansion of its populace is too broad and complex for 1 person to take in. Where do they all come from, and where are they going? Business men and women, decked out in their power suits of both gender; tourists happily arriving or sadly leaving; the mentally lost and hopeless; the young soldier wearing his uniform home for the first time, pride and a sense of his place firmly etched on his face; others from foreign lands, trying in vain to make sense of the signage that may as well be written in Martian.

You can see it all here in the airport, a place that has taken center-stage in recent decades for all the wrong reasons. So now as you sit and people-watch, you can see the travelers going through the various stages of checks and re-checks. If you maintain your quietness and open your ears, you can hear their complaints as they pass by your position on the chair. They don’t like being inspected and queried, and according to many of them, they’re flabbergasted to even be thought of as a terrorist. To some, the asking of a few questions and checking the bottoms of their shoes is akin to the rubber-hose treatment at a 1950’s backwoods police station. “Do I look like a terrorist?” is the most common statement. “I don’t look Middle Eastern, do I?”

Here’s a helpful tip for Mr. Put-off: If and when another attack comes through our airport system, those perpetrators won’t look Middle Eastern either. That gig is up and has been done, and we’re not dealing with a stupid enemy, just a crazy and determined one. They won’t look or act the same next time around.

Sooner or later you’ll probably see a lost or temporarily misplaced child, fodder to those who think the right to breed should be something licensed, like the right to drive or fish. We’re sorry Mr. & Mrs. Jones, but we have evidence that you’re both so stupid you would actually lose track of any future offspring at the airport in Chicago while headed out to your Disney vacation, and based upon that information, we cannot let you procreate.

As you watch the parents finally and frantically reunite with their 4 year old, scolding the child for what is obviously inattentiveness on their part, the people keep strolling by in wave after wave of humanity. Keep watching the people as they move by your spot. Play little games with yourself. Evaluate them on several 10 scales…appearance, demeanor, attitude, how intelligent/non-intelligent they look, and fashion sense. Make assessments of each of them in your head. Anyone look suspicious to you, or is everyone pretty much the same?

Try and count as many as you can in 1 minute…multiply that by 1440 (the number of minutes in a day)…and then try and imagine again how many people are in the airport right then…stretch that out to how many are in the city…then the state…then the country…and finally the world.

Too damn many, huh?

Now think if you will, of the monumental task of trying to protect the entire world against harm…of trying to educate everyone on the planet to be observant of their surroundings…think about trying to convince the mom who lost control of her own flesh and blood in the crowded terminal that she needs to be more fastidious in watching out for total strangers when she can’t even watch out for her own kid. Think about a task that is so overwhelming it becomes apparent in short order the phrase “nothing is impossible” might actually be incorrect. Some things are impossible, or nearly so.

And as you sit there eating your soft pretzel, think of how easily it would be for any one person to cause harm and suffering on a large scale. Someone completely out of the blue with a grudge to settle or an ax to grind could pull off a big moment in history with relative ease. Someone that was on no one’s radar screen, met none of the stereotypes and profiles, and looked kind of like everyone else in the room.

Have you thought about it? You have?

Ok. The next time you read something…see something on the television ….or hear something on the radio about how the United States failed and that’s why 9-11 happened…

Weigh what you heard about the failures with the facts that you have gathered in your day at the airport, simply observing, thinking, and doing a little mathematics.

Peace.

Near Miss

July 2nd, 2006.

The Asteroid 2004 XP-14 whizzed by the Earth Saturday in what has been described as a "galactic near miss".

2004 XP-14 is 800 meters wide, or approximately the size of Roseanne Barr's backside, and is potentially lethal to the human race...as is the asteroid by the way.

It flew past the Earth at a distance of 433,000 kilometers, which means no one in the United States has any idea at all how far that is. Hell, we still haven't figured out the liter thing with a bottle of Coke, and now some British guy is telling us the asteroid came X-amount of Kilometers from causing doomsday.

It was fun reading about the thing though, and how the only people in the world aware of this were the cosmos folks and a bunch of nerds in their basements who took time out from designing internet worms long enough to track the thing for a coupla days.

Hearing anything about asteroids always conjures up images of a near 50 Bruce Willis falling in love with Steven Tyler's 20-something daughter...only Hollywood could convince us that's a good couple.

In closing, I do believe the time has come for us to re-look the language again. I think it makes perfect sense to call Celestial bodies hurtling through space "Terror-Roids", and hemorrhoids should forever be called asteroids.

That's my take, anyways.