MILWAUKEE. Bud Selig, commissioner of baseball and general manager of Selig GMC-Buick, a car and truck dealership here, today promised a crackdown on major league baseball players who jaywalk following a high-profile arrest of Boston Red Sox outfielder Manny Ramirez in Seattle and a news report linking Yankee pitcher Joba Chamberlain to a New Jersey organized crime family that crosses the streets of New York's Little Italy without looking both ways.
Selig: "Senator, it may look like I'm picking, but I'm only scratching."
"Our fans deserve to know that the players their kids look up to are crossing at the green, and not in between," Selig said in a conference call with sports reporters and traffic safety officers. "I was captain of my school crossing guard in 7th grade, and I take this personally."
"I told the Commissioner, you know, blow it out your shorts."
Ramirez was cited in Seattle for walking against a red light, a misdemeanor in a city that appears friendly on the surface, but which is governed by a nine-person city council composed largely of members of the Grunge-Espresso Axis, a neo-fascist group that worships Kurt Cobain.
On this, the 4th of July, a day intimately associated with liberty, it is appropriate to reflect on the strides this nation has made to expand freedom in the world of sport. Think of Jackie Robinson, the first African-American to play major league baseball. Consider Kathrine Switzer, the first woman to run the Boston Marathon. Or how about Manny Ramirez, the first Dominican outfielder to take a leak behind a manually-operated scoreboard during a pitching change in an American League game. Truly, as a nation, we have much to be proud of.
Kathrine Switzer, failing the Boston Marathon gendertest.
But many are surprised to hear that, until very recently, there were still obstacles to full participation in the athletic endeavors that make this country great. One such barrier fell the other day, as the state of Missouri made it legal, for the first time, to "noodle", or fish with one's hands.
A guy named Phil, with a giant catfish caught by hand
As a teenage boy in a small Missouri town, I often worked with country people who spoke of noodling. Not having much interest in fishing, I never accompanied them on their clandestine trips to muddy creek banks, where they told me they would stick their arms into hollow logs, risking bites by snakes or snapping turtles, to catch catfish by hand. As a result, I have wrongly assumed all these years that the fish they caught would fit on a dinner plate.
It turns out these men were diving under water, holding their breath and sticking their arms into catfish "holes" where they would grab fresh-water behemoths, smaller than a jet ski but not by much, and wrestle them into submission. Where noodling is permitted, a fish must typically be as much as two feet long in order to be a legal catch. Catfish are bottom feeders who will remain stationary for long periods of time, eating anything that floats by, and as a result can grow to be enormous.
"He followed me home--can I keep him?"
You would think that the Missouri legislature, in its wisdom, would have long ago followed the example of the other eleven states where handfishing (also referred to as "hogging") is legal, and let man and fish fight it out fair and square. Missouri's scruples in the area of man-fish relations stemmed not from fear for fisherman's safety, but from a solicitous regard for the fishes' sex life. Handfishing, according to fish and game officials, depletes the number of sexually mature fish. Well, what do you want noodlers to do--knock before entering?
Moby Catfish
Since moving to the east coast thirty-five years ago, I've gone deep-sea fishing a number of times and had naively formed the opinion that it is more challenging than fresh-water fishing. Having conducted further research into hand-fishing, I now believe that the only way ocean fishing could measure up to the challenge of noodling is for the beer-sodden men who pay hundreds of dollars to fish off Florida or Cape Cod to crawl overboard, find a bluefish or a marlin and subdue their prey using nothing but wrestling holds learned on WWE Royal Rumble.
Exhausted noodlers
So here's to America's hand-fishers, true sportsmen who eschew fish-finders and other high tech doo-dads that unfairly tilt the pond in favor of humans. I salute you, but I have one request.
If you don't mind, I'd rather not shake your hand.
BOSTON. When the Red Sox returned to Boston last night from a road trip that saw outfielder Manny Ramirez join baseball's elite 500 home run club at Baltimore's Camden Yards, the slugger seemed distant, his mind elsewhere, as he was greeted by fans at Logan Airport. "I got a promise to keep," was all he would say to a reporter who thrust a microphone in his face, paraphrasing Robert Frost, whom Ramirez adopted as his idol after discovering the flinty New England poet had urged readers to take the road less traveled.
Ramirez and Frost: The poet had fewer strikeouts, but also a lower OBP.
Ramirez was deeply moved by a visit to Baltimore's St. Jude's Childrens Hospital, where he met ten year-old Timmy Kavanaugh who suffers from Osgood Schlatter's Disease, a knee ailment that primarily afflicts young boys. Kavanaugh was unimpressed by the slugging outfielder's five hundredth home run--"Any mook can take some steroids and do that!" Timmy yelled as Ramirez walked by his bed--and the two struck up a conversation.
Ouch!
As Ramirez prepared to go, he asked if there was anything he could do to ease the boy's suffering. Kavanaugh closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and in a voice that was barely a whisper, said "Could you--run out a ground ball for me?"
"There's a ground ball to short--Manny watches it go . . ."
"Sure, kid," Ramirez replied, his voice betraying emotion. "I can't do it," the boy continued, tears filling his eyes. "I want you to do it for me."
"What's Manny doing?"
So groundskeepers were surprised this morning when they found Ramirez harnessed to a Fenway Park lawnmower, pulling the bulky implement around the base path to strengthen his hamstrings in anticipation of an all-out sprint down the first base line the next time he hits an infield grounder.
"Run, Manny, run!"
"There's no doubt Manny can do it physically," said manager Terry Francona. "He just needs to focus on the job in front of him when he doesn't hit a home run and like, you know, start running."
But his teammates aren't so sure. "If I made $18 million dollars a year," said backup catcher Kevin Cash, who is not related to the currency Ramirez is paid with, "I'd need a lot of time to figure out what to spend it on."
WORCESTER, Mass. Spring is in the air in New England, even if the ground is still too soggy in some places to play baseball. "Like Yogi Berra said, 'April is the cruelest month'," notes Little League dad Todd Schwab. "The spring chill really makes you hungry," he says as he and son Todd, Jr. slurp giant sodas while waiting in line for their turn to meet former Red Sox pitcher Rich Garces, a right-hander whose weight was officially listed as 250 pounds during his playing days, but who was believed to be much heavier. "That was with one foot off the scale," says his former pitching coach Joe Kerrigan.
El Guapo: "You keep eating like that, someday you'll be in the big leagues!"
Garces, also known as "El Guapo" or "The Handsome One" during his major league career, is part of an outreach program on the part of Major League Baseball designed to keep fat kids from quitting the sport so that they will eventually realize their potential as pitchers. "We have a program for black kids," says Commissioner Bud Selig," referring to the RBI or 'Reviving Baseball in the Inner Cities' initiative, "but we've never done anything to link today's victims of childhood obesity with the overweight greats of the past."
Wells: "The lunch buffet was picked over, so I ate a batboy."
In San Diego, obese pitcher David Wells has signed on with the Padres for a victory lap to end his career, and he spends time before each game giving kids tips on proper diet. "You've got to learn to pace yourself," he tells Ronnie Dalrymple, a porky twelve year-old who weighs in at 180 pounds and is a set-up man for the Hungry Crab Marlins, an A-level Little League team sponsored by a local restaurant. "When you come to the park, get your protein and carbohydrates first with a couple of hot dogs or three and a soft drink, then get an ice cream bar or sundae." "Uh-huh," the boy says as he nods his head up and down like a bobble-head doll. "Then and only then do you switch to the low-mass, high calorie foods such as cotton candy."
Livan Hernandez: "Do you mind if I get something to eat at the seventh-inning stretch?"
The connection between weight and pitching prowess was often suspected, but never confirmed until a study by Kyle Rayl, a member of SABR, the Society for American Baseball Research. "If you plot the statistics of pitchers going back though the late 1800's," he notes, "you find that the higher the weight, the lower the ERA."
Antonio Alfonseca and his six-fingered hand.
Back east in suburban Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Antonio Alfonseca is instructing some local youngsters in the finer points of fielding his position. "Those slow-rolling grounders, you want to let your little second baseman or your big first baseman get them for you," he says before agreeing to allow the kids to examine his unique hands, each of which has an extra finger. "I don't know if it's been a help to me in baseball," he says, "but it allows me to shovel food in my mouth much faster."
TAMPA, Florida. The mood in the New York Yankees' clubhouse was solemn after a 5-3 loss to the Pittsburgh Pirates Thursday. "They're making cuts today," pitcher Kei Igawa told a reporter from Japan. "Many people are very nervous."
"Let's practice the glove-throwing play."
When a player was summoned to the manager's office, he knew the news wasn't likely to be good. And so when veteran Billy Crystal heard coach Tony Pena call out "Hey, Mr. Funny Man! Skip wants to see you", his teammates said nothing and avoided eye contact as Crystal made the long walk to manager Joe Girardi's office.
Billy Crystal
Crystal, a 60-year old comedian, movie star and Oscar host, had been hoping to extend his illustrious career by switching to designated hitter, a position where veterans whose fielding skills and timing have diminished can hope to hang on for a few more years until they lose their batting eye. "Henny Youngman did it," Crystal had said to reporters in front of his locker just the day before. "At the end his delivery had slowed down, but he could still knock out a joke in a clutch situation."
Girardi
"Billy, have a seat," Girardi said to the aging comic. "How's the family?" he asked, making small talk. "Fine," Crystal said, although his face bore an expression of concern that belied his word. "Well, Bill, let me cut to the chase," Girardi said after some more palaver. "We appreciate all you did for us in your single celebrity at bat, but the club has decided to move in a different direction."
Scouting report: "Like someone trying to swat a fly with a meat cleaver."
Crystal's face registered a look of dismay, then resignation. "So it's over?" he said.
"We could re-assign you to the Columbus Clippers, but if we give you an outright release, you might catch on with--I don't know--Tampa Bay or Kansas City."
Murphy: "He's got the bling, he's got the swing."
"Thanks," Crystal said, hurt but appreciative. "Just out of curiosity," the star of hit movies such as "When Harry Met Sally" asked, "who're you going with at veteran designated comedian?"
"We just picked up Eddie Murphy from Los Angeles."
"Eddie Murphy? A ex-Saturday Night Live hack who's making kiddie movies now?" Crystal had famously turned down an offer to join the regular cast of the late-night comedy program early in his career, and it paid off when he made the move to Hollywood sooner than expected.
"He's got the bling, he's got the swing," Girardi said as he picked up a pile of scouting reports. "We're looking for a more explosive sense of humor--one that will put runners in scoring position."
"What's wrong with my schtick?" Crystal said, lapsing into Borscht Belt yiddish for a comic's material.
"Bill, it's fine--but times have changed," Girardi said. "Yours is a more situational, observational humor. Did you know the Yankees were last in the AL East last year in stolen bases to Jewish mother jokes?"
"I haven't told one of those since . . . "
" . . . and that we failed to bring home fifteen runners in scoring position during Labor Day telethons by washed-up comedians? Those numbers aren't good."
Jerry Lewis: "$81 million folks. That'll buy a utility infielder, or a left-handed pinch hitter with some pop in his bat!"
Crystal was silent, and hung his head.
"How 'bout the Red Sox," Crystal asked. "They have a history of hiring comedians, like Bill Lee . . ."
Bill "Spaceman" Lee
"I think they're all set," Girardi said. "They just signed Jay Leno."
"Leno!" Crystal screamed. "You've gotta be kidding me!"
"Nope. He's local--from Andover, Mass."
"But he's got that big chin!"
"That's a plus. When the chin music"--baseball slang for high, inside pitches--"start's flying, he'll be a valuable asset."
"I don't get it," Crystal said.
"The way that thing sticks out, he has the highest hit-by-pitch to at-bat ratio of any major league comic."
I am, at best, an indifferent follower of professional golf. I know who Tiger Woods is. There's Vijay Singh, who sounds like he should be from India, is actually from the Fiji Islands (there's more than one?), and doesn't want to play with girls. There's Greg Norman, who makes $15 a bottle wine, and so is way out of my price range.
For me, golf's handicap--to coin a phrase--is that it's a game for grown-ups, an oxymoron. During this year's Accenture Match Play Championship, my mother-in-law, who has a more than passing interest in the game, asked me what "Accenture" was. I had to break the news to her gently. "It's a consulting firm that was spun off from an accounting firm." "Oh," she said with a disappointed tone, as if I had told her that the thrilling action on TV was brought to her by the IRS.
Granted, a consulting firm that's spun off from an accounting firm is more exciting that just a plain old accounting firm. It's still a comedown from beer, razors and tires, the customary sponsors of other sports. It's not as if two guys watching Tiger Woods beat Stewart Cink are going to jump up after they turn off the TV and say "That was great--I could really go for a report on increasing shareholder value by focusing on our core competencies in a changing marketplace."
Z-z-z-z.
"Yeah, me too! Make mine vello bound, clear front cover, black back!"
But then there's John Daly. In an age when so many professional athletes have bent, broken or ignored the rules, using performance-enhancing controlled substances to gain that extra competitive edge, Daly has stuggled against and overcome self-imposed obstacles, playing at the highest level of the game using nothing but performance-impairing drugs such as beer, Diet Cokes and cigarettes. God bless him.
My thoughts turn to Daly today not because he won a tournament recently--as far as I know he has not--but because of a story in the news yesterday that Butch Harmon, Daly's swing coach, has terminated his relationship with the man known for his "Grip it and rip it" long-distance drives. Other golfers have swing coaches who have swing coaches, personal trainers, impersonal trainers, etc. Daly's swing coach quit on him. Then again, Daly seems like the kind of guy who, if he was sitting in a golf cart with you having a beer and saw his swing coach approaching, would say "Beat it--here's comes my damn swing coach."
The coach quit because of Daly's conduct at a recent golf tournament, where Daly spent a 2 1/2 hour rain delay in the Hooters "Owl's Nest" tent. A pro golf tournament where Hooters, the "delightfully tacky yet unrefined" restaurant chain whose waitresses wear revealing tank tops, sells beer is what Anglo-American law refers to as an "attractive nuisance". You can't put an alcohol-fueled dining experience that involves large mammary glands on the 17th hole o####olf course and not expect people to misbehave.
"Sign where?"
Daly's offense? It will surprise you. In an era when millionaire athletes routinely stiff autograph-seekers and refuse to hit home runs for sick kids in hospitals, Daly drank beer, mingled with fans and signed autographs, "including one on the back of a woman's pants" according to a wire service report. Is that so terribly wrong? Have we as a nation strayed so far from our first principles that a man can't--in good faith--autograph a woman's butt? I would hope not, but I'm beginning to have my doubts.
George Graham Vest
Daly, like me, is from central Missouri, a part of the country whose most famous residents are dogs: Old Drum and Jim the Wonder Dog. The man who said (more or less) "A dog is man's best friend", George Graham Vest, is from the region as well. The nation's only magazine devoted exclusively to tree hound hunting, "Full Cry", was published there. With so much canine achievement to admire, some local humans tend to slack off when it comes to their own personal ambitions.
Old Drum: Famous for getting shot.
Not Daly. This is a man who, besides being a top-notch athlete--I mean golfer--recorded an autobiographical album of songs, "My Life", featuring Willie Nelson. With a sideman like that, you can be pretty sure there was some recreational drug use involved in the production of the final master tapes.
Daly doesn't fly to golf tournaments. He travels in an RV--that's a "recreational vehicle"--one of those tacky, humble, humongous houseboats on wheels you see on the interstate in flyover country. I worked on an RV assembly line one summer, and am required by federal blogging regulations to disclose that there is an inordinate amount of glue and staples used in their construction. Do not try to vault the Grand Canyon in an RV.
Crusaders: "We're also looking for a copy of 'Lickin' Stick' by George Torrance and the Naturals."
One of the thrice-married Daly's songs is "All of My Exes Wear Rolexes", a song that is not available on iTunes, and which I've tried to find for years. In the Middle Ages, the quest for an item of such cultural significance would have turned into a Crusade, with thousands of lives lost.
Daly showed up at a tournament in 2007 with cuts on his face, saying his wife had attacked him with a steak knife, although she said he had scratched himself after an argument with her. Not pretty, but then again more interesting than the sort of unpleasantness you go through when your wife says "I can't believe you wore that tie!" just as you're about to walk into a Christmas party. The man lives large.
Babe Ruth at the piano: "Does this thing float?"
Daly may be the last of the Ruthian giants of sport, a throwback to a bygone era. Babe Ruth loved beer, hot dogs, cigars and women, and indulged in them to excess. When he played for the Red Sox, Ruth lived on a farm in Sudbury, Mass. where, according to legend, there is a piano at the bottom of a pond. The story is told that Ruth rolled the piano out onto its frozen surface one night to accommodate a large crowd for a sing-along, then--as often happens after this sort of affair--forgot to bring it back indoors, and it sank when the ice thawed.
WASHINGTON. As she watched her husband's defiant testimony before Congress yesterday, Debbie Clemens could only shake her head in sadness over how far she has fallen. "I stand by Roger 110%," she said with tears forming in her eyes. "I only wish that--like him--I could have just said no."
Debbie Clemens
While her husband continues to deny that he used performance-enhancing drugs during a career in which he won seven Cy Young Awards, more than Cy Young himself, Debbie Clemens has admitted that she used human growth hormone before a Sports Illustrated photo shoot, enabling her to appear more buxom than Yankees' second baseman Chuck Knoblauch. "It was wrong, and I apologize," she said, "especially to all those little girls out there who are just strapping on their first training bras."
In happier times.
In her prime, Debbie Clemens was considered one of the greatest housewives in baseball history, chauffering her four children to school and youth sports events while maintaining a rigorous workout schedule, spending up to 35 minutes on exercise machines unless other people were waiting. She holds the modern-day record for consecutive children named after strikeouts--Koby, Kory, Kacy and Kody. In the pre-modern era, Lucy Yemm, wife of Bill "Five Finger" Yemm of the Cleveland Spiders, gave birth to Kevin, Karen, Kelly, Kyle and Kenneth.
"C'mon--you're hogging the Stairmaster!"
Clemens' confession was met less with surprise than relief by her circle of friends on Boston's North Shore, where the Clemens lived when Roger played for the Red Sox. "We'd go out for Mexican food," said Alice Sheehan, a neighbor. "The next day everybody'd be puffy but Debbie--you don't recover from a pitcher of margaritas like that unless you're on something."
"We lost your kid, so we're going to give you a FREE PIZZA!"
Clemens was sentenced to a year's probation and 200 hours of community service, which she will satisfy by working at the gift counter at a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant in a Houston suburb.
LONDON. Amy Winehouse, the neo-soul singer whose drug habit plays a prominent role in both her life and her work, today urged seven-time Cy Young Award winner Roger Clemens to enter rehab, saying it was his only hope to turn his life around.
Winehouse: "Exercise is like really important."
"People think I don't care about sports, and I don't," Winehouse said by telephone from her home in London, where she was caught on film yesterday snorting cocaine, smoking crack, and sticking Mike 'n' Ike candies up her nose. "I know what it's like to have your innocent recreational drug use exposed to the white hot glare of tabloid journalism."
Mike 'n' Ike: If you can't resist, snort 'em, don't shoot 'em.
Clemens was named 82 times in the Mitchell Report, the document that memorializes the investigation conducted by former U.S. Senator George Mitchell into steroid use in major league baseball. Former New York Yankees trainer Brian McNamee claims he injected Clemens with Winstrol, an allegation that Rusty Hardin, the pitcher's attorney, denies. "Roger never used Winstrol," Hardin said. "He smoked Parliament Lights at the end of his career, and Camel Filters in the box when he was just starting out."
"Who's the skank?"
Winehouse's biggest hit is "Rehab", in which she recounts her resistance to drug rehabilitation. Clemens's biggest hit remains a 1986 game against the Seattle Mariners in which he struck out 20 batters in a nine-inning game while pitching for the Boston Red Sox. Mitchell's greatest hit is the saying "I like blankies too much," which he has used to defuse tension at the Iran-Contra Committee hearings, the Northern Ireland peace talks, and Bud Selig's Friday night polka soirees.
BOSTON. The Boston Red Sox today announced a series of "Neil Diamond-Free" games for next year's season, responding to soul, hard core and punk rock fans who have been sent scurrying to restrooms by the sounds of "Sweet Caroline", a tune named for Caroline Kennedy that has become a Fenway Park tradition.
"Whoa-woh-woh!"
"'Family friendly Fenway' doesn't mean we have to deliberately offend someone," said Sox director of operations Jeff Snyder. "Anybody who's ever broken up with a girl after finding a Neil Diamond album in her record collection will understand why we're doing this."
"Longfellow Serenade . . . "
Diamond is a 66 year-old "adult contemporary" recording artist who has sold over 115 million records during a career spanning four decades. He is a former high school fencing star who sang in a choir with Barbra Streisand, and later fathered an illegitimate child by Baby Bopp, the female counterpart to public television's Barney, the Purple Dinosaur.
"Neil, if you've been messing with Baby Bop, we can't be friends any more!"
Easy-listening singers such as Pat Boone have made overtures to fans of harder-edged music in the past, with little success.
Boone's "In a Metal Mood: No More Mr. Nice Guy", an album of heavy metal covers, received negative reviews when it was released in 1997, and Diamond said he would stick to the schmaltz-rock that has been successful for him in the past.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, author of "Louie, Louie".
"I like to think of myself as part of the great American poetic tradition," Diamond said, referring to his 1974 hit "Longfellow Serenade #5". "I'm not the kind of guy who would sing 'My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama'," a Frank Zappa song from the '70's that was subsequently adopted as the national anthem of Freedonia.
MILWAUKEE. A crowd of angry male fans descended on Major League Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig's car dealership here yesterday to protest the so-called "Francona Rule", named after Boston Red Sox manager Terry Francona, which will prohibit managers from wearing pullover tops during games beginning with the 2008 season.
"Thanks, my wife likes my pajamas too."
"It's a slippery slope," said Milwaukee Brewers fan Rod Larkin. "Next time they'll come after fans in the park, then guys watching at home. Is this America or Iran?"
It could happen.
The rule was announced by Bob Watson, vice president of rules and on-field operations for Major League Baseball. "You can only wear your uniform top or jacket," Watson explained. "You can’t wear your nightshirt, or whatever it is. If we let guys get away with this, pretty soon Tony LaRussa will start showing up in Cardinal Slip-On Sneaker Slippers."
Selig: "Hey, I get dressed up to come to work every day--why can't Francona?"
A 2004 survey revealed that a majority of American males watch baseball in t-shirts and undershorts until the post-season, at which point they switch to sweatshirts and undershorts. Most major league ball parks do not impose a dress code on male fans unless they enter the playing field, in which case they are required to wear undershorts.
A violation of the small print on the back of your ticket.
Protestors called the new rule a breach of baseball's covenant with American males. "If I wanted to get dressed up when there's a game on," said Lon Turkel, a Chicago White Sox fan, "I'd take my wife out to dinner, and that sure as hell ain't gonna happen."
BOSTON. In the past six years this city has celebrated three Super Bowl victories and two World Series championships, so local fans could be forgiven if they set high standards for their local sports teams. "No, we love 'em all," says Mary McCarthy of Dorchester, "even when they come in second," she adds with a laugh, referring to the 2-1 loss by the New England Revolution, the local professional soccer franchise, in the MLS Cup to the Houston Dynamo.
Boston City Hall: Is it upside down or sideways?
The Revolution have now lost three straight MLS Cup games and four out of the last six, and have become the soccer equivalent of the Buffalo Bills, who lost four straight Super Bowls from 1991 through 1994. Still, the streets of Boston are filled with anticipation today as the Revolution get a chance to celebrate their near-miss in a fashion that has become a Boston tradition--a parade through the Back Bay that culminates with a celebration in City Hall Plaza.
Government Center "T" Stop.
Boston's City Hall is a masterpiece of architecture that has won awards for its striking design, and Bostonians think of it as first in its class world wide. "We have the ugliest municipal building in the world!" shouts Kevin Avery, a rabid soccer fan who has parked his car on the outskirts of town and ridden the MBTA or "T" into Boston to avoid the crush of fans and well-wishers that is expected to number in the mid-two figures.
Riot police outnumber fans.
A group of fans, proud of City Hall's reputation as the pre-eminent American example of the "Brutalist" school of modern architecture, breaks into a chant of "We're Number One! We're Number One!" as Avery passes by, and he gives them a "thumbs up" signal to show his approval.
As the Revolution begin to make their way into the Government Center district, they are met by honking and the shouts of adoring fans. "Get out of the way!" screams Lynette de Fazio, a secretary who is running late to work, as she leans on her horn. "Whatta ya think yer doin'?"
"You guys are great," shouts Revs captain Steve Ralston, and an excited fan screams "We love you!"
"Thanks mom!" Ralston yells back, his face breaking into a smile.
"Yer gonna have to move it," a Boston police officer says to Ralston, who is driving a rented "Zipcar" with three of his teammates. "Yer blockin' traffic."
Taylor Twellman
"We're the New England Revolution," says Taylor Twellman, the high-scoring forward who is affectionately known to the team's public relations department as "Mr. New England Soccer".
"And I'm Batman, pal," the cop growls back. He pulls his walkie-talkie from his belt and calls for backup. "There's some nut down here in Government Center who thinks he's Paul Revere," he says to Boston Police Headquarters just across City Hall Plaza. "You'd better send the Taser Squad."
Khano Smith
As the rally winds down midfielder Khano Smith is signing one last autograph for an adoring fan in a restaurant. "Excuse me," she says as he starts to walk off.
"Yes?" Smith replies, knowing how demanding Boston fans can be.
"You forgot to put your phone number on the check."
BOSTON. On the night the Boston Red Sox came back from a 3-1 deficit to defeat the Cleveland Indians in the American League Championship Series, local college students flooded the Fenway area in a raucous celebration that resulted in 17 arrests. In a novel use of creative sentencing, Roxbury District Court Judge Edward Redd ordered those charged with disorderly conduct to write a five-page essay about their brush with justice or face additional jail time. Gerbil Sports Network's crack team of investigative sports reporters has scooped the Boston dailies, the Drudge Report and the Sporting News, and reproduces several B+ or better papers below:
"What car?"
To the people of Boston:
First, let me say how sorry I am about the rhinoceros. Me and my homies are big fans of Ecko urban-style clothing, and we thought it would be cool if we took "Big Horn", the daddy rhino at the Franklin Park Zoo, out for a stroll down Lansdowne Street. We had no idea that the throbbing "house" music emanating from the discos would cause him to panic. I have personally reimbursed the girl who said her name was "Karen" for the pina colada that Big Horn spilled when he trampled her and her roommates trying to get to the free popcorn.
Please don't tell my parents about this--thanks.
Tyler Preston, Northeastern University
Dear Bostonians:
I can't tell you how sorry I am for burning down Fenway Park. I had no idea it was so important to so many people--it's kind of grungy looking from the outside, and I've never been inside. I just got caught up in a crowd of young people who were tired of blocking ambulances and other public safety vehicles and were looking for something funner (more fun?) to do.
The Judge said if I wrote an essay expressing my understanding of the magnitude of what I have done I would only have to spend one night in jail, which I already did, and that sounded like a pretty good deal, so here goes: To many people in New England and around the world, Fenway Park is (was) like a shrine--the place where poor sight lines, tight seats, drunken fans, expensive beer and limited parking come together to make for a fun family experience. If there is any way I can make this up to all of you that doesn't involve time, money, effort or personal hardship on my part, please let me know.
Tabitha McCord, Massachusetts College of Art
Beastie Boys
Look, I know I'm supposed to be all apologetic and stuff, but I think everybody's being hypocritical about this. I mean, isn't Boston the freaking cradle of liberty? I thought so. Well, if I remember what I learned about the Constitution in high school civics, you've got to fight for your right to party. That's the Beastie Boys Amendment, which was passed when they repealed prohibition. I didn't get into a good college without learning something!
