Author: fifteenkey (Page 11 of 95)

In recent days, President and CEO, Larry Luccino has spoken about the 2012 soap opera that is the 58-62 Boston Red Sox. When Mr. Luccino talks about the Red Sox, he uses the term “brand” quite a bit. The Sox used to be a baseball team, but now they are an asset in the portfolio of John Henry, and job 1 is maximizing financial return on that asset. That’s fine, but the management has seriously lost their way to achieving that goal. Let’s get back to the brand thing. A definition I like is, “a brand is the essence or promise of what will be delivered or experienced.” For a major league baseball team, that promise is good baseball. What’s wrong with the Red Sox is that good baseball has fallen off their list of brand attributes. Here’s what the Red Sox brand is actually delivering today:

– Fenway Park – a 100 year old theatre of nostalgia
– Commemorative bricks – Yours for $100…
– Miller Lite for $7.75
– A phony sellout streak
– A Neil Diamond song in the 8th inning whether you like it or not

The baseball? Well, it’s always about pitching, and this year, top starters Josh Beckett and Jon Lester have been largely ineffective. Their new closer, Andrew Bailey, was injured in Spring Training, and didn’t throw a pitch until August. Clay Bucholtz has pitched well for the last month, but in general, the Sox pitching has been perfectly imbalanced. On the rare occasion when the starters have not dug an early game hole, the bullpen has buried the team late. The offense has also been inconsistent, and has lacked the big hit needed to win close games. Injuries have played a part. Bailey, Carl Crawford, Dustin Pedroia, and most recently David Ortiz have seen pine while mending, but the Yankees lost Mariano Rivera for the season, plus CC Sabathia, Andy Pettite, and Alex Rodriguez have seen DL time. The Yankees are 71-48, 13-1/2 games ahead of brand Red Sox.

The most disappointing thing about this team is the attitude of many of its players. Beckett and Lester never seemed to recover from the fried chicken and beer meltdown of 2011. Beckett wears a smug FU face on and off the field, and Lester has spent the season whining about balls and strikes, usually right before he gives up a bomb. He’s not focused. They’re not focused. During the season, Pedroia told the manager, “that’s not how we do things around here,” Ortiz complained about his contract. Beckett focused on golf while on the DL. Underachieving Adrian Gonzalez texted the owner to complain about the manager. The owner said he really didn’t want to sign Carl Crawford. Kevin Youklis got old and got traded. Maybe that satisfied Beckett, who seemed focused on finding a “snitch” in the Sox clubhouse. Bobby Valentine? He’s no more the problem than Terry Francona was last September when the team went 7-20.

Long time fans of the Boston Red Sox hung in with their team through Bucky Dent, Bill Buckner, and Grady Little leaving Pedro in too long. The immense goodwill earned by the team in 2004 erased 86 years of futility and fan frustration. The Fenway circus of the last 150 games dating back to September have burned all of that goodwill into hardened discontent. The owners of the “brand” have another long climb to restore what really matters: their baseball team.

Until then, anyone want to buy a brick? They’re marked down to $75.

Walking down 58th

Earbuds Misunderstood – They opened with that!
Construction curtains star
Seven strides East to city glare
Along steel canyon base
“I think I might just crawl back in bed” sings the moment
I Turn my head
A homeless man lay
sleeping.
Or dead.
Could I get him a job?
Not another thought,
past the Subway without decent food
do these grates ever confiscate
People?
Starbucks wait unemployment line deep
That’s fine
IPad and Times are mine
“venti” still ad word
Leave it LOWER CASE
Sips of rejuvenation
Sunny steps up
Past
girls in their summer dresses
Only one in mind
Strike
that
heart

cigarette light flashes
back under construction cloak
Front lighting the toll
Looking older than she should
Walking down 58th

This week I’ve been with my Dad in Florida. His heart is failing. No, not the one that pumps blood through his physical form, the one that makes the gift of this life exhilarating. After each day of appointments, meds, finances, puking, legalities, and expressions of surrender as Dad approaches a slow, sad end, I’ve escaped to the streets. By any objective measure I’m obese, but cognitive dissonance spares me from seeing John Candy in the mirror. This week I was reminded of how much work I have to do. Prior to a run, I was so excited to don my genuine Roma AC futbol shirt purchased at the recent tilt versus Liverpool FC at Fenway, but tugging it on revealed something resembling a ground pork product crammed into a transparent casing. Yeah, gross. Still, I got out there, just not as a Jimmy Dean ad.

Music helps push one foot in front of the leaden other, and it’s amazing how heel strikes in sync with the music. With nothing but faint breathing competing with crashing sonic vibration, I get lost in the music, although the bouncing soft cauliflower in my head is always working. Always taking me places. Good and bad. I haven’t yet figured out how to unplug that particular computer. Woven between thoughts like crochet are drums, bass, keyboard, guitar piercings, and the words. With blood elevating the senses, and circumstances magnifying emotion, the poets words comfort. Today one song stopped me in my tracks. Fuck that it did, I just needed that cliché for effect. I kept plodding, and the words were so fucking great. One by one, they calmed and filled me with hope. With every step, more of my life left behind me, but I’m damned well going to try to make the most of them. My heart is wide open.

One by One
words by Woody Guthrie

One by one the teardrops fall as I write you
One by one my words come falling on the page
One by one my dreams are fading in the twilight
One by one my schemes are fading fast away

One by one the flowers fading in my garden
One by one the leaves are falling from the trees
One by one my hopes are vanished in the clouds clear
One by one like snowflakes melting in the breeze

One by one my hair is turning gray
One by one my dreams are fading fast away
One by one I read your letters over
One by one I lay them all away

One by one the days are slipping up behind you
One by one the sweetest days of life go by
One by one the moments stealing out behind you
One by one she’ll come and find not you or I

One by one I hear the soft words that you whispered
One by one I feel your kisses soft and sweet
One by one I hope you’ll say the words to marry
One by one to one by one forever be

I’m not sure why the term “Event Horizon” popped into my head. I looked it up and found, “It’s the term scientists use to refer to the edge of the black hole that will suck anything and everything that gets too close to it, into a vortex, making it seemingly disappear forever.” OK. I’m stepping back from the vortex. What I had in mind was not quite that.

Specifically I was thinking about the scene in “Apollo 13” when the astronauts were floating along with little control of their damaged vehicle. Understanding the physics of space flight, the men must have been terrified at their chances. They were literally flying without a net and had to maneuver themselves into an atmospheric “entry window” of only 2 1/2 degrees in a crippled ship neither designed nor tested to pull it off. The paper thin reentry window would be unforgiving. Coming in too steep would incinerate the ship from the friction of the thickening atmosphere. A too shallow entry would skip the crew like a rounded rock off a pond of tranquility, unrecoverably into the blackness of space.

The arc of our lives ocassionally presents these entry windows. Career is a good example. We might think we’re on the right course, a safe course, but really we’ve skipped off into the vacuum without even knowing it. Eventually support systems shut down and we fade away. Do you have the courage to course correct? The correction must be delicately handled, else we burn in the flames of risk realized, but to stay adrift is gutless. You’ve got one shot. Maybe two if you’re lucky. Do you take it and risk for exhilarating reward, or drift off into space with nothing but time to think about what might have been?

My daughter Megan’s birthday was here yesterday, the last day of February three out of every 4 years. Today 23 years of her life are gone, but she hasn’t been cheated. The girl lives and brings life to all around her, especially her family. In many ways she’s “wise beyond her years.” There are times she speaks to me with the wisdom of the big sister I always wanted. Infrequently she speaks to me with the narrowness of a spoiled princess. I know I’m responsible for that. I only hope I’ve influenced the wisdom part.

Recently I read an article stating that at 50, many people shift from a mindset of “What do I want?” to “Why am I here?” Megan still “wants,” but even at 23, she’s much more focused on the “Why am I here?” question. As I watch Megan’s maturity accelerate, I see the answers very clearly. The way she lives her life answers why she’s here:

She’s here to protect and teach and love her daughter, Madison Olivia.
And her brother, Kyle.
And her niece.
And her grandmother’s.
And everyone else she loves.
She’s here to help me be a better person.
And to aggravate me.

Charlie is gone. The dead one. He was a friend of Megan’s who will always be part of her. Not just in the ink drawings of Maddy’s hands he etched in her skin, but forever in her heart. He was unique. And good. His life and sudden death made Megan better.

Today is here for you and me. The moment is all we’re guaranteed. We should use it to protect. To teach. To love.

The clock runs out.

The recess basketball league for 6th graders at the Greenwood Elementary School in 1969 was a 4 team scrum for schoolyard glory. We wouldn’t start Mr. Boyages’ Saturday Youth League for another year, so fundamentally, we were clueless. Aside from one hand (usually right) only dribbling, shooting, and mid-air pig piles for rebounding, we knew little of the game. League action consisted of 15-minute sprints up and down the asphalt court on Greenwood Ave., following a script of run, shoot, miss, foul, run, etc… Game scores were usually in the 4-2, 6-4 range, with double-digit or odd scores a rarity. Not many of us were very good at free throws back then.

Mike Gonnella was the captain of one team and I another. I can’t recall the other captains, but the big news of the Fall ’69 season was the first trade in league history, and me channeling the antithesis of Red Auerbach by making the horrible swap. Leo Murphy was a wizard with the ball. He was a white, 6th-grade version of Marques Haynes, able to dribble circles around hapless defenders. Paul Czarnonka was a big, quiet kid who couldn’t score, but was a rebounding machine. Blinded by flashy ball skills, I traded Czarnonka for Murphy, not realizing that I’d hardly see the ball once the other Leo got his hands on it. And that was only after my now undersized team somehow got possession of it.

After the trade, my team began a tailspin, fueled by bickering over who should have the ball and do the shooting. As captain, I thought it only fair that someone else should work to get a rebound and pass to me at mid-court for an unchallenged dash to the basket and a score at the other end. It all made perfect sense. The x’s and o’s rarely executed according to my script and we were a disorganized, selfish mess. And defense? We didn’t really get that part of the game. And it was hard for me to actually play defense from my spot at mid-court waving my arms while waiting for someone to get me the ball. If it had occurred to me that rebounding and defense wins ballgames, we would have been a better team and I would have avoided a therapy-worthy experience.

The highlight of the hoop year was Parents Night. The 4 teams would get to play on the real court in the gymnasium in front of parents and friends. Even some of the cute girls from class would be there. It was going to be awesome.

The Greenwood Elementary School is a two-story brick structure built in 1897. It is located on Main Street, just a few hundred yards north of the Melrose line. In the center of the building sits the two-story auditorium, with a stage, balcony, and a basketball court. When I attended, the old “fallout shelter” signs still glared inside and outside the building. The place was immaculate, including hardwood hallways and linoleum tiled classrooms. The windows were towering and the grey radiators were accented Pollock-like with the bright hues of melted crayons. Even in the basement when weather forced us indoors for gym, the shiny, grey lead-painted floor was a pristine surface for crawl-on-your-back “crab” soccer or my favorite, dodgeball.

I’m sure there were other occasions, but I recall only 3 times being in the auditorium. We saw a movie once. I’m not sure if it was “Reefer Madness,” but I think it was some sort of propaganda for young minds. The second time was for 6th grade “graduation.” Parents Night is the one I’ll never forget. The place was packed. My mom was there. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. G were in the house, along with many other parents I knew then, but forget today. And girls. Girls were there. I was on a mission.

Maybe it was nerves, but the game started with more frenzy than our usual recess tilt. We were zipping all around the hardwood floor, the ball bouncing off feet, knees, and anything else available to render our exhibition anything but resembling basketball. Once we settled down, our opponents began to score at a furious pace. It was 2-0, then 4-zip. I had to do something. After another bucket made it 6-0, someone from my team finally had the sense to “run the offense” and fling the round ball to mid-court into my flailing arms. I caught the ball flat-footed but quickly accelerated to a full gazelle-like stride ready to emphatically get my team back in the game. The massive crowd began to rise in anticipation. The noise grew. Would I do a reverse jam and hang on the rim for style points? The din got louder, but it didn’t feel right. As I crossed the foul line stripe ready to go airborne for the hoop paparazzi, I was struck with dread. The crowd was howling with laughter.

I wasn’t dribbling.

– If you still have the @aol.com suffix on your email and you work in tech, you’re embarrassing yourself.

– The Super Bowl condensed: Madge caught her fall, Welker not the ball.

– Gloria Ferrer crushes her latest Pinot Noir.

– I’ve dusted off the man-cave project plan.

– Mmmmm… kale.

– Tuesday night I played the Toy Story “Memory Game” with Maddy. Let’s just say the mind of this particular 4 year old is wicked shaahhp. She whooped the old man, 26-16.

– Unless things change, it’s the 4th quarter in America. Once the 1% have all the toys and the middle-class can’t consume anymore, it’s over.

– Don’t be a wimp. Get your cancer screenings. Yeah, you.

– Son Volt’s “Trace” is a desert island disc for me. Masterpiece.

– I wonder what Mitt Romney’s taxes looked like when he wasn’t feeling entitled to the Oval Office.

– Ask yourself: “Is Karl Rove looking out for me?”

– And… “Do I want Newt Gingrich anywhere near the launch codes for our nukes?”

– I believe Rick Santorum could be the “not-Romney” who wins the Republican nomination. Of course he’s wrong about everything, but there’s a refreshing purity to his wrongness.

– You can expect all the social “wedge issues” like the new one, contraceptives, plus gay marriage and abortion to be front and center for the Republicans this year. It’s all they have.

– I respect Tim Thomas’s right to be wrong.

– It’s sad, but the Celtics-Lakers game last night was largely ignored.

– Hey, it’s “make up for being a schmuck the rest of the year” day Tuesday. Don’t forget Hallmark and the flowers…

One huge, developing irony of the Citizens United decision is that all the corporate and 1% fueled cash flowing into right-wing Super-Pacs (Political Action Committees) will nominate a Republican poster boy from that privileged world who cannot be elected.

The Citizens United decision handed down by the U.S. Supreme Court in January of 2010, held that the First Amendment protection of free speech prohibits the government from limiting political campaign spending by corporations and unions. In other words, corporations and those who run them can spend limitlessly on political advertising to influence elections. Of course the right-wing is also simultaneously gutting Democrat leaning unions wherever they can get away with it, like Wisconsin and Indiana, but that’s a topic for another day.

The impact of this limitless cash flow was evident in the recent Republican primary in Florida. Days before the Florida vote, “angry muffin” and former Speaker of the House, Newt Gingrich stomped previously favored Mitt Romney in South Carolina, primarily on the strength of his Mano y Mano debate performances against Mr. Romney and the “elite media,” whatever that is. With the critical Florida primary just days away after the stunning SC upset, the Romney campaign and Super-Pacs supporting him opened the cash spigots and outspent Mr. Gingrich by $4.5 to $1 in the Sunshine State, most of it on negative ads savaging Mr. Gingrich on his censure as Speaker of the House and his work as “a historian” on behalf of 2008 meltdown villian Freddie Mac that earned his firm $1.6M. The ads worked and Romney won by nearly 15%. It’s easy to beat up a guy weighed down by a politically sordid past like Mr. Speaker.

Meanwhile, back in the country, the demographics of general election voters continue to move away from what the Republicans represent: the wealthy and large corporations. The gap between the rich and the so called “middle class” continues to widen, and many of the “99%” non-rich see the Republicans defending the disparity with their shielding of Bush era tax cuts for the rich, their assault on unions, and their targeting of programs like Medicare that are part of the “social safety net” that keeps many vulnerable Americans from falling into medical expense induced poverty.

After South Carolina, the “Republican establishment,” as Mr. Gingrich calls them, freaked. In their minds, the former Speaker had too much political baggage, but more importantly, they saw him as too volitile, and one thing the 1% doesn’t tolerate is uncertainty and surprises. They prefer Mr. Romney’s vanilla to the nuttiness of Mr. Gingrich’s Rocky Road. So they buried Newt Gingrich in a grave smeared with money.

That brings us back to the choice of the 1%, Willard Mitt Romney. He of the multiple homes, multiple off-shore accounts and multiple tax deductions. He lives in a world that makes him unable to measure the impact of his words on working people before they leave his mouth. He’s “not concerned about the very poor. We have a safety net there.” Earlier in the campaign he said, “I like firing people,” and when discussing speaking fees he’s received he indicated they earned him “not very much.” His financial disclosures indicate Mr. Romney’s speaking fees were $347,327 in the one year covered. That’s “not very much” to a very small percentage of the electorate. I figure about 1%.

Regardless of how much money pours into Romney coffers, what is the message he and his Super-Pac’s will communicate through their new First Amendment right? Will his years at Bain Capital really stand up to scrutiny of Mr. Romney as a job creator? Will his offshore tax havens and meager tax payments on millions in income position him favorably as an advocate for working people? How about his intent to repeal the “Affordable Care Act,” or “Obamacare” as the right likes to call it? It’s so close to the healthcare plan he negotiated as Governor of Massachusetts that his argument is mostly moot. How about the “weak on national defense” thing? Someone should tell Mitt about Osama Bin Laden and Moammar Gadhafi. Maybe they can pour millions into negative ads about the “corrupt” Obama Administration. They’ve got nothing. Oh, wait. Maybe Mitt’s latest endorser, The Donald, will release the findings of his investigation into Obama’s birth certificate… Mr. Romney would have been well served by leaving a most obnoxious rich guy, Mr. Trump, his combover and his ego standing at the political alter, but he just doesn’t get it.

Sorry. In spite of Mitt Romney’s entitled life, Citizens United, Super Pac’s and the Koch Brothers, this election won’t be bought.