Author: fifteenkey (Page 93 of 95)

A game 7 of a playoff series should include intensity as a characteristic. Tonight’s Indiana Pacer rout of the Boston Celtics didn’t have any. It was as heartless a playoff performance as I’ve ever seen by a green team.

Boston Globe Staff Photo by Jim Davis

The Celtics lost because a few undisciplined whiners didn’t allow them to play as a team. They continually forced bad shots off individual moves, while the Pacers moved the ball and got easy ones. It got so bad in the 4th quarter, TV color man, Tommy “Homer” Heinson got in a snit with play by play guy Mike Gorman after Gorman didn’t go along with Tommy’s assertion that Pacer Jermaine O’Neal “went after” Celtic Raef LaFrenz. Gorman then asked “Heinie” what he’d do now with the C’s down 21. Instead of doing his job, Heinson asked, “what would you do?” then remained silent. Just like his team.

• Investments in water purification technology and alternative energy in China look very attractive. I’m not sure yet how to get in. Speaking of energy, it sickens me that in spite of one national politician after another pledging to “reduce our dependence on foreign oil,” there’s really been no significant government investment in alternative energy since 1973, when gas prices “shot” up to 50 cents per gallon…

• If they ever do a movie about Queen front man Freddy Mercury, Johnny Depp would be a good choice.

• Thinking about cliches: “Amazingly, Jim did get his hands on the snake…”

• Some of my friends and fellow Red Sox fans have slipped into complacency. This week, one rabid fan suggested he doesn’t have much hope for the team this year, but that was OK because he would continue to bask in the glow of last year. Wait till Fall (or the next Yankee series). He’ll be out of his mind back into it.

• There’s a nice editorial piece in the Boston Globe on the current state of thoroughbred racing on this Kentucky Derby Day. The piece expresses the hope that George Steinbrenner’s Bellamy Road is just that today, and can help ressurect the sport. If not, maybe Bellamy Road can pitch…

• There’s nothing like being a winner on derby day.

• My yard looks like what I image the grounds around Chernobyl look like these days.

Years ago, I used to take Megan shopping with me when she looked like this:

Back then, at a local Market Basket, little old ladies would stop me so they could look at her. She was a beautiful and smiling little baby.

Recently I had a flashback to those days when I returned to that old store after several years shopping at Victory and more recently, Shaw’s. As I strolled down one aisle pushing a carriage, Kyle and I passed the diaper section. No, I don’t need them yet, but it brought me back to the many visits buying them for Megan and Kyle, hopefully with a dollar coupon. I don’t need to use coupons any more, but I still do. Mostly I like cutting them out of the paper on Sunday morning. Still, I returned to Market Basket for one simple reason: I was done with the exorbitant prices of the other two places.

After spending roughly $100.00 per week on groceries for what seemed a year, suddenly my bill jumped to between $107 and $110 after Hannaford Brothers bought out Victory. I wrote a letter to complain, but the management didn’t feel the need to respond. Goodbye Victory. I then went to a local Shaw’s, but I quickly sensed there were no bargains to be had there. Of course, my “buyer loyalty” card made it seem like I was saving a bundle, but in reality, I was paying even more than at Victory. To validate my estimation, I commissioned a comprehensive study. Actually, I just pulled out a few old receipts and opened Excel. Here are the shocking results. ABC’s “Primetime Live” was going with this story until that silly Paula Abdul “American Idol” thing surfaced. Whatever.

As you can plainly see, after buying milk and eggs, prices inflate like an airbag in a head on collision at my ex-grocery stores. Against a $100 weekly order, the premiums can add up to between $665 and $1,030 over the course of a year. I could almost afford to go to a Red Sox game for that kind of cake…

One thing that is consistent for me, but the Achilles heel to my brother Corey is putting. It saves me strokes and costs him matches. The way he hits the ball, he should beat me often, but 3, 4 and even 5-putts won’t get it done. Back when I was in college, a Jack Nicklaus classic, Golf My Way, provided a putting tip that has benefited me year after year. It’s very simple:

1. “Read” the line from behind the ball.
2. Draw an imaginary line from the ball to the hole while you’re above the ball.
3. Putt the ball to get it started rolling on that imaginary line.

http://www.worldwidegolfinstruction.com

Obviously, the pace of the ball is also key, but that “touch” comes from practice and getting a “feel” for the greens you’re playing. Anyway, thanks Jack.

Taking a half-vacation day Friday, the drive to the Tewksbury Country Club was leisurely and traffic-free. It was in the low sixties with a 10 to 15 mph wind when we teed off around 2:00. The inaugural drive of the 2005 season was high, straight and true. A real anomaly. In past seasons I’d be combing the right side woods looking for my wayward slice and maybe scoring another errant ball or two. It felt weird and wonderful walking straight down the fairway on #1. Now for me, the first outing of the season is no more inconsistent than one, say, in July, but this one started well.

After building a commanding lead early, my younger brother, Corey began to chip away. On the 9th and final hole, a water protected, short par 3, I dropped two in the drink and as the second splashed down a foot from dry land, he quipped with a wink, “you can probably play that one.” I began the long walk toward the point where #2 landed. On foot by the water’s edge, I spotted a 2-foot turtle swimming. We marveled at its size and grace. A couple minutes later while looking for my lost orb, I heard, “Hey, that turtle is right behind you.” Well, I jumped and quickly looked behind me to nothing but hearty laughter. This from someone who claims to play a “gentleman’s game.” In the end, the scorecard had me prevailing by one stroke, although Corey insists the match is “under review” with the “tournament committee.”

The 19th hole included a continued discussion of rules and etiquette, a couple cold beverages, lunch and a “blue moon” moment. As baby bro reminded me of the two “man made hazards” he pointed out for me, a lovely woman sat at the bar a couple seats down. Corey kept talking, but my focus had shifted. I heard her say she was there for a wedding and did not have a date. The female bartender suggested, “Maybe you’ll meet someone at the wedding.” I then abruptly added, “or maybe you’ll meet someone right here.” In my past 30 or so “dating years,” I never would have done that for fear of rejection. Actually, it’s amazing I ever had any dates given my timidity at such moments. We chatted for a few minutes and I got her phone number before having to leave to see a rocking Green Day show with my brother, the gentleman. Yep. A good day.

…I’m also really into Cubism.

On my first trip overseas, to London in March of 2001, art became important to me. The ten day excursion was to celebrate the wedding of my brother Kevin and his wife, Noreen. My sister-in-law was raised in London, attended school there, and is “wicked smaht.” One gray day in Trafalgar Square, the three of us were headed up the rain swept stairs to the National Gallery. Between raindrops, Noreen slipped the question, “Who’s your favorite artist?” She got dead air for a response. I was perplexed. I didn’t have a favorite artist! I felt so inadequate. After all, I had the Sox, the Pats, the Stones and Salma Hayek, but I didn’t have a favorite artist… Sensing my utter despair at having whiffed on the inquiry, Noreen quickly began telling me of her favorite, Salvador Dali. I had heard of Dali, but knew little of him or Surrealism.

As we entered the vast museum, I was lost in thought about my mission: find a favorite artist. Britain’s National Gallery is a perfect option for such a quest. It’s one of the finest collections of art in the world. All the big boys (and girls) are there, including Van Gogh, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian and Claude Monet. A few works really stood out. One, The Ambassadors, by Hans Holbein the Younger, at first appears to be a typical time period rendering of aristocrats. However, on closer inspection, a touch of Surrealism is evident, an amazing inclusion for a painting created in 1533!

The Entombment (1500) is an unfinished work of art by Michelangelo. I contemplated this one for awhile, paying finicky attention to the unfinished areas. I struggled to understand the thought process and technique of the artist as he constructed the image. I think it was time well spent, but can genius be understood?

The Boulevard Montmartre at Night (1897) by Camille Pissarro pulled me into Impressionism, as did an A&E; documentary titled, The Impressionists – The Other French Revolution that I caught later that summer on a hot, sleepless night. I found it ironic to learn the group in fact got their name when a critic panned their work as, “nothing but impressions…”

Later in the year on August 31, I took a vacation day for a leisurely drive West to the Clark Art Institute in Williamstown, MA, to see Impression: Painting Quickly in France, 1860-1890. It was a gorgeous ride on a bright, late summer day, a little over a week before the world distorted. The show included some of the best known artists of the group, and I took the time to analyze every brushstroke of several pieces. Then I saw it again.

The Boulevard Montmartre at Night

On loan from the National Gallery, the colors and life of Paris at night exploded off the page and drew me in. My visit was duly extended and much to my delight, the print was being sold as one of three to mark the show. It was the first art print I ever purchased and hangs in my dining room.

A favorite artist remains elusive, but an appreciation of art does not.

“Although initially terrified by the threat, Henry found the actual reading of the Riot Act to be rather unmoving.”

The Big Fly The round tripper. The four bagger. “Back, back, back, back, back… Gone!” “Way back. Waaaaaayyyy Back.” Touch ‘em all, baby. In baseball, the home run is it. Sure, triples are cool, but guys don’t shoot steroids in their ass to hit triples. Mickey Mantle once said, “Somebody once asked me if I ever went up to the plate trying to hit a home run. I said, ‘Sure, every time.’” That was my philosophy when I went to the plate. I was up there to crush the baseball.

On one memorable occasion, I got every bit of a 90-something MPH fastball thrown by Steve DiCarlo, then a pitcher for the Hosmer Chiefs in the Intercity League. I was 19 and still hoping to realize the dream of playing pro ball. I had faced this kid 7 times previously and had struck out every time. This was a playoff game. Our batboy, Bobby DeMarco suggested I try a lighter bat. I scoffed at the idea, but when it was time, I dropped the 34 and walked to the plate with a 33 ounce model. It felt light and I could really snap it around, hearing the wind on my practice swings. The first pitch was a fastball. I saw it well and swung as hard as I could. It felt solid and I ran hard toward first base. I heard someone on the bench laughing and then heard, “slow down.” When I looked up, I saw the ball still rising high above the tree line out in left field. I hope I never forget that image. Next at bat, I swung and missed the first pitch. I asked the catcher, Bobby DeFelice, if it was a strike. He said, “no, it was up in your eyes, but it’s the same pitch you hit to Saugus.” After the game, our manager, Les DeMarco said it was the longest ball he had ever seen hit. Ever. Les was a guy who played college ball and pitched in the minors. It’s a great memory.

Yep, there’s just nothing like the sight of a majestic, soaring clout out of the park like the one hit Tuesday by Manny Ramirez.

Manny “explodes through the zone…”

…and the crowd rises in unison to marvel at the result.

Both baseball writers and players love the bomb, and they jumped on this one. Ian Browne, wrote on MLB.com that Manny “obliterated” a breaking ball “for a titanic solo blast that traveled well over the Monster seats and perhaps beyond Lansdowne Street.” He dubbed it a “tape-measure shot.” The Boston Globe’s Chris Snow wrote Manny’s shot was the games “defining moment,” even though the Sox fell 4-3. “A tape measure shot if there ever was one.” “Farthest ball I’ve ever seen a human being hit,” said the Red Sox’ Kevin Millar. “It was like the movie `The Natural.'”

For those of you familiar with Fenway Park, the blast cleared one of the left-field light towers. The Boston Globe reported, “It was estimated at 501 feet out of deference to Ted Williams’s 502-foot shot in 1946 that landed 37 rows up in the bleachers.” Was it really 501 feet? John Pastier, writing for Slate wonders if “men always exaggerate the length of their long balls,” in The Myth of the 500-Foot Home Run.

I know it’s early, but it’s never too early to enjoy an eruption of Mt. Steinbrenner.

“Enough is enough. I am bitterly disappointed, as I am sure all Yankee fans are, by the lack of performance by our team. It is unbelievable to me that the highest paid team in baseball would start the season in such a deep funk. They are not playing like true Yankees. They have the talent to win and they are not winning. I expect Joe Torre, his complete coaching staff and the team to turn this around.”

George Steinbrenner, on his $200,000,000.00-plus investment.