Bol-ed Over By Forgotten Fame

An addendum to my previous entry … I have met at least three additional persons of famous stature [bon mot alert] (and for the first, I mean “stature” in a quite literal sense … )[/bon mot alert]

1. The late Manute Bol (unconfirmed), 1996, walking out of the Washington, D.C. DMV.

I had gone in to splurge on commemorative “DC Bicentennial” plates for my ’91 Sentra, even though the actual celebration had actually happened 5 years prior … They were spiffy, although not as edgy as the “Taxation Without Representation” ones.

Sample "DC Bicentennial" plate. All of them started with "200" then had three letters ... except for this one, which started and finished with "Larry."

Fun fact — each plate began with 200, followed by three letters, meaning that the DC RMV could only offer — hell, I dont know, 17,576 (26 cubed) combinations of the plate? I am doubting my math, but I will overcompensate by restating, confidently and without question marks, that they could offer just 17,576 combinations! And clearly, that impressed me, given that my nonprofit salary afforded me few luxuries like a license plate that carried a $20 premium.

Mr. Bol, shown in what appears to be a staged photo with Spud Webb

I didn’t confirm that it was M. Bol but given our nation’s capital’s relative dearth of 7 foot, 7 inch Sudanese gentlemen, I’m pretty confident it was him.

2. John Stiratt, bassist for Wilco (a.k.a. “the guy Jeff Tweedy hasn’t fired yet”), 2008, some presumably now-defunct microbrewery in Worcester, Mass. prior to his band’s show that evening with Neil Young and Everest at the ‘BCNtrum (I refuse to call it by its newish corporate moniker). Confirmed.

Confirmed when I interrupted his meal to ask him, hey, I hate to bother him, but was he the bassist for Wilco, adding that hey I am a big fan and I’m looking forward to seeing you guys tonight later on and do you think Jeff Tweedy is awesome because I do and I really like his songs and his hair and wow I just keep rambling on sorry I’m a little nervous. If I had thought of it, I would have attempted to draw a comparison between the length of Mr. Bol and the depth of my fanhood. That said, this would have been odd given that the events happened twelve years apart.

3. Pervis Ellison, the first overall pick in the 1989 NBA draft, later dubbed “Out of Service Pervis” by then-teammate Danny Ainge, 2000, Atlantis Resort, Bahamas. Confirmed.

A rare photo of Pervis Ellision, in that he is 1) grabbing a rebound; 2) grabbing a rebound for the Boston Celtics; 3) not in street clothes. He once delayed a team charter because despite being on the IR, he arrived 30 minutes late, golf clubs in tow.

It was February, and as usual, Ellison had missed a bunch of games. The Celtics had just played the Lakers in LA — so my assumption was that Ellison hadn’t played, given that he would have had to essentially board an idling jet in the Staples Center parking lot as the game ended to get from there to the Atlantis elevator lobby by the next morning.

Which is apparently what he did.

Ed: I hope you come back soon, Pervis!
Ellison: I played in LA last night!
Ed: Oh. That’s … that’s great.

A few days later, we saw each other on the flight back to Boston. Walking onto our AA flight, I smacked my head on the “unfriendly to 6-foot-6 patrons” TV monitor hanging over the aisle. I saw the dreadlocked Mr. Ellison sitting in his first class seat, with a “Yep, I’ve done that too, but I look much cooler doing it” look on his face.

Beat LA! But Not Because I Told You So. Only If You Feel It.

Kind of giddy today about the prospects of Banner 18 for your Boston Celtics. And it got me thinking …

When I was in the 8th grade, the Celtics and Lakers engaged in an epic, 7-game battle. (It was 1984. Yes, I realize that makes me almost 40. Shut up.) I remember the afternoon of Game 7, being giddy with anticipation, and not knowing what to do with it. It was all we talked about all day — yet the game wasn’t starting for at least nine more hours. We were sitting in the cafeteria at the then Northborough Middle School (now the Robert E. Melican Middle School). In my mind, I am sitting with the cool kids, but in reality, I was sitting with the … um … other members of the cockamamie “GAIN” (Gifted Academically in Northborough) program, I’m sure.

And out of nowhere — this “Beat LA!” cheer started — I’d like to think I started it, but I’m pretty sure someone cooler did. Anyway, it began slowly, then built momentum until all 400 or so of us were chanting at the top of our lungs.

It was the second-greatest chant I’ve ever been part of. The three-way tie for first:

• A “No Means No” chant when Kobe was at the line during Game 6 of the 2008 Finals at the Garden;
• Two one-man chants comprised entirely of, well, me — my drunken rant during Wil Cordero’s first trip back to Fenway after the team released him for being a horrifically abusive husband (“Hey, Wil, you know what you did! It was horrible! You can’t run from what you did, no matter how hard you try!”), and my less emotionally-charged (but certainly biologically important) “Here We Go Urine, Here We Go!” chant at Foxboro Stadium from the back of an endless line for the urinals).

Now, I ask, could this (the unprompted “Beat LA” cheer, not the urine chant) happen again?

Given that the Garden crowd can barely shout “De-Fense” (arhythmically, as this is a Boston crowd) without being reminded by the ludicrously huge New Garden HD JumboTron, I wonder if today’s kids could start a chant as wonderfully non-contrived as that thunderous “Beat LA!” in my 8th grade lunchroom without any sort of prompting. And that makes me sad.

And now, queue one of Bob Ryan’s wonderfully angry columns decrying “game presentation” …

I love the way they dribble up and down the court

This week, I will be making my return to quasi-competitive basketball. I’m not sure if the quasi is primarily in reference to the collective level of play (which will likely be quite good) or a pre-emptive yet ultimately defensive means of deflecting my inadequacies, which are quite extensive, and contributions, which will likely be quite limited.

Basketball and I have a love-hate relationship:

LOVE: I love the game and its jazz-like approach to coupling talent, determination and improvisation. I grew up during the heydey of the Larry Bird-era Celtics, when the possibilities for ugly white boys on the courts had no boundaries.

HATE: I am 6-6 yet completely devoid of any athleticism or coordination. Now, being tall is pretty awesome — I’ll take the minor annoyances (coach-class air travel, inability to buy shirts off-the-rack) in return for the many benefits (ability to see things at parades).

However, when you’re tall, you get the following questions/comments … a lot:

1. Do you play basketball?
2. Can you get something off of a high shelf for me?

I don’t mind 2 so much, because usually it makes people slightly overlook my embarrassment in regards to 1, my answers to which typically fall into two camps:

Just the facts, ma’am: “Yes, but not well.”

Desperate attempt to have my plight understood: “Well, I played intramurals in college. If my high school coach was nice and cared about me, like, say, Sandra Bullock’s character did for Michael Oher in ‘The Blind Side,’ maybe I would have developed into a better player. And learned how to love.”

So when some of my much younger, more talented colleagues invited me to join their rec-league team, I said yes. It made sense for many reasons: 1. Good way to stay in shape; 2. OK, good way to try desperately to get into some sort of shape; 3. Free t-shirt; 4. Well, not free since there’s a hefty fee to join the league; 5. I’m still relevant; 6. I am still relevant, right? 7. Chance to bust out Converse Pro Leather 76 high-tops.

I see myself fitting into a PJ Brown role ...

I see my role as like that of PJ Brown’s when he joined the Celtics in 2008–cagey veteran who can provide solid production off the bench. Here’s where that analogy falls apart: 1. I am not cagey; 2. PJ Brown didn’t have breasts.

So as I get ready to return to the courts (did I mention that I’m probably 15 years older than most of my teammates?), here’s a brief look back at my history with the Sport of Kings, if basketball were in fact the Sport of Kings rather than horse racing:

1978: Made 128 baskets shooting in the Sears adjustable hoop my parents installed in our driveway. Why I remember than I made 128 shots on a Sunday some 32 years ago but can’t seem to remember, say, the license plate on my Altima troubles me.

1981: I become the first kid at Proctor Elementary to let our gym teacher down when playing the Friday morning “[random kid] and gym teacher take on four other kids in basketball” game.

1982: I’m that kid that plays in rec-league basketball every week wearing jeans.

1983: In gym class, we learn about the history of basketball. Our gym teacher gives us this handy pnemonic device to remember the Father of the Game: “James Neismith. Neigh, like a horse! Just remember that.” I remember this because he also regularly told a troubling story of a former student, some peanut butter, his genitals and a horse who enjoyed licking peanut butter. He also was quite vocal about which of us were developing more quickly than our peers. Give me a minute to try and re-surpress those memories. [5 tear-stained minutes later] OK, I’m back!

1984-1988: Make ill-fated efforts to become a contributor to the mighty Algonquin Tomahawks. I don’t want to talk about it.

1988: George Washington Colonials go 1-27; despite attending every home game, I somehow miss their one victory vs. UMass.

... although it's more likely to be a "Mel Turpin role." He ate himself out of the league.

1989-1991: I serve as the “Voice of the Colonial Women” on student radio. I learn that being someone who enjoys watching basketball and being someone that can talk intelligently about basketball are two very, very different things.

1991: Convince four friends to drive through a snowstorm from D.C. to Pittsburgh to watch a GW women’s basketball game vs. Duquesne. I think even the team that we were supporting, and who should ostensibly have been touched by the effort, thought we were losers for doing that. I can’t help but agree with them.

1992-1996: I coach a rec-league team for elementary school kids in Montgomery County, Md. Those who can’t do, teach. Those who can’t teach, truly suck at basketball. Our teams weren’t very good although I did manage to rack up a technical foul in 1996 for angriy requesting some “goddamn equity in the calls you’re making.”

1996: I dunk a basketball on a regulation rim (Sligo Creek Park in Kensington, Md.) and then attempt unsuccessfully to do it again 22 more times.

1999: I drill a three pointer off the opening tip to score the first three points in Schwartz Communications rec-league basketball history. Sadly, this was a high note for the squad that game, as we went on to lose 49-9.

2005: With the Cambridge Athletic Club Division D West title pretty much in hand, I neglect to box out two much shorter, but surprisingly springy, players from an All-Asian squad. One tips in a miss at the buzzer and steal the victory from fama PR.

2010: “Sure, I’ll play with you guys. Thanks for thinking of me.”

My month without sports radio

I have been a sports radio addict for as long as the medium has existed in Boston and Washington.

I don’t know why I listened to it, because mostly it was just a bunch of fat loudmouths or right-wing nutjobs talking over each, equating volume with validity. (I won’t name the offending station but its initials are W-E-E-I.) Probably, I listened because it was familiar and not particularly intellectually challenging, and on occasion, it did make me laugh.

Plus it’s hard to fill up 5 AM presets on a car radio.

But a month ago, I decided I’d had it, so I quit, cold turkey. (Wow, I’ve quit sports radio and Twitter in the last month; I should theoretically be that much closer to my kids.) I don’t know what ultimately pushed me over the edge, but it just wasn’t fun any more.

There are the five things that bother me about sports radio in the Boston market:

1. Rampant homerism. Guys, Coach Bill is a dirty cheater, and Curt Schilling isn’t a sure-fire hall-of-famer. It’s OK, it doesn’t reflect poorly on you.
2. Political views (yes, mostly because they aren’t mine, I admit it) often trump sports-related talk.
3. Barely-veiled sexism (like the time last year they made women callers prove their “fanhood” by asking them trivia questions). 3a is even less barely-veiled homophobia.
4. Repetitive blathering about nothing.
5. Yelling that counts as discourse.
6. Bonus: The ultimate realization that I was spending too much of my time living vicariously not just through the athletic experiences of my region’s pro teams, but also by listening to mostly pointless breakdowns of the experiences I (falsely believed I) shared with these athletes.

So in the past month, on the drive to-and-from Cambridge, I’ve listened to so-called podcasts unrelated to sports; I’ve tuned into NPR and some of the political stations on XM (POTUS, for example); and I’ve listened to some of the new music I obsess about, like the great new album from the lovely Neko Case.

And I’ve come to realize that I don’t think I’ve missed anything. Sure, I skim the Globe for Celtics and Bruins results; I’ll start listening again when Sox broadcasts (not Sox talk) are on after Opening Day; and I’m sure I’ll slip again when football season starts. There has been the argument that perhaps Boston really needs an “intelligent sports talk” station — and I’m stumped as to what that would be, and if there is such a thing. The closest thing to that is probably WBUR’s  “Only A Game,” which is a different (albeit excellent) animal entirely.

Anyway, in closing, look at me, I’m so smart!

I am the fantasy champions, no time for fantasy losers etc.

For the first time ever, and after a decade of unsuccessful participation, I have now won a fantasy sports league. My team, "There Will Be Blood" (the name of which is both a threat and the title of my favorite movie of 2007, coincidentally a film particularly disliked by the league's runner-up) pulled out a big win this past weekend. For the first time, I actually did smart things as a fantasy GM, meaning I'm smart, but only in fantasy. Maybe that means I'm fantastically smart, who knows. I know people who spend hours preparing for drafts … hours on the phone and online setting lineups from vacation spots, national parks, etc.; spending hours on weekends at the expense of family, friends, religious and charitable organizations, managing multiple teams and playing for big money.

However, I love my family and I get distracted/overwhelmed easily, so that's not me. I limit myself to one team per sport (football, basketball and this year, for the first time, hockey) and spend maybe 8 minutes/week on the team. For the draft, I usually frantically buy a football magazine on the drive over to the big event. Typically I get bored by week 3 and have a "Fire Sale." I can also easily be duped in trades. I didn't check my NL-only baseball team for 4 months and finished 10th.

In fact, here's my previous football finishes across sports (thanks, Yahoo, for keeping track of this):

10th, 8th, 4th, 7th, 9th, 10th, 5th, 1st (all 10 teams/league)

This year, however, I was smart. So most of all, I want to thank the robot at Yahoo that autopicked my team for me.

Unfortunately, some disorganization at the league office means I won't be getting a big payout (very few paid into the pot and around Week 6, we were still dickering as to whether there'd be a cash prize or not) but whatever, I'm just glad to finally not come in 10th. And I do plan to work on overthrowing the commish, who is a bum.

Of Chick-fil-a, UNC hoops and Brian Wilson

North Carolina Trip – 06
Originally uploaded by eharrison3

A few items as I unpack my brain from my recent trip to Raleigh-Durham …

• Chick-fil-a sandwiches taste better south of the Mason-Dixon line. Mr. Brian and I enjoyed a number of them at the UNC/Evansville game, and that number was 4.
• From a strictly architectural point-of-view, the Dean Smith Center is nothing special. But put a full house in there, and look out. Those fans know basketball.
• Tyler Hansbrough would be beloved as a Boston Celtic, if you know what I'm saying. And I think you do.
• If you're going to be stuck in an airport for 7 hours, you could do worse than the new terminal at RDU.
• The Chevy Impala I rented in NC is the reason why two of our major auto makers are bankrupt, and worse, highly irrelevant. There was nothing alluring or even competent about the car.
• Brian Wilson can make a song festooned with sleigh bells sound like the saddest yet most beautiful thing in the world. Listen to "God Only Knows" ten times in a row like I did today while I was driving home, and I think you'll understand.

Is there room on this Bruins bandwagon?

I have had a relatively passive relationship with our region's hockey team. Growing up, they were definitely 4/4 among the region's professional sports on my radar screen (4/5 when the New England Tea Men were here. The early-mid 1980s weren't a great time in the Hub of Hockey, Pete Peeters' amazing 1983 season notwithstanding. They'd get through the first round against Quebec, Buffalo or Hartford and then invariably lose to Montreal, Lucy once again pulling the football away from the B's Charlie Brown. That changed in 1988 when the Bruins finally vanquished the Habs after losing to them in 133 straight playoff series, an NHL record and a number which I just made up.

I admit. I joined the bandwagon in 1988 (after Jim Schoenfeld challenged Don Koharski to have another donut) and again in 1990 when the team went to the Stanley Cup Finals. In 1990, I was at GW and able to watch them demolish the Capitals — and during the Stanley Cup Finals' Game 1 at Rich's house, we vowed to go and sleep on Ray Borque's lawn if they came through in Game 1 (I think we thought he lived somewhere in MetroWest). Stupid Petr Klima kept us from doing that, as well as the fact that we really had no idea where he lived.

Since then, I've tried to get into the B's … I never played hockey (tall=high center of gravity=easily tipped on skates) … and never really learned the rules of the game, although I've tried. I do know a lot of random stuff about former franchises:

• The Oakland Seals begat the California Golden Seals who became the Cleveland Barons who ultimately merged with the Minnesota North Stars.
• The Kansas City Scouts begat the Colorado Rockies which begat the afforementioned Devils. The Scouts were going to be the Mo-Hawks but the Chicago Blackhawks beleived that to be too similar of a name.
• Sad Hartford Whalers fans are now Habs fans due to a hate of the Bruins (tip of the cap to the WordNerd). (Another fun fact about Hartford: the ABA's Spirits of St. Louis planned to move there post-merger, but the Celtics blocked it; of course, things have turned out pretty well for the Brothers Silna since then).

But a forecheck? Backcheck? Paycheck?

So I'm trying. I attended my first Bruins home game in 2005 (yeah, I know, that wasn't a long time ago) and then a bunch more, and they promptly lost the first five games I attended. I have some friends who are into hockey and fama PR may boast more hockey fans than any PR firm not based in Canada or Sweden, so simply by osmosis, I've gotten more interested. Part of it is not wanting to miss out. Part of it is, of course, my secret wish that I was Canadian.

And then the Bruins (oh, it's called Bruins) had been dreadful. Not any more. Things started to get exciting for the casual fan in the first round vs. the Habs last year, an exciting series for even a hockey moron like me …  although I broke my streak of home openers attended at three, I did get to a big 6-1 Bruins win over the Habs on 11/13.

And now, the team is on a tear, and did I mention I'm a huge fan?

True story.

Final Words on Game 5 — of pink hats and murder threats

OK, I have had a ton of caffeine and will not turn the game off, regardless. I'm still a little sensitive from the ribbing I took from everyone for leaving Fenway early, including Auddy 5000 for calling me a so-called "pink hat." To wit, this exchange on IM:

[16:18] (IM address redacted): becareful not to mix your pinks and your darks in the wash, the colors might run

[16:18] edfamapr: I'll kill you. I swear to God.

FAQ: “I Stand Behind My Poor Decision to Depart Early from the Greatest Comeback in Playoff History.”

Here's an FAQ I've created regarding my departure from last night's Red Sox playoff game. I also address some other lingering ALCS issues and the topic of schnitzel, which came up during a pre-game dinner.

Q: So, what the hell were you thinking?
A: Well, first let me say that I appreciate the opportunity you afford me today to speak directly, without the filter of the media, Facebook or my own girlish sobs of regret, regarding the Sox playoff game. I stand behind my poor decision to depart early from the greatest comeback in playoff history. I am not going to make excuses, except for the following: the Sox were down 7-0 and looked lifeless. I had a 7:30 a.m. dental appointment today. We had a babysitter that would have continued to cost us money if we were much later. I get tired easily. It was windy. I really wanted to see a few more frank TV commercials. I have trust issues.

Q: How cool was the Japanese drumming ensemble during the national anthem?
A: Very cool. It made me wish we'd sign a German player so we could get a cool oom-pah band to do a similar rendition of the Anthem. God, I hope we never sign a Jamaican-born pitcher. I really dilike reggae. Maybe if Canadian Jason Bay ever converts to pitching, Rush can sing the national anthem. Or Glass Tiger.

Q: What is schnitzel?
A: It's a thin slice of veal, breaded and then fried.

Q: Are there quick-serve schnitzel restaurants in Germany?
A: Yes, but dammit, the name escapes me.

Q: Did you score the game?
A: Until the seventh inning.

Q: Why did you stop then?
A: Because I left. Shut up, Q.

A: Did I mention that it was windy?
Q: Yes, you did. Let me ask the questions.

Q: What was your total hot dog/sausage count last night?
A: Two. OK, three.

Q: Which town does Jon Bon Jovi love?
A: This one.

Q: Can we get cool nicknames if we stay in a Holiday Inn Express?
A: You mean like Mrs. Ripken Jr., Bob or Snake-eyes?

Q: Besides erectile dysfunction, what distractions must one overcome in order for Viagra to work?
A: Remote control, women's magazines and a putter.

Q: Whom may I call with T-Mobile's new family package? Whom am I prevented from calling?
A: You may call Vivian, the woman you stare at at your son's soccer games and Skinny Pete. You may not call Derek with the mustache and Mustang.

$700B and 2,131

I can't be the first person to notice the resemblance between Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson (particularly as seen on the cover of this week's Economist)

 

and Baltimore Orioles legend Cal Ripken …