DanMargarita.com

February 7, 2012

Super Blah

It’s over. It’s done. There’s nothing to do about it now and accept the fact that the better team won, and no, I’m not referring to the Apponequet High boy’s track team’s victory over Fairhaven.

For those who have been just released from a hostage situation, this past Sunday the New England Patriots lost to the New York Giants in Super Bowl 46 (I’ve dispensed trying to keep up with the Roman numerals).

Some people saw it as a rematch of their previous meeting, when the Giants beat the Patriots in Super Bowl 42. Sure, as a fan, losing this game was painful but not as painful as the aforementioned loss was. I mean, after all, that team hadn’t lost a game all season long and were shooting for football immortality.

Still, this one hurts because the game was potentially winnable. We can speculate on all of the “if’s.” IF Brady hadn’t panicked on the first play of the game and thrown the ball away while standing in the end zone, thus giving the Giants two points on a safety, which also gave them the ball back immediately, leading to a touchdown, they wouldn’t have been down 9-0; IF some of the receivers could have hung onto the ball, and I’ll give Wes Welker a pass here (no pun intended). He was wide open and again, Brady seemed a tad anxious and threw it where it would’ve been a great catch, but by no means an easy one. IF Brady hadn’t tried to force a pass to a well-covered Rob Gronkowski that was intercepted…if seems like I’m pinning the entire loss on Brady, it is not my intention, but he must shoulder some of the blame.

The defense, although stalwart the previous two games, couldn’t make the stops when needed and as previously mentioned, some of the receivers dropped some passes that were if not right on the money, potentially catchable.

This was apparently noted by Brady’s wife, Brazilian Super Model (As a “Super Model,” does she have special powers of some sort?) Gisele Bundchen, who after being heckled by a Giants fan after the game told a friend, "My husband can not (expletive) throw the ball and catch the ball at the same time.” Indeed, she seems to have grasped the concept of football, while likely being more familiar with futbol.

Speaking of celebrities, okay a bit off-topic here, one performance of note was that of Madonna, who’s well choreographed, albeit lip-synced halftime routine was pretty impressive. I can’t blame her for lip-syncing because with all of the movement she had to do, the sound of her huffing and puffing while singing would have been a bit of a distraction.

Sure, she’s 53 and apparently slipped briefly during her routine but she made every woman over 50 think that they should possibly hit the treadmill. Sorry ladies, if you had Madonna’s money, then you would have all of the time and resources to spend the bulk of your days working out and/or getting plastic surgery. Then again, there’s a certain genetic component that determines that no matter what you do, you will simply never be Tom or Gisele.

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh, yeah…the football game or Madonna.

What is most important to note is that the better team won. How can you argue with that? Peyton…uh, I mean Eli Manning was terrific and his pass to Mario Manningham (his name even has “Manning” in it!) was right on the money and put the Giants in great field position.

This was a Patriots team that over achieved, sometimes fielding defensive players who seemed like they were referred by the temp agency Kelly Services. They were so desperate defensively this season that they often resorted to putting a receiver, Julian Edleman, on defense. Can you imagine if the Red Sox got so desperate for defensive help that they put Josh Beckett at shortstop? Well, I suppose if you told him to imagine that every ground ball that came his way was a fried chicken, he might have been pretty good.

Let’s not the forget the capper, here. Seriously, 12 men on the field? IN THE SUPER BOWL, NO LESS? Fellas, most of you have been doing this for many years, and more pointedly, since this past July. You don’t know who is supposed to be on the field in the biggest game of the year?

It’s always disappointing when your team loses, especially when it’s the championship game. Kudos to a bunch of guys who played their hearts out and got to the big dance.

Then again, if Baltimore Ravens kicker Billy Cundiff hadn’t missed a proverbial chip shot field goal two weeks ago, the Patriots wouldn’t have been in Indianapolis at all.

Posted by dmargarita at 4:16 PM

November 2, 2011

From Bambino To Billy Goat

It’s football season, hockey season and it would also be basketball season if it weren’t for the NBA lockout. Yet, I’m still talkin’ baseball.

This is Boston and there is no off-season for baseball. The Red Sox continue to make news even though the only baseball being played anywhere professionally would be in the Southern Hemisphere.

As locals are by now well-aware, longtime Red Sox General Manager Theo Epstein has moved on to take over the reins of the Chicago Cubs. For those unfamiliar with the game, for decades the Cubs were essentially the Red Sox National League fraternal twins.

The Cubs World Series championship drought is at 103 years and counting. There may still be a couple of people who were alive at the time they last won but certainly there can’t be anyone alive who remembers them winning (or much of anything...sorry).

The Cubs last won in 1908 (after having also won in 1907), with a talented team that featured the double play combination of Tinker to Evers to Chance.

That would be Joe Tinker, Johnny Evers and Frank Chance, all of whom were elected to The Baseball Hall of Fame in 1946.

If you’ve heard of them, it’s likely because of a poem written about them in 1910, called “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon,” which many believe to be the only reason that the light-hitting Evers and Tinker were inducted into the HOF.

The poem is written from the perspective of a New York Giants (there was once a baseball team by this name) fan, dreading the defensive wizardry of the trio.

These are the saddest of possible words:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,
Tinker and Evers and Chance.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double –
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."


I should note that according to Wikipedia, my source of last resort for anything important and my source of first resort for anything trivial, a gonfalon is a flag or pennant. There’s something you can win a bar bet with some day.

The success of this poem relies on the musicality of their names. It wouldn’t have worked as “These are the saddest of possible words/Andollini to Goldberg to McCarthy.”

However, after those halcyon days (heh heh, I threw that in to match “gonfalon”) of championships, the Cubs fell on hard times, not reaching the World Series again until 1945. This is where it starts to get weird.

Legend has it that when Billy Sianis, owner of The Billy Goat Tavern, was asked to leave a World Series game in ’45 because the smell of his pet goat was offending other fans, he declared, “Them Cubs, they aren’t gonna win no more.”

A couple of points here, if I may…just why anybody would bring a goat to a baseball game defies explanation. Secondly, I realize that this was long before 9-11, but it doesn’t seem reasonable that even in 1945 Wrigley Field security was so lax that a guy was allowed to bring in livestock.

There are other variations to the story but essentially Theo Epstein has been brought in to break that curse much as he helped break the Red Sox so-called “Curse of the Bambino.”

Well, it seemed that supposed curse had been broken until this past September when the Red Sox took a classic nosedive as though the planets had collided in epic fashion.

To the best of my knowledge, the Sox collapse had more to do with lousy pitching than it did with farm animals.

While Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia and first baseman Adrian Gonzalez may have Hall of Fame careers, shortstop Marco Scutaro, a solid player, is probably not headed for the Hall. Thus, to give him a chance for glory, I have decided to write a poem to praise the Sox trio, while also commenting on the state of other members of the team.

These are the saddest of possible words:
“Scutaro to Pedroia to Gonzalez”
Good for the Sox and fantasy nerds
“Scutaro and Pedroia and Gonzalez”
Though pitchers were wolfing down chicken while drinking
Lester and Beckett and Lackey were stinking
Folks who bought tickets thought, “What was I thinking?”
“Scutaro to Pedroia to Gonzalez”

So, I say to Theo Epstein, “Thank you and good luck in Chicago.”

Oh, and in case you were wondering who was the Cubs third baseman back in the day, it was a guy named Harry Steinfeldt.

Posted by dmargarita at 2:12 PM

October 2, 2011

‘Twas The Night Before Playoffs

Sometimes it’s a struggle to come up with something to write about for this column. Other times, stories present themselves. Hello, Boston Red Sox.

The Red Sox abysmal (so many adjectives to choose from, so little time) collapse in September, not to mention the final game of the season, has brought back some haunting memories for those of us who grew up watching the Red Sox seemingly go out of their way sometimes to make their next “choke” more spectacular than their last one.

When former Boston legend Larry Bird was in town for an event earlier in the year, he noted that with the recent success of all four major Boston sports franchises (sorry, Boston Blazers, New England Revolution and Boston Lobsters) that kids growing up un New England today have only known their teams to be successful.

They do not know the heartbreak generations of fans have suffered. They don’t know who Denny Galehouse is. They don’t know who Bucky “Bleeping” Dent is. They’ve probably heard of Bill Buckner, I suppose, since he’s still occasionally referenced in popular culture and his infamous error in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series pops up now and then.

Thus I have decided to write a poem to educate the kiddies on the Sox historic foibles as well as a wrap-up of game 162 of the 2011 season.

It is a combination of Clement Moore’s, “The Night Before Christmas, aka “A Visit From St. Nicholas,” “Paul Revere’s Midnight Ride” and “Casey at the Bat.”

“’Twas The Night Before Playoffs”
By Dan Margarita

‘Twas the night before playoffs
The Red Sox last game
And just like the old days
They went down in flames

So listen my children
To one of my talks
And you'll hear of the collapse
Of the Boston Red Sox

I'm sure for the Sox
This is not what they meant
But they brought back the ghost
Of Bucky “Bleeping” Dent

"On Bucker! On Stanley"
And all of those ghosts
"On Pesky! On WIlliams!
And of course Eddie Yost"

The Sox took the lead
And had reason to mock
When Scutaro scored
On a rare pitcher's balk

Big Papi singled
To give the O's trouble
But got thrown out at second
Stretching it into a double

A third base coach
With a head made of bone
Got Scutaro needlessly
Thrown out at home

We prayed for the Yanks
To beat the Tamp Bay club
But sadly, the Yankees
Only put in their subs

With two outs and Papelbon
Out on the mound
It seemed a no-brainer
The decision was sound

A fly ball to Crawford
And the Sox would survive
It's likely he'd catch it
If only he'd dive

He opted to slide
To try for the catch
And missed it real badly
And made us all wretch

He still had a chance
With a throw to the plate
But his throw it was wild
And weak and too late

The Yanks gave us hope
Which was something we'd need
And then went and blew
A seven run lead

Now the summer is over
And the season in ruins
Let's root for the Celtics
The Pats and the Bruins

With all of the snow we had last winter, it seemed to last forever. No matter how much snow we have this winter, the means by which the Red Sox season ended, may make this winter seem even longer.

Posted by dmargarita at 4:28 PM

June 16, 2011

Memories Bruin

(NOTE: I wrote this on Tuesday)
I don’t want to write about Anthony Weiner. I mean, I really don’t. However, when you look around the political and cultural landscape and see what the hot topic is, it seems to currently be Anthony Weiner and his…problem.

Fortunately, there is a local story (sort of local) that allows me put off the Congressman Weiner story for the time being. I suspect that the Weiner story (You see what I did there?) won’t be going anywhere for a while.

By the time you read this, a new Stanley Cup Champion will be crowned. Okay, that seems like a pretty safe position, but I have learned in the past that even a seemingly safe bet like that is not always so safe.

For instance, in 2000 I wrote on election night “next week we will have a new president.” That one sure seemed like a safe bet but as we all remember, the election wasn’t decided for another month or so.

Anyway, tomorrow night, Wednesday, June 15, 2011 the Boston Bruins will play Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals for a chance to win their first Stanley Cup since 1972. I find myself going back through time and remembering not their Cup win in ’72, but their previous Stanley Cup win in 1970.

I suspect that I really don’t remember the ’72 Cup because having seen them win it two years previous, I probably figured that they would be in the midst of winning several cups, but alas, it was not to be.

I’m going strictly on memory here, so if I’m off on some details, forgive me. I recall it being a Sunday afternoon. The Bruins wore black and gold and the St. Louis Blues wore blue and gold, and the Germans wore grey.

I was down the street at my Aunt Ruth’s house where we were having a Stanley Cup party. Being a wee lad at the time (I just like saying “wee lad,” a phrase one can only use on the written page), I undoubtedly was unaware of the frustration that Bruins fans had felt not having won the Cup since 1929, much as youngsters growing up in the last decade have only known the Boston Red Sox as an organization that has been a largely successful, winning two World Series, in 2004 and 2007.

They can only have a vague knowledge by virtue of their elders explaining the years of repeated failure; the particular years depend on the particular age of the elder. Some are old enough to remember the horrid years of the 1950’s when the Sox had Ted Williams and seldom much else. Then the continued bad years of the 1960’s featured Carl Yastrzemski, Yaz, and little else. In 1967 the Red Sox won their first pennant since 1946 and baseball was revived in Boston.

In the late 1960’s a young hockey sensation named Bobby Orr arrived in Boston to renew interest in the Bruins. Along with a talented cast of characters, Phil Esposito, Derek Sanderson, Johnny “Pie” McKenzie and goalie Gerry Cheevers, Orr and company took the Cup from the Blues on the home ice of the old Boston Garden.

The moment when Orr scored the winning goal in overtime was captured forever in a photograph as St. Louis Blues’ Noel Picard, who will forever be remembered as the jerk who tripped Bobby Orr, tripped the star.

It was a Sunday as I recall, May 10, 1970, a good month earlier than the current finals being played. I can still see my Uncle Dick jumping out of his chair with joy as Orr received a pass from Derek Sanderson and then put the puck past Blue’s goalie Glenn Hall, whom Orr has said has often asked him, “Didn’t you ever score any other goals?”

As the Bruins began their mini-dynasty, my Uncle Dan, for whom I was named and lived next door to us, got a color TV. This is something that young people today probably can’t imagine. This was a thrill for me to go see the Bruins in color, even though every few minutes Uncle Dan would have to get out of his chair to adjust the horizontal hold, something kids today would also not understand.

Sports are just sports and in the whole scheme of things, not that important. Yet, as the years roll by they can often serve as touch stones in our lives that bring us back in time to places and people that no longer exist except in our memories.

Here’s hoping that someday some current youngster will look back upon Game 7 as a touch stone in his or her life that bring a smile to the face.

Go Bruins!

Posted by dmargarita at 12:16 PM

June 4, 2011

A Non-Yankee, Yankee

If you go to a Boston Red Sox game you will hear derogatory chants directed at the New York Yankees, and that is true even if the Yankees are not the team that the Red Sox are playing during that particular game.

Despite being a Red Sox fan, having been born and raised in Stoneham, Massachusetts, I have never shared the fanatical hatred of the Yankees that so many fans of the Crimson Hose have come to personify.

It always seemed to me that it was a matter of jealousy, envy or whatever you wish to call it. For 86 years, after the Red Sox sold a certain pitcher-turned-outfielder to the Yankees, the New Yorkers went from baseball cellar-dwellers to a hardball dynasty.

Meanwhile, the Red Sox, a potent team in the early part of the 20th century, became perennial losers and inevitably, perennial chokers. It was this turn around in fortunes that led Red Sox fans to suffer from “pennant envy.”

I suspect that Yankee fans felt less so because they had nothing to be jealous of. What winner gets jealous of a loser?

So, for me traveling to Yankee Stadium to see a game doesn’t take on quite take on the aura of a cat willingly going into a dog pound as it might for other Sox fans.

Times are hard these days and we all try to save money and this was no exception, and thus my partner in crime, Jane and I opted to take a bus from South Station for the low, low price of $13. Never has the phrase “You get what you pay for” seemed more appropriate.

The bus was filled to capacity with other travelers who also decided to make the trek to NYC on the cheap. Thinking myself clever, I opted for seats near the bathroom. This proved to be far from my best idea as I never used the bathroom, but many other passengers did.

Nor did this prove to be a good choice since my seat reclined but would not revert to an upright position (fortunately there were no flight attendants to yell at me about it). Since the free Wi-fi that was supposed to be included never materialized I figured I might as well relax…and my reclined seat gave me no other choice.

Perhaps there were few other options but the bus got off in the Bronx and proceeded to make its way through the city downtown near Madison Square Garden, where we were let off. Maybe if the driver had taken a later exit we would’ve reached our destination much quicker but being the optimist, I prefer to think of it as a tour of the Bronx included in the $13 price.

The best way to get to Yankee Stadium is the train, perhaps the only reasonably priced thing in The Big Apple.

The new version of the Stadium is simply magnificent. Even if you hate the Yankees, if you love baseball, this place is a shrine, albeit an expensive shrine.

If you’re at a ballgame, especially if you’ve traveled over four hours to get there, a hot dog and a beer almost seems to be a requirement. Well, a beer, anyway.

The beer options are surprisingly limited at the Stadium. Besides the seemingly required at professional sports venues Budweiser beer, almost everything else was some form of light beer. I finally found a stand selling Stella Artois and ordered a couple of beers. I was ready with a $20 bill in hand when the server informed me that it cost $24. Two beers cost me more than the bus ride to New York City.

As mentioned earlier, Yankees fans don’t seem to have the hatred towards the Red Sox that Sox fans have toward the Yankees. Still, I figured it might be in my best interest not to wear any Red Sox paraphernalia into Yankee Stadium or to cheer too loudly against them. Hell, they’re the home team and I don’t mind cheering a good play by anybody.

While I might have lacked the courage of wearing my favorite team on my proverbial sleeve, the people sitting behind us, Blue Jays fans who had made the trek from Toronto, showed no such concern.

Low and behold, they received no threats, abuse or dare I say it, crap of any kind from the Yankee fans. Do you honestly think Yankee fans at Fenway Park would fare so well?

I’ve never participated in the traditional “Yankees Suck” chants at Fenway Park and never will. The only derogatory thing I will say about the pinstriped organization is that their beer prices seem a bit high.

That doesn’t sound too crude, does it?

Posted by dmargarita at 8:46 PM

January 10, 2011

Rex Foot Forward

I hate feet. They’re ugly. At the bottom of even the best sculpted, best toned human figures, you will find a pair of horizontal supports, which bring an ungainly end to the aforementioned beauty. Yet, there are those whose appreciation and admiration for the human pedestal goes beyond mere admiration and into the world of the “fetish.” However, I didn’t come here to talk about foot fetishes…I came to talk about the New York Jets.

As you may know by now, the two subjects intersected when it came to light that Jets coach Rex Ryan and his wife Michelle had some videos involving Ms. Ryan’s feet surface on the Internet. They were posted under the name “ihaveprettyfeet.” If Ms. Ryan reads my first paragraph, she will learn that I would beg to differ with that opinion.

Some may argue that this is a private matter between the Ryan’s and that would have been the case if the tape had been stolen from them as some celebrities have had happen with sex tapes that they’ve made. However, if the Ryan’s posted this online themselves, and the title “ihaveprettyfeet” would seem an indication that they did, then it is no longer a private matter. It is a public website (well, I can assume since it should be pretty clear by now that this is one website I will not visit). Thus, the Ryan’s should’ve known that this might come to light and if it did, eventually the other shoe would drop (yes, there will very likely be many more foot puns as we continue).

The Ryan’s have a chance to cash in on their hobby as celebrity website TMZ reports that an online fetish company has offered the Ryan’s $10,000 to appear at their booth at a porn convention to sign programs and take photos. CLIPS4SALE is apparently so enamored with Rex Ryan’s video directing skills they have dubbed him, “The Tarantino of Tootsies.” Considering my personal distaste for the tootsies, I would prefer to think of him as “The Hitchcock of Heels.”

Again, I don’t want to talk about foot fetishes…I want to talk about the New York Jets.

Most football fans in New England are aware that their beloved Patriots will be facing the Jets this weekend in a game to determine the division and move on in the playoffs. Much like the blood on Curt Schilling’s sock, there is bad blood between the Jets and the Patriots.

The Patriots stomped on the Jets 45-3 in their last meeting during the regular season and are hoping to boot the Jets from the playoff this weekend (I told you there would be more foot puns coming).

Coach Ryan recently made some disparaging remarks about Patriots quarterback Tom Brady, saying that Indianapolis Colts QB Peyton Manning studied more than Brady and that Brady got more help from his coaching staff than Manning does. Ryan may have his own motivational methods, but after losing to the Patriots 45-3, do you really want to give Tom Brady more blackboard material to hype him up? Seems like Rex Ryan might have really put his foot in his mouth on that one (and not just for “toe-sucking”).

Pats fans will remember that the Jets beat the Patriots 28-14 early in the season to give the locals one of their two losses. Thus, when the Pats kicked the Jet’s collective butts in their rematch, it was sweet to see the shoe on the other athlete’s foot.

I don’t want to sound like some sort of heel (okay, I already used a “heel” joke, but it is used with a different meaning this time), but as a Patriots fan, I hope that the Pats will, as they used to say on Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In, “Sock it to ‘em.”

Despite the shellacking that the Patriots gave the Jets in their last meeting, I have no doubt that Brady and coach Bill Belichick will not assume that this game will be a repeat of their last one. I expect the Patriots will be well prepared and on their toes.

That’s it; I’m all out of foot-related puns. I hope you got a kick out of it.

It might be appropriate if the game came down to a field goal. After all, if any game is going to be decided by somebody’s foot, it should be this one.

Posted by dmargarita at 2:19 PM

September 6, 2010

Rocket Man

I suppose it’s way too early to say for certain, but it seems that the next pitch Roger Clemens throws in an organized game of ball, may be for the prison softball team.

Roger “The Rocket” Clemens, the former Boston Red Sox, N.Y. Yankees, Toronto Blue Jays and Houston Astros (did I leave anyone out?) pitcher, has been indicted by a federal grand jury on six counts of lying to Congress regarding his testimony that he never used steroids or human growth hormone. Sure, the irony of members of Congress not enjoying being lied to is obvious, but lying under oath is a no-no and they’ll get you for it.

The Rocket (a quick digression here, but if you’ve never seen William Shatner perform Elton John’s “Rocket Man” on live TV in 1978, do yourself a favor and check it out on Youtube…I’ve been utterly fascinated by it) was given up by his former trainer Brian McNamee, who testified that Clemens did indeed use steroid and HGH.

This would be simply a case of “he-said, he-said” one man’s words versus the other, but McNamee claims to possess physical evidence to back his claims, including some of the syringes that he used to inject Clemens with. Presumably, McNamee saved the syringes as a means of legal protection for himself and not with the idea of eventually attempting to sell them on the lucrative sports memorabilia market.

Let’s face it; some of those people will sell anything.

“Right here, a genuine Pete Rose betting slip. Only $500!”

“Here I’ve got one of the Babe’s empty penicillin bottles! Just $700!”

No one ever accused Clemens of being a rocket scientist (sorry for the pun). One can debate his departure from Boston but he’s always previously stated that he’d only play in one of two places…Boston or Texas. He subsequently signed with the Toronto Blue Jays. I’m not one hundred percent sure that he didn’t know that Toronto wasn’t in Texas.

Clemens’ last several years with the Red Sox were somewhat mediocre. He was about a .500 pitcher and had seemingly grown fat and lazy. When negotiating for a new contract, then Boston General Manager Dan Duquette refused to give Clemens the big money that the pitcher sought, uttering the now-famous line that Clemens was in “the twilight of his career.”

Lo and behold, on Opening Day the next season, a clearly more fit and trim Clemens was the starting pitcher for the Blue Jays. In retrospect, it seems that he had every intention of sticking it to Duquette by having McNamee stick him (Clemens) with a syringe. Clemens then went on to win consecutive Cy Young Awards with the Blue Jays, while in the “twilight of his career.” Some twilight…

Lest anyone think that Performance Enhancing Drugs (P.E.D.’s) are a recent phenomenon, perhaps it helps to recount the story of Pud Galvin (and yes, that’s his name) a pitcher for Pittsburgh in 1889, who, in an effort to give himself an edge over other players, ingested monkey testosterone. I’m not sure just where one would go in 1889 to get their monkey testosterone, but nonetheless, he did. Come to think of it, I’m not too sure where one could get monkey testosterone now and I certainly wouldn’t try to obtain it without said monkey’s consent. Not that I’m looking for any monkey testosterone. Okay, at this point I admit I just like writing the phrase “monkey testosterone.”

For many years players openly took amphetamines or “greenies” though it may have been less an attempt to improve performance and then to stay awake after the advent of West Coast Major League Baseball and its travel demands, as well as the increasing prevalence of night baseball.

As for me, I admit that I use a performance-enhancing drug, but it’s a legal one called “coffee” and I will freely admit to that before Congress, while under oath.

Clemens may have some company during his stay at the government hotel. All time home run leader Barry Bonds is also set to go to trial under indictment for allegedly lying to authorities regarding his use of P.E.D.’s.

Let’s face it; their prison softball team will kick the other prison team’s butts.

If I were Pete Rose, I’d bet on it.

Posted by dmargarita at 3:17 PM

August 23, 2010

Not My Favre-ite

Brett…Brett Favre….why won’t you go away?

The Minnesota Vikings quarterback returned from yet another brief retirement, for his 20th season in the NFL. I can’t help but think of the end of the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, when after the final credits roll, Matthew Broderick, as Ferris Bueller, emerges from the bathroom and says to the camera, i.e. the audience, ”Are you still here? It’s over. Go home.”

No doubt, Mr. Favre will one day be inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. I think when he’s inducted he should then be unindicted, then reinducted, then uniducted and reinducted. Seems appropriate…

Okay, I can understand someone changing their mind about retiring from the game and still feeling the urge to compete, but this is the third year in a row we’ve dealt with the “Will he or won’t he?” retirement question and frankly, it’s getting quite old, as is Mr. Favre, at least in professional sports terms.

He’s in danger of becoming “The boy who cried ‘retirement.’” When he does actually, finally, completely retire, who will really believe him? (Similar to the late comedian Dick Shawn, who, after doing a bit about a politician saying “I will not lay down on the job” made for a slow realization to those in the theater that evening that his last flop onstage wasn’t part of the act, but instead, a fatal heart attack).

This season proved to be an even more excruciating Farve-watch. He indeed seemed to finally be retired (praise be to God), when Viking’s coach Brad Childress sent three of Farve’s teammates, well had-been teammates who wanted him to once again be a teammate, to visit Farve on his ranch in Mississippi. Mind you, this is during training camp when the rest of the squad was working out in the hot misery that is August. Anyone who has ever even gone through high school football training camp in August can tell you that it is no picnic (even, I’m sure, in Minnesota).

Most likely the players that were asked to undergo the mission were happy to get away from camp for a few days, but I don’t imagine that the players who had to stay in camp were all that thrilled about not being the ones asked to go.

Hopefully, Mr. Favre hasn’t been always so non-committal in other aspects of his life. It would have made his wedding vows more entertaining.

“Do you, Brett, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I don’t. I do. I don’t…yes, I do.”

Favre injured his ankle last year in the final game against the eventual Super Bowl Champs the New Orleans Saints, requiring off-season surgery. That’s certainly a reasonable excuse for perhaps being undecided as to whether or not he felt up to the task of another season on the gridiron. However, if he’d given the Vikings a clear indication early enough, they could have perhaps taken that into consideration at the time of the NFL draft and drafted or traded appropriately.

Perhaps another inducement to return was the increase in salary from $16 million last season to $20 million with incentives, this season, because apparently when you only make $16 million a year, to need that extra little incentive (note to editors: if you want to increase my salary by $4 million dollars, I will be that much funnier, what with more incentive).

I guess that’s 20 million good reasons to want to come out of retirement.

As Stephen Colbert queried, “What hell is wrong with you? And what the hell is wrong with your family? Every time you spend ten minutes with them, you suddenly decide you’d rather be crushed by 300 pound linebackers!”

When Favre does finally retire, the standard retirement present of a rocking chair would seem most appropriate because like Mr. Favre, it goes back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

There’s a Country and Western song that asks the question, “How Can I Miss You When You Won’t Go Away?”

Ostensibly a relationship song, little did the composer realize he was writing about Brett Favre.

So, once again sporting his purple number 4 jersey, Brett Favre will attempt to lead the Minnesota Vikings on another quest to win a Super Bowl; and once again it’ll probably end up with Brett Favre blowing it by throwing an ill-advised pass that will wind up in the hands of an opposing player for a game-clinching interception.

Like Brett Favre coming out of retirement, it’s something you can count on.

Posted by dmargarita at 2:35 PM

April 5, 2010

Grapefruit Bits

As the Red Sox open the regular season, I thought it would be appropriate to give a wrap up of my annual Spring Training trip. Hey, I didn’t fly 1200 miles just to get a tan!

Sun., Mar. 14--- Getting a deal with Delta means flying on standby…or should I say, waiting on standby. This turns out to be my first experience with those new TSA full-body scanners at Logan Airport and as a standby flier, proves to be an unnecessary one.

The process involves standing with your feet apart and your hands over your head, in a praying position. For male travelers, they have male TSA agents do your body scanning and for female travelers, a female TSA agent. Unfortunately, one does not get to choose their body scanner. I mean, if I have to show off the goods, frankly I rather show them off to the attractive female TSA agent then the fat, balding middle-aged guy.

“Okay, fella…here you go.”

As I stand there, feet slightly apart, hands over my head, it occurs to me to have some fun by slowly gyrating my hips, and singing Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On.” As it turns out, as part of my cheap flight deal, flying on standby, all of the flights that day are booked and I have to go home and try again tomorrow. There’s nothing like an unnecessary $50 cab ride to the airport at 6 a.m. on a Sunday to start off your vacation.

Mon., Mar 14---I fly into Tampa late in the evening. ‘Nuff said….

Tue., Mar 15---Day game at Hammond Stadium, the Minnesota Twins home field located in Ft. Myers, across town from the Red Sox Spring Training home. In Ft. Myers, the Twins are the Los Angeles Clippers to the Red Sox Lakers.

The high, thin cirrus clouds (you see Mr. Dimmick? I was paying attention in your science class) leads me to incorrectly assuming I don’t need sun block. It’s not until a view in the mirror a few hours later that I discover that my assumption is wrong.

Wed., Mar. 17---St. Patrick’s Day at City of Palms Park, spring home of the Red Sox. Green, shirts, green hats, green bases and lots of green being spent in the souvenir store. On the drive there we experience a little rain, but considering that I’ve left torrential rain in Boston, it’s no big deal. The weather clears by game time, however.

A war vet who’s suffered shrapnel wounds, severe brain trauma and PTSD throws out the ceremonial first pitch. This makes Kevin Youkilis’ complaining about a previous three-hour bus ride to a game that got rained out seem even more selfish.

Thur., Mar. 18---The day game is Lakeland, home of the Detroit Tigers. My recollection is that this is the first place I ever had a tuna sandwich at a ballpark.

The night game is at Tampa to see the Yankees at their home field. It’s chilly and rainy and since I haven’t brought a coat or a sweatshirt, the cheapest thing to buy in the souvenir shot is a Yankees sweatshirt with the team name and “NY” nicely embroidered on the left breast. This not only keeps me warm, but also gets Jim’s dander up. For both reasons, it’s clearly, worth the money. Anybody want to buy a Yankees sweatshirt?

Fri., Mar. 19---We get to see the Sox play the Pirates in Bradenton. Great seats location-wise behind home plate, but with little legroom, being in the middle of the row means that to get out you’ll have to squeeze by and inconvenience several people, mostly elderly. Thus it’s easier buying lots of stuff early, and then holding it in as long as you can.

The night game is in Clearwater where the Phillies take on the Orioles. This is definitely the nicest of all the new ballparks, and this year, the tiki bar in left field, which stays open after the game doesn’t have someone doing Jimmy Buffett cover tunes!! Before the game an old WWII era plane circles the ballpark and a couple of guys parachute onto the field. Best to make sure they’re ours before we start shooting.

Sat. Mar., 20---The first of three games at Dunedin, home of the Toronto Blue Jays. After what I later find out has been the coldest Florida weather in either 40 or 120 years, depending on which you live in, we have our warmest and sunniest day yet. A Blue Jays fan noted that the previous day was warmer in Toronto than in Dunedin (yeah, there are still no climate problems). Our seats are great (albeit, again with little legroom to squeeze by people in your row if you wish to go to the concession stand) on the third base line and I get the tan/burn that I usually get early on in my S.T. trip.

Tradition is an important part of baseball and the tradition of elderly people collapsing in cheap, easily broken chairs continues as we hear the sound of an elderly person’s chair break and many people crying “medic!”

Sun., Mar. 21---The day after getting a sunburn, there are torrential rains and thunder. We get to Dunedin but don’t even bother to spend money on parking and head to a local Irish pub to wait on word of whether or nor the game will be played. Since the Blue Jays are scheduled to play the Red Sox, there are many Bostonians drinking in this pub on a rainy day. As you can imagine, Red Sox fans…rain delay…Irish pub…it gets quite boisterous.

The game eventually gets called and we save $5-$10 on parking.

Mon., Mar. 22---We’re again at Dunedin for our last game of the trip. It is chilly and overcast to start the game but around the seventh inning, the sun breaks through and we enjoy the more normal weather of warmth and sunshine. Later in the day my plane descends below the clouds at Logan Airport and I once again experience the gray, cold and rainy weather of Boston

It’s good be home…well, sort of.

Posted by dmargarita at 1:16 PM

November 30, 2009

Tiger Not Out of The Woods

Okay, sorry about the bad pun, but let’s get right to it. Tiger Woods is certainly not the first guy to be chased out of his house at 2:00 A.M. by his wife with a golf club, just the most famous.

“Golfing?! At 2:00 A.M.?! I’ll show you golfing at 2:00 A.M.!”

Assuming that you’re not Osama bin Laden and haven’t been living in a cave (although he seems to have his own video access), you’ve probably heard that golfer Tiger Woods recently got into a car accident just outside of his home in Florida. Well, I suppose the term “accident” is relative because we don’t know what actually happened, but boy, aren’t we having fun speculating?

The Woods’ contention is that Tiger, pulling out of his driveway, sliced his car to the right and hit a tree and a fire hydrant.

(Hushed British voice) “And now Tiger is caught between a tree and a fire hydrant. This will be a tough shot to get back onto the driveway.”

No doubt, this may cost him a couple of strokes on his auto insurance premiums.

Tiger’s wife, Elin, then smashed the rear windshield with a golf club, which she just happened to be carrying at the time, to extract Tiger from the vehicle.

Because the couple has refused to give details, we don’t know the exact sequence of events. Perhaps Tiger crashed the car and phoned his wife and said, “Honey, I got in an accident outside the house. Bring a pitching wedge.”

Everyone knows that this shot requires a mashee niblik.

While it’s possible that smashing the rear windshield to extract her husband from the vehicle may have been the most convenient portal, speculation is that she happened to have a golf club and smashed the windshield because she was upset at tabloid rumors that he had an affair and was simply chasing him and the windshield was the closest target.

Florida Highway Patrol Troopers have tried to question the couple, but were turned away three times, once being told by Tiger’s wife that he was sleeping. Since Tiger hasn’t been seen publicly, and there are rumors that his facial lacerations were the result of being socked by her, perhaps authorities should investigate to see that Elin didn’t give Tiger something to make him sleep…permanently.

I’m sure when the police show up at your house to question you, you can just have someone tell them to come back later because you’re sleeping, and it won’t be a problem.

Public relations experts are falling all over themselves declaring that Woods’ is handling this situation very badly. He should “Get out in front of this story” as David Letterman did, when Letterman went on his show and told his audience about being blackmailed.

Mind you, not every celebrity did that. O.J. Simpson never came out and said, “I murdered my wife and her friend. I just want to put this chapter of my life behind me and move on.”

Tiger can still turn this into a positive. While it remains to be seen if this affects his relationship with his myriad of commercial sponsors, one sponsor, Buick, could capitalize on this situation.

“Hi. I’m Tiger Woods. You never know when a jealous spouse is going to come chasing after you with a weapon such as a golf club, but a Buick Rainer can withstand the impact of a nine iron, while smashing into a tree and a fire hydrant at five miles-per-hour with minimal damage.”

At this point Woods has announced that he will not be attending his own upcoming golf tournament. Kind of like the host who invites you to his/her party and then stays upstairs the whole time. Like Dick Cheney, Tiger has opted to stay in the bunker and avoid the press. But Tiger, they ain’t goin’ away.

Whether or not Tiger Woods was having an affair, I don’t know and don’t care. That’s his business. If he were a politician, it might be different but he’s a golfer whose public life has no impact on my life, so I couldn’t care less if he comes clean or not. Unless he drives his car into my tree or his wife smashes my windshield, but neither of those things are likely to happen.

It seems that rather than tell it all and get it over with, he’d rather go with a preferred lie.

Posted by dmargarita at 7:06 PM

August 25, 2009

Y Not?

Congratulations go out to Caster Semenya of South Africa, who won the gold medal in the women’s 800-meter race at the World Athletics Championship. The only thing she apparently needs to do now, is prove that she’s a woman.

According to several media outlets, there has been murmuring that her deep voice, muscular build and astonishing records are due to the fact that she is actually a man.

Is this poor sportsmanship, racism or sexism? Probably a bit of all three, but elite athletes have certainly been questioned about their true gender before. People of a certain age will remember the snickering over the “female” athletes of the former Eastern Bloc, whose masculinity made them appear more imposing than the famed “Steel Curtain” defense of the great Pittsburgh Steelers teams of the 1970’s.

Only after the fall of the Berlin Wall did we officially learn that these poor creatures (I can only describe them that way) were, unbeknownst to them, given steroids, which caused those masculine appearances and later, major health issues. They wouldn’t have looked out of place with bolts on their necks.

Some pre-steroid era attempts were made to just plain cheat in the 1936 Berlin Olympics. Polish sprinter Stella Walsh, dubbed “Stella the Fella” at the time, was discovered upon her autopsy, to possess male genitalia. That is, she was a man, not some bizarre collector of male genitalia.

The Nazi’s, eager to prove the superiority of the Third Reich, entered a high jumper named Dora Ratjen, who later turned out to be a man named Hermann. I guess you could say she was “Dora the Gender Explorer.”

At least Dora/Hermann gave up the ruse after the Olympics, while spent Stella kept up the masquerade until her death. Whether that was simply a lifestyle choice or a reluctance to admit that he’d competed against women in the Olympics, is unknown.

It didn’t work anyway, as Dora/Hermann finished fourth, meaning that he probably had to endure taunting from his friends for being beaten by three girls.

“’I thought something was a bit funny,’ recalled one athlete, ‘because she had a deep voice and snored in her sleep. What's more, she also had to shave her face,’” quotes the British newspaper the Daily Mail.

This does not appear to have been the case with Semenya, as medical science is now aware of medical conditions in which gender identity is not so clear-cut. Oh, the things you can find out on the Internet.

The Mail also rhetorically mused, “Surely, one would think, determining one's sex is as simple as removing one's underwear and taking a look.”

Apparently not. Maybe one should look at the underwear itself to find out. Is it a jock strap or a jogging bra?

Another UK paper, The Guardian (The Brits seem much more up on the kinky stuff then us Yanks), one in 15,000 people born have a condition where they are born with male XY chromosomes instead of female XX chromosomes, but due to a protein mutation, appear as female. This means that next time you’re at a ballgame at Fenway Park, there will be two people there who might seem like attractive women, but are actually dudes.

“They would look and behave like a girl," Birmingham University Professor Wiebke Arlt told the Guardian, specifically referring to people with this condition, and not women at Fenway Park.

"Many models and film stars have this disorder. They are very tall and slender featured, very beautiful with peachy skin,” he added.

And you thought it was all plastic surgery.

Conversely, the opposite can be true and a condition called congenital adrenal hyperplasia may cause one to “look on the outside like a boy," says Arlt, "but once a month they may have blood in their urine.”

The teenage years are tough enough for anyone to deal with, never mind finding out that you’re not the gender you thought you were.

Traditionally, children born with duel sex characteristics have been known derisively as “hermaphrodites.” With modern medicine making the public aware that this is a natural, albeit unfortunate and rare condition, they are now referred to more compassionately as being “intersex.”

Fortunately, we live in an age when many of these issues can be discovered early and corrected.

When the next Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue comes out, I will certainly look at it with a jaundiced eye…but I will look at it.

Posted by dmargarita at 12:47 PM

July 27, 2009

P.E.D. Dispensers

Congratulations go out to former Boston Red Sox slugger Jim Rice who was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame this past weekend. As for me, I spent this past weekend trying to figure out how to use Twitter.

Rice was elected in his 15th and final year on the ballot, in large part because his career batting numbers now seem more impressive as the recent sluggers of the game are being exposed as steroid cheats (Yeah, I’m talkin’ about you, Manny!).

Fans act shocked about these steroid revelations, but this doesn’t seem to be that recent a phenomenon. I recall being at a Red Sox-Oakland A’s playoff game in 1988 with Sox fans taunting A’s right fielder Jose Canseco with chants of “STE-ROIDS! STE-ROIDS!” Canseco took it in stride and jokingly showed off his biceps during a stoppage in play. I’m glad total strangers don’t give me the same treatment for my obvious physical attributes due to ingestion of various substances. It would be pretty embarrassing to have total strangers come up to me and yell, “DOUGH-NUTS! DOUGH-NUTS!”

Some have tried to associate past bad behavior with steroid use. It has often been noted that Babe Ruth performed on the field after spending the previous evening performing off the field. The Sultan of Swat was noted for his affinity for alcohol and his constant (and extremely successful) pursuit of women. To equate the Babe and steroid users is absurd, because I don’t think one can classify bootleg gin or gonorrhea as “performance enhancers.”

Former Major League pitcher Jim Bouton’s 1970 book Ball Four was the first to expose the dirty secrets of the national pastime in great detail, noting that payers often used amphetamines or “greenies” to help them get through the grueling grind of coast-to-coast travel and day games after night games, or for that matter, a four hour baseball game. Whether or not those greenies helped with one’s performance on the baseball diamond, I’m not knowledgeable enough to say. I will say that if I were to have open-heart surgery, I would not want my surgeon taking greenies to “enhance” his or her performance.

Slugger Rafael Palmeiro became best known not as a hitter, but as a spokesman for Viagra, which is sort of another type of “performing enhancing” drug. After vehemently denying steroid use to congress, Palmeiro tested positive for steroids. Knowing the effects that steroids have on the male reproductive system, it begins to answer why a healthy, well-conditioned 37-year-old professional athlete would need that type of performance enhancer.

Canseco was arrested last year while trying to sneak a female fertility drug into the country from Mexico, while Manny Ramirez was suspended 50 games for using the same drug to counter the effects of steroid use. Los Angeles Dodgers officials should have become suspicious when Ramirez ordered not only a protective cup, but also a sports bra.

One group of fans this would seem to effect would be baseball groupies. What’s the point of dating these guys if they’re physically incapable of doing anything off the field?

That players look for an edge, is nothing new. Author Zev Chafets notes in his new book Cooperstown Confidential: Heroes, Rogues and the Inside Story of the Baseball Hall of Fame, that James “Pud” Galvin, a star pitcher in the 19th century who is in the Baseball HOF, ingested monkey testosterone in 1889. Galvin was known to throw a fastball, a change-up and on occasion, his own feces.

The substance didn’t seem to help him on the pitcher’s mound much, although it may have affected his health, perhaps the same effects as modern steroids, with Galvin dying at age 45, not to mention acquiring the nickname “Pud.”

This was long before the advent of the designated hitter and at the plate, Galvin was known as a “free swinger.” He’d swing at high pitches, he’d swing at low pitches and sometimes he’d swing from the hotel chandelier. But seriously folks…

Barry Bonds is said to have used Human Growth Hormone, which notably led to the increase of the size of his chest, his feet and his head. When a man in his 30’s is outgrowing his clothes, did no one become suspicious? At age 37, a man shouldn’t have to go shopping for back to school clothes.

There are some truly vile people that are in the Baseball Hall of Fame (Yeah, I’m talkin’ about you, Ty Cobb!), but the steroid cheats used substances that altered their bodies to such a degree as to greatly affect not only their performance, but the statistical record and thus the game itself and for my money, don’t belong in Cooperstown.

If you’ll excuse me now, I’m off to get my Boston Cream donut.

Posted by dmargarita at 1:54 PM

June 16, 2009

Out In Left Field

Okay, so it’s the middle of June and the baseball season is two and a half months underway. Do you really think I’m going to tempt fate by putting my snow shovel away?

That said, I figured it was time to attend my first Major League Baseball games of the season, which I did…in New York City.

Taking the number 7 express from Times Sq., I arrive at the Citi Field, brand spanking new home of the Ney York Mets. Instead of waiting in the Will Call line, kiosks provide your ticket after a quick swipe of the credit card you bought the ticket with. Modern technology 1, quaintness of waiting in line like the old days, 0.

The main entrance is the Jackie Robinson Rotunda, a tribute to the man and styled after the legendary ballpark Ebbets Field in Brooklyn. Modern convenience and old-timeyness.

Since my first Mets game was in Shea Stadium in the last row of the upper deck for a Mets-Phillies game in 1987, I check out the last row of seats in the upper deck. With an extensive overhang, it seems less terrifying than the last row at Shea was when descending said stairs at such a steep pitch seemed like conclusion of a Hitchcock thriller.

My actual seat is in row B in a sliver of seats in left field, about ten feet from the foul pole. Home run territory.

Like Shea, planes still rise from over the left field section of the ballpark, but with such a low cloud ceiling, they quickly disappear into the clouds like Shoeless Joe Jackson disappearing into the corn in Field of Dreams.

There’s a kids section beyond CF and if you‘re there or enjoying a beverage from the bottled beer booth, you can still watch the game via a large screen TV. That goes along with two HD video screens inside the ballpark, one in CF and one right next to it in RF.

Being in New York, it seems appropriate to get a Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog at the ballpark. I seldom eat hot dogs as my doctor has urged me to cut down on the amount of rodent fecal matter in my diet. Nathan’s proudly noted that they were established in 1916 and my hot dog tastes like that’s when it was established.

The most annoying thing of the game, is having to show my ticket every time I return to my section, but overall it is a pleasant experience. The Phillies win on a Chase Utley HR in 11 innings.

Friday night is a warm summer evening and Times Sq. comes alive. The many video screens showing ads constantly change color, which changes the whole tone of that section of the square. Several areas have been blocked off to auto traffic and are pedestrian malls. You can sit in one of the deck chairs they’ve put there or position yourself for a photo that if you’d tried to take before, would’ve likely resulted in your demise.

While passing the ESPN Zone, I find myself among a crowd watching the Mets-Yankees game on a TV through the window. With two New York teams involved, half of the crowd is rooting for Mets, the other half the Yanks. With runners on first and second and two outs, Alex Rodriguez hits what appears to be an easy pop-up to second base for the third out and the Yanks fans groan while the Mets fans cheer. Remarkably, the Mets second baseman Castillo drops it. Two runs score and the Yankees win. Well, it’s more like the Mets lose. The shift in cheering is fun to watch.

Saturday is more of a challenge as I head into enemy territory, to the new Yankee Stadium. This jewel has wider seats with more legroom than the ones at Fenway Parl. Oh, yeah, all of the seats are cushioned. My seat is once again in left field.

Unfortunately, there is a slight drizzle. Fortunately, it’s not enough to delay the start of the game. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring a jacket or rain gear. Fortunately, there’s an overhang that juts out over the seats in left field. Unfortunately, it only extends to the row behind me, so while they do not get rained on, I do.

I decide to watch much of the game standing up behind the last row of the seats on the third base side, as you were once able to do at Fenway Park, but no longer can, but not before visiting the Yankee Museum. Autographed bats, balls and uniform jersey’s are impressive to an old-time baseball geek. Of course, I’m more awed by the Babe Ruth Yankees than the Joe Torre Yankees.

Like Citi Field, a fan has to show his/her ticket to get back to their seat, so in neither ballpark, no matter what the score, one cannot sneak down to the good seats late in a game or during a blowout when seats become available.

If there’s one thing New York City is known for, besides being the shooting ground for about five versions of the TV show Law & Order (and I did pass by L&O star and Woburn native Eric Bogosian and said, “Eric Bogosion, Woburn Tanner, Dan Margarita, Stoneham Spartan” which prompted a look from him as though I’d told him I was the Lindbergh baby), it’s the theater.

With the Mets having a commanding lead, I leave after the seventh inning because I have a ticket to see The 39 Steps at the Helen Hayes Theater. It’s a small but elegant little theater that opened in 1912, the same year as Fenway Park and when Helen Hayes was 12 years old. Seems kind of strange that they would name a theater after a 12 year old, but she was a legend.

The play The 39 Steps, is a comedy based on the Hitchcock movie of the same name. Yes, you read that correctly…a comedy based on a Hitchcock movie. While Hitchcock was know for some macabre humor, farcical comedy is not what comes to mind when you think of Alfred Hitchcock. I can’t wait to see Psycho, the Musical.

(Singing) “I’m gonna stab, stab, stab you in the shower/and watch your blood run drown the drain/ Cuz psycho killing gives me power/and sends endorphins through my brain.”

The show proved to be quite enjoyable, though. Perhaps the best part was getting my ticket at a discount through a coupon given out in the square. I had a seat right in the middle of the crowd for a perfect view.

I would’ve thought they’d stick me out in left field.

Posted by dmargarita at 4:33 PM

April 21, 2009

Marathon Man

Patriot’s Day means three things in Massachusetts, the Boston Red Sox will play at 11 a.m., and the Boston Marathon will be run, and state workers will have the day off.

I was fortunate enough to be invited by a friend who conveniently lives on Beacon St., right around the 23 mile mark, to stop by and watch the festivities from there.

It seems that getting to the Marathon itself is kind of well, a marathon. State officials make it a point to tell the public to use public transportation. What they fail to realize is that many people have to use private transportation to get to the public transportation.

I traveled to Oak Grove in Malden to use P.T., but got shut out of a parking space there. Fortunately, I was early enough at Wellington Station to get one of the few remaining parking spots, and from there, made my way to the dreaded Green Line.

Between the Red Sox and Marathon crowd, one could only hope to squeeze or be squeezed onto a Green Line car. I retreated to the well of the steps of the car, fortunately on the side where the doors weren’t opening, and had to stand in an awkward position, keeping my weight on one leg to avoid being crushed my the throngs of people. Still, I found myself forced into some intimate moments with total strangers. My positioning forced me to make a new friend as eye was at eye level with a woman sitting in the first chair by the door I was at. Over the P.A. system the conductor scolded us like school children, repeatedly yelling, “Move all the way in! Watch the doors! Watch the doors!”

If she’d yelled “Raus! Raus!” I would’ve gotten nervous.

As luck would have it, I arrived at my destination just in time to catch the leaders coming by. You can tell by the slow speed of the motorcycle police coming down Beacon Street that the lead runners are arriving and that it’s not and attempt to pull over an errant motorist.

The winners, Ethiopia's Deriba Merga and Kenya's Salina Kosgei, come by and then the trickle of elite runners make their way past. Shortly thereafter, more and more runners go by and eventually the solid, but non-elite runners start to arrive en masse. As the line continues, more and more runners are walking. I find myself trying to encourage them with shouts of “You can do it!” or “Just three miles to go!”

It hits me how ridiculous this sounds. That makes it sounds like three miles is easy, when I know that I could not run the final three miles, much less the previous 23 that they’ve just run.

“You can do it!”?

Hell, I know that I can’t do it. In fact, I find myself feeling guilty for getting tired just clapping for ten minutes for people who have now run 23 miles.

The wheelchair athletes courageously make their way past, and deservedly get plenty of support.

One guy has clearly given up, judging by the fact that he is now walking with a Bud Light can in his hand, no less. Glad to see he followed a strict training regimen.

A female runner veers close to the curb and screams, “I need water! I need water!”

Fortunately, a woman a few feet away, who has her infant in a stroller, has a small bottle of water in her hand and removes the cap and hands it to the runner, who continues on her way. It might’ve been interesting to see what would have happened if she gave the runner the bottle of formula attached to the stroller.

It was right around then when the less serious runners come by. Super Heroes were well represented, with Captain America, Wonder Woman and Batman all making an appearance. No doubt, marathoners get asked a lot “Why on earth would you want to run 26 miles?” Perhaps an even more pertinent question is “Why on earth you would want to run 26 miles in a Batman costume?”

Also, a man with a blonde wig (with pig tails) comes by dressed as a Hooters waitress.

Other entertainment includes a tuba player and a man playing a sort of tom-tom or small kettledrum. One would never think that a tuba could be so melodic. Then a woman chimes in with her fife, much to the seeming annoyance of the tuba player who is forced by her to continuously play the song “Mama’s Little Baby Loves Shortening” (or whatever it’s called). My party host, Mike Donovan, videotapes the proceedings and joins in on tambourine, which seems to annoy the fife player. You can tell from her reaction in Mike’s video that she’s a little miffed. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5jvrbHf5Ws&feature=channel

The Green Line train ride home wasn’t nearly as crowded, but with the Red Sox and Marathon traffic dispersing, takes an interminable hour. There is some entertainment as a young man on the train decides to use his cell phone to videotape the big drunk guy a few feet away. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to sober up and find that on YouTube some day.

So, if you know someone who ran the Boston Marathon, buy him or her a well-deserved beer…or Gatorade…or some deodorant.

Posted by dmargarita at 5:28 PM

March 23, 2009

Hooterville

I’d long ago dubbed Hooters restaurant as “the place to go when you want to pay a lot of money to be treated like crap by all the beautiful girls who ignored you in high school.”

Clearwater, Florida is home to the Philadelphia Phillies spring training facilities, as well as the first Hooters restaurant ever, established there in 1983. I’m guessing there has been a hefty turnover of staff since then as some of the original staff has probably gotten pretty hefty; you know, what with all the access to those free chicken wings.

After several years of attending Philadelphia Phillies games in Clearwater on my annual Spring Training trip with baseball pals Jim & Rick, I finally had the chance to visit the birthplace of Hooters; Hooterville itself, as it were.

The connection between Hooters and the Phillies is strong. Besides many ads around the ballpark, there is a “Hooters VIP Diamond Dugout” down the third base line. Fans sitting there can have their food served to them by Hooters waitresses.

Although Clearwater is the home of the original Hooters, many other ballparks seem to have Hooters waitresses patrolling the grounds, as well. In Clearwater, the Phillies use them as “ball girls” on each base line. That is, they are supposed to retrieve foul balls and give them to kids in the stands. I’ll leave it to you to insert your own “ball girls” joke.

From what I could discern, these ball girls didn’t seem to be selected for their athletic ability, or even their knowledge of the game as one of them unwittingly fields a ball in play that winds up being scored as a ground-rule double as a result of her interference.

My two previous experiences at a Hooters restaurant weren’t pleasant ones. The first occasion was at the old Hooters near the Boston Garden. I went in to check it out several years ago to have some food, a beer and watch a ballgame. After perusing the menu for just a few minutes, the bartender rudely asked “Are you gonna order something, or what?” That question pretty much made my decision for me. A simple “Are you ready to order?” as most service people would ask, would’ve kept me there and who knows, maybe coming back.

I told someone this story recently and it made me realize that after all these years it wasn’t fair to judge the whole chain and their staff by one bad experience, so I decided to give them another chance (honestly, it was in the interest of fairness). So I recently took a trip to the new Hooters on Rte. 1 for a meal, bypassing such other heart-congestion-inducing haunts as The Border Café and The Hilltop Steakhouse.

It may or may not surprise you to learn that the patrons at Hooters were about 98 percent male. Go figure.

The waitress was friendly enough and the fish sandwich was okay, but when I paid my bill of $12.25, the waitress brought back my change of… $7, instead of $7.75. I’m a pretty good tipper, having had many friends in the service industry, but when you automatically assume the extra .75 as part of your tip, I tend to simply deduct that amount and even a little less, so instead of the handsome tip I would’ve given, she got less than she might have (although still an OK tip).

While we had made several trips over the years to Clearwater for Phillies games, we had never visited the original Hooters, so we decide to make the pilgrimage to the original land of Hooters for the first time ever. The waitress was peasant enough and the burger was okay, but as I went to check the rest of the place out, I unwittingly went upstairs, not realizing that it’s for staff only. As I descend the stairs, I run into the manager who chews me out instead of saying “I’m sorry sir, this is for staff only.”

That pretty much cemented my opinion of Hooters and as I left for home the next day, I was determined that I was done with the owl-themed (yeah, right) restaurant for good. Or so I thought…

Making my way through Tampa Airport, I realize that I can’t find my cell phone. I search my bags frantically, re-trace my steps, go to lost and found…all the things you’re supposed to do. Figuring, well more like praying, that it had fallen out of my pocket and into the rental car from Rick which had dropped me at the airport, I try calling my own phone from a pay phone to see if Rick (or anybody) answers.

I try later again on and it hits me that if I did if fact put it in my luggage by mistake, perhaps the last thing I want to do in the post-911 era is have luggage handlers hearing a ring tone come from my suitcase.

Alas, through the miracle that is the Internet, I learn the next morning that Rick does indeed have my cell phone. It hadn’t fallen out of my pocket and into the rental car as I figured, though. It was found by the manager of Hooters.

Well, maybe I can give them one more chance.

Posted by dmargarita at 4:46 PM

November 17, 2008

To Pee or Not to Pee

“To everything, turn, turn turn” says the book of Ecclesiastes. Okay, let’s face it. You know it from a song by the ‘60’s rock band The Byrds. “A time for everything” also means that there is a time to NOT to do some things such as: make a cell phone call…especially when you’re driving, performing surgery or perhaps most importantly, going about your business at a men’s room urinal.

Last week my sister and I went to Chicago for the Chicago Bears Alumni dinner and football game. No, I didn’t play for the Bears, nor did my sister Jean, although she was quite a speedster in her time.

Our late father, Bob Margarita, was a member of the Bears in the 1940’s, which although he has passed, has enabled us to become part of the Bears’ family and get invited to Alumni Weekend. Hey, I’ll ride my Dad’s coattails if it means a free dinner, a cheap price at a five-star hotel and free tickets to a game. I doubt Julian Lennon is complaining too much about living off his father’s name.

Anyway, there are plenty of things to do in Chicago and even if you’ve done them before, by the time you’ve had a chance to do other things, you don’t mind doing the first things over again.

One of the things I did was go to the top of the Hancock Tower Observation Deck. The big change from the last time I was there was the new version of audio tour headsets, which now feature visuals to help you follow along with what the narrator is describing. Oh yeah, the narrator is actor David Schwimmer, aka, the weak link on the TV show Friends. Unfortunately, his narration is as wooden and forced as his acting.

The view from the 94th floor is stunning and what information David Schwimmer doesn’t give you, can be found on the walls of the inside of the deck. Did you know that Chicago was where the Ferris wheel and the Twinkie were invented? More importantly, it was where the zipper was invented. This would come in handy for my trip to Soldier Field.

As the late, great voice of NFL Films, John Facenda might put it, “It was a blustery November day as the Midwest winds howled and a brief but intense flurry came across the plains of Soldier Field.”

As someone from Southie might put it, “Everybody was gettin’ wick-id hamm-ahd!”

Well, a few spectators were, anyhow. Not that anybody was obnoxious but in the true spirit of tailgating, fans had lubricated themselves before the game and were tipping some cold ones during the game.

My eighth grade health teacher told us that alcohol made you warmer, even if it was a cold beer. I suppose she was trying to discourage us from drinking, but I doubt she figured we could use that as an excuse to drink in the wintertime.

As a consequence, this tailgate Sunday resulted in perpetually long lines at the men’s and ladies’ room. Of course, ladies room lines tend to be longer anyway, but that’s a discussion for another day (I don’t know how you ladies get through it).

Like any middle-aged man, at some point my bladder reached its capacity, but seeing the long lines for the men’s rooms, plus not wanting to miss any of the game, I chose to wait.

It seemed logical that if there is a line, that line will eventually subside. Well, the beer line, where patrons can only purchase one beer per person, didn’t subside (likely because they only sell one beer per person), which was why the men’s room lines (and women’s room lines) didn’t subside.

At some point, I could wait no more. I plunged into the queue and waited my turn.

There are certain protocols in a men’s room. Keep your eyes straight ahead or down and don’t try to strike up a conversation while going about your business.

These are, of course, unwritten rules. You can scour the U.S. Constitution and The Declaration of Independence all you want and you’ll never see the phrase “bathroom etiquette” mentioned once.

While not an unwritten rule, it seems common sense not to be making a call on your cell phone while in the act. Suppose you drop it. Are you going to retrieve it? Is the call that important? Couldn’t it have waited?

The gentleman making such a call didn’t have that happen, but he did incur the ridicule of the men in line behind him, who provided their own version of his conversation for our amusement.

“Hey, Ma…is it supposed to be this small?”

He was so wrapped up in his conversation that he never realized that he was being mercilessly mocked.

The funny thing about having to pee is that the closer you get to the opportunity to do so, the worse you have to go. Having been such a cold day, as previously mentioned, I dressed for the occasion with a jacket, four sweatshirts (one hooded, in true Belichick style), a T-shirt, two pairs of socks and two pairs of pants.

I don’t suffer from stage fright, at least not the men’s room kind, but with an extensive line behind me, the pressure was on…in every sense.

Fortunately, I completed the task successfully and I was extremely glad that my two pairs’ jeans weren’t in the old fashion “button fly” style, all because of a great Chicago invention…the zipper.

You were wondering how I was going to tie all of this in, weren’t you?

Then I was able to go back and watch the game in peace.

Too bad they didn’t sell Twinkies.

Posted by dmargarita at 11:52 AM

September 25, 2008

Stadium Daze

Let me state right off the bat, that I don’t hate the New York Yankees. Oh, and sorry for the “bat” pun…and that one, too.

This past Sunday night, the Yankees played their final game at Yankee Stadium, also known as “The House That Ruth Built.” There won’t be anymore games there this season because as has been much noted here in the Boston area, THE YANKEES WON’T BE IN THE PLAYOFFS FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE 1993…but again, I don’t hate the Yankees.

As a baseball fan I’m always happy to travel to ballparks other than Fenway Park (yes, there are ballparks other than Fenway) to see a game. Thus, I felt the urge to see storied Yankee Stadium one last time before it becomes yet another piece of rubble in the Bronx.

There are numerous ways to get to the ballpark, located in the South Bronx, from downtown. One is by car. The last person I know who did that, had his car broken into and several things stolen, including his tax returns.

The most common method of travel is by subway, on the D line which takes you to 161st Street. If you’re unsure as to which train to get on, just follow the mass of people wearing Yankees gear.

My ticket was for Row B, Seat 13 in the upper deck. One might reasonably assume that Row B would be the second row, but instead I found that much to my confusion, not only was the first row, Row “A” but that the second row was also Row “A”. The third row was Row B, as was the fourth row, and so on and so on.

I was able to figure out which Row “B” I was supposed to be in because I assumed the person sitting in the other Row B, seat 13, knew where he or she was supposed to be.

Having left an unseasonably chilly Boston, I dressed for the same weather in NYC but instead found my seats to be in the sun on a very hot and humid day. Being in seat thirteen meant that to get up and leave to go for a beverage, food or a men’s room break, I would have to inconvenience at least twelve people in either direction.

For a Red Sox fan, going into Yankee Stadium makes you feel like a cat trying to sneak into a dog pound. However, I’m not one of those fans who will wear Sox clothing into Yankee Stadium looking for a fight. I’m crazy, not stupid. In fact, since the Yankees were facing the Tampa Bay Rays, who are ahead of the Red Sox in the standings, I found myself in the unusual position of rooting for the Yankees. Sure, that may sound like General Custer’s wife rooting for the Sioux Indians, but if Mrs. Custer had a big bet on the Indians and knew her husband would still come home safe, she might make the wager.

As columnist and friend Bob Ryan recently noted in the Boston Globe, the current Yankee Stadium is NOT the same one that Babe Ruth played in. Okay, I’ve never actually met Bob Ryan, but I saw him at Doyle’s Pub once.

The current ballpark was constructed on the grounds of the original and opened in time for the 1976 season, and saw the Yankees win their first pennant since 1964. Not having currently won a pennant since 2001, that could be the reason why Yankee owner George Steinbrenner decided to open a new ballpark next door. If they win next season, he may construct yet another ballpark for the 2010 season.

Yes, I contemplated just what I might be able to take home as a souvenir, such as “Row B” but I settled for a couple of souvenir soda cups instead. That wasn’t enough for some fans though, as several news outlets reported that fans were trying to take seat number plates, a floor drain and even one guy who tried to steal a toilet seat. I can only assume that he figured that someone in the memorabilia market would pay big money for some remnants of The Babe’s e-coli bacteria.

Oh yeah, I forgot…The Babe didn’t do that in the current Stadium, either.

Posted by dmargarita at 11:48 AM

February 25, 2008

NFL Film History

So, you thought the New England Patriots season ended when they lost the Super Bowl to the New York Giants? Not when somebody can still make money off of it.

Perhaps you’ve heard that the Pats are being sued by two lawyers (nobody gets sued by two bakers), a former St. Louis Rams player, some Rams fans, and maybe an actual ram for $100 million. The plaintiffs allege that the Patriots videotaped the Rams walk-through the day before the Super Bowl, and thus cheated the players and fans out of tens of millions of dollars. Just how much are the Rams charging for tickets, anyway?

I’ve seen one of the lawyers involved in a TV interview and frankly, he looks like a spokesman for the WWE. If he substituted the word wrestling for the word “football” it would not have looked out pf place. I fully expected to see someone creep up behind him and hit him with a metal chair. In other words, the man seems to be mainly trying to generate publicity for himself.

This is not the first time the Patriots are alleged to have committed a videotaping violation (in a non-Paris Hilton manner), of course. Football fans are quite aware that the team was caught taping the New York Jet’s defensive coaches giving signals during the two team’s game the first week of the season. In no way am I defending that practice which was wrong, stupid and needless, as their subsequent seventeen consecutive wins would seem to attest to. Perhaps someone misunderstood coach Bill Belichick’s instructions.

“I meant ‘tape the game on your VCR!’”

The Patriots denied taping the Rams’ walk-through but thank to the Jets game foolishness, the Pats have left themselves open to being questioned on all of their ensuing success. When you’re so far superior to your opponent, you don’t need to cheat. Do you think the Romans needed to peek into the Christian’s locker room before the match to steal any signals?

Mind you, I can personally attest that such tactics are nothing new. Regular readers of this space may recall that my father, Bob Margarita, played for the Chicago Bears from 1944-46. Over the years he has regaled us (as nearly every father does) with stories, including one about the time the Bears were practicing at Wrigley Field, the site of their home games. They noticed two men with binoculars stationed at one of the houses across the street. Since the glasses were focused on the field and not on the YWCA building across the street, the Bears management sent one of the trainers across the street to investigate. After being gone an inordinate amount of time, the trainer finally returned, unmistakably three sheets to the wind.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about them. They’re great guys!” the trainer proclaimed about the other team’s scouts who had distracted him with liquor from fulfilling his mission.

Thus, I have decided that since we live in such a litigious society, I will settle my lifelong sports disappointments by lawsuit. First up, I plan to sue Woburn (Ma.) Little League. It’s clear to me now that they must have cheated when they handily defeated my Stoneham National Little League All-Star team in 1974. Sure, we made fun of their pitcher while he warmed up for having a buzz-cut which in 1974, NO kid had. We weren’t laughing later when he pitched a two-hitter, striking me out three times. Clearly, this large young man, sporting such an un-hip haircut for the times, was at least 35-years-old.

Since no one else has jumped on it yet, I will sue the former East Germany and other Eastern Bloc countries for the medals that their “women’s” teams racked up in the 1970’s They were surely into steroids or something similar well before the West since their super-muscular women’s teams sported more facial hair than our men’s teams. Menopause, you say? Not likely. Let’s see how far your grandmother throws the shot put. Perhaps it should’ve been a tip-off that our women’s teams wore sports bras while the East German women wore protective cups.

This case may get settled out of court, as many cases do. Perhaps the plaintiffs will settle for what would seem like an appropriate award…a case of sour grapes.

Posted by dmargarita at 6:13 PM

February 13, 2008

Nobody's Perfect

Well, I guess it’s true what they say:“You can’t win ‘em all”…unless you’re the 1972 Miami Dolphins.

As you may have heard by now, the New England Patriots recently lost to the New York Giants in Super Bowl Whatever The Hell The Roman Numerals For It Are. I count myself among the Pats fans who were extremely disappointed at the idea of falling short of joining the ’72 Dolphins as the NFL’s only undefeated teams.

The question has been raised by local sports media as to whether this loss was worse than the multitude of really horrible “there’s no way in hell that any team but the Red Sox could possibly lose like that” failures that the Boston Red Sox have suffered over the years. Alas, I have to conclude no, it wasn’t quite as bad. Sure, all appropriate fellatio-oriented analogies apply like “It sucked!”… It blew!”…“It really bit the big one!” but Red Sox hell has been far worse.

Some may disagree but, until the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, few if any fans were still around when Babe Ruth and his Red Sox teammates hoisted champagne to celebrate the teams’ last successful World Series appearance and thus had never known a championship season. The point being that, despite the Pats loss to the Giants, at least I’ve already seen them win a few championships.

Sox fans of a certain age may remember the collapse of ’49, Bucky “Bleeping” Dent in 1978 and the Mother of All Collapses…1986.

Just one strike away from winning the Series in ‘86, the Sox took a choke that Heimlich himself couldn’t have prevented. Even a Yankee fan friend of mine (who was also a Mets-hater) noted to me the next day when he called to check on my well-being, “Planets were colliding.”

More recently was the nightmare that was the 2003 American League Championship Series. Fans, like athletes themselves, tend to be superstitious when it comes to their team. If you were wearing your Michigan State sweatshirt the last time your team won the big game, you’re going to wear it for the next game. In fact, I was at a Super Bowl party when the Patriots won their first Super Bowl and was in the bathroom when they scored their first touchdown. I was afraid to come out of the bathroom and afraid that my friends wouldn’t let me come out.

Superstition is why I decided to watch Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS, at the same place where my friends Jim and Britt and I had watched them win Game 6 the previous evening. The bad omens began immediately. When Jim and I arrived for the second night in a row at the Lakeside Lounge, a part of The Lord Wakefield Hotel (located, appropriately enough in Wakefield, Ma.), a quick glance at the room made it clear that something was wrong as the place was nearly empty.

“We changed ownership at midnight so we lost our liquor license at midnight” a waitress explained.

Since it was near game time, we scrambled to think of a place to watch the game and decided on the now-defunct Ground Round in Stoneham. With Britt not having a cell phone, we hoped he’d figure out where we were going so he could join us (he did).

Things started well for the Sox who built up a 5-2 lead. The camaraderie was palpable when Trot Nixon smashed a home run and we all cheered. A guy at the bar decided to give us all a high-five. That’s fine. When Jason Varitek scored on an error, it prompted the guy to give us another high-five. Kevin Millar led off the fourth inning with a home run which drew, as you might have guessed by now, a high-five.

The Yanks mustered two runs but in the top of the eighth David Ortiz hit a home run to put the Sox up 5-2. This time a high-five wasn’t enough. The guy at the bar insisted on giving us all a hug. I don’t know about you, but I’m not all that comfortable getting a hug from a strange guy in a bar.

As some us remember too well, Sox manager Grady Little left pitcher Pedro Martinez in way too long, despite the fact that the team was conscious all year long that for the first 100 pitches, Pedro was virtually untouchable. From pitches 105-110, he wasn’t quite as successful. From pitch 111-on, he was throwing batting practice.

As Little continued to leave Pedro on the mound and various screams of “What is he doing!?” and “He’s done! Get him out of there!” could be heard, the game slipped away. When Aaron Boone hit a home run off of Tim Wakefield in the 11th inning, a collective wave of depression settled over the room. It was yet another heartbreaking loss for the Sox and left them 85 years without a championship.

Of course, all of that changed when the Sox won the World Series the next year and now with two World Series wins in four years in the books, it almost seems as expected…like Super Bowl wins for the Pats.

It was a tough loss for the Patriots but then again, nobody’s perfect.

Posted by dmargarita at 11:13 PM

June 18, 2007

Cubby Hole

Chicago Cubs manager Lee Elia once suggested that Cubs fans should “go out and get a (expletive) job” but they apparently still haven’t taken his advice.

A Chicago vacation isn’t complete for me unless I make it to a Cubs game, and it was even better since I managed to attend two contests.

Even playing weekday games, the team draws exceedingly well between students and business types playing hooky, vacationers and the aforementioned people without a job. Yet, a single ticket is pretty easy to get and I opt for a shady seat about 30-40 rows behind home plate. Having spent two and a half hours the previous day on a boat cruise down the Chicago River and out on to Lake Michigan in 93 degree heat, it seems like the prudent choice. Not anticipating the climate, I hadn’t thought to bring a hat, sunblock or even a pair of summer shorts on the cruise (or the trip) and wound up with what we Bostonians call a “wicked” burn.

Entering Wrigley Field, the Cubs home, involves nothing like the security measures of Fenway Park which usually includes a pat-down, retina scan, and cavity search. Like Boston, the Cubs are a big-market team and spent a tidy sum this past winter to rebuild the team. Unlike the Red Sox, the Cubs haven’t felt the need to raise that cash by selling every inch of free space within the ballpark for advertisements. The lone concessions are a corporate logo on the utility doors amongst the ivy covered walls in the outfield and the rotating sign behind home plate which partially obscures the beautiful brick work. Despite their best efforts to lose the game, the Cubs manage to hang on for the victory.

There are no shortage of taverns to hang out after the game to avoid the crush of the train, so I opt for Merkle’s, named for a New York Giants first baseman, best known for a botched play that led to the Cubs winning the pennant and later, the World Series. The year was 1908 and as any Cubs fan can tell you, they have not won it since. So in essence, 1908 is their 1918. Besides getting a tavern named after him, the mental lapse of the play has long been dubbed as “Merkle’s Boner” by baseball scribes. To that, you may supply your own joke. Later, I get to the ESPN Zone which I manage to a lot where the multiple TV’s give me a chance to catch-up with the Red Sox, who have been stumbling as of late. If watching millionaires whack a ball with a stick isn’t your cup of tea, other viewing options include: three soccer games, a WNBA game and a rugby match. If tea isn’t your cup of tea, several types of beer, hard drinks and food are available, but be warned: The ESPN Zone is a tourist trap, i.e., it’s expensive.

On Saturday, there is also a large crowd, probably larger because Cubs fans who are employed are able to attend, and the only ticket available for me is near the left field foul pole, completely in the sun. Still not having bought a pair of shorts, it seems I may roast again as the temperature continues to hover in the low 90’s. Fortunately, as the game starts clouds and a breeze from an approaching storm roll in to give some relief.

Actress Julia Louis-Dreyfus throws out the first pitch and later leads the crowd in a chorus of “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” during the seventh inning stretch. Cubs ace Carlos Zambrano gives up just two hits. However, the second hit is a home run in the ninth inning and the Cubs lose 1-0 as a driving rain sets in.

National League games are usually quicker than American League games and indeed, this contest takes about two and half hours. This includes a ten minute delay in which a beanball incident leads to a brawl and the ensuing ejections. That doesn’t include the ejection of the drunken young woman who keeps eluding security and somehow popping up in our section despite a constant pursuit.

This is perhaps one consequence of beer being sold in the stands at Wrigley Field, a practice that the Red Sox abandoned about 25 years ago. Also, if one wants to purchase a beer and a hot dog, they don’t have to go to two separate lines as they do at Fenway Park. They can be purchased at the same concession stand. The last time that happened at Fenway Park was in a scene from the movie “Field of Dreams” with Kevin Costner. Concession stands are plentiful and provide a wide variety of food options.

So I’m guessing that if Wrigley Field is heaven for me, it’s probably also heaven for Homer Simpson.

Posted by dmargarita at 4:45 PM

October 15, 2006

A Bear and His Cub Return to Chicago

Sure, I love New York------but as far as cities go, there’s no place like Chicago.

I had the opportunity to revisit my favorite city this past weekend, but under very special circumstances. I was accompanying my father, Bob Margarita, to the Chicago Bears Homecoming Weekend. They have one every year, and this marks the 60th anniversary on the 1946 team that won the NFL Championship and were marking the occasion with Dad and some of his former teammates.

The best way to get to Chicago, in my opinion, is by flying out of Manchester Airport which is a joy as far as airports go. Security at any airport is always a nightmare, however. With an arthritic 85-year-old, I found it best to use a wheelchair to speed up the trip through the airport. It’s the first time I’ve flown since liquids have been banned from flights and after my bag goes through screening, they pull out some old hotel shampoo bottles and a travel size can of shaving cream. and tell these should've been "declared" before I went through security. They also take issue with my father’s inhalers and tell me that technically, I’m supposed to go through security again and have my bag re-screened and act as though they’re letting me get away with something. Then I’m told to take my sneakers off as well as my father’s. They ask him if he can walk and he indicates that he can with some assistance, so he stands up and they give him a wooden cane and make him walk through the metal detector. In his socks, he navigates through, trying to avoid hitting the sides of the machine and on his second try succeeds, despite my fear that he’ll slip and fall. I know that security must be tight, but an 85-year-old doesn’t seem too much of a threat and I’m pretty angry about this. Yet, I keep quiet because if I gripe, I know that in two hours I’ll be sitting in shackles in Gitmo. After he finishes and gets back in his wheelchair, a Transportation Security Administration (TSA) woman suggests to me that next time he should be wheeled through and just have a “pat-down” which is what I was assuming was going to be done anyway. The most angry but controlled response I can come up with is “It wasn’t my call” in a terse manner.

Arriving in Chicago, we take a cab to the Hilton on S. Michigan Ave. and if there’s one thing all cities in America have in common, it’s the death-defying, James Bond car-chase, cab ride. Ironically, the Hilton is right next to the Essex where I stayed last year to see the Red Sox play the Cubs and is more in my price range then the Hilton would normally be. The Hilton may be one block north of the Essex, but it’s miles north in its level of comfort. A five-star hotel, it is also hosting the American College of Surgeons, whom I’m guessing doesn’t have much of a football team but recovers from their injuries pretty quickly.

Saturday night a dinner was held, preceeded by a reception in a room that featured a beautiful view of Lake Michigan and when it got dark, the lights of the city to our left. Guests began arriving at 6:00 p.m. and many of them are older guys, who were pretty large in their day, but would be small by the game’s current standards. Some of the guys are still pretty big, especially the younger ones. I introduce myself to George Blanda, whom many remember as the aging place-kicker for the Oakland Raiders, unaware that he started out as a quarterback for the Bears. I tell him that as a child, his was the first autograph that I ever got. I told him that I then sent for Detroit Tiger Willie Horton’s but the slugger never returned my bubble gum card signed or unsigned, thus discouraging me from ever sending for another autograph from anyone. That was about the time that Mr. Blanda thought it was a good time to get up and go mingle with other people. Two other members of the ‘46 Bears arrive, Ed Sprinkle and Jim Keane. Along with my father, there are six of them left but three of them were unable to attend. One can almost hear the sounds of bone-on-bone arthritis in the room. As one former player would note the next day, “I used to be able to run the 100 yard-dash in eleven/five (seconds) and now I can’t even walk the distance.”

Dinner followed in a ballroom downstairs. Brian McCaskey of the Bears kept his promise of keeping his speech to a minimum, but a presentation was made to the ‘46 Bears players. All were given a framed photo of the team, accompanied by a posed photo of each player. Kara Smith, an attractive young woman that handles alumni relations, said she would have our photo shipped, which I tell her was a good idea since I couldn’t get a travel-sized can of shaving cream on a plane, much less breakable glass. Then each player was presented with a beautiful dark leather jacket that had the orange Chicago Bears “C” embroidered on the left breast.

After the meal, former players and relatives of players got to mingle, with new friends being made and memories being shared. Sons, daughters, nieces and nephews heard stories of their fathers that perhaps they had not known. There was a tremendous sense of family in a manner that a new team, such as the Carolina Panthers, simply don’t know and couldn’t possibly know for decades.

On Sunday, two buses take all the alums and kin to Soldier Field, which was renovated a few years ago. The old Roman Colosseum-style columns remain on the outside, but inside is a space-age type of facility, making it look like The Jetson’s landed in Ancient Rome. Some of the alumni go onto the field before the game, but it seems too time-consuming and perhaps dangerous to the turf to attempt with Dad's wheelchair, though I had joked to my brother that I would emulate John Henry Williams, the late son of the late Ted Williams who had his dad wear a “hitters.net” cap when he was driven onto the Fenway Park field before the 1999 All-Star Game. I told my brother I would wheel my father out wearing a “danmargarita.com” baseball cap. We are led to a suite that holds about 25 people, with no obstructed views. It’s all encased in glass so nothing is missed at either end of the field. Free food is plentiful and many choices of cuisine are available. The ‘fridge is stocked with juice, soda, beer and wine. Then a dessert cart comes around which I gladly sample. I can understand why Ken Lay and his ilk unscrupulously pursue money. I don’t condone or admire it, but I can understand it. The high life is pretty sweet.

Oh yeah, there was a football game. The undefeated Bears roll over the Buffalo Bills 40-7 which only adds to the sense of fun. After the game we take the bus back to the hotel to wrap up the weekend.

Flying back from Midway Airport, a TSA security woman notes my father’s temporary ID and pulls us aside for an extra security check. My father, Osama bin Margarita seems to have put a scare into the TSA again. We go through a separate security line. While he is being patted down, I am asked to step into a glass booth and hold my hands out. I’m not sure if this is the one that allows people to see you naked, but I suppose if you’ve got it, flaunt it. A puff of air blows on me for about 17 seconds. Whatever it did, it didn’t catch me doing anything, and we proceed to the gate. Still, it’s not enough to spoil our weekend which was a first-class affair thanks to the Bears and the McCaskey family.

Now if I can just get dad’s name off of that terrorist “watch” list.

Posted by dmargarita at 8:44 PM

October 10, 2005

86 This Sox Season

Much was made of the end of the so-called “Curse of the Bambino” when the Red Sox won the World Series last year. With the recent passing of actor/comedian Don Adams, however, I finally realized that somehow that the Sox curse actually revolves around him, and perhaps should be known as “The Curse of Don Adams.”

A stretch, you say? Let me explain. Adams is best known for playing the bumbling spy Maxwell Smart on the TV show Get Smart. Fans of the show are aware that Smart was Agent 86, working for the government spy agency, Control. That number was not chosen randomly, but for comic reasons as the term to “86” something, means to cease doing it.

As any Red Sox fan can tell you, the number 86 plays a prominent role in Red Sox history. It took the team 86 years to win a World Series, their last coming in 1918. Since that year when the Sox won the Series and the Allies won World War I, the Sox history has been littered with teams that continued take their fans to the brink of success, only to fail miserably in the end.

Each collapse seemed worse than the last one with the team finding imaginative new ways to disappoint, in manners that would be more astounding every time. One doesn’t even have to be a Sox fan to know that the mother of all El Foldo’s was the Bill Buckner ground ball World Series, naturally, in 1986.

Much is made of the fact that the Red Sox played their first game at Fenway Park just days after the Titanic sank in 1912. Yet few people know that Don Adams was born on April 13, 1923 in New York City, five days before the Yankees played their first game at Yankee Stadium, en route to their first World Series championship that season. A coincidence, you say?

Many newspaper wags, at least the more cynical ones (okay, Dan Shaughnessey), made note when the Red Sox posted their retired numbers on the right field facade. Initially they were positioned in the order 9-4-1-8. Of course, the Boston Globe columnist pointed out that the date 9/4/18 was the day before the first game of the 1918 World Series.

Those numbers were soon rearranged to avoid that look, and later the Red Sox added the number 27 for Hall of Famer Carlton Fisk. In addition, the Sox, along with all of Major League Baseball, included the number 42 for baseball legend Jackie Robinson.

I can out-do Shaughnessey on the numbers, here. If you add 27+9+8+4+1 you get a total of 49. If the Red Sox ever retire the number of the popular left-hander Bill Lee, number 37, the total will equal 86. If you add Jackie Robinson’s number 42 with 27, 9, 8, 4, and 1, you get a total of 91. Okay, that total exceeds the number 86, but if you consider that Nomar Garciaparra wore number 5 and for years was considered a shoo-in to make the Hall of Fame and get his number retired, his parting with the team and his downward career track make that unlikely possibility. Thus, you can subtract the number 5 from 91 and it goes down to number 86.

Let’s also remember that Red Sox exec Larry Lucchino referred to the Yankees as “The Evil Empire.” As noted earlier, Smart worked for the good guys, Control, America’s bumbling but well-intentioned organization. Sound like a baseball team you know? Smart’s nemesis, Siegfried, worked for Kaos; an evil empire, if there ever was one.

Sox fans can at least be glad that their team wasn’t cursed by actress Barbara Feldon, who played Agent 99 on the show. Then the team wouldn’t have won until 2017. Perhaps with the loss of Adams, she will put a new curse on the Sox and they won’t win a World Series for 99 years from their last one.

Would you believe, in 2103?

Posted by dmargarita at 6:31 PM

June 18, 2005

A Massachusetts Sox Fan in Ernie Banks’ Court

Going to Wrigley Field in Chicago is a lot like going to Fenway Park, with just as much drinking, but a little less cursing. It was more like going to Fenway last weekend, when I, like thousands on Bostonians, traveled to Chicago to watch baseball’s two most historically inept teams play each other.

The last time the teams met in meaningful competition, the 1918 World Series, the Sox star player was a lean, left-handed pitcher-outfielder named Ruth. The Babe never actually played at Wrigley though, since the Cubs decided to play their home games at the more spacious Comiskey Park across town. Even in 1918 baseball club owners were intent on raking in every last buck.

For me, the Friday game could only be witnessed from afar, as my plane was delayed and I sat in the Manchester Airport while Sox pitchers were pulverized by Cub hitters, but Saturday was a hot, humid day (remember those?) designed for baseball.

Built in 1914, just two years after Fenway was erected, Wrigley is a double-decked version of our hometown ballpark without all of the garish signage. The only concession to modern commercialism is the rotating advertising sign behind home plate that can be seen from the centerfield TV camera.

Unlike Fenway, there seems to be no shortage legroom at Wrigley for patrons. Sox fans are fond of explaining that their discomfort is due to the fact that fans just weren’t as big in 1912, when Fenway Park was built. If this were true, there must have been some sort of government-induced genetic expansion of Americans between 1912 and 1914 for Wrigley’s opening.

The atmosphere at the ballpark was electric. With the stadium filled to capacity, there were seemingly almost as many Red Sox fans as Cubs fans. The arrival of Beantowners seemed to spark some antagonism from the locals, though as usual it was done with typical Midwestern politeness, not generally seen at Fenway.

One newly-scrawled men’s room graffiti message read “Cubs rule! Sox fans, go home and screw your mother, love, Drew Pesman.”

Sox fans certainly felt at home with the “Here we go Red Sox, here we go” chant, which drew boos from Cubs fans in response.

Unlike any modern ballpark, Wrigley has no giant video screen to watch replays, but the posts supporting the upper deck all have video monitors, and have since my first visit there in 1985. This was long before the Red Sox did the same thing.

One unfortunate throw-back to pre-World War I though, is the “trough” style men’s room, making peeing a communal experience. Even Fenway hasn’t had that in about 20 years.

Chicago is a pretty good drinking town, and the authorities seem to feel that Cubs fans are responsible enough that beer may be sold right from the can in the stands, notwithstanding the fan who stole a Dodger’s pitcher’s cap, causing a brawl with fans and players in 2000.

The Sox lost the game, but that didn’t stop hundreds of Boston fans from doing what Cubs fans do when their team loses, and what Sox fans do regardless of outcome---drink. Nestled in a neighborhood on Chicago’s North Side, the area is filled with bars and taverns and the neighborhood buzzes before and after games.

There are plenty of entertainment options in Chicago, which on this particular weekend is hosting the Chicago Blues Festival, which seems appropriate for any city containing the Cubs and their tortured history.

Having had my blues fix the night before at Buddy Guy’s Legends club, I headed to the ESPN Zone after the game. Sure, it’s an expensive tourist trap, but is has a multitude of TV’s to watch games from all over the country.

My next experience wasn’t something you’d find in any tourist guide book. Upon leaving the ESPN Zone, I approached Michigan Ave and saw several bicyclists peddling by. People were whooping cheering and taking photos of them. As I got closer I realized why. Many of the cyclists were scantily clad while the majority of them were completely unclad, except for helmets, which is ironic in that they would find that the most important part of the body to protect. Suddenly, I felt like I was in a bizarre version of the movie The Sixth Sense.

“I see nude people.”

Yup, naked people riding bikes down Michigan Ave (hopefully, on non-rented bikes). I later found out that the day was “World Naked Bike Ride Day” which was celebrated in several cities around the globe. The point was to protest cars, oil companies and quite possibly, clothing.

The Sunday game was at night for broadcast on ESPN. While the late starting time whittled away some Bostonians who had to be back for work on Monday, a surprising number stayed to cheer on their Beantown boys.

With their team holding a lead late in the game, some well-lubricated Sox fans began the “Yankees Suck” chant. As moronic as it is at Fenway, this mantra made less sense at a game in Chicago with the Yankees nowhere in sight.

The Sox were able to finally win a game against the Cubs before returning home and briefly brought that hot, summer weather with them.

Perhaps we should just think of our cold summer as “World Series” weather.

Posted by dmargarita at 12:37 PM

March 23, 2005

Hits, Mists and Errors

Like everybody else in New England, I had just about enough of snow and winter weather, so I decided to go someplace sunny and warm. Instead, I wound up in Florida.

Anybody who saw a newspaper or a TV a few months back may recall that Florida was devastated by a number of hurricanes. While it may no longer be hurricane season, Florida weather hasn't exactly been tropical lately. Still, rain is better than snow and as my sister Jean reminded me, you don?t have to shovel it.

Regular readers of this space know that every year I spend a week in March in the Sunshine State (This is where I add a sarcastic smirk) with my baseball-loving friends, Jim and Rick, psyching ourselves up for another summer of hardball.

Mon.--- I took my flight from Manchester Airport (Shhhh. Don't tell anyone, but it's WAY better than Logan!) to Philadelphia where I waited for my flight to Orlando. And waited. And waited some more.

My plane is late arriving and thus late departing and naturally, late arriving in Orlando. Rick meets me at the airport and we head to our first destination (Well, mine since Rick got there earlier but attended a game that wound up being rained out) Tampa, where the New York Yankees are scheduled to take on the Pittsburgh Pirates. Alas, we hit a tremendous stretch of traffic and when we finally get to the Yankee's Legend's Field, people are streaming out and the sound of Frank Sinatra singing "New York, New York" can be heard over the loudspeakers. As always, this means the game is over and the Yankees have won. Still, the sight of green grass and even a grounds crew working on an infield is a delight to someone who has just left a foot of snow.

After some souvenir store browsing (for Yankee fan friends, of course), we grab a bite to eat at the Tampa Ale House, a Florida chain that has become a spring training trip must. Our belly's full, we look for lodging, which in usually plentiful in such a touristy area. At 12:30 a.m. though, options are more limited, especially at reasonable prices. Assuming that the further we go from the heart of town we'll find better rates, we stop at a Howard Johnson's and settle for a room, though it?s more than we had hoped or expected to pay. Especially for one located next to "Severino's Bail Bonds."

Tue.--- Off to Lakeland to see the Tigers play the Blue Jays. By the time we get there, the only seats left are down the right field line. Not great seats and it's overcast and cool, but 56 degrees is STILL better that what it is in Boston.

The night game we choose is in Kissimmee where the Houston Astros play. It's pronounced "Ki-SIM-ee," but most northerners like to pronounce it "KISS-i-MEE" so that the team can be referred to as the "KISS-i-MEE Astros."

It's a great little ballpark and the top 5 or 6 rows are covered, which is a plus since it begins to rain and most people watch from under cover.

Wed. --- The day game we're shooting for is the Dodgers-Orioles game at my favorite venue, Dodgertown in Vero Beach. Since 1948 the Dodgers have trained here, the longest association of any major league team. The team has played at tiny Holman Stadium since 1953 and it's everything that spring training once was and should be.

The only problem with Vero Beach is that's it's on the East Coast, a bit of a drive from most other facilities. If you don't mind the drive, getting to Dodgertown is a pleasant ride, past orange groves, through small towns. That's not what most people experience when making the trip to Disney World. Those that only know the Orlando area might think that Florida is just a warmer version of Route 1.

The stands at Holman Stadium are 17 rows high and with capacity at about 6,500 (though it seems smaller), there's not a bad seat in the place. In a nod to a by-gone era, the dugouts are open-air and it feels like you're watching a local high school game.

Many of the game's legend performed here. It's where Jackie Robinson trained, Duke Snyder trained and Tommy Lasorda ate.

There are signs of a modern spring training mentality beginning to creep in even here, though. The path to the team's old clubhouse, which left players and coaches to pass through fans to get to, now has a dividing rope to separate the two from mingling. A new facility has been built behind right-field that keeps the players away from the fans as well.

We?ve managed to get great seats, a few rows from the field just past the first base dugout and it's the first sunny day we've had. I know I should put on sun screen, but I've waited too damn long for warm enough weather to get a sunburn.

Speaking of Orlando, that's where we're headed for the night game. The Braves play in a fairly new facility, Cracker Jack Stadium (I'm not kidding), located at Disney World, and if Dodgertown is everything that spring training once was, the Braves facility is everything that spring training has become.

It is a large, double-decked stadium that seats about 10,000 people and you can find yourself sitting quite a ways from the field.

We get there just in time for the 7:00 game, but heavy rain has delayed the start of the game. One good thing about the facility is that it does provide plenty of cover from rain and has a wide variety of food choices. However, like all things Disney, you pay extensively for just about everything. Plenty of fans avail themselves of ponchos from the souvenir store. Some are clear and some are yellow all have Mickey Mouse on the back.

The rain stops at 8:00 and the tarp is removed from the field by the grounds crew who proceed to work on the diamond. At 8:30 the game starts. At 8:35, so does the rain once again. It comes down pretty hard, but the players and fans brave through it (sorry for the pun).

When in Orlando, do as the Orlandoans do...eat at the Orlando Ale House, and so we do.

Thurs.--- Jim arrives on the red-eye from L.A. and we head to Dunedin, home of the Toronto Blue Jays who will face the Cleveland Indians. As we arrive, people are streaming from the ballpark. We ask one of them why, though we have a pretty good idea. Though it is not raining hard, the game has been cancelled. The nearest option is Clearwater to watch the Phillies-Devil Rays game. We arrive late there, but manage to get good seats right behind home plate. It's drizzling, but not that much and we pay about $20 for tickets that would cost $85 at Fenway.

The only nearby night game is in Tampa, but as we arrive we see that the stadium lights are off and the electronic board outside says that the game has been rained-out. The next stop is once again the Tampa Ale house. It's St. Patrick's Day and the place is loaded and so are many of the patrons, dressed in green.

A fairly intoxicated young man approaches me and comments on my Red Sox sweat shirt (which I had planned to remove before going into the Yankees ballpark). He's from the Boston area, or his mother is, it was a little tough to tell. He also mentions that he doesn't know who his family is in one breath and then says that his grandfather is in the Witness Protection Program.

Somehow it comes up that he spent six months in Qatar in the military, spending twelve hours at a stretch crouched behind a machine gun. The only action he saw was when he was mistakenly shot at by a colleague.

I begin to tell him that I'm happy that he was out of harm's way, but he explains that he was disappointed that he wasn?'t "where the action was" and is eager to start his tour of duty soon in Iraq.

Over and over he says that "Muslims are the best (expletive) people anywhere. If they offer you something, you have to take it or they'll be offended."

He makes the distinction clear. Muslims are good people, but he wants to go to Iraq to kill insurgents. While his tolerance of another culture is admirable, somehow his bloodlust is a little disconcerting. Anyway, the last thing I want to do is argue politics with a 21-year-old drunk kid whose expressed desire is to kill people.

The motel situation seems settled as a call to an 800 number assures us that a room with a rollaway bed for the three of us at a Howard Johnson's. We arrive at the HoJo's just as karaoke night is ending and some of the cast of "Hee Haw" is roaming the parking lot with open beer bottles

The night clerks tells us that despite what we were assured, they have no rollaway beds which means one of us has to sleep on the floor. Jim has had little sleep from his red-eye flight, it?s Rick?s birthday as of midnight so I volunteer to take the floor, although Rick has offered.

To be continued.

Posted by dmargarita at 7:57 PM

November 1, 2004

Red Sox: Faith of the Nation

OK, I admit it. I was wrong: winning the World Series IS better by having beaten the Yankees.

Many people were contending before the Yankees series that if the Red Sox got the World Series, much less won the World Series without having faced the Yankees, it wouldn't have meant as much. I still maintain that this notion is poppycock, bunk and probably even bull.

There's an important distinction here. Winning the World Series wouldn't be diminished if the Sox didn't play the Yankees; it just means that much more by beating them.

Down 0-3, the Red Sox comeback against the Yankees was the most amazing rise from the dead in 2000 years.

I had the pleasure, or perhaps more accurately, the misfortune of seeing the Red Sox play against the Yankees in Game 3 of the ALCS.

I guess it should've been a bad omen when the team trotted out the 1960's bubblegum pop group The Cowsills to sing the national anthem (apparently, The Archies were booked elsewhere). The group then sang the theme song from the musical "Hair"? while changing the lyrics to include a reference to the locks of centerfielder Johnny Damon.

Sox fans hopes were diminished quickly when starter Bronson Arroyo and a spate of relief pitchers took a pounding that Charlie Brown never experienced and lost 19-8.

One interesting note for baseball fans: It seems there's also a presidential election going on. A couple of the debates took place during playoff games, but unfortunately Americans are more likely to watch people eat bugs on "Fear Factor" than watch a political debate to decide who will become the next leader of the free world.

Anyway, something remarkable then happened. Given up for dead, the Sox scrapped, clawed and fought tooth and nail (I've run out of cliche's for coming back and beat the boys from the Bronx and win the American League pennant.

I was delighted like everybody else. Yes, I clapped, cheered, hooted and ran naked up and down the street. Uh, was I alone on that one?

Of course, the Sox have gone on to defeat the St. Louis Cardinals in the World Series. Unfortunately, I was unable to secure tickets for the first two games. It's not such a bad thing since being in my living room doesn't require wearing winter clothing.

As is always the case with big sporting events, many of those at the games are corporate big-wigs who seldom go to regular season games while the average Joe gets squeezed out. Actually, the guy from "Average Joe" might have been there.

The Series was carried on Fox TV which means that the cast of their hit "That '70's Show" managed to get tickets instead of people who sat through games during the horrendous Ralph Houk and Butch Hobson eras.

I continued my same superstitious routine before every game like so many other people did. I called the same people before every game as though the team?s hitting and pitching somehow depended on it. This is silly, of course. If the Sox had gone on and lost the World Series, it probably wouldn't be because I forgot to call Dan Gorgone.

I had one person told me that they were wearing the same clothes and not bathing during the Sox winning streak. Needless to say, I didn't watch any games with this person.

Hopefully the Sox can hang on and fans won?t have to listen to the "Curse of the Bambino" crap anymore.

We'll undoubtedly find new ways to torture ourselves.

Originally published in The Stoneham Sun.

Posted by dmargarita at 10:24 AM

October 10, 2004

Yankee Ingenuity

This is the match-up that everyone wanted. Everyone except me, that is.

When the Red Sox defeated the Angels to advance to the American League Championship Series, I was delighted like everybody else. Yes, I clapped, cheered, hooted and ran naked up and down the street. Uh, was I alone on that one?

It was then suggested by many people that when the Red Sox go on and win the World Series (a bit presumptuous, but I'll save that for later) it wouldn't mean as much if they didn't beat the Yankees along the way. To this I can only respond with:

HUH?

The championship is the championship and if you win it, you had to have beaten every team you faced in the playoffs. Had it been the Minnesota Twins they were facing instead of the Yankees, so what?

Does the Celtics 1986 Championship mean less because they beat the Houston Rockets in the finals and not the Lakers? I say no. Sure it would've been fun and perhaps even more interesting if they had played the Lakers, but if the Lakers weren?t good enough to beat Houston, they didn't deserve to be there.

Does it mean any less that we won World War II because we didn't have to fight Russia?

I?m a Red Sox fan but I have to admit that sometimes I'm annoyed by other Red Sox fans. I have to question the wisdom of chanting "Yankees suck" at a Red Sox game when the Yankees have finished ahead of you every year since 1996. It makes even less sense when it's chanted and the Red Sox aren't even playing the Yankees on that particular night.

Besides being crude, its also inaccurate. It seems to me that saying that something "sucks" means (at least in this context) that it's not very good, so if the Yankees aren't very good, how come they keep beating the Red Sox?

Nevertheless, T-shirts with that declaration sell on many corners outside of Fenway Park. Worse yet, they've come up even more crude slogans for the T-shirts, some of which suggest, shall I say, a Biblical relationship between Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez.

Yes, the Red Sox have a good chance to beat the Yankees but it's by no means automatic. I guess my fear is based on the fact that these are the playoffs and no matter what, the Yankees have a way of remembering that they're the Yankees and that they're playing the Red Sox.

I've watched too many Red Sox teams consistently find new and innovative ways to screw up every year not to be concerned.

As has been well-documented, Sox fans have waited 86 years to watch their team win a World Series. They have as good a chance this year as any that I can recall, but I'm also reminded of another saying which, I believe originated in China:

Be careful what you wish for; you just might get it.

Originally published in The Stoneham Sun.

Posted by dmargarita at 7:27 PM

August 15, 2004

The Olympics: The Naked Truth

With the Olympics being broadcast on several TV networks, it has been dubbed a "spectacle." Yet, when the games originated in ancient Greece, that might've been a more appropriate title since the athletes performed in the nude.

Earlier this year singer Janet Jackson had a "wardrobe malfunction" during the Super Bowl halftime show that exposed her right breast and caused America to freak out. That the ancient Greek athletes conducted their games in the raw makes it obvious that they probably wouldn't have blinked an eye at a "toga malfunction."

According to Tony Perrotteta, author of The Naked Olympics: The True Story of the Ancient Games, in an interview with National Geographic, no one knows for sure why the first games were conducted in the nude. One story is that it began when a runner lost his loincloth and tripped on it, so in the spirit of fairness, the other runners removed their loincloths. The TV networks must've been thrilled that Justin Timberlake didn't follow that line of reasoning.

Of course, the summer climate of ancient Greece was apparently amenable to outdoor nudity and the winter climate most likely wasn't. Thus the Greeks never conceived the idea of the Winter Olympics. That's one luge run I wouldn't want to make.

The events of the modern Olympics weren't necessarily part of the ancient games. The athlete's attire, or lack of it, made the idea of hurdles somewhat dangerous. There was probably no relay either, seeing as a mix-up during the baton exchange could've proved embarrassing. There were foot races, though. These might have been the origin of the phrase "winning by a nose."

Married women were not allowed to attend the games, but single women and virgins attended with fathers often bringing their daughters to try to marry them off to the champions, proving that there were "trophy husbands" long before there were "trophy wives." Mr. Perrotteta also reports that there were sacrifices, which I presume, may have deterred the virgin population from attending.

There was no such thing as a marathon. That was implemented in the modern games based on the story of Philippedes, who ran 26.3 miles from the Battle of Marathon to Athens to deliver a message. Once he arrived he collapsed and died (hopefully after delivering the message).

The big event was the chariot race. It was a dangerous sport in which the vehicles went 12 laps around the stadium (if they were lucky) driven by aristocrats who probably didn't need to have the word "Valvoline" written on the side of their chariot.

The opening ceremony was much the same with the athletes filing into the stadium and swearing over a bloody boar's head in front of a statue of Zeus to obey the rules of the games. In other words, the same initiation as a modern college fraternity.

Like today, athletes were known to use performance-enhancing substances such as eating lizard flesh prepared a certain way. This is something that Barry Bonds probably hasn't been tested for yet.

Women weren't totally ignored, though. There were separate games for women who performed in short tunics with one breast exposed in tribute to the Amazon warrior women who were believed to have cauterized their right breast so as not to impede their javelin throwing.

So I guess not only are the games ancient, but so isn't the "wardrobe malfunction."

Originally published in The Stoneham Sun.

Posted by dmargarita at 10:42 PM

June 9, 2004

Smarty Pants

After much hype, Smarty Jones could not do something that hasn't been done since 1978---The Hustle. No, I mean win the Triple Crown.

The TV coverage for these horse racing events tends be several hours of profiles and over-analysis followed by the two-minute race. The particularly disturbing aspect of this coverage is the attribution of human qualities to the horses.

"That horse has a lot of heart"

Yes, big enough to feed a family of four in some cultures.

I've had several dogs over the years so I know that animals have their own personalities, but a "winning attitude" is not a quality that I think an animal can possess. Other than Mr. Ed, most horses probably don't have an ego. If they did, there'd be no reason for the jockey to whip them on the ass.

Here's a newsflash for you: if you chase me around with a riding crop and keep smacking me on the tush, I'll run faster too.

I know I'll probably never get to a Triple Crown event so I got as close as thought I could by watching the movie "Seabiscuit."

The movie is based on the best-selling book by Laura Hillenbrand, a remarkable woman who was able to write an epic despite being afflicted with a debilitating case of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Like I needed a reason to feel even more guilty about lying in bed watching reruns of "The Munsters" instead of sitting at my computer writing.

Yes, I could have read the book but let's face it, watching a movie is quicker.

The story of Seabiscuit, his jockey, trainer and owner is indeed an inspiring one. The film depicts them all as underdogs with Seabiscuit being the glue that held a nation together before becoming glue. As you probably know, during Seabiscuit's time the country was mired in the Great Depression and according to the film, the story of this underdog horse (isn't that an oxymoron?) made people feel better about themselves. Perhaps they just felt better that they didn't have to sleep standing up or spend the day in a small room surrounded by their own excrement.

I have no doubt that Seabiscuit was extremely popular in his time by the fact that The Three Stooges parodied him in a movie with a horse named "Teabiscuit." Perhaps that means that Adam Sandler will be doing a parody of Smarty Jones called "Smarty Pants."

I don't want to spoil the movie for you, but the butler did it. Kidding.

There's a scene where Seabiscuit's jockey tells another jockey that all Seabiscuit has to do is get a good look at his opponent and he'll want to beat him. They make no mention if the other horse owed Seabuscuit money.

Dogs are raced as well, but we don't hear about dogs wanting to win. Perhaps that's because without a rider, their goal seems to be to catch that rabbit that always managed to elude them.

Yet, a few years ago ESPN listed its top 100 North American Athletes of the 20th century and to my chagrin listed two horses, Secretariat and Man O' War, at 35 and 84 respectively.

If they're such great athletes, let's see them play another sport like Bo Jackson did.

Posted by dmargarita at 1:38 PM

May 3, 2004

Friendly Fenway

The weather is getting warmer. The baseball season in underway. The Red Sox are off to a good start. It was time to make my first excursion of the year to Fenway Park. What I didn't realize was that the arms the Red Sox were concerned about weren't the ones in the bullpen.

The initial step in a trip to Fenway is of course, getting there. One can take the subway. The Green Line has long had a stop in Kenmore Square although with the construction of the out-of-place hotel and subway entrance construction, it is probably a nightmare. One can take the Orange Line to Ruggles Station and catch a free shuttle bus to Fenway, but after a recent rash of shootings and stabbings there, one might be hesitant to go that route. Private parking lots in the area are now an outrageous $30, begging the question "Who needs an MBA when all you need is a piece of open land near a ballpark to get rich?" Or one might do what I do...find a secret parking spot if you plan to go to a number of games. Or course I can't reveal the location of that secret parking spot because that would defeat the purpose, hence the term "secret."

Getting into the ballpark itself isn't a heck of a lot easier. Since 9-11 security has increased so that a fan now gets scanned with a metal detector and patted down before entering the ballpark. It's understandable that in the post-9-11era security precautions must be taken, but I can't help but feel that after being patted down, the security guard should at least buy me a drink.

Prior to entering on Yawkey Way, I got the pat-down treatment when the security guard noticed a solid object in my pocket (I'll take the high road here). I pulled out my Swiss Arm knife/key chain and was told that I couldn't bring it into Fenway. I explained that it was gift and that I had no intention of throwing it away and was informed that there was a place that I could check my key chain/knife, which contradicts the stated policy on the Red Sox website that "Fans will NOT be able to store any prohibited items, such as large bags, at Fenway Park."

Not feeling comfortable leaving this cherished gift in the hands of a stranger (not to mention my house and car keys) I simply tucked it in my sock and entered through another gate. Apparently, security personnel at Fenway have dismissed athletic socks as a potential location for contraband. Hopefully, suicide bombers aren't reading this column and getting the idea that if you want to get your vest laced with explosives into Fenway, you merely have to tuck it into your sock.

How serious a threat my Swiss Army knife posed remains a mystery. Besides its knife function it also has a corkscrew. I doubt that anyone has ever made demands while threatening to open a bottle of wine.

"I want $1,000,000 in unmarked bills and a helicopter or I swear, I'll open this bottle of merlot!"

Is there a realistic possibility that I could stab 35,000 people? Perhaps authorities feel that a creative terrorist could hijack the ballpark and fly it into the Prudential Tower.

I feel pretty secure in stating that no one has uttered the phrase "Take this ballpark to Cuba" or for that matter "If this ballpark goes above or below 50 m.p.h., it will explode."

Other rules are clearly stated on the team's website such as "Diaper bags are permissible only when the bearer is accompanied by an infant or child of appropriate age."

So what is an adult with a bladder control problem supposed to do? Depends.

Finally nestled in my seat, I got to watch Curt Schilling pitch a gem for a Red Sox victory. It seemed like only six months ago I was in this beautiful old ballpark. Oh yeah, I was in this beautiful old ballpark six months ago.

After the bullpen brawl with the Yankees last year, perhaps security should focus their scrutiny on the ballplayers themselves.

After all, I saw several of them armed with baseball bats.

Posted by dmargarita at 2:37 PM

April 5, 2004

Cooling Fans

You may or may not know that the word "fan" is derived from the word "fanatic." Regular readers of this space are aware that I'm a baseball "fan" who could be described as a "fanatic." Rest assured that my use of the word "fanatic" here reflects my passion for the game and not the word's connotation of someone who is a danger to himself or society. Thus being a fanatic, I found myself driving to Baltimore on Sunday to watch the Red Sox begin their 2004 season.

My fellow baseball enthusiast Rick and I had estimated the drive to be 6.5 to 7 hours long. We had grand ideas of leaving Stoneham around 10:00-10:30 and spending time in Baltimore checking out the Inner Harbor and The Babe Ruth Birthplace and Museum. I'd also planned on writing a novel by now. Planning and execution are two different things.

Circumstances kept us from leaving Stoneham until noon, our first stop being a trip to Dunkin' Donuts. We decided the best route was to take the Mass Pike to Route 84, which has been recommended by frequent travelers to N.Y. as the quickest route. However, men being men, neither of us thought to bring a road map. "We'll figure it out as we go" we reasoned. Thus we got a little lost on our "shortcut" which cost us some time.

You can't drive seven hours without a break, so we stopped in Brewster, N.Y. for a quick lunch at a place called "Norm's." Unfortunately, our waiter moved with less speed than George Wendt and our quick lunch turned out to take about thirty minutes.

It's a pretty straight shot down I-95 to Baltimore. You get to enjoy the celebrity rest stops on 95 and the New Jersey Turnpike. You pass the Vince Lombardi Service Area, where you aren't allowed any water, the Walt Whitman Service Area, where you stop to read poetry and the Thomas Edison Service Area, which ironically, runs on coal.

Cruising along pretty good, we hit a toll that's backed up a couple of miles and takes about thirty minutes to get through. We realize that our hopes of getting there early have long since faded.

As we approach Baltimore, the pre-game introductions are announced on the radio. We've convinced ourselves that because it's an ESPN game, the first pitch won't be 'till 8:15-8:20, but the game starts as promised at 8:07 and we're still driving there.

There's one final parking spot at a lot next to Baltimore's football stadium, at least when the security guards move their car there's a spot, and as I get out of the car, a gust of bitter wind proves a good reminder to put on the extra pair of socks, boots, hooded sweatshirt, jacket, winter gloves and stocking cap that I brought. I realize that I'm more warmly dressed than I was the last time I shoveled my driveway.

Boston weather forecasters predict that the game time starting temperature will be 39 degrees and the game ending temperature will be 35 degrees. That feels like wishful thinking.

On my way to Camden Yards I genuflect to the statue of the late, great John Unitas out in front of the football stadium.

As we rush to get to the stadium we hear the hometown fans cheer and then hear the announcement that Javy Lopez has just hit his first home run as a Baltimore Oriole. Going through the gates, I see Red Sox ace Pedro Martinez get slapped around for a couple more runs on the TV's at the concession stands.

Camden Yards is a fairly new ballpark that is designed in the style of the old ballparks but with all the modern amenities. The concourse under the stands is pretty wide, but on this evening amounts to a wind tunnel that NASA engineers would envy. Oddly enough, the concourse between the box seats and the grandstand seats is even more narrow than the one at Fenway Park.

In a nod to old-tyme baseball, the bleachers in right field are green wooden benches, bringing a touch of Rec Park to Baltimore.

Perhaps the best known feature is the brick warehouse beyond the right field bleachers. The first floor contains restaurants, pubs and a souvenir store. A pretty neat place to be---unless you've paid $40 to watch a ballgame.

Our seats are box seats down the third base line and seem a bit crowded, but that's probably because we're all wearing three layers of clothes.

The Sox get a run to close the gap to 3-1 as Pedro Martinez settles down, but he later gives way to Mike Timlin (six months too late) who let's the Orioles blow the game open and the Sox lose 7-2.

The next day Rick drops me off at Penn Station. Unlike it's modern counterpart in New York, this is a small, simple and classically styled old train station, whereas N.Y.'s Penn Station is big, ugly and confusing.

While reading my paper I look up and make eye contact with a tall, well-dressed balding man that I immediately recognize as Baltimore Oriole great Cal Ripken Jr., who is traveling with his younger, shorter, but equally well-dressed brother Bill and couple of others.

Ripken is a baseball God in Baltimore, but other than one woman who runs up and takes his picture, nobody bothers him.

The train ride home is long, but relaxing and allows me to catch up on some reading. Meanwhile Rick has continued driving on to Pittsburgh to watch the Pirates open their season.

And you thought I was a "fanatic."

Posted by dmargarita at 2:41 PM

January 26, 2004

The Death of Heroes

Once upon a time the word "heroes" meant "people we looked up to." Now it seems to refer to nothing but a sandwich.

Americans have always idolized its athletic stars, whose personal shortcomings were once ignored by a press content to report only on said star's on-field accomplishments. In this day and age when paparazzi can make good money by photographing celebrities coming out of a restaurant, I'm not so sure if ignorance wasn't bliss. Actually, my Webster's Ninth Collegiate Dictionary defines "ignorance" as "the state or fact of being ignorant." Thanks.

As we head toward Super Bowl XXXVIII, or Super Bowl 38 for those of you that aren't Ancient Romans, we've become all too aware recently that the athletes who play professional sports are mere mortals. However, when you take the "T" out of "mortal," it doesn't necessarily mean that you have someone who is "moral" or that because someone's famous they're not subject to human frailty.

In keeping with the football opening, let's go back to the Patriots-Jets game last December. The Jets were celebrating the team's 40th anniversary when ESPN decided to conduct a live, sideline interview with Hall of Fame quarterback Joe Namath. Unfortunately, Namath had been doing quite a bit of celebrating for several hours when he appeared, blatantly intoxicated, for an interview with reporter Suzy Kolber. While slurring some points about football, Namath twice told Kolber "I want to kiss you." I'm sure people took it less seriously when he said it to wide receiver Don Maynard.

Thirty five years ago when Joe hit on a woman, a lot of people might've smiled, winked and said "Way to go, Joe." At 60 years old it, it now just makes you cringe. There are few things more embarrassing than watching a drunken, middle-aged man trying to pick up young women...at least that's what my friends have told me.

In the late sixties and early seventies, Namath was the ultimate bachelor. With his long hair and sideburns, Namath was tabloid fodder for his perpetual female companionship. The QB was constantly seen with one beautiful woman after another and gave new meaning to the phrase "the two-minute drill."

He was furnished with the nickname "Broadway Joe" with broadcaster Howard Cosell suggesting at a Joe Namath Roast that Namath received the moniker because "When Joe gets a broad, he makes his way." It was shortly thereafter that Cosell resigned his membership from the National Organization for Women.

Namath's success with women became legendary and is likely the reason he was also called "Joe Willie Namath" instead of "Joe Won't He Namath."

The Hall of Famer apologized to Kolber and recently announced that he has admitted himself for treatment of alcohol abuse. Here's hoping that Namath can get the help that he needs, although it's likely that there's no such treatment facility for the person who decided that it was a good idea to let an obviously intoxicated man on the air.

Namath is no different from millions of folks that have struggled with chemical dependence, but they don't have their human foibles played out in national TV. Most people are generous of spirit and heart and can forgive someone who has struggled with addiction, has worked to overcome it and is genuinely repentant.

That's why they can't forgive Pete Rose.

Baseball's all time hit leader recently made the news when he finally admitted after 14 years that he had, in fact, bet on baseball when he was managing the Cincinnati Reds. Since it coincided with his new autobiography, it seemed more of a confession of convenience than conscience. The baseball great has been banned from baseball and is thus ineligible for induction into The Baseball Hall of Fame. He's clearly never been a candidate for the Haircut Hall of Fame. With his announcement coming on the day that Paul Molitor and Dennis Eckersley were designated for induction into the Hall and thus stealing their thunder, Rose once again looks the selfish, boorish jerk that he's always been.

Rose likes to cite the fact that plenty of players known for bad behavior are in the Hall. He points in particular to Ty Cobb, a psychotic racist and possible murderer, and Babe Ruth, a drunken womanizer. While their flaws perhaps should've landed them in jail or hell, Rose doesn't seem to grasp why directly putting the integrity of a game in question is the cardinal sin of baseball and more relevant to access to the game. If Rose wants into the Hall of Fame, he should buy a ticket (If he has AAA he can get a discount).

Once upon a time, ballplayers traveled by overnight train from city to city, along with the reporters who covered them. Late one evening, Ruth is reputed to have run through a car naked, with a knife-wielding woman following right behind. One reporter turned to a colleague and said "It's a good thing we didn't see that or we'd have to report it."

In the age of innocence, Americans were fed nothing but positive pabulum about our sports heroes.

Times have changed and so haven't the standards of journalism. The stories that the scribes did give us back then were ones like Ruth's visit to Johnny Sylvester. The youngster was reportedly gravelly ill in a hospital when The Babe visited him and promised to hit a home run for him in that day's World Series game. Sure enough, the Sultan of Swat smacked a homer (three, actually) and young Johnny made a miraculous recovery. No biography ever mentions if the Babe also promised to score with two hookers that night as well.

Today, a sick youngster might be just as cynical as a modern reporter and I'm not so sure if it's a good thing. One can almost envision a boy in a hospital bed asking "Gee, Mr. Rose, do you think you can hit a tri-fecta at Aqueduct for me?"

Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?

Go Pats!

Posted by dmargarita at 1:08 PM

July 14, 2003

Summer in the City

It was America’s birthday and I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate than to travel to the Big Apple to watch a classic confrontation between the Red Sox and the Yankees in their annual tug of war in a contest of the national pastime.

Unable to get away until Saturday afternoon, I hopped aboard an Amtrak train at South Station, as usual with five minutes to spare. It wouldn’t have been that close but for the gentleman at the ticket window trying to determine all of his options for buying a ticket for some destination.

Getting off at Penn. Station, I make my way to the Sheraton on 7th Avenue. There the man at the reservation desk tells me that I want the Sheraton Towers across the street. My friends, already down for the first two games of the series, have left a room key for me. After checking in I walk to Times Square.

Looking for a place to eat, I wade through the mass of humanity on this hot, humid holiday weekend. The bright lights of the neon signs and giant TV screens illuminate the square to the point of almost being daylight.

The streets seem to have almost as many vendors and sidewalk artists as tourists. I find a nice little Italian restaurant off Broadway. When one thinks of American theater, “Broadway” immediately comes to mind. The second thing that comes to mind is probably “off-Broadway, ” which not only indicates a location but a style of theater, usually avant-garde. As I walk to the restaurant I see an example of this when I notice “The Urine Theater.”

After a nice meal, I head back to hotel and meet up with my friends who’ve just a seen a version of Eugene O’Neil’s “Long Day’s Journey Into Night,” and from there we find a small pub and chat the night away.

On Sunday we have breakfast at Maxie’s in which the pleasure of my open window seat is negated by the fact that I’m crammed into a corner. At one point I drop my napkin, but it stays on the floor since can‘t even move to pick it up. Then we head to Yankee Stadium where the Sox have taken the first two games from the Yankees. I’m excited about the idea of a possible sweep of the Yankees. Naturally, the Sox lose 7-1.

After the game it seems like a good idea to let the subway crowd thin out by stopping for a drink at a bar next to the stadium, beneath the train tracks. On this hot day, the air conditioning in another draw. We might have stayed longer if it didn’t cost $6.25 for a small draught beer.

Back to the hotel to freshen up, than on to the ESPN Zone for dinner. Things are expensive there, but they’re expensive everywhere in N.Y. City. It might be “the city that never sleeps,” but apparently the employees of the ESPN Zone do sleep, as the plug is pulled out of our video golf game in order to toss us out so they can close the place. No matter, there are plenty of other places to close out the evening.

On Monday I head to Leo Lindy’s, next to the hotel for breakfast. This is a legendary New York eatery as evidenced by the celebrity photos on the wall. There numerous quotations and celebrity favorite meals listed on the menu. Apparently Harpo Marx enjoyed cooked asparagus with a scoop of ice cream on top.

The next destiny is a return trip to Yankee Stadium for the final game between the Sox and Yanks. After some confusion about which train to take, we arrive to watch a painful Sox 2-1 loss to the Bronx Bombers in the bottom of the ninth.

New York is known for it’s great restaurants so we decide to check out Rosie O’Grady’s which is right across from the hotel. It’s on the expensive side (even by New York standards), but we figure what the heck, we’re on vacation. It turns out to be worth every penny.

Today we’ve decided to make it a doubleheader and take the subway to Shea Stadium to watch the Mets take on the Atlanta Braves. My only previous experience at Shea Stadium was game in 1987 in which our seats were in the last row of the upper deck. If you’re not familiar with Shea, let me explain that it is right next to LaGuardia Airport. When your sitting in the last row of the upper deck, you can almost grab a bag of peanuts off the table of one of the jets passing right over your head. Through connections, we wind up with pretty good seats. The Braves make three errors but still managed to defeat the hapless Mets.

On Tuesday I’m on my own. My train doesn’t leave ‘till 7 pm so I have all day to tour the city. Again it’s hot and humid, but I suck it up and walk to Grand Central Station to check it out. Unlike Penn. Station, Grand Central survived the ‘60’s & ‘70’s upheaval that was determined to get rid of anything old and rebuild. As a result the magnificent structure is much more simple to navigate than it’s cross-town brethren.

Then I make my way to the Chrysler Building. Completed in 1931 this Art Deco architectural masterpiece remains a tribute to the era great skyscrapers. The interior sports marble walls and a ceiling mural that depicts workmen of the day laboring to build the edifice. The elaborate elevator doors are carved using several different types of wood, far above what anyone could’ve accomplished in Mr. Begin’s 7th grade wood-shop class.

Then it’s on to Rockefeller Center. More specifically “30 Rock” as it’s known, the home to NBC Studios as well as the famous Rainbow Room. One can easily imagine the couples in their wide lapel, baggy pants suits and chiffon dresses making their way in to see “Your Show of Shows” starring Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca. Since fashions always return you may see that couple going in to see “Late Night with Conan O’Brien.”

As much as I’ve enjoyed the sightseeing, I decide that in this hot weather some indoor activities might be more appropriate so I hop on the train to go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or “The Met” as it’s commonly known. Unfortunately one section is closed off, but it’s air conditioned and there’s still plenty to see.

Still, I want to view things that I didn’t get to see on my previous trip to N.Y. so I get back on the subway and head to The Museum of Modern Art. The train looks like something that Ralph Kramden might have ridden on, in other words, old.

The trip to Queens is a trip through the “real” or non-tourist parts of New York. Imagine taking a train up the McGrath Highway in Somerville. I’m not nearly as dismayed to find out that the museum is closed on Tuesdays and Wednesdays as the woman standing out front who drove up from Philadelphia.

“The New York Times didn’t say anything about it being closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays” she fumed while choking back tears.

It seems like a good idea to get a good meal before I get back on the train so I make my way to Little Italy. Of the numerous empty restaurants (it’s still sort of early) I choose Paesano’s, largely due to the sign that reads “all pasta $7.95.” My warm glass of water doesn’t concern me, but after I’ve ordered my meal, a trip to the men’s room worries me about the hygiene of this place when I discover there’s no soap. None the less, my ravioli turns out to be quite delicious.

After checking out a few galleries I make my way back to the hotel to grab my stuff. It’s not far from Penn. Station and the subway stop is right around the corner. Only when I get there I realize that it’s the entrance for the “downtown” train and I have to have someone direct me to where I can pick up the “uptown” train.

My delay is compounded by the fact that when I get to Penn. Station the setup is a little confusing. Normally I seem to make the train with five minutes to spare, but this time I make it with about 30 seconds to spare. I chose to take the Acela back to Boston which costs more, but is supposed to take three and a half hours. A delay means that it winds up taking four hours, which eventually prompts an angry email to Amtrak.

It dawned on me that as I watched the people of New York go about their daily lives, their daily lives were my vacation. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live in different places and periods of American history, but as I walked the streets of New York on the Fourth of July weekend I realized that everyday we are living history.

Posted by dmargarita at 4:51 PM

June 22, 2003

Charity Ball

Last week I had the opportunity to go to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y. to watch an exhibition game between the Tampa Bay Devil Rays and the Philadelphia Phillies. It was baseball the way it used to be; in a small ballpark, in the daytime, at a reasonable ticket price. Fortunately, the worst aspect of old-time baseball was avoided. The game wasn't played entirely by white guys.

Going to Fenway Park these days is a bit of a hassle. Tickets and concessions are expensive, not to mention parking. One good aspect I've noticed is the amount of charity work the Sox, and in fact all Major League teams do. Unfortunately, one of the charities isn't "let the blue collar guy in for five bucks" night.

There's something a little cheesy about some of the promotions that some companies do with the Red Sox. For instance, Hood has a promotion that gives money to children's hospitals throughout New England. I guess that's a good thing. The problem is that they give money when the Sox strike out an opponent, turn a double play or hit a home run. Perhaps I'm being too cynical, but it seems that it's more about promoting Hood than helping sick kids. A child's welfare shouldn't depend on the fortunes of the local ballclub. If you want to give money, give money.

Somehow it feels like they may be withholding medical care if the team's not performing.

"I'm sorry, Johnny. We'd like to save your life, but unfortunately the team is stressing defense this season and we just don't have the money."

The Red Sox wives have done various charity events the past few years. They've collected canned goods, sold recipe books and been willing to accept monetary donations from fans who were content to just donate cash. It's noble of the wives to help out worthy causes but it's all I can do to pay my own bills, so I'm a little hard pressed to give a $20 check to a woman whose husband makes $6 million a year.

One the most famous instances of charity towards a child is that of Babe Ruth and young Johnny Sylvester. As the legend goes, the youngster was gravely ill when Ruth, prompted by a telegram from Johnny's dad, visited the sick child and promised to hit a home run during a World Series game against the St. Louis Cardinals. The Babe delivered and the boy healed. Johnny grew up to become a successful business man. The Babe went on to become a baseball immortal, hitting home runs, thrilling millions and leaving no speakeasy or brothel unturned in the Major Leagues.

If only the Babe's healing power could've been transported through time. It's great if the Babe helped Johnny recover, but imagine how history would've been different if he could've saved the life of someone more important like Abraham Lincoln. Let's go to Washington, D.C. in the year 1865. Across from Ford's Theater, President Lincoln lies gravely wounded in a bed at The Peterson House when in walks the Babe in a camel hair coat and cap with a beer and hot dog in hand.

THE BABE: Hi ya Prez. I hear you ain't feelin' so well.

LINCOLN: Gee Babe, what are you doing here?

THE BABE: I came to cheer you up and give you this autographed ball. Say Prez, do you have a radio?

LINCOLN: No, Babe. It hasn't been invented yet.

THE BABE: Well, how 'bout a telegraph?

LINCOLN: Sure, Babe. It's a swell telegraph.

THE BABE: You listen to the game today on that telegraph. I'm gonna hit one out for you, Prez.

LINCOLN: Oh, the old promise to a sick kid bit, eh? You know how many times I've done that? I promised one sick kid that if he got better, I'd free the slaves. Who knew some doctor would come along with moldy bread and cure him?

THE BABE: "Great Emacipator," my ass. I'm history. See ya.

LINCOLN: Where you going, Babe?

THE BABE: I hear Jefferson Davis isn't feelin' too good.

No matter what someone's motives are, it's good that people are willing to help out those in need. Right now the Sox desperately need help in the bullpen.

Posted by dmargarita at 3:51 PM

May 27, 2003

Golf Balls

She did it. Annika Sorenstam played in a men's golf tournament and low and behold the world didn't come to an end. As a matter of fact, the tournament hasn't even come to an end.

She seems to be hailed as the Jackie Robinson of golf, but it should be remembered that Babe Didrickson Zaharias played in a PGA event in 1945. So in reality she's more like the Larry Doby (the second black modern Major League baseball player) of professional golf. Actually, Robinson wasn't even the first black ballplayer. That honor is held by Moses "Fleet" Walker who played in 1884, so in reality even Jackie Robinson wasn't the Jackie Robinson of baseball. I guess being second would make Jackie Robinson the Larry Doby of baseball. I'm not sure whom that would make Larry Doby.

Of course I'm using the facts to my facetious benefit here. Walker and all other ballplayers of color were soon banned from organized baseball until Robinson reintegrated the game in 1947.

Some have criticized Sorenstam's entrance into the Colonial as a publicity stunt. Attempting to fly around the world in a balloon is a publicity stunt. If she tried out as a linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers, that would be a publicity stunt. She's the best female golfer in the world, so seeing how she would stack up...let me rephrase that, how she would fare against the men is a natural progression.

PGA star Vijay Singh said Sorenstam doesn't belong on the men's tour and that if paired with her, he would withdraw from the tournament. I haven't heard an attitude like that since I was in the fourth grade at Robin Hood School when the boys and girls were forced to hold hands upon going out to recess.

As I recall "ick!" was the most common male response.

Sorenstam faltered on the second day and missed the cut. Undoubtedly nerves came into play. I can’t imagine how much pressure there would be with millions of people following your progress. Heck, I get nervous on the first tee at Unicorn Golf Course with no one but my playing partners and the next foursome watching me. At least Sorenstam didn't dribble one 50 feet off the tee as I've been known to do. Come to think of it, "Double Trouble" is a pretty pressure-packed hole at Hago Harrington's Miniature Golf Course.

The PGA seems to have problems moving into the 21st century with regard to women. A big row was ignited last year when Augusta National Golf Club chairman Hootie Johnson defended his decision not to allow women to join as members. Nobody said a word when the Village People announced that they had the same policy. Perhaps Johnson will make small, progressive steps like first allowing "barefoot and pregnant" women to become members.

Women have come a long way, but still have a long way to go. Sadly, about the only area in which theyve equaled men is in lung cancer rates due to increased smoking.

Now, women are making forays into the male world of sport. Soon the day will come when a woman can come home, have a few beers and bark at her spouse to get supper.

Perhaps one day we'll turn on a Major League baseball game and find a woman standing at first base scratching and spitting.

Are you ladies sure you want total equality?

Posted by dmargarita at 12:12 AM

February 3, 2003

Revenue Fever

Football season has ended with the Super Bowl. Hockey and basketball continue their quests to reach the finals this summer. Yet one season has already started as it always does this time of year. The annual Red Sox ticket gouge!

With a small ballpark and a high payroll, the Sox need to maximize revenue, which when translated means "make more money."

The new ownership instituted a new system for opening ticket sales this year. Apparently not understanding or appreciating the time honored tradition of fans that camp out on Yawkey Way the night before the ticket office opens, they devised a plan to discourage such actions. The police often have a plan to keep people from sleeping on the streets. It's called an arrest.

Team officials handed out bracelets to those in line numbered from 1 to 1,460 (the bracelets were numbered that is, not the people). Then they randomly pulled a number, which turned out to be 224, making that person the first in line. Thus, person number 225 was next, then 226, etc.

So, the person who was first in line, either unaware of the new policy or not caring, the person who had braved these frigid New England winter elements the longest, wound up with a high number, in essence being put at the back of the line.

I have to admit, that while I'm a fan, nothing could convince me to want to sleep overnight on a sidewalk in January just to get Red Sox tickets unless they were paying me Manny Ramirez' salary for a day. Due to budget cuts shelters have had to turn homeless people away who have sought refuge. So, some Red Sox fans have willingly chosen to forsake a nice warm bed to sleep on concrete? No thank you.

To the Sox credit, they brought 400 bleacher seats down from $18 to $10, and season ticket holders, who pay an arm, a leg and a few internal organs, get a discount on their tickets (providing that they renewed by Dec 16). Fair enough.

Overall, ticket prices ticket prices went up seven percent from last year. Unfortunately, my paycheck hasn't gone up seven percent. Seven percent might not be so bad for the K.C. Royals, but the Sox already have the highest ticket prices in baseball.

Another way for the team to increase revenue has been to add seats to the ballpark. Last year the club added two rows of $200 seats in front of the previously existing first row and from what I hear, are adding more front row seats this year. At this rate, in five years Sox fans will be able to reach out and grab Seattle Mariner Ichiro Suzuki's belt and keep him from running to first base.

Another plan has the Sox putting seats atop Fenway's fabled "Green Monster" left field wall. You think Manny Ramirez is unhappy playing in Boston now? Wait until he gets a few Bud Light showers.

The way tickets prices are going I suspect that one day they'll charge us to listen to the game on the radio while we sit at home.

Frankly, I think the cheapest place to watch a game now may be through the binoculars at the observation tower on top of the Prudential Building.

I'd better start saving my quarters.

Posted by dmargarita at 10:11 AM

July 24, 2002

Defrosting Ted

Monday night's wonderful tribute to Ted Williams was a pleasant distraction from the current controversy surrounding he and his family. The idea of freezing Ted Williams presumes that one day he'll be thawed out and brought back to life. I'm trying to imagine just what Williams will have to say when that day comes.

"Is it cold in here, or is it me?" asked the baseball legend.

"Both, actually" replied his son.

The year is 2054 and John Henry Williams, now 85 years old, two years older than his dad was when he passed away, has had his legendary father brought back to life.

Ted didn't recognize the aged John Henry at first. Then John Henry explained to his dad how he had been hanging upside down, frozen in a tank for the last fifty-two years.

"You moron, I told you I wanted to be cremated!" the startled slugger admonished.

He then looked down and noticed the brown spots on his arms.

"What are these?"

"That happened during the Great West Coast Blackout in '26. You defrosted a little, but the doctors say it's nothing serious."

John Henry explained to Ted that doctors had now perfected an artificial heart, and that he thought that the time was right to bring Ted back to once again be the greatest hitter that ever lived.

Ted thought about it for a second and then tore into John Henry.

"You idiot! When I died I had the body of a feeble 83-year-old man. I may have a new heart, but I've still got the body of a feeble 83 year old man!"

John Henry decided to take another tack.

"But Dad, I've made a fortune with this cryogenics thing. I've taken your DNA and had you cloned."

John Henry then crossed the room and opened the door. In walked five tall, lean young men. Each was the spitting image of The Kid as a young man.

A beaming John Henry poised himself to make the introductions.

"Ted Williams meet Ted Williams, Ted Williams, Ted Williams, Ted Williams and Ted Williams."

The Hall of Famer was stunned.

"You mean that for the last fifty two years I've been hanging upside down like Grandpa Munster in a nitrogen tank so you could do this? Why didn't you just cremate me like I asked?"

John Henry smiled.

"Look dad, sometimes you've got to make tough decisions to be a successful businessman."

"Successful businessman? Ha!" said an animated Ted.

"You couldn't run a successful business if you owned a store that only sold winning lottery tickets" he sarcastically added.

"Look dad, you're the only white player...uh, players, in the majors today. All the other players are Latin or Asian. They've even renamed it Major League Beisbol.”

This puzzled Ted. He couldn't figure out why American kids wouldn't play what he thought was the greatest game in the world.

"So what are all the white kids playing?" he asked.

"Professional skateboarding" John Henry told him.

"Who's the commissioner these days?"

"Cheech Marin"

"You mean that hippie comedian? He must be a hundred years old" barked The Kid.

"Yeah, but life expectancy's 150 now" said the son.

Ted was depressed. Everything that people had told him about John Henry was true. It was too bad he had to find out this way.

He finally came to a decision.

"Crank up the AC. I want to go back in the tank."

I always regretted that I never got to see Ted Williams play in person. If John Henry gets his way, I may one day get the chance. While we're at it, what do you say we dig up The Babe?

Posted by dmargarita at 9:09 PM

July 10, 2002

The Greatest

The baseball world is mourning the loss of Red Sox great Ted Williams, though celebrating the fact that we may be able to soon buy his remains on ebay thanks to his ever enterprising son, John Henry. I can't count on my fingers and toes the number of times in the last twenty four hours, how many people I've heard refer to him as "The Greatest Hitter Who Ever Lived" in part because I have a hard time counting to ten.

Whenever someone passes away, it is common for others to say wonderful things about them, unless they're talking about Hitler or someone like that. Although, I suppose there were people in Germany in 1945 saying, while weeping, "Achhh, zat Hitler vasn't such a bad guy."

I'm certainly not comparing Ted Williams to Hitler. He (Williams, not Hitler) was a complex individual who had his faults and flaws like all of us do. He also did an admirable amount of fund raising for the Jimmy Fund.

I hate to speak ill of the dead, or dead of the ill for that matter, but I'd like to contest this notion that he was the greatest hitter of all time. I know that may be heresy in these parts.

You see, there was another guy, who also spent part of his career with the Red Sox, who in my opinion is still the measuring stick for major league hitters. His name was Babe Ruth.

At the risk of sounding like a stat geek, while Ruth's career batting average was just two points lower than Williams, he led Williams in just about every other category including hitting almost 200 more home runs. Yes, Williams was the last guy to bat .400 but Ruth won a batting title hitting .378 not to mention not winning it in two season's while batting .378 and .393.

People love to point out that Williams missed five prime seasons while serving in the military, but Ruth spent the first several years of his career as a pitcher (and a darn good one) in the dead ball era for the Red Sox. Also, one might wonder how many home runs the Babe might have hit had he not spent most evenings after a game with two hookers drinking bootleg gin.

Most if not all of Ruth's batting records have been broken, but all by different individuals. To think that at one time one guy held all of these records is staggering.

So why has Williams become known as the greatest hitter of all time? Because Williams told us he was. He always said that he wanted to walk down the street and have people say "There goes the greatest hitter that ever lived."

Red Sox broadcaster Jerry Remy recounted the time he first met Williams. As the legend passed through the clubhouse, he passed a full length mirror. Upon seeing his reflection he exclaimed "There he is! The greatest hitter that ever lived!"

Most of us would've commented "Do these pants make me look fat?"

This seems to be a pattern in professional sports. Mohammed Ali is known as "The Greatest" because that's what he called himself. Was he better than Joe Louis? Was he better than Rocky Marciano who retired undefeated at 49-0?

The Rolling Stones refer to themselves as "The World's Greatest Rock & Roll Band" although one could make an argument for The Beatles, The Who or the Cowsills since music is a matter of taste and largely subjective. If one goes by record sales, perhaps Slim Whitman is the greatest recording artist if the claim that he "sold more records than Elvis Presley and the Beatles" in his commercial is to be believed.

I've decided therefore that to achieve enormous success, I am now going to refer to myself as The Greatest Columnist of All Time. From now on when you pass me on the street, feel free to say "There goes the greatest columnist that ever lived."

I'd rather hear that than "Stick 'em up."

Posted by dmargarita at 9:15 PM

July 3, 2002

Bloodlines

Call it a mid-life crisis. No, I'm not going for the little sports car or the 23 year old blonde rollerblader (OK, I'll take the rollerblader).

I've decided that it's time for a career change. I'm going to try out for the Chicago Bears. This idea was inspired by John Henry Williams, the son of Red Sox great Ted Williams, who at 33 years of age has asked for and received a try out with the BoSox.

Since being the progeny of a talented athlete seems to be a sufficient qualification to be given a try out by a professional team, I figure that I fall into that category.

You see, my father, Bob Margarita, played for the Chicago bears from 1944-46, and was pretty darn good. Normally a guy like me wouldn't even get a phone call returned from a professional team. I'm small, slow and old (by professional sports standards).

Those physical limitations are generally considered a drawback in pro football.

I could do what many pro football players do, take steroids and then I'd be a little bigger, but still too small, a littler faster, but still too slow, and still just as old.

Many athletes, particularly in baseball, have followed their father to the big leagues. Bobby and Barry Bonds, Ken Griffey Sr. & Jr., and we are now on our third generation of the Boone family. In fact, when Griffey Jr. came to the majors, he was his father's teammate.

Considering the wonders of modern medicine, perhaps my father could make a come back. At 81 he might need double knee replacements, a hip replacement, a lung transplant and a few cortisone shots to once again be one of the most elusive halfbacks in the NFL. Granted, at this point in his career he'd probably have to become a blocking back or at the very least be relegated to special teams.

Going to training camp with my dad would be loads of fun as my veteran father would make me, the rookie, sing my college fight song for the rest of the team, although I don't know if Bunker Hill Community College actually has a fight song. Frankly, I always thought of that school as being more like "Benny Hill" Community College (which I guess would make Yakkity Sax the school fight song).

In my father's day, football players played on both sides of the ball, my father being a halfback on offense and a defensive back as well. I would expect to do no less, which would make scrimmaging against him very interesting. As he came through the line it would be my responsibility to rush up and put a shoulder into his ribs. This would also get out any lingering grudges that I've built up since childhood.

Wham!

"Now can I have a pony!?"

Last night one of the local TV stations showed videotape of John Henry Williams at the plate, and honestly, I've seen Little Leaguers with better swings. Perhaps someone should buy him a copy of his father's book The Science of Hitting.

Good luck to John Henry at attempting to do what his father and many others (including me) think is the hardest thing to do in sports---hit a baseball traveling anywhere between 80 and 100 m.p.h., and moving in any number of directions.

Next thing you know some joker will think that just because his dad was President of the United States that he could.....oh.

Posted by dmargarita at 11:10 PM

June 5, 2002

Getting a Boost

Baseball's dirty little secret is out. Former MVP Ken Caminiti has stated in a recent issue of Sports Illustrated that some 50 percent of major league ballplayers use illegal steroids. The recently retired Jose Canseco has estimated the percentage of usage to be at 85 percent. I f my basic arithmetic is correct, that would be more.

The discrepancy in the number estimates proves that either the precise amount of steroid usage in pro ball is not known, or that neither player is very good at math. Actually, both scenarios are possible since Major League Baseball doesn't test for steroid use, and very few players come out of M.I.T.

Steroid use might help explain why utility infielders are now capable of bunting opposite field home runs. Players have gotten noticeably bigger with the increased steroid use. At the rate they're going, you may one day see a ballplayer atop the Empire State building, swatting planes away.

Caminiti, who had never hit more than 26 home runs in a season, says he began using the steroids in early 1996 to help recover from a shoulder injury. The added bulk allowed him to belt 28 home runs after the All-Star break.

He also says that his testicles shrank and receded into his body, which means the steroids had two positive effects: they improved his performance and allowed him to play without a protective cup.

According to the SI article, one of the substances players use is a drug that is commonly given to overworked horses, so besides home run records falling, we may soon see Kentucky Derby records going by the boards as well.

Mr. Caminiti's revelations have compelled me to come clean as well. I use steroids. I don't lift weights, mind you. There's no need to go overboard.

I've decided that it's time to blow the lid off steroid use in the literary world. I am willing to go one step further than Caminiti, however. I'm going to name names.

I can walk into any Barnes and Noble bookstore and immediately point out the writers who are "juiced."

Stephan King---The man puts out a book, seemingly every other week. There can only be one explanation for such a prolific outpouring of work: chemical enhancement.

John Grisham---When he turned from a legal career to a writing career, all he could write about was traffic court, and small claims court. Once hooked up with anabolic steroids, Grisham was able to write best selling novels about murder trials.

William Shakespeare---Many scholars have long been skeptical that the Bard of Avon was capable of producing such a voluminous amount of work on his own. Some have suggested that Shakespeare was merely a "front" for other writers. In hindsight, it is likely that he was a regular visitor to the local alchemist.

Edgar Allan Poe---Well, the chemicals the genius behind such classics as The Tell-Tale Heart took, were obviously more mind enhancing than body enhancing.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle---Doyle's most famous character, Sherlock Holmes, as written, was a cocaine user (though that was generally overlooked in the old Basil Rathbone movies). Was Holmes' use of narcotics to stay alert and one step ahead of his enemies a reflection of a similar inclination of Doyle?

Agatha Christie---Come on. She had a moustache, for God's sake.

There you have it. When you see my name on the N.Y. Times best seller list one day, you'll know what I did to get there.

Posted by dmargarita at 10:54 PM

November 7, 2001

Yankee Go Abroad

It has long been said that those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it. The same can be said for Biology, Geometry and English Literature, particularly in this era of MCAS.

The New York Times ran a recent news report that Rear Adm. John Stufflebeem said that he had underestimated the tenacity of the Afghan troops because he had not understood that the Taliban "don't see the world the same way we do," or automatically accept American "inevitability."

The best thing about writing this column is that is gives me a public forum to make editorial commentary, and so to Rear Adm. Stufflebeem's comments I would like to take this opportunity to publicly reply with a "DUH!!!"

Clearly, Rear Adm. Stufflebeem (I just like writing his name) doesn't seem to have learned from history. If he had, he would have realized that the British and the Soviets both found themselves hopelessly caught in a quagmire in Afghanistan.

One has to wonder that if the British and the Soviets couldn't win there, what are our chances? We've sent elite Special Forces over there and though they've yet to hit the ground, they may do just fine.

It occurred to me that there is one group of individuals who may have the best chance of winning.

The New York Yankees.

Having seen them pull one miracle victory after another out of their proverbial hats, I think that the three in a row major league champions may be our best shot. OK, so the Arizona Diamondbacks won the World Series. Had it not been for three errors in the seventh game, including one by their usually indomitable closer, Mariano Rivera, the Yanks would likely have won their fourth consecutive title.

I've never seen a team full of players with such paltry batting averages that scare the hell out of me when batting an a clutch situation.

I don't know if there are two other guys that I'd rather have in a foxhole with me than Tino Martinez, and Scott Brosius.

"Brosius, cover the left flank! Martinez, take out that machine gun nest!"

Sure, Osama bin Laden has found himself a loyal group of follwers, but how would he react if Roger Clemens buzzed him high and tight with a fastball?

This has put me in mind of some other historical match-ups that I'd like to see:

The 1927 Yankees versus the Third Reich.

On September 1, 1939, Hitler's troops invade Poland, but they prove to be no match for "Murderers Row" when Babe Ruth steps up, points to the Rheinland and "calls his shot." With one mighty swing, the Babe knocks the Nazis back into their own territory. Lou Gherig follows up with a smash that destroys the stormtroopers once and for all.

The 1968-69 Super Bowl New York Jets versus the Soviet Union. Nikita Krushchev scares the American public when he tells the U.S. "We will bury you."

This doesn't phase the Jets brash young quarterback, "Broadway Joe" Namath, who boldly predicts, "The Jets will win. I guarantee it." Sure enough, the Iron Curtain and Soviet communism eventually fall.

At this point, I would now like to take this opportunity to apologize to Rear Adm. Stufflebeem for making light of his name. With a name like Margarita, who am I to make fun of someone else's name?

However, I usually like to end with something funny whenever possible, so here goes:

Rear Adm. Stufflebeem.

Posted by dmargarita at 7:50 PM

October 21, 2001

Turkey Day Games

This past Saturday, as I was raking some dog-doo filled leaves, trying to convince myself that I should be basking in the joy of the changing of the seasons that is New England, my thoughts turned to Thanksgiving. This month we celebrate the moment in history when the Pilgrims, in a show of gratitude, sat down to dinner with the local Indians before throwing them out of the house. They then named the territory Massachusetts from an Indian word meaning, "land of political patronage."

Of course, another New England tradition will continue as high school football teams square off for their annual Thanksgiving Day football game. This year it will be a little bit different as we are engaged in armed conflict half a world away. Indeed some of those U.S. Special Forces engaged in deadly combat may very well have been engaged in sporting combat last year in their own high school football games.

It set me to wondering what sport Afghans might usually be playing at this, or for that matter, any time of the year. Apparently the popular local sport is called bushkazi. Honestly, that's the name of the sport. If this were a year ago I wouldn't be claiming that the local sport was called clintonkazi.

Bushkazi is a game similar to polo except that the object of the game is for the horsemen to throw a headless goat carcass over a goal. Naturally, you'd want a headless goat carcass because the live one's have a tendency to resist being a participant in the game.

What I'm wondering is, in this twenty four hour cable TV world, why hasn't ESPN picked up on this? They could hire that soccer announcer who could change his scoring call to, "gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooat."

It's hard to imagine what a bushkazi match might be like because I can only picture it in western sports terms. I have an unlikely image of cheerleaders on the sidelines, covered from head to toe in their burka's yelling, "go Ahkmed, he's our man, if he can't do it, no one can."

Of course since alcohol is forbidden in that region, you probably wouldn't see too many "tastes great-less filling" arguments among the fans.

I don't know how organized it is. Perhaps they have leagues and teams. Considering the treatment of women in that part of the world, I imagine such team names as the "Kabul Misogynists," and the "Kandahar Oppressors." Of course with Kabul being the major media center there, they probably have the most money and get all the best free agents.

Like American professional sports they probably have endless rounds of playoffs leading up to the championship match, their version of the Super Bowl. I hope that match never gets too commercial and the Afghan public doesn't have to sit through some lame half time show with Michael Jackson or 'N Sync.

Perhaps some year, instead of being stuck with another boring Dallas Cowboys-Detroit Lions football game, we'll be treated to an exiting bushkazi match on TV.

I've got money on the Misogynists.

Posted by dmargarita at 4:17 PM

September 5, 2001

Playing Hardball

Regular readers of this column know that I am an avid baseball fan and live and die with the fate of the Red Sox. I am also a softball player currently engaged in a playoff fight. As exciting as it's been, I'm finding that softball just doesn't have the edge that playing baseball had, and so I've decided that I want to resume playing hardball once again. No, I'm not going to play in one of those over thirty leagues.

Next year I'm trying out for Little League.

The controversy surrounding Danny Almonte has shown that it is not only possible, but may turn out to be quite profitable. Before being discovered as being too old to play in the Little League World Series, the 12-year-old, sorry, 14-year-old had made national headlines and seemed on track for a stellar professional baseball career. He signed an estimated 2000 autographs on one day, so could endorsements have been too far down the road?

What with modern computer technology it is easy enough to fake a birth certificate and hack into government systems. While it’s true that with age I have lost a little off my fastball, and am probably no longer in Almonte's 70 m.p.h. range, I still possess enough heat to put away most 10 year olds. Of course the 11 and 12 year olds would be a little more of a challenge, but I think that I could keep them off balance with my off-speed pitches.

Having played and coached at various levels for many years, I feel that I have a lot to offer in terms of knowledge to the youngsters. For instance, any kid standing too close to the plate while I am on the mound will soon learn the meaning of such phrases as "chin music" and "brush back pitch."

Any child attempting to turn a double play as I come barreling into second with a take out slide will go crying to his mommy. Literally.

While opponents will learn these gritty baseball lessons from me, there would be plusses to playing on a team with me. If teammates need a ride to the game, I can drive them. For that matter, I'm also available to buy them beer.

If I could reach the Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pa., I could showcase my talents on national TV. Perhaps there would be interest from the major leagues, and even if I were to be found out, imagine the money I could make from writing a tell-all book. Jim Bouton was the first to do so with his epic, Ball Four, revealing the seamier side of the national pastime. Surely, a tell-all book about my experiences in Little League would be a best seller. I could write about who likes whom, who eats paste, and who has cooties.

It appears that Almonte may be in the country illegally and hasn't attended a day of school since entering the U.S. He may only be fourteen, but he's already been treated like a major leaguer.

If you'll excuse me now, I've got to go start my workouts.

Posted by dmargarita at 5:53 PM

March 22, 2001

Two Strikes

As we approach baseball's regular season, the television networks usually whet our appetite with a plethora of the many baseball movies that have been made. There have been some pretty good ones, and some complete dogs---which I am about to recommend to you. I don't normally make it a practice to suggest that someone view a bad film. I don't think I've ever said "Hey, you should go see ________, it's really awful."

What I'm about to recommend are bad enough to be funny, and thus entertaining.

FEAR STRIKES OUT: Anthony Perkins stars as the troubled former Red Sox outfielder, Jimmy Piersall. Until Robert Redford starred in The Natural, most actors starring as ballplayers seemed to have about as much athletic ability as Liberace, and that's the main source of humor in this movie. Perkins was far more convincing as a sociopathic killer in Psycho, than as a ballplayer here. Today, studios go to great lengths to make settings, costumes and atmosphere as realistic as possible. That didn't seem to have been a major concern in this biopic.

Since Piersall was a member of the Red Sox, much of the film is set at Fenway Park, or is supposed to be. During one game scene, two main shots are used. The first is a wide shot of an actual game at Fenway, and the other is a close-up of Piersall playing shortstop. The close-up is not overly convincing though, when you notice that what should be Fenway's 37-foot high "Green Monster" left field wall, appears to be a ten foot high fence with palm trees behind it. I wasn't around to see Lansdowne Street in the fifties, but I'm willing to bet that there were no palm trees there.

OK, so they couldn't make their stadium look like Fenway. It might have been more convincing if, while in the dugout, he was wearing the same uniform as his teammates. As Perkins paces back and forth, it's hard not to notice that he's wearing what looks like a child's uniform bought at Kmart, while his teammates wear the real thing.

THE BABE RUTH STORY: William Bendix stars as the game's greatest slugger from his adolescence until his death. In most movies, which cover that length of time, a child actor will be used to play the subject as a youngster. Common sense, you would think. Here, forty-two year old Bendix plays Ruth as a teenager at St. Mary's Industrial School for Boys. In an effort to make him appear young, he is dressed in a pair of knickers.

Later, while starring with the Yankees, Ruth, in the middle of batting practice, hits a line drive which strikes a dog that is inexplicably sitting on the field at Yankee Stadium. He rushes the dog to a hospital, a human hospital mind you, not an animal hospital, where he convinces a doctor to operate on the mutt. He misses the game, and is suspended by his manager. As the evening wears on, a steaming mad Ruth is shown in a nightclub with a glass of milk in front of him. Babe Ruth symbolized the Roaring Twenties and I doubt he ever drank a glass of milk in his life, much less in a nightclub or speakeasy in New York City during prohibition.

At the end of the film, as Ruth lay dying in a hospital bed, he is introduced to a doctor who will try an experimental new serum on him. It may not work, he is told, but they may learn from it and thus help others. Lo and behold, the doctor administrating the serum turns out to be the one who operated on the dog and saved him.

The Babe wasn't saved, and neither was the movie. That's why it's funny.

Posted by dmargarita at 10:20 PM

February 3, 2001

Super Bore XXXV

It is the day after Super Bore XXXV, or Super Bore 35 for those of you that aren't Romans, and I'm still trying to sort out all that went on yesterday.

First of all, can we please do away with these Roman numerals? We don't need them, and no one uses them in real life. Have you ever known anybody who left a note that read, "Be back in XV minutes?"

I don't think that Romans even use this numbering system. Does anyone feel shortchanged because we don't refer to other championships as World Series XXIVI, or Stanley Cup Final XIV? Can't we just call it the Super Bowl?

"Super Bowl XXXV" looks as though it has been given a movie rating by some morality board, in which the "XXX" is for hard core pornography, and the "V" is for violence. That may turn out to be a more appropriate rating for the upcoming XFL games.

Non-football fans are drawn to this game for two reasons: the commercials and the musical entertainment. There was a vast array of popular singers, and it was clear that the planners were going to try to appeal to as many demographics as possible.

The first performer (that I saw, since I tuned in a little late) was Ray Charles, doing his classic rendition of "America the Beautiful," followed immediately by the Backstreet Boys singing the "Star Spangled Banner." I didn't know what to expect, and in all fairness, their rendition wasn't horribly bad, although I had a vision of Ray in the background covering his ears, screaming at God for having taken the wrong sense.

Halftime paired up veteran local rockers Aerosmith, and current bubblegum vocal group 'N Sync, for what proved to be the weirdest pairing of artists since Elvis Costello teamed up with Burt Bacharach. For their finale, they combined to do Aerosmith's Classic Rock staple, "Walk This Way" during which they were joined onstage by Brittany Spears, Mary J. Blige and someone called Nelly.

It was obvious that they were intent on entertaining the two largest disposable income groups, Babyboomers and middle-class mallrats. Where was the entertainment for the upper class? Perhaps they could've had Luciano Pavarotti belting out a verse. How about the people who are down on their luck? They need entertainment more than anybody and were probably clamoring for Boxcar Willie. Unfortunately for them, his death in 1999 has severely curtailed his personal appearance schedule (although death hasn't seemed to slow down Elvis Presley).

The game lacked the drama of last year's contest, which went down to the final play. Both teams struggled to move the ball early, leading to more kicks than a Rockette audition. (Sorry for the corny one-liner. I was just watching a Bob Hope movie.)

In the second half it became a blowout in the Ravens favor, and when Jamal Lewis scored to make it 31-7, TV remotes all over the nation could be heard clicking to Malcolm in the Middle.

Millions, perhaps billions of dollars were wagered on this game, which is consistently the most heavily bet event in American sports, and I have to admit that I finally participated.

I lost $2, betting on the Giants.

Posted by dmargarita at 12:47 PM

August 29, 2000

EXAMINING A SCHIZOID TV NATION

I couldn't figure out what to watch on Monday night. It was the Patriots first game, and there was the curiosity factor of Dennis Miller in the broadcast booth for Monday Night Football. There was also the Republican National Convention, and in case either got boring, that old stand-by, TV Land. Thank God for the remote.

The MNF gang was coy about introducing Miller, doing so only after bringing in the other new members, including the requisite Hall of Famer and the gorgeous woman on the sidelines. Miller's first in-game commentary, on the first series of downs was regarding a player with a groin injury, and at 7:31 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, for what I'm guessing was the first time in MNF's 31 year history, the word "genitalia" was mentioned.

Over at the convention, the GOP, trying to soften its WASP-y image, began the evening with a prayer from a rabbi.

CLICK-On TV Land, Mayberry R.F.D.'s Howard Sprague is attempting to prove his manliness by jumping out of an airplane (with a parachute).

Roll call at the convention. A black woman is "Madame Chairman" tallying the votes. American Samoa has four votes for Bush.

CLICK-Miller makes a reference to the Tigris and Euphrates River. The second quarter begins, and the Pat's go up 6-0. Miller makes a reference to the Socratic method.

CLICK-Private Gomer Pyle aggravates Sgt. Carter by continuously messing up during war games. Things work out in the end, though.

CLICK-Guam has four votes for Bush and the roll call is suspended. Next is a black couple singing "Rock This Town."

It is an irony that while Dennis Miller, whose forte is political humor is on Monday Night Football, Hank Williams Jr. who is perhaps best known for opening the MNF Broadcast with the line, "Are you ready for some football?" makes an appearance at the convention. He is the son of Country Music legend Hank Williams, and it's hard not to notice a link between him and George W. Bush as two guys who made their careers by virtue of having their father's names.

CLICK-Dennis Miller makes a reference to The Sword of Damocles.

CLICK-More irony at the convention as former Nixon speechwriter and current game show host, Ben Stein is introduced as a comedian. A black woman teacher makes a speech.

CLICK-Pat's go up 13-0 at the half, meanwhile on Emergency, a careless worker drops a cigarette and starts a fire in a skyscraper.

CLICK-the second half begins with Miller making a reference to the mathematical formula "pi."

CLICK-More minority entertainment. Frankly, I'm no longer sure if I'm watching the Republican National Convention or "Amateur Night at the Apollo Theater." For all the diversity of the speakers and the entertainers, occasional shots panning the audience show only a slightly higher percentage of people of color than that of your average Klan rally. This only serves to highlight the disingenuousness of the on-stage diversity. For the majority of the conventioneers, it's likely that their only dealings with people of color, is when they interact with their hired help.

CLICK-Gage and DeSoto work tirelessly to rescue people trapped on the seventeenth floor of a building.

CLICK-Miller makes a Rosetta Stone and Survivor reference. Pat's lead 20-0 at the end of the third quarter.

CLICK-Joe Friday and Bill Gannon are on the trail of a con man on Dragnet.

CLICK-A black Gospel group gets the convention hopping like a revival meeting.

CLICK-Miller makes a Hindenburg reference.

CLICK-Retired General Colin Powell closes out the convention evening.

CLICK-The Pat's are winning 20-0, and Al Michaels sounds very depressed. Cheer up, Al. Joe Friday got his man.

Posted by dmargarita at 10:23 PM

July 26, 2000

Why?

Well, I suppose you all heard the big news in last week's papers. No, I'm not referring about the discovery of water on Mars, greatly enhancing the prospect of microbial life forms existing on the planet. I'm talking about the fact that ABC Sports announced that the new Monday Night Football broadcast team would include comedian Dennis Miller.

Dennis Miller?

Also interviewed for the job was right-wing talk show host Rush Limbaugh. I'm guessing that former Ku Klux Klan grand wizard, David Duke, was unavailable.

Hey, maybe Dennis Miller will be great. Like most people, I laughed when I heard that Cher was going to act in a movie. Not only did she turn out to be a better actress than a singer, she became a terrific actress.

Dennis Miller?

When questioned about it, ABC officials claimed that Monday Night Football is an entertainment show and that in the 1970's, comedian Bill Cosby was considered for the job. This would not likely have worked, as I imagine that Cosby's long, drawn out delivery would interfere with the game call.

Bill Cosby: Well, ya see the quarterback takes the ball because the center says, "Hey, I don't want this thing. If someone's gonna get killed, I don't want it to be me, 'cause that's really what it's all about. Kill the guy with the ball...."

Howard Cosell: Let's recap the three plays that you just saw...

I have a hard time imagining Miller's hip, pop culture reference banter fitting in a football broadcast.

Dennis Miller: The referee blows his whistle and the players line up like some sort of Pavlovian, bovine experiment. All we need is Sergeant Shultz yelling "raus, raus" to get these guys to line up in some sort of Euclidian geometric formation to do their Rockette-like doe-see-doe at the line of scrimmage.

Al Michaels: Let's re-cap the three plays you just saw...

(It's a shame you can't hear me do these impressions.)

Dennis Miller?

Why stop at Dennis Miller? There's a number of interesting non-sports oriented people who could bring a new twist to the broadcast.

Al Michaels: The Jets were unimpressive in the first half and to find out what Bill Parcells said to motivate his team at halftime, let's go down to our sideline reporter, renowned chef, Julia Child.

Julia Child: I spoke with Coach Parcells and he seemed most upset with his team's performance. When I asked what changes he would make in the second half, he boiled over like a bouillabaisse that's been left on the burner too long.

How about "Halftime highlights with Florence Henderson?" or "Harvey Fierstein's pick of the week?"

TV ratings have slipped for Monday Night Football as they have for all sports. The diversity of cable and satellite TV have given viewers other options, and the introduction of Thursday and Sunday Night Football, have made MNF less of a novelty. Still one question remains:

Dennis Miller?

Posted by dmargarita at 8:40 PM

March 10, 2000

The State of Boston Sports

I was happy to see the Red Sox pitchers and catchers report for spring training this weekend to bring some hope to what has become a sad situation for the professional sports teams in Boston.

How sad?

Recently the Boston Globe and its counterpart, the Boston Herald featured auto racing on their respective front sports pages.

Auto racing is reportedly the fastest growing sport in America, for reasons unbeknownst to me. It was never popular here in the north, but was always big in states where for years Hee-Haw consistently drew higher TV ratings than 60 Minutes.

The Patriots continued their downward slide since the departure of Bill Parcells and as a result, Coach Pete Carroll was fired.

I was really hoping that Carroll would do well since by all accounts, he is a nice guy. Unfortunately, it seems that with few exceptions, to be a successful coach in the NFL, one must be a complete S.O.B. I imagine that as a football coach, Attilla the Hun would have gone undefeated.

The Bruins were always able to sell tickets, no matter what their place in the standings. After hitting the depths in the Steve Kasper years, the disgusted fandom finally got turned off to their beloved B's.

An intense search by management led to the hiring of the highly respected Pat Burns as head coach. Burns has not been much more successful than Kasper, with the B's at the bottom of the heap in their division, sporting an 18-24 record as of this writing.

It is a sad commentary that in the NHL the seeming minimum requirement to making the playoffs is having a franchise in the league, thus the Bruins are still not out of the playoff hunt.

The good news for Celtic fans is that the team is not in last place. The bad news is that they are in fifth place.

Rick Pitino was given a dump truck full of money of money to turn the franchise around, but for a number of reasons, not all of which are his fault, the team is still foundering.

Pitino wrote a book called Success is a Choice. Judging by the team's record, it appears that the Celtics have chosen to be mediocre.

Despite having some young talent on the team, very often the Celtics look like they couldn't beat the Washington Generals.

I should explain here for non-sports fans that the Washington Generals is the team that the Harlem Globetrotters play in their exhibition games. Can you imagine what a depressing playing for the Generals must be? Knowing that before every game that you are expected to go out and lose? I don't think self-esteem is a quality found in abundance in the Generals' locker room. The first piece of equipment issued to the players ought to be an ELECTRIC razor.

As I look out the window at the foot of snow on the ground, I can cheer myself up in knowing that that the rest of the Red Sox report this week.

Posted by dmargarita at 8:56 PM

July 14, 1999

Soccer

Congratulations to the U.S. Women's Soccer team on winning the World Cup (although I doubt that any members of the team subscribe to this paper).

These women have given young girls role models and all of America patriotic pride. Even President Clinton attended the game, although I'm not sure if he was there more as a patriot, a sports fan or for a chance to watch a bunch of twenty-something-year-old women run around in shorts.

I did my patriotic duty by watching (or attempting to watch) most of the match, which is no easy feat for somebody who grew up prior to the soccer boom.

I don't know the finer points of the game, which means that, as far as I know, the game consists of a ball being kicked back and forth and no one ever scores. That's the biggest problem with soccer as illustrated last Saturday. After playing two overtimes to a scoreless tie, the game was decided by a shoot-out, which rendered the previous two-hour game meaningless. That would be like baseball replacing extra innings with a home run contest. Why bother to even play the game?

Soccer fans are quick to point out that the game is the world?s most popular sport, but there's a reason for this. Most of the world is poor, and all that is required to play soccer is a ball, a head of lettuce, or the head of a recently deposed dictator.

America is wealthy, and we can afford equipment. This is the reason that basketball is so popular in poor inner cities. Most neighborhoods have a hoop and someone always has a ball.

Soccer is a great game for kids because unlike traditional North American sports it doesn?t require hand-eye coordination. It merely requires feet and upright pedestrian mobility. Athletic ability is a plus.

Americans are used to hand-eye sports where points are scored. It's not like soccer players don't get frustrated with not being able to pick up the ball. Many years ago a player did just that, and the sport or rugby was born.

That baseball is inherently American is evidenced by the fact that a baseball bat makes a much better weapon than a soccer ball. For example, I'm sure that at no time has anybody ever heard someone breaking into his or her house in the middle of the night and reached for a soccer ball.

The rest of the world takes soccer (or "futbol" as they more appropriately call it) a little too seriously. Players who have failed have actually been killed. Bill Buckner merely had to move to Idaho.

I don't expect that soccer will catch on in a way that the major sports in this country have. For most people, a Mia Hamm corner kick will not have quite the majesty of a Mark McGwire 500-foot home run or a Drew Bledsoe 80-yard touchdown pass.

If women's soccer does become popular however, one thing is for sure: like their male counterparts, it will be "about the money."

Posted by dmargarita at 7:55 PM