The Impossible Dream

There really is no other way to begin this but to say that Dick Williams is directly responsible for stoking one of my lifelong passions.

This isn't to say I didn't follow the Boston Red Sox before he became manager -- and propelled the team from ninth place in 1966 to an American League pennant a year later. I was ... but even in those childhood years (I was 14 when Rico Petrocelli caught that popup that ended the '67 regular season), I understood that being a fan of the Boston Red Sox meant being much too familiar with futility.

I understood that part of it. But I didn't understand the other part ... that from about 1964 on, the seeds that ultimately changed that ethic had already been planted.

Well, actually, we have to go back to 1961, when I was 8 years old, and Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris were battling each other for the honor of breaking Babe Ruth's home run record (for the record, I was pulling for Maris because everybody else seemed to be pulling for The Mick).

Carl Yastrzemski was a rookie in 1961, and the only thing I could really tell about him is that he looked as if his head was somewhere between his shoulders and his armpits when he stood up at bat. He had what I thought was the word's worst stance. But dammit if he didn't manage to hit the ball just the same.

Despite the promise he showed (I was much too young to know, or care, about his other traits), the Red Sox meandered in those years through an endless haze of mediocrity -- and worse. They always had guys who could hit. Dick Stuart hit a ton of home runs. The only problem is that he probably made MORE errors. He was the ultimate guy who could keep both teams in the game.

They even had some good pitchers in those years. Bill Monbouquette was a lot better than anyone ever gave him credit for being; and Earl Wilson went into have a fabulous career -- with the Detroit Tigers. Wilson's an interesting character study. He looked like an athlete; pitched like an athlete and even HIT like an athlete.

But Earl Wilson was black, and we're talking about the team that didn't introduce its first African-American player to the Major League roster until 1959 ... and one can only assume that was done with the gun of public opinion aimed squarely at Tom Yawkey's head. It's also safe to assume that even after that watershed day in Red Sox history, African-Americans probably had to tread lightly around the clubhouse, lest they get on the wrong side of some of the bastions of modern thinking that ran the team in those days.

Seems he went into a bar during spring training of '66 and the bartender dropped the "n" word on him after refusing to serve him.

He sought solace from the Red Sox management, who told him to forget it. He didn't. Instead, he told his tale to the media. Then -- of course -- he was shipped out of town, to the Tigers for Don Demeter. After he was traded, Wilson was 13-6 for Detroit in 1966. The following season he was 22-11 on a team that battled for the pennant the Red Sox eventually won until the last day of the season.

He never approached those figures again, but neither was he terrible. Demeter had a decent half-season for the Sox in '66 (to be fair), but by the middle of '67 he, too, was gone ... shipped to the Cleveland Indians for Gary Bell (who was a vital part of that '67 team).

My only theory on this is that Dick O'Connell, who had been named general manager in 1965 (on the same day Dave Morehead pitched a no-hitter), hadn't established enough of a presence in the Fenway hierarchy to stand up to whatever demands the Red Sox made to trade Wilson. By '67, he knew what he wanted, and wasn't as timid about acting. As I said, that's my theory. I could be all wrong.

Looking back, it is infuriating to realize what went on behind the scenes with those Red Sox. It really alters this image people seem to want to foster that Yawkey was a benevolent owner who "suffered" for 21 years without a pennant (from 1946-67). If he suffered, and if you're to believe some of the stories about how rampant the racism was over there, it was his own fault.

The only thing one does know is that O'Connell wasn't cut out of the same cloth. O'Connell brought players like Reggie Smith, Joe Foy and George "Boomer" Scott into the fold, traded for guys like John Wyatt (a valuable closer on that '67 team) and -- at the trading deadline -- got Elston Howard over here (who didn't hit, but was involved in what had to be the play of the year when he blocked the plate so that Ken Berry couldn't get near it, and then caught Jose Tartabull's throw that ended the first game of a doubleheader with the Chicago White Sox).

Things bottomed out in 1965 when the Sox lost 100 games. The malaise continued through the first part of 1966, when they were on pace to hit the negative century mark for the second straight season (opening with a 3-11 mark). Then, things jelled. They had a couple of lengthy winning streaks, and by September, they actually looked like a ballclub. By then, Jim Lonborg was in the rotation, Tony C. Foy, Scott, Rico and Yaz were firmly in place, and I could see -- even at my age -- that things were looking up. The question was how up? And besides, winning games in August in September when you're basically playing out the string is a lot different than winning them with a pennant within your grasp.

And besides, even with their late-season up tick, the Red Sox still led the American League in losses (90). The Yankees finished last (wasn't THAT sweet!!!) only because they played fewer games, won fewer, and had a lower winning percentage.

But in our cynicism to dismiss that second half of '66 as an aberration, we forgot one thing. Manager Billy Herman was going to be fired. He was a throwback to the "good old days of the good old boys," and, thus, not Dick O'Connell's kind of guy (whenever anyone starts talking about '67, I always caution them to leave room for Dick O'Connell).

These kids were playing to impress whatever manager came after O'Connell (who was, as it turned out Dick Williams, who'd managed their Triple-A team in Toronto).

Dick Williams was a Brooklyn Dodger. And like a lot of the old Dodgers (Don Zimmer being another one), Williams learned baseball at the knee of some of the all-time greats, like Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, Duke Snider, Gil Hodges and Roy Campanella. Like Zimmer, Williams suffered a debilitating injury early in his career (a broken shoulder) and ended up being a utility player. Like Zimmer, Williams had no use for what we would describe today as "the modern athlete." He was old school. Even at the ripe old age of 38.

Those old Dodgers are a lot like those Orioles teams of the mid-60s and 70s. They only learned how to play baseball one way ... the right way. And they translated that knowledge ... and that passion ... wherever they went. Look at guys like Frank Robinson, Zimmer, Williams, Hodges, Don Baylor, and even (much as I can't stand him) Davy Johnson. You can't, even if their personalities may rub you the wrong way, argue that they -- as a group -- have a profound impact on the game.

I honestly don't think the Red Sox knew fully what they were getting when they hired Dick Williams. I think O'Connell knew that he was getting a young, aggressive guy who was sorely needed to turn this collection of young talent he'd assembled into a team. But nobody could have predicted how fast that would happen, or how profoundly the culture of ineptitude would be smashed to smithereens.

Williams was Marine drill-instructor tough. I can see him walking into spring training on Day 1 the way Gunnery Sgt. Hartman did in the opening scenes of "Full Metal Jacket."

(Scott, what are you doing to my beloved Sox!!!!).

Speaking of Scott, Williams said, famously, during that '67 season that talking to Scott was like talking to a cement wall. I've talked many times with Scott, both during and after his career, and I can easily see why the two of them might not have connected. But Scott, in 1967, was a .300 hitter with power, as Ken Harrelson used to say, he could "pick it" around the first base bag. He was a four-tool player (let's not get carried away; he was painfully slow around the bases).

One of the first things Williams did was strip Yastrzemski of his captaincy (a position Yaz still says, today, he never wanted). One gets the impression that spring training, in the Good Old Days of the Good Old Boys, was pretty much a paid vacation. Play a little ball in the morning, play a lot of golf (or do a lot of fishing) the rest of the time.

That wasn't spring training at Williams Island. By all accounts, the time was strictly structured, and the focus was on baseball. Players were urged to leave the sticks home.

Williams wasn't afraid to make examples out of players (such as Scott, who was benched when his weight ballooned ever-so-slightly at one point in the season). But all he asked, in the end, was unrelenting effort and attention. He could tolerate the odd physical error. Mental errors (such as throwing to the wrong base, or stupid base running) would definitely cost a player some in-your-face time, and maybe even a few bucks.

Coming out of spring training, he guaranteed that the Red Sox would be a hustling ballclub; and that they'd win more than they lost. This seemed brash coming from the manager of a team that lost 100 and then 90 games the previous two seasons. But I was only 13 when the '67 season began. I believed him.

I remember, early on, that faith being sorely tested. I used to hang around with a guy named Dickie Mariano, who would go absolutely crazy if the Red Sox lost. He'd stomp around the room, yell, throw things ... and I'm afraid some of that rubbed off on me. No. Check that. A lot of that rubbed off on me.

So one day, in April, they were playing the White Sox, and they blew a lead in the late innings. And I went ballistic. And I distinctly remember, as I was stomping around the house, saying things like, "same old Red Sox," and "why was I stupid enough to believe this guy when he said they were going to win." I also remember my mother getting very cross with me for all the stomping around I was doing.

But soon enough ...

And you know, the season just became one maze of moments, all of them captured for posterity by announcers Ken Coleman, Ned Martin and Mel Parnell on the "Impossible Dream" album that was released in time for Christmas '67.

Who could ever forget ... "Yastrzemski going back, way back, way back, he dives and makes a tre-MEND-ous catch."

Or ... "He's out. He's out at the plate ... Tartabull has thrown the runner out."

And, of course, the one for the ages, "Petrocelli's under it, he's got it, and the Red Sox win. Pandemonium on the field."

The only other time I'd ever heard that word used was to describe Beatlemania. THAT'S how big this was.

There are still large parts of that recording forever etched in my memory.

"At all-star break, for heaven's sake, just six games from the lead."

"And Glory Be, There's Tony C, with homer number twenty; we may not win the pennant, but we sure will scare them plenty."

“They sounded attack, and came battling back. They called them the Cardiac Kids.”

Look at 'em go, ten in a row, and now our kids are second."

But it wasn't all euphoric either.

"And then, one night, the kid in right, lay sprawling in the dirt. The fastball caught him squarely; is Tony badly hurt?"

Tony WAS badly hurt. And he was never not hurt, in one way or another, from that night until he died at the age of 45.

The saga of Tony Conigliaro was every bit as incomprehensible as those of Darryl Stingley, Len Bias and Reggie Lewis. In fact, I'd even say it was more so, when you consider that Tony was a local kid, living not just his dream but all our dreams, and that he was pretty much on top of the world when he was felled by that Jack Hamilton fastball on Aug. 18 of 1967.

Tony may have grown up in Revere, MA, and lived later in Swampscott, MA, but he was a kid from my hometown of Lynn. That's where he played both his high school and American Legion ball. There are at least three of his best high school friends that I still see on a semi-regular basis (and who will return my phone calls at the drop of a hat no matter what they're doing).

Tony had it all ... looks, charm, charisma ... and talent. It's been said (though never really proven) that if there was one potential flaw that could have ripped that '67 team apart, it was Yastrzemski’s lingering resentment over the amount of adulation Tony C. received in comparison to all the criticism he received.

It's true that Tony C. was the very definition of the swinging '60s athlete. But nobody -- and I mean nobody -- gets to be as good as he was in his brief Major League career without having a passion for the game, and the motivation to work hard. So I'm sure a lot of that talk about him "burning the candle at both ends" was myth created by people who couldn't even have dreamed of being what he was and were, as a result, jealous of him.

And his friends (and I've talked to enough of them to get a consensus) tell a much different story.

Oh, sure, Tony wasn't above having himself paged in the lobby of a hotel in Chicago so that everyone would know he was there. And it's true that Tony liked the ladies a little too much sometimes. But, those friends also say, Tony was notoriously clean living when it came to all aspects of chemical health. They swear by that.

The only thing Tony C. didn't have in abundance was luck. He was star-crossed. At least once every season (and sometimes twice), Tony C. would either run into a wall and break his arm (or wrist), pull a groin or a hamstring and miss time, or have other nameless, mysterious ailments befall him (or so the stories go). He could never seem to get a full season in.

By August of '67, it looked as if he might. He was in the middle of a slump on Aug. 18 when he stepped up to face Hamilton of the California Angels. Maybe he was so anxious to snap out of it that he got a little too close to the plate (he always crowded it anyway) and dug in just a little bit more.

Whatever, Hamilton threw high, tight, and hard; and Tony couldn't get out of the way. He got hit right below his left eye, detaching the retina and creating a permanent blind spot. That was it for him. He was never, ever the same, even after a fairly successful comeback in 1969 and 1970.

His horrible fortunes would continue. In 1982, he suffered a devastating heart attack while being driven to Logan Airport by his brother Billy ... after auditioning for the Red Sox color analyst job he probably would have landed. He lived in a vegetative state until 1990, when he died, at the age of 45.

Whenever someone shows footage of that 1967 clubhouse celebration scene, there’s always a short Tony C, Rico and some others doing four-part harmony while hanging out at one of the locker stalls. It was spontaneous, fun, and seeing it gives you goose bumps when it dawns on you how unfair life really is sometimes.

As someone who’s closely involved with the Harry Agganis Foundation (Agganis was another local athlete who played for the Red Sox, and who died tragically young – at age 26 – of a pulmonary embolism), this hits home once a year, in July, when the Agganis all-star classics are played in his memory.

Like all truly newsworthy people, Tony C. made life interesting. And Dick Williams -- taskmaster though he may have been -- had zero problems with Tony C. Why? Because Tony C. busted his ass on the field. That's all Williams ever wanted.

“The doctors say he’ll be OK, but he won’t be back this year; with Tony through, what will we do? Who’ll carry us from here?”

Carl Yastrzemski. Carl Yastrzemski. The man we call Yaz …

Jess Cain was an actor, born in Philadelphia, who matriculated up to Boston and became one of the city’s most beloved DJs. At the time his station, WHDH, was also the Red Sox flagship station, and when the season ended, ‘HDH (which has since been absorbed by WEEI sports radio) hit upon the idea of making its commemorative album based around some of the more memorable moments – from a broadcasting perspective.

As part of that album, Cain – who had done some theater in his day – took an old ragtime tune called “Shoutin’ Lisa Trombone” after the 1967 season ended, and composed the words to the "The Carl Yastrzemski Song" around it. It ended up being the indisputable “hit” of the record.

Yaz would go on, of course, to win the MVP, have a car dealership opened up in his name on the Lynnway in Lynn (Yaz Ford) and have his own bread (Big Yaz bread, which I confess never to have eaten despite being a diehard teenage fan).

And if he was having a phenomenal year prior to Aug. 18, Yastrzemski was just getting warmed up. Once Tony C. went down, he went into overdrive. You couldn't get him out! It's been said that while people have had far better numbers (.326, 44 homers, 121 RBI), nobody ever had a more significant season. Remember, too, that by the late '60s pitching was becoming so dominant that Major League Baseball lowered the mound after the '68 season.

As July segued into August, which segued into September, the Red Sox refused to die. Every time you said "this is it. Here comes the letdown," they'd rally, win a couple or three in a row, and pull back even. I don't ever recall, unless it was way early in the season, or maybe for five minutes here and there during the season, them even being in first place. They were always knocking on the door … forever looking up.

In the last week of the season, they had to play two games at home against the eighth-place Cleveland Indians. It was a perfect time to make their move, as the Indians were – as they often were – absolutely wretched. But Cleveland won both games (it just always seemed that no matter how bad the Indians were, they played like world-beaters whenever they played the Red Sox). And in one of them a pitcher who later became one of Boston’s most beloved baseball icons shut them out. His name was Luis Tiant.

Luis was great. I remember reading somewhere that all Luis did, that whole game, was taunt the Red Sox for choking. It was more likely that Tiant was just so good on that day that nobody could touch him. That happened often in Tiant's career!

By then, school had started and I was playing (or, should I say, trying to play) freshman football at St. John's Prep. Our coaches, sticks in the mud that they were, didn't care about the Red Sox being shut out by Luis Tiant. In fact, we tried to come up with a plan to ferret out information from the kids walking around with transistor radios to get updates, but the coaches smoked it out and made us run a lap for being inattentive.

Thank God, the pivotal Twins-Red Sox game was on a weekend. Coming into the '67 season, the Orioles, who'd won the World Series the year before, were the favorites to repeat. But Frank Robinson collided with Al Weiss' (White Sox) knee trying to steal a base, and was injured seriously enough to miss significant time. The Orioles were a great team, but they were nowhere near as good without Frank Robinson. The O's faded early, and it became a four-team race among the Red Sox, Tigers, White Sox and Twins.

Of the four, the Twins were probably the best on paper, with the Tigers next. Minnesota had two of the game's best pitchers at the time: Dean Chance and Jim Kaat (in today's parlance, Kaat was "filthy"; he had stuff on top of his stuff). The Twins also had Harmon Killebrew and Tony Oliva (who was still a facsimile of the player he was earlier in the decade), Zolio Versalles, Cesar Tovar (who got the only first-place vote Yaz did not get for MVP), Bob Allison and a rookie named Rod Carew.

The Twins were one of those teams that you couldn't help but like ... unless they were standing in your way. Even today, I like the Twins. But I didn't in 1967, only because they were standing in the way. But if the Sox couldn't win, I'd have been happy with them.

I did not want the White Sox. Their manager, Eddie Stankey, was obnoxious. But in retrospect, we should all give Eddie a heartfelt thank you. He's the one who insulted Yastrzemski by calling him "an all-star from the neck down."

The White Sox also couldn't hit, even if it was by accident. They won with pitching ... and they had plenty of that. But they were BORING. And rumor had it they cheated. They couldn’t hit, so they made sure no one else did either. Reportedly, they stored their baseballs in a refrigerator to deaden them … and grew the infield grass high to slow down ground balls.

And people worry about steroids!

I had no feelings for the Tigers, except when Earl Wilson pitched (although knowing now what I know about the likes of Al Kaline and Norm Cash, I’d have probably liked them a lot).

Coming down the stretch, the Tigers seemed to be in a good spot because they had three pitchers (Denny McLain and Mickey Lolich being the other two) who were winning consistently. But according to Sports Illustrated, McLain, who lived pretty fast back in those days, got in trouble with the Detroit mob over gambling debts. The story goes that McLain was somehow roughed up during the season, and that as a result, he injured his foot and couldn't pitch. Who knows what would have happened otherwise!

The first team to be eliminated was the White Sox, who got beaten by the Kansas City Athletics (as in last place Kansas City Athletics) on the Friday before the final weekend.

Thank you God. Anybody but them. And what makes this really ironic is that for five years, I played for the West Lynn American Little League … you guessed it … White Sox.

That left it a three-team race. The Sox had two at Fenway against the Twins on Saturday, Sept. 30 and Sunday, Oct. 1. And entering that series a game out of first, the Red Sox had to sweep.

The Tigers had four (back-to-back doubleheaders) with the Angels over the same two days. If they won three of four, and the Red Sox swept, there would be a tie between the two teams after 162 games.

This shows you how different things were back then. No way would a team in the middle of a pennant race be forced to play back-to-back doubleheaders to close out the season in today's MLB. We'd play until December before that ever happened.

The Saturday game looked as if it might be the end of the road. Jim Kaat was on his game, and the Twins led 1-0 into the fifth. The way Kaat was pitching, things looked pretty bleak.

Over the years, several members of that Red Sox team have said that although Chance was the one challenging Jim Lonborg for the Cy Young Award, they feared Kaat more. They figured they could get to Chance. They were far less confident of facing Kaat.

And for good reason. The man ended up with 283 big league wins, and won 16 games in '67. Why he's not in the Hall of Fame I'll never know.

But Kaat heard (and presumably felt) something pop in his elbow on his way to mowing down the Cardiac Kids and had to leave the game. An army of pitchers followed, beginning with Jim Perry. And none of them were any kind of a match for the Red Sox, who, freed from the burden of facing Kaat, pounded on them all for six runs in the final four innings. Two of them came off the bat of Scott; and three more came from Yaz, who hit homer No. 44 -- a three-run job.

It was during this game that Williams did something I've never seen before (or since). The Red Sox went into the ninth inning up 6-2. But with Gary Bell on in the ninth, Minnesota got a base runner and Harmon Killebrew -- who ended up tied with Yastrzemski for home runs with 44 -- stepped up to the plate. Williams was not interested in putting him on so that the Twins could have runners all over the bases and perhaps gain some momentum. Neither did he feel particularly duty-bound to protect Yaz's triple crown ... not with a pennant at stake.

So, he went out to the mount and told Bell to pitch to Killebrew. And not only did he tell him to pitch, he told him not to be afraid to throw him a nice, big, fat strike and take his chances. Williams figured that 6-4 with no one on base was a whole lot better than 6-2 with runners moving all over the place and the likes of Tony Oliva, Bob Allison and Rod Carew coming up next (even as a rookie, Carew hit .292 that season) facing a jittery pitcher with the whole season on the line.

Bell did what he was told. And Killebrew did just what you knew he was going to do. He put one into the left-field screen (no Monster Seats in '67). But just as he figured, that was all the damage Minnesota could do, and Bell hung on.

Sunday brought us a pitching matchup for the ages: Dean Chance vs. Jim Lonborg. Before we go on, let's talk a little about Lonborg. Lonborg came up in '65 and for two seasons, wasn't really much of a factor. One of the reasons was his nickname: Gentleman Jim. He took that moniker to extremes. Batters dug in on him, and Lonborg let it go. But when Williams came to the team, he brought with him Sal Maglie as his pitching coach. As in Sal "The Barber," so-named because he wasn't afraid to give Major League hitters a close shave if they dug in.

Maglie and Williams were teammates for a while on the '56 Dodgers, before Williams got shipped to Baltimore (in fact, Maglie was the opposing pitcher in Don Larsen's perfect game in the '56 series).

Maglie saw talent in Lonborg, but saw no desire to be mean. And mean was something Sal the Barber was all too familiar with. He looked like the Grim Reaper, and certainly put the fear of God in batters.

Maglie hounded Lonborg to be meaner out there, and Lonnie got the message. There was no more Gentleman Jim in 1967 ... at least not on the mound. Lonborg was involved in a signature moment during that season and -- as always seems to be the case -- it was against the Yankees.

Thad Tillotson of the Yanks drilled Joe Foy in the helmet with a fast ball ... one night after Foy had hit a home run to win a game between the two teams. Foy stayed in the game. Next time Tillotson came to bat, Lonborg plunked him on the arm (not that it's entirely on the subject, but this is but one of many reasons the DH doesn't work for me ... pitchers don't have to face retribution for doing stuff like that).

A brawl ensued (with Petrocelli and Joe Pepitone of the Yankees on the bottom of the pile flailing away at each other). They were old Brooklyn acquaintances. Petrocelli's brother, a New York cop, was duty at Yankee Stadium too. Life is just full of ironies!

(Another irony: The single act that perhaps spurred the Red Sox to come together in 2004 after meandering their way through the season (to that point) was the famous Varitek-ARod fracas.)

Now, Lonborg was pitching in what turned out to be the single most important game of his life. And like Saturday, he and the Red Sox fell behind early, 2-0. And like Saturday, with each scoreless inning, it looked as if the air was slowly escaping from the balloon.

But Lonborg began the Red Sox half of the sixth inning by laying down a surprise bunt and beating it out. From there, everything the Red Sox did was charmed. And the inning turned into a nightmare of errors (mental and physical) for the Twins. Jerry Adair and Dalton Jones followed with singles – neither of them hit particularly hard -- leaving the bases loaded for Yastrzemski, who was 7-for-8 in the two-game series and so locked in it was scary. There was no way he was not going to get a hit. He took a nice, even swing and lined a two-run single up the middle to tie the game. And things just unraveled for the Twins from there.

Ken Harrelson hit a grounder to short on which Versalles tried for a play at the plate ... and he was too late. Jones scored the go-ahead run. Two wild pitches by Al Worthington later, it was 4-2 as Yastrzemski scored. An error led to the fifth and final run.

The Twins looked as if they might stage a little two-out lightning against Lonborg in the eighth, but when Allison hit an RBI single scoring Killebrew, he tried to stretch it into a double and was thrown out by Yastrzemski, who -- as I've said about 100 times already -- was scary good in 1967.

That was it. Lonborg mowed them down in the ninth, with Rich Rollins hitting the popup to Rico Petrocelli that became one of Ned Martin's most iconic broadcasting moments.

Still, we had to sweat out the Tigers-Angels. The two teams split the Saturday doubleheader, and Detroit won the opener of Sunday's games. If Detroit won the second one, the season would have ended in a tie between the Sox and Tigers, forcing a one-game playoff (which is how the American League settled things, as opposed to two-of-three in the National League).

But the Angels -- who had really been a thorn in the Red Sox' side all season (don't forget who they were playing when Tony C. was beaned) -- were managed by another one of those old-school baseball lifers back in 1967, Bill Rigney. He wasn’t going to give anyone anything. And California won the nightcap, 8-5.

Channel 4 of Boston, which was the Red Sox broadcast station in those days, kept a camrea in the lockerroom so that we could see the players react to the final out ... a double play grounder by Dick McAuliffe. The station also broke in with a news bulletin, with a red script no less, that the Red Sox had won the pennant. I really think that the last time I'd seen an actual news BULLETIN like that was when JFK was killed.

What a time. What a season. The Sox may have lost the World Series to the St. Louis Cardinals, but by then it really didn't matter. What they -- and specifically Williams -- did that year was enough. And although the Red Sox have had their down seasons, and have certainly disappointed us on many, many occasions, the fact of the matter is that they were, and still are, relevant enough in the scheme of things to put us in the position of BEING disappointed.

Sure, some of those losses have been excruciating. But what would you rather have: An opportunity to have the guts taken right out of you or mind-numbing mediocrity. Myself, I'll take the lows for what the highs bring.

And this is Dick Williams' legacy to baseball -- at least in Boston, and at least to me. He went onto win two World Series with the Oakland A's at a time when the A's had some of the greatest talent ever assembled in one stadium, but don't dismiss what he brought to the table even with all those stars. Someone has to lead the orchestra, and someone has to manage all the egos that exceptional talent spawns. Look at what he had to deal with over there. There's no way you can minimize his contribution to that era.

Williams also took the San Diego Padres to the 1984 World Series, rallying them from an 0-2 deficit to the Chicago Cubs. Everywhere he managed, his teams won more than they lost. Current Red Sox manager Terry Francona talked Thursday about the time he played for Williams in Montreal ... and of how petrified he was of him.

Williams probably couldn't manage today ... not with his style. The ship of the autocratic manager has sailed. Too many players make too much money, and they all have agents who, when they're not negotiating contracts, are finding all sorts of nefarious ways to interfere.

And in the end, he couldn't see eye to eye with Yawkey, though with what we know now about TA (A for Austin), that's not necessarily a bad thing now, is it? He was fired with about a week to go in the 1969 season, an act that -- to me -- signified the return of the Country Club that the Red Sox were notorious for being prior to Williams' tenure.

They went through some flat years with Eddie Kasko – an era where they were just good enough to relevant, but not anywhere near good enough to break through the Orioles stranglehold on the American League East.

Also during the Kasko era, the specter of racism in Boston reared its head once again when Tommy Harper ran into trouble in Winter Haven … and was roundly ignored by the powers-that-be. And it wasn’t just Harper either. Reggie Smith took to wearing a batting helmet when he went out to play center field because he was afraid of being pelted by projectiles that actually hurt him.

This was also around the same time that former Boston Celtics center Bill Russell sounded off about his experiences with racism in Boston. Within a few years of all this, Boston was embroiled in a serious, real-life racial meltdown when federal judge W. Arthur Garrity ordered the integration of Boston’s schools via forced busing.

Kasko also presided over another sad denouement: the trade that sent Conigliaro to the Angels (of all teams!). This happened after the 1970 season, when Conigliaro hit over 30 homers and it looked as if it has all come back.

His brother, Billy, blamed Yastrzemski and Smith for the trade, saying the two of them were jealous of Tony and undermined him every chance they got – charges both vociferously denied. For the most part, the media sided with Yaz and Reggie (who were best friends in those years).

Yet two years later, while signing autographs and talking with reporters, Carlton Fisk, then a rookie, happened to mention casually that he didn’t think either Yaz or Reggie showed the requisite leadership that veterans are expected to show.

But you had to know Yastrzemski. A lot of what you see today (the Globe’s Dan Shaughnessy calls him the Garbo of Red Sox alumni) is basically what he’d always been. He had his friends. He took his job seriously. But he just wasn’t a gregarious person … not in 1961, 1967, or anytime before or after.

The only time we ever saw Yastrzemski get emotional was the day he retired at the end of the 1983 season and took an unplanned lap around Fenway Park slapping palms.

Yastrzemski had one more hurrah, and that was in 1975, with Kasko long gone and Darrell Johnson running the ship. That was the year Fred Lynn and Jim Rice tore the American League apart and the Red Sox basically ran away with the A.L. East and then swept the three-time champion Oakland A’s to win the pennant.

Toward the end of the season, Rice – who ended up being one of the most feared hitters of his time – was hit by a Vernon Ruhle fastball and broke his wrist. That meant Yastrzemski, who had played first base just about all season, had to go to left for the playoffs and World Series. And boy, did he ever put on a show … both with the bat and with the glove. Just like in ’67, he threw out a runner trying to stretch a single into a double, in the pennant-clinching game. In ’67 it was Bob Alison; in ’75 it was Reggie Jackson.

The Red Sox didn’t win that World Series either. But they did take part, along with the Cincinnati Reds, in what has been judged by the MLB Network as the greatest game of the modern era: Game 6 of that series when Bernie Carbo’s three-run homer tied the score in the eighth, and Carlton Fisk’s solo job off the left-field foul pole won it.

All childhoods have defining moments. For me, that 1967 Impossible Dream Red Sox team was one of my biggest. I'd been a baseball fan prior to that. But '67 turned me into a fanatic ... which is something I continue to be today. And despite all the heroics, performed by all the heroes described above, the author of this amazing turnaround … the resurrection that turned Boston into a baseball town again … was Dick Williams.

If there was greatness in Yastrzemski, Williams coaxed it out of him. George Scott became a Gold Glove first baseman under Dick Williams. Rico Petrocelli’s first two years with the Red Sox showed him to be tough … but brittle, and woefully inconsistent. Rico flourished under Williams and became an all-star shortstop.

Go down the line. Reggie Smith, if he’d just been able to stop being offended by anything anyone said to him, was an all-star center fielder. He learned from Williams. Jim Lonborg was an average pitcher until Williams/Maglie got hold of him. Then, he became a Cy Young Award Winner, and probably would have won a few more of them had he not liked to ski.

The other thing Williams never really got a lot of credit for is this: That Red Sox team, if you compare it to the one they put on the field these days, suffered by comparison. But what that team had was a lot of castoffs and reserves (Adair being perhaps the most notable) who somehow meshed to become greater than the sum of their parts. You can attribute that to very good managing.

One of the byproducts of the free-agent era, sadly, is the paucity of Jerry Adair type of players. They’re the ones being driven out of the game by ridiculously high salaries, because GMs now fill their teams with cheap talent to compensate for having to pay all the stars. There’s just not enough room for middle-of-the-roaders unless you have the New York Yankees’ payroll.

Dick Williams made all of this work. It’s been said over the last couple of days that he’s still, after all these years, the best manager the Red Sox have had in our lifetime. Maybe. You can’t just dismiss someone who won two world championships without at least thinking about it, so I’d be cautious before I just eliminated Terry Francona’s name from the conversation.

But that said, I’d put Williams up against anyone else … and maybe even Tito too. Who knows? However, whatever else you want to say about the late Dick Williams, who died Thursday at the age of 82, his legacy will be that he saved baseball in Boston, and catapulted the Red Sox back into the conversation at a time when Fenway Park could have passed for Sunday mass.

And, true to his word, and with a rare exception or two, the Red Sox have, since 1967, won more they’ve lost.

The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere

So, it turns out that Sarah Palin wasn't entirely wrong when she -- allegedly -- butchered her history regarding the "Midnight Ride of Paul Revere."

Pity. You don't know how much I wish she was. I'd consider her one of the lighter lightweights on today's American political scene, except that she continues to be much too divisive not to take seriously at some level.

But just as nobody's right all the time, nobody's wrong all the time either. Not even Sarah Palin, as it turns out.

In 25 (or so) words or less, Palin turned Paul Revere's ride from a warning to colonists that the British Army was on the move to something in the order of an anti-gun control mission.

Palin may have the facts somewhat correct, but she's got the context horribly wrong. It was much different time -- obviously. If you're trying to launch an insurrection against the established authority, it's realistic to expect that you need weapons at some point. You need to defend yourself against reprisal.

That makes sense. It also makes sense that these weapons are not going to be in plain view, where they can be seized in a matter of minutes. It also makes sense that the established authority -- threatened as it obviously is -- is going to do whatever it can to seize those arms to rid itself of the problem.

Today, we ARE the established authority. And we'd better hope that another insurrection doesn't come up and bite us someday, because I suspect the results won't be very pretty. And I can almost guarantee that the people who cry the loudest against some form of reasonable gun control will not garner much sympathy from whatever forces may ultimately bring the government down. And to me, that's the absolute irony of the whole issue.

But back to Sarah. I think half the problem here is that she stumbled along, sounding as if she was making the thing up as she went along. That's not uncommon in politics, where candidates (or would-be candidates in her case) often have to think on their feet and sound intelligent when hit between the eyes with questions they don't expect. Slip up, just once, and you own it for life.

During the campaign, Barack Obama said he'd visited all "58 states." Now, everyone (and even, I'm sure, Obama) knows there are only 50. But there are territories where citizens vote. And if you've been asked a question at the end of a day in which you might have jetted into four or five states, I can see where you might, just out of sheer fatigue, say the wrong thing. It was harmless. And our president does, I'm afraid, have a tendency to give out flip answers sometimes ... oblivious to how they might sound to (and how they might be construed by) his opponents.

Palin's rambling version of Paul Revere's ride does, however, contain quite a few elements of truth. The first is the obvious one. The Redcoats were going to Lexington and Concord to seize weapons. They weren't interested in having a fight on their hands. Who really is? I mean, other than the U.S., which has -- in its recent history -- gone out of its way to initiate military action.

It's been said that the British also wanted to arrest John Hancock and Samuel Adams, but that one's still in play. It's also been said that arresting Hancock and Adams was the last thing Gen. Gage wanted to do, lest the move inflame already-intense feelings by the colonists (who were, after all, still British subjects) toward the authorities.

But it is absolutely correct that the Redcoats were massing, and were about to cross the Charles, and ride into Concord and Lexington to seize weapons. Paul Revere and William Dawes got ahead of them. In fact, the colonists had set up an intricate warning system a few years earlier for this very purpose: to make sure the militants were caught by surprise by the British regulars.

Paul Revere was also confronted by the British at a checkpoint, and he did tell them that he and his fellow couriers had warned the countryside that they were on march ... and there would be a healthy contingent of Minuteman soldiers to greet them when they got to their destinations. But like everything else in life, context is key. He certainly didn't set out to do that. That would have almost made him a traitor.

By the time the "Midnight Ride of Paul Revere" was over, there were many, many colonists "sounding the alarm to every Middlesex Village and Farm," which -- basically -- consisted of what is now Cambridge, Somerville, Medford and Arlington. And we all know what happened after that.

I guess what I object to is Palin's hints that Paul Revere's ride was some sort of lesson about the sanctity of weapons. In the context of the times, maybe it was. But that was a much different era, and the purpose for having weapons was much different too.

If anyone's ever seen "Assume the Position" with Robert Wohl, he said one thing about the American Revolution that -- sarcastic or not -- kind of rings true. He said the movement was led by "rich, white men who didn't want to pay taxes." There are still plenty of them around.

One of the frustrating things about U.S. history is that what we learn in grammar school (and even high school) is a purified version of what really happened. And it does make you wonder how our times are going to be portrayed 300 years down the road.

The reality is that revolutions don't just happened. They evolve over a period of years ... sometimes decades. It took an incredibly long time for the seeds for the American Revolution to sprout. The issues that exploded in 1775 were born 12 years earlier, at the conclusion of the French-Indian war, when the British upped the tax ante (as well pass enacting other measures), citing the high costs of keeping the American colonies in the empire.

There were several boiling points ... the two most notable being the Boston Massacre (1770) and the Boston Tea Part (1773). There were many other smaller fires that erupted before shots were fired in Lexington and Concord (and that's Concord Massachusetts, lest any congresswomen from Minnesota gets confused).

As a footnote to all of this, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "Midnight Ride of Paul Revere" was published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1861, just as South Carolina was about to secede. Longfellow was an avowed abolitionist, and the poem was undertaken as a means to rally Northerners to the cause of saving the union. He cited Paul Revere (some historians note, cynically, that it's easier to rhyme words with "Revere" than it is some of the others who also participated in the ride) as a courageous man ... and said that history favored such action.

It is not entirely accurate, both in small details in in the bigger picture. For example, Revere did not receive the lantern signals from the Old North Church. It was he who devised them.

He did not row himself across the Charles ... he was rowed.

It wasn't just Paul Revere who rode through the countryside. It was a series of men, some of whom have not survived history, and it was part of an elaborate warning system devised to alert colonists in a hurry that the British regulars were on the march.

No matter. As Wohl said in "Assume the Position," "when the legend becomes fact, print the legend."

That in itself is a line from "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance." And it means if a legend has taken hold, it's useless to fight it with facts. The legend is what endures.

Some morning-after thoughts

So what happens when two of the proudest, most traditional National Football League franchises meet in the Super Bowl?

The team with the most long-standing tradition ends up winning. And I'm kind of happy about that.

When I was a kid, the Patriots were an American Football League franchise -- and a bad one at that. So we had to root for other teams if we wanted to experience the exhilaration of winning ... at least in football.

Since all we ever saw up here were New York Giants games on TV, I adopted Y.A. Tittle as my go-to quarterback (soon to be supplanted by Johnny Unitas when I got a little older).

But when it came to teams, and coaches, and legacies, and all the things that make sports so meaningful in the lives of their fans, I was a Green Ban Packers fan. Some of this might have to do with the fact that one of my favorite high school teachers was a big Vince Lombardi guy (he had us convinced that he was personal friends with Vince). That was my freshman year of high school, when The Packers won the Ice Bowl over the Dallas Cowboys and Jerry Kramer threw the celebrated "instant replay" block on Jethro Pugh that allowed Bart Starr to sneak in with the game-winning touchdown (imagine, having a name like Jethro Pugh ... I half expect to hear him singing Aqualung!).

The Steelers were official NFL doormats until 1969, when they hired Chuck Noll, who was the defensive coordinator for the Colts team that the New York Jets upset in 1969 (little known fact; he also interviewed for the Patriots head coaching job that ended up going to Clive Rush; how history might have been different, eh?).

With Noll, the Steelers slowly transformed themselves into an NFL power, with Mean Joe Greene, Franco Harris, Rocky Bleier, Terry Bradshaw (didn't like him then; like him even less now) and Lynn Swann, et al. Ever since, the Steelers have been one of the model franchises in the NFL, despicable as they can be sometimes, and have more Super Bowl victories (6) than any other NFL team.

But the Steelers are Johnny-come-latelies compared to Green Bay, so in this case, historic tradition won out over recent tradition.

And I'm glad for a number of reasons. First, it's tough for me to root for anything good to happen to Ben Roethlisberger. If ever there's a man who needs to have Humble Pie thrown in his face -- Three Stooges style -- it's Big Ben, who -- twice within a calendar year -- was accused of rape and finally suspended for four games for conduct detrimental to the image of the NFL (whatever that is!).

And the idea of seeing him "redeemed" by winning a Super Bowl, as is so often the case in pro sports, was nauseating to ponder.

Second, it's tough not to like this year's Packers. They are living proof of the age-old cliche that injuries are not to be used as excuses, but circumstances to overcome. The Packers had 15 players -- many of them projected starters -- on injured reserve. They lost three of their key players (Charles Woodson, Donald Driver and Sam Shields) during the game, yet absorbed the hit and hung on after going up 21-3. That is something you can truly admire.

You had a sense that the Packers learned an awful lot about themselves in that oh-so-close loss to the Patriots in December, when Rodgers was out with a concussion and their backup quarterback almost pulled off the upset of the year.

Third, how can you root against Aaron Rodgers? Brett Favre's monstrous and monumental ego kept Rodgers on the bench perhaps a year or two longer than he should have been, yet you never heard him complain; never heard of him wanting out. He waited his turn, said all the right things, and performed well when he finally got his chance.

All season long, Rodgers has been mentioned in the same sentence with all the other NFL elite quarterbacks, and all season long my attitude has been "win something before you allow yourself to be Tony Romo'd." Sunday, was clearly his time. You don't get many opportunities to experience your time, and the great ones recognize this and rise to the occasion. Tom Brady's "time" came early in his career and he was smart enough to realize it and respond. Romo's time may have passed, and he's never capitalized. Rarely does your talent transcend your accomplishments. Peyton Manning and Dan Marino were great quarterbacks despite never having won a Super Bowl. But that is rare. Most other quarterbacks need at least one trophy.

It couldn't have been laid out any clearer for Rodgers. His defense was depleted, and his No. 1 go-to receiver was out. The receivers who could play were dropping passes as if the ball was a collection of hot coals. If the Packers were going to win Sunday, Rodgers was going to have to get them there.

He didn't have his best game ever. The Steelers do play defense, and they made it a pretty tough slog for the Packers offensively. They were hoist upon their own petard by coughing up the ball three times (two picks by Worthlesberger ... YES!) and Green Bay scored on all three of them.

That's OK. Like I said, when opportunity knocks, you answer the door and embrace it. When Green Bay had to put together a drive to eat up some clock and keep the Steelers at bay, Rodgers engineered one. True, it only resulted in a field goal.

The Packers, for reasons I really don't understand, went exclusively with the pass, which -- you'd think -- would have made Rodgers a sitting duck. Instead, he never got sacked. And if you factor in the passes that were right in his receivers' hands that were dropped, Rodgers was incredibly accurate.

As Al Davis was so fond of saying, "just win baby." That's all. Win. This isn't theatre (well it is in some cases, but not when it comes to the final score). You don't get extra points for drama. If your team has more points than the other team when the gun goes off, whatever multitude of sins potentially waylaid you along the way are quickly forgotten. Especially in a championship game.

So, you have to give Rodgers his props for rising to the occasion. Because we all know that had the Packers lost, Rodgers would have been in for a boatload of blame.

Finally, and strictly from my perspective, Woodson -- who is a very good player -- finally gets a ring. Woodson, you may recall, was the defensive back who stripped Brady of the ball in that 2002 Snow Bowl in Foxborough ... the play that introduced to all of us who'd never heard it "The Tuck Rule."

Oakland Raiders fans treat the implementation of "The Tuck Rule" as if it's the football equivalent of the Kennedy assassination conspiracy. But while I think it was a terrible call (or, at least, a terrible rule), it isn't as if incompetence has never been an issue in pro sports. This might have been a bit more egregiously incompetent, but there isn't a team out there that hasn't felt as if the officiating crew represented the 12th man on its opponent's side.

But while Raiders fans boo-hoo about how the team got jobbed (which, translated, means they were deprived of experiencing that rush of winning a championship ... which I totally understand as Ed Ambrister is still standing in front of Carlton Fisk today ... and Jorge Orta still hasn't touched first base), what about Woodson?

If the Raiders got jobbed, how do you define what happened to Woodson? He was the hero. He saved the day for the Raiders ... clinched what would have been a heroic victory, on the road, in a freakin blizzard ... the stuff of legends.

Instead, the play is overturned by an NFL rule that seems to me to forever blur the definition of "fumble." Hey, I like the Pats as much as anyone else who grew up in Boston, but if you deny the fact that this single play could easily mean the difference between "dynasty" and "just another one-and-done playoff team," you're delusional. Well, there is the matter of Belichickian skulduggery too ... but we're not talking about that now.

Woodson has never forgotten ... nor would I if it had happened to me ... nor did Ray Hamilton (he of the phantom "roughing the passer" call in 1976) ever forget what happened to him (just thought I'd throw that in to remind Raiders fans that they've benefited from some outrageous calls too).

Woodson was having a whale of a game Sunday until he got hurt. And it would have been terrible had Roethlisberger been able to pick apart a depleted Packer secondary affected by his and Shields' absence, and ended up winning the game. First you lose a chance at a title because of the zebras; and then you break your collarbone and watch a truly detestable quarterback engineer the greatest comeback in Super Bowl history.

Only this time the Packers hung on, and Woodson finally gets to experience what it feels like to win this thing.

So, this was the best possible outcome. Big Ben will have to wait a year for true redemption, NFL-style (maybe even longer if there's a lockout), and a group of guys who sucked it up when things got tough and found a way to win despite all their setbacks get to have a parade. For once, the good guys won.

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What's left are some random observations ...

I don't generally pay attention to the commercials, but the people I was with Sunday were riveted to them. There wasn't one of them that stacked up to the best from other years, but the ones that stood out were the little kid dressed as Darth Vader in the VW commercial; watching Rosanne Barr get steamrolled; watching the idiot tormenting the little pug dog get blown away; and the guy who sends an e-card to his honey for Valentine's Day and tells her, "I really think your rack is unreal." That one caused a splort ... On the other hand, the guy who licks everyone's fingers after they've eaten Doritos was creepy ... The less said about Christina Aguilera's butchery of the National Anthem the better, except that it really bothers me when people try to put their "personal stamp" on it. It's not about you, Christina and other like you. Sing the damn song straight up, and maybe you'll remember the words ... The Black Eyed Peas were awful. Whether that was just the sound, or I'm becoming my mother and father is subject to debate. But the show was terrible ... a complete waste of time ... There were some regurgitation moments, such as when the camera caught Cameron Diaz feeding popcorn to Alex Rodriguez ... a true "blech!" moment ... I got a lot of email from people celebrating the fact that President Obama's absence from the Super Bowl (he said he was going to go if the Bears had won) was a good thing for our national budget. Yet there were George W. and Laura Bush sitting in Jerry Jones' box, with Condi Rice. You don't suppose there was a detail assigned to them, do you? ... When I watch football, I'm prone to thinking out loud and getting emotional, much to the chagrin of those faced with the prospect of being in the same room with me. But I swear, Troy Aikman miked my house. Every time I made a pronouncement about how the game was going, Aikman followed a minute later by saying the same thing! ... Like just about everyone else who commented on it, I thought Michael Douglas equating the Super Bowl with some of American history's most iconic events was juuuuuust a bit over the top ... And, finally, what's with Sam Elliott's white hair ... and black eyebrows?? I couldn't watch!

Random Musings ...

It's been a while since I've attempted to write anything ... December 5, to be precise. That was the night I wrote about John Lennon as I waited for the Patriots to destroy the Jets.

Too bad the Pats couldn't have saved some of those points, eh?

Anyway, to get back into the practice of doing this, here are number of musings that I've gathered up since then ...

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On the matter of Gabby Giffords. It was a horrible, horrible tragedy that I'm not sure is ever really preventable. This country is far too big, and far too populated, to expect that people aren't going to fall through the cracks now and then.

That said, I don't think you can escape the reality that -- even if the gunman was seriously mentally disturbed -- there is definitely an undercurrent of ugliness in how we relate to one another in the 21st century ... whether we're talking politics or any other type of discourse.

And, of course, with the internet and the blogosphere, people get to hide behind screen names and fake IDs on line and say some of the most outrageous, hateful, and bigoted things you can imagine.

It's easy to say "oh, well, it's only a blog ... it doesn't mean anything." But it's just as easy -- and just as much of a cop-out, to blithely pass this off as the act of a deranged man ... WITHOUT at least considering the context of the times.

I think it's fair to say that mentally disturbed people might possibly have a different -- less effective -- filter than the rest of us. I think it's fair to say that if the rest of us -- the ones who aren't mentally disturbed -- can shrug and see this stuff for what it is, an emotionally sick person might react differently. He might feed off such negativity and feel compelled to act on it.

I don't know this for a fact. But I sense that it's certainly possible ... and even probable.

Now, hate has no particular political ideology; no "official" religion; and no exclusivity. History is filled with instances where irrational hate has spurred monumental tragedies far more horrific than what happened in Arizona earlier this month. We saw it in World War II, we saw it in Oklahoma City, and we saw it on Sept. 11, 2001.

In the immediate aftermath, considering it was a political figure who was gunned down (along with six others who were killed), it seemed logical to conclude that the acrimony of public discourse might have had an influence on Jared Lee Loughner (and why is it, as an aside, that all assassins are referred to by their full names: Mark David Chapman; John Warnock Hinkley; this guy). And since Giffords is a Democrat, it might have further been a natural reaction that the continuous vitriol liberals and conservatives too routinely fling at one another might have also been a contributing factor.

Conservatives don't like hearing this, but too bad. Whether it was, or wasn't, a factor, the reality exists. My take on this is that it's much easier to arouse people to anger than it is to appeal to their better nature. We may be more highly developed, but we're still animals, with animal instincts -- which is to say we're hard-wired to worry about ourselves, and our survival, first before we become overly concerned with others.

Compassion and regard for others are qualities that need to be taught. Self-survival is instinctive.

So, it's much easier to rally people to your cause if you can easily convince them that the "other guy" is picking their pockets, or destroying all that they hold near and dear, or giving "them" all the breaks instead of "us."

Thus, George W. Bush was a "Nazi" to liberals; and Barack Obama is a "Socialist" to conservatives.

Both are buzzwords, political code, if you will. Bush, or course, was not a Nazi and Obama is not a Socialist. Half the people who throw those words around probably don't know the half of what they mean because -- sadly -- history is not a subject that is well taught, or even valued, in the United States of America.

It's much easier to throw those words around, though, because they result in visceral reactions in people not disposed to like particular people or their politics. I was not, and never will be, a George W. Bush supporter, but I can certainly acknowledge that there were elements about him that were likable. I also think that toward the end of his presidency, he had a better sense of how ill-used he'd been by some of his inner circle. I just think it's too bad it took him so long to realize this. He was not prone to introspection or curiosity, or -- as he famously said -- nuance. And I feel he allowed himself to be led too easily by people with agendas that didn't necessarily put the best interests of the country first.

I do support Obama, but -- again -- I can acknowledge that he could stand some improvement. I think he made the same mistake Bill Clinton did ... picking an issue right out of the chute (health care) that was hopelessly muddled in all kinds of arcane debate. He set himself up for what followed ... and what is yet to come.

I'd rather have seen him pick some winnable issues in Year One -- and take a few victory laps for them. He needed to establish some political cachet before picking an ugly fight ... and it WAS ugly. There's no getting around that.

We're off the track here, but this is only to show that ugliness has no preference. I think the entire tenor of public discourse is ugly, and I also think that mentally disturbed people have a different set of antennae than the more stable among us. Who knows what signals they're receiving ... and how they're processing those signals.

You put all of this together ... the free-wheeling blogs and bulletin boards where people who know they'll never be held accountable spew outrageous invective ... the stridency of the public discourse ... one obviously disturbed individual ... and you have the makings of an immense tragedy.

But what's curious about all this, to me, was the reaction for both liberals and conservatives. Whatever we may think privately, to come out in public (and by public I also mean blogs, bulletin boards and Facebook, as well as the mainstream media) and pin the blame solely on Sarah Palin's crosshairs advertisement was irresponsible. Even if I might not necessarily discount such stridency and hyperbole as contributing factors, to come right out and accuse her (or the Tea Party in general) -- especially in light of such a horrible tragedy -- struck me as outrageously opportunistic.

And I say this with the full admission that I do not buy -- even a little -- anything the Tea Party movement (or Palin, for that matter), says. It's just that Palin has become, in a very short time, the Ted Kennedy of her party ... which is to say she's made herself into a cheap and easy target that liberals can freely lambaste as sort of a symbol for all that they oppose ... the same way Teddy was a magnet for conservative missives.

Yet at the same time, I feel Palin -- and people like her -- certainly aren't blameless. The ad was there ... and whether she was or was not the first person to use the crosshairs theme, she certainly refined it and seemed pretty darn proud of it too ... until she took it down after the shootings. So obviously she felt some initial responsibility to tone her OWN rhetoric down (which is why I find it hilarious that she so vehemently denied culpability when she had a chance to think about it some more). In fact, if the basic liberal reaction was to blame Sarah, the basic conservative reaction was to say "not MY fault," and complain about attempts to stifle their First Amendment right to free speech.

I'm not sure which was more of an overreaction at this point.

Everything in life has context. Students didn't demonstrate at Kent State -- and end up with four of them being killed by National Guard fire -- in a vacuum. They were spurred on to do that by a systematic drumbeat of inflammatory rhetoric and violence (a lot of it by the radical LEFT) that funneled itself into this singular tragedy.

Likewise, people, mentally disturbed or otherwise, don't target politicians just because. There's a reason ... a context. And I think it's because we've reduced politicians and leaders in this country to evil caricatures, with each radical element demonizing the other to the point where shooting them might almost seem noble to a sick person. And when I say "radical element," I mean anyone who goes predictably nuclear whenever someone from the opposite end of the political spectrum says, or does, something.

I won't even get into the whole "blood libel" thing. First, I doubt Palin even knew the historical context of the term (if she did, and still used it ... God help us all if she's ever elected to anything ever again). And second, it's just typical hyperbole ... and again, hyperbole that adds nothing to the gravitas of the debate -- which is that we all could perhaps take a step back from the rhetoric and at least THINK about the damage it's doing to this country.

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Onto other things ... New England is in one of those crazy winter weather patterns where it seems to snow every other day ... and then it gets so cold everything turns to cement. Cities and towns all over region are having a devil of a time keeping up.

But I fear we, the people, have become far too spoiled when it comes to how fast, and how effectively, the plows are cleaning up. Granted, I've seen better in my life, but there are factors to consider when it comes to snow removal.

The first one, obviously, is the amount of snow. Our first real serious snowstorm was a blizzard the day after Christmas, which lasted well into the next day. It was a 24-hour storm, yet by Tuesday -- the first full day after the storm stopped -- the whining about how awful the plowing was reached fever pitch.

Seriously, people. A foot and a half of snow fell! Life ain't a sitcom, and problems don't get solved in a half hour.

The next big storm was even worse. We got almost two feet. And this time, rather than the fine, powdery stuff that's easy to move, we got the heavy sludge that weighs a ton.

This one started around midnight and lasted through the afternoon. Not a 24-hour event, but a much more intense storm with a lot of wind. Again, the streets weren't down to pavement by the next day because ... well ... that would have been impossible. Still, you'd think nobody touched a plow the way people moaned and groaned.

Yesterday, we got snow that changed to rain ... and enough snow that the ground looked like that river of slime that flowed in "Ghostbusters." It was unplowable. How do you plow water?

But again, waaaaaaahhhhhhhhh. Why aren't my streets plowed?

Grow up, people.

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Onto sports: It is indeed refreshing to see how thoroughly Shaquille O'Neal is enjoying his Boston Celtics experience. In fact, it's refreshing to see how much Shaq enjoys being Shaq. You can't help but like the guy. He's infectious ... and a perfect counterbalance to the dour, sour persona demonstrated in Foxborough.

I'd never go as far as saying that refusing to engage in trash talk translates into defeats. But I will say that Bill Belichick's reaction to Wes Welker's brilliant injection of the words "foot, feet or toes" into every sentence of his brief press conference last Thursday (he benched Welker for the game's first series) was idiotic.

To those who don't know the context, New York Jets coach Rex Ryan -- apparently -- has a bit of a foot fetish ... something that came out in a YouTube clip. Now, that is totally, totally harmless. There are far worse sexual fetishes one can have.

But Ryan, as we know, is a bit of a blabbermouth and blusterer in the finest sense of George Steinbrenner. And people who are like that are trying to get under the other guy's skin.

And while it's futile to match a blusterer word for word (by their nature, guys like Ryan are always going to win that game) it was rather brilliant of Welker -- after a week's worth of scurrilous insults by the Jets directed toward the Patriots and Tom Brady -- to offer a gentle, subtle dig at ol' Rex.

Consider: a guy who has fathered nine children by eight women, and who had to have his wages garnished by the Jets to pay back child support (Antonio Cromartie) is running around calling out Brady in the crudest terms possible. His coach (Ryan) thought that was just fine. Cromartie played the entire game Sunday and -- as much as anyone on the Jets did -- absolutely KILLED the Patriots. He was clearly the game's MVP.

Yet Welker very craftily responds -- and not even in KIND -- and finds himself benched for the first series of the most important game of the year? Ridiculous.

Maybe Welker should remind Belichick of HIS first amendment right to feet speech!

Bringing up Shaq in this context is my way of saying that maybe if the Patriots lightened up a little, and weren't so haughty about how much better "their way" is, and learned to allow their players even the simplest of latitudes in what they say and how they act, they wouldn't tighten up like a drum in big games against teams that do a lot of yakking (you'll recall Plaxico Burress did his share before that 2008 Super Bowl ... and caught the game-winning pass!).

Larry Bird was the worst trash talker ever ... and he has three rings. It doesn't necessarily follow that piously turning the other cheek accomplishes anything in the long run.

Besides, you can't fault Rex for understanding that pro sports, in this era, is as much about theater as it is about athletics. The objective is to keep people interested enough in what you're doing to attend, or watch, the games. Lack of interest will kill the golden goose.

And nobody can say there was a lack of interest in this game.

You're Fired

I never watched Donald Trump's "The Apprentice." I never appreciated anything that made light of one of life ultimate indignities ... getting terminated from your job.

To many of us, our jobs define us. They give us a good sense of who we are, what we've accomplished, and -- perhaps most importantly -- how well we can provide for ourselves and our families.

To lose that ... even if the reasons are valid and unavoidable ... is no laughing matter. So when I see a rodeo clown like Donald Trump (even if he is a rich rodeo clown) on TV blabbering that "you're fired," I want to scream. And it makes me think that it's reason No. 124 (or something) about why our economic system in in such terrible shape. There are many reasons, of course, but once of them could be that we just don't appreciate what people do ... the contributions they make.

Yes, it's true. They get paid. But anyone who thinks this is strictly due to the largesse of the employer is hoplessly naive. Maybe that happens once in a while, but by and large, we get paid for what we do because our expertise is needed to keep the business going.

And that means it's a two-way street ... that our employees deserve a little dignity and respect along with their money, and that if there's ever the perception in the work place that one or the other (or both) is lacking, you'll see some pretty poor attitudes bubble to the surface in a hurry.

I've been fired. It was back in 1987, and it was from a job that I probably never should have accepted in the first place. It wasn't for me. It was too young, and too immature, and too used to the sloppy informality of the newspaper environment to adapt to the corporate protocol of an august company like NYNEX (now Verizon).

I lasted a year. And I walked on eggshells for probably half that. And it occurred to me that just like there are horses for courses, there are people better suited for certain jobs. Or, as the managing editor of the paper that took me back after I was let go said, "some people just belong in certain places.

And some people don't, too.

Getting fired was devastating. It just burrowed through to the very core of who I was, and it also struck a deep nerve of failure. Even now, 23 years later, I can rationalize about it only so much. Yes, it was a personality conflict between my boss and me. Yes, it was a job that I just wasn't cut out to do. Yes, it was very much a case of bad karma gathering momentum until events overtook me. And yes, despite anything I might have been able to do, I was powerless to do it once all this negativity was set in motion.

It took me a long time to understand this wasn't a reflection on me, but, rather, a chain of events that spun out of control. By the time I was called into an office and given the news, it was almost a mercy killing.

This isn't to say I enjoyed it. And this isn't to say that, even today, I have extreme bitterness toward the boss who chose to make it so difficult for me to thrive there. There are good bosses, and there are bad bosses. This one was definitely in the latter category.

The problem, as I see it, is simple. You, as an employee, get the sense (whether it's real or not) that you have a bull's eye on your back. Right away, that affects how you do your job. You cannot work effectively when your boss has his foot on your throat.

And it just becomes an unbreakable cycle. The harder you press, the worse you do ... the more mistakes you make, the worse the mistakes are ... and it becomes almost a self-fulfilling prophecy. And even when you do something that you perceive to be the right thing, it'll often be looked at as wrong simply because your employer is more interested in building a case against you than he is judging your work objectively.

These are all feelings I had when I got fired from that job 23 years ago. As I said, I never should have taken it. But at the time, it looked too good to pass up. The money was tremendous, and I thought this was my ticket to bigger and better things.

As an aside, the experience taught me, perhaps more than anything else, that money cannot buy you happiness in your job. It helps, but if the job keeps you up at night, there's not enough money in the world to compensate for that.

So when the axe finally fell, it was almost a relief. It was a simple meeting, really ... just my boss and me.

"This is unfortunate," he said, turning his back on me as he spoke and handing me an evaluation he'd done that had more misspellings and typographical errors than a third-grader's book report. "I'm letting you go."

I actually made him say "fired." I knew what he meant, but I wanted him to say it. So I said, "what do you mean, letting me go?"

He had to say it. And that's all he said too. "Fired."

I guess that's the thing that always stuck to my crew. He couldn't even look me in the eye to tell me this. He turned his back on me. And judging from the amount of professional care he put into his evaluation of me, he didn't spend a lot of time thinking about either.

Once the shock of it all wore off, there was relief. Whatever else I had to deal with (and the timing couldn't have been worse, as we were in the middle of buying a house), I didn't have to deal with the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head.

Life got pretty dicey for a while. But I was fortunate. I had people at the newspaper where I'd previously worked who thought enough of me help me get back on my feet in the immediate aftermath; and hired me back full time a few months later.

So why do I write this today? Someone at my office was let go yesterday. I can't say it was a huge shock. Even he knew it was coming (if you're honest, you know). Still, though, it took me back to that day, August 11, 1987, a Tuesday morning, when I got the news that I was being terminated. And no matter how much you suspect it's coming, and even know it's coming, there's a finality to it that just leaves you weak, even if it's only for a second. You have to sit down.

The purpose here isn't to judge the justification of whether the person should have been fired. All I can ever hope is that the reasons are valid, and that there was no other alternative. I don't dispute the fact that some people are just not meant for certain jobs, and I also don't dispute the fact that even if they are, it can reach a point where the situation just becomes untenable, whether it's performance or personality related.

In this case (and in most cases), that's between the employer and employee.

But it doesn't stop you from feeling badly that whatever happened, it couldn't be resolved ... that things just couldn't be worked out. It's an awful thing to have happen to you.

And it's also difficult for the people left behind, too. We don't know what to think ... what's next ... or who's next ... or even if anybody's next. You just don't know.

All you're left with is confusion. And the feeling that you'd better step a little livelier around the office.

But your last image -- or, at least, my last image is of someone who's just had his whole life pulled out from under him. That's not a good feeling. And a pox on anyone who treats it as if it's some kind god damned joke.

Bruins bite; Celtics beat LeBron like a drum; Sox crack halos

I am, by trade, a sports writer. The reason I decided to do this blog is because while I make my living talking about sports, it's not the only thing on my mind on most days.

But once in a while, you just can't help it. And last night was a truly extraordinary one in Boston sports. We had three teams playing ...and three teams won. Two of them rather easily; the other in what is becoming, lately, thrilling fashion.

Choices are difficult. The Red Sox and Bruins started at 7; the Celtics at 8. Unless you were in one of those all-purpose sports bars, with six TVs split between the three stations broadcasting the game, your thumb got a workout.

As much as I love to watch sports, I find it difficult sometimes to watch them on television. First, there are the idiotic announcers who, rather than say nothing when nothing need be said, will the air with irrelevant drivel. In Boston, that is known as Jack Edwards, the Bruins play-by-play guy, who has a hyperbole for every occasion.

When the Bruins eliminated the Buffalo Sabres last week, Edwards cried out "Buffalo's hopes lie with the Edmund Fitzgerald, at the bottom of Gitche Gumee."

Uh, Jack, a couple of things. First, Gitche Gumee (however you choose to spell it) is actually Lake Superior, which is quite a ways away from the eastern shores of Lake Erie ... which is where one can find the city of Buffalo. Second, You'd think that in the 21st century, and with serious and heart wrenching tragedy all around us, we could refrain from using overblown, bombastic sports hyperbole.

Then again, what would you expect from a guy who, last year, compared the Bruins beating the Montreal Canadiens (sweeping them, actually), to the American Revolution. I didn't get that one at all. Other than the fact that the B's won the deciding game on Patriot's Day, there was no real connection.

We've already established (or I have, anyway) that Stanley Cup hockey is second to none. One of the reasons it's second to none is because emotions run so high that strange things happen in playoff games. Such as last night's episode where Marc Savard, fresh from a two-month layoff due to a concussion, was accused by Philly's Daniel Carcillo of biting him on the finger.

It wouldn't be the first time a Boston athlete got caught in a biting dustup. Back in '83, Tree Rollins (he didn't get the name because he was short) took a bite out of Boston's Danny Ainge (who, by NBA standards was short) in a playoff game. It was a case of Mutt biting Jeff. Instead of a "Man Bites Dog" headline, we got "Tree Bites Man."

It's tough to tell from the films whether anyone bit anybody. But Savard (and this is wonderful) said, in his version, that Carcillo tried to pull his teeth out, and his finger hit up against his choppers. Uh huh. Reminds me of the time I got sucker punched by the kid across the street and his mother actually told my mother, "well, Stephen's face got in the way of Jimmy's fist."

Myself? I think Savard was hungry and saw an opportunity to eat a chicken finger (do I need to elaborate on the pun?).

Anyway, Bite-gate happened early in an otherwise tense game where, much of the time, you had to cover your eyes and pray. The last time I was this nervous was during the 2004 playoffs when the Red Sox were busy coming from three down to beat the Yankees in seven games. I can remember, in one of those games, a co-worker literally covering her face with her jacket because she couldn't bear to watch. That's how I feel sometimes, too.

There were highlights -- at least from a viewing standpoint: No. 1 came at the end of the second period when the Flyers tied it after a sloppy line change by the Bruins. The goal wasn't so great (it was one of those times where you hope you have a soft, non-invasive object in your hands so when you throw it at the TV, the TV doesn't break), but coach Claude Julien's reaction was absolutely spectacular. He literally slammed his fist up against the boards and uttered clearly visible vulgarity.

I loved it, mainly because I was doing basically the same thing he was. Only I get paid a lot less to act that way, and my tantrums aren't broadcast all over Versus (thank God it was Versus, too, because they'd have had to scrape Edwards off the ice after that one).

The second, naturally, was Milan Lucic's game-winning goal with about two minutes left. Lucic's had a tough year. He was my favorite Broon at this time last year, but he couldn't keep himself healthy this season. It started almost immediatley, and he was in and out of sick bay for virtually the whole season.

He's had a stretch of decent health now, and he's starting to play like the Milan Lucic of a year ago.

The Gahhhhhhden just exploded. I remember when the TD Garden opened (it was the FleetCenter in those days), and people complained that there just wasn't any atmosphere there. It was too quiet.

Of course it was. The teams playing in it were awful. Neither the Bruins nor the Celtics were worthy of any emotion or atmosphere. Now, they are. And there was no lack of it last night. It was electric.

So now we had to Philly for two games, it would really be nice if they stole one down there. It's pretty obvious that the Philly fans, as well as the Flyers themselves, can't wait to sink their teeth into Da Broons, but that's OK. That's what makes hockey hockey. One can only hope, though, that the Flyers prove to be as pusillanimous toward the Bruins as the B's were to the Pittsburgh Penguins after Matt Cooke leveled Savard in March -- giving him the concussion that forced him to the sidelines for two months.

Somehow, I doubt it, though. The Flyers, even with all their injuries, haven't stopped being physical. They may not be the Broad Street Bullies of the 70s, but they don't have too many Lady Byng candidates either.

(Aside, in a rough, tough sport like hockey, does it strike you as odd that one of the NHL's major awards has the word "lady" in it?)

Expect at least one beat down in Game 3.

And speaking of which, what are we to say about the Celtics? They beat the Cleveland Cavaliers and LeBron James like a drum. Take away that 15-0 fourth-quarter run by Cleveland (and you knew that was going to happen eventually) and the Celtics dominated the game.

I have to admit one thing: If either Boston team is fortunate enough to go all the way this spring, I'd prefer it to be the Bruins. But I won't complain if it's the Celtics.

My reasoning is simple: The Bruins haven't won the Cup since 1972, my freshman year of college. In '72, with Bobby Orr, Phil Esposito, et al, Boston fans had every reason to expect that this team would just keep on winning.

Only it didn't. Things happened. Orr had major reconstructive knee surgery after that '72 season, and while even a half of an Orr was better than the whole of almost anyone else in the league at the time, the extensive surgery slowed him down a bit. Also, 1972 was the year the World Hockey Association pilfered many good players from the NHL with promises of piles and piles of Monopoly money, and several key members of Da Broons jumped (Ed Westfall, Derek Sanderson, Johnny McKenzie and and Gerry Cheevers among them).

They were never the same team. They got back to the Cup finals in '74, but became the first established, original NHL team to lose a final series to an expansion team (Philly, ironically), and then lost two straight finals to Montreal in '77 and '78. They were poised to beat the Habs -- finally -- in '79 and would have been favored to win the Cup, too, as the New York Rangers upset the Islanders in the other semifinal. But, alas, coach Don Cherry forgot how to count, and the Bruins caught caught with too many men on the ice. The Habs tied the game with about a minute to go, and won it in overtime.

The gaffe cost Cherry -- easily the most enjoyable coach in the history of Boston sports (well, my history anyway) -- his job. These days, "Grapes" is on Hockey Night in Canada, and is good for saying something totally outrageous, which he knows will piss people off royally, at least once a week. Good to see the man's still got it.

The Bruins made it to the Cup finals two other times -- in 1988, where they were swept by The Great Gretzky and the Edmonton Oilers (that's the year the old Garden went dark during one of the games, and former Globie Leigh Montville wrote, famously, that "the gerbil -- the one who has to run the generator from a treadmill -- died"); and again, two years later, when they lost to the Oilers in five (a series that featured a triple overtime opener in which Glenn Wesley missed an open net ... a goal that would have won the game for the B's. Instead, Petr Klima scored for the Oilers and took all the starch out of the Bruins).

The Bruins have been plagued, for years, with an ownership that refused to spend money to bring talent into Boston. It got so bad that Ray Bourque, their best player since the days of the Big Bad Bruins, had to get himself traded to Colorado at the end of his career so he could win a Stanely Cup out there ... instead of here, where he should have been parading around Boston with several of them.

The Bruins also been plagued by awful luck. Orr isn't the only player to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune when it comes to injuries. Other than Bourque, their best player since the Orr era was Cam Neely, and he had to retire early because of a hit he took at the hands of Ulf Samuelson. Another of their real good prospects, Normand Leveille, who was only 19, suffered a brain aneurysm and never played again.

And one of their top draft picks, Gord Kluzak, never saw his career get off the ground, as knee injuries cut it short.

Still, none of those guys died, the way Len Bias and Reggie Lewis did. Obviously, those were incredible tragedies in and of themselves. But, from a practical standpoint, they derailed the Celtics for a long, long time. Bias was going to be, to those 1980s Celtics, what John Havlicek was to the 60s and 70s team ... a transitional figure they could build around in their efforts to keep the dynasty going. Lewis was as pure a scorer as they had in many years, and he was truly coming into his own when he developed heart ailment, and collapsed and died while playing a pickup game in 1993.

The Celtics have certainly had their run, though. They won eight straight NBA titles in the 50s and 60s, and they've snagged 17 flags overall. Their last title was in 2008, and many of the guys who won it are still with the team -- albeit two years older.

I didn't expect the Celtics to make it out of the first round this year. They played horribly for the entire second half of the regular season (which reminds me, there has to be some kind of incentive for teams to stop screwing around from October through April. Judging from the way both the B's and C's are playing now, it's obvious they used the regular schedule as an extended exhibition season, and that's kind of insulting to the fans who plunk down valuable bucks to watch).

We need to work on that.

The Celtics handcuffed LeBron and his bad elbow until the game was pretty much over. Then, they let up and allowed the Cavaliers to pick up some steam. It may have made you squirm in your seat a little, just as the Miami Heat did in Game 5 of their series, but they were never in any real danger. It's an NBA axiom that teams that put it in overdrive for 15-0 runs generally lose some zip the first time something goes against them. So it was only matter of time before that run stopped.

The only thing about the Celtics I will say is this: Rajon Rondo, their point guard, is the marquee player on this team now. Maybe the older guys have been slow to realize that, but they'd better get with the program now. They are only going as far as Wajon Wondo (as Bob Cousy might say) will take them (oh, how I wish the Cooz was still doing games so I could hear him pronounce that name; reminds me of the time the C's had Rick Robey, and The Cooz said "ohhhh, fewocious webounding by Wick Wobey). The Cooz was/is our very own Babawa Wawters.

Acutally, Wondo reminds you little of The Cooz, because if there's a routine way and an, shall we say, artistic way of doing things, Wondo will do the latter. Nothing's ever routine with Wajon Wondo.

Last night, Rondo handed out 19 assists and scored 13 points. They don't do scoring in hoops like they do in hockey, where assists and goals have equal point value. But if they did, Rondo would go down in the box score as having scored 51 points. That's one helluva night's work!

Finally, and briefly, there were the Red Sox, fresh off an ignominious sweep at the hands of the Baltimore Orioles (who have won seven games this far this season; four of them against Boston). They took out their frustrations on the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, Orange County, California, USA, North America, Planet Earth, to the tune of a 17-8 beatdown. Balls were flying out of Fenway Park like rockets.

For one night, anyway, they were the Red Sox, and not some feeble facsimile thereof.

Maybe they just got swept up in the surging tide of victory. If that's the case, then I approve!!

The Internet is for Porn

Friday, April 23, 2010
The Internet is for Porn
Well, OK, not really (nudge, nudge, wink, wink).

But apparently the folks at the Securities and Exchange Commission think it is.

I woke up this morning -- as I always do -- to the local news on our ABC affiliate. I do this for many reasons, not the least of which is that Channel 5 has, at the moment, my favorite weather babe ... J.C. Monahan ... and it's somewhat more palatable to hear that it's going to snow, or rain for three days and flood my basement, from J.C. than it is to hear it from, say, grizzled old weatherman.

Hey, if you're going to get bad news, you might as well get it from someone who looks good. Right?

But I digress. After today's two-hour local news cast (which features so many spots of J.C. and her weather map I don't even count anymore), Good Morning America had a spot about how the watchdogs at the SEC -- you know, the people who are supposed to be making sure corporate pigs like Goldman Sachs and AIG aren't fleecing is all blind -- spend, in some cases, up to eight hours a day surfing the web for porn.

My first reaction to this was that I thought only the death and the leftfield wall at Fenway Park were the great equalizers. Little did I know that porn falls into that category too.

No matter how important, or indigent, we are in life, death makes worm food out of us all. As one friend put it to me once, we're in that box, and in the ground, for eternity. Our lives here are tantamount to a mere blink of an eye.

As for Fenway, all you have to do is mention the name Bucky (Bleeping) Dent. If a guy like him can hit one out of the yard, then you know what I mean about that park being the great equalizer.

But porn? Actually, I should have known. We're all hard wired the same way in the end. We are all slaves to our sexual stimulations, even if some of us are more stimulated than others.

We all have sexual needs, desires and fantasies, and we all have aspects of each that we'd just as soon nobody knows about.

All of which is why porn is a natural for the internet. Back in the good old days, when we all hid Playboy and Penthouse under our mattresses, we lived in fear that our sexually explicit material would find itself in the wrong hands (such as snoopy mothers).

My mother was a snoopy mother. And unduly paranoid, too. She once took the cover to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band down the basement, and parsed every lyric of every song for drug references. She came back upstairs, convinced she'd uncovered the key to some nefarious plot by the Beatles to get every kid in America hooked on drugs ... and damn near banned us from listening to the album, or them, ever again.

(I should add, she bought me the record for my birthday).

So you can imagine how my mother would have reacted had Forum Magazine popped up between the mattresses while she was changing the sheets. And we won't even get into what she'd have said, had she seen one of those disgusting periodicals, about any undefined stains on those sheets.

For the record, I was way too smart to import pornographic material into the Krause House -- or even on the Krause property.

Most people, when they think of the internet and porn, undoubtedly have this visual of a bunch of schieves in their sleeveless T shirts, pleasuring themselves while sitting in front of a computer in their parents' basements. I know that's the image I have.

And while I'm sure there plenty of them, and that they're doing what they do even as we speak, I guess the SEC circle jerk proves that porn has no bounds. It knows no class distinction. Doesn't matter if you're a Harvard lawyer or a hard core voyeur (gee, can I make a poem about that??). If you're hooked, you're hooked.

I work at a place where one of our top executives got caught downloading porn on his computer. Of course, he was pretty stupid. He supervised an office of mainly women, and his computer screen was situated in such a way that they could see the images reflected through the window in his office.

Someone complained (well, obviously!) and next thing you know, our executive was shown the door. And as a result, the company drew up this list of rules and regulations governing use of the internet more explicit, in its own way, than any of those letters you used to read in the Penthouse Forum. Of course, we all named this document after the poor soul whose weakness for the internet flesh cost him his job.

We are nothing if not twisted people ourselves!

Anyway, back to the SEC. I wish some of these guys could get dragged into court someday (who knows, maybe they will). I would love to hear some crusading attorney get one of them on the stand, and ask, "what were you people doing while Bernie Madoff was making Ponzi look like a Boy Scout? What were you people doing while AIG and Bear Stearns were driving themselves -- and the rest of us -- straight through the ground and halfway to hell?

"Well, your honor, we were busy. One of the guy downloaded the latest episode of 'Alien Space Fembots,' and it was just too good to pass up."

I can just see one of these guys thumbing through the latest porn catalogue (with one hand, of course) and then going into a meeting where they're charting statistics, and having his chart look like a parabola.

(For the math-challenged, a parabola, on a Cartesian graph, charts all the possible solutions to quadratic equations. They can, in many cases, resemble a well-proportioned male member.)

Of course, now, the double entendres will just come pouring out. Today, on the ABC website, there's a sidebar to the main story that asks, "How Big is the SEC's Porn Problem." Sort of reminds me of the time the Buffalo Sabres had a hockey player named Michael Peca. The Bruins were about to face Buffalo in the playoffs, and one of its reporters -- a female, no less -- wrote a story about him. Some Globie, and I'm convinced it was meant for in-house purposes only, wrote a headline that said, "Buffalo's Peca really big."

Alas, it got through ... and got into the paper the next day.

It also reminds me of that Year from Hell, when I worked in public relations for the company that is now known as Verizon. There was a whole list of expressions we could not use when we wrote press releases, and one of them was "enter the market." I, in my naivete, thought that was pretty innocuous, until it the urban connotation of the word "enter" was pointed out to me. Now, I wouldn't call myself a rube when it comes to this stuff by any stretch. But even I thought that was a bit too paranoid.

all of his only proves that when it comes to porn, and and prurient interests, we are all teenagers whose hormones still rage out of control.

Well, at least now we know why the economy tanked as badly as it did. All this time, we were led to believe it was Bill Clinton's fault (man, don't even go there ... can you just imagine? ... no, never mind ... the thought of that is just too gross, even for me). Or Barney Frank's. Or the head of AIG. Or General Motors.

Turns out it was none of the above. It was Debbie Does Dallas. It was Larry Flynt's fault. Or Hugh Heffner's (though to be honest, that stuff's pretty tame compared to what you can find on line if you really care to look).

And here thought, all this time, that Monica Lewinsky's dress was the only article of clothing floating around the American power structure that also served as the host for someone's incriminating DNA.

Thank God for Net Nanny, though, and other inter-office internet tracking devices. I'm sure that's how all these Wall Street Wankers were found out. Otherwise, we'd have to get Bulah Balbricker from Porky's to feret them out. That would have been a hoot.

So, in closing, I leave you withthis ... perhaps the real theme song for the Securities and Exchange Commission. Enjoy it.