This is meant to be satire, although I’m quite sure some won’t see it that way. It is written as intended. In most instances I appreciate editors, but this piece is an extreme exception to that rule.
The Local Sports Scene
I was raised 18 miles north of Beantown.
Boston (pronounced Bawston) can be a fun place sometimes…if you are a masochist. There is never a shortage of estrogen- and testosterone-fueled attitude flyin’ around up he-ah.
I should know because I am one of them, although many of the others would debate that fact. That is due to my only supporting one of the local professional sports franchises. That would be the Boston Bruins. (Pronounced Bawston Brew-ins.)
Ever been a visiting fan at any Boston sporting event? Good time, huh? The essence of stale beer combined with pizza sauce makes for great cologne.
I surely miss the old Boston Garden (pronounced Bawston Gahden) and all its intimate charm. That is, if you could get past the pungent aroma of stale urine.
And let's not forget about the rats.
It was a great place to watch a game—as long as you weren’t in any of the many obstructed view seats.
These seats offered the challenge of viewing a game with a big fat pole right in your face, or a seventy-year old piece of dingy, dusty duct work hanging down directly blocking a quarter of your sight line to the under-sized hockey rink. Awesome!
I have never had an interest in basketball—and when I was an impressionable young lad, hardly a soul in my approximate age group had any interest in the Patriots. Many home games were blacked out.
This was mainly due to the lack of fan support and the franchise's continued futility.
I almost didn't know we even had a professional football team.
The Beloved Boston Red Sox (Pronounced Bawston Red Sawx)
Even though I’m not a huge baseball guy, there was a time many years ago when I did indeed support the Red Sox.
I even remember exactly where I was, who I was with and what we were doing when that historical ground ball trickled through Bill Buckner’s legs on that most-fateful October evening back in 1986.
I was NOT one of those folks who made poor Mr. Buckner’s life a living hell following that unintentional blunder. I truly had compassion for that man.
That could have happened to anyone.
Think about this. Between 1923 and the ye-ah 2000, the NY Yankees amassed 26 World Series titles.
Do the math. That is one world series title every 2.96 years. That is an astonishing stat, at least in my book.
Now the Red Sawx went 86 ye-ahs without winning ONE! That span covered the Yankees' 77-year span of excellence.
Do you remember, it was long prior to the Sawx recently winning a World Series when Sawx fans began loudly chanting this fraudulent phrase and began profiting by peddling “Yankees Suck” merchandise?
Talk about sour grapes!
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