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!
Wouldn’t that kind of be the equivalent to the '07, 4-12 NY Jets fans loudly chanting “Patriots Suck” and profiting from selling “Patriots Suck” merchandise? Think about that for just a minute.
The Demise Of My Red Sox Allegiance
My allegiance to the Sawx was severed by the likes of Pedro Martinez nd especially by Manny Ramirez. Team owner John Henry also played an important role in this.
My disdain for Pedro resulted from him disrespecting America during the 2001 Danny Almonte Little League World Series fiasco. This was documented by Gerry Callahan in the Friday, August 31, 2001 edition of the Boston Herald.
And as for Manny, I grew very tired of his selfish antics long before most people. Folks in Bawston cherished him and “kissed his butt” for seven years.
It didn’t matter what this guy pulled—even assaulting a senior citizen was quite acceptable.
The only fallout which was not tolerated was when his actions began to affect the Sawx team chemistry, as it began to directly affect team play on the field during a playoff push in the 2008 season.
It is truly sad that it took that long.
Then you have an owner who allowed this “pimple on the ass of the Red Sawx” to grow and fester for seven years. Only after this pimple burst did Manny have issues worthy of John Henry‘s addressing.
Prior to this it was always laughed off as “Manny being Manny” and many Red Sawx fans adored him.
I don’t care what anyone says about this subject. It is clear to me that John Henry was fine with Manny showing up late, not hustling and doing whatever he wanted to do, as long as the end result was winning two World Series championships.
What kind of skewed message is that to send to young kids?
No matter how you slice it, it is clearly the wrong message to send. I cannot root for that—and I refuse to!
I was so hoping the Red Sawx would face—and end up losing to—the LA Dodgers in the 2008 World Series. That would have surely taught John Henry a valuable lesson.
If you remember correctly, Manny had so much worth at the time the Sawx finally sent him packing that they were forced to pay the approximate seven million dollars left on Manny’s 2008 salary.
If this scenario would have taken place, the end result would have been John Henry paying Ramirez for the Dodgers to beat his own team in the World Series.
This would have been a ridiculously idiotic sports blunder of historical proportions.
It was poetic justice that a hustling team of genuine "good guys" like the Rays went on to represent the American League in the 2008 World Series.
The Fine Folks of Boston
I recently drove a ten-wheel truck to and around Bawston for five ye-ahs to make my living.
Many times this included venturing into Logan Ayahpawt's hostile territory, sometimes two or three times daily.
I used to daydream of mounting a high-powered rocket launcher on the hood of my truck so I could “take care” of all the courteous drive-ahs I had experienced on a daily basis.
I would then carve imaginary notches in the steering wheel.
Especially for all the cab and livery drivers I would encounter. They are right there on the life-form chart—just above O. J. Simpson, and just below the common cockroach.
If I had a dollar for every time three or four Bawston drive-ahs sped up to run the same red light, I would be a multimillionaire.
When I would give them a blast of my eah peah-cing ayah hawn, they would automatically shoot me the one- fingahed salute.
Like I was actually the one who ran the red light…geez.
Ever go to Logan to pick up a loved one upon their arrival? Just try to pahk somewhere which would make it even just a little convenient for them.
It will only take but a few seconds and you’ll he-ah the nasty-mouthed state trooper scream “What the %*&$ is the mattah with you??? You can’t pahk he-ah!!! Who the %*&$ do you think you ahh??? You gottah pahk way ovah they-ah!!! Now get the %*&$ outtah he-ah!!!”
Those spaces are reserved for those aforementioned cabbies and livery drive-ahs. And of course for all the crooked local dignitaries and money-grubbing politicians.
Ever been in a fast-food or convenience store around Bawston? You’ll be greeted with happy, shiny faces each and every time!
The City’s Inner Beauty
Almost daily you can read in the Bawston papers, or see on the news how another soul is gunned down in cold blood by another person who “is just a little mixed up” but is “really an awesome person.”
Many times this takes place in broad daylight directly in front of children. In many cases, these poor innocent children are struck and killed by stray bullets.
Everyone states how truly sad it is and how it must end. That is hard to believe when many know exactly who did the deed, but refuse to inform the authorities.
Then a liberal Massachusetts judge will contend how the guilty individual had been “tryin’ really hahd” to “pull it togethah”.
A light sentence will be handed down because the judge felt they “deserved another chance.”
Another chance at what??? Why, a chance to murder someone else, I guess
I have personally witnessed break-ins taking place in broad daylight.
No need to report it. The local cops couldn’t be bothered.
I can’t really blame them due to their past experiences with said liberal judges.
Yup, from all of the junkies booting-up in plain view on the Bawston Common, to the junk-filled streets of Roxbury (pronounced Roxberry), Bawston is a wonderful place.
Just don't dare to venture out at night.
Nothing quite like a toothless crack ho’s greeting in the morning and the homeless guy pissing on people’s pahked cahs in the afternoon, Bawston is always a “wicked good” place to visit.
“Wicked good”—that is a favorite saying up he-ah.
I spent almost five ye-ahs living in Floridah. On one occasion I used that “wicked good” statement in the presence of one of that state's dimmest bulbs on the string of brightness.
It was this Sunshine state’s native soul who finally made me realize how ridiculous that statement truly is.
Immediately after I uttered those words, this guy tilted his head to one side like a curious puppy and asked me “How can something possibly be wicked and good at the same time?”