Bleacher Report - Articles by Steven J. Ward

Dream Matchup: Red Wings V Capitals

Steven J. Ward — Thu, 21 May 2009 12:57:42 -0400

The Great Eight

Is there any doubt in the wake of the Pittsburgh Penguins-Washington Capitals playoff series who is the most outstanding player in the NHL?

Despite the Caps falling short against the Penguins in a long, extremely physical seven game series, Alex Ovechkin stood so far superior to all others that he was often beyond the reach of network cameras as he flew end to end several meters above team-mates and opposition alike.

At times, the Pens would try and entangle him in a physical style but Alex thrives on such things, so too would the opposition shadow him with two or more players collapsing on him.

Ovechkin always found a way to shake em. When time came to ignite the crowd or his team-mates or even himself, The Great Eight ran everything in sight with the speed and power of an NFL linebacker.

What a shame the NHL and the world will be cheated out of a matchup featuring Detroits' Pavel Datsyuk or Henrik Zetterberg against Alex Ovechkin, not to mention the rest of their respective team-mates in a main event that would most certainly shatter, repeatedly, the sound barrier.

To tell you the truth, any other potential opponent for Detroit Red Wings has the appeal of a peanut butter sandwich on white bread.

Alas hockey fans, we may have some excitement still but with-out the Washington Capitals and Alex Ovechkin the Wings will have to work extra hard to make it exciting.

Save the NHL Playoffs: Cease and Desist, Commissioner

Steven J. Ward — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 09:00:12 -0400

From Boston to Montreal and from San Jose to that "duck pond" in Anaheim, the National Hockey League need only save itself from itself in order to claim the most exciting playoff season of the four major sports.

Unfortunately, those in charge of the league just cannot seem to halt the self-annihilation. They are destined to kill the splendid fastbreak sport.

It matters not what game one is tuned in to: There is no great disparity in talent between any entry because of the spirited action and wonderful dedication assumed on every shift by every player.

One cannot help but be amazed at the excellence in conditioning of these athletes, which to this point has not been tied to artificial means whatsoever! Their bodily sacrifice and spiritual integrity are unsurpassed, period.

But as usual, there is a fly in the ointment, and this one happens to be a huge, hungry horsefly with a very large rear quarters that just cannot stand success. It's NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman, who has made it his life's mission to rid the game of any such human emotion.

Perhaps he seeking a robotic sort of hockey in which all participants would be preprogramed by Bettman's fellow flies to play the game devoid of physical contact and emotions that would be considered reactionary or personally expressive.

Thus far and to my knowledge, this restriction has come at the expense of those players who have been suspended for "sending a message" to the other team at the end of a previous game. Instead of selling this sport on its raw emotion and controlled explosiveness, the powers that be amid their padded stalls have removed any hope of success.

The NHL struggles yearly for a major television deal, a necessity for smaller-market viability. But instead of marketing the stronger aspects of this supersonic sport, the league seeks to vilify its own participants. Why?

Does the WBA/C or MMA try to suppress the nature of their sport? No way; they brandish it proudly as their most important selling point.

Ask those who truly appreciate the sport of hockey and have had the opportunity to follow it over the past twenty years or so: When was the most exciting age, the "Golden Age" of hockey, or the NHL? I imagine their reply would be the 1970s into the mid '80s.

For the sake of saving what is left of this sport: Stop destroying this game, Commissioner. You are not a fair representative voice, but more a dictator without heart or head, apparently!

Detroit Red Wings' Acclaim Amidst the Stars

Steven J. Ward — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 12:06:20 -0400

With an obligatory glance in the mirror arrears and before the "second season" steals the stage-light, it's only proper those men on whet and balanced edge are offered time to breathe.

In this space perhaps a requiem to those in respite, to those who season-long stood strong, who gave, forgave, and bled again still then again that the whole would feed from each their part and each one there became a stronger whole.

The essence of a team is reflected in the selfless, in those who sacrifice, in those who prefer to remain obscure, shunning center stage or spot-light and glare for the one standing not so celebrated nearby.

A star is an object made to shine in the darkness nigh, while a constellation emblazons the heavens because of the pure number who celebrate and share in it's shining.

The heavens have their architect, their master, their artist; the Detroit Red Wings theirs.

Still, from such a magnificent arrangement, several individual starets must be noticed and acclaimed-they simply shine too bright.

Is there anything more spectacular than the night sky exploding with sparkling light? From the constellation Orion are these awards so-named:

BETA (Orionis) Overall excellence: Hernik Zetterberg

GAMMA (Orionis) Individual to team M.V.P.: Johan Franzen

Delta (Orionis) Sweat to Blood Award: Tomas Holmstrom

Epsilon (Orionis) Excellence in Defense: Nick Lidstrom

Zeta (Orionis) Artist Extraordinaire: Ken Holland

*ALPHA AWARD- The embers against the heavens are at times without parallel.

PAVEL DATSYUK IS THIS CONSTELLATIONS STAR!

It is possible to find the sheen to every member of this organization, but the true measure here is how one connects to the next, how one affects the next. This artistry, when procured year to year, season to season among the most reckless, uncertain times cannot be appreciated fully except by those in peerage past or present.

Yet the artist cannot produce unless provided for.

The organization is indeed the constellation-each part a piece, each piece collectively the whole. Look toward the Patriots of New England as another such celebrated organization. A few others exist, but not nearly enough to draw comparable attention and therefore success.

How frustrating it must be to possess such a victorious resume that your organization is picked over yearly as if the only source around? Coach (and artist) Belichick nurtures his charge at every level and they flourish almost without fail. Has there been another? I think not, in any sport.

Modern-day players—bigger, stronger, and potentially more intelligent—need more motivation. It is not sufficient to be chosen to represent your sport nor to be assured a six-figure contract without so much as a trial period, so when a team is capable of producing a winning program year to year then a coach should be yielded credit.

In the NHL, players of yester-year knew that if they did not make it on the ice they would be sent to the local mines, farms or whatever excruciating and laborious work their fathers and fore-fathers had done. As a result they gave happily, their sweat and blood, a more powerful motivation never was.

One would imagine the present-day Detroit Red Wings from days yore with a work ethic and commitment such as theirs in perpetual form day in and day out.

Thank you to teams such as these for everything they give; and a special ovation to these Detroit Red Wings for another complete and glimmering effort when far too many dark selfish days continue to appear elsewhere.

The Detroit Red Wings; Acclaim Amidst the Stars

Steven J. Ward — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 12:06:19 -0400

Detroit Red Wings 2008-'09

With an obligatory glance in the mirror arrears and before the "second season" steals the stage-light ti's only proper those men on whet and balanced edge are offered time to breath.

In this space perhaps a requiem to those in respite, to those who season-long stood strong, who gave, forgave and bled again still then again that the whole would feed from each their part and each one there became a stronger whole.

The essence of a team is reflected in the selfless, in those who sacrifice, in those who prefer to remain obscure; shunning center stage or spot-light and glare for the one standing not so celebrated, near by.

A star is an object made to shine in the darkness nigh, while a constellation emblazons the heavens because of the pure number who celebrate and share in it's shining. The heavens have their architect, their master, their artist; The Detroit Red Wings theirs.

Still, from such a magnificent arrangement, several individual starlets must be noticed and acclaimed-they simply shine too bright.

Is there anything more spectacular than the night sky exploding with sparkling light? From the Constellation "ORION" are these awards so-named.

BETA (orionis) Over-all excellence.... Hernik Zetterberg

GAMMA (orionis) Individual to team M.V.P. Johan Franzen

Delta (orionis) Sweat to Blood Award.. Tomas Holmstrom

Epsilon (orionis) Excellence in Defense.. Nick Lidstrom

Zeta (orionis) Artist Extraordinaire ...... Ken Holland

*ALPHA AWARD- The embers against the heavens are at-times without parallel.

PAVEL DATSYUK IS THIS CONSTELLATIONS STAR!

It is possible to find the sheen to every member of this organization but the true measure here is how one connects to the next, how one affects the next.

This "Artistry", when procured year to year, season to season among the most reckless, uncertain times cannot be appreciated fully except by those in peerage past or present; yet the Artist cannot produce unless provided for.

The organization is indeed the Constellation each part a piece, each piece collective, the whole. Look toward the Patriots of New England as another such celebrated organization and a few others exists but not near enough to draw comparable attention therefore success.

How frustrating it must be to possess such a victorious resume' that your organization is picked over yearly as if the only source around? Coach (and artist) Belichick nurtures his charge at every level and they flourish almost with-out fail. Has there been another? I think not, in any sport.

Modern day players, bigger, stronger and potentially more intelligent need more motivation.

It is not sufficient to be chosen to represent your sport nor to be assured a six figure contract without so much as a trial period; so when a team is capable of producing a winning program year to year then a coach should be yielded credit.

In the NHL players of yester-year knew that if they did not make it on the ice they would be sent to the local mines, farms or whatever excruciating and laborious work their fathers and fore-fathers had done.

As a result they gave happily, their sweat and blood, a more powerful motivation never was. One would imagine the present day Detroit Red Wings from days yore with a work ethic and commitment such as theirs in perpetual form day in and day out.

The Masters Of Manipulation

Steven J. Ward — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 14:12:55 -0400

Easter Morning: After just hanging up the phone with my grandson, I sat back in my recliner and reflected on our conversation. He is only nine and an avid Red Sox fan as well as a charter member of "Red Sox Nation".

He's quite animated and intelligent, so it is easy to get involved in conversations well beyond his age appropriate parameter. The conversation was in regards to why some ballplayers seem to acquire merely by their name a great deal more attention than others without reason or circumstance.

My mind jumped a bit to the Masters telecast of Saturday afternoon and how ridiculous the coverage had been that day. Tiger Woods, every-ones all everything, was followed around the course despite being perhaps seven or eight strokes in arrears with his personal camera crew (or so it appeared) while the round three leaders seemed only to get obligatory coverage.

I give Woods all the credit he deserves, and I am aware of just what he has done and continues to do for the sport, but there are a hundred other men out there plugging away at any given time who deserve the respect of live camera coverage. I would be willing to wager that the words Tiger Woods (in proper form) are used at least 50 percent more than the combined usage of the entire field at any golf tournament past or present. It is indeed very often a gag-able offense!

Sunday afternoon 1:00 (cst) I tuned in to the Masters, yet initially paid more attention to the Red Wings Vs. Blackhawks game, but upon its end switched full time back to golf.

The image was of Phil and Tiger walking a fairway together and the camera stayed with these two until the hole was finished. As CBS prepared to break to commercial only then did I see the leader-board where Perry was still atop. In any event, the remainder of the match and until Mickelson and Woods finished their 18, the coverage was predominantly dedicated theirs. Yes the two played exciting golf, but neither one gained the lead. Still one would have thought Phil and Tiger where in a playoff and the only two on the course.

The truth is sports is merely a reflection or extension of society when it comes to a favorite child. They are in the eye of the camera constantly; nurtured and shoved down throats worldwide until there is a universal day of gaging.

Alex Rodriguez, LeBron James, Kobe Bryant, Barry Bonds, Mickelson, Woods etc... Good or bad, right or wrong at any cost society is dictated their hero's.

Remember the lesser ones and everything will proceed nicely because the ones in this category are quite used to it and have accepted their role. The Tiger Woods of the world—their wealth and power will never have it otherwise. The networks find their golden ones and buff them to their most brilliant shine for all to see.

Personally though they make my head hurt.

Tyrus Cobb...In Pure Pursuit

Steven J. Ward — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 12:48:59 -0400

"The Greatness of Ty Cobb was something that had to be seen, and to see him was to remember him forever" George Sisler

If there was a more skilled ball player ever to wear a uniform, he is yet unknown. Every aspect of his game was the textbook example as to how to execute that particular play and Tyrus Cobb did so with all the passion of being his last ever play!

It is well known that most of his opponents, as well as his teammates, detested him. Also, well established were his questionable motives both in and out of baseball. He was considered a genius at business affairs a fact galvanized by the wealth he possessed; he was generous especially to fellow ballplayers who came to him, broke upon their careers end and he continued to donate to the underprivileged long after his death.

Ty was elected to the Hall of Fame with an incredible 98.2% of the vote, (222 of 226 possible votes) his statistics are beyond equal; .367 lifetime batting average, 4191 hits, 23 consecutive seasons batting over .300, and 12 batting titles. I could regurgitate his complete stats package, but why? Why again? because Mr Cobb was then and still today considered a good ballplayer that was deeply disturbed.

Ask yourself, would he be the same Tyrus Raymond Cobb if removed were his passion and drive, as questionable as it was? We should judge baseball and it's participants by their on field performance unless that performance is an illegality in its countering-effects.

The man also stole 892 bases with his fierce, intimidating style. He, without a second thought, would gladly use a sacrifice bunt, if asked, while knowing a hit was almost a certainty, which translates to him being a team player!

The George Peach as he was known, spent 24 years in Detroit and exemplified just what was expected of his Tiger teammates. Statistically, Ty Cobb should be considered the greatest ever, but most do not even cast him in their top 10!

I cannot understand such definition except to say, we are a judgemental lot, whom like nothing more than to find fault in others while we, ourselves, sit stunningly upon our exalted summits—blind though we are, blind indeed!

The View from Here: Alex Ovechkin vs. Anyone

Steven J. Ward — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 09:18:12 -0400

When hearing the name "Alexander Ovechkin" for the first time, I had a feeling stardom was merely a slap shot away. Sometimes poetics transcend the physical form and stir the senses, allowing a preview amid the form of prognostication. Such was Alex Oveckhin, as he arrived like a lightning bolt from Moscow.

However, all was not quite so cut and dried amid the skeptical hierarchy of many NHL cities. Though only 16 years old and known to be a tremendous liability on defense, Ovechkin was coveted nonetheless by the Florida Panthers as an underage sixth round draft pick, a pick that was eventually dismissed by the NHL.

Two years later, the Washington Capitals edged out the Penguins of Pittsburgh for the number one draft pick; they chose Alex without a second thought and never looked back.

Quickly earning the moniker "Alexander The Great", his impact was immediate and resounding, as other teams would attempt anything to knock him from his game. The strategy never worked because A.O. was too fast, too skilled and surprisingly far too tough to yield amid such pressure.

He possessed something that all the greats possess, and comes to define the greatest as just that. He had a mean streak in him that became his personality as soon as those razor edged stainless steel blades touched the ice!

As his career has taken shape Alex Ovechkin has come to dominate the game on several levels, and at only 24 years of age is a lock to tighten his already fearless grip.
"I know if I had to choose one present day star to be a cornerstone of my franchise," said one rival General Manager, "no question who it would be-no question at all. Alexander Ovechkin."

If you get the opportunity to see the guy play, I urge you to take full advantage of it; watch him, study him and you'll marvel the way everyone else does. This guy is absolutely the best!

A Year without (the Juice)...I Can Dream, Can't I ?

Steven J. Ward — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 09:06:59 -0400

As March prepares its wares and packs the last of it's unsettled offerings away I find myself amid the grueling temptation of a longtime, often, painful addiction. It has been some five months since my last indulge which once exercised from demons and distress I found freedom, ah yes, release!

Lately though I seem prone to relapse, too near falling into the powerful grasp of that steely promise posed to not merely gather me into it's euphoric nature but resounding, homegrown effects.

Since my birth, all those years ago when summers meant family cookouts and Pumpsy Green stumbling around second base (who?) I remember the serenade of those siren summons to which I seemed destined to follow. It wasn't long before I was hooked and spent every waking moment in all out chase of that elusive dream.

Baseball!

The American Pastime (dominated by countries everywhere but here), and something that seems to engulf every man woman and child within it's whirlwind affair while offering nothing more than the opportunity to join together, city by city, state by state and "Nation to Red Sox Nation" in a frenzied celebration—together being the operative word.

Something happened, though, on the way to our favorite ballpark; we, fans, and loyalists alike were duped-lied to-sold out-BETRAYED! Most marveled at the way our game evolved reflecting the commitment and training of the modern day hero as long standing records fell helplessly wayside.

Who really wanted to accept the fact that all the well honed skill and commitment was test tubed born and bred?

Now, as the Spring returns and the grasses real and relic alike submerge into deeper hues of green I find myself nearer to falling into that same old comfort zone, waiting the first official pitch of this 2009 season.

But as I squirm somewhat in my recliner I watch, wait and listen for yet another Superstar to be extinguished, almost expecting the worst. In the meantime I'll rest assured in the stars past and present who continue to excel in our game.

I will however be eternally grateful to those who played the game without "the juice" justifying their existence and fall into the hypnotic splendor of Major League Baseball.

Painful Memories; Aug. 18, 1967

Steven J. Ward — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 12:32:29 -0400

We as human beings are blessed to possess a seemingly infinite space deep amid our brain to gather, store, and make accessible millions of bits of physical data to draw upon at any time we chose. Unfortunately, not everything held there is indeed a blessed event.

The physiological structure or it's metaphysical nature isn't a forum presently to discuss however we are forced nonetheless to deal with the positive as well as the negative merely because they both are represented equally as memory.

I write often of my childhood, growing up just south of Boston MA. how we lived and breathed baseball, replicating our favorite players and dreaming of becoming the next "star" of our beloved home team.

During the early '60s, our Red Sox were as bad as a team could be, as I recall, but we loved them just the same; you see that is the fascinating thing about kids, their loyalty is as pure as humanly known.

An unconditional pledge, a kinship a vow of love to often and far too easily outgrown. Children aren't complicated until us adults wrap them up in our problems and force them from their comfort zones.

I have been fortunate enough to work a great deal with children of all ages and they are such wonderfully giving, unencumbered gifts, every last one of them. They need so very little and ask even less except for maybe some time to be just a kid.

Ah yes, memory; we all carry sufficiently the pros and cons of our childhood and adjust accordingly but there is one particular entry that I would feel honored to share as it might well even serve some relief.

The year was 1967 and our Red Sox were flying uncustomary high in the standings, the team was skilled and talented like never before. Carl Yastremski, George "Big Tatter" Scott, Jim Lonborg and our up and coming superstar Tony Conigliaro!

Tony C we all called him was a tall thin left-handed power hitter, brash but the first one out to talk to kids no matter where he was.

He crowded the plate mostly out of total disdain for the pitchers, and it cost him with several broken bones (arm, wrist, hand), but he gave back not a single inch, that was his plate and the pitcher, bar none, wasn't allowed in.

God, I loved his swing, a wide-open stance, bat high behind his head and a sneer to melt the Vaseline off any of the renown "Spit-ballers" of the day.

The season was spinning on and we as fans held on dearly; finally our stars were shinning brighter than all others.

We couldn't wait to go into Fenway and see our hero's, our team but as it goes tickets suddenly weren't so easily to come by so we had to be satisfied to listen on the radio to Curt Gowdy and company or when we were really fortunate we saw them TV.

As August ambled in everything was a blur except that we played ball every possible moment stopping only to listen or watch our team play. Aug. 7 was my younger brother's birthday and it was at his party that a gift was presented as four tickets to the Aug. 18 game against the California Angels.

Aug. 18?

Oh man, I said, that's like a month away...

Well as time usually does, it delivered the day of the game right on schedule and the next thing we realized we were on our way into Fenway Park. A night game? Our first night game!

Our seats were behind home-plate about 20 rows back and behind that green screen that saved many a fan over the years from foul balls being jettisoned at will like missiles.

My Uncle Joe took us in, my two brothers and I as we settled in our heaven for the night. What a thrill to see those massive lights illuminate the field amplifying everything a hundred fold, the grass, the uniforms, the "Green Monster" shinning on our hero's like lightning-bolts from Zeus himself.

From the deep precipice and recesses where the most painful of memories are stored I draw the following; Tony C came to the plate and butterflies began their overwhelming flutter in my stomach.

I was more nervous than he most likely, but he stood facing a fireballer named Jack Hamilton, just acquired from the Mets for the stretch run.

Tony had lined a single into left-center his first time up and had the upper hand. Hamilton, whose nickname was "Hair-breath Harry" (reportedly because of his many close decision losses), also had the knack for "brush back pitches, as well as an occasional spitball.

He reared back, firing toward home plate, and before another breath could pass there was a deep sickening crack louder, more distinct than any sound I ever heard before or since, and Tony sunk to the ground as his helmet spun helplessly away.

I can tell you with complete honesty that two things happened at that moment (one), not a sound was made for what seemed an eternity, the entire park went silent, and two, I felt as if I was going to get sick to my stomach then and still today when I think back to that horrendous night in August of 1967.

Tony Conigliaro was a home-grown hero and suffered what became the beginning of his end. He attempted a comeback twice but was never the same and died in February of 1990 at 45 years.

As a strange twist to this story, some three years ago, I went to visit my daughter who was working in Branson, MO with her best friend. Her best friend is the granddaughter of Jack Hamilton, the very one spoken of herein.

He is a restaurant owner there, and though I never got an interview, I did talk with him about that fateful night and dreadful occurrence. Jack Hamilton seems rather at odds with himself, but cordially he refuses still to go into much detail but says rather ruefully, "I wish we had the batting helmets then as they do now."

Tyler Hansbrough: Why Is Everyone Picking on Him?

Steven J. Ward — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 15:45:24 -0400

In watching the University of North Carolina in their first round match-up against a far superior or at least equitable opponent Radford, I am somewhat amazed even shocked at the cruel way others seem to be bullying that nice Tyler Hansbrough.

I have witnessed, since the beginning of the game, his being mauled and mashed leaving him maligned as he tries like the true champion he is to parallel himself again and again on the hardwood floor.

Let us face facts. Tyler is only seven feet tall and a mere 280 lbs., and is being unmercifully thrashed by much smaller players.

He reminds me of a lively fish pulled from his watery place to a dry place, trying to get home again. Flip-flopping about is he, rather comically, as a fish out of water..

It appears, also, that dear Tyler is rewarded by those striped ones and given "free throws" at the basket with such regularity that there must be some special rule concerning him in that he is assured of a certain number of points accumulated.

I have seen this, come to think of it, repeatedly throughout the season.

I do hope they do not hurt Tyler. The other players just treat him far too rough.

Could it be the others don't like him? or perhaps they are just jealous because he is indeed a favorite with the ones that blow those con-founded whistles all the time; Mr. Hansbrough is allowed to walk around even with the ball where others are not as well as jump into the players on the other team probably due to him being happy. In any case I have always heard that if a person in charge likes another person he is given special permission to do most anything just like Tyler is. They all must really, really like him!

Oh, there it is again, he flopped! Oh, I mean was knocked down again by those little meanies; they should try to help him more like the rest of the men do.

Forces of Nature: How Surfing Rescued Me

Steven J. Ward — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 09:53:47 -0400

There are very few feelings in one's lifetime that actually inebriate the senses to such a degree that a separation of spirit from flesh occurs in a mere instant of time. It is not necessarily induced by speed, nor as a result of gravitational thrust, but more so as a result of a transition from one state of consciousness to another by unregulated energy while suspended amid a quasi-natural stance or standing.

Case in point: I have skimmed a rather challenging mountain face or two while bound to a pair of narrow skis reaching extremely satisfying not to mention overwhelming speeds. Indeed exhilarating and a bit more breathtaking, as well as purely spectacular to the eyes while inhaling the freshest air, most probably the healthiest of all oxygen, to sate within. Yet something was amiss, most definitely amiss.

Windsurfing, although quite reckless and quick-paced, under the proper circumstances, I had share in dips and dives while accessing abnormal speed, which once again allowed me the second glance into the parallel that beckons speed as a quantification of satisfaction upon the senses in pursuit of logic. Without, alas, fulfillment.

We are certainly within the mysterious grasp of a metaphysical universe, mere light casting shadows in the space vacated moment by fleeting moment while the sparks created differ indeed individually from one to the next depending on its ignitor. Mine, upon a final glance back, suffers from no identity crisis and reigns without question atop the summit of extentualism non-parallel.

New Smyrna Beach, Florida, hour after hour upon a 10 ft. Gordon & Smith surfboard, I became acquainted with the sport that would ultimately provide not simply a way to cope when the act therein was more closely regarded as survival than sport, but also the very IGNITOR to my soul.

East Coast waves, comparably small, are capable, especially when the offshore waters entertained passing hurricanes, of delivering powerful swells toward the shores while the riders waited patiently their deliverance. As hurricane season proceeded, we would maintain a wary eye, watching, waiting, even praying the Outer Banks would summon and we'd be off in search of our own "Perfect Wave."

Well, before Nags Head opened its greedy arms to hyper-development, we rode her wonderful swells, cementing those images upon the intrinsic marrow of consciousness and indelible walls of memories.

Cape Hatteras, N.C. allotted me the largest, most furious wave I ever attempted to conquer. This took place while a hurricane danced offshore, feeding this beautiful beach a constant, ever increasing supply of huge, hungry swells.

Speculated by the locals at near 20 ft. faces, these monsters rushed in and closed out much too quick to handle, but we had travelled several hundred miles, and it would not be in vain!

Once reconciled, a friend and myself somehow found ourselves straddling our now five-and-a-half foot boards. Mine was a G & S Egg design, deep maroon white pinstripe, and I knew right away that I might find liftoff at mid-way down the face of these waves, but we were here, and it was now the only way in to the shore.

I remember paddling, the wave up under me, and suddenly a drop that seemed an eternity. I tried to hold on, but I doubt if I made it halfway down the wave when I lost it. The speed was incredible, but the force of the swell was what I really recall. A wipeout at such heights is never a good thing, but here amid a hurricane swell—well, thank God we survived. It took a great deal of battling the laws of nature, but we finally found solid ground.

It wasn't that wave that filled me with an unsurpassed awe, but waves in general; a collective gathering of large and small, each one in possession of its own identity. The sport of Surfing rescued me when I was a fledging teen and allowed me to claim something very special, very personal, and a link to nature at its various and tedious strength. Indeed a Force of Nature!

Fenway Park at Dusk: Nine Innings in Heaven

Steven J. Ward — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 13:00:02 -0400

Have you ever experienced a dream so vivid, so real, that once awoken from you used everything you could think of to enter its surreal shadows again?

Or perhaps at such a place that you were completely at peace, perfect amid your surroundings like you actually were made for this world?

Those moments are few and broadcast with great care throughout one’s life journey. They are so rare indeed that by the time you find yourself within the ethereal grasp of one, anything past has been long forgotten, dismissed somewhere between a dream and a fantasy.

I was fortunate enough to be raised in a small Massachusetts town. My home was a mere 20 miles or so south of Boston during a time when there wasn't a boy anywhere who didn't go to bed at night chasing the dream of being Tony Conigliaro, Carl Yastrzemski, or that young fireballer Jim Lonborg.

Then, while at breakfast one early August morning, that remarkable moment was about to transpire. My dad reached into his shirt pocket and removed an envelope and tossed it down on the center of the table, almost into the pot of oatmeal.

My younger brother and I never looked up until Bobby, the oldest, piped up, “Dad, are those Red Sox tickets?" Before he could reply, Bobby exclaimed, as our heads raised up from that creamy, delicious oatmeal, "For tonight, dad? Tonight?”

An explosion of excitement rattled the kitchen as my father pushed away from the table saying, “Be ready when I get home."

“When’s that, dad?” I yelled.

"By about 4:00,” he replied. Needless to say, we were ready to go by 9:30 a.m. and spent the day as restless as a couple boys could be.

We left on time, piling into dad’s car. Bobby sat in the front, my younger brother and myself on each side of the back. At that time I don't recall ever seeing Boston, and as the skyline appeared some 30 minutes later, I stared transfixed and nearly catatonic out my window.

Soon enough we pulled into some dirt-top parking lot.

What follows is an interpretation. I approached the front gate hand-in-hand with my younger brother. "Stay together kids," warned my dad. I'm surprised my eyes didn't roll out from their sockets they were stretched so wide.

Twists and turns and more people in one place than I ever thought possible, we turned again and began an ascent. With every step, every meter left behind, the hum grew louder. There were echos, screams, and out-of-sync clapping of hands. My heart jumped, thumped, and I was about to enter a world far removed from anything I could have imagined.

Suddenly, as we stood atop that final rise, all sounds ceased and my eyes scanned in slow motion at all that stood before me, from right field to left until coming to rest upon that huge, storied Green Monster.

Could it be? I tried to catch my breath, the scent of grass, freshly trimmed and so green, the greenest grass, the greenest everything I have ever seen! Then the roar of the crowd began invading my head until it bellowed full force like a Nor'easter.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in a seat right behind the dugout. "The Red Sox dugout!” I screamed.

My older brother and I sat staring at each other for the next several minutes, not knowing just what to do next. “Far out, huh, man," he exclaimed. I don't know if I answered him, but I do know I studied every move those players made that glorious night. Huge lights shone like stars upon the very stars of my world.

I don't remember who won the game, not even who the opposing team was. What I do recall, though, was the awe that consumed me, perfection in my world that would stay with me for quite a long time after just like that dream you never want to awaken from.

I was part of something then that I knew would be emblazoned within me for eternity.

Oh, and one more thing; I do remember the heavenly taste of a Fenway Frank with Gulden’s mustard.

Far out!

Headaches, Heartbreak, and High Blood Pressure

Steven J. Ward — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 17:52:42 -0400

The babes are placed comfortably in their crib, tucked away cozy, warm, ready for a long and peaceful sleep a mother smiles as she gentle touches her treasure turns away; the kids are finishing up their homework as their minds race with the promise of staying up a little later this night.

Soon everyone collects in the family room making full use of its very design and a quiet chatter begins, dad hastens in, falling like a thud into his favorite leather recliner and takes the remote from the end table. Excitedly he takes aim and fires, the dull onyx finish of the new plasma responds like a Fourth of July celebration and a thousand colors, hues, and various shapes begin their dance.

"C'mon dad its gonna start" echos from somewhere behind him as he feels his way along the slightest ridges and plastic ripples until his highly trained fingers find the corresponding numbers to the programing plight.

Suddenly painted across the 50-inch face of mount fantastic screams ESPN! A cheer saturates the family room and dad slides back, reclines and exhales as a smile tweaks his lips. The Chips are set on one end of the coffee table, popcorn on the other and the drinks consist of various flavors of Gatorade.

"Keep those caps tight boys," sings mom, "we don't need anymore stains."

"Sure we do," giggles one of the boys. It's NCAA time, The Big Dance, etc...Everything is right with the world. I'm certain Browning wrote this as he watched his first "Dance"

The night proceeds in the predictable ebb and flow of the highly contested games running madly abound. Shouts of joy, cries of anger, yippees and "O for @#$%# sake" fumes from the more adult factions. The game(s) wind down well into the second half and the couch no-longer has its cushions or afghan, the boys are rolling around like marbles and dad is standing up as if at the stadium itself.

A minute left and the intensity is incredible: 30-second time out! "Where's your mother?" bellows dad, "She went to get the baby cause she was screaming," said boys in unison. "When did the baby wake up," asks dad? "About a minute into the game," echoes Mom disgustedly.

March Madness the first game, at the typical American home. What a fantastic way to bring a family together. All 65 teams from around the USA inviting new and future fans to board their wagons, fairweather or otherwise.

That ugly horn sounds the final seconds peel away everyone on their feet now tense and trembling, from mid-court?..."Nooooo, not again!" screams the family in unison. "I can't believe it, @#!$%$#@!" yells Dad, Mom and a quick "#@" from the kids! The first round? "Duke lost again!"

Coach K, Can't Seem To Win Them Anymore

Steven J. Ward — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 06:54:42 -0400

Reality can be a cruel mistress! What in the name of Tobacco Road is going on? Another Sunday night and I sit head in hands while my stomach churns and a strange feeling comes over me.

Could it be? Nah; by any stretch of the imagination a possibility? No-Way! I cannot bring myself to even ask, ask even in the chilly confines of my living room alone, a sad and solitary long time Duke basketball fan who plays and replays those glorious days of Christian Lattner, Bobby Hurley, WoJo and yes Mike Griminski so often the old VCR tape is about to shred amid the present day stresses of redundant failures.

Is our revered Coach K not capable of winning the BIG GAME any-longer? (Oh that hurts) I never imagined ever having to inquire of such nonsense but I must especially on the (tar) heels of Sunday nights loss again to U.N.C. We have to face facts do we not? While the rest of the collegiate basketball universe puts the finishing touches on their well tuned machine it appears the Dukies, our Dukies, struggle to eke out a victory against those far inferior entries into "The Tournament"

When was the last time we didn't look sluggish and out of synch during those early round games? I cannot bring myself to indulge the anti-Dukies sentiment with the last couple years results but we certainly cannot claim a successful outcome!

What will this years Conference and Tournament season leave us? At the summit of superiority or amid the precipice of disappointment? (again)

I would certainly enjoy the former but sadly expect another listless performance and wallowing in those familiar depths of the latter. Man I hope I'm wrong!

Manny Serving Manny

Steven J. Ward — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 13:43:22 -0500

That disturbing Chesire smile quickly yeilds to an arogance as only he can exhibit.

Did you not over the last two seasons in Boston "vow" to never sign for this amount? It is the same amount of your last contract year in Boston right? You sat upon your self-styled summit and proclaimed your greatness to anyone that would listen then proceeded to destroy everything around you including the faith of thousands of kids who thought of you as a true role model. Now, although not connected by the hyper-needle, you are indeed just another spoiled fat cat and we still must explain it all to our children!

My problem is simply that you and the like continue to keep this game, our game, dragging in the quagmire of contradiction.

Words are thrown around upon the ebb tide of your popularity but that will change, sadly, as soon as you hit a home run, except with those who see the game first as an extension of life and secondly as the game it use to be. There is very little likeness to the game today and that of yesteryear; can you imagine motivation for playing the game being generated by a love for the game itself? To the average individual one could relate this to being true to a particular woman/man because they simply love and would do whatever it takes to fulfill that condition.

Manny can laugh and high-five a fan or two after a running catch in left field, provided he is happy with his contract, or smile from the dugout after rounding the bases (and before he takes oxygen), and he can even adjust his extended rows of fantasy hair—it must be an illusion since Joe Torre does not allow long, shaggy hair, but "Manny being Manny" is just another metaphor for Manny serving Manny.

Gary Bettman, What Have You Done?

Steven J. Ward — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 13:08:54 -0500

Having grown up an avid fan of hockey or more appropriate the National Hockey League it was a season we couldn't wait to begin. The Red Sox were put away usually by mid-September and the Bruins training camp was just around the corner.

Friends and I would place the tops on our shoe-box full of baseball cards, sliding them under our beds and grab sticks,and tape balls out to start refining our slap-shots, and believe me there was always some refining to do. (that is once we found our slap-shots)

Big Bad Bruins: Those were the days; nobody came into our Garden and out-skated or out hit us, nobody! but many teams tried yet, unlike what we see today, not one team, league-wide, quit!

The National Hockey League was made up of gritty, home grown players who realized just how fortunate they were to have gained a roster spot most realised, especially those rough and tumble Canadian boys, that the only alternative to playing hockey was assuming their fathers and grandfathers careers a hundred feet underground amid the bleak and darkened depths and unforseen dangers inherent to working the mines.In this stead they happily sacrificed anything in their power to remain ice-level.

I once heard a story about a feisty, fan favorite from the Bruins, Derek (TURK), Sanderson whose father decided his son was indeed ready to join the NHL when a jar kept upon his mantel was full to the brim with stitches removed from his son's person.

Turk was not only a matinee idol in Boston but a player loved and respected not to mention despised thoughout the league, a sure sign of stardom! It was indeed this type of individual the game was made for and the list is endless in every hockey-city period!

If today's NHL was inplay back then these kids wouldn't have a chance because they hit too hard, play too aggressive and God forbid, dare to react with fisticuffs.

Walk into any NHL city in North America when a fight arises, or even when the pace is at break neck with crushing body checks delivered at will and the fans are on their feet cast in wild expectation.

We as a society love the physical despite Mr. Bettmans grand plan to rid the game of such drastic emotional break-downs, we cheer our hero's who come to the rescue of mates in peril while he (Bettman) will have no-such-a thing happen!

As a result no interest, and no interest means-a shrinking fan base which means no TV deals which transpires into NO-MONEY! That is just an over-view but the numbers do not lie.

I have always been amused by the fact that one of the most pugilistic N.H.Ler of his time is now the very one Bettman choose to dole out the punishment to present day pugilists. Colin Campbell. What a prime example of one selling his soul.

We are left with a mere shadow of our once spectacular game, will anyone come forward to save it before That comedic Gnome finally flushes it away for good? Stay tuned and the next time your fortunate enough to find a televised hockey game mute the sound so you don't have to listen to those blasted non-stop whistles!

A Single-Edged Sword (Orr Vs Gretsky)

Steven J. Ward — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 22:04:40 -0500

It appears an impasse is in order here and most probably here for the ever-after; however, I, personally, cannot sit and listen to the prattle, incurable, incessant and ridiculous exchange between windbags at will upon their chosen star of stars atop the NHL all time.

Fortunate indeed am I to be of Massachusetts born and breed and witness first hand to such tremendous performances by the Bill Russells, Carl Yaz, Tony C. and the best of the best Bobby Orrs of the universe!

So I find it so very difficult to indulge the argument that Wayne Gretzky is the better of the two merely by the measurement of goals scored.

Bobby Orr was turning ice-top 360 degree pirouettes when the rest of the National Hockey League was simply at 45s; he skated with such ease and grace that his blades never once touched the ice.

And fast? O man, not many kept stride-by. He was a defense-men who penned a book entitled Play The Man and did he ever, usually leaving the puck for a teammate to clear harmlessly away while scattering the remains of the would be puck-handler somewhere near center ice.

A thing of beauty indeed! Robert Gorden Orr not merely controlled the game but dictated it! Forgive the number of exclamation marks I utilize if anyone ever deserved their use it is Orr!

Wayne Gretzky was phenomenal, don't misread my intent but he was a "Single Edged Sword" where Bobby Orr is a Samari and his multi-edged, razor sharp sword, all rolled into one! (There it is again)!) Not to mention a fantastic human being and I know this also first hand.

I suppose this exchange will be timeless but one must remember to include all elements of a recipe in order to get the best, most accurate results. In other words; Bobby Orr could do it all, he hit like a warrior and fought like a man possessed in a time when a player was expected to pay his own way. The all around greatest athlete I ever, ever saw.

I am one fortunate cat!

Shore It Up, Detroit

Steven J. Ward — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 13:18:38 -0500

Hockey-Town U.S.A.

Is there not sufficient pressure on the players, coaches and stick-boys here simply being part of this history? Is it possible to maintain your focus while at every turn another championship banner waves or the ghosts of retired players sweep by you as if standing still?

This is part and parcel of the Red Wing mystic and the ones fortunate enough to participate here realize it with the first lacing of their skates. 'Tis obvious to those keen enough as they tune in, the pride gathers the players in its gust and fills their heart and soul; now all they have to do is perform day in day out, year in year out until their sweaters are hung near the other greats, Howe, Lindsey, and Stevie Y!

Growing up a Celtic fan just south of Boston, I listened night after night as our beloved Johnny Most squealed about the magic of the Leprechauns in their grand assists; In "The Joe" there are plenty of whirling dervish-like entities to reach out and bend a puck around an unsuspecting goalies sure glove hand.

Well, time has run past and we can no longer trust such transient help and it seems prudent to make certain we offer the strongest force against our foe.

March 4 2009, 3 p.m. EST will pass as the final grains of sand drain out from the top-heavy hour glass and the curtains are strung closed to bidders and beggars alike in the NHL.

If by then a deal isn't struck between two or more teams concerning the services of a quality player then a non-deal has occurred. The question is, is it time for the Red Wings to seek an addition to their extremely capable ranks?

Let us examine the possibilities: Is the head and neck of, say, Henrik Zetterberg or Pavel Datsyuk worth saving? Does Nicki Lidstrom really need his back or knees to be fruitful on ice?

And what of the goalkeepers? They are certainly capable of stopping pucks with humanity, perhaps collective of 1,000 pounds draped abound! Nay, let us trust the wispy ones who take refuge in the rafters because I don't believe a ghost suffers from old age.

Think again! Last year the Wings captured their prize because they worked hard and stayed relatively healthy but do not lose sight of how viscous these guys get run at and without recompense.

The winds like a mid-winter clipper gather from the frigid Alberta plains and sweep upon the NHL with the ferocity of a Milan Lucic driving recklessly, (Taz-like) end to end.

With a heart the size of all Canada, he and several choice others, Shane Doan, Colton Orr, or Cam Janssens await an opportunity to join a team and guard against the defiant liberties taken upon those whom should be allowed to achieve their natural stardom without fear of becoming another arena advertisement.

It is imperative the Wings acquire toughness as they were able to do last year at the trade deadline when signing Brad Stuart, who was able, somewhat, to fill the tremendous void left when Jiri Fischer tragically retired.

The tremendous strength of the Western Conference is omni-present and the East promises a severe test as the likes of the Bruins and the Washington Capitals, who feature the all-universe player Alex Ovechkin!

Forecast: Soon the season ends, a deluge of roster moves will have taken place, and a few new and excited players will have the chance to share in a Stanley Cup final while perhaps even being on the winning side.

I would hate for the entire National Hockey League to get hopeful, especially if the Red Wings land that one much needed player, but be my guest; the ghosts of many years' disappointment circles nigh.