SOUR GRAPES by Peter Nolan Smith

Thailand is about twenty-one hours away from the United States. Most Americans only have two weeks annual holiday and few of my friends or family traveled to the Orient, but in the summer of 2001 my dear cousin Bish was eager to visit the Last Babylon and I took the bus up to meet Bish. The Boston lawyer was wearing a suit and he was surprised to see me at Don Muang Airport. "You didn't have to come and meet me."

"You're right." I lived two hours south on the Bight of Siam with a skinny ex-go-go girl, who had worst girlfriend of 1999. "My mother told me to look after you."

"Your mother said that?" His voice choked with emotion. My mother had been gone over four years. It was typically hot for Thailand and Bish loosened his tie. Not another westerner was wearing one. I almost suggested his taking it off completely, except my cousin valued tidiness above comfort.

"It wasn't her dying wish, but she did tell me before she went into the hospital that last time." My youngest sister constantly accused me of fabricating family myths to amuse the dinner table. This one was true. A lot of the others weren't, but people laughed at the right parts. "Now give me that bag and let's hail a cab."

"No cabs for us. We're taking a limo." Bish hired a Mercedes. He was a big earner in Boston

As we sped on the tollway, he handed me The Boston Globe's sports section, "Sorry it's a day old."

"Don't matter, Bish." My late Uncle Dave had give him this nickname and I couldn't let the tradition die and read the headline of the Bosox win by the light of a purple dawn.

"I'm surprised after so many years away from Boston you're still a hometown fan."

"Always will be."

I scanned the American League standings. The Red Sox were classically trailing the Yankees by double-digits.

"Damn, they're going nowhere this year."

"So you care about them? The Babe Ruth Curse, Jim Lonborg's blister, Tony C's career-ending beanball, trading away Carlton Fisk, the ball between Bill Buckner's legs in Shea or Bucky Dent's unfathomable home run in 1978 should have broken your faith."

"I watched the 6th game of the 1975 Series with my brother and younger sister. She insisted that one of us stole her lucky seat. She gave up when the Sox were down late. After Bernie Carbo hit his home run, my brother ran upstairs and pulled her downstairs. She stayed in that green vinyl chair, until Fisk hit the game-winner. All they had to do was win one more game." Don Zimmer had insisted on playing Cecil Cooper even though he had batted 1 for 23 in the Series, instead of substituting Bernie Carbo. Just on principle.

"Like in 86 against the Mets." My cousin stated and I nodded in agreement.

Buckner should have been pulled for a defensive player." Another cousin lived near the retired first baseman. We thought about egging his house, but Buckner should have been pulled for a more defensive player and Bucky Dent had only hit two homers during the season."

"A wiser man would have walked away from the team."

This taunted optimism was a mortal curse for New England and I explained, "When my sister's father-in-law was buried, the rabbi surprised the mourners by saying, "Herb was a good man for his family, community, and country. The one hole in his life was the Red Sox. Let's pray before the end of the century, they can win a World Series and let Herb rest easy in peaces, so like Herb I guess I'm a sucker for the Sox."

"And that's why I brought you this.' My cousin reached into his travel bag and pulled out a Red Sox hat and t-shirt. He dropped both on my lap." "Pedro Martinez's on the mound and Manny Ramirez is slugging home runs. This might be the year."

"Possibly." I thanked Bish for his gifts and he leaned against the window to fall asleep with a smile on his face, dreaming either of a successful victorious October Series or his vacation in Pattaya, the Last Babylon.

Throughout the week we followed the exploits of the hometown team in the Bangkok Post, Herald Tribune, and USA Today. The Red Sox stubbornly struggled against mediocre team withNomar watching from the DL and Pedro Martinez's aching arm.

Sitting in a bar on Walking Street I expressed my concerns to my cousin, who said, "Believe me, this team isn't playing in October. Babe Ruth can go to Hell."

"Pedro said the other day, if Babe Ruth was playing, he'd stick a fastball in his ear."

"You're not talking about the Red Sox, are you?" A red-faced man in his fifties shouted with a North Shore accent. His crooked hand hands tremors around a glass of whiskey. "I was born in Lynn. I saw Pete Runnel, Tiant, Yaz, Dewey, Lynn, Rice, Clemens and no one believed more in the Red Sox than me. They'll never win the Big One. Never."

"What makes you say that?" As a teetotaler Bish had little patience with drunks. "I heard a story one day that broke my heart for good."

My cousin's nod indicated he had heard enough, however I was still had a half a Chang Beer and the whiskey drinker said, "I usta tend bar in Boston. A strip club called the Two O'Clock Lounge."

"On Washington Street. I drove cab during college and finished my night hanging out in front of that go-go bar. Always hoping to drive a stripper home. They tipped nice."

"Here is Heaven, but the Combat Zone was paradise, but closed after some stupid state trooper got himself killed on LaGrange Street." His eyes drifted off us to a passing trio of bargirls.

I vaguely recalled the story and said, "I don't think any Red Sox involved."

"No, after that I worked at this bar on Newbury Street. Good money. Good crowd. Famous people. TV people and sports figures. One day Mickey Rivers walks in. Along with Willie Randolph, a total class player. To show no hard feelings about 1978 I sent him over a few drinks. He toasts me and we talk. Mostly bullshit, finally I say, "I can't understand how Bucky Dent hit a home run in that play-off game."

"Hey, Mike Torrez played for the Yankees and Bucky anticipated his pitch," Mickey said low enough for only me to hear. This was a Boston bar and I guess he wasn't interested in instigating a riot, I leaned forward and said, "Bucky had two home runs that year."

"You've been a nice guy, so I'll tell you a little secret." Mickey checked the nearest table to insure no one else was listening. "The TV shows the home run and Yaz's popping up in the replays. Nothing else, but if you see the full game, Bucky breaks his bat. You're asking yourself, "So he breaks his bat?" When he goes to the dugout for another bat, I hand him mine."

"And?" I asked him and Mickey answered with a sly smile, "Well, my bat was corked."

"Needless to say I was shocked and Mickey Rivers walked out of the bar before I could ask him another question." The whiskey drinker drained his glass and feebly waved for another round.

I had watched that game in the Edison Hotel on Broadway and easily recollected that awful sinking feeling, as Bucky's homer soared into the left field screen.

"Perhaps Mickey was kidding."

"Nope, I'm from Lynn. We know truth when we hear it, especially bad news.."

Bish, a lawyer by profession, cross-examined the drunken North Shorite, "You see a tape of the game?"

"Nope, what"s the point? Mickey wouldn't have lied and I don't care about the Sox."

"One year we will beat the Curse.

"Dream on."

"Fuck Arrowsmith."

"Fuck Johnathan Richman." He threw a pile of 100-baht bills on the bar and stumbled into a go-go bar. My cousin asked, "You believe him?"

A member of the Baltimore Colts had told me that a gambler had compromised a very important offensive player during Super Bowl III, except Bish looked in need of illusion, so I said, "This town is full of bullshitters."

"Would we be better people if they had won?"

A sweetness the taste of molasses seeped through my veins.

"It wouldn't have changed anything."

"Okay, enough with the what ifs." Bish raised his hands in surrender. "Being losers has made us the men we are today. You ready to give up on Red Sox?"

Nevah."

"Then I guess we're doomed and I couldn't think of being doomed in a better place than Pattaya."

The Bishop paid for our drinks and led me to young people had a good time.

I felt better for telling him the lie, for the truth won't stop Bucky Dent's homer or the baseball bouncing through Bill Buckner's legs. We should have won those games and in the mind of a Red Sox fan this knowledge had no small value, at least until the curse is over in the hopefully near future and the Red Sox Nation was too stubborn to die before that date.

THE NAME IS FENWAY by Peter Nolan Smith

I was born in Boston in 1952. My childhood, teenage years, and college career were spent within the confines of New England. My heart belonged to the Celtics and Red Sox. These allegiances were never challenged by my decades of living in New York or anywhere else in the world.

When in 2004 the Red Sox came back from a 0-3 deficit to defeat the Yankees, I was sitting in a bar in Thailand. The only fan in the bar. The other drinkers were finishing off the night. I cheered the ending of the Curse of the Bambino by buying everyone at the bar a drink. We toasted the triumph. None of them cared since they were Thai or English wankers.

I was sober and they were drunk.

I got my way and celebrated the victory by buying everyone at the bar a drink. After my explanation of the Curse of the Bambino, we toasted the the Red Sox. Few of them cared about baseball, although the Brits understood the pain, since England hasn't won the World Cup in over a half-century.

Four years later my Thai wife Mam announced that she was pregnant with a boy and I consulted my overseas friends for a name.

Jesse James Smith sounded good, until someone informed me that the Missouri outlaw had owned slaves. Malcolm X Smith was a little too heavy a name to carry through his life. My favorite runner as a teenager had been 2OO-meter champion Tommie Smith, who had raised his fist in protest of racism at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City, but Tommie Smith Smith was too much Smith for my boy.

"What about Fenway?" suggested Shannon Greer on a long distance call to Brooklyn. We were good friends, despite his status as a Yankee fan.

Four years later my Thai wife Mam announced that she was pregnant with a boy and I consulted my overseas friends for a name. Jesse James Smith sounded good, until someone said that the Missouri outlaw owned slaves. Malcolm X Smith was a little too heavy a name to carry through his life. My favorite runner as a teenager was Tommie Smith. He had raised his fist on the medal podium at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City.

Tommie Smith Smith was too much Smith.

"What about Fenway?" suggested Shannon Greer. He's a New York fan. We are good friends.

"Fenway Smith." I liked it and googled Fenway Smith. None showed up on the search for Smith, Jones, Williams, Lee, Sanchez, Miller, or Martin. I explained the origins of the name to Mam.

"Can not name your son Fenway Park Smith."

"Why not?"

"Everyone think he Korean not Thai with name Park."

She was right and we have a loving son Fenway.

His middle name is Superstar.

Back in 2012 I had to leave Thailand. I traveled back and forth every 2-3 months until COVIDS hit the world. Fenway is always in my mind as are the rest of my children; Fluke, Noi, and Angie. My younger sister disapproved of naming my son 'Fenway'.

She's a lawyer. They have strong opinions.

"You'll see why it's stupid."

She's has a funny way of being right, but Fenway has many names; Wey-wey, One-way, and always Superstar.

Presently I live in Brooklyn. It's more Mets territory than Yankee land. My friends at Frank's Lounge appreciate the name and on many occasions I proudly tell people, "My son's name is Fenway."

Last week I bought him a Red Sox suit. I walked back to my brownstone and saw a young man with a small dog. He was wearing a Red Sox cap. We spoke about our faith and I asked him, "What's your dog's name?"

"Fenway."

I didn't tell him about my son, but several days later I ran into another young Red Sox fan with a dog. Once again the mutt's name was Fenway and I understood the reason parents don't name their kids 'Fenway' is because young men name their dogs after the Bosox park.

But I'm not a young man anymore, yet I have memories.

Back in the early 60s my father took me to see the KC As at Fenway. I sat on the steps of the 3rd base line for the 1975 World Series. 2004 I was halfway around the world. A Red Sox fan to the core and my son is Fenway Superstar Smith.

One day I'll take him to the temple and that destiny is written in the stars.

07-07-07

The Great Powers singed the Armistice of Versailles to end WWI on the 11th minute of the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. Soldiers continued to fire artillery rounds after the deadline, but soon ceased the final bombardment. The repetitive numerology of 111 was most effective in stilling the disturbing cosmic vibration as the sequence signals a new life cycle.

Of course rationalists' ridicule the power of numbers.

"Numbers are just numbers."

But not to the 70,000 couples celebrating their weddings on July 7, 2007 in agreement with the greek philosopher Pythagoras designating 7 as a perfect number i.e. the sum of two prime numbers create another prime number. 3 + 4 = 7.?

Some wedding planner received requests for the wedding vows at the 7th hour. A few happy couples must have gone for the full seven. The 7th minute of the 7th hour et al.

"C'mon lucky 7."

This call can be heard at dice tables around the world.

Casino house managers can recognize a sucker bet years ahead and have promoted Lucky Seven trips to their gaming establishments in hopes that dice players will be unable to resist the siren call of seven, especially since you crap out on seven, if it comes up after the first roll.

Most brides are betting on their newlywed husbands will remember their anniversary thanks to 07-07. It's another sucker bet. Men don't remember birthdays. Especially once we're over 50. Birthdays become days to forget.

Numerologists connect the number seven to these people and adjectives.

Philosopher, sage, wisdom seeker, reserved, inventor, stoic, contemplative, aloof, deep-thinker, introspective, spiritual, faith, esoteric, exotic, unusual, hidden, seeking perfection, ethereal, other worldly, enigma.

When I moved to New York in 1977, I didn't think much about numbers, but my girlfriend's ex- went crazy on numbers. The bearded hillbilly read significance into the millions of numbers floating around New York. He told me that his ex- never kissed him. I said maybe she didn't like bears. He thought that was funny. I tried to get him a carpentry job. the first day he counted all the nails. The numbers added wrong and he walked off the job. In the end the onslaught of number overloaded his brain and he ended up living in a northern park of Manhattan much like the demented protagonist of THE CAVEMAN'S VALENTINE. Not a stitch of clothing and in a cave. He didn't survive the winter.

Numbers can be that strong.

I don't think seven in very lucky.

I'm a Red Sox fan.

Reggie Smith wore # 7

Mickey Mantle's # was 7.

The BoSox lost three 7th games in the World Series.

1949. 1975. 1986.

My lucky number is 8.

At least according to http://www.spiritual-path.com/numerology.htm

And that number belonged to Carl Yastremski.

# 8

I thought I would have to wait until 08-08-2008 for getting married, but I got there before that.

Twice.

And the number 8 had nothing to do with that.

Headhunting Beanballers

On August 18, 1967 the Red Sox's Tony Conigliaro was batting against Angels spitballer Jack Hamilton at Fenway Park.

The first pitch came in high and struck All-Star outfielder in the cheek. He was rushed to the hospital with a linear fracture of the left cheekbone and a dislocated jaw with severe damage to his left retina. HIs batting helmet didn't have an ear flap.

Brushing batters off the plate with inside pitchers has been a long tradition in baseball, however intentionally attempting to hit a batter with a 90 MPH fastball borders on criminal.

According to Wikipedia no major league pitcher for 90 years has hit more opposing batters than 6'10" left hander Randy Johnson, who has clunked 188 batters surpassing other dangerous MLB bean-ballers; Drysdale (154), Nolan Ryan (158) or Roger Clemens (159)

Many times the manager orders a pitcher to take revenge on an opposing batter.

Put him in his place.

According to Wikipedia "On May 1, 1974, Pittsburgh pitcher Dock Ellis, believing that his team needed motivation, decided to hit every batter in the Cincinnati Reds lineup. Ellis hit Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, Dan Driessen, and tried to hit Tony Perez, but ended up walking him, and threw two pitches at Johnny Bench's head before he was removed from the game

Dock Ellis also pitched a no-hitter on LSD in 1970.

Tony Conigliaro made a comeback after his injury, however his career was shortened by this bean balling and it may have even caused his death at an early age.

To read Red Sox shortstop Rico Petrocelli's account of that evening, please go to the following URL

http://www.bostonspastime.com/tonycbeaning.html

Everyone great gets hit in baseball.

It's long overdue to stop it.

High on the Field / Bernie Carbo

When the Pentagon liberalized their policy on gays in the military under 'Don't Tell, Don't Ask', President Clinton was excoriated by the right for homoficating the ranks, while sexual liberationists accused him of a sell-out. Two decades later President Obama favored scrapping his Democratic predecessor's measure for a service-wide acceptance of gay military members. While I applaud the decision, I still hold onto my right to say 'don't ask, don't tell', for in the early 170s I hung out at the 1270 Club on Boston's Boylston Street. I will admit that I danced with other men, but I never developed as lisp or funny walk and if it wasn't for my queer friend Bruce I would have never attended the 2nd game of the 1975 World Series.

Bruce exited from the disco at closing to discover young men thronging to the closed ticket booths of Fenway Park. He joined a queue and bought tickets. Bruce might have been as gay as a bouquet of daffodils, but he loved the Red Sox. Bernie Carbo was his favorite player. Mine was the right fielder Dwight Evans. He was a good friend and I think of him often, most recently when Bernie Carbo admitted to a newspaper reporter that he had been high of a wide assortment of drugs and drink for his famous at bat in the 2nd Greatest Baseball Game ever according to ESPN.

The 6th World Series game of 1975.

His 8th inning at bat ranks up there with Mookie Wilson's 1986 heroics against the Red Sox. Bernie Carbo pinch-hit for the pitcher with the score 6-3 in favor of the visitors. He looked horrible against the Reds' finisher Rawley Eastwick. His miraculous foul on the 2-2 pitch has been described as having "all the athletic grace of a suburbanite raking leaves." The next pitch he homered to center field. Two men on. 3 RBIs. Tie game.

And I said, "Hey, I’m not going to hit. Juan Beníquez, grab a bat, you’re going to hit. Sparky's going to go to the lefthander because Sparky goes by the book." Darrell said, "Well, go up and stand on the on-deck circle." And they introduced me. So I’m still thinking Sparky will come out and take Rawly Eastwick out and go with Will McEnaney. But the umpire says, "C’mon, you’ve been announced, you’re hitting."

So I go into the batter's box. I ain’t ready to hit. Next thing, strike one, strike two, ball one, ball two. Then he threw me a cut fastball, a little slider and I took it right out of Bench's glove — the ball just dribbled out. I step out and I’m thinking, "Aw man, I almost struck out. I was lucky."

I hit the next pitch to center field. I rounded first base and I saw César Gerónimo going back. Rounding second, I knew it was gone and I’m yelling to Pete Rose, "Don’t you wish you were this strong?" And Pete is yelling back, "Ain’t this fun, Bernie? This is what the World Series is about. This is fun."

Johnny Bench said after the game it looked like a Little Leaguer learning how to hit. Pete Rose said it was the worst swing he ever saw. Don Zimmer said he thought it was over. Rico Petrocelli said it looked like a pitcher who hurt his arm, trying to make a comeback as a hitter.[1] No one remembers his at-bat. Carlton Fisk received all the glory, but I reveled in the memory of Carbo swatting down a killing pitch with a dead-down attack on the ball.

"I probably smoked two joints, drank about three or four beers, got to the ballpark, took some speed, took a pain pill, drank a cup of coffee, chewed some tobacco, had a cigarette, and got up to the plate and hit that home run."

A prescription for victory. Bruce and I were on something very similar for the 2nd game. No chewing tobacco or cigarettes. Speed and reefer and beer and ludes.

Yes.

Bernie Carbo is born-again and rues his behavior during his baseball career, but I love his description of playing high.

"I played the out field sometimes where it looked like the stars were falling from the sky."

And that is poetry.

Play Ball 2010

The 2010 Baseball Season was opened by President Obama in Washington. He walked onto the field with a red Senators jacket symbolizing his honorary support of the home team. Half way to the mound the President pulled out a black Sox cap which he proudly wore through the ceremony. The crowd booed the show of his real loyalty to the Chicago White Sox. The right-wing press reported the AP release as if his entrance was greeted by politically-motivated bias against the black-skinned Commander-in-Chief. Maybe a few and their mouthiness was stilled by the fact that most of the players on the field were black and a good number had bats. Obama's pitch was wide, high and left. He descended from the mound with hat in hand and I understood his temerity.

On Sunday my young nephew Fast Eddie and I strolled down to Fulton Mall to search out black-exploitation films. His choice. Not mine. All I know is Melvin Van Pebbles, SHAFT, and BLACKULA. Eddie was much better versed in the 1970s genre.

"Gordon Parks directed SUPERFLY too." Eddie was English/French and 18. His face was younger than his age. He hated the Taliban edicts against young drinkers. "I work as a barman in London."

"Here was you're an illegal." I gave him beer at home. His mother approved of this liberty, although the New York police would have considered my largess a crime. Misdemeanor not a felony. My first bar was Kelly's on Mass Ave. in Boston. It was a black bar. I was 14. The barman only cared if I had the money for a bottle of beer.
Eddie had been refused service and entrance at my local, Franks. He couldn't even drink water in the bar, but Homer from Mississippi gave directions to a Muslim street vendor who sold blaxploitation films.

"I don't see the hot dog stand." Eddie had listened to the directions, while I watched the end of the NCAA semi-finals.

"I don't see." I had bet $20 on Butler with the guard at the diamond exchange. It was a sweet win. Eddie's mother wasn't too happy about our wandering the streets and I went over to a Black Liberation book dealer. He had thousands of CDs at home. Eddie and I planned on meeting him tomorrow. Behind us was a sports store.

"I want to get a Red Sox cap." I was wearing a Red Sox Nation tee-shirt. The cap at home was a cheap purchase from Boston's Chinatown. My cousin Dwight had promised to deliver a better one. That was over a month ago.

"Are you sure?" Eddie was a Londoner, but was well aware of the enmity between the two baseball clubs.

"I've been a Red Sox fan all my life. I've lived in New York most of it. My son's name is Fenway." At one year old Fenway doesn't understand the significance of his name and seeing that his mom and he live in Thailand, he might never learn, but he's a smart boy.

"Up to you." Eddie had learned that expression from a two-week holiday in Thailand as a 13 year-old. He could even say 'Lawh ke kunh'. Probably better than me.

"Red Sox forever." I entered Modell's and immediately saw that the store offered a hundred versions of the famed Yankee cap but only one Red Sox cap.

"Can I help you?" The two sales clerks were young.

"You have any other Red Sox caps?" My eyes scanned the racks without success.

"Only that ugly one there." The young man laughed as if the manager of the store had personally ordered the worst Red Sox cap possible.

"It is ugly." And I was buying it either. I wanted something classic. A simple red B on a midnight blue cap.

"Just like the Red Sox."

"We'll see, sport." Opening Day was also a night game in Fenway. Yankees versus the Bosox. "It's the start of a new season and we got better pitching."

"And we have Derek Jeter." Last year's MVP.

"But not Johnny Damon." The Yanks had traded away the World Series MVP to Detroit. Their management kept no players too long.

"And you still have Big Pappie."

"Yeah, thanks." David Ortiz had a terrible year at the plate as DH. Stopping steroids hadn't helped his swing. I exited from the store without a cap. Eddie said, "They really didn't like you."

"Not me. Red Sox fans." It was war every year. "And I hate the Yankees."

Hopefully one day Fenway would know that. Until then I was glad that the Bosox came back from behind that evening to win 9-7 in the season opener. It was a good sign.

A-ROD A-ROD

In the 2009 World Series Alex Rodriguez threw off the mantle of post-season goat and MVPed his way through the Phillie pitchers. Glory doesn't last long in the modern age. MLB suspended the all-star Yankee infielder some of 2013 and most of 2014 for self-medicating his aging body. Fans spoke about A-Rod, as if he had gone to the Red Sox for less money, however doping means nothing to a doper and I look at the number.

666 home runs.

2001 RBIs

Almost 3000 hits and 322 stolen bases.

don't mistake my saying good for A-Rod. He's a Yankee and as a member of the Red Sox Nation we are not prone to say good for the Bronx Terrorists, but the Yanks are in the pennant race. Every at-bat is a milestone for A-Rod and I'm saying, "A-Rod AROD.", because Sports Illustrated is a shit magazine.

ps the top foto is of Rick Rodriguez who owns the AROD Deli on Mrytle Avenue in Brooklyn.

Another Year of Bosox Sux

Four years ago the Red Sox traded away their stars and finished last in AL East under the manager Bobby Valentine.

That inglorious season I listened to one Red Sox game on the radio driving up to Western Mass with another loyal New Englander. They lost the game against the Angels 7-1 and I took a sports holiday the rest of the summer.

The following year my hometown team shocked Major League baseball by going last to first with their future Hall of Famer David Ortiz hitting over .700 through the World Series.

The Re

Once more I watched no games.

The Red Sox Nation was back on top of the world, however the 2014 team sucked from start to finish, as if the Babe Ruth Curse had risen from the zombie dead and this year the Bosox are so bad that now I can only watch ESPN's FOUR DAYS IN OCTOBER chronicling the Red Sox's 2004 miraculous comeback against the Yankees to feel good about the team of Ted Williams, Jimmie Foxx, Luis Tiant, Bernie Carbo, Dewey Evans, Jim Rice, Oil Can Boyd, Tim Wakefield, Tony C, Roger Moret, Pedro Martinez et al.

The good, the bad, and the forgotten.

All that be said I will remain true to the Red Sox Nation.

My daughter Angie would expect nothing less.

She likes the color red.

The Curse No More

The Boston Red Sox finally killed the Babe Ruth Curse by miraculously coming back from three games down in the 2004 ALCS finals against their dreaded nemesis, the New York Yankees.

Heroic performances by pitcher Curt Shilling and power hitter David Ortiz shall live in the memories of the Red Sox Nation throughout this century.

Hundreds and then thousands and tens of thousands of the faithful descended on Landsdowne Street to celebrate the moment. Boston police saw 90,000 fans and decided that they were the enemy. Officers fired rubber bullets, bean bags, and tear gas into the celebrating crowd, as if they were protestors in Gaza, instead of Boston fans.

One aimed projectile struck Victoria Snelgrove in the head. The college student died at the hands of the police. The officer was given paid leave.

The Commissioner of the Boston Police, O'Toole called the celebrants 'punks' and condoned her officers' attack on the unarmed public. Douglas K. Stern defended the Boston PD. He was rewarded with a position at a prestigious law firm defending white collar crime.

A true scumbag deserving of public shunning.

We do not forget and Trot Nixon, Red Sox outfielder said the day after,"I would trade back the win in Game 7 to have her back."

Fuck the Pigs.

I'm cool with the Yankees and Babe Ruth,

They ain't killers.

My Friend Steve

A young man named Brian is sailing solo around the world. A typhoon catches him in the open waters of the Pacific. His sloop is battered by giant waves. There is no time for an SOS.

Brian abandons his sinking boat and prays for his life, as the heavy seas savage his life raft. Finally he is washed overboard. Water fills his lung. Death seems certain, only he wakes on the soft sands of a deserted island.

Water, coconuts, fish, and fruit provide sustenance.

A week and month passes with the rising and setting of the sun. No jets overhead, no ships on the horizon, no Man Friday and Brian resigns himself to solitude.

A year later an epic typhoon savages the island.

The next morning Brian sees a life raft on the reef. Shark fins break the surface. He swims across the lagoon to discover a woman. Not just any woman, but Cindy Crawford the supermodel. Brian drags the raft through the tumult of the surf and nurses the famous beauty to health. Little by little she regains her strength. After a month she thanks Brian for saving her life.

"If there's anything I can do let me know. Anything."

Brian thinks about it for a second and says, "No, I did what any human would do for another human."

A week becomes a month. Cindy and Brian are young. Sex is in the air. Brian is handsome. Cindy is a dream come true. Finally one night they make love.

Paradise. Eden. Utopia.

In the morning they walk the beach hand in hand.

"You remember saying that you would do anything?" Brian asks Cindy with an almost perverse tone.

"Yes." Cindy had been waiting for this moment for months. All men were alike.

"Did you mean that?"

"Yes." Cindy was expecting the worse, but Brian had saved her life and she said, "Anything."

Brian pulls out a Red Sox baseball cap and says, "Could you wear this and let me call you Steve? He was my best friend."

"Sure." This was nothing and Cindy put the cap on her head. "Happy?"

"I couldn't be happier." Brian shuts his eyes and says, "Steve, you will never believe who I'm fucking."

Bosox Undefeated

Yesterday the Red Sox beat the Yankees 8-2. We are undefeated and as any Red Sox fan knows 1st place is always good. Especially at the expense of the NY Douchebags.

THE NAME IS FENWAY by Peter Nolan Smith

I was born in Boston. My childhood, teenage years, and college career were spent within the confines of New England. My heart belonged to the Celtics and Red Sox and these sports allegiances were never challenged by my decades of living in New York or anywhere else in the world.

When the Red Sox came back to defeat the Yankees in 2004, I was sitting in a bar in Thailand, cheering on my team on the other side of the world. The other farangs at the bar were finishing off a night of go-go bars. They tried to change the channel. I was sober and they were drunk. I got my way and celebrated the ending of the Curse of the Bambino by buying everyone at the bar a drink. After my explanation of the history of the red Sox, we toasted the long-awaited victory. Few of them cared, although the Brits understood the pain, because England hasn't won anything in soccer since 1960.

Four years later my Thai wife Mam announced that she was pregnant with a boy and I consulted my overseas friends for a name. Jesse James Smith sounded good, until someone said that the Missouri outlaw had owned slaves. Malcolm X Smith was a little too heavy a name to carry through his life. My favorite runner as a teenager had been Tommie Smith. He had raised his fist on the medal podium at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City, but Tommie Smith Smith was too much Smith.

"What about Fenway?" suggested Shannon Greer. He's a New York fan. We are good friends.

"Fenway Smith." I liked it and googled Fenway Smith. None showed up on the search for Smith, Jones, Williams, Lee, Sanchez, Miller, or Martin. I explained the origins of the name to Mam.

"Can not name your son Fenway Park Smith."

"Why not?"

"Everyone think he Korean not Thai with name Park."

She was right and we have a loving son Fenway.

His middle name is Superstar.

I had to leave Thailand four years ago.

Now I travel back and forth every 3-4 months. Fenway is always in my mind as are the rest of my children; Fluke, Noi, and Angie. My younger sister disapproved of naming my son 'Fenway'.

She's a lawyer. They have strong opinions.

"You'll see why it's stupid."

She's has a funny way of being right, but Fenway has many names; Wey-wey, One-way, and always Superstar.

Now I live in Brooklyn. It's more Mets territory than Yankee land. My friends at Frank's Lounge appreciate the name and on many occasions I proudly tell people, "My son's name is Fenway."

I'm still a Red Sox fan, even if they sucked this season under fucking Bobby V and collapsed like the World Trade Towers last September.

Last week I bought a Red Sox t-shirt for Fenway.

back to my brownstone and saw a young man with a small dog. He was wearing a Red Sox cap. We spoke about our faith and I asked him, "What's your dog's name?"

"Fenway."

I didn't tell him about my son, but several days later I ran into another young Red Sox fan with a dog. Once again the mutt's name was Fenway and I understood the reason that parents don't name their kids 'Fenway' was that young men name their dogs after the Bosox park.

But I'm not a young man.

My father took me to see the KC As at Fenway in 1961. I sat on the steps of the 3rd base line for the 1975 World Series. 2004 I was halfway around the world and I'm Red Sox fan to the core and my son is Fenway Superstar Smith.

One day I'll take him to the temple and that is written in the stars.

See Yah Bobby

Last September's collapse by my beloved Boston Red Sox was heart-wrenching, but as soon as the upper management signed ex-Mets manager Bobby Valentine to lead the 2012 season, I took my first sabbatical from baseball in my sixty years of life. While Bobby Valentine hadn't played or coached the 1986 Mets team, Bobby V was still infected with Mets plague. He's the enemy same as any scum from the Yankees or St. Louis Cardinals or Cincinnati Reds or the fucking Tampa Bay Rays. Yesterday upper management announced that Bobby V was fired at the Brookline home of team president Larry Lucchino. Principal owner John Henry, chairman Tom Werner, and general manager Ben Cherington also attended. “I informed him that we were making a change, and then we had a rather long and candid conversation about how the year went. He offered some good, constructive advice, criticism on some areas that we’ll look at. He handled it with a lot of maturity and class.” Bobby Valentine told the Globe, “I wasn’t run out of town. It was quite cordial.” As a loyal Red Sox fan I can say in all honesty, "Fuck you Bobby V. You suck." The Red Sox would have been better off to have called the season and shown replays of the 2004 Championship season rather than submitting the Nation to this year of shame. Oh, yeah, they suck too. And the high paid babies on the team. I hope there's a strike next year, so none of them get paid a cent. Grudge from an old git. You betcha.

Love-Hate Boston Sports Teams

FROM MY NIECE Boston sports teams are like men in relationships: The Patriots are like the new boyfriend that you really like - he's awesome but almost too good to be true, so you worry. The Bruins are like the guy that you just casually dated and you don't really care about him, he's just something to do. The Celtics are like the relationship that was great at one time but has lost its spark and you always kinda look back and think about how great it was. And the Red Sox are the hardcore abusive husband who just absolutely beats the crap out of you, but day after day you always go back to him cause you always believe that tomorrow will be different and you just love him too much.

Women Love the Red Sox