The crowds are huge but we push our way through, pass the hawkers (“Buying tickets? Selling tickets?) and the guys with the scorecards (“Keep track of all the action!”) and right up to the entrance. I look at the kids. Gee, they’re excited. Not that you can blame them. Sure, they’ve watched night after night on TV and read the results in the papers, but seeing it live is so different. You’re there, with all of your heroes right in front of you. Billy’s got a Akaka hat and Cindy is wearing a big T-shirt emblazoned with Cantwell. They’re nearly jumping up and down with anticipation and I hand them each a ticket.
“A couple of young visitors today,” says the ticket taker, a smile on his face and his cap perched jauntily on his head, a shock of gray hair just visible underneath. “Welcome.” He bends over bit, so he’s looking directly at the two of them. “I think you’re going to be seeing a good one today,” he tells them. He pulls me aside. “You go right up the stairs over here,” he says to me. “Tell Joe up there that Bobby sent you. We’ll make sure they get a good view.”
“Thanks,” I say, pulling a $5 bill out of my pocket and discreetly handing it to him.
“No, no,” he says, waving off my gift. “It’s my pleasure.”
Hand in hand, we run over to the stairs he showed us and excitedly take them up, two at a time. Bobby’s words prove good. Joe takes us right down to the front – second row! – and ushers us in. We’re early – just as the kids hoped – and we get to see some of the pre-show activity. Workers mill around, moving stuff and talking to each other. There’s an air of anticipation and then we hear bells ringing and the players file in. A gavel cracks down, a chaplain appears and we all rise. The United States Senate is now in session.
Search
Contact
- Click to be added to the mailing list
Emailed each time a new column appears. - Email Me
Recent Posts
- Is the ‘birth dearth’ a crisis for Boston schools?
- Wu’s plan to save Boston: Make it more expensive
- Let’s face it: We Americans want our own royals
- The deadly motorcycle accident. And the other vehicle.
- Texts between Boston politicians shouldn’t be public record
- What if Ricardo Arroyo wins?
- Your next job might be in the metaverse
- High prices at the pump hurt. Here’s why they should be even higher.
- I was convinced I didn’t have Lyme disease. But guess what?
- What I’m thankful for: The turkey shortage
« August 2006 | Main | October 2006 »
September 22, 2006
Healey Attack Ad
“Deval is right at home. Deval, Deval himself, is right in the house. And Deval came here yesterday. Yesterday Deval came here. Right here. And it smells of sulfur still today.”
-- Kerry Healey
September 21, 2006
September 08, 2006
September 07, 2006
September 01, 2006
Hurricane Concerns
Al Gore and I are on the phone and he brings up Ernesto. “It’s a big problem,” he says and I find myself forced to agree.
Last year we were in our glory. Twenty-seven official storms! It was a modern record. There were so many that the National Hurricane Center ran out of names and had to use Greek letters for the last six.
“Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, Epsilon, and Zeta,” he recites. “And don’t forget the 28th that no one ever named.”
“Man, you are good,” I tell him.
“Hey, I’m just warming up,” he says and I give a big laugh.
“Funny one, Al.” Al likes the flattery. Now that he’s a movie star and Tipper’s photos are selling, they’re A-list once again. It never hurts to suck up.
2005 really had been a good year. There was Katrina, of course, but three other Category 5s as well. Three of the top ten worst storms ever were in 2005. Hurricanes -- and global warming -- became the news stories of the year and Inconvenient Truth made Al the issue’s poster boy. And 2006 was started off well too -- forecasters warned in May that it could be just as bad. Needless to say, we were psyched.
And then along comes Ernesto. Everyone’s all excited. We’re thinking that Florida gets wiped out and -- boom -- there’s our swing state for 2008, right in Al’s pocket, when, suddenly, all we’ve got is a tropical depression and a few leaky roofs. “I thought for sure this would be the big one,” I say. “What a disappointment.”
“We’ve had nothing so far,” I continue. “Time is running cover stories about the birth of the universe, for God’s sake. The latest prediction is maybe five storms in all. Al, if we’re not careful, you’ll be off the radar.”
“Don’t give up yet,” Al says. “We’re right in the midst of the Katrina anniversary and we’ve still got remembrances of Stan, Rita and Wilma yet to go. Plus, the season isn’t over. There’re three more months.”
That’s Al for you. Even when things look the bleakest, he’ll always find a bright side.
“Plus,” he adds, “There’s always Tipper’s Parents Music Resource Center. Did you see the MTV awards the other night? I was there. Now that stuff really is an outrage.”
Sports Talk
Bernard calls me and wants to know if we can have lunch.
“Sure,” I say, “Separately or together?” He says he’ll pick up the tab, so I guess that means it's together, and as I’m chowing down on a chicken club – literally, I think, as I break a tooth – he asks me about the DH.
“That was all you, huh?”
“Sure was.”
“And how’s it working out?”
“Just as I figured. The American League agreed to it; the National League didn’t. Attendance is up, the game is revitalized and three decades later, the AL is unbeatable while the NL teams are looking like double-As in the Carolinas.”
“You did alright too, I hear. Something about two percent of every DH’er.”
I put down the sandwich, pretty sure that somewhere in the layers of tomato, bread and chicken there’s a missing tooth. “You know I can’t talk about that.”
“Fine,” he says. “That’s not why I’m here anyway.”
“I know,” I say. I actually didn’t, but it sounds like something that should be said.
“I’m working for FIFA,” he says.
“Barney?” I ask, an image of Ron Howard flashing in my brain.
“Soccer,” he says.
“I’ve heard of it. World loves it. Americans hate it. I’ve heard they score goals. Personally, I’ve never seen it.”
“That’s why I’m here. You saved baseball. Now we need you to save us.”
I sit there for a few moments. Yeah, I saved baseball. Dull game, cranky fans. I remembered when the most fun to be had at a ballpark was whacking around the blow-up dolls. It still annoys me when they do the wave.
Of course, that wasn’t all I've done. I suggested wine along with the host to the Vatican. That helped bring them back to the churches, although I still never understood why they’d been there in the first place. And, of course, then there was ultimate fighting. Imagine – fighting where you actually hurt someone. You’d have thought the WBA would have come up with that on their own. But no…
I look up from my reverie. Barney is eyeing me, a worried look on his face.
“You think we’re hopeless, don’t you.”
“Well, I saw some of the World Cup. Not because I was interested, mind you. Professional curiosity. Ho-hum.”
“But millions watched.”
“Yeah, I saw your commercials. Poor kids kicking around a ball on some godforsaken street. That’s great. Name me an advertiser who sells to poor kids. Advertisers want people who buy cars, go on vacations, use pharmaceuticals. You now what that spells? A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N-S. And they ain’t watching.”
“I know, I know,” he says. “That’s why we’re here.” He takes out a pad of paper and a pen.
“Where to start?” I ask. “You need a clock that stops, quarters, and time-outs. If there’s no room for commercials and bathroom breaks, then advertisers and viewers won’t be interested.” I watch as he scribbles away.
“You need more scoring," I continue. “And please, no more of these freebie shots on goal. That penalty shootout between Italy and Germany was an embarrassment. You may as well have not played the entire game.” I'm on a roll. “Get rid of offsides. The more guys you have upfield, the more likely you’ll get some good shots on goal. Plus, you need hitting.”
“Hitting?”
“Sure, let the players take each other out. Right now, you’ve got referees running around trying to stop interference. You should be encouraging it.”
“Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”
“Sure. They'll need protection. Pads, helmets. By doing that, the action on field should get even more dramatic.”
“Wait, wait,” he sits back in his seat. “This is starting to sound just like American football.”
“It’s something to aspire to,” I say.
“But the beauty, the elegance of the game has always been in its footwork. You’re turning it into some contest between brutes. What’s next? An offensive line?”
“Good idea,” I say. “Look, Bernard. You reminde me of some of the owners when I suggested the DH. All they talked about was how baseball was like chess and I was going to ruin it. Meanwhile, all of their fans were turning the channel to preseason NFL games. You’ve got to get over this purity thing. It's all about marketing.”
He puts down his notepad. “Well maybe,” he says in a voice that tells me he won’t. We walk out of the restaurant together and part company at the entrance.
“Good luck,” I say. Europeans. Sheesh.