BOSOXBLOG

Seperating from Stanley

My aunt emailed me today. She wanted to know what was wrong with her blog update. Could it possibly I hadn’t written a word since June 15^th? After a Stanley Cup Victory? It is true. I hadn’t written about the win yet. I still have yet to fully absorb it. Today my friend and I watched a NESN hockey encore at our hockey dive. We are still living in the season.

How could I possibly have forgotten to write about the Fenway father’s day game? Where I shed a few tears watching the Bruins throw out the first pitch. The woman beside me whispered, “Let it all out, I cried myself in 1970.”

How could I forget to write about the morning message, that simply said BRUINS the day after the win? It is simply. I write it and it’s making it past tense.

Last night at the game with my father, I shifted in my seat more than usual. No complaints about eight runs in the first inning. But an hour long first inning? It’s a whole different thing than playoff hockey.

So when Papi rushed the mound, I mistook the crowd for chanting “HOCKEY”. Not PAPI. I honestly believe the crowd was cheering for something in a baseball game reminiscent of hockey.

I’m still coming down of the playoff win. I’m still searching Boston bars for the cup. And I’ve still not admitted to the importance of baseball games. Because as soon as baseball becomes important, it’s like giving up that much of hockey.

Montage through Morning Messages

  

All year I have been writing my morning messages about sports.  We had a unit on rewriting fairytales. So I wrote my fairytale about the three little teachers and the Big Bad Bruins.

Game Seven Terrors

Woke up this morning terrified. We lost game seven. Luongo finally cleaned it up. I turned my phone alarm off and rolled back in bed. Surely, my boss would understand if I was a little bit late. After all, one of the core values of our school is compassion. As I heard the swift movements of my housemates getting ready to work, I realized it must have been a dream.  No one can move that fast after such a catastrophic end to hockey season. Game seven is yet to happen.

Quickly, I threw on my black and gold (more yellow in actuality), brushed my teeth, and ran out the door. I put on 98.5 hoping the rest of the world would be as jazzed as myself.

Lebron, Lebron, Lebron. Really? I’m up with Game Seven Terrors, and the people of Boston are talking about Lebron? Yawn! I need to hear hockey. I need someone to calm me down or pump me up. But I don not need my mind filled up with Lebron trash. Then it happens.

The montage of the whole Bruins season. Start to finish. The music as dramatic as it was in my dream, but a bit more uplifting. They have audio clips of the Sequin trade, the seventh game victory over the Habs, Horton’s hit, Bobby Orr holding a number 18 flag, saves from Thomas, Luogongo being taken out, and fans chanting “WE WANT A CUP!”.

Before I know it I have to take my fogged over sunglasses off. I am in tears. I look to my right at the traffic light and see a bus full of students from my school. And I realize no stories, no communication tips, nothing can teach them the importance of a Game Seven. Especially, after thirty-nine empty years.

 

The Big Bad Bruins Bug

The Bruins virus is spreading. The Bruins epidemic has affected almost all in Boston it seems. Coming into my house yesterday I realized all of my housemates were dressed from toe to head in black and gold.  Teachers, who used to ask “who” when I mentioned a Bruin, are now writing tales from the games in their morning messages. My students are now using names like Ricky O’Ree and Bobby Orr with confidence.  Last night I had a table of over ten watching the Bruins with me. It used to just be me, and one other friend. But like I said, the Bruins epidemic is spreading. And if it hasn’t hit you, wait for it. Think about the last time the Red Sox and Yankees have been playing each other, and no one spoke of it. Not out of shame or fear, just because they didn’t care much. More important things to do.

 People were saying this Bruins team was similar to the 2004 Red Sox team, in a desperate attempt to allow themselves to feel still focused on baseball in this hockey fueled time. But that’s not what it looks like to me. The Bruins don’t look like idiots. They look like the Big Bad Bruins again. The Bruins remind me of the Bruins in 1970. Well, I wasn’t alive, but they are how I imagine the 1970 team to be. There was a quick flash on the TV screen. WIN IT FOR HORTON. With Bobby Orr holding up a Horton flag, it was impossible to not think about the statue of him in front of the Garden. To think of the Big Bad Bruins trying with all of their might to win it for Green. So if you haven’t caught the Bruins Bug, catch it quick, it’s far from idiotic. They build statues about these moments, so people like me can look at the statue and pretend to have known what it felt like to be alive for it. I’m done dreaming of sheep, I’m dreaming of cups.

 

Black and Gold Sky

“Stay at home. Under no circumstances leave your house.”

            My father is usually sane about these sorts of things. But I suppose he still is my father.

            “At the very least, turn on the TV before you make a decision.”

            On the TV I see the storm watch. Tornado warning until 5:45 in Middlesex County. I give in and tell him I will not leave my house until after 5:45. Until the warning is changed up until 8:30. Why doesn’t my father trust I will stay indoors until 8:30PM on a school night? On a night weathermen are warning us not to trek outside into the oncoming apocalypse?

            It’s simple. He knows I don’t have cable. And he knows it’s the first game of the Stanley Cup Finals. Last time the Bruins were in this spot, he could have simply sent me to my room if I wasn’t listening. But now I am a grown up. Not really an adult, but I have the responsibilities of a grown person. And the choice.

            My roommate listens to my think aloud as we watch the TV go black and hear the storm alarm going off.

            “Am I crazy to go or not to go? I will look like an idiot if I get stuck in a tornado. And it will piss off my dad. But if it doesn’t even rain and I’m not watching the game, I’ll feel like a fool. Which is more crazy?”

            She tells me exactly what I do not want to hear.

            “Well, they are telling people to stay inside on the news.”

            “Okay, I’ll wear my raincoat.”

The streets are empty and the sky is black and gold. Not a drop of rain.

 

 

Bartender Kills the Radio

 

            I walk to the back of the back, eerily quiet for a big sports night in Boston. I am one of the last to arrive. Most others came from work, and didn’t have their fathers trying to guilt them into being responsible. We have a big booth for a friend’s birthday. The mussels are already devoured; the spinach and artichoke dip half gone. And only one of them is in a hockey jersey. I situate myself the best I can under the circumstances. An hour before the game. And I have no desire to be social with people who clearly don’t know what is important.

            After a half hour of fidgeting and picking at nachos, I force a friend to switch places. I tell him I need to sit on the outside, so I can stand at any given moment. Wave my hands in the air at any moment. Curse without scarring a neighbor’s ear during the power play. He switches, out of fear. And I stand for the first two minutes.

            In these two minutes a man tells me his drink order. Because obviously any woman standing in a jersey is a waitress. First two minutes no goal. I sit down. Slightly more relaxed. I shift in my seat the whole first period.

            At intermission the storm finally begins. The alarms are going off on Fenway. And worse yet. Satellite is gone. My fear realized. This storm could prevent me from watching game one. And for no good reason, for a second I blame my father.

            Immediately, everyone with a smart phone has it out on the table. I know the intermission probably hasn’t ended, but I need to know for sure. Many phones aren’t working.

            Our waitress informs us the game may take awhile to get back on. I think she might replace all of our glasses with plastic ones. I almost tell her this.

            We begin chanting RADIO! And finally they turn on the radio, which is too muffled to make anything out.

            A bartender takes the microphone and announces, “So…the Bruins just scored.”

            Everyone in the bar is one their feet celebrating. We hug each other. Congratulate each other for braving the storm. Because this is worth it. We look at the lightening over Fenway, and think we are taking in something historic. And we text everyone else we know. Everyone else who is sitting anxiously in a dark bar with a muffled radio. And I imagine those bars burst out into the same excitement.

            But nobody’s smart phone updates the new score. And then I receive a text from my father CAN’T SCORE ON A 5-3!

            The RADIO chants turn to LIAR. And finally the game returns. One TV at a time. And one by one, we realize it remains 0-0. The lightening outside looks threatening, a few minutes ago it was inspiring.

            And in the last twenty seconds we lose. Fans who braved the storm. Fans who were deceived. And none of us our thinking about the state of our homes or the roads. We are still looking to the sky, to make sure it’s a shade of black and gold.

 

On being a Pink Hat....

I take obvious pride in being a real sports fan. I take not as much pride in the fact that I am also a ridiculous sports fan. Driving home from work on Friday listening to sports radio, they were talking about how Bruins fans that feared a repeat of last year, just thought the Bruins were a bad team. Mathematically, it was imspossible. But I don’t watch sports because of math equations. I am not working out probabilities in my head. I leave it all to love and luck. When it comes to sports, I throw my whole heart in, before asking those important questions. The beauty of sports is anything can happen. And, if it doesn’t there is always next season. Life doesn’t guarantee you a next season in quite the same way.

In my ridiculousness I went near the Garden to watch the game in all black and yellow. Yellow tights. Black boots. Black skirt. Jersey. Bruins hoodie. My lucky blinged out Bruins earrings my aunt made me in case I ever have to go to a wedding during playoffs again. So of course, when the interviewer from NESN.com saw me, she just had to interview me. And I of course, I didn’t make the wise choice of declining the interview.

Her: Do you mind if we interview you for NESN.com.

Me: Yeah, sure

Her: Okay, first let me start off, by asking where you bought your boots! Where do you even find black and gold cowboy boots?

Me: Don’t remember got them years ago.

Actually, got them in a botique on Newbury Street, and there are white and black. Now I sort of want black and gold ones though.

Her: Okay, so I’m going to ask you a few questions. When was the last time the Bruins won the Stanley Cup?

Me: I don’t know before I was born.

I know it was 39 years ago, I think I know this, but math just feels tiring after a day of teaching it.

Her: Well, I wasn’t born then either, but I know! 1972.

Of course you know. You have a script.

Me: Of Course!

Her: Who was president that year?

Me: I don’t know. I’m sort of focused on the game.

Her: Okay, then here’s a hockey question. Who was MVP the year they won the Cup.

Definitely Bobby Orr. But what if I am wrong?

Me: I don’t know.

Her: You do know, there is a statue of him.

I am tempted to say Bill Russell.

Me: Bobby Orr.

Her: Who did they play?

Me: I don’t know.

Her: The Rangers. Do you think they will do it this year?

Me: I feel really confident, Thomas is healthy. We look good, but I am far too suspicious to say more than this.

Her: I hope they do! Thank you for your time!

Saturday I wake up and go to the library. I take out 100 Things Bruins Fans Should Know and Do Before they Die. It is Sunday and I am still on number one. Bobby Orr. The problem with knowing about sports history, is it is happening as we speak. Imagine if I had read that rather than seeing Rondo play one handed, making Achilles look like a wuss. Might have to wait till summer to brush up on my Bruins history. Any book suggestions?

 

Opening Minds on Opening Day

People always talk about how the kids are the future. Education is so important, because in due time, the kids will be in charge. This can be an overwhelming feeling as an educator. There is a lot of pressure to make sure the kids are quickly becoming good citizens, not just the pressure of having them score proficient in MCAS.

The pressure becomes even more to bear when all of your kids are Yankees fans. I do my best as an educator to remedy this epidemic among urban youth. My morning message was all about Fenway and opening day. I explained what it meant. I explained how superior Fenway is to other ballparks. I explained our class was similar to Fenway in that right.

At morning meeting, we greeted each other with Happy Opening Day. One girl asked what this meant. I asked her if she had read the morning message I worked on tirelessly. My students were excited to tell me what big fans of the Yankees they were.

They were even more excited during Drop Everything And Read. I told them I needed just ten minutes of silence to read the sports page. They told me papers are for old people.

For math I had them compare and order decimals by comparing batters E.R.A.s. I told them I choose that question because the word average was a distracter. But really I just couldn’t think of anything but baseball.

For writing we took a trip to the playground. Writing started at two. I told them to look at the sky and write about it, because the sky above Fenway looked the same. They told me the Yankees were going to win, and I asked them who was pitching. I found the one outside outlet and plugged in my clock radio. They filled in their sports journalism worksheets. They had to have the Who, What, Where, and When. They needed to write down at least six interesting words the broadcasters used. They had to visualize what it must look like at the Park. And write about all of the sounds they heard. Three facts. And a hook. My principal came outside to see twenty students crowded around my old clock radio, writing vigorously against the concrete. And he didn’t say a word about MCAS prep.

The safety officer came out to see what all the commotion was. In his Yankees hat as always. I told him he was a bandwagon fan. His response, No, I grow up in Southie, but I’m not a bandwagon fan. I just like winners. I have been a Yankees fan since 1980.

Maybe for my next vocabulary lesson, I will explain bandwagon. 

 

Trading Spaces

 

There was a buzz about Boston yesterday. Grocery stores ran out of chips. Strangers were talking in bars. I sat at a bar watching football, waiting to go home and put on my jersey, waiting to get to my friends house with the big TV, to watch the real thing. We were buzzing about a win. But we were not all so optimistic. Sports Illustrated had Wilfork on the cover, they picked the Pats for the Superbowl win. But who thought a team with a losing record could beat the defending Superbowl champs of last year? If you did, congrats, and I certainly hope you put money on the Seahawks last week.

With my Pats jersey on, I was ready to go. No snuggie, but I have never worn it for a playoff game, so it wasn’t worth the risk. Every Sunday is more or less the same. About ten of the same people, at the same house, fighting about the same things. Nine Pats fans, and one very quiet Jets fan. Or so we thought.

One or two things had changed for us. Our hosts had bought a bigger TV, and had rearranged the furniture for my birthday party the night before. We sat in different seats, no one feeling committed to superstitions, as it was only the Jets.

Quickly the game became reminiscent of our Drew Bledsoe days. Brady had time, to do nothing. It wasn’t that the Jets looked particularly fantastic, more that we looked Pathetic. It was if the Pats had been enjoying my birthday festivities the night before as well.

Half joking, no, quite serious, I commented on the fact we had switched seats. We were all in different places, as were the Patriots. No one responded, paralyzed with fear and pizza.

The half came and went. And we still looked bad. Something had to change. My father texted me, believe in Brady. But I didn’t believe in Brady. Or my father. Or Belichick, the reliable men of my life, somehow lost in the Jets defense.

A friend finally took matters into his own hands,

“Okay, let’s move the furniture back.”

And immediately we all moved the furniture to where it had stood in the last Patriots victory. I had no idea I could lift a couch. Our strength and speed was dazzling, and we had moved all of the furniture before the next play began. A play that lead to the first Patriots TD. We had done it. We sat far more comfortable in out normal seats, on our usual couches. Feeling we had cosmically changed the game by changing couches.

But despite our interior design, Brady still looked like Bledsoe. Jerseys were thrown. A Jet’s fan spoke up. And finally, just now, a dear friend was able to talk me out of my Pats jersey, and back into near sanity. And I think to myself, if my friend, a Raiders fan, is still watching football every season, I might make it after all.

 

Don't ask, Don't tell

Like many of the teachers at my school, I do not have much time for sports.  We mostly communicate about sports through the morning messages for “students” outside of our classrooms. Sometimes, I find, we even get a bit competitive. Who can create a better word problem out of the Celtics game. Who can use the Patriots game as teambuilding message, and so on.

The only time I really have for sports (guilt-free) is listening to my radio on my daily commute. My commute is about 2 hours, which would be enough time to gain some valuable sports knowledge, unfortunately it often seems this doesn’t exist from the sound of rambling idiots on the airwaves.

Yesterday, morning, however, I learned something from sports radio. They read aloud Steve Buckley’s article from the Herald. A Boston sports guy outs himself. On the radio one thing I heard a lot of, was who cares. And that sort of stuff doesn’t matter anymore. People don’t discriminate like that anymore.

My first reaction was, well, I guess this is Massachusetts. We are more opened to that than other states. But then I thought about it more. Yesterday instead of writing I had to do a whole class lesson on why students should not call each other lesbians, as well, as many other derogatory words. Being gay is definitely not something people don’t care about. My sister is engaged to a woman, and somehow, I felt I couldn’t say this to my class. I knew it would cause scandal for some of them. They are ten years old. They are not inventing homophobia; they are getting it from somewhere. And this is Massachusetts.

It’s sort of like when people don’t even notice race. It just isn’t true. Of course you notice a person’s race. It is the differences, after all, that make us so interesting. The whole “not caring” thing, to me feels like an excuse to not have to talk about it. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

 For a radio show that talks a whole lot, suddenly, they stopped talking. 

 

Fly on the Fantasy Wall

 

The past recent weeks of baseball have brought me to a dark place. I ventured to a place I told myself I would never go.

 

Fantasy football. I have never understood fantasy sports. To me, sports are already fantasy. Superhumans who make superbucks to entertain the public. I have enough to follow already with all of my Boston teams, created a jumbled mix had no appeal.

 

But I never understand things until I do them. When I lived in Ireland I signed up to play rugby, because I knew the sport would only make sense when I played it. Fantasy sports are far less tempting than a match of rugby, but last Sunday I was ready for football season.

 

The rules were strict. No girls. When I asked if men would be allowed, the rules were bent enough to make room for me in the tree house.

 

At first it was all the horrificness I imagined. Men in their thirties had found a socially acceptable way to play dungeons and dragons while drinking a beer. All of them had laptops. Occasaionally a verbal comment was made, but mostly all socializing was done through the chat they had going on the draft.

 

One of the few verbal comments made was, “this is more fun than I’ve had since losing my virginity.”

 

It was everything I had anticipated. But once I looked beyond the boys club, I saw the allure. There in front of me was a spreadsheet of all of the fantasy men in football. The fantasy of the already fantasy reality of professional sports. I could look at numbers and personalities and create my own team, had I been signed up in time. I could already taste the addiction. I could have a team composed of my two favorite teams, the Pats and Bengals. The world could once again be beautiful.

 

When I mentioned the Bengals, one of them muttered, not looking away from their laptop, “you like the Bangles?” and as quickly as the allure came it was gone. I turned the TV on to what I hoped would be a loss for the Yankees.