Banff....f: July 2011

Yes, I added an extra "f" because Banff...f is "effing" fenomenal! The pictures don't do it justice, believe me.

The town of Banff...f is located in the middle of Banff...f National Park in Alberta, Canada. It's about a ninety minute drive from Calgary. Kate and I spent a week there recently and were blown away by the beauty of the place, the abundant wildlife, the friendliness of the locals, and the frightening cost of a nice lunch.

Ada and I had visited Banff...f back in the late '80's in the dead of winter. We were heavy into cross-country skiing in those days and had read about the famous Banff...f Springs Hotel and the wonderful x-country skiing in the area. Actually, given the way we approached this sport, we should have called it Cross-Country Falling. Anyway, it was a wonderful trip and the skiing was remarkable despite temperatures that stayed right around 0 (but it was a dry heat!). I remember that our room at the venerable Banff Springs Hotel was one of the only rooms without a view, so we had that going for us. I also remember that on one of our drives along the scenic Bow Valley Parkway, a rarely seen lynx slunk by our car during a rest stop. I'd show you a picture of it, but I got so excited I fumbled with the camera and got about 100 out-of-focus shots of what might have been some sort of mammal or perhaps an odd looking bush. I've always wondered what Banff...f looked like in the summer, so this was an opportunity to scratch that particular itch.



We were delighted to discover that flying from the Destin area to Calgary was not too difficult. Continental took us from Ft. Walton Regional Airport to Houston and then non-stop to Calgary. A rented Ford Fusion took us the rest of the way to the park and our accomodations: a week's timeshare at the Banff...f Rocky Mountain Resort. I swapped a week on the Cape in November for a week in Banff...f in July. Boy, did someone get screwed!

We took several terrific excursions during our week, but the Bow Valley Parkway and the Icefields Parkway were absolutely magnificent. The Bow Valley Parkway connects Banff...f with Lake Louise. It provides a slow, scenic 35-mile alternative to the high speed Trans Canada Highway. On any given day lucky motorists will see elk, bighorn sheep, wolves, bear, moose, or busloads of people from Japan. We rode this beautiful strand almost every day and saw everything except moose. One day we spied a group of bighorn sheep grazing by the roadside. After taking a bunch of mediocre pictures, we moved on down the road and saw a large, black wolf slinking in the direction of the sheep.

"This oughtta be good," I said to Kate.

"Maybe we should warn the sheep," Kate suggested.

"I don't speak bighorn," I said sheepishly. (sorry)

At any rate, as the wolf got closer, we watched intently. One of the sheep scented the wolf and immediately bounded away down a steep nearby slope. We never saw what happened to the other sheep, but I guess Nature has a way of evening things out for all concerned.

We were enthralled by the beauty and the possibilities of the Bow Valley Parkway and traveled all or part of it each day. Further down the line lay the Icefields Parkway, which begins just past Lake Louise and continues for 150 miles toward Jasper. While it is harder to view wildlife because of the higher speeds allowed on this road, the natural beauty of the lakes, glaciers, and mountains make it worth the effort. We tried to ride this parkway on an "iffy" day with rain and temperatures in the 40's. We had rented a neat GPS-activated narration gizmo that plugged into the car's cigarette lighter. It was like having a very well informed, (almost too well informed if you get my drift) local expert in the car with us. As the narrator commented on this peak or that glacier, Kate and I tried desperately to see even a glimpse of what he was going on about. Alas, the fog and low sky rendered all of the natural wonders invisible. We were determined to get back to that drive and a couple of days later, the weather was as sparkling clear as a crisp New England September afternoon. We had returned the GPS gizmo, so we had to make up our own narration.

It went something like this:

"On your left you will see yet another 12,000 foot peak. You've been looking at these peaks for almost a week now so I don't know what more I can say about them except that some people claim this peak resembles a group of ladies playing Mahjong while other people look at this peak and see a group of really big rocks which eventually come to a point. Personally, I don't want to get involved."

After a wonderful week of viewing majestic peaks, lakes so blue you could only describe them as "really, really blue lakes," elk and bighorn sheep up the yin yang, and old railroad hotels and chateaux that evoke memories of old railroad hotels and chateaux, Kate and I were anxious to get back to sea level where the temperature is in Farenheit, the dollar is worth what it's worth, and speed limits never read "100".

Ain't life grand? eh?
J

Coco's World: July 2011

Kate's ridiculously cute, impossibly neurotic Shi Tzu is named Coco. Actually, it's Cocohoney. Kate had named her Honey and her grandson Jack added Coco because he felt she looked like Coco-puffs cereal. At various times Coco will respond to these two names as well as Rosie, and Rose Petal. When I say "respond", I mean the dog might blithely look over her shoulder at you as she chooses to ignore your request.

Lassie she ain't.

Coco is completely self-aware. She knows the following about herself: she is cute; she will be fed like clockwork no matter how stubborn she may have acted that day; she is superior to all of the creatures she sees as she gazes out her window (pictured above), including joggers and people from Alabama.

That window is Coco's view of the world. She seems very content to spend hours sitting rather regally and watching the various happenings out that window. Whenever anything untoward enters her world-view, say a lizard, squirrel, landscaper, or member of Congress, she will sharply voice her disapproval until the offending critter moves out of her line of sight. I don't know if they have yentas in Tibet, Coco's ancestral home, but she's a Tibetan yenta if I ever saw one.

Kate rescued Coco about four years ago from an abusive puppy mill situation. Coco had been living isolated in a crate and had never been socialized. Kate was told that it would take Coco a while to warm up to her but she would eventually. With great patience and dedication, Kate was able to break through Coco's distrust of large beings and begin her entry into something close to a dog's normal life. It wasn't easy, but today Coco and Kate have achieved a nice mutual respect and love for each other.

She still hates me, though. Coco, that is.

Kate has a roomy, comfortable dog crate that Coco really enjoys. She will retreat to her "house" several times a day, especially if she feels nervous or senses that Kate is going out on an errand. Whenever she leaves the house, Kate tells Coco that she is going shopping and will be back in "twenty-two minutes." Immediately, Coco will head happily into her home and patiently await Kate's return. If she understands the meaning of the passage of time, she's never let on. Whether Kate is back in twenty-two minutes or four hours, Coco greets her return in the same way: modest gratitude and benign indifference: "I knew you'd be home eventually; I really wasn't worried about it. When do we eat?"

Coco spends most of her day lounging around the house, finding different areas in which to nap. In this way she is much like your humble blogger. The only strenuous activity Coco engages in centers around the stuffed animals Kate has bought her. The local Pet Smart store is able to stay open because of these purchases. They number in the millions. For some unknown reason, the minute Kate picks up one of these ratty-looking, squeaky toys, Coco goes completely berserk, jumping up and down and barking her sharp, loud yelp until Kate agrees to give the animal up and allow Coco to fiercely tear it apart with little razor sharp teeth while dragging the poor squirrel/hedgehog/fox/monkey around the house, activating the squeaking noise in every room of the house over and over again.

Good times...good times.

Walking Coco can be a challenge. She hates any kind of adverse weather condition including wind, rain, and excessive sun. Thunder absolutely sends her over the edge. She will begin shaking uncontrollably until Kate picks her up and calms her down. I tried doing the same, but Kate was wise to me. Anyway, when Coco is taking a walk, we have to hope for almost complete silence. Any noise out of the ordinary will break Coco's concentration and the mission is all but over. Luckily, Coco accepts her part of the bargain and will agree to "hold off" until we try again later.

She may be a neurotic, but at least she's a responsible one.

Something many of us should aspire to.

Ain't dogs grand?
J

Roberts' Rules: June 2011

I have been adopted by a wonderful group of golfers at my golf course, The Santa Rosa Golf and Beach Club. This group plays every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning at 8:00. I happened to show up one morning and was invited to fill in. The rest, as they say, is history.

I'm back playing with these guys after my recent back woes which kept me on the shelf for almost two months. It turned out that I had a herniated disc which impacted the sciatic nerves which in turn impacted the muscles around my left quad and knee.

The thigh bone really is connected to the knee bone, etc...Who knew?

Anyway, after some rest and physical therapy I'm doing quite a bit better and, much to my surprise, I was welcomed back into the group enthusiastically. Some of the guys even remembered my name.

I enjoy playing with this group because we're all pretty much of the same ability. By that I mean we can all go from brilliant to putrid in the blink of an eye. Also, the conversation, a very important consideration during a four hour round of golf, is always pleasant, never testy.

But the most appealing aspect of this gang is that they play according to "Roberts' Rules." The group was founded and is still headed by one Billy Roberts, a terrific gentleman from Birmingham, Alabama. Bill is a retired medical equipment salesman and a fine golfer. It is his feeling that the rules of golf are too punitive, so he has amended them with some of his own. He calls his approach "Cheating with Integrity."

Here are a couple of his best rules:

Rule 27A: If three or more players in a foursome have a miserable tee shot, then all of the players may re-tee. The rationale behind this rule is that if that many players screwed up their tee shots, there was obviously something very wrong with the tee box. Perfect!

Rule 34B: On hole #14, when the "white" tees are too far back to make the dogleg, players may arbitrarily place their tees at the extreme front of the tee box. The rationale for this is that placing the tees up front makes it easier to score a par, which, after all, is the idea of the damn game! Brilliant!

Rule 48D: Any putt for a double bogey is automatically good. The rationale here is that triple-bogeys are extremely annoying. So simple, yet so perfect.

There are a few other rules we invoke, but this gives you an idea of what the mood of this group is like. Needless to say, everyone in the group seems to enjoy golf quite a bit more than they used to when they played with people who took the rules more seriously.

The group, which usually consists of between 8-12 guys, will gather after each round to enjoy a beer or two. The other day, one of the guys revealed that he had brought a remote control device that made a loud farting sound when activated. We had him place the device in a golf bag and then placed said golf bag at the entrance to the pro shop. As each unsuspecting golfer approached the bag, the remote control button was pressed and a tremendous fart noise was unleashed from the bag. We laughed hysterically as each person looked around to determine the nasty origin of each farting sound. Sometimes it's fun to be 12 again.

Cheating with integrity. Good times...good times.

Ain't life grand?
J

Sarah's History Lessons: June 2011

During these rants and rambles, I have largely stayed away from politics. This was a purposeful decision. After all, why would I want to possibly antagonize or even annoy any of the wonderful people who provided me with so much love and support during and after Ada's beautiful battle? Also, to be frank, over the course of my lifetime, I have found most politicians to be smarmy at best. There have been very few from either party whom I could consider humble public servants, honestly promoting programs with their constituents' or the nation's welfare in mind. I thought the only notable recent exception to that characterization was Rep. Anthony Weiner of New York.

See what I mean?

So, for just this one time, I am going to break my "no politics" rule. I hope those of you who are annoyed by what follows will forgive me, and we can still be friends, but, you see, I just can't help myself. It's like "All You Can Eat Night" at the Rib Shack and this dude's diet is over!


Recently, there have been some interesting takes on big historical events, such as Paul Revere's famous ride. Some of these interpretations have entered the public arena because of one of the most interesting political figures ever to share a slice with The Donald. With this in mind, I have decided to promulgate some more of The Wasilla Wizard's unique takes on American history.

Not that it matters, but none of what follows is true. Come to think of it, none of...ahh, but why go there?

The Boston Massacre:

Conventional wisdom as well as eyewitness accounts maintain that seven civilians, including Crispus Attucks, were mowed down by British regulars in 1770 on State Street in Boston. Some people weren't happy about this and a few years later there was a war.

Not so fast, according to the Duchess of Denali. In fact, the Boston Massacre was simply a misspelling of Boston Mass-Care, a government-mandated health care plan put forth by none other than Mathias Romney, great-great-great grandfather of former Massachusetts governor Mitt. The seven people killed died as a result of harsh decisions by bureaucratic death panels, a key component of any governmental program, you betcha.

D-Day:

On June 6, 1944 over 160,000 allied troops landed on the treacherous beaches of Normandy. It was in all the papers.

Hold your horses there, says The Nome Gnome. The term D-Day actually refers to Donald-Day, which is any day during which an American citizen (with birth certificate in hand) performs at least THREE of the following functions: goes to a hair stylist; bullies a gardener; insults some other entire country; appears on television.

The Moon Landing:

In July of 1969, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin became the first humans to walk on the moon. Thanks to Michael Collins, they were able to hitch a ride back.

"Horse-puckey," says the Seer from Seward. "I was looking up at the moon that night and saw no such thing. I did see Russia though, and, possibly Greenland."

I could go on and on, but you get the idea.

So what should we make of all this? Probably not much. This wonderful Republic will continue on its course through history no matter what kind of moron is at the helm.

If we survived Millard Fillmore, Martin van Buren, and Herbert Hoover, then how bad could The Fairbanks Phenom be?

Ain't life grand?
Really!
J

Discs that Bulge: May 2011

My back hasn't felt "right" since 1982. Kind of like a small pebble in my shoe, annoying but not enough to be overly concerned about. Occasionally there would be a major blowout and I'd become one of those poor folks who could only straighten up in small segments. I know many of you have this type of problem and worse, so I'm not looking for any sympathy here. The thing is, I just assumed that having a "bad back" was part of the natural order of life, in the same category as having dandruff as a teenager or acid reflux as a 50-year-old; I thought it was all part of the grand design: if you throw in enough minor annoyances over a lifetime, the idea of eternal rest won't seem so bad.

My back woes jumped from minor annoyance to major problem last week and now my heart goes out to all of you out there who have been living with serious back pain for any length of time. I'm writing this blog having ingested any number of pain killers, so if it starts to make no sense, ckjgsok600fcng[j rjyp;lkje flkhfr understand.

Last week, Kate and I were on a quick trip to Boston for a family get-together. Earlier in the year, Matt had told me that he and Audrey would be making a trip up to New England in May. I decided to head up there with Kate so that we could get everybody together for an afternoon.My brother Marvin got his family involved and Ada's brother Bob rallied his fine crew. Add Josh, Cindy and the twins and you've got yourself a party. We planned a big ol' barbecue at Bob's daughter Pam's lovely house in Sturbridge. It just so happened that there were a whole bunch of "important" birthdays happening around this time, so the planning seemed perfect.

About a week before we were scheduled to fly up, my back "went out." I had been playing too much golf and, as has happened in the past, my back decided enough was enough. I shut it down, took up some serious couch space, tried to stay out of Kate's way, and waited for my back to calm down.

Instead, it got worse. Bad enough for me to head off to the emergency room at nearby Sacred Heart Hospital. With the trip to Boston just a couple of days away, I started to wonder whether I should call the whole thing off. In the end, I just couldn't bear the thought of all those people eating hot dogs without me, so, armed with enough narcotics to satisfy the cast of "Two and a Half Men," I decided to make the trip.

Here is a partial list of other decisions that would be considered just as stupid:

1. Jerry Seinfeld stealing the Schnitzer's marble rye from that lady.
2. Osama Bin Laden paying a million dollars for that dump.
3. John Lackey

Basically, I spent last weekend in Boston trying not to scream.

I wasn't always successful.

Predictably, Kate was sympathetic and tried her best to keep me comfortable and sane. We had a nice room at the Royal Sonesta in Cambridge and Kate did her best to entertain herself while I tried to see how many prescriptions I could amass in a three-day period.

If you're wondering, it was five.

Eventually, I made my way to the walk-in clinic at Mt. Auburn Hospital where the delightful term "bulging disc" was mentioned for the first time. An MRI would have to tell the tale; there was a possibility that an injection could shrink what needs to be shrunk and everything will calm down, maybe permanently. Obviously, I am in no hurry to have back surgery. As of this writing, I have had the MRI and am awaiting the doctor's recommendations.

I am proud to say that, aided by lots of big and little pills, Kate and I made it out to Sturbridge for a really lovely family gathering. I had quite a few people feeling sorry for me which was AWESOME! It had to make Ada smile to see all her people and all that love. It's something we're going to have to try and make happen each year.

Here's a little anecdote to close on. During one of the nights at the Royal Sonesta, Kate and I decided to grab some dinner and watch the Sox-Cubs game at the hotel's cool spot dubbed "The Art Bar." I was able to rally for a couple of hours and the bar seats were comfortable. We had a few munchies, quite delicious, and were enjoying the 15-4 drubbing the Sox were inflicting on the Cubs. Eventually, the empty seat beside me was filled by a very distinguished looking man with a definite middle eastern appearance. He was dressed in a sharp suit and tie and he introduced himself to us and started to chat.

For the next half hour or so, Jamal proved to be the perfect conversationalist. He was a successful businessman who had lived and traveled all over the world. He was born in Tripoli, Libya of all places and still had family there so we peppered him with questions about the maniac who runs that unfortunate country. Kate asked his advice on some travel ideas she has had and he was incredibly well-informed and helpful. We wished his lovely family good health and he did the same. It was just a delightful encounter.

I only mention this because it was so "cambridge-y." Down here on the Panhandle, the person sitting on the bar stool next to you wanting to chat is not likely to be a successful, cosmopolitan Libyan businessman. No, more than likely he is an unemployed shrimper asking you to pass him the hot sauce.

A little bit of Cambridge ain't such a bad thing every once in a while.

Ain't life grand?
J

I'm No Eskimo: April 2011

I wouldn't have lasted five minutes as an Eskimo.

The tribal elders would have wished me the best and banished me to an ice floe right off the bat.

For one thing, I hate sinew. Never cared for it. In the fourth grade, my social studies curriculum was all about Baffin Island, somewhere up there in the Arctic. We learned all about the Eskimos diligently chewing seal and walrus sinew. The purpose for all this masticating has long since been forgotten, but I'm quite sure I wouldn't be one of the chewy volunteers.

But in this type of society, everyone has to pull his/her weight so I guess that would leave kayaking. Prior to last Saturday, I would have thought that pulling kayak duty was a pretty good deal. After all, a person could do a lot worse than skillfully skimming past the icebergs in search of the odd polar bear, porpoise, or puffin. I had had one brief, disastrous fling with the sport of kayaking about 35 years ago at Camp Androscoggin in Maine. At that time I was the tennis director of this grand old boys' camp. One of the kayak instructors was eager to trade some tennis lessons for some kayaking lessons. I enthusiastically agreed and, after a few successful tennis lessons, Nigel (he was British) had me out on the lake squeezing my more than ample bottom into an impossibly small opening in the middle of a sleek, fiberglass kayak. He informed me that the first lesson was how to escape from the kayak in the event that I was turned upside down underwater.

"Why would I want to be upside down underwater?" I asked.

"You wouldn't want to be, but that sometimes happens," Nigel replied.

"Dumb sport," I replied.

At which point Nigel told me in great detail the technique I should use to plop myself out of the impossibly tiny opening so as not to drown during my first lesson. After several panic-stricken lake-swallowing attempts, I was able to master the escape technique and we moved on to paddling. I remember going out for a few kayak paddles but quickly deciding that it was a lot of work and that I much preferred the idea of a dinner cruise on a larger vessel.

Despite that checkered history, motivated by some kind of primal urge to get closer to nature, last Saturday I asked Kate if she would like to go out for a little kayak exploration here at Sandestin. Because we have rented our place from the "official" Sandestin realty company, we are entitled to a few amenities, including the free use of kayaks that are available at the marina which is located on Choctahwatchee Bay, a beautiful body of water teeming with all kinds of bird and marine life, as well as people from Alabama. Kate thought that sounded like a good idea so on a gorgeous spring afternoon with temperatures in the mid-70's, surrounded by gentle breezes, we headed down to the marina.

We were saddened to discover that all of the kayaks were already out in the Bay.

"Just wait here, folks," said the marina guy. "Most people don't last 15 minutes."

Kate and I looked at each other a bit puzzled. After all, why wouldn't a person or a couple want to stay out on the Bay for an entire afternoon, freely paddling into all the little nooks, crannies, and marshy areas, getting up close and personal with nature and experiencing the kind of exhilaration that those wonderful Baffin Islanders must have experienced back when I was in the fourth grade?

Sure enough, after about ten minutes a couple of hardy kayakists pulled up to the shore. They didn't have to "plop" out of the kayak because these babies were more "resorty" and less authentic. One's lower body was out in the open, not cocooned inside a fiberglass enclosure, making one's escape from the kayak quite easy. The couple leaving the kayak did not look happy and I couldn't help but notice that rather than being exhilarated by their brush with nature, they looked, well, devastated.

Kate noticed it too, and she flashed me a look that said, "Sometimes that which seems like a good idea in theory becomes a complete disaster in reality."

The attendant moved our kayak into position and instructed us on how to enter and exit the kayak. Basically, all one had to do was sit one's bottom on the designated area and roll one's legs up into the leg area. Couldn't be simpler. We managed to do this seamlessly with barely any water splashing into our craft. I started to get that feeling I get whenever I take on a new activity: "Wow, I get this. I can see all the nuances and intricacies of this sport. I just may be a brilliant kayaker. Hey Kate, after we conquer Choctahwatchee Bay, let's kayak across the Pacific to the South Seas. Let's kayak to Bali, Kate, waddaya say?"

One last word of advice from the attendant and we were on our way: "Remember to sit upright. Don't lean back. Have fun. See you in about 15 minutes."

And we were off, paddling in perfect synchronicity, gliding into the Bay, off on our kayak adventure. About 45 seconds into our adventure I couldn't help but notice a searing pain shooting across my lower back, abdomen, and hips. Kate, experiencing the same agony, had abandoned her official upright kayak position and was lying back in the damn boat looking up at the sky.

"Kate," I chided, "how are you going to paddle like that?"

"Get me back to shore, Nanook, and pronto. This is worse than surgery"

Thus ended our little kayak expedition on the shores of Choctahwatchee Bay in the Sandestin Resort.

We smiled knowingly at the couple who were eagerly awaiting our return and happily waddled over to the marina bar where we would attempt to limber up.

Ain't life grand?
J

The Sawx: April 2011

In a desperate effort to exorcise the demons that have recently invaded the bodies of the fellas who play for the Boston Red Sox, I have decided to blog about baseball, Fenway Pahk, and my beloved Sawx.

Rarely if ever has a baseball season been more eagerly anticipated than this one. After all, the Sawx had boldly signed Carl Crawford and Adrian Gonzalez while shoring up a weak bullpen with the likes of Bobby Jenks and Dan Wheeler. These additions combined with a very solid everyday lineup and starting pitching foretold of a "Sweet Caroline" summer for the Nation. It was this feeling of optimism that prompted me to buy tickets for a Sox-Rays game in Tampa in mid-June. I was looking forward to showing Kate how much fun it is to watch the Sawx on the road with their traveling fans on hand to represent the Nation.

I made similar mistakes in the stock market.

You see, they actually make you play the games and the Sawx are in a...well...it's been a bad patch. I can't reveal my sources, but I was able to get hold of an American League scout's official report on the Sawx after the recent Tampa Bay series. This is how he characterized the team:

LF Crawford: sucks
2B Pedroia: good
1B Gonzalez: ok
3B Youkilis: sucks
DH Ortiz: sucks
RF Drew: sucks
C Saltalamacchia: really sucks
SS Scutaro: sucks
CF Ellsbury: sucks

SP Lackey: completely sucks
Bullpen: sucks
Outside vendors: good
Parking: sucks

Folks, that's a whole lot of sucks!

Of course, are we to assume that the suckage will continue through the summer and fall? No. Baseball has always been a game of numbers and statistics and 100 years of baseball history say that sooner or later Carl Crawford will get a hit and John Lackey will hold a lead. That has been their history and they will return to that history before too long.

Unless they just suck, in which case they will just suck.

The Sawx haven't sucked in a long time. Since 1967, with very few exceptions, they have been at least competitive if not riveting. Anybody who is 45 or younger has really never seen them suck. That's quite remarkable when you think about it. On the other hand, if you're in your 50's or older, you probably have vivid memories of complete seasons of suck. I know I do.

I guess you could say that from the Korean War to the beginning of the War in Vietnam, the Sawx really sucked. When I first got hooked on Sawx baseball, I had the dubious distinction of following the double play combination of Buddin to Gernert to Zauchin. Not an Ozzie Smith in the bunch. Malzone was pretty good at third and the outfield of Himself in left, Piersall in center, and Jensen in right was fine, but it was the starting pitching that was truly disastrous. Outside of Mel Parnell, there wasn't a single pitcher that anyone would pay money (even the 75 cents it cost to sit in the bleachers) to see. Occasionally a young flamethrower like Dave Moorhead would excite folks for a while, but they never really panned out and we were stuck with the likes of Bob Porterfield, Frank Sullivan, Willard Nixon and the immortal Ike Delock.

Going to Fenway in the late 50's and early 60's was a cozy, relaxed affair. No need to buy tickets in advance; you could always get good seats the day of the game. You could even buy a "general admission" grandstand ticket and then scout out a better seat in the boxes. If you weren't obnoxious about it, the ushers would "look the other way." Of course this begs the question: Is it better to watch an awful team close up or from afar? The next Republican National Convention will pose a similar problem.

I make a little joke.

In those days, you would take your seat and spread out. You could put your jacket on the seat beside you and your lunch on the other side. You could have a pleasant baseball conversation with the old-timer behind you without having the PA system blaring every 30 seconds with loud music or sponsor announcements: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the next time a Red Sox player hits into a double play, redeem your ticket for some refreshing Doublemint Gum; due to the large demand, only one stick per customer." That old timer would regale you with stories about young Ted Williams or old Babe Ruth or how much the Red Sox sucked in the 30's. Vendors worked much harder in those days. With fewer people in the ballpark, they had fewer potential sales and fewer people to pass the goodies to the customer. A bad deal all around. In those days a leather-lunged fan could really make himself heard and not be drowned out by the din of the throng around him. With the team going as badly as it did in those days, some of the verbal assaults were not very kind, as I'm sure Pumpsie Green or Earl Wilson could attest.

They had actual scheduled doubleheaders in those days which meant on certain Sundays you could spend about 7 hours in a row watching your team suck. Of course the idea of being there to watch Himself get 8 at-bats was more than enough to offset the other 64 or so futile attempts. No matter how lopsided the score was, people stayed to watch Ted come to bat. That definitely didn't suck, especially for a certain chubby left-handed kid from Dorchester. No, that didn't suck at all.

Come to think of it, most of us in Red Sox nation survived a long period of suckiness before and we will do it again if we have to. We're a resilient lot and, well, a little Sawx suckage now and again is ok.

As long as the Yankees suck too.

Ain't baseball grand?
J