The eventual, consistent smiles when strangers understand my t-shirt in the featured image above. Who doesn’t enjoy seeing a s’more as it chases itself down? I love how completely clueless the graham cracker is…just stupidly going along for the ride behind the maniacal chocolate. The marshmallow doesn’t stand a chance. Nor should he.
The outro from Frank Ocean’s “Self Control,” off the blond album…oh my god. The emotions. The lyrics are great (once understood and decoded a bit; the man has consistently surprising depth), but it’s the layered vocals, with that perfect reverb. The detailed nuance of each sung syllable. The phrase matching he does as tracks of himself are added. 5 Franks? 6? It’s so inspired, feels so loose and raw, while being beautifully executed. Clean. Powerful. This song owns me right now.
The Rainbow children’s soap/clay from Lush. So fun for 6 year old Rubin to mold, squeeze, lather, crumble under running bath water, and wash himself with. He learns to conserve a cool product so he doesn’t waste it, and I get to teach him the word disintegrate. And Lush gets a deserved plug for being the amazing company it appears to be. Win-win-win.
The reprise of “Solo” from blond, featuring the incomparable Andre 3000. It’s so fast and flowing, enunciated in efficient machine gun rhythm. But his content is king. It’s funny, thoughtful, empathetic to women, and angry at some young whippersnapper rap pretenders who don’t write their own shit. The track stops cold when you want a lot more. He’s one of the best rappers alive, whether he’s offering product frequently or not.
This World Cup. Holy hell, the speed and skills on display from the likes of France’s Kylian MBappe. The malleability of Paul Pogba’s game, and how he has happily accepted a less flashy, but sorely needed, set of midfielder duties in the French team’s two-way game. The statuesque grace of Belgian goalie Thibaut Courtois, who shouldn’t be as agile as he is for looking like an awkward 7 foot tall 11th grader. Every 4 years I fall in love with soccer all over again, but intermittently I never choose to engage in Premier League or anything else. So I am the quadrennial target of innumerable think pieces; “IS THIS FINALLY THE TIME THAT SOCCER IS GIVEN ITS DUE AND GROWS IN AMERICA BLAH BLAH BLAH…”. Save it. I am very happy with my current soccer intake. I genuinely, curiously give a shit twice a decade. And right now I can’t get enough of it.
Tracks 2 through 8 or so from Courtney Barnett’s “Tell Me How You Really Feel.” Especially, “Nameless, Faceless” with kindred spirit Kim Deal on backing vox. She’s sung it live at a festival with both twins from The Breeders. Barnett is the best thing going in her timeless brand of minimalist, direct punk-infused rock songs. Plus she’s funny as hell, and has just the right level of disdain in that deadpan delivery.
The ingenious Fuego propane grill. It has a 20” x 20” footprint that makes city balcony life much more comfortable. And every inch of the cooking surface conducts heat equally. It’s also gorgeous, designed by a guy who designed Beats By Dre. Been making lots of veggie burgers for me and my girl. But last night while she was out of town I made a steak rubbed in one of the awesome spice concoctions via Stoner Rock BBQ. The “Not So Gentle Butcher’s Rub” was incredible on a bone in ribeye.
The wherewithal, schedule, and savings to enjoy an afternoon watching the World Cup with this view:
I watched France-Belgium while enjoyably bleeding chips at the 2-5 game at The Shoe. There was eventually more tv, and less of this guy.
In succession I have been consumed by the songs “Nikes,” “Ivy,” “Pink & White,” and “Solo” on the aforementioned blond by Frank Ocean. I hereby declare it the best album of 2016. Who cares if it took me until summer 2018 to know it. Sue me.
Sometimes you don’t ask for a radical change of professional life, but you look up a few months later and realize how much you’ve had time to notice.
Gratitude. Always. Surround yourself with people and experiences that remind you to stay in touch with it.
It’s never too late to start something that will take the rest of your life to accomplish.
I wanna hit every MLB ballpark. Lots of people go on or have completed this quest. It’s absurd, really, how many of them I’ve not been to. I get jealous when I see tweets like this from friend and colleague Chris Tannehill:
20! The man is barely in his mid-30’s. His ballpark list is incredibly impressive, like a Bert Blyleven curve. Plus, he seems to have had very pure, solid fan experiences at the parks, with beers and snacks and friends and such. I’ve so often been working; upstairs with snooty, carefully detached media, unable to hang out where the real people are and fully feel the building.
“Other than hanging with family, the ballpark visits are probably my favorite thing,” says Tannehill. “Obviously I love to travel but don’t have the time or money to see the world; seeing ballparks allows me to explore the country.”
You’d think I, a baseball romantic bred into this passion essentially from the womb, would have been one of the many who collect ballparks. I am a man whose pronunciation of “#baahhhhseballl” was so lampooned on the radio that it turned itself from insult to compliment almost daily. A Twitter account was born just to keep the ridicule flowing.
And yet, my ballpark list feels meek and inadequate, like a Doug Jones fastball.
Last Friday night, amid accompanying my wife on a work trip to Dallas (I have some free time these days), we decided to hit the stadium in Arlington. An insurance company I’d never heard of has the rights, so “Globe Life” isn’t just what all us Earthlings are living every day, it’s the home of the Texas Rangers.
The teams were bad. Hell, one of them was the White Sox. Dylan Covey got absolutely destroyed, the Sox played like the clowns Reynaldo Lopez accused them of being a couple weeks ago, and it was 10-0 Rangers by the 3rd. But hey, Matt Davidson pitched in the 8th!
That was awesome….the man showed a legit curve and splitter. He said afterwards it was a dream come true.
StubHub got us great seats behind the plate for under a hundred bucks, and we stayed all night until the postgame fireworks, accompanied by a well-crafted Beatles medley. This was my kind of night. Adrian Beltre didn’t do anything special, but I’m still glad I saw him. And maybe it was the weird 17% alcohol drinks in mini-baseball shaped cans, but I enjoyed watching the teams have to go through the motions of playing out the game because they must. It reminded me of times I have sung at terrible, corporate parties. The band knows the gig absolutely sucks by the middle of the first set….the crowd barely pays attention, we are sonic wallpaper. But you play your best. You finish the night with professionalism. It’s a job.
This column appears in full on the Score’s website, here.
BUT…here, you can comment, let’s get a thread going. What’s your ballpark count at right now? What traditions do you do at each new park? Talk to me.
Homegirl wore the Rangers hat, just so her White Sox loathing was clear. True Story.
I was there, 5 years ago last night, high above the “new” Boston Garden rink. The very top level of the place is one single row of adjustable office chairs behind a small continuous table, circling all the way around. You’re way above the action, and good views are not guaranteed. I’d made a loop a few times throughout the game, talking with random media, watching from different angles, not knowing an all-time sports moment was imminent.
We had a lot going on that week. The Mac and Spiegs show was broadcasting from a bar right there in the West End. That morning, Doc Emrick had offered to grab me a Dunkin coffee as he waited to do a live interview with us. He got the order right, of course, and shuffleboarded the beverage right to me.
Sometime that week, the jamokes who hosted our brother/rival radio show on WEEI had sent us an erotic cake to “welcome” us to town. All class, that Mutt and Merloni. No wonder that station went in the shitter.
I was back in old college stomping grounds, and had made time for a predictably spiritual visit to the Boston Public Garden, one of my most beloved spots on Earth.
Oh, and the Chicago Blackhawks were in a serious fight with the Boston Bruins to try and win a 2nd Stanley Cup in 3 seasons. You remember they won, and how. But do you remember:
How Andrew Shaw screamed “I Love Shin Pads” after his triple OT deflection game 1 winner?
What a dirty, mean, admirable bastard Milan Lucic was all series?
The unrivaled maddening tension when three of the first four games went to Overtime?
How much Tuukka Rask really did look like a young Erin Moran in the role of Joanie Cunningham on Happy Days?
How Patrice Bergeron showed us he absolutely deserved to be mentioned along with Jonathan Toews as a great two way center?
How Corey Crawford allowed FIVE, count them, FIVE goals to the glove side in game 4? And how Pat Foley admitted on our show that the whole league had known it was a weakness?
How ridiculously tall, scary, and solid Zeno “Lurch” Chara was? No one could topple Big Bird in yellow.
How Joel Quenneville finally, after I and so many others had been pleading for weeks, Put Patrick Kane and Toews together with Bryan Bickell on the top line? And how immediately it worked, with 2 Kane goals in game 5?
Maybe you remember all of that. I sure do. It was a hell of a series, well before what happened in the final 1:16 of Game Six.
There are amazing stories from fans as to where they were for those 2 Blackhawks goals. Hell, they made a whole movie about those 17 Seconds, full of great inside stuff.
For me, what will linger forever is the sound and energy at the top of that building.
The Boston crowd had been explosive all night, and was frantically on its feet trying to carry their team to a deciding game 7. The juju would have belonged to the Bruins, with insane pressure on the Hawks. The loudness and intensity ratcheted up higher when Crawford was pulled for an extra attacker. Then, immediately, Kane leads a charge into the corner, and Toews gets it to an open Bickell to tie the game.
The volume shifts from frenzied Bruins fans, to the thrilled smaller Hawks contingent. There’s still a buzz, but it’s an odd one. And as the surprise wears off, it gets quieter.
17 seconds later, it’s Dave Bolland, on a rebound. That small Hawks contingent is losing their minds. But the dominant vibe in the building is shock. Shocked silence, in the faces of the fans. Media who had seemed so jaded hours before (“Lobster, again?!?” I’d overheard near the pre-game dinner spread) now sat with mouths agape.
Watch the whole sequence again, because what better way could you possibly spend 2:05 of your time?
I thought Sports Illustrated used the picture of the year on their cover days later. See the puck?
Let me tell you, the collective shock lasted for a long, long time. I don’t remember moving much. I remember seeing lots of fans stuck to their chairs, begrudgingly watching the Hawks celebrate.
I captured the rafters view of The Captain delivering another cup to his mates.
And then somehow, we were downstairs, and on the ice. Again.
I had been there in Philly in 2011, and I’d felt awkward, out of place. I’d always liked hockey, and had grown slowly more knowledgeable as we covered that run. But that was Mac’s dream, Mac’s moment…to be there with the franchise he’d loved forever. I was mentally lost somewhere between acting professional, pretending I belonged, and trying to support him.
But now in 2013 with my name on the radio show officially, comfort with hockey conversation raised, and my place among the media more secure, I enjoyed the hell out of that special access. Barry Rozner and I compared Cup runs, and made fun of a few fools. I congratulated Rocky Wirtz, John McDonough, and Jay Blunk. I took pictures for posterity both personal and professional. The player I’d grown to enjoy the most, despite and maybe because of his tenuous hold on self control, was bloodied but beaming. I snapped a selfie.
And I looked around for a keepsake.
The benches were full of people. The penalty box was locked. But in the distance, one of the goals stood off to the side along the boards. I made my way there. On top of the net was a water bottle, and 2 long weird plastic tube-looking things that I could not identify. They seemed interesting, and were bright Bruin yellow. Each one fit into a deep pants pocket.
Yes, it’s stealing. No, I don’t feel bad; I never did. It was the last game of the year, pro sports teams and leagues make plenty of money, and I was gaining both a memento and what I figured would be great show content. It was a rationalization that made sense to me then, and still does now. Judge me as you wish.
As we broadcast the show the next day, the yellow tubes sat on the table. A listener snapped this.
With Google power, we learned they were Marsh Pegs.
The goal no longer gets knocked “off of its moorings.” Fred Marsh changed the game for the better, made it safer, and made a few bucks from almost every hockey arena in the world along the way.
“After looking at what was available and not being satisfied with anything on the market at the time, Fred began working on a better system. Thus he developed the Marsh Flexible Goal Peg, a deceptively simple but amazingly effective system. The design and material of the Marsh Pegs give them a flexibility that allows the net to move when jostled but remain on the pegs during regular play. The pegs will bend when the net is bumped, then return to their original position. Upon strong impact, such as a player crashing into the net, the net will pop off the pegs and prevent injury to the player. The nets can be replaced in seconds.”
A week or so later, we did a delightful phoner with Fred Marsh, and he didn’t judge me for stealing 2 of his yellow ones from Boston. Or at least he didn’t say so.
We came home, with the Pegs now explained and excitedly in the studio for the first shows back in Chicago. The parade was tomorrow, and I had the day scheduled off. So I left it in the show’s hands, for sub host Ben Finfer and Mac to have in front of them at the parade. What a conversation piece for the live audience.
But tech issues forced them back in studio, and when I returned the next day, my Marsh Peg was gone.
What I’d stolen had been stolen! Oh, the injustice or cruel irony or deserved “hot crime on crime action,” depending on your perspective! Oh, the genuine anger I felt as I thought Finfer actually pilfered the thing and wouldn’t tell me! Oh, the misery that crept in as I imagined a clueless cleaning crew throwing it in the trash! Oh, the Ebay hunt I went on, as I wondered whether Les Grobstein would try and sell it along with some old media guides!
Oh, the ancient Score mystery that went unsolved. Until now.
More on that in a later post, promise. I’ll tell my own story here. That story has a placebo Marsh Peg that became more meaningful than the original could have been. That story has a perpetrator, whose life has evolved since then. And that story has a happy ending.
Maybe there’s even a moral.
In those magical 17 seconds, 5 years ago last night, are layers of meaning. There’s a hockey team and storied franchise performing at its very best. There’s my absurd personal good fortune to be in the building and on the ice afterwards. And there is our often misplaced value of memory versus memento.
The feelings of that crazy finish on June 24th, 2013 were the thing. And if you can hold onto those, not much else matters.
In just over three calendar years, there have been incredible highs and painful lows. He gave fans myriad epic post-season moments, before even completing a full seasons’ worth of big league at bats. A devastating lost year of injury somehow evolved into his greatest triumph. There was a half season of extreme failure, leading to a demotion that challenged the confidence of the front office men who’d believed in him most. Remember how odd it was to see him in an Iowa Cubs hat?
In his early 20’s, Kyle Schwarber went through a ton. So did I. So did you. It’s hard. It’s not linear. It’s life.
And now here in June of his 25th year, the man is playing steadily well, visibly comfortable, secure, and established.
So maybe this is Kyle Schwarber, major leaguer. If so, nice to meet you. This player would be a perennial All Star candidate and a hell of a weapon in the middle of a National League lineup.
Yes, National League. Because the man has turned himself into an above average Left Fielder.
Schwarber is tied for 1st among all MLB Left Fielders….
To read the rest of this column, go to670 The Score’s website here.
