Murphy's Law

Describing what music sounds like is difficult enough.

Trying to articulate what Daniel Bard is capable of doing with a baseball is pretty much impossible. Fortunately, a picture is worth a thousand words; a GIF is worth a million. (That it’s against the Yankees: priceless.)

Congratulations to a very worthy and deserving Spain for securing their first World Cup title.

Condolences to the Dutch, who did not exactly do their Clockwork Orange-era compatriots especially proud with their thuggish and ungraceful (and occasionally disgraceful) play. Regarding that automatic red card-worthy karate kick, the only conceivable explanation for why the ref did not immediately send the goonish De Jong to the dressing room is because (in the moment) he did not want to soil the world’s most important sports spectacle by putting a team one man down so early in the game. But the game was already soiled by that unconscionable act of unsportsmanlike conduct. Anyone that does not have Dutch blood flowing through their veins had to decide at that moment that Spain deserved to win the game. Justice was done and although it was a pretty forgettable game, that was a pretty exciting goal (and at least the match did not go to penalty kicks –which always imparts more drama but is invariably a graceless conclusion to an event that deserves more).

Speaking of an event that deserves more…if there is one thing to complain about every four years, it is that the final games are (inevitably? understandably? necessarily?) lackluster. It is perhaps an unavoidable reality: this is the game and it only comes around once every four years so of course any mistakes might equate to memories a player (and country) will live with for the remainder of their lives. (Speaking with friends we agreed that there really hasn’t been a remarkable final game since…as long as we’ve been watching. Few recall the Argentina victory –over the Dutch– in ’78 and Italy over West Germany in ’82 was decent but not breathtaking; everything after that ran the spectrum from merely boring to downright forgettable.) But unlike the Super Bowl, which more often than not results in a lopsided smackdown, the World Cup final tends to have teams playing ultra conservative soccer while doing everything not to lose.  With the aim of eliminating error they also eliminate drama. And soul. But it’s, (ironically?) a rather small price to pay after a month of tension, excitement and yes, drama. This World Cup has to rank amongst the best, game-for-game, in the last two decades.

And, of course, for us Yanks there was the goal and the call (eternal props to the inimitable Andres Cantor):

In honor of the Spaniards, here is a sublime interpretation of Concierto De Aranjuez (Adagio), by the remarkable (as well as enigmatic and as yet unmasked) Buckethead:

And the work that inspired it, from one of the coolest dudes that ever lived, Miles Davis:

And the original (1939), from the great Spanish composer Joaquin Rodrigo:

Felicidades!

This hurts.

R.I.P. Probie.

Quick tally: #24, over 3,000 penalty minutes. Member, along with Joe Kocur, of the legendary “Bruise Brothers” tandem back in the days when the Detroit Red Wings were more feared for what they could do after the whistle stopped play. Participant in a handful of the all-time classic fights in hockey history. Man who inspired t-shirts that read “Give Blood. Fight Probert.” Simply put, if one were to try and create the ideal enforcer (especially for an era that may not have been the toughest or most iconic era but was one of the most enjoyable), one could hardly imagine a more suitable cartoon character than Bob Probert.

As The Kinks once sang, Let’s All Drink To The Death Of A Clown.

And lest anyone think I’m using the word clown carelessly or disrespectfully, it is in fact chosen with the aim of being both accurate and approbatory. (A Probie-tory, if you like.)

Think about what a clown does: he is the minor but essential character who shows up at a circus with the objective of instigating misconduct. Above all, his purpose is to entertain with a mixture of mischief and cheer. A superficial assessment might conclude that a clown is simply doing, in make-up, what any drunk idiot might do. But of course whether it is juggling, dancing or doing tricks, not just anyone could be (or would want to be) a clown. It’s a job.

Think about what a hockey enforcer (what we used to call a goon just like we used to call escorts hookers or stockbrokers sociopaths) does: he is the minor but essential figure who shows up in an arena with the object of instigating misconduct (hopefully without receiving a game misconduct). Above all, his purpose is to settle scores and entertain a crowd while enervating his teammates. A superficial assessment might conclude that an enforcer is simply doing, in a colorful costume, what any drunk idiot might do. But needless to say, trading bare-fisted blows (sober or especially drunk) in a bar is considerably different than standing on skates and going toe to toe with an opponent who is well-prepared (and in some cases, well-paid) to kick your ass in front of thousands of people. Many people without athletic ability are very capable goons; only an extremely select group of individuals are able (much less willing) to abide by “The Code”. It’s a job.

It’s difficult to talk intelligently with anyone about hockey because so few people watch (or care) about it. That goes double when trying to articulate the science of sanctioned pugilism. How can one possibly rationalize or defend the spectacle of adults engaging in behavior that would get them arrested out in the streets? (Indeed, fans are arrested nightly at hockey rinks all over the continent for imitating, albeit often drunkenly and with far less flair, the very behavior occurring in real time below them.) The answer is at once easy and complicated, like all truths tend to be. The easy part: there is no need to explain it. If you’re not a hockey player, you can’t hope to comprehend it; unless you are a fan, you have no hope of understanding or appreciating it. It’s really that simple. Seriously. Just ask a hockey player. (And, as perspicacious commentators have pointed out for decades, one notices how nobody gets up to grab popcorn once a fight breaks out. While that may speak volumes about the distressing devolution of our species and our insatiable appetite for violence, there is something a bit more sophisticated going on.)

So what is complicated about it? For starters, hockey fighting remains a diversion that people who genuinely deplore violence (like this writer) endorse and get excited about. What does that say about us? I’m not certain. But I do know that unlike the “real” world, it is exceedingly rare for two hockey combatants to enter the fray unwillingly. Yes but, doesn’t that make it a great deal worse, if they do it because they get paid? (Well, is boxing beatiful? Brutal? Your opinion here will go a decent way toward explaining your ability, or willingness, to negotiate the enigmatic charm of the expression “five minutes for fighting”.) That gets to the not-so-easily explained sensibility of athletes (in general) and hockey players (in particular). Hockey players have traditionally been paid a great deal less than other athletes in more popular sports. It is, therefore, a bit ironic to consider that these players are more immune to pain and prone to play a regular season game like the world is on the line. It is, for hockey fans, refreshing that the players have an integrity that has been ingrained from generations and is remarkably resilient against the corrupting forces of salary, fame and product endorsements. Put in less exalted terms, people tend to get (understandably) cynical when, say, a baseball player with a multi-million dollar annual contract goes on the D.L. with a strained hamstring. That type of commonplace indifference is especially noticeable –and appalling– when one realizes that hockey players routinely return to the ice moments after receiving stitches, or losing teeth, or suffering bruised (and in some cases, broken) bones. Google it if you don’t believe me.

None of this is to say that one might enjoy the sport more if one learned more about it, but a casual viewer (or hater) might be genuinely surprised to learn a few things about the history of hockey fighting. For starters, the opposing players seldom hate each other and in it is not uncommon for them to be friends off the ice (particularly if they are old teammates). Also, the aforementioned code does have a rather elaborate –and universally endorsed– system for the rules of engagement. Finally, and perhaps most significantly: not only are enforcers generally the most popular players (amongst the fans; amongst the teams), they tend to be some of the more thoughtful and soft-spoken ones. (For two obvious examples, consider the ever-humble Craig Berube –”The Chief”– who toiled many seasons in the NHL including for my hometown Capitals and now is an assistant coach for the Flyers; then there is George McPhee who happens to be one of the more respected and successful GMs in the game.)

Of course, not all of them are model citizens, and for a variety of reasons (some understandable, some inscrutable), some of them have had very challenging and troubled lives.

Enter Bob Probert. Though it is debatable whether or not he (or any particular player) was “the best” enforcer in the history of organized hockey, not many people would argue with any credibility that he is not at least in the Top 10. For my money, pound for pound and in terms of longevity, respect, quality of opponents and success, Probert is the preeminent knuckle artist of the modern era.

Let the cliched encomiums unfurl: he feared nobody. He fought everyone. Ultimate warrior. Ideal teammate. Crowd pleaser. Accomplished actor? Well, see below:

As Detroit (and Chicago) residents know, and as fans of the game remember, Probert battled the proverbial demons off the ice as well. His struggles with alcohol and substance abuse is amply documented. His occasional escapades drew the attention of law enforcement officials. He was, in short, a troubled man in certain ways, but he was always resilient, and never let his addictions keep him down (or out). 

(The actual history of his difficulties is sufficiently reported that folks interested in more can easily find out with the click of a mouse. I also acknowledge that his livelihood may have done as much to exacerbate his issues as it did to ameliorate them. In other words, he quite possibly may have gone down certain roads whether or not he played hockey or threw a single punch. But I readily concede that there is an ugly side to sports, just like there is a sinister side to life, and all of us are constantly pushed and pulled by the momentum of necessity and choice, and the inexorable reality that we have to pay bills and obey laws. A more sustained –and serious– discussion of sports, hockey, hockey fighting and some of the casualties of this game (think John “Rambo” Kordic’s tragic story) should occur at another time.)

For now, in addition to wishing him a fond adieu and sincerely sending out support and goodwill to his family and friends, I’d like to celebrate some of the most memorable instances of him doing what he did better than just about anyone who ever laced up the skates.

1. Bob Probert vs. Craig Coxe (Round One):

2. Bob Probert vs. Craig Coxe (Round Two):

3. Bob Probert vs. Dave Semenko:

4. Bob Probert vs. Troy Crowder:

5. Bob Probert vs. Tie Domi (The Epic Saga):

**Bonus: It might make sense to go ahead and include, just for the heck of it, THE BEST HOCKEY FIGHT OF ALL TIME**

Bob Probert vs. Marty McSorley (Two of the best of their generation in a game called by the best hockey announcers of their generation, Gary Thorne and the immortal and inimitable Bill Clement):

If he had kept his act together a little better, he would have retired a Red Wing, possibly kissed the Cup, and pretty much owned the Motor City. Somebody could make a movie like that. Of course, somebody already did: his name was Bob Probert and the movie was his life. Not all movies have happy endings, alas. And like anyone who will be missed once they are gone, he gave us far more than we ever gave him.

Okay, so it wasn’t meant to be for the Team U.S.A. Again.

But it was a good run and there is no doubting the positive overall impact this World Cup has had on the always tenuous place soccer holds in the American consciousness.

And we had the goal seen ’round the world (and heard: for the best call of any goal ever, check out the inimitable genius of Andres Cantor here).

And at least we didn’t get beaten by the insufferable prima donnas from Italy (they were already gone–ha!) or any of the other bullies who have tormented us on the international stage (Brazil, Germany, etc.) If we were going to bow out gracefully, who better than Ghana to show us the door? It’s more than a little unlikely that Ghana will go further, but it will be fun to root for them. Plus, how can you not get behind a country who has made such amazing music?

Back in March I encouraged anyone with adventurous ears to check out the indispensable double disc Ghana Special. It was an endless and brutal winter in and around D.C. and these discs considerably brightened the days and warmed the spirits.

The Sweet Talks, “Akampanye”:

K. Frimpong & His Cubanos Fiestas, “Kyenkyen Bi Adi M’Awu”:

Bokoor Band, “You Can Go”:

The Wellis Band, “Bindiga”:

The African Brothers International Band, “Yerewensa Wo Se Shirt”:

1984 was the last time it happened: Game 7 for all the marbles.

Back then I was deeply invested; now, not so much. To put it mildly, my passion for the N.B.A. has receded much like my hairline, and 26 years is a lot of receding. My inherited childhood love for the Celtics (and especially Larry Bird) is covered here. I own the deluxe Celtics DVD set and can –and do– still watch those seminal moments from my adolescent years with great enjoyment (and to this day Magic’s brilliant, unbearable “junior sky hook” in Game 4 still is metaphorical battery acid in my eyes).

If you remember the ’80s you can probably pick up what I’m putting down here (from the linked reminiscence, above):

Keep in mind, in the ’80s you were either a Lakers fan or you were a Celtics fan. There were other teams in the NBA, obviously, but for a long stretch of that great decade, it seemed like each season was an extended formality: we collectively bided our time until everyone else got out of the way and let the two teams go hammer and tong for the title.

Some things never change? Well, not really. No matter how much the media tries to hype it up, the Celtics/Lakers rivalry will never be what it was in the ’80s. It couldn’t be. The only thing comparable today is the Red Sox/Yankees, and even that has mellowed in the wake of Boston’s two world series titles this past decade.

So like I said, I’m not back on the bandwagon; I could mostly care less about the N.B.A. (although I feel it would be churlish of King James to leave Cleveland and hope for those long-suffering fans’ sakes, he does not make the mistake of his life and head for the 24/7 scrutiny that awaits him in the Big Apple. And, for the record, I think Kobe is a punk. As much as I loathed Kurt Rambis, you kind of reckon you could go have a beer with the dude; can anyone imagine Kobe having a beer with anyone? He seems like the kind of guy who can’t even have a drink with himself.)

So, in summary: do I care much about the N.B.A. these days? No. Have I been watching the finals? Yes. Do I want the Celtics to beat the Lakers? Duh.

And so: is it fortuitous synchronicity or fate that I will find myself in Boston, tonight? It has nothing to do with the Celtics. Back in the deep dark of this unending winter my boy Teddy Ballgame (Boston resident and Red Sox fanatic) admonished me to make plans to get up to Fenway in June, on June 18. Why that date? It was the night Manny Ramirez, the clown prince and prodigal son, returned to Fenway. “I’ve already got tickets,” Ted said. “Enough said,” said I. “I also have tickets for Thursday night’s game, why not just make it a double feature?”

And so it is a man returning from L.A. that will put me in Boston while the team I used to worship battles for the title, in L.A. Who cares about the whys and wherefores: I’ll be there and there is nowhere I’d rather be tonight or tomorrow night.

A quick take on Manny being Manny. The best way I can articulate what fans were fortunate enough to experience during the recent Red Sox renaissance (that he and Pedro were largely responsible for) is: Manny being Manny.

No Manny, no World Series. In ’04 or ’07. There is so much to say about this (mostly) ebullient goofball who happened to be one of the best hitters in baseball history –and I’ll look forward to saying them at some point. For now, I’ll just reiterate that despite the occasional malingering and inscrutable self-defeating silliness, he was truly a joy to watch and I genuinely relished every single at-bat. Just watching the man in the box was something to savor; not many players you can say that about. And then, there was the type of drama he was capable of producing on the field. The type of drama that mattered.

My old man asked me if I thought Manny would get cheered or jeered in his first plate appearance Friday night. I told him I predict he’ll get a long, loud standing ovation. For all the fans (uber-hardcore or pink-hatted fair-weather) who –for whatever reason– think that the way he left town or the well-documented nonsense he initiated outweighs the considerable blessings he brought to Beantown, then sit on your hands and stew in your own bile. I know I will be on my feet and saluting the dude who brought as much delight to me as any other athlete did since I was a teenage diehard who bled Celtic green.

But George Mason had one of the best Cinderella stories of all time. OF ALL TIME!

On March 29, 2006 here is what I wrote:

Wow.
Talk about clichés.
Okay, let’s talk about clichés.
When it is impossible to avoid cliché (because usually you want to do anything you can to avoid cliché, unless you don’t know better, in which case you may be a cliché without ever knowing it and ignorance, of course, is bliss), you are usually in that rare territory that transcends cliché, a place that obviates cliché, you are experiencing something bordering on sublime, the type of feeling that compels forced and fake imitation. In other words, cliché.
So how to talk about GMU’s improbable (impossible? inconceivable?) run to the final four. Can there be occasions that are so cliché that they get beyond cliché, exploding cliché, requiring a reevaluation of how clichés are classified and what they are capable of inspiring?
Enough.
Let’s put it another way: the GMU Patriots are in the fucking FINAL FOUR!If you watch college basketball, you love this story; if you watch sports you love this story. If you don’t love sports, that’s okay, you can get behind the underdog. If you don’t love underdogs then you are a Republican…But seriously, this is too serious to make light of, and it truly transcends politics.  And sports.  And what can (and should) usually be shrugged off as the sophomoric rituals of collegiate competition. This is the real deal. Even if you are not an alumnus the bandwagon is big enough: hop on and enjoy this ride.

Nice shirts, huh? That is entirely the inspired result of Nathan Naylor (the hirsute man in the middle) and his typical genius. See, even before Mason went to the Final Four, they had already done the unthinkable. They won a game. Against Michigan State. And then they won another game. Against UNC. The, um, defending champions. Not to put too fine a point on it or anything, but…they beat the defending NCAA champions. So this was already one of the great, improbable stories in college sports (in all sports?) history. Let’s put this in better perspective: GMU just advancing to the Sweet Sixteen would certainly be one of the all-time great tournament stories. But putting the madness in March, they beat two of the powerhouses of college hoops to get there. So Naylor (the man I first met on the quad at GMU at a public screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in 1988) had his stroke of genius and quickly got the t-shirts made.

Now, if only we could get to one of these games, since (the story only gets more improbable, even on personal levels) the next part of the tournament just happened to be taking place…in Washington D.C. That is where the other visionary in that picture, Shieldsy (Mike Shields) did his part of the heavy lifting to get things to the next level. Long story short: it just happened that he worked for someone based in Washington state, and of course Washington was in the tournament so there were a couple of available tickets…(like I said, the story remains improbable enough without the personal elements, but at the time it really was like the proverbial planets were all aligning and we almost had to question if some of these coincidences were actually happening). Like running into Lamar Butler’s father in the concourse after Mason dispatched Wichita State.

Or running into Lamar Butler after Mason dispatched with U-Conn.

Of course, that didn’t really happen.

My friends and I still have this discussion all the time. It usually follows one of two identical scripts.

Version one: Usually involving any random, unlikely act. As in “That would be crazy; like Mason beating U-Conn or something…”

Version two: Nostalgia tempered with lingering disbelief. “Can we stop for a minute and remember that Mason actually beat U-Conn?” “No they didn’t.” “Ooops, right. My bad. I actually lost control for a second there and deluded myself that Mason beat the best team in the nation that year, on national TV, in one of the most exciting games in tournament history.” And then, for good measure, we’ll turn to the videotape. Yes, it really happened.

Where were you that day? I know where I was. Courtside. About five rows up. We could see the disbelief in the color commentators’ eyes. We could see the panic rising in the face of Billy Packer, that cranky curmudgeon who had infamously whined that a mid-major like GMU had no business being in the tournament. And then doubled down, like a sulking brat, as Mason continued on their improbable run. “Well Billy, I guess it’s safe to say Mason should have been given a bid, huh?” “No, I still don’t think they deserved to be picked.” To say that Mason’s run was considerably sweetened as a tonic to Packer’s killjoy assholery is an understatement along the lines of…well, that Mason’s run was one of the great Cinderella sports stories of all time.

Anyway, we don’t need a play by play. You were there. You saw it.

But do yourself a favor, if you haven’t rewatched in a while, and check out that YouTube clip above. I mean, winning that game was one thing. Winning it in overtime another. The way it went into overtime was another. The way it ended, in overtime, is another still. That whole game is the definition of another thing. The one memory that stands out most of all was the moment right before tip-off. The two teams sauntered out to center court and it hit me like a sobering splash of stagnant water: every single U-Conn player is a full head (or more) taller than every single Mason player. I mean every single player: their center was taller; their forwards were taller; their guards were taller. A lot taller. And realizing that every single starter on U-Conn was a legit NBA draft pick waiting to happen. That is when I turned to Shieldsy and said “Man, we are on national TV. I just hope it’s not truly ugly. It would be a shame to get this far and get run out of the building.”

Of course, even if they had been, it was totally understandable (mid-major teams don’t often fare well against NBA squads), and we had already done more than enough. We kept saying, at the time: this is going to be so great for the university. Not just the basketball program (though each second Mason stayed alive in the tournament was priceless exposure and hype for Coach Jim Larranaga to utilize), but the entire school. Nothing would ever be the same again, and everyone knew it.

Too bad it never happened. There is no way that happened.

Except it did happen.

I was there. And so were you.

I saw it.

And so did you.

Opening day arrives at last.

Winter is finally over.

Life is good.

Yankees in Fenway? That’s the way to do it.

Pedro throwing out the first pitch? Epic.

Oh, and the Sox won the game.

Life is good.

Play ball!

Bonus video: this is bliss.

Nomah.

No mas.

It’s fantastic to see Garciaparra, and the Red Sox brass, both burying the sharpened Louisville Slugger and letting No. 5 retire as a Red Sox. Hard to believe it now, but there was a time (about a decade ago) when two things seemed certain: Nomar was never leaving Boston and he was headed to the Hall of Fame. As we now know, injuries, declined production (with the bat and the glove) and a prolonged and excessively bitter break-up (first with the front office, then the team, then the town) made him merely a once-great player who put together a career most pros would kill to copy.

Here’s the thing that a lot of people, even some Red Sox fans (so of course I’m not counting the pink-hatted posers who decided it was cool to be a Sox fan circa 2004: it was cool, especially if you’d spent your previous life –and everything prior to 10/27/2004 was a previous life for any real Red Sox fan– on that peculiar rollercoaster, the one that took years and sometimes decades to get to the top and then, like Wile E. Coyote falling off a cliff, would drop down into a fresh new Hell) may not recall: with the exception of Pedro Martinez and Manny Ramirez, Nomar didn’t just play for the Red Sox; he was not merely the star of the Red Sox; Nomar was the Red Sox.

In between the late ’80s and the early ’00s, the Sox sucked. Even teams that went to the playoffs weren’t really going anywhere. And everyone knew it (especially the other teams). Seriously. After 1986, there was not a single playoff run (if you can call one-and-done series runs) where I actually believed, much less hoped, that the Sox actually had a chance to win the World Series. Nevermind the whole “curse” thing; the teams were just never deep enough to scare anyone. Of course that changed in a big way in 2003 (that team could and should have won it all, but if they had not failed they very possibly would not have set themselves up to be such a solid team going forward, which seems more true than ever in hindsight, and is easier to swallow now that the team has claimed two world championships).

But before 2003, Nomar was it.

Don’t get me wrong, Pedro was GOD, but even Petey only played once every five days. In terms of the one steady presence that bridged the bad old days and the glorious postscript that is still unfolding, Nomar was the guy. (And real fans should realize the debt we owe these two, as well as Manny, can never be repaid or properly appreciated: these three players made the Red Sox a half-way respectable franchise for the first time, arguably, since the 1986 season, and never forget there were some ugly years in between the late ’70s and that season-that-almost-was.) These guys unified the fans and sold merchandise in the slowly, but steadily growing Red Sox Nation.

And here’s the thing: it wasn’t just that Nomar was our all-star. Certainly, that was great and he was a blessing that any franchise could covet. He was the real deal: he played hard and he played hurt, and nobody who knows anything about the game would argue that Nomah did not give 100% every single outing. Of course it’s a cliche, but the unfortunate fact of the matter is that those players are increasingly rare (outside of the NHL, anyway) and will elevate a franchise just like a team cancer can kill one.

He was, to use another inevitable cliche, discernibly old school. But he was also contemporary, and he had his signature quirk that endeared him for the ages. You remember the ritual. The whole OCD thing with the batting gloves. Needless to say, that compulsion became less cute once he stopped producing (but fortunately, he was already playing for other teams at that point!).

Yes, he was wary with the media, but trust me, if you had to deal with this douchebag every day, you’d be wary. And quite possibly violent. (And speaking of that shit-stirring punk, suffice it to say he lowered himself to the occasion and managed to be both petty and graceless regarding Nomar’s return.) Yes, he burned his bridges to get out of town, and that blew up in his face when he ended up having to watch the team he helped create make it to the promised land without him. Stop and think about that for a moment: we’re talking real Promethean type shit here. Every time he had to watch a replay of that final out on 10/27/2004, it was like that cosmic eagle taking another bite out of his liver. Just like every replay of Bucky Dent, or Bill Buckner, or Aaron Boone sent a psychic shock down the spine of every Sox fan…up until 10/27/2004. Can you say full circle?

The moral of the story? We are, of course, playthings of the Gods, and always have been. Batter up!

But all’s well that ends well. I’m not entirely sure what that even means, or is meant to mean. But I think it can safely be applied to situations like this. Nomar, having already been embraced by Boston (see video clip above), got to give hugs and smiles and transition into his new life as a broadcaster (yes, the same dude who once put red tape around his locker area to keep pesky reporters away; some might see hypocrisy, I choose to see irony –and a little irony never hurt anyone). I used to genuinely wonder, and worry, if Nomar had found (or could ever find) peace considering the way things ended. Fortunately, they had not yet ended. Now they have, and everyone can be happy.

And so I want to celebrate one of the best, most beloved and –in many ways– unappreciated players who patrolled the sacred grounds at Fenway.

Welcome home Nomah.

When Reggie Jackson ruled The Big Apple he famously referred to himself as “the straw that stirs the drink.”

Dan Shaughnessy, the controversial columnist for The Boston Globe, has never been loved by many, and he has long been loathed by more than a few (fans and especially players).

Here is a guy who could not complain enough when the team was filled with “characters” like Manny, Damon, Millar and especially Schilling. Now? Arguably they’ve bid adieu to some distractions (Damon, Lugo) and ran out of rope with malcontents (Manny) and did their best to retain delusional free agents (Jason Bay) and picked up gamers who do their talking on the field (Beltre, Lackey) and are now comprised, practically top to bottom, of winners. So who shows up today, whining that the team has become bland? Guess who.

Shaughessy has officially become the anti-Reggie Jackson: he is the stick that stirs the shit.

In recent weeks he has predicted that the upcoming Josh Beckett contract negotiations will end badly. He has giddily wondered if Big Papi is done and how bitter Mike Lowell will be in 2010. He has happily jumped on the naysayer bandwagon about how poor the team’s offensive production is likely to be (as in: they didn’t/couldn’t land a big bomber in the offseason; of course, the song was near the top in runs scored last year so this sudden teeth-gnashing about run production is hysterical at best). He has, in short, been a man in frantic search of a controversy.

I know, you might say. This is what columnists do; it’s their job. Nevermind the fact that this is a poor commentary on what newspaper writers do these days. The point here is that Shaughnessy is slowly but irrevocably being exposed as the most opportunistic of hypocrites. He made a career out of lamenting/celebrating “the Curse of the Bambino”, and then sort of tolerating the good times (for non-fans or people not paying attention, The Red Sox have been to the postseason every season but one since 2003, winning two World Series in the process) but breathlessly pointing out every hiccup and hurt feeling. And, when there was not enough readymade action, he would always foment some. It’s what he lived for. A guy who could not say enough bad things about Manny or Curt, he now invokes both as being the exact type of flavor the team now lacks. The mind boggles. But it really doesn’t. This is Shaughnessy. This is what he does.

Look: if the team is merely a perennial playoff contender who steers clear of me-first prima donnas, I will speak for old school Sox fans everywhere by saying, Great! If there was one thing real fans could have done without the last decade or so, it was the proliferation of pink hat-wearing bandwagon jumpers. It’s safe to assume that so long as the team continues to win, this element will happily attach themselves, but if some of them (per Shaughnessy’s projections) fall by the wayside, all the better. Besides, they’ve really been rooting for the wrong team anyway: if you want bottomless pocketed ownership and me-first mercenaries, there is a team that just opened a very big stadium in the Bronx. In fact, it’s in the shadow of the old stadium Reggie Jackson used to enliven. Maybe that’s the same spot Shaughnessy should have been all these years.

When I was growing up, Larry Bird was by far my favorite athlete. His capacity for heroics, it often seemed, was limitless. I’ve celebrated that love affair here and here.

When I became a man I put away childish things. But as any adult knows, sports are anything but childish.

Over the years, I’ve admired and adored a great many athletes, including Olaf Kolzig, Curt Schilling, Pedro Martinez and (semi) hometown hero Cal Ripken Jr. But there has not been a single athlete, since Bird, who has so regularly made me giddy, proud and more than occasionally ecstatic.

Which brings me to Alexander Ovechkin, the man who is quite possibly the best leader on any sports team right now. In fact, he’s quickly making a case for being the best athlete in any sport (and I say that knowing the world is currently graced by geniuses named Kobe, Lebron, Peyton and Pujols). I have never seen a player carry a team so consistently, so willingly, so happily.

Above everything else, I cherish Alexander Ovechkin for the way he is able to make me feel like a little kid almost every time I watch him. And like all the truly elite players of any era, he elevates his game and rises to the occasion when the stakes ae highest and the lights brightest.

D.C. is slowly and steadily beginning to realize (the hockey fans –all ten of us– knew right away) that he is a once-in-a-lifetime type franchise player that you can, and should, build a dynasty around. Surpassing Caps fans’ highest expectations, Leonsis, McPhee and Co. have done exactly that. Like Bird, Ovie has taken a joke of a team and turned it around almost single handedly. That, along with the depth of an excellent farm system, has stocked this team with young, hungry and extremely capable players. To this point Ovie has done everything: Rookie of the Year, MVP, scoring leader. Everything except hoisting the Stanley Cup (that may well have happened last year had it not been for eternal Achilles Heel the Pittsburgh Penguins). Is this going to be the year? Maybe. Not for nothing are the Capitals the team with the most points in the NHL, an achievement this organization has never experienced this late in a season. They are, in my estimation, one surly and veteran defenseman away from being the team to beat this spring (trade deadline acquisition?), but whether they do it this year or not, it is all but a certainty that they will be contenders for the forseeable future. Imagine that! Any fan of any team, in almost any city, knows not to take this for granted. After the empty and sobering stretch of futility our teams have suffered since the Redskins last got a ring (January 1992!), many local sports fans know enough to celebrate this good fortune.

All of that would almost be academic if Ovechkin was not so exhilarating to watch. He doesn’t just win (!), he does so in dramatic and often inimitable fashion. Just look at what he did today, against arch-nemesis Pittsburgh, to keep the winning streak alive (!!). This is not a man we are watching anymore; he has become a combination of Santa Claus, Superman and Peter Pan. I’m a grown man and have learned not to hope for the impossible or pray for divine intervention. Fortunately, the player who may end up being the best athlete ever keeps giving us all things we don’t even think to ask for.