It happened during the most deserted hours of the early morning of October 28th. Across the country, people slept, overnight shifts ended, and Red Sox fans celebrated. With tired bodies and teary eyes, we willed ourselves to stay awake to further enjoy the moment we had waited so long for. Over beer or coffee, sometimes both, we rehashed the game and the series, fearing the end to the day that sleep threatened to bring. High on the adrenaline that only the playoffs can provide, we said something rash, but at the time, we believed it to be true.

"If the Red Sox don't win another World Series for five years, it doesn't matter. If Johnny Damon hits under the Mendoza line next year, so be it. If Mark Bellhorn retires and moves to Amsterdam next year, that's ok."

We were drunk on Tequila and the Red Sox; at that moment, the future didn't matter. We were only interested in living in the present, because let's face it - the Red Sox's present had never been that much of a gift.

But now here we are, eight months later, and our words seem foreign to us. At least, to some of us.

* * *

It's almost July and the Red Sox are in first place in the AL East with a record of 44-32, despite some injuries, including that of pitching ace Curt Schilling. On the surface, there's not much to complain about in Boston this summer. But walk out to the bullpen and take a look around and you might find that things aren't as solid as they seem.

Mike Timlin and Alan Embree are in danger of being Quantrilled due to Francona's lack of trust in the rest of the bullpen. We're still two weeks from the All Star Game, and Mike Timlin has pitched 38.1 innings and Alan Embree has pitched 32.1. To put those numbers in perspective, last year they pitched a total of 76.1 and 52.1, respectively.

And then there is the matter of our closer. Keith Foulke has been less than stellar this season, to say the least. According to Nick Cafardo in today's Globe, "Foulke has an 11.00 ERA in save situations in 2005 -- in 18 innings, he's allowed 29 hits, 22 earned runs, 6 walks, and struck out 12. In non-save situations he has a 1.40 ERA in 19 1/3 innings."

Many think that Theo owes it to the team to go out and find a quality closer - a guy who can be trusted on the mound late in a one run game. No matter what Foulke has done in the past, the bottom line is that he is not the same pitcher this year, so lots of Red Sox fans are ready to say thank you and goodbye to Keith Foulke and welcome a new closer to Fenway. Still, others are steadfast in their dedication to the guy who stood on the mound as the Red Sox became World Champions. They would prefer to see Foulke remain the team's closer, as they trust that if he keeps pitching, eventually he will work through his problems and become the pitcher he was last year.

The fact of the matter is this: when we said that the immediate future of the team was of little consequence, they were the best team in the league. Who were we to think that things would change so quickly? But now that they have, how long are we willing to give these players a pass because of their performances last season?

What most of us didn't realize last October is that the competitive nature of sports infects all of us. No matter how many heartbreaks you suffer, no matter how many times you say, "I hate this team" in a fit of passion, no matter how many times you celebrate a victory, some things never change - we want to see our team succeed. We hope to see them work hard and reap the rewards that come with such an effort. For most lifelong fans, it's impossible to store away your competitive fire. If it was possible, we would watch each night through distant eyes, enjoying the wins and quickly dismissing the losses. But for those of us who live and breathe the game, that's not an option.

Will Keith Foulke be relegated to the role of middle reliever while Theo works his magic to bring a solid closer to Boston? Or, will Theo, like so many fans, stand by the reliever that shut the door on the Cardinals in October and hope that his mechanics return to normal?

I, for one, am hoping to see Theo show the baseball world the same kind of fortitude he exhibited when he traded Nomar and bring in an effective closer. I appreciate everything Keith Foulke did in the 2004 postseason, and I will never forget the way I felt when he lobbed the ball to Mientkiewicz at first. But this is a new season. And I want to see the Boston Red Sox win a World Series. Again.

You Are The Good Things

1. Spoon live at the Gypsy Tea Room last Friday night. This was, without a doubt, the best Spoon show I've ever seen. It was the biggest crowd they've ever drawn in Dallas, and the band was clearly feeding off their energy. They took the stage and launched into a series of their finest songs from their finest album, Girls Can Tell, and their latest, Gimme Fiction. Once they had the crowd whipped into a frenzy, they expanded their set to include older material, as well as the better songs off of Kill The Moonlight. From beginning to end, it was a brilliantly crafted setlist. As expected, Britt Daniel continues to be the sexiest frontman of any currently existing rock band. The man has a killer voice and unlike so many of the dull indie bands floating around today, he isn't afraid to shake his ass onstage. And then, after much anticipation, they played I Turn My Camera On, which is the best thing to happen to rock-n-roll seduction since Depeche Mode, and it did not disappoint. They should have handed out vibrators at the door.

2. Texas Rangers vs Anaheim Angels. (They will always be the Anaheim Angels.) Our department at work is playing hooky on Thursday to watch these two teams square off in a rare Texas day game. Sun, beer, baseball...it's no 7am-5pm in a cubicle, but I think I'll manage. Plus, hello Orlando Cabrera!

3. The 6-0 roadtrip. Meanwhile, the Tankees are still earning their nickname and the Orioles have taken a teamwide field trip to the DL. Hopefully the Sox's stellar play will continue through next weekend. Speaking of...

4. July 4, 5, 6 - Red Sox at Texas. Your truly will be in attendance, and the Sox have two horrible performances in Chicago to make up for. I demand a sweep.

5. Rumors are swirling in Philly that the Flyers are interested in stealing disgruntled free agent Scott Neidermeyer away from the Devils. As someone who has uttered many a vulgarity in his general direction over the years, my fingers - and toes - are crossed.

6. The Baxter

Not long ago, a blog I read posted a link to the Rules of the Man Hug. It's not exactly breaking news that the Boston Red Sox aren't very good at following fashion, grooming, or proper base running rules. Here are a few more they break with alarming and fantastic regularity.

1. Don't hug too long. Men should hug for a maximum of three seconds. The only exception to this is if someone has recently died ... in your arms. A fresh corpse can be hugged long enough to place him gently on the sidewalk.

Oops!



2. Don't nuzzle. Lightly nibbling the other man's neck or earlobe is expressly forbidden, unless you are a cannibal.

Guilty!



And again!




3. Allow large men to crush your ribcage. Fat guys often dole out punishing, vise-like hugs, lifting you from the ground and squeezing you until you fart ... out your ears.

Uh oh!



4. Deliver two pats on the back if things get weird. A hug followed by two pats on the back is a code, representing the two testicles. It says, "I love you, but not in the queer way. I've still got both my yams."

Uh, no pats on the back here!



5. Do not hug another man from behind. The only exception is if you are performing anal sex on him. But even then, you know, it's kind of overly vulnerable.

Check!

Sometimes the further you get from something, the more clearly you can see it. Since I can remember, I've defended the city of Philadelphia and its negative reputation. "We're not miserable, we're just frustrated," I'd say. "We're not boobirds, we're just demanding."

But now, I'm not so sure.

* * * *

When I went to Boston for college, I scoffed at the idea that I might have a Philadelphia accent. I sound just like everyone else, I thought. My first semester, I was enrolled in a class called Voice and Articulation, meant to rid us of our accents and teach us to speak like sophisticated adults. By the end of the semester, the Philadelphia accent that I never realized I had was long gone. I learned to say 'water' instead of 'wooder' and ditched the whiny O sound that most Pennsylvanians use. Now, when I return to my birth city, I notice the overwhelming accent in my parents and can't believe I ever spoke like that.

Just as it took me moving six hours away to notice my accent, it took me moving halfway across the country to realize that generally speaking, Philadelphia is a negative city. Earlier this week, the Philadephia sports radio station that I grew up listening to creeped into the 21st century and began to broadcast on the Internet. Each morning, I've tuned in, hoping to hear a bit of the witty sarcastic banter I've grown to miss. Instead, I was greeted with Phillies talk ("Charlie Manuel sucks!"), basketball talk ("Larry Brown still sucks!"), and Curt Schilling talk ("Schilling has always sucked!").

The Phillies are in second place in the NL East and fourth in the entire NL (hello, Wild Card). They've got excellent young players like Jimmy Rollins, Chase Utley, and Brett Myers along with veterans Billy Wagner, Jim Thome, Kenny Lofton, and Bobby Abreu. Yet, listening to the radio, you'd think that Charlie Manuel was the worst manager in the MLB and that the Phillies were still underachieving.

The Red Sox are in town this weekend for a three-game series, which means Terry Francona is returning to the city that loves to hate him. The city's hatred for Francona has been well documented. The tire slashing, the threats of physical violence, the constant shower of boos at the Ballpark - I always dismissed those as acts of the minority of idiots that each sports city can claim. But listening now, I'm amazed at how unintelligent and pathetic their constant negativity makes them seem.

With the World Champion Red Sox preparing to play their first games at the Bank, talk of the series has taken over the Philadelphia airwaves this morning. Show hosts are furious with Francona's recent comments to the Boston Globe regarding Geno's Steaks. They're calling Schilling a gutless fake puke, which they've called him since his last season in Philadelphia. Gutless? Really? I know a bloody sock that would beg to differ.

Listening to the radio, to the voices I grew up with, I'm embarassed for the city I most identify with. Hearing people I have always defended refer to the manager who brought a World Series to Boston for the first time in 86 years as a "moron" is both enfuriating and heartbreaking.

* * * *

I'm often torn between Boston and Philadelphia as a little piece of my heart remains in each. Although I spent 18 years in one and just four in the other, I call both of those cities home. When it comes to sports, I prefer for the two cities to keep their distance, because while I am only a fan of the Eagles, Flyers, Sixers, and Sox, I don't have it in me to root against a team from either city (last year's Super Bowl not included). And while I may not have been much of a Phillies fan in my youth, reality is, they are the team I watch if the Sox are not on TV, and they are the team I support if the Red Sox are not in the running. The difference is, I hope the Phillies win because I want the people of Philadelphia to be happy; I root for the Sox because I am emotionally attached to that beautiful crimson B that graces their caps. I expect this weekend's viewing to be difficult, as I dread having to cheer against a team that plays on my beloved Broad Street. But I must cheer for the Red Sox because they are with whom my heart lies.

Similarly, I must, in this one case, point out that while I love my suffering bretheren in Philadelphia, they are in the wrong in this instance. Here's to hoping that they can remember how to love baseball this weekend.

While I'm at it, here's to hoping Terry Francona wears his shiny new World Series ring to Citizens Bank Park tonight. And if he should wear it on his middle finger? Well, I certainly wouldn't blame him.

I love words. I have always loved words. I love a good sentence, where each words flows smoothly to the next. Sometimes, nothing makes me happier than sitting at my computer for a couple of hours, losing myself in my writing. Even when I was a little girl, writing gave me the power to transport to any time or place that my heart desired. Yes, writing has always been a favorite hobby of mine, and I'm always looking for any excuse to put my thoughts into words and my words onto paper.

But sometimes, every once in a while, writing isn't necessary when you have a picture like this.

Simmons has "More Cowbell," McSweeney's has "Recommendations." I've combined the two to bring you "Random Notes and Suggestions That You Probably Don't Care About But That I Will Write About Anyway." Not quite as catchy a title, but I'm practicing writing a column for which I'm being paid by the word.
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"I don't have to play for the Eagles." - Terrell Owens, last week, regarding the current status of his hold out.

TO, you are dead to me. Good riddance. *

(*I withhold the right to change this opinion on the offchance the Owens returns to the Birds and leads them to a second straight Super Bowl. But I'm not holding my breath.)
____________________________________

Introducing the future most-popular player in Philadelphia sports.



Mike Costanzo, recent Phillies draft pick, was born and raised in Philly. He wore a Phillies jacket home from the hospital the day he was born. As a player, he describes himself as a hustler, a word which will instantly win hearts in Philly.

And then there's this:

"I can't wait to play for the Phillies," Costanzo said. "Hopefully, I'll be signed by tomorrow. I'm not pulling a J.D. Drew. I'm not doing that to this team or this city."

But, wait - I'm not done yet. Mike also sounded off on the subject of Chickie and Pete's, a Philly institution and my personal favorite restraurant in the city:

"Every time I get off the plane from college, I go there," Mike said. "Crab fries and mussels."

Crab fries and mussels!! Crab fries and mussels!!

Now I'm homesick. And hungry.
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What is ten times funnier than the Simpsons ever was? The Family Guy. If you're not watching it every Sunday night, you need to be forced to watch nothing but Chris Berman sportscasts until you come to your senses.
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Sweet Potatoes. They're good for you and they taste like candy. Score!
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Don Cheadle. He's the Mike Sweeney of Hollywood. How did Hotel Rwanda not sweep the Oscars?
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Sarsparilla. On the East Coast, we had Birch Beer. Sarsparilla is the South's version, and is identical except that it's made with sassafrass instead of the bark of a birch tree. Either way, their tastes are nearly identical and should be consumed immediately. Yum.
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Nick Hornby's newest novel, A Long Way Down. Only twenty pages in and I'm hooked. Johnny Depp has already purchased its film rights, which all but guarantees another excellent Hornby book-to-movie. (Yes, I liked both version of Fever Pitch. Shut up about that already.)
____________________________________

Johnny Damon, Melvin Mora and Derrek Lee. They are currently the only reasons my fantasy baseball team has any points at all. Those boys are en feugo....

unlike Tim Hudson. Huddy, I still love you in the you-can-come-over-anytime way, but you are absolutely destroying my ERA and WHIP. Perhaps it's time for another tattoo to reverse your anti-mojo.
____________________________________

Speaking of Johnny Damon, remember all of those people who said that his off-season activities were sure to signal a decline in performance this season? They wrote column after column about how his appearances on talk shows, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, and the cover of Entertainment would take his focus off the game.

Damon is currently batting .346 (second in the AL) with an OBP of .396, a SLG of .476, and an OPS of .869.

Ahem.
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Dallas Darkroom. They have photography classes for beginners through advanced, and they're not that expensive. I will do this this summer.

Things That Must Stop Immediately Or I Will Peel My Toenails Off With Rusty Pliers

1. Newspapers, blogs, and tabloids must stop using Keith Foulke's last name in witty headlines instead of the word "Fuck." We get it. They sound similar. Now come up with something new.

2. People must stop talking about the Michael Jackson case. You weren't there, you don't know what happened. You don't have to have an opinion on everything, ok? Now shut up and go back to watching American Idol. Speaking of...

3. Reality TV must go the way of the pogo ball, slap bracelets, and crimped hair. Are people really dumb enough to still be watching this crap?

4. Statheads should stop arguing that it is actually a good thing that Mark Bellhorn strikes out so much because hey - a K is better than a GIDP. This is the most moronic reasoning I have ever heard. You sound like assholes. Stop.

5. The winning combination of housewives, cell phones, & SUVs. Attention, ladies: hang up the phone, trade in the Hummer for a Camry, and learn how to drive.

The famous red marquee outside Wrigley.



The scoreboard before Friday's game - before the damage was done.



The infamous ivy-covered outfield wall.



Our view on Friday afternoon...



and our even better view on Saturday.



Chris Chelios and Jack O'Callahan leading Wrigley in Take Me Out To The Ball Game (they're in the window under the Harry Carey caricature)

It doesn't get any better than this. Cubs vs Red Sox for the first time since 1918. Cubs vs Red Sox for the first time ever in Wrigley Field. This past Friday, as the members of the two most storied franchises in professional sports stood on the lush grass at Wrigley Field for batting practice, I made my way through the throngs of sweaty fans waiting for tickets and found myself standing directly under the famous red marquee. After taking the obligitory tourist photos, I stood for a few seconds in an attempt to freeze the moment into my memory, lest it ever be forgotten. After presenting my treasured game ticket, I entered the 91 year-old park, wearing a Bill Mueller t-shirt and an awed smile, and welcomed the goosebumps that appeared on my soon-to-be sunburnt arms. My feet moved across the adobe brick concourse touched by so many before me, and before I knew it, I had my first glimpse of the field.

The ivy-covered outfield walls, the hand-operated scoreboard, the bleacher seats on top of neighboring buildings; we've all seen it on TV a hundred times before. But standing there at the top of the stairs above third base, the field came to life. Under the bright blue sky and the blinding orange sun, Wrigley was a sea of green. From the thick infield grass to the foot of the infamous outfield wall that is bathed in ivy, Wrigley is a sight to behold.

We moved closer, unconscious of our movements and unable to fight the pull of the field. The Red Sox were in the middle of BP, so we joined a large group of fans who had gathered along the left field line to watch. My eyes travelled from sight to sight - from the centerfield scoreboard to the Wrigleyville rooftops to the jampacked bleachers. Not an advertisement in sight, Wrigley is truly the last old-school ballpark. Each scene looks like a snapshot from centuries ago, when our ancestors sat in the very same seats to watch players like Hack Wilson and Ernie Banks.

Once the game began, the heat was sweltering and the mood was festive. Details of the actual game need not be repeated, as the outcomes were most unfavorable to my visiting Red Sox, though there were several highlights that bear remembering.

I've never been a big fan of Take Me Out To The Ball Game, as Fenway's 8th inning Sweet Caroline tradition has always been more of an emotional favorite. But seeing every single person on their feet at Wrigley, singing along to baseball's oldest song, was most definitely chill-inducing. There to lead the singing from high atop Wrigley in the broadcast booth window were Chris Chelios (former Chicago Blackhawk and current Detroit Red Wing) and Jack O'Callahan of the 1980 US Hockey Gold Medal team (and former BU student and Sox fan). Chelios, wearing a Cubs hat, and O'Callahan, a Sox hat, led the overheated and overexcited fans in a rousing rendition of the song made so famous by Harry Carey. As they sang "root, root, root for the home team," O'Callahan raised his voice and shouted "root, root, root for the RED SOX," much to the enjoyment of the hoardes of Sox fans in the ballpark.

Deciding one day at Wrigley simply wasn't enough, we returned the following morning, intent to stand in the crowded ticket lines until game time in case any additional tickets became available. The sun was strong and the air was thick, but standing underneath the Cubs' old red marquee with the aniticpation of taking in an afternoon baseball game is not a bad way to spend a morning. A half hour before the first pitch the ticket windows finally opened and ten minutes later, we were the proud owners of tickets 35 rows behind home plate. Elated, we raced into the park, anxious to enjoy as much time in Wrigley as possible. Saturday's game was much more competitive than the previous day's, but it did not change the feeling of comraderie in the stands.

For the entire weekend, the seats at Wrigley were packed with Sox fans, Cubs fans, and baseball fans who had come from California, Boston, Kentucky, Texas, or the suburbs of Chicago to celebrate the meeting of two baseball teams with rich histories. Unlike the Yankees/Red Sox rivalry or the Cubs/White Sox crosstown classics, there were no hard feelings in the stands. The two most written-about fan bases in professional sports have often felt like brothers: twins joined at their heartbroken pasts. When the Red Sox won the World Series last year, many Cubs fans felt that a torch had been passed. Similarly, most Sox fans now hope to see the Cubs win a World Series, so that their fans may experience what we were all lucky to live through last October. It was a weekend of meeting new friends who felt like old family, all of us united by our love of the game.

Saturday, June 11th. Bottom of the ninth, the Cubs lead has been cut to one run, Trot Nixon at the plate, 2 outs. Cubs fans on their feet, Sox fans on their feet. The building was electric, and while everyone wanted to walk away their team the victor, we were really all cheering for the same thing.

The first kiss. The first time you rode a bike without training wheels or dad's hand on the backseat. The moment you realized you were in love. The first time you heard a record that changed your life. The first heartbreak.

Most of us can pinpoint these significant memories to a single moment, flashes of importance in an otherwise blurry past. Similarly, all of the characteristics that make us who we are - each can be traced back to a single event over the course of our lives. Our loves, our hobbies, our passions - they live in us, a seed planted at birth and nurtured over time by personal experience.

But some things, our love of particular sports teams, for example, are often attributed to parental guidance and the flow of bloodlines instead of influential childhood experiences. This seems odd, given their constant role in our lives. To paraphrase Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch, how many things are you still passionate about that you have loved since you were seven?

Curious about the history of my greatest passion, I've spent a bit of time trying to pinpoint the exact moment or event that is responsible for my emotional attachment to each of my sports teams.

The first team I fell head over heels in love with was the Philadelphia Flyers. I was born into a family that was Jewish by blood, hockey fans by choice. It was a religion in our house since before I was born, with my parents having Flyers season tickets - third row, behind the goal - for over 30 years. My earliest memories involve leaving notes for my dad by the front door before I went to sleep on game nights. When he arrived home from each game, he would write down the winner and the score, and leave it by my bed so I would find it in the morning. I remember begging my parents to take me to a game and then refusing, worried that the puck hitting the glass two feet in front of our seats would scare me. Years of begging finally paid off, because on January 17, 1986, my parents took their 6 year-old daughter to her very first Flyers game.

My memories of the game are fuzzy. The Islanders were in town, and looking back over the box score, I wish I could remember what it was like to watch Mike Bossy, Bryan Trottier, and Denis Potvin in person. It was a close game, with the score tied at three midway through the third period. I remember being in awe of the spectacle before me: the bright lights, the non-stop movement on the ice, the look of fierce determination on the faces of the players just a couple of feet in front of me, and the look of pure desire, passion, frustration on the faces of the fans around me. 10...9...8... As the clocked ticked down, my parents explained that I was about to see my very first overtime game. 4....3....2...

And then it happened. Trottier scored the game winning goal at 19:59 of regulation. The air was immediately sucked out of the Spectrum, and fans dejectedly filed out, shoulders slumped and eyes glazed over. I couldn't yet grasp the meaning of offsides or a two-line pass, but I had watched enough hockey to know that I was devastated. One second. The Flyers had come one second away from a five minute sudden death overtime, the most exciting facet of any sport, and instead, skated off the ice losers. From that moment, my heart has bled orange and black, and they remain my biggest sports passion. If only I had known, all those years ago, how accurately the final five seconds of that game would come to represent my future as a Flyers fan.

Growing up in a hockey-obsessed house, there wasn't a lot of time leftover for basketball. My parents rarely watched the Sixers, so basketball simply wasn't something that registered high on my scale of importance as a little girl. I went through a brief Mark Price phase in junior high, tuning in each year to watch the Cavs get bounced from the playoffs by the Jordan-led Bulls. It's safe to say that, growing up during a long dry spell in Philadelphia basketball, I never truly understood the beauty of well-played basketball. Then came 1996; then came Allen Iverson. Since the day he was drafted, basketball has been a new sport to me. While I'm still not a fan of the current style of basketball the NBA produces, watching Iverson play for the last 9 seasons has turned me on to just how enjoyable basketball can be. As I've written so many times before, I want nothing more than for the Sixers to win a championship so that Allen Iverson finally receives the credit he deserves. Tattoos, offensive lyrics, a troubled past - these should not be the things that define that most entertaining basketball player I've ever been lucky enough to watch.

My memories of falling in love with the Eagles are scattered, like found photographs randomly plucked from a photo album that spans decades. I have trouble pinpointing the moment I became a fan and yet sadly, it is with ease that I can recall the first time I uttered the words, "Cowboys Suck." Eagles fans are united by their love of their team and their hatred of the Dallas Cowboys. Children are taught that green is good and the star is the enemy. So many mornings were spent sitting on the school bus on Monday mornings, mourning yet another Eagles loss to the Cowboys the day before. There were so many dreadful Eagles teams during those years; the happy memories are few and far between. Until recently, my strongest Eagles memories were negative. The premature death of Jerome Brown in 1992. Randall Cunningham winning the Quarterback Challenge each and every year, but not being able to lead the talent-handicapped Eagles to the promised land. Norman Braman's dedication to mediocrity. Then, Jeffrey Lurie bought the team in 1994, and everything changed. 5 years later, Donovan McNabb was drafted, and the Eagles became a different team. The current Eagles teams share very little with the teams of my childhood. The logos are different, the colors are different, the ownership is different, the attitude is different. This is one case in which good-old-day syndrome is non-existant, and for good reason. The future of the Eagles is much brighter now that it was in the 80s and early 90s, and one thing is for sure...Eagles fans are not looking back.

The Philadelphia Phillies are the poorest performing professional sports team in the last decade. They've been long handicapped by questionable management, poor ownership, an atrocious stadium, and, as a result, apathetic fans. In 1993, out of nowhere, the formerly last-place Phillies did something incredible - they defeated their then-rival, the talented Atlanta Braves, and went to the World Series. That entire season, Phillies fever was high as that collection of sloppy spares won game after game. As I've written before, that team of misfits was the perfect representation of the city of Philadelphia, and the perfect team for a then 14 year-old girl who felt like a misfit surrounded by preppy girls and cheerleaders in her brand new high school. We identified with them, all of us for different reasons, and though it never really felt like they had a chance to defeat the uber-talented Toronto Blue Jays, they took us all on quite a ride. After Joe Carter's Game 6 walk-off homerun, the Phillies disappeared into obscurity, turning in losing season after losing season. The ownership let star players leave, refused to sign big paychecks, and seemingly did everything in their power to ensure that fans stayed away from the Vet.

Meanwhile, I moved to Boston for college in September of 1997, and immediately became friends with several Boston natives. As soon as the weather improved, they took me to my first Red Sox game. Pedro Martinez struck out 15 as the Red Sox defeated the Mariners and immediately, I was hooked. There was a passion in Fenway Park that day I hadn't ever seen at a baseball game. This game was their religion, much as hockey was mine, and I instantly identified with these complete strangers. The playoffs of 1999 are my first strong Red Sox memory; the incredible Indians series, flooding Boylston Street to celebrate when they advanced to the ALCS, Chuck Knoblauch's phantom tag and the heartbreaking loss to the Yankees. You know the rest of the story.


The Flyers, the Eagles, the Sixers, the Red Sox. Tracing the lifelines of my four passions, I discovered that most of my earliest memories were of random players, regular season games, and other scattered occasions that have since been long forgotten. Every day, every game, new fans are born. All over the country, little boys and little girls attended their first baseball games last night. Thirty years from now, they'll celebrate a victory or mourn a defeat, rarely giving any thought to that first game they attended on a warm June night in 2005.

There are those who dismiss sports as a pasttime, a hobby, something to watch to pass time or escape boredom. Those are the people who don't treasure the memories of their first game, their first Fenway Frank, their first overtime loss.

But I do. Do you?

a cheaper alternative, with similar results, to the current red sox bullpen...

I mean, really...there just aren't any words for how spectacular this is. If anything good can come from your .354 hitting superstar leadoff man hitting the outfield bullpen fence with his face at full speed, this is it.



10 other things that are making me spectacularly happy this week:

1. Derrek Lee. He's the first baseman on my fantasy team, and he's currently in the midst of a hot streak that makes the Orioles' Brian Roberts look like Aaron Boone. He's hitting .389 for the season, including .679 in the last week. He's got 8 straight hits and has reached base each of his last 10 plate appearances. Sweet jesus, this guy is en fuego.

2. Buddy Bell, who started his reign as the Royals Manager by going 3-0. Against the Yankees! Expect a statue erected in Copley Square in Boston by midnight.

3. Big Papi does it again. As I, and my doppleganger, said a couple nights ago, if you were the guy responsible for releasing Ortiz from the Minnesota Twins a few years ago, how would you sleep at night? I mean, this has got to haunt this guy each time he closes his eyes, right?

4. Next week - Chris and I fly to Chicago to see the Sox play at Wrigley for the first time ever. Ever since Mark Prior took a line drive off the elbow, the Cubs haven't lost. Meanwhile, the Sox are playing mediocre ball as of late. There's no telling what kind of game we'll see, but no matter - Cubs vs Red Sox, Wrigley Field, Chicago in June, beer, rooftops, and baseball. Does it get any better?

5. The new house. Moving from Arlington to Dallas was a pain in the ass and has taken up all of my free time, energy, and money. But it was so worth it. Goodbye traffic on I-30, hour long commutes, and suburbia and hello 15 minute drive to work, hardwood floors, and rejuvinated social life.

6. Rumor has it the hockey lockout is close to being history. Expect an overdose on hockey related posts when those boys finally lace up their skates...my withdrawal is reaching frightening levels.

7. TIVO. It's not as good as everyone says it is. It's better.

8. David Sedaris is signing books in Dallas in the middle of June. I'm all over it like Keith Foulke on a vultured win.

9. This lineup composed entirely of fictional characters played by Kevin Costner, courtesy of Rick Paulas, our favorite McSweeney's contributer. I dare you to tell me that there aren't striking similarities between Roy McAvoy and Kevin Millar.

10. Jim O'Brien out, Mo Cheeks in as coach of the Sixers. I may not have posted about it, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten. Granted, they just barely scraped their way into the playoffs last year, but I can't remember ever being this excited about an upcoming basketball season. I don't expect them to challenge the Heat in the conference finals, but if Iverson can play half as well as he did last season and Dalembert and Iguodala mature the way they are expected to, next season should be the most exciting season of Philly hoops in recent memory.

It just wouldn't be Philadelphia without talk of an Eagles holdout.

Seemingly every year, a disgruntled Eagle or two stays home in protest while the rest of the team reports to camp. This year, defensive tackle Corey Simon and star wide receiver Terrell Owens are the guilty parties. Simon feels disrespected by the franchise tag that would earn him $5.13 million this year, and T.O., as has been frequently reported, is still trying to get the front office to rework his poorly negotiated back-loaded contract.

Owens and Simon could stand to learn a lesson from a handful of their teammates. Defensive tackle Hollis Thomas, who spent the last few weeks complaining about his contract negotiations, is present at camp. Jeremiah Trotter signed a five-year deal in March, for less than he was offered by the Chiefs, in order to stay in Philly for the remainder of his career. And a huge sigh of relief was breathed yesterday when Brian Westbrook, the Birds' top running back, reported to camp, ending a mini-holdout and accepting the team's 1-year, $1.43 million offer.

Westbrook was the most important signing of the summer, and when negotiations went poorly, Philly fans expected Westbrook to hold out, skip camp, and eventually end up somewhere else, as has happened so many times with so many Eagles in the past. But Westbrook is different. Two weeks ago, he fired his agent and disappeared for a few days to think about his future. When he returned, he hired Fletcher Smith, the agent who also represents Donovan McNabb. On Smith's recommendation, Westbrook immediately signed the Eagles' tender and reported to camp. Eagles fans are relieved, though ideally, they would have liked to see Westbrook and the Eagles agree to a long term deal, which is something the running back is still looking for. After reporting to camp, this is what Westbrook had to say regarding his negotiations:

"I think I have a better shot of getting a deal done with me here, helping the other players get better as well as myself, and letting the coaching staff know that I'm ready to help our team win a Super Bowl."

Finally, a player with a brain. The Eagles front office has earned the reputation as a stubborn group that will not be bullied by big-name players into paying more money than they feel a player is actually worth. Time after time, players like Duce Staley and Jeremiah Trotter complain, hold out, and end up either making less than they are originally offered or being forced to sign elsewhere, only to regret it later.

Despite the club's track record in player negotions, Owens is still holding out for a new contract. In keeping with the front office's attitude that one player does not make or break a team, several players have expressed their confidence in the team with or without Owens in the lineup.

"I feel that if he plays or not, we definitely have a chance of making it to the Super Bowl and winning it," McNabb said in early May. "That's nothing against T.O. and it's nothing against anybody else. I just feel confident in the guys that we have. With T.O., I think we can do a lot of great things. Without him, I still think we can do a lot of good things."

Hollis Thomas succinctly agreed. "One monkey don't stop no show."

Is it all bullshit? Maybe. Is it posturing? No doubt. It's the players' way of telling Owens that they do not support his selfish behavior. A few months ago, when asked about holding out for a contract renegotiation, McNabb made it very clear that it's not something he would ever consider. "When you sign your name on the dotted line, that's your deal, and that's a decision you have to make."

Football season is now three months away, and with or without Terrell Owens, the Eagles are determined to return to the Super Bowl. The front office and the players are telling T.O.that loud and clear.

Eagles fans everywhere just hope he's listening.