JOHNNY PESKY: THE GREATEST BASEBALL MAN

A great baseball man. During my short, but wonderful journey through baseball, I'd
often hear that phrase tagged on someone in the game who was a baseball lifer, a man
who'd seen it all as either a player, scout, manager, or perhaps, all three.

Rocky Bridges was the first great baseball man I ever met. He played in the Major
Leagues from 1951 to 1961 and made the National League All-Star team in 1958. After
a brief  stint as third base coach, Bridges went back to manage in the minors where he
stayed for the next 21 years.

1989 was his last season in baseball, which  happened to be mine, as well. He managed
the Salem Buccaneers and I played for the Lynchurg Red Sox in the Carolina League.
Bridges was an old-time manager out of central casting with a large beer belly and a wad
of tobacco in his cheek big enough to stuff Chad Johnson's mouth for good. I fondly
remember strands of rinds aching to get out of his mouth as he talked and a jersey
peppered with tobacco stains. Bridges managed more than 2,000 games in the
minor-leagues but never got a shot to do in the big leagues, despite being considered
a "great baseball man."

With all due respect to Bridges, he wasn't half the great "baseball man" that Johnny
Pesky was. Pesky died on Monday at the age of 92. He had become part of the fabric
of the Boston Red Sox a long time ago, having played, coached, and managed the team
during a career that lasted more than 60 years. Think about that. Pesky spent nearly
his entire life in the game an became an iconic figure in New England as a man who
was a Red Sox, through and through. He was everything good about baseball and you
got the feeling that the only way you'd get the Red Sox uniform off Pesky was to hold
him down and peel it off. He loved being a member of the Boston Red Sox.

Pesky's longevity or playing ability didn't make him a Red Sox legend, his loyalty,
kindness, and character did. He loved, and I mean really loved baseball, the Red Sox,
and helping all the players in the game. Pesky had class, dignity, and grace. He became
as much a part of Fenway Park as the pole in right field that bears his name.

I first met Pesky when I was a minor-leaguer in the Red Sox organization in 1988. When
I covered the team 10 years later for a local station, there was Pesky sitting in the dugout
with his fungo bat telling stories about his days being a teammate of Ted Williams. After
fours years in Atlanta, I returned to Boston in 2004 to work for NESN, and there was
Pesky, still in his uniform and fungo bat, still very much part of the Red Sox.

EVERYBODY loved Johnny Pesky. The players, the fans, and the media. He was often
the first person anyone would ever see when they went to work at Fenway and it was
like seeing Santa Claus over and over and it never go old. Pesky wreaked of baseball history
and people would always make a point of getting closer to Pesky just to get a whiff of it.
This is a man who had been teammates with Williams, Dom DiMaggio, and the great
Bobby Doerr. If it happened in baseball, there was a good chance that Pesky had seen
it.

I'll never forget the image of Pesky pulling up the 2004 World Series banner during the
Red Sox home opener the following season. Tears had welled up in his eyes as he pulled
the rope that helped lift the Curse of the Bambino for good and bring pure joy to the faces
of everyone in New England who had suffered through 86 years of heartbreak. Nobody
was happier than Johnny Pesky, though. His team, his franchise, and his true baseball love
had finally won a World Series and he was as much a part of it as David Ortiz.

Johnny Pesky may have died, but his legacy will live on in Red Sox lore, forever. There's
the Pesky Pole, his number 6 has been retired, and those images of Pesky pulling up
the championship banner have been etched in the minds of Red Sox fans and will never
go away.

Johnny Pesky: A true Boston Red Sox and one of the greatest baseball men the game has
ever seen.

THE BIG OLYMPIC DEODORANT

No matter how you carve or Favre it, the world of sports turned into a giant cess pool
over the last four years. It has wreaked of scandal, been soured by selfishness, and
punctuated by sin. There was Tiger's massive infidelity, the Penn State scandal, the
trial of Roger Clemens, LeBron's "Decision",  pictures of Brett's "little Favre", and
the Bernie Fine follies at Syracuse. Porn stars, pedophiles, and philanderers became as
much a part of the  sports pages as the standings and box scores. You'd be hard pressed
to name five feel good stories or players whom you'd want to be a role model for your
child.

The 2012 Olympic games in London have been the giant deodorant that's covered
up the stench that's permeated the sports world over the last few years. They have made
us feel good about sports again and really appreciate the athletes and their remarkable
accomplishments.There are no holdouts, salary demands, or  the crying like Latrell
Sprewell once did because he had to find a way to "feed his family" while making just
$12 million a year.

The Olympic games have been as close to perfect as any international competition we've
seen over the last 25 years. They have made us smile and they have caused tears to well
up in our eyes. Was there a more spine-tingling moment than watching Oscar Pistorius,
a double-amputee runner from South Africa, making the semifinals of the 400-meter
dash with his carbon-fiber blades? Im Dong Hyun of South Korea set an Olympic record
in archery. He is legally blind. How inspiring is that?

The breath of fresh air provided by the Olympics has helped fumigate a sports world
that's been polluted by athletes who have the "disease of me", the malady where
self-centered prima donnas like Terrell Owens, Alex Rodriquez, Brett Favre, and
Dwight Howard try to convince very one that the world revolves around them and
them alone. Olympians like Missy Franklin and Gabby Douglas who are so young,
unaffected, and pure, have been thoroughly refreshing, helping to rinse away the
bad taste left over by a professional sports world filled with malcontents and those
with the "look at me" attitudes.

These Olympic games have made us appreciate the true greatness of Michael Phelps
and Usain Bolt, two athletes with mind-boggling talent, who've proved once again,
they indeed, are the kings of their respective sports. They chased and achieved
Olympic immortality, inspiring us with jaw-dropping performances and celebrating
with the enthusiasm of Little Leaguers who have just captured the World Series title.

To many people, watching sports is fun again, even if they know the outcome of events
long before they hit NBC in prime time. Sure, we can complain about that, but at the
mid-point of what has been a spectacular Olympic games, that's not really something
to make a fuss about. But the the games in London have been the big deodorant the
sports world has long needed, and I'm loving every minute of it.

OSCAR PISTORIUS: IT'S NOT ABOUT THE BLADES

It's not about the carbon blades, nor is it about trying to win a medal in the
Olympics. For Oscar Pistorius, a double-amputee, his performance in London
is all about showing the world and those who are disabled, that heart, courage,
and perseverance can overcome the most daunting obstacles. He laughed in the
face of a life filled with adversity to become a true international hero.

Oh, Pistorious wasn't fast enough to advance to the finals of the 400-meter dash, but
when he crossed the finish line, there wasn't a gold medal big enough to put around
his neck to signify what he has accomplished. He not only made history, becoming the
first double-amputee to compete in the Olympics, but Pistorius gave hope to all those
people who've had to be unfairly labeled as "disabled" or "handicapped" just because
of the way they came out of the womb or if misfortune showed up on their doorstep
and changed their lives forever.

He is the Jackie Robinson of disabled athletes, a man who broke a barrier that many
felt would never be broken. A double-amputee in an Olympics without the word, "special"
in front of it? No way. Way. Other disabled athletes may never qualify for the Olympic
games, but they can sure as hell will try and you can bet millions will.

I've heard some people argue that the high-tech, carbon-fiber blades give Pistorius
and unfair advantage over able bodied athletes? Really? And what kind of advantage did
Marion Jones have when she was pumping her body with "the cream" and "the clear"
and whatever else the mad steroid scientist, Victor Conte, was concocting in his
BALCO lab. There is a list that's a mile long of track & field athletes who've been
busted for performance enhancing drugs and people are worried about carbon fiber
blades? Give me a break.

The critics say that Pistorius has never had to deal with cramps, strains, sprains,
stress fractures, or bone breaks? Are you kidding me? Name an Olympic athlete who's
had to contend with having no legs.

The critics want to say the carbon-fiber blades make Pistorious go faster. First of all,
there's no way an athlete would be able to compete in the games if the International
Olympic Committee thought anybody had an unfair advantage. Plus, Pistorius makes
the carbon-fiber blades move, not the other way around. He generates the power, the
blades don't, sorry.

Try being disadvantaged from the age of 11 months when doctors had to remove the
lower legs of Pistorius was born without fibula's. Try being stared at your entire life
because you have stumps for legs.

Pistorius made the London Olympic games truly special. He beat "able-bodied" athletes
and proved to everyone there are no limits. Michael Phelps has the most medals and
Gabby Douglas a soon-to-be hearty bank account, but it's Pistorius who will accomplish
the most during these Olympic games. He pushed the limits and showed everybody that
impossible is truly nothing.

QUIET, PLEASE! PHIL MICKELSON IS TEXTING

By most accounts, Phil Mickelson is a good guy. He's pleasant with the media,
doesn't drop-kick his club after bad shots, and he signs autographs for many of the
fans who come to watch his play. But last week, the man known as Lefty turned
as soft as his physique. After shooting a 79 in the first round of The Memorial
Tournament, he pulled a "No mas", and withdrew from the event, citing "mental fatigue."

Mickelson's had it pretty good in his life, never having to work a real job. He's won $67
million in his career and has another $150 million in the bank from endorsements. Lefty
only plays in 20 events a year and usually flies to them on his private jet. I'm not sure
the mother who has to work two jobs to support five kids can fully appreciate Mickelson's
"mental fatigue."

However, there was another reason for Mickelson's sudden departure: cell phones. A lot
of cell phones and a lot of picture taking with them. PGA Tour policy actually does permit
cell phones at tournaments, they'd just rather not have people taking people's like they are
free-lance photographers for TMZ. Mickelson usually has big crowds that follow him during
tournaments and apparently a lot of people were snapping off photos and sending their lame,
out of focus, looking-like they were shot from the blimp pictures to Facebook. (Isn't that
what everybody does these days? At least a bad picture of Phil is better than the silly ones
of food that seem to be everywhere on the newsfeed.)

Mickelson was distracted by the sounds that come form the cell phones and it really affected
his game. Even Bubba Watson felt sorry for Phil saying, "It's sad when cell phones can make
or break a championship. Bubba, are you kidding me? You're going to blame a bad score on
a cell phone? It's utterly ridiculous that a golf course has to be as quiet as an empty church.
You have to walk around on egg shells or you may incur the wrath of Mickelson or even Tiger
Woods. Tiger's former caddie used to rip cameras out of the patrons hands and chuck them
in the lake even they distracted his gravy train. Quit, quiet, quiet, please!

Let's see, baseball players have to stand in the box against a guy throw 98-miles an hour with
filthy breaking pitches while fans are hurling insults at them and cranking up vuvazelas.
But golfers who have to put a ball in a target that never moves have to have total silence?

18-year old kids can step to the line in the NCAA championship for a crucial free-throw
and 5,000 morons behind the basket are screaming "noonan" and "you suck", but golfers
demand to play in an environment that's as quiet as a morgue?

NFL kickers have to try to nail a game-winning field goal with two seconds on the clock
with the entire stadium going nutso, but silver spoon-fed golfers can't make a three-foot putt
unless God turns down the volume down to nothing?

That's almost as ridiculous as Mickelson taking out his cell phone on the 6th fairway to call
PGA Tour Commissioner Tim Finchem to complain about the fans using their cell phones on
the golf course. That's beyond hilarious. It's like Tim Tebow doing a commercial telling people
to quit smoking and then as soon as the director says, "cut, that's a wrap," he lights up a
cigarette and goes on his merry way. OK, so that's little extreme, but you get my point.

This display by Mickelson is beyond ridiculous. It Tiger had complained like this, he would
have been booed for being a big crybaby. Mickelson won't feel that type of wrath because
he's a likable guy, for the most part. But come on, these golfers are getting bent out of shape
because of cell phones? LOL.

I respect golfers and the game, but seriously, it's time to man up and get some thick skin.
These mobile devices are the way of the world and there not going away. Commissioner
Finchem said they are here to stay for fan who go to events. If they take away cell phones,
the suits know that the fans will stay away as well.

Lefty, you are all wrong on this one.

THE BEAUTY OF BOSTON MAYOR THOMAS MENINO

If Thomas Menino was a cartoon character, he'd be half-Barney Rubble and half-
Baby Huey. If he was a tool in the shed, the mayor of Boston wouldn't be sharp
enough to cut through a stick of butter sitting at room temperature for five hours. He
can butcher the English language with greater aplomb than Roger Clemens while making
Sarah Palin look like an expert in U.S. history. While the  Rocket may "misremember" things
and the woman who went rogue whiffs on everything not jotted down on an index card,
Menino majors in malapropisms and mispronouncing things.

Yet, Menino enjoys high approval ratings and has been in office since 1993, making him
the longest sitting mayor in Boston history, and that's quite an accomplishment. He's
affectionately known as "Mayor Mumbles" because he talks like he has his grandkids
marbles in his mouth. And when he does talk, there' a good chance something
controversial or ridiculously funny comes spewing out.

He once described the shortage of parking in Boston as, "An  Alcatraz around my neck."
Um, no Tom, that would be an "albatross" around your neck. He once referred to former
mayor John Collins as "a man of great statue" instead of stature. But that really pales in
comparison to how he messes up when it comes to Boston sports. Now, keep in mind
that in Boston, everybody loves sports more than politics and even their alcohol and in
that town, that's saying something. Red Sox fans know the astrological sign of the mother
of the back-up second baseman in Pawtucket. They are not only passionate fans, but
extremely knowledgeable ones.

Before the Red Sox met the Yankee in the 2004 playoffs, Menino said, "Much like a
cookie, I predict the Yankee dynasty will crumble and the results will be delicious for
Red Sox fans."

Menino once praised "Varitek for splitting the uprights" to give the Pats their first Super
Bowl title. Only, one problem, Varitek was catching for the Red Sox, while Adam Viniteri
was coming through for the Patriots. Menino also called NBA Commissioner David Stern,
"Donald Sterns" AF-LAAAAAAC!!!!!!

He has called Patriots receiver Wes Welker, "Wes Wekler" and tight end Rob Gronkowski,
"Rob Grabowski".

But Menino's best/worst of Boston, may have come on Thursday morning when he was
talking about the Celtics great run in the post-season, "There's a lot of heart on this team,
let me tell you. K.J. is great...but Hondo's really the inspiration. I mean Hondo drives the
team."

Does the mayor drive a Honda? Did he just have lunch with former Suns great, Kevin
Johnson, who is now the mayor of Sacramento? Perhaps, he was just thinking of Celtics
legend John "Hondo" Havlichek.  I wonder if Menino still thinks the Big Three, Bird,
McHale, and Parrish are coming through that door

K.J instead of K.G, Hondo instead of Rajon Rondo. Man, it's all good. After all, it came
from the mouth of Mayor Menino, a lovable guy whom we can never get mad at for
screwing up the names of Boston sports legends.

GOOD, BAD, AND THE UGLY OF A 70.3 MILE RACE.

When my digital clock radio hit 4:00 a.m. and the sounds of The Clash rattled my brain like
a left-right combination from Floyd Mayweather, I could really do nothing but let out a primal
moan and play rope-a-dope with the largest pillows that Bed, Bath, & Beyond had to offer.

"Should I stay or should I go,
 If I go there will be trouble, and If I stay it will be double...."

It would've been easy for me to stay in my cocoon of comfort with the sounds of that hit song
by The Clash in 1981 muffled by 6 inches of down feathers covering both of my ears. But I
paid $275 for the right swim 1.2 miles, bike 56, and then run 13.1 miles with about 1,100
other deranged people who thought that a heavy dose of pain and punishment was a good way
to spend the first Sunday in June.

"So you got to let me know,
Should I stay or should I go?"


I decided to make the 90 minute trek to Middlebury, Connecticut where the Rev3 half-
ironman triathlon was being held in the midst of an amusement park. Little did I know I'd
be going on one of most painful rides of my adult life, which has been all of about ten years.
I had done this race in 2010 and swore that I'd never come back. Biking malicious, steep hill
after steep hill seared my lungs and all but ripped the chicken off my chicken legs. Yet,
here I was at age 47 and weighing a less than svelte 240 lbs, back in spandex trying to
conquer this 70.3 mile beast.

I had gained 17 pounds since my last visit to Lake Quassapaug and my wetsuit didn't quit
fit me. It was akin to trying to put 240 pounds of sausage into a 220 pound bag or casing.
It just wasn't happening. I had tried to use the wetsuit during a swim at my club on the Friday
before the event, but had had difficulty breathing, so I decided that I was going to do the
1.2 mile swim at 7 a.m. in the chilly water without a wetsuit. Polar bear-style. Nothing but
those combo swim-bike-run shorts on. Whoa, you talk about major shrinkage! We're talking
George Costanza shrinkage.

I looked through the mass of humanity at the starting line and noticed that I was the only
person that didn't have a wetsuit. I think I frightened some people because my body is
Beluga whale-white. The only thing that might've been whiter was the face of Mets manager
Terry Collins when he saw Johan Santana's pitch count rise over 130 in his no-hitter last
Friday night. There could've been some shrinkage there, too.

Swimming in open water is like swimming in a blender. It's all choppy and there are legs,
feet, and arms everywhere, and a few usually hit you in the head at one time or another over
the course of the 1.2 miles that you're in the water. I finished in a time of 34.58, which ranked
182nd out of 1,066 "athletes". That was the strongest part of my triathlon...biking and running,
ah, not so much. It seemed like everyone  I had beaten out of the water and those who
started a good 10 minutes after I did,  passed me on the bike. I heard the warning, "on your left",
at least 500 times. The only people I went by were those fixing flat tires or fertilizing the
Connecticut countryside.

After I graduated from youth swimming, I never won anything that had to be timed. When I
used to run anywhere in baseball, people would say, "Hey, Devlin, get the piano off your back."
At 240 pounds, now I feel like somebody hitched an 18-wheeler to my bicycle seat. I thought
event officials were going to put a red flag on me and attach a sign to me that said, "Wide Load."

On this picture-perfect day, my legs were moving, but I wasn't going anywhere very fast. Embarrassment reached its  highest peak for me during the 56-mile bike ride when this little
old lady passed me on  a very steep climb. Everyone has their age marked on their right calf,
and when I looked down to see the number "57", I  just said muttered to myself, "Wow, isn't
that wonderful?" (I omitted what I really said because this is a family blog)

It seems like the only place I have trouble eating is on a bike. There is a right way to do it
and I just haven't figured it out yet. When you're covering 56-miles in three and a half-hours,
you burn some serious calories. The day before the event, I dropped by a sporting goods
store and bought everything that said energy shot on it. 5-hour energy, B-12 energy, Protein
energy. If they said energy, I was buying them and slugging them down during the race. The volunteers on the course provide you with more "energy" in the former of Gu shots. When
it gets  warm and they melt, it seems like they turn into a pack of 12 salamanders who are
in a race to get to the bottom of your stomach for whatever it is that salamanders eat. It's
disgusting.

I rolled into the bike-run transition area celebrating the fact that I went 56 miles without
popping a tire, but also knowing there was trouble ahead for me. I still had to run 13.1
miles on a course that had some brutal hills. I had practiced running up some very big hills
in my hometown, trouble was, I just never did it after swimming 1.2 miles and biking 56.
I tried to trick my mind into thinking I was strong and in shape for the final leg of the triathlon,
but my mind laughed at me and laughed at me real hard.

The first three miles were OK, then came the hills and the heat. I was cooked and almost
delirious. I had bonked and there were still 10.1 miles to go. That's not fun. I thought of people
who inspire me to help get me through, from my late father, to Brian Bill, the Navy SEAL
from  Stamford who was killed in action last August, and to a triathlete from New York City
who literally got run over by a 40,000 lb bus and not only lived, but went on to complete
the Ironman in Hawaii.

There were times I felt like quitting, but they didn't last very long. I recalled a conversation I
had with Lou Marinelli, my former football coach, who asked me, "Aren't you too old to be
doing that stuff?", and just then a 59-year old man who was shredded like Terrell Owens ran
by me like I was standing still. You're never too old. For anything. No matter what. Events
like these are for challenging yourself and testing your limits. Was I in great shape for this
event? Absolutely, not. Did I prepare adequately for this half-ironman? My time of 6:52:38
was 26 minutes slower than the one I completed here in 2010, so the answer would be a
resounding no.

But it's not about the bike, the swim, the run, or the time it takes you to complete the race. It's
about finishing and the will to finish. I hadn't felt pain, punishment, or agony like that in a long,
long, time. But you know what? When I crossed that finish line, all that pain and agony actually
felt pretty good, even if it lasted for all of two seconds.

JUSTIN TURNER: THE HUMAN BUZZ KILL

AJ Burnett's most significant contribution during his time with the New York Yankees was
pie facing teammates during their "hero" post-game interviews on the field. He'd take a towel,
dispense a load of shaving/whipped cream on it, then sneak up on a teammate and wash his
face in it. Another great example of adolescent jockularity. It was funny at first, but like
everything else in this copycat world, the novelty of it wore off because every team in baseball
started to do it after every friggin' game. I might watch "The Departed" or "Shawshank
Redemption" over and over but having to witness millionaire ballplayers run around like
Little Leaguers (on steriods) is enough to make me go, "click". On Friday night, I wanted to
throw my clicker at the television screen because another idiotic, juvenile act of a player.

I had just watched the last three innings of Johan Santana's no-hitter, which made for great
theatre. Despite employing the likes of Tom Seaver, Nolan Ryan, Jerry Koosman, and Dwight
Gooden, the New York Mets had never produced a no-hitter in more than 50 years and 8,000
games in their franchises history. Some dude named Dallas Braden of the Oakland A's can
throw a perfect game, but nobody in the pitching rich history of the Mets can author a no-hitter?
Unbelievable.

Santana was coming off major arm surgery and the Mets had him on a pitch count of between
110-115 pitches. He surpassed that number in the 7th inning and you could just about see
the cheeks of Mets manager Terry Collins pucker up with every pitch. He was entrusted by
the front office and the ownership group, who is paying Santana $20 million a year, to abide
by that pitch count. Collins was getting so tight, he'd have trouble squeezing a greased wire
through any orifice in his body. But do you think he wanted the entire world hating on him
for the rest of his life for taking Santana in the 8th inning of a no-hitter? Forget that.

Collins let Santana go for his moment and place in Mets history. If his arm blows out in two
weeks, oh, well, at least it'd be worth it if Santana completed the no-hitter. The left-hander
did just that when he struck out Cards third basemen David Freese with a disappearing 3-2
change-up. When you saw Santana shake off catcher Josh Thole just after he started his
wind-up, everybody pretty much knew what pitch was coming, but Freese could do nothing
but flail at it. And there it was, a no-hitter, the first in franchise history, and it was done
in front of the long-suffering Mets fans. It was a beautiful moment.

That moment got screwed up by Justin Turner, the Mets utility infielder with fire-engine
red hair, who obviously doesn't have a flair for the dramatic. He's the kind of guy who could
walk into the Playboy mansion and screw up a party with just him and 100 naked playmates.
The Human Buzz Kill. In the middle of Santana's on-field post-game interview, Turner
decides its time for a face full of whipped cream. Ugh, what an idiot. This was a no-hitter
and Johan Santana, not Anibel Sanchez. The man is a future Hall of Famer, not a journeyman
pitcher like Phil Humber.

Through the Redi-Whip facial, you could sense that Santana wasn't thrilled, but in the
big moment, he played along. Turner should be on the first bus to St. Paul, Minnesota
to play in the independent league. His post-game theatrics were strictly bush league.
That wasn't the time for it, and really, it's time to end these ridiculous post-game pie
face things. They are old, boring, and no longer funny.