THE BEAUTY OF JONNY GOMES

 

 

Jonny Gomes officially became part of the fabric of Red Sox nation on Sunday night. His three-
run homer made him a World Series hero and put the spotlight on a journeyman player who was
signed by Boston more for his character and love for the game than his less-than-one-tool talent.

And it's a beautiful thing.

Gomes looks like the type of guy who lives in a one-bedroom apartment with the television
cemented to ESPN's "Baseball Tonight", the walls filled with posters of Pete Rose, Mike
Schmidt, and Thurman Munson, and his nightstand supporting Ted Williams' book, "The Science
of Hitting." He doesn't care about agents, endorsements, or Twitter. He's all about baseball
and it's refreshing to see.

In the residue of the Steroid Era and in a year that has produced some real ugliness for the
game (Biogenesis, Ryan Braun, A-Rod), Jonny Gomes is the deodorant that is covering up the
bad scent. He wears his heart on his sleeve, pounding his chest, screaming at the top of his lungs,
and showing the unbridled joy of a Little Leaguer on his way to Williamsport.

In a baseball world of egotistical prima donnas and statistics obsessed players, Gomes marches
to the beat of his own drummer. He has a body stained with tattoos and a chia pet face that
seems to sprout hair with every shower. Gomes could care less about OPS, WAR, and hitting
with runners in scoring position on Saturday night's with a full moon.

Gomes is all about winning, having fun, and playing a kid's game for as long as he possibly
can. He's helped cleanse a clubhouse that had been poisoned by the likes of Beckett,
Gonzalez, and Bobby Valentine.

To opponents, Gomes can be like sandpaper, an abrasive personality that can rub you the
wrong way. But he's perfect for a Red Sox team that is more lunch pale than catered caviar.

Nope, Gomes doesn't have the tools or talent of Bryce Harper, nor the all-American looks
of Mike Trout who seems to have been poured into his uniform by the baseball god's. But
to the Red Sox and their nation, Gomes is one of the prettiest players on the field.

GRAMBLING, EDDIE ROBINSON, AND ME

Grambling, Louisiana is a small town tucked away in the northern part of the state. It's not
on the beaten path to anywhere and is only relevant because of the college football program
that was built by the legend, Eddie Robinson.

Today, it's in the news because its football players boycotted a game in protest of travel
arrangements, poor facilities, and a coach who was eventually fired. I can't say I'm shocked,
but I am surprised that it didn't happen sooner.

In 1997, I worked as a sports anchor in Shreveport, the closest major city to Grambling
and its university. I must admit, I was anxious to go there for media day in August of that
year, even if it was on a day that was so brutally hot and humid that'd you sweat profusely
from just blinking.

This was Grambling State University, a smaller than smaller football program that had
produced big-time NFL players like Doug Williams, James Harris, Buck Buchanan,
Sammy White, Willie Brown, and Charlie Brown. This was the place where the coach,
Eddie Robinson became an American icon. This was the place where Bruce Jenner starred
in a movie called, "Grambling's White Tiger."

However, this was the place that time forgot.

As I walked to the football facility, I wondered how in the world Grambling recruited
players, much less great ones who would end up in the hall of fame. The place was like a
third-world country, and that's being generous. The grounds were far from the meticulously
groomed ones you see at just about any college in the country these days. High school
football stadiums were better than the one at Grambling and the field resembled that of
a cow pasture.

 

Eddie Robinson, of course, was the main reason any player with an ounce of talent in
the south went to Grambling. He started the football program and coached there for more
than 50 years. He was a man of impeccable character and integrity, teaching his players
more than just football, he taught them about life and gave them the tools and knowledge
to succeed once all the games were over. Robinson was truly special.

After one game, I found myself sitting in his coaches locker room. It was just me and
Eddie Robinson in a room no bigger than a studio apartment in NYC. I have never been
star struck, but I was mesmerized by this 72-year old man and what he had accomplished
in his life.

The grooves in his forehead were like the rings on an oak tree, telling you he had
been around forever and had seen so more than he ever cared to talk about. Robinson
had lived through some hard times as a black man in the south. He had overcome
tremendous obstacles and succeeded in a place where very have before or after him.

Robinson was already a big part of American history, winning more games than any
college coach and I was fascinated. He had slowed down considerably and his mind and
mouth didn't not work in conjunction as they once did, perhaps, it was a prelude to the
Alzheimer's disease he came down with shortly after retiring.

I said to myself, "This is unreal and one of the best moments of my life and career." If
I had a cell phone camera back then, I would've taken a selfie of the two of us. I wanted
something to document this priceless moment of my life. I wanted to show and tell people
that I had a moment with this man. It was one of those times when you say, "I wish somebody
was here to see this."

Just a few days earlier, Robinson had a book signing and I was given a copy as part of
the promotion. I didn't ask Robinson to sign it at the time, I was long past getting autographs.
The last one I ever received was one from Steve Garvey back in 1975. I thought asking
for autographs was ridiculous and it's forbidden as part of a sportscaster job.

But I still had Robinson's book in my bag during our interview and when it was over, I
didn't care about protocol. I wanted this man's autograph. He was history. He was an
icon. He was all things good about college sports. He was truly special.  I asked for his
autograph, Robinson obliged, and I was on my way, stuffing the book back in my bag
so nobody would see it.

I thought about that moment after I heard about the unrest at Grambling this week. I'm sure
the facilities aren't much different from when I was there back in 1997. There are  no
big revenue streams at Grambling and the alumni base doesn't have deep pockets. The
athletic department tries to do their best, but to the players, busing to games 750 miles
away isn't trying hard enough.

I don't think this story is going to end well. When a school cancels a game just days
before the opponent is expecting a big crowd on homecoming, there will be repercussions.
I'm not sure Grambling's football program can survive this. I'm not sure they have the
financial resources to sustain it. And when potential recruits for what is already a
downtrodden program see the unrest at Grambling, they will most likely turn and run
away.

That's a sad thing for a program that was once the little one that could. Now, it's
the little one that can't do anything right.

WALLY BELL, MAY YOU REST IN PEACE.

It's easy to remember a name like Wally Bell and if you got to know the same one I did,
you'd realize he'd be pretty hard to forget.

Wally Bell passed away on Monday, the victim of an apparent heart attack. He was just
48 years old. Bell lived a good life, spending more than 20 years as a Major League
umpire. getting the opportunity to call a World Series.  When I read about his passing,
I was stunned and saddened because I became  acquainted with Bell during our days in
the Carolina League, he as an umpire with visions of making it to the show, me as a player,
who was just happy as hell to be putting on a  uniform every day that had "Red Sox"
stitched across the front of it.

Back in 1988, Bell was a big, burly kid, with a tremendous presence. I called him the
Buford T. Pusser of the Carolina League. He walked tall and if he carried a big stick, he
definitely would've used it. Bell didn't take anything from anybody. He called them like
hesaw them and kicked you out of the game if you didn't like it.

As a catcher, I was closer to the umpire than any other player on the field. For nearly three
hours every night, you can hear every grunt, groan, and word that comes out of a home
plate umpires mouth. You're so close to them, you can tell what they had for the pre-game
meal and see the stains from the sweat that can drown a man's shirt on those incredibly hot
and humid summer nights in the Carolina League

When Bell was behind the plate, you never had to worry about getting a game that
was called inconsistently. His strike zone didn't waver from game-to-game, or inning-to-
inning, for that matter. The life of minor-league player can be tough, but incredibly brutal
for an umpire. Working in three-man crews, there is not a team bus that takes them from
stadium to stadium in towns that most people don't know existed, and if they did, they
would never care to visit. Instead they have to drive their own cars and sleep in all those
cut-rate hotels that usually have a  6 or 8 on the end of it. Perhaps, one with a red roof if
they decided to splurge.

Bell never took the pain that comes from the miserable life of always being on the road
and living out of suitcases, onto the field. He was professional, powerful, and a person
that you knew had the ingredients to make it to the top of his vocation. Bell was also a
funny man with a quick wit and razor-sharp sarcasm. I remember asking him what the
heck umpires do for fun in the sleepy town of Lynchburg where our minor-league team
was based. "Ah, Lynchburg, Virgina, where the men are men and so are the women,"
I vividly recall him saying. "And the cockroaches at Harvey's Motel are often bigger
than me."

When Bell made it to the big leagues, I was not surprised. And when I heard the announcers
say, ".....and Wally Bell is behind the plate tonight", I would always get a chuckle and say
to myself, "Yeah, he was an umpire in the Carolina League way back when."

When I heard an announcer on ESPN talk about his passing, I was truly saddened. 48 years
old is way to young to die, especially when you're in the middle of a great career as a well-
respected umpire in the major leagues. But I was happy for Wally in that he had done what
so few umpires set out to do while working the "bushes" they call the minor-leagues. It's
a rough road, but Wally Bell made it and he will always be remembered as a great person,
as well as an umpire.

DAD LOVED HIS DOGS---ALL 4 OF THEM

My Dad was like most Americans in that he was a big dog lover. He wasn't obsessed and
didn't oufit them in funny costumes and take pictures to put on a Christmas card, but my
Dad treated them like most of us do: like a great friend and family member.

The only difference between my Dad's love for dogs and that of most people's was that he
had four of them to take care of at one time. He didn't plan it that way, but because he could
never  say "no", that's how things turned out.

After my sister, Kara, returned from a summer in Colorado after graduating from college,
she brought home a snow white American Eskimo she had rescued in the Rocky Mountains.
Kara moved into New York City and her apartment complex didn't allow dogs. Knowing
that my Dad never said "no" to her in her life, Kara asked Dad if she could take care of her
dog, Kirby.  "Sure, why not," he said. "What's another dog?' My Dad, who had big German  Shepperd's when we were growing up, downsized later in life, going with a lhasa apso
and a shih tzu. With the addition of Kirby, Dad had three dogs. For a while.

A few years later, Kara got married and had a kid with her husband, who also brought
a dog into the relationship. After moving from the city out to the Connecticut suburbs, they
were concerned about having a good sized dog around a new born baby.

"Dad, do you think you could take the dog? Please?", she asked. And, of course, my Dad
said yes. So, here was my Dad, just about in retirement with four Dogs to take care. Mom
helped out, of course, but Dad felt it was his job to feed 'em, walk 'em, and do whatever else
needed to be done for them. Caring for one dog is hard enough, not to mention expensive,
try doing it times four. But he loved it. Boy, how did he ever love it.

The sight of seeing my Dad walking four dogs was pretty comical. In the stuffy, pretentious
town of New Canaan, I'm sure there were some people who saw him walking in the street
twisting and turning with four dogs and figured he probably became a professional walker
to pick up a few extra bucks.

That's funny and so were Sunday mornings. My Dad would go to 7 a.m. Mass and would
always take his four buddies with him. He'd stand at the door leading into the garage and
yell, "Let's go! Time to go to church." And it became like a Sunday morning jail break.
Four dogs from different parts of the house would bolt for the garage door. They'd go
slip-sliding into walls and wipe out in an effort to get to the car first. Dad would open
the hatch to his SUV and the dogs that could, would leap into the back. The two that
couldn't, got a lift from my Dad. It was a small thing, but my Dad got one helluva kick
out of it.

Once he got to church, he'd roll down the windows and leave the dogs with some water
before going in to praise the Lord. When he returned home, he'd always stop at the beginning
of the long driveway leading to the house. The dogs would start barking wildly until Dad
let Kirby out. Kirby, the white American Eskimo, would do 360's in front of my Dad's
SUV until he started to move forward. Then she would go in a full-sprint to the house
as if she was leading my Dad home.

I found a picture of my Dad with his dogs this morning and it brought back a lot of memories.
He treated those Dogs the same way he treated the rest of the family: like gold. Man, did
he love those dogs.

I GOT DUSTED BY A 63-YEAR OLD MAN

           

             Every day, thousands of tiny events happen and if you're not watching, if you're
            not careful, if you don't capture them and make them COUNT, you could miss it.
                                                                                                      -Toni Jordan Novelist-

    Sometimes life's greatest lessons are right in front of us, yet we fail to see them. We are
    often consumed by what we don't have instead of focusing on the great things we do. We
    keep looking back into the past so much, we become blind to all the great things that lie
    ahead of us.

    On Sunday, I got a great lesson, not to mention a great source of inspiration, because I
    was watching what was in front of me, rather than being consumed by the things that were
    behind me.

    I was in a road race on Sunday, and over the course of 18.6 miles a lot of things went
    through my mind and most of them were tagged with a question mark. Why they heck did
    I get up at 5:30 a.m. for all this pain and punishment? I hate to run, so why am I running
    so much? What's the point? What does it matter? Aren't I getting a little too old for this?

    All those questions when zooming through my head as I pounded the pavement on a perfect
    first day of fall with more than 200 other runners. I had been in the zone with my iPod
    blasting the best of Captain & Taneal and the Carpenters to try to muffle the pain
    that came with each and every stride. I couldn't hear the sound of footsteps coming up
    me from behind, so I was startled when a frailish-looking, gray-haired man passed me by
    on mile 15 of the run.

    I had seen this man running long before the race had even started, his oversized pale-yellow
    T-shirt was not enough to cover his elbows that seemed to be thrashing in the wind. I hate to
    run and damn if I'm going to run an inch more than I have to, especially, on a day
    when I'm running close to 20 miles. This guy ran as if every step was a painful one, his
    running form anything but perfect. He had a distinct look that one could not easily forget.

    I never could catch the man. He was right in front of me for nearly all of the last three miles
    of the race. I wondered what his story was, from what he did to how often he ran. He seemed
    to be laboring through every inch of the run, but didn't appear to be breaking a sweat. The
    man in the yellow shirt finished 25 seconds in front of me, and just like that, he disappeared.
    I wanted to congratulate him and hear his story, but like the phantom, the man vanished.

    I didn't stick around very long, either. I stuffed as many apples, oranges, and bottled waters
    into my pockets and I was off. I got my time and didn't need to see any other results. But I
    was extremely curious about the guy in the pale yellow shirt.

    Late Monday night, the results of the race were posted on-line and I quickly searched for
    the guy in the yellow shirt who finished just in front of me. BRUCE GOULART, 63,
    NEWTOWN, CT. A 63-year old man had dusted me. Blew by me at mile 15. But an average
    runner just doesn't do that, especially one in his 60's. I had to know more about him.

    I did a search of Athlinks.com, which is a website that banks official results. I found
    Goulart's chart and I almost fell out of my chair after seeing what I saw. There is an icon
    on the chart that announces to the world how many races a person has done. It said, "See
    all 600 races." Here is the link. It's mind-boggling.  http://athlinks.com/racer/results/14673720

    600 races?!! Are you kidding me. Goulart is addicted to endurance events. He has done
    33 marathons, 41 half-marathon, and five Ironman events. During a stretch from 2008 to
    2011, he averaged 57 events a year, which is insane!

    Goulart, even at age 63, is doing something really tough, yet really loves. He is passionate,
    determined, and is proving that the road ahead is still pretty awesome. The journey truly is
    just as important as the destination. Like Diana Nyad said, you're never too old to do
    anything that you want.

    No matter how old you are, there is still a lot left to accomplish in  life. You might not
    look pretty doing it, but doing it is all that really matters.

   





KERI CHAISSON-HARDEN: 100% IRON

Boyd Harden is an ex-Marine who was trained to fly high-powered helicopters. At
UNC, he was an All-American defenseman in lacrosse and while at New Canaan High
School, Harden earned All-State honors in hockey. I'm not sure if he even knew those
sports used a hard-rubber object to pass and score with because Harden was a heat-seeking
missile who would much rather destroy an opponent than celebrate a goal.

 

But in his household, Boyd takes a backseat in the sheer mental toughness department, to
his wife, Keri Chaisson, a graduate of New Canaan High School. Chaisson-Harden, 42, and
a mother of three, is an avid endurance triathlete. This past July, she completed the Lake
Placid Ironman for the third time in her brief career. For those scoring at home, the Ironman
consists of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112-mile bike, followed by a 26.2 mile run. Yep, just a 140.6
mile journey that she usually completes in less than 13 hours.

I've attempted to interview her several times over the last few years, but she respectfully
declines. She is not interested in any attention, which in this "look at me, aren't I great, post everything to Facebook world", is certainly refreshing.

Me: "Keri, I want to do an article on you about your triathlons."
Keri: "No way."
Me: "Come on, it'll make for a great piece."
Keri: "Not in a million years."

I've known Keri, Boyd, and their families for quite some time and was really interested in
seeing what the Ironman experience for them was all about. I've done several half-Ironman
and have an idea about the preparation, pain, and punishment a triathlete endures over a long
period of time. But the Ironman is a beast on steroids and dwarfs the 70.3 mile event not just
in the distance of it, but the mind-numbing pain one has to endure, as well.

I traveled to Lake Placid in the final weekend of July to experience the event as a spectator
and watch Chaisson-Harden prepare and compete in the small, picturesque village that
somehow managed to host a gargantuan international event like the Olympics not once,
but twice.

On race day, Chaisson-Harden woke at 4 a.m. to fuel her body for the grueling day ahead
of her. Imagine knowing that you're going to be exercising for nearly 13 hours straight,
burning calories at a lightning quick rate and realizing you can't just go to the fridge or
stop off at a convenient store to load up on things to replenish your body? Taking care of
your body during the race is an event in itself.

Phase I of the Ironman is a 2.4 mile swim in beautiful Mirror Lake, which sits less than
a half-mile away from the Olympic hockey arena where the United States completed the
"Miracle on Ice" in the 1980. Open water swimming is not like swimming in the pool
at your health club. With the mass of humanity, it's like swimming in a blender with elbows,
feet, hands, heads, furiously trying to find open space to swim. Chaisson-Harden, who is
a strong and gifted swimmer, finished the course in just over one hour.

Next up, the 112-mile bike ride. Lake Placid is not Florida or Chicago, where the landscapes
are completely flat and easy to ride. This is the Adirondacks, meaning there are challenging,
steep inclines and rolling hills. Over the course of the ride, your lungs burn, your legs bark,
and your mind goes off into a million different places, with you questioning why the hell
you decided to do this event in the firs place.

This is the third time Chaisson-Harden has competed in the event, her fourth Ironman overall.
I can only imagine what goes through her mind when she does it again and again and again.
After I completed my half-Ironmans, I said there was no way in hell I'd ever even consider
doing a full Ironman. The pain is ridiculous in a 70.3 mile event, forget about doubling up
on it.

But for Chaisson-Harden, pain must certainly be her good friend by now. She seems to be
addicted to it. One has to be to put in all the hours of preparation for the event. It's not like
going to the health club to take a couple of spinning classes and a few swims in the pool.
There are days when you have to ride the bike for eight hours and go on long runs that last
as long as a Red Sox-Yankees baseball game. The training for an Ironman is mind-blowing
and body destroying.

Chaisson-Harden finished her bike ride in just over six and half hours, or about 90 minutes
longer than a tennis match between Novak Djokavic and Rafeal Nadal. At the end of the ride,
your legs are cramping, your mind is screaming at you, and you still have a 26.2 mile run
ahead of you. I'd like to see the Kenyan marathon runners do a 112-mile bike ride before
they crush everyone competing in New York and Boston. Now, that would be interesting.

I watched hundreds of runners pass me by twice on the two loop course. I saw the pain,
the blank looks, and focus on the faces of those driven to completing this challenging event.
I don't think it's about winning for most of them because five seconds into the race, they
have no shot at staying with the professionals who are an entirely different breed,
almost superhuman. This is about testing your will and inner drive. This is about not quitting
or giving in to the challenge.

Chaisson-Harden injured her back during the grueling final leg of the event. But she didn't
stop, complain, or pack it in because of it. It would've been easy to say, "I can't do it anymore"
and everybody would've understood. But that's not in her DNA. She battled through the
injury and just kept going, trying to find a way to finish off a 26.2 mile run. Good, Lord,
that sounds so painful as I type away on the computer.

I positioned myself near the finish of the event, located at the Olympic Oval, the same place
where Eric Heiden made history by winning five gold medals in speedskating. I didn't want
to intrude on Keri's moment with her family as she crossed the finish line, ending nearly
13 hours of pain and punishment. I stationed myself near the entrance to the Oval and a spot
just about 500 yards from the finish. On a drizzling and overcast day, near perfect conditions
for the athletes, Chaisson-Harden entered the Oval determined to finish strong in the event.
I yelled out to her and she took the time to give me a fist pump, although the look on her
face said, "Please, just let me finish the event."

Chaisson-Harden did just that, completing her hat trick of Ironmans in Lake Placid less than
1,000 yards from where Team USA complete its run to the Olympic gold medal in hockey.
There were no miracles in Lake Placid to Chaisson-Harden, after all, this was the third time
she had completed this event. It had become old hat to her. But to me, seeing her complete
the event with a bad back and never, never giving up, was pretty impressive.

Chaisson-Harden spent the next five hours in the medical tent hooked up to an IV. Five
hours! As long as that epic tennis match between Djokovic and Nadal.....Amazing.

Keri Chaisson-Harden is an Ironman four times over and that is a tremendous accomplishment.

JOHNNY MANZIEL:TEXAS A & M's GOLDEN GOOSE.

 

Hello? Anybody home? I'm hearing nothing but crickets.

Amazing how the McMansion of Johnny Manziel haters has suddenly gone silent. Before
Saturday game against Alabama, they had such disdain for the Heisman Trophy-winning
quarterback because this 20-year old kid didn't have the moral fiber of the Pope, the politeness
of Tim Tebow,  intelligence of Mark Zuckerberg, and polish of George Clooney.

They called him a punk, thug, and a disrespectful, entitled brat. But after he torched Nick
Saban's defense for more than 550 yards of total offense, most are back to calling Manziel
what he truly is: the best player in college football---by far. There isn't a person who knows
a lick about football and sports that's not filled with venom, that wasn't in awe of what he did
against the Crimson Tide. Five touchdowns and 98 rushing against Alabama, are you kidding
me? The kid has some serious magic, and barring injury, he will win the Heisman Trophy
award again.

There will still be those who can't see Manziel through all their hate and continue to call him
a punk. But one thing is certain, to the people of Texas A & M, Johnny Football is their golden
goose. On Wednesday, the school announced it had raised $740 million for the fiscal year, a
whopping 70 percent over the previous year, and more than $400 million more than the
University of Texas raised.

I'm sure all the haterS will say that Manziel had nothing to do with it, when in reality, he
had everything to do with it. Without Manziel, Texas A & M is, well, Texas A & M, a school
that had absolutely no presence on the national landscape. Most people in the country don't
know a thing about it, much less know where the heck it is (College Station). Oh, sure, they
have the 12th man tradition and that kissing thing after touchdowns, but other than that, A & M
was irrelevant before Manziel came along and won the Heisman Trophy.

The football team is nationally ranked and are a ratings magnet thanks to Manziel, who is
a special player  you just can't keep your eyes off of. He's that good. He's an escape artist
along the lines of Houdini and is as electric as Michael Vick used to be.

Yeah, but....

I know, they say he has "character issues". Earlier this summer, I heard an alumnus say he
weren't sure if he wanted a guy like Manziel representing the school. I wonder if he somehow
got Manziel and Aaron Hernandez mixed up. I got a good laugh at that one as I was reading
the school raised $740 million, which is insane. I wonder if that same guy is feeling the same
way Manziel today, as he did a few months ago.

The athletic program generated more than $100 million in revenues in 2012, turning a
profit of $39 million. Oh, that's right, it must have been because of the leading scorer on
the field hockey team and had nothing to do with Manziel.

Haters will continue to hate on Manziel because that is what they do. I heard a guy say
that Manziel should be a better role model to kids because they see what he does. If you
are relying on a 20-year old kid to be a role model to your children, you have failed
miserably as a parent.

Johnny Manziel is what he is. An unbelievably gifted athlete who is a once-in-a-generation
college football player. He's far from perfect, but there has never been anyone like him.
Ever. As just a sophomore, he's the greatest player in the history of the school, and certainly
the most influential.

Manziel is not just Johnny Football to Texas A & M, he's there golden goose.