GOOD-BYE, DAVE HENDERSON

As Dave Henderson grew into a man and major league baseball player, the little boy in
him never left him. His gap-toothed smile that seemingly stretched from Seattle to Boston,
two of the cities that adored him, expressed a love for a game that often disappears in
others once they make it to the big-time.

The pressure of performing under a magnifying glass can make a smile vanish, the love for
the game can disappear with the expectations that come with a multi-million dollar contract.

That never happened to Dave Henderson, who always made it appear like he was the luckiest
guy in the world. His expression screamed out to the world, "Do you mean they are actually
paying me tons of money to play this game? Who is fooling who?"

I watched him play many times and don't ever recall a helmet thrown or bat shattered. If
he struck out, Henderson always seemed to have a look on his face that said, "Oh, well.
I gave it my best shot. I'll get him next time."

In the 1986 ALCS against the California Angels, there was a next pitch for Henderson
who was playing for the Boston Red Sox at the time, acquired in a late season trade with
the Seattle Mariners. Badly fooled by Angels closer Donnie Moore, Henderson and the
Red Sox were down to their  last strike in the game and the series.

Moore hung a split-fingered fastball just enough for Henderson to get the fat part of
the bat on the ball. As it sailed towards the left-field fence, Henderson watched in both
excitement and anticipation. He was like the kid and Little League staring at what could
be his first-ever home run. Henderson knew it had a chance. He skipped, hopped, and
landed awkwardly as the ball cleared the fence. I said to myself, 'man, that looked like
it hurt.'

 

It very well may have, but there's no way Henderson felt any pain. The adrenaline took care
of it. He all of a sudden became that little kid who just did the greatest thing he could've
ever imagined with his parents and all his friends watching. He became a somebody.
The home run helped win the game and made Henderson a hero in Boston forever.

Henderson played in the World Series four times, winning once with the Oakland A's
in 1989.  Few people can rattle of the career stats of Henderson, but many remember his
fu Manchu and mega-watt smile. Dave Henderson loved the game every single day whether
he was on a hot streak or a dreadful slump. With Henderson, you could never tell which
one he was in the midst of.

Henderson made every fly ball hit to him in the outfield, not an adventure, but rather
unique. When he camped under it, he gave it half of Rickey Henderson with a little style.
The other half appeared as if he was playing hide-n-seek with the ball, with a squint and a
little flex in his knees.

If he caught a ball that ended an inning, Henderson ran in from the outfield with a smile
on his face  looking as if his parents just told him they were taking him to Carvel after
the game for some ice cream.

The little boy in Dave Henderson had a great run, but he died on Sunday. He gave everything
he had and those who followed the game, a lot of joy. Somehow, someway, I pictured
a smile on the face of Dave Henderson as he passed away from a heart attack at the age
of 57.

Nothing in the game could wash the smile off his face. Nothing in life seemed to affect it
either. It wouldn't be all that surprising if death failed at it, too.

FISHING IN A DRESS SHIRT? THE TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY

Almost as soon as I posted a picture of me fishing in a dress shirt and slacks, I received
an avalanche of comments.

"Who goes fishing in an outfit like that?"

"That doesn't look right."

"Are you modeling or something? Who goes fishing in a button-down shirt?"

All comments were spot on. Nobody goes fishing in clean clothes, much less a button-down
shirts. It's usually shorts, a wrinkled t-shirt from 1998, and a baseball hat, right?

Truth be told, I didn't expect to be fishing that day, which was November 6th. As a general
assignment reporter, you don't know your assignment until you get to work and I always
dress in a coat and tie or business suit.

On November 6th, it was 78 degrees in Westchester County, breaking a record that stood
since 1930-something. I was told to go find out how people were taking advantage of the
spectacular day.

My photographer and I went down to the Hudson River in Nyack, New York which had
turned into a wonderland of sporting activity. People were biking, roller blading, and
fishing. After interviewing the man with the fishing pole, I asked if I could cast a line
for "tv purposes".

The man obliged and I got my stand-up for the story. As I was a doing it, a professional
photographer just happened to be shooting the event----and then I hooked a catfish. Now,
that was luck. It was pretty funny moment, so I took advantage of it figuring it would
make for good television, especially in my casual attire. I'm just thankful I took off the
tie or I'd have really heard it from my friends.

It wasn't the first time I was pictured fishing in the great outdoors with unsuitable
attire. While working for NESN and covering the Patriots in 2005, I went fishing in
a 3/4 length leather jacket. Not exactly a good look.

The Patriots were playing a Monday night game against the Miami Dolphins and I didn't
want to sit around in my room all day. Sun bathing on Ocean Drive in Miami was out,
the weather was unseasonably cold. With the high-winds, the temperature dipped into
the 30's.

My photographer and I booked ourselves on a deep-sea fishing charter. Forget about
the frigid temperatures, we were going fishing for some trophies. Trouble was, I didn't
pack for the cold weather, so I hopped aboard in my leather jacket. Hey, man, you have
to do whatever you have to do to deal with the conditions with what you have.

About an hour into our trip, I hooked a big ole' golden Amberjack. In my leather
Kenneth Cole jacket, I felt like Jimmy Houston reeling in that sucker. He put up
a good fight, but I was empowered by the leather jacket, kind of like Fonzie in
"Happy Days"

I didn't look cool, but I felt cool. That made my trip until I flew back to Boston
sitting next to Bridgette Moynihan, Tom Brady's girlfriend at the time. Now, you
talk about a story! I'll save that for another blog.

As for my attire, so what? One can't always dress for the part. If you hook a big
one, it doesn't matter what you wear, leather jacket or button down shirt.

PAUL ALEXANDER HAS BEEN EVERYWHERE, MAN.

 

Johnny Cash didn't have Paul Alexander in mind when he recorded the hit song,
"I've been everywhere", but if the music legend was alive today, you can bet he'd buy
the New York native a beer or two just to hear about his journey.

Alexander is the human passport, getting stamped in 33 countries from Chile to Ireland
to Morocco to Fiji.

He's been everywhere, man.

"I love to travel because at a young age my parents exposed me to many new places and
things,"said the 51-year-old golf professional.  "It has always inspired me to see more."

Alexander has seen more of this country than most people can only dream of. He's been to
every state except Alaska and in 2014, made the journey from coast-to-coast, spending
90 days camping out in the wilderness in addition to taking in so many of the breathtaking
sights this great nation has to offer.

Crossed the desert's bare, man
Breathed the mountain air, man.
He's been everywhere, man....

Single with no kids, Alexander can get up and go just about whenever he wants, and
wherever he goes, that place usually has a ton of golf courses. Alexander has teed it up on
more courses around the world than the number of times you've changed your status on
Facebook in the last five years. In addition to golf, he skis on spectacular mountains
and fishes in the most exotic places from sea to shining sea.

Baraboo, Waterloo, Kalamazoo, Kansas City,
Sioux City, Cedar City, Dodge City, what a pity.
He's been everywhere, man.

Alexander and I have been lifelong friends and while talking over breakfast one day
in November, I casually asked what his plans for the weekend were.

"I'm just going to Morocco with Carl (his brother) and we're going to play golf with
some guys who invited us over there," Alexander said with all the emotion of a mortician
at the end of double-shift.  I guess that can happen to someone who has been everywhere,
man.

The man's motto is one you might expect from a person who sees the world as his personal
playground.

"Mark Twain summed it up best." Alexander said.  "Twenty years from now you will be
 more disappointed by the things you didn't do than the ones you did do."

Alexander hopes to cross Thailand, Patagonia, Alaska, and Prague off his Bucket List
in the very near future, which for the PGA golf professional,  probably means sometime
around Easter.

My father affectionately dubbed Alexander, "007" because he is calm, cool, and has an
aura of mystery and intrigue about him. He is always here today, gone somewhere else
tomorrow. That's Paul Alexander.

He's been everywhere, man.



ONE DAY IS NOT ENOUGH FOR OUR VETERANS

The nation honors all those who served our country fighting wars with their own special
day. We pay tribute to the men and woman who put their lives on the line against faceless
enemies in countries far, far away. There will be a few parades and a lot of pictures
flooding Facebook of the American flag and our heroes who did so much for us. They
helped attain what we all enjoy today: freedom.

It's not enough.

For all the bravery, courage, determination, and sacrifice these veterans made, giving
them a day pales in comparison to what they truly deserve. And how our government
treats them is downright right embarrassing.

A 'thank you' will not do.

These men and woman leave the comforts of their home and the love of their families to
spill blood and sweat on foreign soil. What they return to is almost beyond comprehension.
Soldiers who had limbs blown off, their spirits shaken, and in many cases, their psyche
shattered forever, often have to wait long periods of time to get the benefits they earned
and the professional help they desperately need.

Instead of letting them go to the front of the line and take care of them immediately,
our government sometimes doesn't take care of them at all. President Obama may give
them a pat on the back or weave together a few words of praise, but when the cameras
are off it becomes something barely more than a, "hey, good job, thanks for playing."

According to CNN, the average wait for those who served in Iraq and Afghanistan to
get their benefits is between 316 and 327 days. Almost a year!  That's absurd. All
the money the government spends keeping Guantanamo Bay open for terrorist
prisoners ($450 million a year) would be better served taking care of our own instead
of all the ones who tried to destroy our country.

After the soldiers return home, turn in their weapons while trying to tune out the
horrors of wars, there is little waiting for them in terms of a career. They don't have
jobs waiting for them or counseling provided by the government to at least
help them find one.

A few corporations like Wal-Mart have pledged to hire up to a 100,000 veterans, but
it's not enough and the government should be doing a lot more. They ask soldiers
to make tremendous sacrifices, fight for our country, put their lives on the line, and
they don't have their backs when they return home.

Professional sports teams produce special Army fatigue uniforms which they wear
and sell for a nifty profit. The message is a great one: support our troops and veterans.
But what do they actually do for them? They, along with their families, should never
have to pay for parking, concessions, and tickets to the game. That should mandated
across the board by our government

According to a report in the New York Times, there are 22 suicides among veterans
every day. Yes, every day! One is too many. 22 is a terrible tragedy that can be
prevented. These men and woman need help. Sure, you trying going to war for
three years and have to kill or be killed. Is your job that stressful? I think not. These
soldiers have to come home, decompress, and then blend into society as if
nothing happened.

It's silly, absurd, and doesn't really make any sense. The government's motto should
be: "We take care of all those who take care of us." That's how it should
be, no questions asked.

Too bad it all can't be that simple. With our government nothing ever is.

MEETING MS. HENRIETTA

I crashed a party on November 6th and it's one of the best things I've done in a while.

During the midst of reporting on a story about the temperatures in New York shattering

a mark that stood since 1885, I happened upon a petite lady whose years, 85, seemed to

match her bodyweight.

Ms. Henrietta, as she introduced herself, was sitting on a park bench on a near perfect,

sun-splashed afternoon. She was the center of attention as her son, daughter, and two

grandchildren surrounded her, joyfully trying to make her birthday, a special one.

There was a small cake drenched with vanilla frosting and a few gifts already unwrapped,

resting against the concrete base of  a bench that had little trouble supporting her. There

was something about Henrietta that fascinated me. It may have been the big smile or the

deep grooves in her forehead which were like the rings of an oak tree. There were many

which indicated she had been around for a while. Henrietta was born in 1930 and her

soulful eyes with a tinge of sadness, screamed out loud that she had seen a lot in her

lifetime, not all of which was good.

I sat next to Henrietta on the park bench, microphone in hand, ready to capture a few

words that would certainly give a little more joy to my story. There were moments when

Henrietta would just stare out at the small ripples on the Hudson River, the only things that

could smudge an otherwise, Chamber of Commerce day.

I asked Henrietta where she was from. "I was born in Poughkeepsie," she said. Then

after a long pause, Henrietta said, "but I moved around to a lot of different places before

settling in Nyack." She made "a lot of different places" sound like "a lot of tough times."

Born during the Great Depression era, I couldn't imagine the things Henrietta and her family

may have gone through. As a teen, she lived through a brutal period where blacks in

this country were heavily discriminated against. No, Henrietta didn't need to write

a book with pictures to let the world know life had not been easy. You just knew. She

didn't wear her heart on her sleeve, it covered every inch of her face.

Henrietta became a big part of my day and I needed to find a way to make her part of my

story. She was a true gem and one of those people who can put a smile on a face without

saying a word. Not a single one.

It was 78 degrees on November 6th, a spectacular day to celebrate an 85th birthday. I asked

Henrietta if she had ever experienced a day like this one on her birthday.

"No I haven't," Henrietta said. "It's a beautiful day. A really beautiful day."

And Henrietta is a beautiful person. A really beautiful person.



BARTOLO COLON: THE 8TH WONDER OF THE WORLD

 

I'm not sure how much of the World Series I'll watch, but when Bartolo Colon of the New
York Mets comes into the game, I will be glued to the television. As a former catcher, I just
love watching this guy pitch. The 42-year-old veteran is quite fascinating, really. He's
half-man, half-cartoon character and a player who draws comparisons to former wrestling
great, Andre the Giant.

Listed at 285 pounds in a media guide that must have received that number about 10 years
ago, Colon appears to be about a biscuit away from 305. Off-season fitness program? I
highly doubt it. In-season workout schedule? Perhaps, if it means making a run for Dunkin'
Donuts in between a day-night doubleheader. Colon is old-school like Babe Ruth. If it's
not moving he'll probably eat it, but once he gets between the lines, he's all business.

The New York Mets made a smart business decision when they signed Colon to a 2-year,
$20 million contract. They knew, even at the age of 41, Colon could eat up innings just
as he devours everything on his plate. Over the last two seasons, he's won 29 games, which
is something a lot of pitchers would love to have on the back of their baseball cards.

Colon entered the league with the Cleveland Indians in 1997 and seems to have been playing
forever. He has 218 career wins which is two more than Curt Schilling and also has something
the former Red Sox pitcher doesn't have: a Cy Young award. Colon won the award in 2005
when he went 21-8 for the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim.

Colon has been a rock for the Mets. Besides his 29 wins, Colon has gobbled up a hefty
plate of 396 innings. Yep, all at the age of 41 and 42. His record hasn't been all that
squeaky clean, in fact, Colon has been a little bit dirty. He was suspended by MLB
50-games in 2013 for testing positive for PED's. The Mets gambled on him and Colon
has paid dividends as big as his near 42-inch waste.

When Colon gets on the mound, he never seems to waste much. This season, 85 percent
of his pitches were fastballs, mostly of the two-seam variety. He paints the black with his
88 mph heater and often freezes hitters when the ball moves incredibly back across the
plate like Greg Maddox.

Colon is another reason to like the Mets. He's humble, humorous, and hard-working.
Eh, well, two out of three isn't bad. Bad body and all, America loves Bartolo Colon and
he could become a household name when this series is over, or at least have deli sandwiches
in New York City named after him.

P.K. SUBBAN'S GREATEST GIFT

"In life I believe you are not defined by what you accomplish, but by what you
 do for others,"  P.K. Subban.

In his brief 26 years on the planet,  P.K. Subban had been defined by what he does,
a beautifully skilled hockey player who took his talents to the NHL. But for the rest of
his life, the veteran of the Montreal Canadiens, Subban will be remembered for what
he did Wednesday.

Subban donated a whopping $10 million dollars to a children's hospital in Montreal,
making it the biggest philanthropic gift by a professional athlete in the history of the country.

$10 million.

For a children's hospital.

Wow. Simply amazing.

If Subban ever wins the MVP of the NHL or raises the Stanley Cup, it still won't be
enough of an accomplishment to surpass the one he achieved Wednesday. To the people
of North America, Subban is a hero forever. To make such contribution to a children's
is both jaw-dropping and beyond heartwarming.

The $10 million donation will be made during the next seven years, and part of it
will be used to create a fund called "P.K.'s Helping Hands," which will provide financial
assistance to families of sick children so they can concentrate on caring for them instead
of worrying about how they will provide for their family while their child is in the hospital.

Amazing.

In a sports world that's been rife with scandal after scandal and poorly behaved athletes
like Ray Rice, Greg Hardy, Adrian Peterson, Lance Armstrong, and Tiger Woods, Subban
is a huge deodorizer that temporarily covers up the stench. He's the breath of fresh
air the world needs right about now.

There are many, many athletes who make far more than Subban, who recently signed
an 8-year, $72 million contract, but few that will ever do what Subban did.

I have played and covered sports for nearly my entire life and my days of hero worshipping
ended when I was about 16-years-old. I admire and respect professional athletes for their
awe-inspiring talent, but I learned a long time ago, they are just human beings like the
the rest of us, complete with warts and imperfections.

P.K. Subban has changed that. I don't care what kind of hockey player he is, but his
gift to the hospital in Montreal, made him a person I respect and greatly admire.
He is professional athlete who truly "gets it', as evidenced by what he said at Wednesday's
ceremony.

 "Sometimes I try to think, 'P.K., are you a hockey player or are you just someone
who plays hockey?' I just play hockey. Because one day I won't be a hockey player a
nymore. I'll just be someone who played hockey. So what do I want people to remember
me for other than being a hockey player?

"Well, every time you walk into this hospital, you'll know what I stand for."

P.K. Subban gets it. I just wish other athletes would "get it" as well.

CHANNELING MY INNER ROB KONRAD

6.2 miles in the open water is a long way, making for a lot of time to think about
things. Long before I drew down my googles and jumped in Lake George for the
start of the marathon swim race, I knew exactly what I was going to think about to
help get me through this endurance challenge:

Rob Konrad and his epic, swim-for-his-life journey eight months ago

The former fullback of the Miami Dolphins fell out of his boat off the coast of Florida
and had just two options: sink or swim to safety. Trouble was, safety and land was nine
miles away. Nine long miles. He had to swim through the night with sharks circling around
him without having any food, water, or a competitive swimming background. Can't
imagine Konrad was liking his odds of surviving.

I just about came out of the womb swimming and swam competitively until I was
12-years-old. Years of mind-numbing double-sessions and the boredom that goes with
staring at a black line for more than 6,000 yards a day, was just about all I could handle.
I was cooked and said bye-bye to the sport. Or so I thought.

When I started my swim around Lake George, which is one of the cleanest, freshest lakes
in the world, I thought about Konrad and what he had to endure to make it back to
shore that January night in 2015. That was my ticket for getting through this grueling event.
I figured if a guy like Konrad could survive in the ocean's salt water and all that goes with
it, I could go the distance of 6.2 miles.

When the water got choppy on the way out to the turnaround point, I thought of Konrad
battling five-foot waves during his nine-mile swim. Now, that is tough. I grinded it out
the only way I knew how.  I just attacked it. Exactly a month earlier and less than an
hour away, I completed the iconic Ironman for a second time, which included a 2.4
mile swim.

Even at the age of 51, I can pretty much fall out of bed in the dead of winter and complete
a 2.4 mile swim in under 1:10. Swimming came naturally to me. However, I only spent
five sessions in the pool preparing for the 6.2 mile race in Lake George. Not finishing
was not an option. It was just a matter of how much time it would take me and what
shape I would come out of the water in.

Konrad finished his swim-for-life, nine mile journey in 16 hours basically because
he kept getting pushed around by the waves. He said he followed the lights on shore that
he saw through the darkness. I tried to follow my line of sight to each buoy flanking the
course, but I kept going of my mark.  I was incredulous to how Konrad could find his
way back to shore in the darkness in waves that were crushing him.

Many people were skeptical of Konrad's story but they didn't account for his incredible
will. They seemed to forget all he endured to be a college All-American, second-round
draft pick, and a man who survived six years in the dog-eat-dog world of the NFL.

Only the strong survive in that league. He was mentally tough, had a high-pain threshold,
and when he was in the Atlantic Ocean, Konrad was driven by one thing: seeing his
wife and three girls again. He didn't want them to have to grow up without a father.

I was hardly in any danger of losing my life, being fish food for sharks, or getting
hypotherma. Konrad got that plus severe dehydration, and a condition that sees the
fibers in the muscles break down.

The only thing I battled during my 6.2 mile swim was a pair of burning shoulders. It
felt like someone was jabbing a red-hot poker into my rotator cuffs over the last two
miles of the race. Other than that, I actually felt great.  Thinking of all that Konrad
went through made the distance seem easy for me. If I were in Konrad's suit and had to
swim in the ocean at night and sharks circling, my heart would've jumped through
my throat.

My swim was a piece of cake and I loved every minute of it. Using Konrad's experience
during my quest to complete the race made it seem like a mile swim in the pool.

I came out of the water and crossed the finish line in a time of 3:21, which wasn't too
bad. I wasn't popping champagne but I was thoroughly satisfied with my performance.

I can't wait to do it again next year. I'm quite sure Rob Konrad didn't utter those words
after coming onto the shore in Florida that early morning in January.

There's a good chance he's telling everyone who will listen that anything is truly possible.

ECK, GIBSON & A PICTURE WORTH MORE THAN 1,000 WORDS

Kirk Gibson. The Eck. The Picture.

When I saw the two baseball legends captured in a picture that was posted in a twitter
feed I rarely check, a flood of memories rushed through my brain like Usain Bolt on crack:
incredibly fast, producing a burst of unbridled joy that ends with one simple word:

Wow.

A simple photo where a caption wasn't necessary and the subjects didn't seem to mind
their moment was interrupted by someone whose sole purpose was seemingly to post
the picture on Facebook just to get 1,000 'likes'.

Dennis Eckersley, as cool a guy as there's ever been in the history of game, spending
a moment with a man he's forever connected with, Kirk Gibson, a man who played the
game with spectacular grit, passion, and intensity. If you know what happened with them
on a baseball field in 1988, it wouldn't take much to figure how beautiful this simple,
yet powerful photo really is.

It was the first time I'd ever seen them pictured together, in or out of uniform, since
one incredible baseball moment put them in the same sentence forever in 1988.

1988 represented a time in my life where baseball was the second most important thing
in my life behind my family. I had just finished my first season as a minor-league player
in the Boston Red Sox organization and I was as engrossed in the game as a person
could possibly be. It was my true passion.

In the Fall of 1988, the Oakland A's met the Los Angles Dodgers in Game 1 of the
World Series. Eckersley was the most dominant pitcher in the game as a shut down
closer, preceding Yankees great Mariano Rivera as a baseball assassin whom opposing
hitters seemingly conceited at-bats to because they realized they had virtually no shot
of getting a hit off them, much less the fat part of the barrel on the ball.

Gibson was a throwback, a player who asked no quarter and gave no quarter, either.
As a newly signed free-agent, he changed the country club culture of the of the Dodgers,
imposing his will, intensity, and passion on a team that desperately needed it.

By the time the World Series came around Gibson was a shadow of the player
who'd win the National League MVP that season. His legs ravaged with injury,
making him a man who could  barely walk, let alone swing a bat with any kind
of authority.

Gibson didn't start Game 1 against  Oakland, in fact, he didn't even bother to come
out for pre-game introductions because he was in such pain. He did promise Dodgers
manager Tom Lasorda he could give him one at-bat if he needed him in a late-game
situation.

That situation came three hours later when the Dodgers trailed the A's by a run
in the ninth inning. Eckersley came in and more than a few fans headed for the
exits to beat the traffic. Gibson came to the plate with two outs, walking as if
there wasn't a single ounce of joy in his life, the happiness sapped by the
pain of injuries sweeping through his lower body.

If you're a baseball fan, you know what happened next. Gibson shocked the
Eck and the baseball world with a walk-off home run to win the game, propelling
the Dodgers to a monumental upset of the almighty A's.

Flash forward 27 years later to Detroit, where Gibson is working as an analyst
for the Tigers, the Eck is doing the same for the Red Sox. They meet in
a hallway of the broadcast wing of Comerica Park. I could only imagine what
was going through their minds when they stopped to chat.

Gibson was recently diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. Eckersley dealt with
demons in the early part of his career, battling alcoholism and a career that was
going in the tank before reinventing himself as a Hall of Fame closer. Gibson's
signature moment of his career was a heart-stopping, iconic home run that will
will forever be part of baseball lore. Eckersely will forever be the dominant
closer who gave up that magnanimous home run.

But that moment didn't shatter Eckersely as it did Donnie Moore or even
Ralph Branca, who gave up the home run to Bobby Thompson in the ninth
inning to give the NY Giants the pennant over the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1951.

Eck was just too good and downright too cool for that to happen.

I had the good fortune of working with Eckersley for two years during my time
at NESN. A man once said to me, "Paul, perception is reality." Eckersley convinced
me that was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard.

Eckersley was  perceived to be brash, cocky, and arrogant. He was somewhat reserved
off the field and a bit of a showman  on it. He'd punctuate a big  strikeout with a point
of the finger or a pump of the fist. Admittedly, I bought into that image as well.

That perception couldn't be further from reality.

Eckersley is the coolest, most down-to-earth Hall of Famer  there's ever been. While
at NESN, he never played the role of a superstar, never talked down to anyone, or
made like he was better than anyone else.

He always had a minute for me, always returned my calls, and never said no when
I'd ask him to offer his unpaid analysis while I worked at MLB.com.

Unfortunately, during all my years in sports broadcasting, I never met Gibson, but I'm
fairly certain the perception of him was reality. He was gritty, gutty, and a bad-ass
when it came to competing on the field. I'm sure he's battling Parkinson's disease just
as he did all those injuries during his magical season in 1988: Without complaint and
dignity.

When pictured together as they were in Detroit, Eckersley and Gibson represented what
a lot o life and baseball is all about. There is triumph, defeat, victory, set-up backs,
toughness, trying times, passion, dignity, energy, and perseverance.

For me, it will forever be a picture of more than 1,000 words.

ECK, GIBSON, AND A PICTURE WORTH MORE THAN 1,000 WORDS

Kirk Gibson. The Eck. The Picture.

When I saw the two baseball legends captured in a picture that was posted in a twitter
feed I rarely check, a flood of memories rushed through my brain like Usain Bolt on crack:
incredibly fast, producing a burst of unbridled joy that ends with one simple word:

Wow.

A simple photo where a caption wasn't necessary and the subjects didn't seem to mind
their moment was interrupted by someone whose sole purpose was seemingly to post
the picture on Facebook just to get 1,000 'likes'.

Dennis Eckersley, as cool a guy as there's ever been in the history of game, spending
a moment with a man he's forever connected with, Kirk Gibson, a man who played the
game with spectacular grit, passion, and intensity. If you know what happened with them
on a baseball field in 1988, it wouldn't take much to figure how beautiful this simple,
yet powerful photo really is.

It was the first time I'd ever seen them pictured together, in or out of uniform, since
one incredible baseball moment put them in the same sentence forever in 1988.

1988 represented a time in my life where baseball was the second most important thing
in my life behind my family. I had just finished my first season as a minor-league player
in the Boston Red Sox organization and I was as engrossed in the game as a person
could possibly be. It was my true passion.

In the Fall of 1988, the Oakland A's met the Los Angles Dodgers in Game 1 of the
World Series. Eckersley was the most dominant pitcher in the game as a shut down
closer, preceding Yankees great Mariano Rivera as a baseball assassin whom opposing
hitters seemingly conceited at-bats to because they realized they had virtually no shot
of getting a hit off them, much less the fat part of the barrel on the ball.

Gibson was a throwback, a player who asked no quarter and gave no quarter, either.
As a newly signed free-agent, he changed the country club culture of the of the Dodgers,
imposing his will, intensity, and passion on a team that desperately needed it.

By the time the World Series came around Gibson was a shadowy of the player
who'd win the National League MVP that season. His legs ravaged with injury,
making him a man who could  barely walk, let alone swing a bat with any kind
of authority.

Gibson didn't start Game 1 against  Oakland, in fact, he didn't even bother to come
out for pre-game introductions because he was in such pain. He did promise Dodgers
manager Tom Lasorda he could give him one at-bat if he needed him in a late-game
situation.

That situation came three hours later when the Dodgers trailed the A's by a run
in the ninth inning. Eckersley came in and more than a few fans headed for the
exits to beat the traffic. Gibson came to the plate with two outs, walking as if
there wasn't a single ounce of joy in his life, the happiness sapped by the
pain of injuries sweeping through his lower body.

If you're a baseball fan, you know what happened next. Gibson shocked the
Eck and the baseball world with a walk-off home run to win the game, propelling
the Dodgers to a monumental upset of the almighty A's.

Flash forward 27 years later to Detroit, where Gibson is working as an analyst
for the Tigers, the Eck is doing the same for the Red Sox. They meet in
a hallway of the broadcast wing of Comerica Park. I could only imagine what
was going through their minds when they stopped to chat.

Gibson was recently diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. Eckersley dealt with
demons in the early part of his career, battling alcoholism and a career that was
going in the tank before reinventing himself as a Hall of Fame closer. Gibson's
signature moment of his career was a heart-stopping, iconic home run that will
will forever be part of baseball lore. Eckersely will forever be the dominant
closer who gave up that magnanimous home run.

But that moment didn't shatter Eckersely as it did Donnie Moore or even
Ralph Branca, who gave up the home run to Bobby Thompson in the ninth
inning to give the NY Giants the pennant over the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1951.

Eck was just too good and downright too cool for that to happen.

I had the good fortune of working with Eckersley for two years during my time
at NESN. A man once said to me, "Paul, perception is reality." Eckersley convinced
me that was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard.

Eckersley was  perceived to be brash, cocky, and arrogant. He was somewhat reserved
off the field and a bit of a showman  on it. He'd punctuate a big  strikeout with a point
of the finger or a pump of the fist. Admittedly, I bought into that image as well.

That perception couldn't be further from reality.

Eckersley is the coolest, most down-to-earth Hall of Famer  there's ever been. While
at NESN, he never played the role of a superstar, never talked down to anyone, or
make like he was better than anyone else.

He always had a minute for me, always returned my calls, and never said no when
I'd ask him to offer his unpaid analysis while I worked at MLB.com.

Unfortunately, during all my years in sports broadcasting, I never met Gibson, but I'm
fairly certain the perception of him was reality. He was gritty, gutty, and a bad-ass
when it came to competing on the field. I'm sure he's battling Parkinson's disease just
as he did all those injuries during his magical season in 1988: Without complaint and
dignity.

When pictured together as they were in Detroit, Eckersley and Gibson represented what
a lot o life and baseball is all about. There is triumph, defeat, victory, set-up backs,
toughness, trying times, passion, dignity, energy, and perseverance.

For me, it will forever be a picture of more than 1,000 words.