As part of my "Legendary Substance Abusers" series, a post for Dock Ellis has been in the works. However, the following youtube video does the pitcher more justice than a written post would. For those of you who don't know about Dock Ellis, he is a former pitcher for the Pittsburgh Pirates who famously threw a no-hitter while tripping on acid. Enjoy...
Friday, November 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Five Hours in Hell
When the Fung Wah bus starts picking up steam on a downhill grade as I-91 sweeps gently into the coast, the driver weaving in and out of traffic at speeds approaching 90 mph with the deftness of Mario Andretti, a rider suddenly understands what the pink plastic bags hanging off the back of every seat are for. If he's lucky enough to be taking the bus on a Sunday morning, his piercing hangover an unbearable reminder of his lack of foresight, he's probably already used one as a receptacle for his acidic vomit that still vaguely tastes like tequila.
An old woman screams at the the driver in a foreign tongue, most likely related to the cigarette smoke he is blowing back over his shoulder and directly into the face of the wailing infant struggling in her arms. The middle-aged bus driver is on his second pack already, and there's still at least two hours to go. By the end of the trip, the entire bus will reek of the driver's butts, of course, but the seasoned rider prefers this to the overpowering smell of fifty people's body odor which usually permeates the tiny, smoky vehicle that has no air conditioning or functioning windows. It's uncomfortable in November, downright inhumane in July.
The bus driver shouts back at the old woman in the same dialect, turning all the way around in his seat to face her as the steel tube of death hurtles towards certain catastrophe on the interstate. He glances back in just in time to slam on the brakes and make a hard right, avoiding a collision with the barrier a mere mile from the spot his colleague wrecked a week ago. In the last ten years, the Fung Wah bus has had dozens of such accidents, like the time in March, 2007, when a bus plowed into the cement tollbooth divider, getting stuck there for hours. The Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration ranked Fung Wah drivers in the worst 2% of drivers in the nation, but it's not always the driver's fault. The buses have also fallen to a host of mechanical disasters, ranging from the time in January of 2007, when the back wheels of a bus spontaneously fell off on the highway, to October, 2009, when a bus caught fire while driving down I-84.
Riders in the back of the bus actually welcome the driver's cigarette smoke. The bathroom door has been completely torn off, likely as a deterrent from using illicit drugs in the private space (that, or it was torn off by a customer in a blind rage after the sixth hour in Hartford traffic). With no barrier to the odors wafting out of the waste area, the back of the bus is a torture chamber. Coupled with the risk of turning around and glimpsing an old Chinese man emptying his bowels into the broken-down toilet, no sin is great enough for this sentence.
Yet passengers still come in droves. Low income Boston and New York residents alike use the $15 bus regularly to visit friends and family. They are herded - like cattle to the slaughter - in excruciatingly long lines onto the rickety old deathtraps. Almost every bus in rotation was acquired as an unwanted heap from some respectable busing company adhering to safety standards that forbade them to let the piece of junk anywhere near paying customers. Usually, white spray paint is applied to the old company's logo to form the canvas where "FUNG WAH" is crudely tagged in crimson.
The bickering between the old woman and the bus driver - put off in the face of immediate danger - picks up steam again. The other riders have all tuned out the baby's crying like white noise, but the poor woman doesn't realize that this is her only recourse. The driver has been doing this for five years, made thousands of runs between the two cities, and smoked hundreds of thousands of cigarettes in that time; he wasn't about to stop because some lady chastised him. In fact, if he had a nickel for every first-time rider who had yelled at him for the conditions of the bus, he certainly wouldn't be working this shit job anymore. He much preferred students - hung over, don't talk much, used to both the unsanitary conditions and the unique smell of smoke, vomit, and body odor that defined the bus. He'd never heard a complaint from these ilk; they knew what they were getting into when they signed up. The grizzled driver rolls his eyes and glimpses a bright spot on the horizon: that familiar rest area he'd been stopping at since the first day he made a southbound run.
The McDonald's stop in Connecticut is a custom formed out of necessity more than preference. The run-down building is an appropriate haven for this hardy bunch. The chance to stretch one's legs, albeit in the smell of car exhaust and french fries at a highway rest area, comes as a welcome relief to riders who have been subjected to human rights violations for the last three hours. They also use this opportunity to defecate in a toilet that has a seat, a door, and a sink. In no other situation would a rest area bathroom seem like such luxury - at least there's usually toilet paper at a rest stop, even if you have to pick it up off the floor.
After stocking up on fries and bacon cheeseburgers, the riders gain their second wind. The aisle becomes a flurry of activity, with passengers calling their loved ones to notify them of their imminent arrival: "Yeah, looking at an hour, hour and a half...Canal and Bowery, right by the bridge...yep....well, I'm definitely gonna need a shower before we go out...yeah it's especially bad today...okay, I'll call you when we're in Brooklyn...see you soon, bye." With the finish line in sight, the last hour is by far the longest.
An old woman screams at the the driver in a foreign tongue, most likely related to the cigarette smoke he is blowing back over his shoulder and directly into the face of the wailing infant struggling in her arms. The middle-aged bus driver is on his second pack already, and there's still at least two hours to go. By the end of the trip, the entire bus will reek of the driver's butts, of course, but the seasoned rider prefers this to the overpowering smell of fifty people's body odor which usually permeates the tiny, smoky vehicle that has no air conditioning or functioning windows. It's uncomfortable in November, downright inhumane in July.
The bus driver shouts back at the old woman in the same dialect, turning all the way around in his seat to face her as the steel tube of death hurtles towards certain catastrophe on the interstate. He glances back in just in time to slam on the brakes and make a hard right, avoiding a collision with the barrier a mere mile from the spot his colleague wrecked a week ago. In the last ten years, the Fung Wah bus has had dozens of such accidents, like the time in March, 2007, when a bus plowed into the cement tollbooth divider, getting stuck there for hours. The Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration ranked Fung Wah drivers in the worst 2% of drivers in the nation, but it's not always the driver's fault. The buses have also fallen to a host of mechanical disasters, ranging from the time in January of 2007, when the back wheels of a bus spontaneously fell off on the highway, to October, 2009, when a bus caught fire while driving down I-84.
Riders in the back of the bus actually welcome the driver's cigarette smoke. The bathroom door has been completely torn off, likely as a deterrent from using illicit drugs in the private space (that, or it was torn off by a customer in a blind rage after the sixth hour in Hartford traffic). With no barrier to the odors wafting out of the waste area, the back of the bus is a torture chamber. Coupled with the risk of turning around and glimpsing an old Chinese man emptying his bowels into the broken-down toilet, no sin is great enough for this sentence.
Yet passengers still come in droves. Low income Boston and New York residents alike use the $15 bus regularly to visit friends and family. They are herded - like cattle to the slaughter - in excruciatingly long lines onto the rickety old deathtraps. Almost every bus in rotation was acquired as an unwanted heap from some respectable busing company adhering to safety standards that forbade them to let the piece of junk anywhere near paying customers. Usually, white spray paint is applied to the old company's logo to form the canvas where "FUNG WAH" is crudely tagged in crimson.
The bickering between the old woman and the bus driver - put off in the face of immediate danger - picks up steam again. The other riders have all tuned out the baby's crying like white noise, but the poor woman doesn't realize that this is her only recourse. The driver has been doing this for five years, made thousands of runs between the two cities, and smoked hundreds of thousands of cigarettes in that time; he wasn't about to stop because some lady chastised him. In fact, if he had a nickel for every first-time rider who had yelled at him for the conditions of the bus, he certainly wouldn't be working this shit job anymore. He much preferred students - hung over, don't talk much, used to both the unsanitary conditions and the unique smell of smoke, vomit, and body odor that defined the bus. He'd never heard a complaint from these ilk; they knew what they were getting into when they signed up. The grizzled driver rolls his eyes and glimpses a bright spot on the horizon: that familiar rest area he'd been stopping at since the first day he made a southbound run.
The McDonald's stop in Connecticut is a custom formed out of necessity more than preference. The run-down building is an appropriate haven for this hardy bunch. The chance to stretch one's legs, albeit in the smell of car exhaust and french fries at a highway rest area, comes as a welcome relief to riders who have been subjected to human rights violations for the last three hours. They also use this opportunity to defecate in a toilet that has a seat, a door, and a sink. In no other situation would a rest area bathroom seem like such luxury - at least there's usually toilet paper at a rest stop, even if you have to pick it up off the floor.
After stocking up on fries and bacon cheeseburgers, the riders gain their second wind. The aisle becomes a flurry of activity, with passengers calling their loved ones to notify them of their imminent arrival: "Yeah, looking at an hour, hour and a half...Canal and Bowery, right by the bridge...yep....well, I'm definitely gonna need a shower before we go out...yeah it's especially bad today...okay, I'll call you when we're in Brooklyn...see you soon, bye." With the finish line in sight, the last hour is by far the longest.
A Proposition to Fix the Red Sox SS Woes
Now I consider myself a baseball aficionado. But I'm not into all this new age bullshit--the numbers, the formulas, the MIT grad students oogling over Pujols' win shares during the past decade. I know a gamer when I see one; I know the x-factor, the guy-who-has-it-all. Hello Matt Stairs. Nice to see you Craig Biggio. Wade Boggs? It's a pleasure. And I always give a quick nod and a tip of the cap to Keith Hernandez when I pass by him at the Mirage in Vegas.
Let me propose the following scenario for you, one that involves a certain Red Sox gamer who is too easily overlooked, who, this past offseason, has been overwhelmingly disrespected by local media and fans...
It's June 2010. The Red Sox are facing the Tampa Bay Rays, an important early season game between two teams jockeying for an early lead in the Wild Card standings.
Hat cocked to the side, Jon Lester stares in at Akinori Iwamura, shakes off 'Tek once, twice, before nodding firmly. With glazed eyes, from the stretch, he faces Carl Crawford, who takes a short lead off first base; but the lanky lefty really doesn't see him. All focus is on the catcher's mitt--a cool sort of equilibrium he's achieved since recovering from cancer, this zen-like state that allows him to devote all his energy, his entire center of gravity, to the one inch by one inch square where he intends to hurl the ball.
Lester takes in a deep breath, sets, then lifts his right leg and strides towards home plate--a beautifully synchronized motion--which allows him to rip in a nice little cutter that juts over inside corner, jamming the feisty nip, who swings defensively.
The bat breaks, and the ball bounces past the mound, barely evading Lester's outstretched glove.
From shortstop position, Mikey Lowell, number 25, "springs" into action. For the Alex Gonzalez's and the Rey Ordonez's of the league, this play would be merely routine. Routine? Mike Lowell? The only routines for "Iron Mike" Lowell are the post game ice wraps around his lower back, hamstrings, and right shoulder. That, and the post game drinks at Crossroads Irish Pub; two Jamesons, on the rocks.
As the ball rolls past the mound, Lowell staggers towards second base. He lets out a soft grunt as he braces his balky back for another stiff dive. Just as the ball looks as if it's going slip by, a glove flails towards it, knocking it down. Flat as a washboard, he hits the dirt with a thud.
The ball rolls slowly towards the second base bag, where Dustin Pedroia--steady, reliable, accountable--snatches up the ball with cat-like reflexes, his right foot planted firmly on the base, boldly challenging Crawford's cleat.
Crawford slides hard into Pedey, flipping the diminutive second baseman forwards, where he collapses in a heap, only to emerge from the cloud of dust holding the ball high--a trophy for all to see.
The umpire emphatically pumps his fist, signaling the out.
"Oh my," Orsillo roars from the broadcast booth.
A bit dizzy, number 25 stands, pumping his fist into his glove. "Let's go!" He barks.
"Well it isn't easy, folks," Remy adds. "Lowell sure is hurtin' out there!"
Lester, ever respectful of his elder, points in deference towards the grizzled vet.
He returns the gesture, nodding resolutely, and then, with the red sleeve of his undershirt, he wipes the mixture of saliva and dirt at the corner of his salt-and-pepper goatee.
He adjust his hat, and as a stray silver hair or two falls to the ground, he crouches, the joints of his knees creaking as he shades towards the hole, playing the next batter, slugger Evan Longoria, to pull.
"Make me quit," his mind is buzzing. "I dare you." He mouths those final three words--a low whisper--and it's unclear exactly who it's directed to: Longoria? Tito? The Red Sox brass? Or perhaps it's a message to the thousands of doubters who have announced his decline. He's proved them wrong before. He did it in 2007; and now, manning the shortstop position--the unofficial field general--he's doing it again.
"You know what, Jerry?" Orsillo pauses. "Lowell, he gets the job done."
"That he does." Remy replies hoarsely, before breaking into one of his legendary hacking episodes--the aftereffects of years spent chain-smoking Marlboro Reds in the dugout and (later) in the broadcast booth. "That he does, Don."
And from your living room coach, calmly sipping a cool, refreshing Miller Lite, you can't help but nod your head in agreement.
Let me propose the following scenario for you, one that involves a certain Red Sox gamer who is too easily overlooked, who, this past offseason, has been overwhelmingly disrespected by local media and fans...
It's June 2010. The Red Sox are facing the Tampa Bay Rays, an important early season game between two teams jockeying for an early lead in the Wild Card standings.
Hat cocked to the side, Jon Lester stares in at Akinori Iwamura, shakes off 'Tek once, twice, before nodding firmly. With glazed eyes, from the stretch, he faces Carl Crawford, who takes a short lead off first base; but the lanky lefty really doesn't see him. All focus is on the catcher's mitt--a cool sort of equilibrium he's achieved since recovering from cancer, this zen-like state that allows him to devote all his energy, his entire center of gravity, to the one inch by one inch square where he intends to hurl the ball.
Lester takes in a deep breath, sets, then lifts his right leg and strides towards home plate--a beautifully synchronized motion--which allows him to rip in a nice little cutter that juts over inside corner, jamming the feisty nip, who swings defensively.
The bat breaks, and the ball bounces past the mound, barely evading Lester's outstretched glove.
From shortstop position, Mikey Lowell, number 25, "springs" into action. For the Alex Gonzalez's and the Rey Ordonez's of the league, this play would be merely routine. Routine? Mike Lowell? The only routines for "Iron Mike" Lowell are the post game ice wraps around his lower back, hamstrings, and right shoulder. That, and the post game drinks at Crossroads Irish Pub; two Jamesons, on the rocks.
As the ball rolls past the mound, Lowell staggers towards second base. He lets out a soft grunt as he braces his balky back for another stiff dive. Just as the ball looks as if it's going slip by, a glove flails towards it, knocking it down. Flat as a washboard, he hits the dirt with a thud.
The ball rolls slowly towards the second base bag, where Dustin Pedroia--steady, reliable, accountable--snatches up the ball with cat-like reflexes, his right foot planted firmly on the base, boldly challenging Crawford's cleat.
Crawford slides hard into Pedey, flipping the diminutive second baseman forwards, where he collapses in a heap, only to emerge from the cloud of dust holding the ball high--a trophy for all to see.
The umpire emphatically pumps his fist, signaling the out.
"Oh my," Orsillo roars from the broadcast booth.
A bit dizzy, number 25 stands, pumping his fist into his glove. "Let's go!" He barks.
"Well it isn't easy, folks," Remy adds. "Lowell sure is hurtin' out there!"
Lester, ever respectful of his elder, points in deference towards the grizzled vet.
He returns the gesture, nodding resolutely, and then, with the red sleeve of his undershirt, he wipes the mixture of saliva and dirt at the corner of his salt-and-pepper goatee.
He adjust his hat, and as a stray silver hair or two falls to the ground, he crouches, the joints of his knees creaking as he shades towards the hole, playing the next batter, slugger Evan Longoria, to pull.
"Make me quit," his mind is buzzing. "I dare you." He mouths those final three words--a low whisper--and it's unclear exactly who it's directed to: Longoria? Tito? The Red Sox brass? Or perhaps it's a message to the thousands of doubters who have announced his decline. He's proved them wrong before. He did it in 2007; and now, manning the shortstop position--the unofficial field general--he's doing it again.
"You know what, Jerry?" Orsillo pauses. "Lowell, he gets the job done."
"That he does." Remy replies hoarsely, before breaking into one of his legendary hacking episodes--the aftereffects of years spent chain-smoking Marlboro Reds in the dugout and (later) in the broadcast booth. "That he does, Don."
And from your living room coach, calmly sipping a cool, refreshing Miller Lite, you can't help but nod your head in agreement.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
A Tribute to Emese "Shay Shay" Legeny
Emese Legeny, our elderly Hungarian chef, has been cooking food at the Sigma Chi fraternity house for twenty-two years now. During her tenure, she has perfected the art of making cheeseburgers with grade D meat; her just-add-water eggs are the stuff of (anti) legends, and her steak bomb subs are so wildly popular that she makes them every Thursday for lunch. Sure, she has her fair share of unpopular meals--her salmon is fishy and slimy, her strip steak notoriously dry and flavorless--but she can only do so much with what she is given (Sysco products), and she further counteracts these famous flops with her homemade pizzas and deliciously gooey brownies. Plus she brings more to the house than just food; Emese, possessed with the elderly wisdom of a grandmother and the giddiness of a preteen middle school girl, has a warm nature and a generous heart. Just don't cross her.
Spring 2007: upon returning to the house after spring break, I make a bee-line for the kitchen.
There she stands, in front of the grill, marinating slabs of chicken. My little babushka doll.
I watch from afar as this squat, gnomish woman waddles around her turf, wearing a long, flowerly apron and thick oven mitts. Her dyed-brown hair is wrapped up neatly into a little bun; she wears bright, red lipstick, and he skin is dark and moist, like always, from the exorbitant amount of tanning cream she applies daily so she doesn't "look like an old woman."
When she's not looking, I creep up behind her and grab her shoulders. "Boo!"
She jumps and turns around. "Oh, Ghostface! You scared me."
Emese has been calling me "Ghostface" for about six months now ("You need more sun, you're just oh-so-pale").
We embrace, and then she steps back, eyeing me up and down. "Take your hat off."
Over spring break, I had shaved my head.
I remove my hat, smiling sheepishly.
"Oh Ghostface!" she squeals, shaking her head. "I don't understand why people make themselves look ugly."
"Thanks, Emese, I knew you'd like it."
"This is such shame." She reaches up with her pudgy arm and I bend over so she can rub the prickly hair. "You look like--like one of those gang members!"
"I know--isn't it great? And I'm getting a swastika tattooed on my neck too."
"Hmph, you think you're so funny." She playfully slaps me with her oven mitt.
I laugh and step away from the stove. "So what's for dinner tonight?"
"Oh, I'm just making barbecue chicken and mashed potatoes," she says, turning around and stirring her pot of bulbbling barbecue sauce.
I cringe--this is one of her more loathed meals--but I bite my tongue. I have learned: complain about her food, and face her wrath. "Nice," I say, swallowing the regurgitated food creeping up my throat. "One of my favorites."
* * * * * *
It's impossible for everyone to go through the house without someone getting on Emese's bad side; she picks her enemies carefully. For example, just before spring break, I had been watching Judge Judy with her on her countertop TV, when, all of a sudden, during one of the commercials, she looked around nervously before pulling me close. I bent over, so she could whisper into my ear: "Who is the one with the big lips?"
"Oh, Kyle?"
"Yes." She took a deep breath, then sighed. "I cannot wait until he is gone--he comes in here, he always says, 'why can't we have this, why can't we eat that.' Always complaning, and he never says nice things to me." She pouted.
"I know, Shay Shay. He's a big meanie."
She nodded her head, then shook it in disgust. "Well only one more year of the big-lipped one."
"You should spit in his food," I suggested.
She turned her attention back to the TV. "No, no, Ghostface. I just want him to go away."
"Yeah, well--"
"Shush," she slapped me with her oven mitt. Judge Judy was about to announce her verdict.
"Oh, Kyle?"
"Yes." She took a deep breath, then sighed. "I cannot wait until he is gone--he comes in here, he always says, 'why can't we have this, why can't we eat that.' Always complaning, and he never says nice things to me." She pouted.
"I know, Shay Shay. He's a big meanie."
She nodded her head, then shook it in disgust. "Well only one more year of the big-lipped one."
"You should spit in his food," I suggested.
She turned her attention back to the TV. "No, no, Ghostface. I just want him to go away."
"Yeah, well--"
"Shush," she slapped me with her oven mitt. Judge Judy was about to announce her verdict.
* * * * * *
After Emese finishes tending to the barbecue sauce, she snaps on some rubber gloves and begins washing lettuce and carrots for our salad bar. Ashley, one of Face's flings, struts into the kitchen. Emese turns the tap off and frowns at me, before staring down this impostor. Ashley takes a bowl, fills it with cereal and milk, grabs a spoon, then leaves.
Emese shakes her head. She is very possissive of her boys--infamous, in fact, for her uninhibited disgust directed towards any girlfriends who enter the kitchen. Within Emese's territory, these girls are confronted with icy glares and terse, one word answers to any questions they might have about the location of food or silverware.
And thus, when they leave, the insults come raining down.
Emese turns the tap back on, and continues nonchalantly rinsing the vegetables, her back to me.
"Why do I always see Face with that big girl?" Her voice is filled with disappointment. "He is such a nice boy, he is better than that. She is fat, and smells like cigarettes. She acts like she owns this place. What is her name? "
"Ashley, but you can call her Trashley if you want."
Emese shakes her head. She is very possissive of her boys--infamous, in fact, for her uninhibited disgust directed towards any girlfriends who enter the kitchen. Within Emese's territory, these girls are confronted with icy glares and terse, one word answers to any questions they might have about the location of food or silverware.
And thus, when they leave, the insults come raining down.
Emese turns the tap back on, and continues nonchalantly rinsing the vegetables, her back to me.
"Why do I always see Face with that big girl?" Her voice is filled with disappointment. "He is such a nice boy, he is better than that. She is fat, and smells like cigarettes. She acts like she owns this place. What is her name? "
"Ashley, but you can call her Trashley if you want."
Emese giggles. "I like that. That is a good name. Well you need to watch her. She is always drunk and she always takes too much food from the fridge."
"Okay, I'll make sure to keep on eye on her. But please, Emese, you have to be nicer to girls. They don't feel welcome in here."
She looks at me in disbelief. "Ghostface, I am nice--but they have to be nice to me first. Plus they're all so ugly." She scrunches her nose.
"Well you know you'll always be my number one."
At that, she smiles. "Oh, Ghostface, I know."
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Boston Legends Officially Retires #34
Arlington, Texas, late July 1999
Jimy Williams winced as Greer coasted into second base with a stand up, bases-clearing double, bringing the go-ahead run to the plate. It looked like Wasdin wasn't going to get an out this inning. Williams glanced at the scoreboard in center field and saw the temperature through the Sunday afternoon haze: 103 degrees. He steeled himself for the move he knew he had to make. As the donut from Juan Gonzalez's bat met the earthen on-deck circle with a resounding thud, Williams dragged his creaky joints up the dugout steps. He held up a wrinkled finger in the direction of the bullpen, and legendary reliever Rich Garces squeezed his 5'10, 275 pound frame through the door in the outfield fence to initiate what the television advertisers had been looking forward to: the 12-minute pitching change as he ambled towards the mound in the Texas heat.
The veteran manager knew the risks of going to El Guapo in this situation; a one-run game on the road was hardly the place for the fan favorite whose prowess dropped precipitously when taken away from the raucous Fenway crowds. Williams and Kerrigan knew the numbers all too well, opponents were hitting more than 50 points higher against Garces on the road. The coaches, however, were not thinking about the situation from a sabermetrician's point of view, but as concerned friends. It couldn't be healthy for a man of his enormity to be exerting himself in this heat, and their minds went back to the four bacon double cheeseburgers and supersize fries they had seen him polish off in the clubhouse immediately before the game. Unfortunately, the 13-inning marathon in last night's humidity had sapped the bullpen's strength, and Jimy was out of options.
As Garces squinted through the sweat dripping down from his forehead, he let out a wheezing, labored sigh. He had been hoping he could escape this series without an appearance like he usually did on these short road trips. The rotund righty delivered his final warmup pitch: a two-seamer that slipped out of his sweaty hand and nearly tailed into the slugger making his way to the plate. The umpire shot him a warning glance as he walked up to dust off home plate. Garces shrugged, wiped his palm on his pant leg and reached for the chalk bag.
El Guapo stood behind the mound, tucked his glove in his armpit, and took off his cap to wipe his forehead. The sweaty jersey sleeve he dragged across his face felt like it had recently been fished out of a swimming pool. He said his customary silent prayer, accepted the ball from Varitek, and toed the rubber.
Jimy Williams lumbered up the dugout steps and raised his wrinkled finger one more time, hoping Wake could find a way to get the last seven outs.
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