Blogging BLOHARDS

And So It Begins, Again (Part 2)

The Postscript

It's funny, I won't know where I was for this one.

The Boston Massacre of 1978, I was in Montreal. I was working at a club in Franconia, New Hampshire, that summer, and the short-order cook and myself decided on a road trip. We threw our gym bags and a six-pack in the car, and headed north to enjoy our days off in what was, then, a magical, partying city. We camped open-air in our sleeping bags on top of Mont Royale, and basically roamed during the day. I had been following the Sox' spectacular fade on various feeble White Mountains airwaves already, and now I was buying French language newspapers and getting day-old or two-day-old box scores that looked more foreign than the language: numbers like 14, and 15, and 2, and 3. Geezuz, what's happening down in Fenway? Holy God.

And So It Begins, Again (Part 1)

Fellow BLOHARDS,

Sure, I’m at “work,” like you are. But I’m going to open up this new file just now—it’s 1:08 at the moment—and start switching back and forth between what I’m supposed to be doing, and this. They’re about to have at it up at the Fens, and the rest of the afternoon promises to be . . . distracted.
     Ah, a first decision: YES or ESPN. Do I have any kind of confidence that I might be treated to an afternoon of joy, hearing Kaye and Kitty bemoan the Yanks ineffectuality as they were forced to do for nearly four hours yesterday against the lowly O’s? (Nice job on the pop-up, A-Rod—and yes, we’re calling you out, not the Captain, and how’d you get the error switched to his ledger, anyway)? Do I have that kind of confidence, Wang v. Johnson? I certainly do not, so the less painful choice is obviously...

Sullivan: When It's Weird And Wonderful

I was thinking Wednesday morning as I walked to the train, the Sox having finally yielded first place after a good long stay, what a weird game baseball is. Actually, the reflection goes back three or four days now. Now that I think about it: four, precisely four. The starting point would be sometime after 4 p.m. on Saturday afternoon; I know this because we were running late for a four o’clock cookout in Pound Ridge. I was humping the Sienna over the back roads of Bedford. Joe and Jerry were fading in and out from WTIC in Hartford.

Sullivan: On Gammo, First Half

Fellow BLOHARDS:

In the last couple of years I've made some new friends in very strange places, including a couple at Sons of Sam Horn. In fact, one of them, Shaun (who goes by the Jack Lamabe monniker over there), has become something of an email pen-pal, and earlier this year invited me to join their club. I would never forsake the BLOHARDS for such a Siren, of course, but took Shaun up on his regal offer. Since then, I've done a good bit of reading, but zero posting. Too scared.

Anyway, I thought I'd share with you a bit of back-and-forth that Shaun and I had earlier today, because you might be interested in the Gammons update (many of us are trying to track Peter's progress daily), but more because of an exceedingly odd reaction I had to that absolutely extraordinary game that brought down the curtain on "2006, Act I" yesterday afternoon/evening/night...