Another summer at the movies has come and gone, and my reaction is mixed. Part of me is ready to embrace the smarter, more mature fare that unspools throughout November and December, just in time for oscar season. The other part of me misses the hype, the explosions, and the ads featuring phony quotes. You know they're phony when you read blurbs like "Evan Almighty is the funniest movie I've seen since Caddyshack," says Joe Smith-Johnson from a periodical in a city you've never heard of. For the most part this past summer was as expected. A couple movies were great, a few were horrendous, and the remainder fell into the mediocrity zone (I'm copyrighting that phrase, so don't steal it). More than anything though, my confidence in the impact of screenwriting was reaffirmed. The script more than any other factor makes or breaks the movie, and this summer offered prime evidence. In fact, several actors clawed through uninspired remakes, unfocused plots, and unwanted violence just to make their films tolerable. Among those who survived mostly unscathed were Will Smith, Steve Carrell, Meryl Streep, and Harrison Ford, who made a welcome return as the greatest fictional adventurer of all-time (see blog entitled 'The Return of Indiana Jones' for a full review). However, the summer's three best performances belonged to . . .
Robery Downey Jr.: By any reasonable measure, the former drug addict was the star of the summer. Afer years of quirky performances in critical darlings, Downey Jr. broke through with Iron Man, which shattered industry expectations in becoming the year's 2nd biggest hit. Delivering sharp dialogue with cocky zeal, he infused Tony Stark with more personality than any other movie superhero on record. The character's surprise cameo at the end of The Incredible Hulk actually received more excitement than anything else in the latter movie. For an encore, he starred as Australian method actor Kirk Lazarus playing a black character named Sgt. Osiris in the self-referential misfire Tropic Thunder. Though the film spent way too much time winking at itself and tossing limbs around like confetti, Downey Jr. rose above it, providing almost all of the laughs with rapid-fire delivery and assorted accents.
James Franco: After years of whining at Peter Parker for killing his insane father, I'd nearly given up on the talented, though inconsistent Franco. But he restored my confidence with Pineapple Express, a stoner comedy in which he goes on the run with buddy Seth Rogan after the latter witnesses a murder. Franco played Saul Silver, a clueless drug dealer who hazily enjoyed BK chicken fries and reruns of The Jeffersons. Franco found the perfect tone for Saul, balancing sincerety with foolishness in a performance that deserves mention alongside celebrated cinematic potheads like Jeff Spicoli, David Wooderson, and Jeffrey Lebowski.
Heath Ledger: Alternately hysterical and horrifying, Ledger captivated audiences with one of the best villanious performances of the decade. It's not easy playing the most famous villain in comic-books, especially since Jack Nicholson made the character his own almost 20 years ago. But from the opening scene, Ledger left no doubt as to which Joker I will remember. He dominated The Dark Knight without hogging the spotlight, and forced the other A-listers (Christian Bale, Morgan Freeman, Aaron Eckhart, etc.) to raise their game. The Dark Knight quickly become the biggest blockbuster since Titanic and one suspects fascination following Ledger's death last January was a major contributer. Ironically, his death will likely help earn him a best supporting actor nomination at years end, though he deserves one on the basis of his performance.
Others who merit mention for a job well done . . .
Gary Oldman: The Dark Knight's other great performance belonged to Oldman as Lt. Jim Gordon, the only honest cop in Gotham City. Oldman played the part as seriously as he would Shakespeare to assure us that we were watching something truly important. His performace was most crucial in grounding what became a morality tale filled with life and death choices in the midst of near anarchy.
Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly: Comedy is not easy. If you put two lesser comedic talents in their place, Step Brothers could've sunk under the shear stupidity of the concept. But the summer's best screen duo drew laughs even when they weren't there, playing the most immature grownups since Harry and Lloyd. The best scene; when they unknowingly sleepwalked through their parent's kitchen.
The Creators of WALL-E: Pixar scored again with one of the best films of the year, animated or otherwise. WALL-E dazzled with clever ideas and impressive visuals as it followed the title character from his trash collecting duties on Earth to his adventures onboard the spaceship housing the remainder of humankind. Along the way he fell in love with EVE in what turned out to be the most convicing relationship of the year, amazing considering it involved two robots and hardly any dialogue.
Though it has absolutely nothing to do with performance, I'd be letting my readers down if I didn't stop to acknowledge the sexiest performance of the summer. It's a toss-up between Iron Man's Gwyneth Paltrow and Get Smart's Anne Hathaway. The former played Pepper Pots, Tony Stark's bombshell of an assistant. The latter starred as Agent 99, who oozed sex appeal as she helped keep the bumbling Maxwell Smart alive. Also worth mentioning is Mamma Mia's Amanda Seyfried, the ridiculously cute 22 year old (she's legal, relax) who somehow kept my eyes fixated in the midst of the dumbest movie musical since . . . well, ever!
For the first time in several years, the most popular films of the summer (The Dark Knight, Iron Man, Indy IV, WALL-E) were actually the best, proving that filmgoers do occassionally discriminate between quality and hype. The lone exception was . . .
Reel Opinions on Movies
Friday, September 26, 2008
Summer Movie Wrap-Up - Pt.II, THE BAD
Hancock: A fun, though inconsistent mess of a movie that had more ideas than it knew what to do with. The always appealing Will Smith kept things afloat, even as the story meandered in search of an identity. Was it a comedy? A morality tale? A superhero origin story? Could Charlize Theron's character possibly have been more underdeveloped? A couple of rewrites and longer running time could've made Hancock a great entertainment, rather than an adequate one. Still, adequate would've been a large improvement for the following releases;
The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian: Had The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe not been so enjoyable, I wouldn't be quite so disappointed in this lame follow-up. Any sense of awe and wonder from the original quickly vanished in a story that offered no originality. It was poorly paced, inexpertly acted (to be polite), and lacked a memorable villain. The source material for Prince Caspian simply wasn't very interesting, though it proved an intellectual masterpiece compared with . . .
Mamma Mia: Look, I'm aware I was hardly the target audience. But the filmmakers still owe some level of competency to filmgoers don't they? The summer's worst film was an embarassment, from a non-existent plot to Pierce Brosnan's singing to Christine Baranski's successful attempt to prove she's the most annoying actress currently working. Steep and Seyfried were appealing, but the absence of anything resembling style or wit was pathetic. We didn't even find out who the father is! It's as if the director was thinking "Hmm, there's really nothing to this story. Maybe I should insert 78 songs to fill the running time." I'm still waiting for a refund on my admission tickets and popcorn.
Theatrical adaptations have proven a mixed bag over the years, as have film adaptations from television. This summer gave us three uninspired attempts. It's not that any of them were outright awful. They just weren't especially memorable, which has typically been the case with a few notable exceptions (The Fugitive, The Untouchables, The Simpsons Movie come to mind). The biggest drop-off in quality this summer belonged to . . .
Sex and the City: I wouldn't describe myself as a closet fan by any means, though I can readily admit that the t.v. series was well-written and often funny. But the movie just didn't have a story worth telling. The dialogue lacked the punch of the show, as the men were written as 1-dimensional beings, while the four primary actresses came off as self-absorbed and somewhat pathetic. I must admit though, seeing the film in a packed theater was quite the experience. I counted 7 men in attendance, at least 5 of whom were gay, leaving me and one other guy on a date feeling thankful that most women aren't like Carrie and company. (They aren't right?) Then again like Mamma Mia, I know this movie wasn't aimed at me. A couple that were included . . .
The Incredible Hulk: I admit it was better than Ang Lee's Hulk, which turned off almost everyone when it was released in June 2003. Ironically though, despite higher ticket prices, the newest version failed to match the box-office totals of it's predecessor, making one wonder just how commercially viable the character is. In an important casting change, Edward Norton was far more interesting than the relatively bland Eric Bana had been as Bruce Banner. But Liv Tyler and William Hurt (can you say paycheck role?) brought nothing new and made me wish Jennifer Connelly and Sam Elliot had reprised their roles. The most valuable attribute this time around was the visual effects, probably the coolest of the summer, though upon reflection they stood out most because of the lack of a plot to hold everything together.
Get Smart: Another movie that was too fun to be called bad, but far too jumbled to rate as good. The leads (Carell and Hathaway) were very likeable, though they surely didn't make older audiences forget Don Adams. And for younger audiences, the movie came across as Austin Powers-lite. The biggest problem with Get Smart was it's indecision as to whether it was an action movie or a comedy. There were large elements of both, but neither was strong enough to truly satisfy, leaving this viewer underwhelmed once the credits rolled. But Get Smart did lead me to a theory that has stuck well since . . .
COMEDY AND VIOLENCE DO NOT MIX! As proof, look no further than these two late summer entries;
Pineapple Express and Tropic Thunder: The former was a wonderfully funny buddy picture until the final third when humor was abandoned in favor of gunfire and explosions, which left me wondering what the hell happened to the pithy bantar that had ruled the film's opening? Excessive violence is rarely funny in comedies and often seems to indicate that the writer has run out of ideas. Tropic Thunder pushed the envelope further by providing nearly two hours of bloody brutality following an opening that featured hysterical fake ads and trailers. The movie's funniest scene was also it's most offensive, a promo for Simple Jack, with Ben Stiller galavanting about as a helpless retarded yokel. Unfortunately, little else in the film made me laugh, as each subsequent scene drew closer and closer to a remake of Apocalypse Now. Also unfunny was Tom Cruise, bloated and bald as a profanity shouting studiohead. It's one thing to have funny ideas, but it's another to execute them effectively. Tropic Thunder ended up being a bore.
Summer 2008 has ended, though with studios pushing up release dates for next summer's tentpoles to late April, I only have to wait thirty weeks for the new onslaught of wannabe blockbusters. If we're all very lucky, maybe one or two will approach the intelligence and excitement level of The Dark Knight, which proved that great movies can still be seen during the summer.
The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian: Had The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe not been so enjoyable, I wouldn't be quite so disappointed in this lame follow-up. Any sense of awe and wonder from the original quickly vanished in a story that offered no originality. It was poorly paced, inexpertly acted (to be polite), and lacked a memorable villain. The source material for Prince Caspian simply wasn't very interesting, though it proved an intellectual masterpiece compared with . . .
Mamma Mia: Look, I'm aware I was hardly the target audience. But the filmmakers still owe some level of competency to filmgoers don't they? The summer's worst film was an embarassment, from a non-existent plot to Pierce Brosnan's singing to Christine Baranski's successful attempt to prove she's the most annoying actress currently working. Steep and Seyfried were appealing, but the absence of anything resembling style or wit was pathetic. We didn't even find out who the father is! It's as if the director was thinking "Hmm, there's really nothing to this story. Maybe I should insert 78 songs to fill the running time." I'm still waiting for a refund on my admission tickets and popcorn.
Theatrical adaptations have proven a mixed bag over the years, as have film adaptations from television. This summer gave us three uninspired attempts. It's not that any of them were outright awful. They just weren't especially memorable, which has typically been the case with a few notable exceptions (The Fugitive, The Untouchables, The Simpsons Movie come to mind). The biggest drop-off in quality this summer belonged to . . .
Sex and the City: I wouldn't describe myself as a closet fan by any means, though I can readily admit that the t.v. series was well-written and often funny. But the movie just didn't have a story worth telling. The dialogue lacked the punch of the show, as the men were written as 1-dimensional beings, while the four primary actresses came off as self-absorbed and somewhat pathetic. I must admit though, seeing the film in a packed theater was quite the experience. I counted 7 men in attendance, at least 5 of whom were gay, leaving me and one other guy on a date feeling thankful that most women aren't like Carrie and company. (They aren't right?) Then again like Mamma Mia, I know this movie wasn't aimed at me. A couple that were included . . .
The Incredible Hulk: I admit it was better than Ang Lee's Hulk, which turned off almost everyone when it was released in June 2003. Ironically though, despite higher ticket prices, the newest version failed to match the box-office totals of it's predecessor, making one wonder just how commercially viable the character is. In an important casting change, Edward Norton was far more interesting than the relatively bland Eric Bana had been as Bruce Banner. But Liv Tyler and William Hurt (can you say paycheck role?) brought nothing new and made me wish Jennifer Connelly and Sam Elliot had reprised their roles. The most valuable attribute this time around was the visual effects, probably the coolest of the summer, though upon reflection they stood out most because of the lack of a plot to hold everything together.
Get Smart: Another movie that was too fun to be called bad, but far too jumbled to rate as good. The leads (Carell and Hathaway) were very likeable, though they surely didn't make older audiences forget Don Adams. And for younger audiences, the movie came across as Austin Powers-lite. The biggest problem with Get Smart was it's indecision as to whether it was an action movie or a comedy. There were large elements of both, but neither was strong enough to truly satisfy, leaving this viewer underwhelmed once the credits rolled. But Get Smart did lead me to a theory that has stuck well since . . .
COMEDY AND VIOLENCE DO NOT MIX! As proof, look no further than these two late summer entries;
Pineapple Express and Tropic Thunder: The former was a wonderfully funny buddy picture until the final third when humor was abandoned in favor of gunfire and explosions, which left me wondering what the hell happened to the pithy bantar that had ruled the film's opening? Excessive violence is rarely funny in comedies and often seems to indicate that the writer has run out of ideas. Tropic Thunder pushed the envelope further by providing nearly two hours of bloody brutality following an opening that featured hysterical fake ads and trailers. The movie's funniest scene was also it's most offensive, a promo for Simple Jack, with Ben Stiller galavanting about as a helpless retarded yokel. Unfortunately, little else in the film made me laugh, as each subsequent scene drew closer and closer to a remake of Apocalypse Now. Also unfunny was Tom Cruise, bloated and bald as a profanity shouting studiohead. It's one thing to have funny ideas, but it's another to execute them effectively. Tropic Thunder ended up being a bore.
Summer 2008 has ended, though with studios pushing up release dates for next summer's tentpoles to late April, I only have to wait thirty weeks for the new onslaught of wannabe blockbusters. If we're all very lucky, maybe one or two will approach the intelligence and excitement level of The Dark Knight, which proved that great movies can still be seen during the summer.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Ohio: A World Apart
Remember when Brandon and Brenda moved from Minneapolis to Beverly Hills? (Forgive the analogy to a fictional event that happened almost 2 decades ago, but the series premiere of the “new” 90210 airs tonight, and I am positively giddy). They had no friends and relatively no clue about life in this sunny paradise. They figured they had to forget their Midwestern sensibilities, their small town roots, and their amiable methods of interaction. After all, they were moving to a big city filled with glitz, money, trendy clothes, and spoiled snobs. To their credit, they remained pretty grounded and eventually rubbed off on their new circle of friends, making each of them better people in the process. However, this was television, and the Walsh’s transition was more or less wrapped up in an hour. Reality is a little trickier, especially when the destinations are reversed. I feel like I’ve just moved back to Minneapolis.
Though I’ve only been in Stow, Ohio a couple of weeks, I’ve noticed several changes from living in Boston. The number of fast food restaurants is astounding! I’m pretty sure I’ve passed more Burger Kings than gas stations. Also, it seems rare to find a top flight, fancy restaurant, as opposed to say a Chili’s or Applebee’s. Not to seem condescending, as I’m sure to many a steak from Outback constitutes fine dining on a Saturday night, but I miss the offerings of the South End, the North End, and all the best steakhouses and sushi in between. Still, none of that accounts for friendly service. On a recent dinner visit to Texas Roadhouse (a surprisingly good chain), my girlfriend and I were told we’d have at least a thirty minute wait. Imagine our surprise then at being called to sit 3 minutes later. We weren’t even ready, since I was busy cracking peanut shells from the gigantic barrel they made available to patrons in the waiting area. Our waitress was among the nicest of all-time, sincerely recommending the best items on the menu and later apologizing for our food taking too long. We hadn’t even complained! Major points for customer service, I must admit.
Life in Boston was certainly faster paced, and in a sick way I miss several of the things I used to complain about, such as the police sirens that frequently raced by our living room after midnight. I enjoy noise at night, because it makes you feel that life is exciting. Something is going on, even if you’re not a direct participant. I miss the cabs that are always there to get you home when you’re inebriated. I don’t miss the traffic per se, though I do miss driving down Dartmouth St. with Cleary’s and Appleton Bakery to my left, blocks of endless Brownstones to my right, and Tremont St. straight ahead, not to mention Copley Square in my rearview. I miss walking to and from the bank and post-office. I miss having a stocked liquor store within a block of my apartment. I even miss Blade Barbershop, where Albert and a team of admittedly too friendly barbers would smile at me when I walked through the front door. Say what you will about the South End, Ogunquit Beach, and Provincetown, but they sure do make you feel welcome. At the same time though, I don’t miss street cleaning. I don’t miss the tickets or the meter maids. I don’t miss the tow zones or construction sites or resident parking stickers. And I don’t miss how people pretend they’re from out-of-town every day at 5pm when merging at an off-ramp from a lane that didn’t even exist, cell phones glued to their ears.
I miss the sports scene and unfortunately, that will not change. I miss the Boston Globe and Bob Ryan. I miss hearing endless radio banter focusing on the attitude of Bill Belichick, the strategy of Terry Francona, and the maturation of Rajon Rondo. I miss the smells of Fenway and the talk of titles. Fine, I’m an arrogant Mass-Hole when it comes to sports, but you know what . . . I’ve earned the right to be. Our success during the past 7 years has been mind-blowing, so it’s unlikely anything in Ohio will compare, though I’ve been told I must see a Buckeye’s football game live. But regarding the professional ranks, the intensity just doesn’t seem to be there. Strolling through a supermarket in Akron, I caught a brief glimpse of the Cleveland/Pittsburgh rivalry when a local approached a young man wearing a Steelers shirt. I believe his exact words were, “Be careful wearing that in here, heh heh heh,” followed by a playful smile and a pat on the back. He reminded me of the dope working on Alan Stanwyk’s plane in ‘Fletch,’ who liked to kid him when he asked, “Whatr you doin sum stuntflyin er something?” When I walked into a Verizon store sporting my Celtics championship tee-shirt, I wasn’t greeted with taunts or Yankee-like “you got lucky’s.” Rather, the two guys behind the counter were impressed that I actually attended game 7 in Boston and were jealous I got to see Lebron and Pierce in head-to-head action. They were fans, but their words lacked even a hint of resentment.
I love the prices. Gas is cheaper, food is cheaper, cable and internet are cheaper, and rent is much cheaper. Inexplicably though, home phone service is far more expensive, the one financial anomaly I have yet to figure out. The movies are cheaper and the local AMC theatre even offers $5 tickets all day on Mondays, including free popcorn. For those of you keeping score, that’s less than half of what a ticket at Loews on the Common charges. Of course, there are drawbacks to the low cost. There is no stadium seating or digital projection screen or IMAX experience where the surround sound threatens to crack one’s eardrums. One area where we’ve undoubtedly found more bang for our buck is car repair service. On the drive from Boston to Ohio, my girlfriend’s car died about 90 minutes from our final destination. When the tow guy arrived, he didn’t groan or complain about wearing long sleeves in the same scorching sun that had forced us to find shade. He smiled as he worked, jokingly asking me if I was ready to push the car for him. He asked my girlfriend what she was studying in graduate school and didn’t even pretend to know what Audiology was, innocently choosing to ask instead. In his place, I undoubtedly would’ve been nodding in false understanding, uttering bullshit responses like “sure,” and “of course.” Once we made it to the auto-shop, we explained our dilemma and after flexing a little big city attitude (it comes in handy for some things), the mechanic agreed to take a quick peak at her car. He instantly knew it needed a new battery, and scratched his head while wondering if she had the right kind of battery for her car in the first place (she’s had the car for 8 years). He suggested we wait in the cool office and help ourselves to some coffee while he searched for a replacement part. He was efficient and courteous, the battery was cheap, and the whole detour took no more than an hour, a relief since we thought our arrival would be postponed until at least the following day.
The tow guy and mechanic had been like a breath of fresh air, which accurately describes most of the strangers I’ve encountered here. I’m not quite used to random people saying hello to me yet (I keep expecting them to ask me a favor), but in a way it’s nicer than passing me by with total indifference. The waitresses and hostesses, the convenient store clerks and mailmen, the bank tellers and librarians, all seem cut from the same cloth. Even those guys from Verizon had been jovial and patient in the midst of a storewide computer malfunction (I’d never before dealt with friendly customer service at a cell phone store). During a similar computer crash at the local DMV, an employee announced aloud the problem and encouraged us to come back at a later time. I was blown away by this. While it certainly seemed logical and the neighborly thing to do, I can’t imagine an employee from the DMV in Watertown, MA raising her voice over the crowd to alert us with this crucial information. Isn’t it more likely we’d all be left walking in circles, sighing, and eventually swearing as the 30 minute wait became an hour, than 2 hours, and so on?
All things considered, life in Ohio has been pretty solid. I miss my family and my friends, but it’s like not moving in 1978. In an age where email and cell phones are as integral a part of daily life as food and sleep, it’s easy to stay in touch. And given the nature of the majority of folks in this area, I predict our transition will continue to be a smooth one. I even called an elderly woman “Ma’am” the other day while holding a door open. I suppose these small-town Walsh’s are rubbing off on me.
Though I’ve only been in Stow, Ohio a couple of weeks, I’ve noticed several changes from living in Boston. The number of fast food restaurants is astounding! I’m pretty sure I’ve passed more Burger Kings than gas stations. Also, it seems rare to find a top flight, fancy restaurant, as opposed to say a Chili’s or Applebee’s. Not to seem condescending, as I’m sure to many a steak from Outback constitutes fine dining on a Saturday night, but I miss the offerings of the South End, the North End, and all the best steakhouses and sushi in between. Still, none of that accounts for friendly service. On a recent dinner visit to Texas Roadhouse (a surprisingly good chain), my girlfriend and I were told we’d have at least a thirty minute wait. Imagine our surprise then at being called to sit 3 minutes later. We weren’t even ready, since I was busy cracking peanut shells from the gigantic barrel they made available to patrons in the waiting area. Our waitress was among the nicest of all-time, sincerely recommending the best items on the menu and later apologizing for our food taking too long. We hadn’t even complained! Major points for customer service, I must admit.
Life in Boston was certainly faster paced, and in a sick way I miss several of the things I used to complain about, such as the police sirens that frequently raced by our living room after midnight. I enjoy noise at night, because it makes you feel that life is exciting. Something is going on, even if you’re not a direct participant. I miss the cabs that are always there to get you home when you’re inebriated. I don’t miss the traffic per se, though I do miss driving down Dartmouth St. with Cleary’s and Appleton Bakery to my left, blocks of endless Brownstones to my right, and Tremont St. straight ahead, not to mention Copley Square in my rearview. I miss walking to and from the bank and post-office. I miss having a stocked liquor store within a block of my apartment. I even miss Blade Barbershop, where Albert and a team of admittedly too friendly barbers would smile at me when I walked through the front door. Say what you will about the South End, Ogunquit Beach, and Provincetown, but they sure do make you feel welcome. At the same time though, I don’t miss street cleaning. I don’t miss the tickets or the meter maids. I don’t miss the tow zones or construction sites or resident parking stickers. And I don’t miss how people pretend they’re from out-of-town every day at 5pm when merging at an off-ramp from a lane that didn’t even exist, cell phones glued to their ears.
I miss the sports scene and unfortunately, that will not change. I miss the Boston Globe and Bob Ryan. I miss hearing endless radio banter focusing on the attitude of Bill Belichick, the strategy of Terry Francona, and the maturation of Rajon Rondo. I miss the smells of Fenway and the talk of titles. Fine, I’m an arrogant Mass-Hole when it comes to sports, but you know what . . . I’ve earned the right to be. Our success during the past 7 years has been mind-blowing, so it’s unlikely anything in Ohio will compare, though I’ve been told I must see a Buckeye’s football game live. But regarding the professional ranks, the intensity just doesn’t seem to be there. Strolling through a supermarket in Akron, I caught a brief glimpse of the Cleveland/Pittsburgh rivalry when a local approached a young man wearing a Steelers shirt. I believe his exact words were, “Be careful wearing that in here, heh heh heh,” followed by a playful smile and a pat on the back. He reminded me of the dope working on Alan Stanwyk’s plane in ‘Fletch,’ who liked to kid him when he asked, “Whatr you doin sum stuntflyin er something?” When I walked into a Verizon store sporting my Celtics championship tee-shirt, I wasn’t greeted with taunts or Yankee-like “you got lucky’s.” Rather, the two guys behind the counter were impressed that I actually attended game 7 in Boston and were jealous I got to see Lebron and Pierce in head-to-head action. They were fans, but their words lacked even a hint of resentment.
I love the prices. Gas is cheaper, food is cheaper, cable and internet are cheaper, and rent is much cheaper. Inexplicably though, home phone service is far more expensive, the one financial anomaly I have yet to figure out. The movies are cheaper and the local AMC theatre even offers $5 tickets all day on Mondays, including free popcorn. For those of you keeping score, that’s less than half of what a ticket at Loews on the Common charges. Of course, there are drawbacks to the low cost. There is no stadium seating or digital projection screen or IMAX experience where the surround sound threatens to crack one’s eardrums. One area where we’ve undoubtedly found more bang for our buck is car repair service. On the drive from Boston to Ohio, my girlfriend’s car died about 90 minutes from our final destination. When the tow guy arrived, he didn’t groan or complain about wearing long sleeves in the same scorching sun that had forced us to find shade. He smiled as he worked, jokingly asking me if I was ready to push the car for him. He asked my girlfriend what she was studying in graduate school and didn’t even pretend to know what Audiology was, innocently choosing to ask instead. In his place, I undoubtedly would’ve been nodding in false understanding, uttering bullshit responses like “sure,” and “of course.” Once we made it to the auto-shop, we explained our dilemma and after flexing a little big city attitude (it comes in handy for some things), the mechanic agreed to take a quick peak at her car. He instantly knew it needed a new battery, and scratched his head while wondering if she had the right kind of battery for her car in the first place (she’s had the car for 8 years). He suggested we wait in the cool office and help ourselves to some coffee while he searched for a replacement part. He was efficient and courteous, the battery was cheap, and the whole detour took no more than an hour, a relief since we thought our arrival would be postponed until at least the following day.
The tow guy and mechanic had been like a breath of fresh air, which accurately describes most of the strangers I’ve encountered here. I’m not quite used to random people saying hello to me yet (I keep expecting them to ask me a favor), but in a way it’s nicer than passing me by with total indifference. The waitresses and hostesses, the convenient store clerks and mailmen, the bank tellers and librarians, all seem cut from the same cloth. Even those guys from Verizon had been jovial and patient in the midst of a storewide computer malfunction (I’d never before dealt with friendly customer service at a cell phone store). During a similar computer crash at the local DMV, an employee announced aloud the problem and encouraged us to come back at a later time. I was blown away by this. While it certainly seemed logical and the neighborly thing to do, I can’t imagine an employee from the DMV in Watertown, MA raising her voice over the crowd to alert us with this crucial information. Isn’t it more likely we’d all be left walking in circles, sighing, and eventually swearing as the 30 minute wait became an hour, than 2 hours, and so on?
All things considered, life in Ohio has been pretty solid. I miss my family and my friends, but it’s like not moving in 1978. In an age where email and cell phones are as integral a part of daily life as food and sleep, it’s easy to stay in touch. And given the nature of the majority of folks in this area, I predict our transition will continue to be a smooth one. I even called an elderly woman “Ma’am” the other day while holding a door open. I suppose these small-town Walsh’s are rubbing off on me.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Gone Manny Gone
Manny Ramirez was born to hit a baseball. It's a skill many proclaim the toughest in all of sports. I can't argue since a .300 average is considered a mark of excellence. Manny has been remarkably consistent and productive, reaching a level in which 40 home runs and 100 RBIs is considered an off year for the right-handed slugger. I remember one regular season at-bat at Fenway in particular. I was sitting behind home plate as Manny walked to the batter's box. On his first pitch he hammered a line drive foul to shallow right field, nearly decapitating a fan. Strike 1. He hit the second pitch even harder, this time to deep right, landing just inches to the right of the Pesky Pole. Strike 2. It all seemed to transpire in slow motion, like watching a film director inching closer and closer to finding the perfect shot, making tiny adjustments each time. I turned to my Dad and said confidently, "This one's gone." The third pitch left his bat in the blink of an eye, landing 400 plus feet away in dead center. We stood with the 35,000 in attendance and applauded like maniacs, not only because he delivered yet again, but because we knew he was no ordinary hitter. Manny was the new millenium's answer to Teddy Ballgame, Yaz, Fisk, Rice, and Boggs. This guy was special.
Unfortunately, as we'd come to find over the next several years, Manny had as much in common with Albert Belle, Ron Artest, Terrell Owens, Barry Bonds, Derrick Coleman (insert your favorite malcontent) as with the greats of Red Sox past. He was a team cancer. You would think twenty million annually, not to mention endless praise from fans and writers, always quick to forgive his shortcomings, would be enough to keep Manny happy. No dice. How about being part of a team that contends every year and has won two World Series in the past four years? Nope. Hell, an asinine phrase was even created in Manny's honor, sort of a local in-joke proclaiming that while he's an idiot, he's our idiot. Ultimately, the Sox had enough of "Manny being Manny." It's hard to blame them.
One senses Ramirez's teammates were sick of him as well. Manny has been uncommonly vocal the last few weeks, speaking to the press about moving on, being sick of the management, almost challenging the Red Sox to win without him. Rumors spread that he was making injury excuses beyond the norm, even for him. His output has been below par, leading many to question his desire and willingness to compete, something a professional athlete should never lose. I suspect the Lowells, Youks, and Variteks finally put their collective foot down. How else to explain the deal Boston ultimately agreed to? Sure, they got a solid player back in new left fielder Jason Bay. But they agreed to pay the remaining seven million of Manny's 2008 contract to the Dodgers, a team not exactly hurting for cash. They also gave up youngsters Craig Hansen and Brandon Moss in the deal. I know they weren't going to get fair value for Ramirez, but just Manny for Bay straight up would've been one-sided. The added conditions indicate Sox management made up their minds that Manny was going no matter what opposing teams demanded in return. At least they didn't pull a Green Bay and offer him an extra twenty million to retire.
Are the Sox a better team without Manny? On paper, of course not. You don't replace his offensive production unless you get an A-Rod, or Pujols, or Ryan Howard back in return. But in terms of chemistry, (the most underrated element in any successful ball club), maybe they are better. Don't forget, the Sox won the 2004 World Series only after trading fan favorite Nomar Garciaparra, an unpopular move that landed them Orlando Cabrera and Doug Mientkiewicz. The former two-time batting champion had at the time been pouting over his contract until he wore out his welcome in Boston. After that first champagne-soaked celebration, I don't think anyone was complaining.
Give the Sox some credit. They seem to know when it's time to say goodbye. When they refused to give an aging Pedro Martinez the kind of deal he was looking for, Pedro bolted to New York. They correctly assessed that Johnny Damon wasn't the player he once was either when refusing to break the bank for the former center fielder. Anyone want to challenge those decisions now? Manny's play has been in slow decline the last couple years, but by all accounts, money didn't decide this one. Neither did talent. Yes, he's overpaid. True, the Sox lineup isn't anywhere near as imposing without the 3-4 punch of Ortiz and Ramirez. But sometimes in sports, you add by subtracting.
Manny had fought with his teammates. He'd tripped over his own two feet in left. He'd consistently trotted to first when he should've been sprinting. He'd openly remarked about how nice it'd be to play for the Yankees! He'd criticized the front office and anyone who makes decisions, which angers me since I can't imagine any manager being more patient with him than Terry Francona has been. He even put his hands on the traveling secretary for failing to comply with a ridiculous ticket request. In any other field, Ramirez would've been fired on the spot for the last offense. Manny took dozens of questionable days off, even in big series over the years. He'd retreated to the green monster between innings of several games to take a leak, call his homeys, order pizza, check his email, smoke some dope, read the National Inquirer, take a nap, have sex, get a haircut, chug a beer, visit Avalon, change his screensaver, phone WEEI's Weiner Whiner Line, and practice his chest pump and point to the sky routine.
Maybe Henry, Werner, Lucchino, and Theo woke up this morning with a clearer collective conscience. Maybe the players finally felt loose again, knowing it will once again be a pleasure to go to work. Maybe JBay (any chance that nickname catches on?) will be the spark we are looking for, a hard worker who will run out ground balls and help plug the large gap in the middle of the batting order. If the Sox fall further in the standings and fail to make the playoffs, everyone will attack the decision to trade Ramirez. But if they get hot, leapfrog Tampa, and find themselves with homefield advantage in a third World Series appearance, will anyone complain?
Manny is gone, but the Sox are still here. Whose side are you on?
Unfortunately, as we'd come to find over the next several years, Manny had as much in common with Albert Belle, Ron Artest, Terrell Owens, Barry Bonds, Derrick Coleman (insert your favorite malcontent) as with the greats of Red Sox past. He was a team cancer. You would think twenty million annually, not to mention endless praise from fans and writers, always quick to forgive his shortcomings, would be enough to keep Manny happy. No dice. How about being part of a team that contends every year and has won two World Series in the past four years? Nope. Hell, an asinine phrase was even created in Manny's honor, sort of a local in-joke proclaiming that while he's an idiot, he's our idiot. Ultimately, the Sox had enough of "Manny being Manny." It's hard to blame them.
One senses Ramirez's teammates were sick of him as well. Manny has been uncommonly vocal the last few weeks, speaking to the press about moving on, being sick of the management, almost challenging the Red Sox to win without him. Rumors spread that he was making injury excuses beyond the norm, even for him. His output has been below par, leading many to question his desire and willingness to compete, something a professional athlete should never lose. I suspect the Lowells, Youks, and Variteks finally put their collective foot down. How else to explain the deal Boston ultimately agreed to? Sure, they got a solid player back in new left fielder Jason Bay. But they agreed to pay the remaining seven million of Manny's 2008 contract to the Dodgers, a team not exactly hurting for cash. They also gave up youngsters Craig Hansen and Brandon Moss in the deal. I know they weren't going to get fair value for Ramirez, but just Manny for Bay straight up would've been one-sided. The added conditions indicate Sox management made up their minds that Manny was going no matter what opposing teams demanded in return. At least they didn't pull a Green Bay and offer him an extra twenty million to retire.
Are the Sox a better team without Manny? On paper, of course not. You don't replace his offensive production unless you get an A-Rod, or Pujols, or Ryan Howard back in return. But in terms of chemistry, (the most underrated element in any successful ball club), maybe they are better. Don't forget, the Sox won the 2004 World Series only after trading fan favorite Nomar Garciaparra, an unpopular move that landed them Orlando Cabrera and Doug Mientkiewicz. The former two-time batting champion had at the time been pouting over his contract until he wore out his welcome in Boston. After that first champagne-soaked celebration, I don't think anyone was complaining.
Give the Sox some credit. They seem to know when it's time to say goodbye. When they refused to give an aging Pedro Martinez the kind of deal he was looking for, Pedro bolted to New York. They correctly assessed that Johnny Damon wasn't the player he once was either when refusing to break the bank for the former center fielder. Anyone want to challenge those decisions now? Manny's play has been in slow decline the last couple years, but by all accounts, money didn't decide this one. Neither did talent. Yes, he's overpaid. True, the Sox lineup isn't anywhere near as imposing without the 3-4 punch of Ortiz and Ramirez. But sometimes in sports, you add by subtracting.
Manny had fought with his teammates. He'd tripped over his own two feet in left. He'd consistently trotted to first when he should've been sprinting. He'd openly remarked about how nice it'd be to play for the Yankees! He'd criticized the front office and anyone who makes decisions, which angers me since I can't imagine any manager being more patient with him than Terry Francona has been. He even put his hands on the traveling secretary for failing to comply with a ridiculous ticket request. In any other field, Ramirez would've been fired on the spot for the last offense. Manny took dozens of questionable days off, even in big series over the years. He'd retreated to the green monster between innings of several games to take a leak, call his homeys, order pizza, check his email, smoke some dope, read the National Inquirer, take a nap, have sex, get a haircut, chug a beer, visit Avalon, change his screensaver, phone WEEI's Weiner Whiner Line, and practice his chest pump and point to the sky routine.
Maybe Henry, Werner, Lucchino, and Theo woke up this morning with a clearer collective conscience. Maybe the players finally felt loose again, knowing it will once again be a pleasure to go to work. Maybe JBay (any chance that nickname catches on?) will be the spark we are looking for, a hard worker who will run out ground balls and help plug the large gap in the middle of the batting order. If the Sox fall further in the standings and fail to make the playoffs, everyone will attack the decision to trade Ramirez. But if they get hot, leapfrog Tampa, and find themselves with homefield advantage in a third World Series appearance, will anyone complain?
Manny is gone, but the Sox are still here. Whose side are you on?
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Committment Isn't Always a Bad Thing
Last night was the 5 year anniversary of our 1st date. That’s half-a-decade or a whopping 1,825 days together. Have I committed to anything else in my life for that long? Sure, there’s my family, my love for movies and basketball, great friendships; but in a way those all come with the territory. You are born into your family, you choose hobbies at a very young age, and you make friends with those who live near or attend the same school. Hell, often you become friends with whomever your mom sticks you with on a play-date. A long-term, adult relationship is different, because you are making an independent, personal choice. You pick a girl you like to look at, you smile like an idiot at her, and you go out on a date. Booze doesn’t even have to be a factor if you’re really interested in someone.
Our 1st date was on July 2nd, 2003. Admittedly, my initial excitement that day had a lot more to do with the release of Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines, the third film in the classic Arnold Schwarzenegger series. My girlfriend and I were working at a summer camp in Maine and that night several of my friends were going to see T3 at Chunky’s, a cheap near-by movie theater distinguished for its leather seats, tables, and full menu, including drinks. Prior to that evening, she and I had done a little flirting here and there, but nothing serious had developed. I invited her to join us that night, news that quickly spread like a wild-fire (hey, it’s summer camp), mostly through my chatty younger brother, who saw a golden opportunity in the making. I had thought we’d all be driving as a group in a couple of cars. Instead, my brother made sure they were all long gone by the time my girlfriend’s shift ended, forcing us to drive separately to meet them all at the movies. Moments like this embarrass me, and he knew it when he saw my half-smiling, flushed cheeks enter the theater.
Needless to say the movie sucked, a huge disappointment since T2 was one of the best action movies ever made. She ended up falling asleep in her cozy chair around the one hour mark, teaching me the invaluable lesson that it’s better to pick an activity both of us might enjoy rather than just me. I also learned that she’s an “early-to-bed, early-to-rise” person, or the exact opposite of me. Still, I’ve managed to forget this on at least 25 occasions since, always wondering why she can’t finish watching something we start after 9pm. When the movie ended I woke her up and she had a cute, sheepish smile once she realized she’d been snoozing for an hour. We hung out at camp late that night, just talking and getting to know one another. She’s an only child from Louisiana, and I’m the oldest of three from Boston. But despite many background differences, I knew one thing for sure by July 3rd . . . I liked her, a lot. She was pretty and smart, cool and fun, with an immature sense of humor that has nearly proved my equal. We had a great summer, one destined to end like most others. Unsure whether she would truly hear from me again, she was surprised to hear her phone ring a few hours later at the airport. I had called just to say hi and see how she was doing. To this day, that’s probably the best phone call I ever made in my life.
We did long distance for a while, visiting one another every couple months, and sharing late night phone calls until 3 or 4 am. The following June she moved to Boston, and the rest as they say, is history. We’ve lived all over the place, from Arlington to Newton to Brighton to The South End. But in August, we will make our biggest move, to Akron, Ohio. She got into graduate school there for Audiology (She’s going to be a doctor. How smart am I?) Honestly, it was not an overnight decision to move with her. I’d be leaving my family, my friends, and my job contacts for a town most people only know Lebron James’ home. But in the end, leaving all of that wouldn’t be as hard as leaving her.
When you get to be my age (27), life forces you to start thinking about the big picture, never my forte. I generally try to avoid all big decisions; they scare me and I’m more comfortable living day to day. They also force you to grow up faster, and anyone who knows me well understands that under this hair covered face, I’m really 15. I still love Dumb and Dumber and Happy Gilmore and I don’t give a rat’s ass about politics. I would choose a double-cheeseburger over a salad almost any day, despite knowing the calorie count. I’d rather hang out at a mall or visit Six flags then go to a park or a museum. Many of the situations that make me laugh the hardest are so inappropriate I dare not print them here. Still, I’m old enough to know I love someone. Those feelings come without doubt and have only grown stronger over the last several years, to the point that I’m comfortable writing about them in a forum read by friends (and brothers) who will undoubtedly make fun of me. But I don’t care.
Last night to celebrate we had dinner at Top of the Hub, a fancy restaurant located on the 52nd floor atop the Prudential. If there’s a better view in the city, I haven’t found it. We ate and we drank and we talked, which amazingly never grows tiresome after 45 million conversations. It was undoubtedly one of the best nights of my life, and a significant step up from $5.00 tickets to see Arnold take on a female terminator. I think it’s safe to say that if our next five years together are anything like our last five, life will have been pretty damn good to me.
Happy Anniversary Mush
Our 1st date was on July 2nd, 2003. Admittedly, my initial excitement that day had a lot more to do with the release of Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines, the third film in the classic Arnold Schwarzenegger series. My girlfriend and I were working at a summer camp in Maine and that night several of my friends were going to see T3 at Chunky’s, a cheap near-by movie theater distinguished for its leather seats, tables, and full menu, including drinks. Prior to that evening, she and I had done a little flirting here and there, but nothing serious had developed. I invited her to join us that night, news that quickly spread like a wild-fire (hey, it’s summer camp), mostly through my chatty younger brother, who saw a golden opportunity in the making. I had thought we’d all be driving as a group in a couple of cars. Instead, my brother made sure they were all long gone by the time my girlfriend’s shift ended, forcing us to drive separately to meet them all at the movies. Moments like this embarrass me, and he knew it when he saw my half-smiling, flushed cheeks enter the theater.
Needless to say the movie sucked, a huge disappointment since T2 was one of the best action movies ever made. She ended up falling asleep in her cozy chair around the one hour mark, teaching me the invaluable lesson that it’s better to pick an activity both of us might enjoy rather than just me. I also learned that she’s an “early-to-bed, early-to-rise” person, or the exact opposite of me. Still, I’ve managed to forget this on at least 25 occasions since, always wondering why she can’t finish watching something we start after 9pm. When the movie ended I woke her up and she had a cute, sheepish smile once she realized she’d been snoozing for an hour. We hung out at camp late that night, just talking and getting to know one another. She’s an only child from Louisiana, and I’m the oldest of three from Boston. But despite many background differences, I knew one thing for sure by July 3rd . . . I liked her, a lot. She was pretty and smart, cool and fun, with an immature sense of humor that has nearly proved my equal. We had a great summer, one destined to end like most others. Unsure whether she would truly hear from me again, she was surprised to hear her phone ring a few hours later at the airport. I had called just to say hi and see how she was doing. To this day, that’s probably the best phone call I ever made in my life.
We did long distance for a while, visiting one another every couple months, and sharing late night phone calls until 3 or 4 am. The following June she moved to Boston, and the rest as they say, is history. We’ve lived all over the place, from Arlington to Newton to Brighton to The South End. But in August, we will make our biggest move, to Akron, Ohio. She got into graduate school there for Audiology (She’s going to be a doctor. How smart am I?) Honestly, it was not an overnight decision to move with her. I’d be leaving my family, my friends, and my job contacts for a town most people only know Lebron James’ home. But in the end, leaving all of that wouldn’t be as hard as leaving her.
When you get to be my age (27), life forces you to start thinking about the big picture, never my forte. I generally try to avoid all big decisions; they scare me and I’m more comfortable living day to day. They also force you to grow up faster, and anyone who knows me well understands that under this hair covered face, I’m really 15. I still love Dumb and Dumber and Happy Gilmore and I don’t give a rat’s ass about politics. I would choose a double-cheeseburger over a salad almost any day, despite knowing the calorie count. I’d rather hang out at a mall or visit Six flags then go to a park or a museum. Many of the situations that make me laugh the hardest are so inappropriate I dare not print them here. Still, I’m old enough to know I love someone. Those feelings come without doubt and have only grown stronger over the last several years, to the point that I’m comfortable writing about them in a forum read by friends (and brothers) who will undoubtedly make fun of me. But I don’t care.
Last night to celebrate we had dinner at Top of the Hub, a fancy restaurant located on the 52nd floor atop the Prudential. If there’s a better view in the city, I haven’t found it. We ate and we drank and we talked, which amazingly never grows tiresome after 45 million conversations. It was undoubtedly one of the best nights of my life, and a significant step up from $5.00 tickets to see Arnold take on a female terminator. I think it’s safe to say that if our next five years together are anything like our last five, life will have been pretty damn good to me.
Happy Anniversary Mush
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
And Then There Was One
As Johnny Drama, arms raised triumphantly, would declare, “VICTORY!” The Boston Celtics are your 2007-2008 NBA champions. Until I have my first child, I can’t imagine another event topping this evening. Tonight's clinching game six was by all accounts a massacre, one I finally started enjoying midway through the third quarter, when I realized there was no way the Lakers were coming back. Not coincidentally, that was also the moment I stopped drinking. I didn't want this moment clouded in a blurry fog. Surrounded by good friends, all long-suffering Celtics fans, we jumped and screamed after each Ray Allen trey, every Kevin Garnett turnaround, and every Kobe Bryant turnover.
We cheered Rajon Rondo’s best all-around game of the postseason. We applauded P.J. Brown, Leon Powe and Big Baby Davis hitting the glass, James Posey and Eddie House knocking down 23 footers, and Kendrick Perkins deflecting Laker shots into the stands. I even let out a non hostile cry for coach Doc Rivers, who finally earned my trust. But most of all we cheered Paul Pierce, the captain. When he was handed the finals MVP trophy, I pulled my #34 t-shirt like the cool kids do and saluted "The Truth." Having endured a decade of false promises, botched trades, and hundreds of losses, I felt an unspoken kingship had formed between us. Nobody wanted this more.
With less than a minute left in regulation, my friends and I lit our victory cigars in a classy tribute to the late Red Auerbach, an act that was encouraged by Celtic ownership. When an usher approached to yell at our row for smoking, it was to no avail. Tonight belonged to the fans, as we puffed away in unison. Speaking of Red, it was fitting that the Celtics were the team standing in Phil Jackson's way of winning a record-setting tenth title. That smug, psycho-babble spewing moron can go to his grave knowing that the triangle offense couldn't touch us. We counted down the final seconds like Al Michaels in 1980 ("Do you believe in miracles? Yes!") This time last year the C’s were watching the finals from home after compiling the second worst record in the league. On June 17th, 2008, the green captured number 17 (how nice is that symmetry?) at home. It marks one of the greatest single-season turnarounds in the history of sports. Triggered by a selfless offense and the most suffocating D since the mid-90s Bulls, the C’s pounced on the overmatched Lakers.
I couldn’t help feeling for Kobe a little. He obviously bought into the hype, convinced he was going to get his own vindication by leading his team to the title. But his supporting cast was exposed against Boston. The Lakers second and third best players, Pau Gasol and Lamar Odom, didn’t show up in game six. Credit the opposing defense, but great players are supposed to overcome that. They didn’t, leaving Kobe to fend for himself against a team prepared to counter his every move. The old NBA adage is that the best players win. Only problem was, Kobe wasn’t the best player in this series. Both Pierce and Garnett were each at a minimum, his equals. Seeing KG lose control of his emotions during post-game interviews, I was reminded that character and leadership often mark the difference between a supreme talent and a champion. That same selflessness Garnett was criticized for during much of the playoff run rubbed off on his teammates at the perfect time. His performance, combined with Allen’s lights out shooting from beyond the arc, propelled the Celtics in a night that seemed positively euphoric.
When Queen’s celebratory anthem “We are the Champions” roared from the Garden sound system and confetti flew from the rafters, my eyes came close to watering. Game six was emblematic of the Celtic dominance throughout the finals. In truth, the only game the Lakers were truly the better team was game three in L.A. I can now state confidently that the Lakers peaked against the Spurs in the Western Conference finals. Contrastingly, the Celtics saved their best for last and actually seemed to improve with each passing round. The regular season had been their warm-up act, a precursor to a 26 game second season in which they’d rediscover themselves in each subsequent round. Credit Rivers and the players for overcoming adversity and staying focused in their quest for the real prize. With an opportunity to put their final stamp on the campaign, Boston went out and destroyed the visitors by an unfathomable 39 points, or one more than the total scored by the four Laker starters not named Kobe. It was a performance nobody in New England will soon forget.
About 25 minutes after the final buzzer had sounded, we made our way down to the roomy court side seats that only the Jack Nicholsons of the world can afford. On Causeway Street, high fives were exchanged, while only the most cynical police officers refused to smile. Some of them even posed for pictures with the rowdy, enthusiastic crowd. Eventually due to safety concerns, they formed a line and directed us around every street corner in downtown Boston. It took forever to get a cab, as we were rerouted at least a half-dozen times. But I didn’t care. Everywhere I looked there were smiling strangers in green. Some were white, some were black, some were thin, several were fat, many were smashed, and others held kids high on their shoulders. However, any differences proved irrelevant, because on this night we all became one. I think Pierce would agree.
We cheered Rajon Rondo’s best all-around game of the postseason. We applauded P.J. Brown, Leon Powe and Big Baby Davis hitting the glass, James Posey and Eddie House knocking down 23 footers, and Kendrick Perkins deflecting Laker shots into the stands. I even let out a non hostile cry for coach Doc Rivers, who finally earned my trust. But most of all we cheered Paul Pierce, the captain. When he was handed the finals MVP trophy, I pulled my #34 t-shirt like the cool kids do and saluted "The Truth." Having endured a decade of false promises, botched trades, and hundreds of losses, I felt an unspoken kingship had formed between us. Nobody wanted this more.
With less than a minute left in regulation, my friends and I lit our victory cigars in a classy tribute to the late Red Auerbach, an act that was encouraged by Celtic ownership. When an usher approached to yell at our row for smoking, it was to no avail. Tonight belonged to the fans, as we puffed away in unison. Speaking of Red, it was fitting that the Celtics were the team standing in Phil Jackson's way of winning a record-setting tenth title. That smug, psycho-babble spewing moron can go to his grave knowing that the triangle offense couldn't touch us. We counted down the final seconds like Al Michaels in 1980 ("Do you believe in miracles? Yes!") This time last year the C’s were watching the finals from home after compiling the second worst record in the league. On June 17th, 2008, the green captured number 17 (how nice is that symmetry?) at home. It marks one of the greatest single-season turnarounds in the history of sports. Triggered by a selfless offense and the most suffocating D since the mid-90s Bulls, the C’s pounced on the overmatched Lakers.
I couldn’t help feeling for Kobe a little. He obviously bought into the hype, convinced he was going to get his own vindication by leading his team to the title. But his supporting cast was exposed against Boston. The Lakers second and third best players, Pau Gasol and Lamar Odom, didn’t show up in game six. Credit the opposing defense, but great players are supposed to overcome that. They didn’t, leaving Kobe to fend for himself against a team prepared to counter his every move. The old NBA adage is that the best players win. Only problem was, Kobe wasn’t the best player in this series. Both Pierce and Garnett were each at a minimum, his equals. Seeing KG lose control of his emotions during post-game interviews, I was reminded that character and leadership often mark the difference between a supreme talent and a champion. That same selflessness Garnett was criticized for during much of the playoff run rubbed off on his teammates at the perfect time. His performance, combined with Allen’s lights out shooting from beyond the arc, propelled the Celtics in a night that seemed positively euphoric.
When Queen’s celebratory anthem “We are the Champions” roared from the Garden sound system and confetti flew from the rafters, my eyes came close to watering. Game six was emblematic of the Celtic dominance throughout the finals. In truth, the only game the Lakers were truly the better team was game three in L.A. I can now state confidently that the Lakers peaked against the Spurs in the Western Conference finals. Contrastingly, the Celtics saved their best for last and actually seemed to improve with each passing round. The regular season had been their warm-up act, a precursor to a 26 game second season in which they’d rediscover themselves in each subsequent round. Credit Rivers and the players for overcoming adversity and staying focused in their quest for the real prize. With an opportunity to put their final stamp on the campaign, Boston went out and destroyed the visitors by an unfathomable 39 points, or one more than the total scored by the four Laker starters not named Kobe. It was a performance nobody in New England will soon forget.
About 25 minutes after the final buzzer had sounded, we made our way down to the roomy court side seats that only the Jack Nicholsons of the world can afford. On Causeway Street, high fives were exchanged, while only the most cynical police officers refused to smile. Some of them even posed for pictures with the rowdy, enthusiastic crowd. Eventually due to safety concerns, they formed a line and directed us around every street corner in downtown Boston. It took forever to get a cab, as we were rerouted at least a half-dozen times. But I didn’t care. Everywhere I looked there were smiling strangers in green. Some were white, some were black, some were thin, several were fat, many were smashed, and others held kids high on their shoulders. However, any differences proved irrelevant, because on this night we all became one. I think Pierce would agree.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
17 Reasons the Celtics will beat the Lakers
It's too close to game time. I was prepared to write an endless article covering every conceivable aspect of an unlikely Celtics/Lakers finals matchup that could make my head explode at any second. But things have been busy and it's now four hours until tip-off. Besides, there's not a whole lot to say that hasn't already been covered ad nauseam by Gorman & Heinson, Gary & Greg, Wilbon and Kornheiser, Ryan & Shaunessey, Dennis & Callahan, Woodie, Jay, Tim, & J.A., Jackie Mac, the Big O, Dale & Holley, the Sport's guy, Stephen A., Tim Legler, Mike Adams, Jon Barry, Stuart "googley-eyes" Scott, Phil Jackson, Doc Rivers, and the endlessly quotable Bill Walton. Still, an event this meaningful demands my two-sense. I am one of the fortunate 18,000 or so who will be attending tonights game 1 at the Garden. And if the series is as close as I suspect it might be, tonight's opener could very well replace Boston/Cleveland game 7 as the top live basketball experience of my lifetime. Here then are seventeen reasons why the Celtics will ultimately capture (you guessed it) number 17.
1. They are long overdue. The Lakers last title was the end of their Shaq/Kobe three-peat in 2002. That one should've belonged to Sacramento, so they've already gotten their breaks. It just feels like the Celtic's year, doesn't it?
2. If Boston doesn't win, the Jesus freak who always stands outside the garden with flyers and vest pins may stop believing. Sure he's crazy and I roll my eyes every time I see him, but he allows normal folks to feel better about themselves. And a happy fan is a cheering fan.
3. Their stars deserve it more. The Celtics' star trio of Kevin Garnett, Paul Pierce, & Ray Allen have put their egos aside all season and worked toward a single common goal. These longtime stars have earned their trip to the big one and a championship will help validate their careers in the eyes of detractors.
4. In terms of being a dominant player, Pierce is MUCH closer to Kobe than he is to Lamar Odom. That's more important than you'd think. L.A. writers would have you believe the Lakers have the edge because of the 'single' guy in the series who can take over at will. Well, there are actually 2 of these guys, and Boston has the one who's hungrier. Pierce has the potential to play Kobe to a stand-still as he did Lebron James in the eastern semi-finals.
5. The best big-game shooters in this series play for Boston. Sure Kobe is fearless, and Derek Fisher has proven a clutch shooter over the years. But if I'm Phil Jackson, I wouldn't want a 4th quarter buzzer beater in the hands of Odom, Luke Walton, Jordan Farmar, Sasha Vujacic, or Vladimir Radmanovic. Contrastingly, Pierce, Ray Allen, James Posey, Eddie House, and even Sam Cassell all possess the unflappable confidence needed to win a game in the closing seconds.
6. Boston's team defense is far superior. This point will not be argued by anybody on either side. History has shown time and time again that a strong defense will usually defeat a high-powered offense. See the San Antonio Spurs, Detroit Pistons (both eras), Chicago Bulls . . . hell, even the Baltimore Ravens, Tampa Bay Buccaneers, & New England Patriots. Flash is more fun, but physicality gets it done.
7. Kevin Garnett feels he has something to prove. He's long had a reputation for going soft in the big games. It is the only blemish on an otherwise superlative resume. Look for the Big Ticket to silence the skeptics with crucial leadership, multiple big shots, and the strongest help defense in the league. More than anyone, KG has put in his time on crappy teams. He's not letting this one get away.
8. James Posey is the best bench player in the series. He's capable of starting on most playoff teams and typically ends games on the floor. He's a lock-down perimiter defender with an uncanny knack for hitting the big 3s. He's also an exemplary teammate. Imagine Walter McCarty if he didn't suck and you get Posey, who's jersey will undoutedly become the "cool" one to purchase at the Celtics giftshop.
9. The Celtics have homecourt advantage. This is HUGE! Boston have one of the loudest buildings in the league and dominated at home all season long and through the playoffs. L.A. gets 3 of the first 5 in their building due to an idiotic format geared more around travel plans than fairness to the team with the better record. Still, playing in Los Angeles is a breeze compared to grittier towns, as many fans would rather take snap shots of Jack Nicolson than scream like maniacs for quarters at a time.
10. Pau Gasol is soft as pudding. He's a talented guy, but few get taken out of their game more easily by a few bumps in the post. With the exception of maybe Vince Carter, no top 25 player shows a larger disparity between their offensive and defensive ability. In terms of his skill set and physique, he's like a poor man's Garnett. Only thing is, we have Garnett, who should dominate this matchup with his strength, agility, lock-down D, and ability to shoot over him. On switches, Kendrick Perkins is capable of knocking Gasol to the floor and making him cry.
11. Boston has the coaching edge. Doc Rivers' brilliance as 4th quarter strategist . . . (just seeing if you were paying attention).
11. Ray Allen is primed to bounce back. Throughout most of the playoffs, the former Jesus Shuttlesworth looked nothing like the guy who averaged 25 pts a game as recently as 15 months ago. But he turned it on during games 5 and 6 wins against the Pistons in the eastern finals and seems ready to return to form. Ultimately, Allen is the x-factor in the finals. If he's the shooting threat I know he can be, the C's could run away with this. If he doesn't, Lakers could find a major edge. My money's on the former.
12. The media has drooled all over the Lakers. ESPN's team of "experts" all picked L.A. (these are the same brain surgeons who picked Detroit to wipe out Boston). Ultimately though, both teams won series they should have (against Atlanta & Cleveland, Denver & Utah, respectively) and played their best against their toughest opponents when it mattered most (Pistons & Spurs). The national love affair with Los Angeles should provide the Boston vets with an added motivation I'm not sure they need in the first place.
13. Green is a better team color than yellow. It's darker and far more manly. When the Garden is filled with rows upon rows of matching green tee-shirts, it's intimidating. Green is symbolic of the jungle, the incredible Hulk, and the rowdy drunks on St. Patrick's Day. The Staples Center contains sporadic shades of yellow filtered amongst workplace suits and ties. Yellow is symbolic of sunshine, Big Bird, and single guys who shop at J.Crew. Which team would you rather support?
14. If the Celtics don't win, they allow the Lakers to call into question which franchise is truly the N.B.A.'s most dominant. Boston is stuck on 16 championship banners, while L.A. has narrowed the gap to 2. If we lose the Lakers steal number 15 and I'll be subjected to insufferable reporters attempting to minimize Boston's historical success. Bill Plaschke will jump at the chance to note how the majority of Celtic titles came through one dominant team in the 60s, while L.A.'s titles have been spread out more evenly amongst different era's. I'll have to walk around all summer wearing earmuffs, which is neither an appealing nor comfortable look in July.
15. I'm not gonna say the Boston sports fans deserve it more, the Super bowl collapse aside. We've been blessed with success during the past 7 years as the Patriots & Red Sox have helped turn Boston into the most hated sports town in America (the price of winning). But long-suffering Celtics fans DO deserve this. Count me amongst the few proud fans who've helped comprise the pathetic 1.0 television ratings point Celtics games typically garnered during the past decade. I've put in my time. I've committed four nights a week to screaming at the TV and suffered through idiotic trades, poor free-agent signings, and incomprehensible coaching decisions. So I'm due, and I'll prove it . . .
16. I've outlasted some of the most useless talent ever seen in the N.B.A; Greg Minor, Alaa Abdelnaby, Todd Day, Zan Tabak, Acie Earl, Marty Conlon, Sebastian Telfair, Thomas Hamilton, Frank Brickowski, Chris Corchiani, Vitaly Potapenko, Marcus Banks, Bruno Sundov, Jimmy Oliver, Dwayne Schintzius, Steve Hamer, Andrew Declercq, Brett Szabo, and Alton Lister. Management duped me into getting excited about acquisitions like Dana Barros, 'Out of Service' Pervis, a way past his prime Dominque Wilkins, Xavier McDaniel, Raef Lafrentz, the alcoholic Vin Baker, the corpse of Gary Payton, Popeye 'Shrek' Jones, Wally Szerbiak, Chris Mihm, Tom Gugliotta, and Ricky Davis (who apparantly has a great brain; how flawed is that system?). They've hyped draft picks like Eric Montross, Dee Brown & Gerald Green (a dunk contest does not a superstar make), Junior Burrough, Kedrick Brown, Jerome Moiso, Wayne Turner, and Joseph Forte, and somehow lost out on both the Tim Duncan and Greg Oden/Kevin Durant lotteries. They've inexplicably made multi-millionaires out of Mark Blount, Travis Knight, and Brian Scalabrine. They traded both Chauncey Billips and Joe Johnson, and drafted Ron Mercer ahead of Tracy McGrady. They employed M.L. Carr and Rick Pitino as head coaches. Carr lead the worst Celtics team in history, while Pitino ranted about Bird, McHale, and Parish when he couldn't take the media pressue. I watched Reggie Lewis collapse on the parquet floor. I reluctantly applauded Dino Radja's post moves, Sherman Douglas' floater, Antoine Walker's shimmy, and Milt Palacio's insane three pointer. I've dealt with Paul Gaston's petty pockets and the headache inducing Crunch-n-Munch guy. I've pulled my hair out through an 18 game losing streak and playoff losses to the Nets (losing games 4, 5, & 6 of the eastern finals) and Pacers (in the most poorly played game 7 of all-time). I've seen the Celtics' home base change from the good (Boston Garden) to the bad (Fleetcenter) to the ugly (TD BankNorth Garden).
I've seen it all, and I'm primed for a reversal.
17. One word: GINO
See you at the parade . . .
1. They are long overdue. The Lakers last title was the end of their Shaq/Kobe three-peat in 2002. That one should've belonged to Sacramento, so they've already gotten their breaks. It just feels like the Celtic's year, doesn't it?
2. If Boston doesn't win, the Jesus freak who always stands outside the garden with flyers and vest pins may stop believing. Sure he's crazy and I roll my eyes every time I see him, but he allows normal folks to feel better about themselves. And a happy fan is a cheering fan.
3. Their stars deserve it more. The Celtics' star trio of Kevin Garnett, Paul Pierce, & Ray Allen have put their egos aside all season and worked toward a single common goal. These longtime stars have earned their trip to the big one and a championship will help validate their careers in the eyes of detractors.
4. In terms of being a dominant player, Pierce is MUCH closer to Kobe than he is to Lamar Odom. That's more important than you'd think. L.A. writers would have you believe the Lakers have the edge because of the 'single' guy in the series who can take over at will. Well, there are actually 2 of these guys, and Boston has the one who's hungrier. Pierce has the potential to play Kobe to a stand-still as he did Lebron James in the eastern semi-finals.
5. The best big-game shooters in this series play for Boston. Sure Kobe is fearless, and Derek Fisher has proven a clutch shooter over the years. But if I'm Phil Jackson, I wouldn't want a 4th quarter buzzer beater in the hands of Odom, Luke Walton, Jordan Farmar, Sasha Vujacic, or Vladimir Radmanovic. Contrastingly, Pierce, Ray Allen, James Posey, Eddie House, and even Sam Cassell all possess the unflappable confidence needed to win a game in the closing seconds.
6. Boston's team defense is far superior. This point will not be argued by anybody on either side. History has shown time and time again that a strong defense will usually defeat a high-powered offense. See the San Antonio Spurs, Detroit Pistons (both eras), Chicago Bulls . . . hell, even the Baltimore Ravens, Tampa Bay Buccaneers, & New England Patriots. Flash is more fun, but physicality gets it done.
7. Kevin Garnett feels he has something to prove. He's long had a reputation for going soft in the big games. It is the only blemish on an otherwise superlative resume. Look for the Big Ticket to silence the skeptics with crucial leadership, multiple big shots, and the strongest help defense in the league. More than anyone, KG has put in his time on crappy teams. He's not letting this one get away.
8. James Posey is the best bench player in the series. He's capable of starting on most playoff teams and typically ends games on the floor. He's a lock-down perimiter defender with an uncanny knack for hitting the big 3s. He's also an exemplary teammate. Imagine Walter McCarty if he didn't suck and you get Posey, who's jersey will undoutedly become the "cool" one to purchase at the Celtics giftshop.
9. The Celtics have homecourt advantage. This is HUGE! Boston have one of the loudest buildings in the league and dominated at home all season long and through the playoffs. L.A. gets 3 of the first 5 in their building due to an idiotic format geared more around travel plans than fairness to the team with the better record. Still, playing in Los Angeles is a breeze compared to grittier towns, as many fans would rather take snap shots of Jack Nicolson than scream like maniacs for quarters at a time.
10. Pau Gasol is soft as pudding. He's a talented guy, but few get taken out of their game more easily by a few bumps in the post. With the exception of maybe Vince Carter, no top 25 player shows a larger disparity between their offensive and defensive ability. In terms of his skill set and physique, he's like a poor man's Garnett. Only thing is, we have Garnett, who should dominate this matchup with his strength, agility, lock-down D, and ability to shoot over him. On switches, Kendrick Perkins is capable of knocking Gasol to the floor and making him cry.
11. Boston has the coaching edge. Doc Rivers' brilliance as 4th quarter strategist . . . (just seeing if you were paying attention).
11. Ray Allen is primed to bounce back. Throughout most of the playoffs, the former Jesus Shuttlesworth looked nothing like the guy who averaged 25 pts a game as recently as 15 months ago. But he turned it on during games 5 and 6 wins against the Pistons in the eastern finals and seems ready to return to form. Ultimately, Allen is the x-factor in the finals. If he's the shooting threat I know he can be, the C's could run away with this. If he doesn't, Lakers could find a major edge. My money's on the former.
12. The media has drooled all over the Lakers. ESPN's team of "experts" all picked L.A. (these are the same brain surgeons who picked Detroit to wipe out Boston). Ultimately though, both teams won series they should have (against Atlanta & Cleveland, Denver & Utah, respectively) and played their best against their toughest opponents when it mattered most (Pistons & Spurs). The national love affair with Los Angeles should provide the Boston vets with an added motivation I'm not sure they need in the first place.
13. Green is a better team color than yellow. It's darker and far more manly. When the Garden is filled with rows upon rows of matching green tee-shirts, it's intimidating. Green is symbolic of the jungle, the incredible Hulk, and the rowdy drunks on St. Patrick's Day. The Staples Center contains sporadic shades of yellow filtered amongst workplace suits and ties. Yellow is symbolic of sunshine, Big Bird, and single guys who shop at J.Crew. Which team would you rather support?
14. If the Celtics don't win, they allow the Lakers to call into question which franchise is truly the N.B.A.'s most dominant. Boston is stuck on 16 championship banners, while L.A. has narrowed the gap to 2. If we lose the Lakers steal number 15 and I'll be subjected to insufferable reporters attempting to minimize Boston's historical success. Bill Plaschke will jump at the chance to note how the majority of Celtic titles came through one dominant team in the 60s, while L.A.'s titles have been spread out more evenly amongst different era's. I'll have to walk around all summer wearing earmuffs, which is neither an appealing nor comfortable look in July.
15. I'm not gonna say the Boston sports fans deserve it more, the Super bowl collapse aside. We've been blessed with success during the past 7 years as the Patriots & Red Sox have helped turn Boston into the most hated sports town in America (the price of winning). But long-suffering Celtics fans DO deserve this. Count me amongst the few proud fans who've helped comprise the pathetic 1.0 television ratings point Celtics games typically garnered during the past decade. I've put in my time. I've committed four nights a week to screaming at the TV and suffered through idiotic trades, poor free-agent signings, and incomprehensible coaching decisions. So I'm due, and I'll prove it . . .
16. I've outlasted some of the most useless talent ever seen in the N.B.A; Greg Minor, Alaa Abdelnaby, Todd Day, Zan Tabak, Acie Earl, Marty Conlon, Sebastian Telfair, Thomas Hamilton, Frank Brickowski, Chris Corchiani, Vitaly Potapenko, Marcus Banks, Bruno Sundov, Jimmy Oliver, Dwayne Schintzius, Steve Hamer, Andrew Declercq, Brett Szabo, and Alton Lister. Management duped me into getting excited about acquisitions like Dana Barros, 'Out of Service' Pervis, a way past his prime Dominque Wilkins, Xavier McDaniel, Raef Lafrentz, the alcoholic Vin Baker, the corpse of Gary Payton, Popeye 'Shrek' Jones, Wally Szerbiak, Chris Mihm, Tom Gugliotta, and Ricky Davis (who apparantly has a great brain; how flawed is that system?). They've hyped draft picks like Eric Montross, Dee Brown & Gerald Green (a dunk contest does not a superstar make), Junior Burrough, Kedrick Brown, Jerome Moiso, Wayne Turner, and Joseph Forte, and somehow lost out on both the Tim Duncan and Greg Oden/Kevin Durant lotteries. They've inexplicably made multi-millionaires out of Mark Blount, Travis Knight, and Brian Scalabrine. They traded both Chauncey Billips and Joe Johnson, and drafted Ron Mercer ahead of Tracy McGrady. They employed M.L. Carr and Rick Pitino as head coaches. Carr lead the worst Celtics team in history, while Pitino ranted about Bird, McHale, and Parish when he couldn't take the media pressue. I watched Reggie Lewis collapse on the parquet floor. I reluctantly applauded Dino Radja's post moves, Sherman Douglas' floater, Antoine Walker's shimmy, and Milt Palacio's insane three pointer. I've dealt with Paul Gaston's petty pockets and the headache inducing Crunch-n-Munch guy. I've pulled my hair out through an 18 game losing streak and playoff losses to the Nets (losing games 4, 5, & 6 of the eastern finals) and Pacers (in the most poorly played game 7 of all-time). I've seen the Celtics' home base change from the good (Boston Garden) to the bad (Fleetcenter) to the ugly (TD BankNorth Garden).
I've seen it all, and I'm primed for a reversal.
17. One word: GINO
See you at the parade . . .
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