Part I of The Sports Stories You'll Be Reading In 2007. Now.
Dan Shaughnessy 6/14/07
Dear Dice-Just-O-K,
Six months ago you were the toast of Red Sox Nation. From Oak Bluffs to Osaka, from Norwood to Nagoya, there was nothing but the highest of hopes for "the gun from the Rising Sun." You were the golden goose of the Golden Boy's free-spending winter, delivered on a cool December evening to a waiting throng of the faithful, all desperate to catch a glimpse of the Japanese phenom that was going to solidify an aging and inconsistent Red Sox rotation and finally break the Evil Empire's stranglehold on the American League East title.
Heck, I even wrote you a letter exactly six months ago and let you in on all the secrets to survive and thrive in the crucible that is Boston and the Red Sox and the irrationality and/or passion that grips millions of New Englanders from the moment the moving trucks start down I-95.
Maybe something was lost in the translation (did the translator from your introductory press conference read my original letter to you?) but in any language- Japanese, English, Russian, Bill Jamesian- a 4-3, 3.13 ERA record in the middle of June is just not going to cut it. Why wait six years when it's obvious what needs to happen? The Red Sox should trade you now before your stock tanks worse than Enron.
Dan Shaughnessy 7/7/07
Daisuke Matsuzaka is the reason the Red Sox are going to win the 2007 World Series. Mark it down. Get out the Blackberry and block off November 3rd. Do it now. Because that's the day that Dice-K, the greatest Japanese import since the Walkman, will be leading the Duck Boats down Boylston Street.
And to think that all the yahoos and "experts" on talk radio and the Internet were up in arms about the $51.1 million that John Henry spent to secure the exclusive negotiating rights to Dice-K. You won't hear a peep now. Spots have changed very quickly in some corners. But not here at Dice-K-Is-A-OK World Headquarters.
Peter King 11/12/07
MVP Watch
Maybe it's about time the NFL just changed the name of the MVP award to the Drew Brees Most Outstanding Person Ever Award? Could anyone really complain? I was reading the Bible the other day on the Acela train and I couldn't help but picture Jesus with a great big birthmark on his face. If there was another flood in New Orleans, Brees would build an ark out of chin straps, gumbo and rainbows and save everyone. And still play on Sunday. He's just that divine. Do you think that Nick Saban knows that dweeb errs is a palindrome for Drew Brees?
Factoid of the Week That Interests Only Me
I had never been much into the Spice Girls when they were first on the scene but Mary Beth dressed up as Sporty Spice for Halloween and I decided that maybe it was time to revisit the Spicey ladies from across the pond. Well, I can't believe that I missed the boat on not just those gals' music- really great to get the blood pumping when I'm waiting in line at Starbucks- but on one of the most underrated movies of the last decade- Spice World. Really entertaining stuff. Maybe I'm just getting a little too old for all the sex and violence that passes as entertainment nowadays but there is something to be said for five international celebrities taking the time to make a family-fun film. I can't believe that these girls aren't in Hollywood right now, making more blockbusters. Listen up, LA: America wants more Spice Girls. And House maestro Hugh Laurie is in the movie which gave me a massive erection.
Jackie McMullen 2/09/07
The house is weathered and worn. The paint is chipped, the chimney is missing a brick or two and the yard is littered with the debris of decades of disappointment and missed opportunities. Because sometimes opportunities don't knock on the doors of houses like this. Because sometimes chipped paint and crooked gutters are all people see. Because sometimes people don't take the time to look past the peeling paint and outhouse in the front yard to recognize that this weathered and worn house is most certainly still a home. And this home has a story. A story about a boy named Tom.
When Tom Brady was 11 years old, he wanted nothing more than to wake up and listen to the silence that he so desperately desired. When other boys were dreaming about video games or television heroes, Tom was dreaming about waking up in the morning and not finding his foster mother turning tricks in the top bunk. Because those were the worst days. Those were the days when even the strongest of dreams couldn't quiet the squeak, squeak, squeaking of the springs above him.
It was those days, when the johns were lined up outside his door by the dozen, that Tom went outside, climbed over the active volcano in his backyard, eluded a pack of rabid feral dogs, walked five miles, eluded another pack of rabid feral dogs, just so he could search among piles of medical waste and broken glass for a rock to throw. Because throwing was his escape.