In Memoriam

CLASS

I was an annoying kid.  Many would say I’m still annoying but have just matured in my methods of being annoying.  Probably true, but when I was a kid of about 2 or 3 years old I was particularly good at it in a “someone shut that kid up” sort of way.  One of my favorite parlor tricks was to repeat what people would say about me to the entire room. One of the great aunts in the house would look at me and say “aren’t you the best little boy!” and I would take that on board, go to the middle of where everyone was sitting and announce loudly  “I’M THE BEST LITTLE BOY”.  Didn’t matter what was said, I’d let everyone know.  “You have the bluest eyes” – “I HAVE THE BLUEST EYES”; “you’re a strong little fella” “I’M A STRONG LITTLE FELLA” – you get the picture.

My Uncle Frank had what might charitably be called a “mischievous” side.  He scoped this habit out and called me over to him one day.  Getting me up close so no one else could hear he whispered something to me knowing full well that whatever he said would be broadcast to the entire house in short order.  Sure enough I was soon in the middle of the floor letting people know all about the latest compliment I had been paid. There I was, proudly proclaiming:

“I’M NOT STUPID, I’M JUST A LITTLE SLOW”.

It brought the house down and, thinking I’d hit on something profound (I had), I spent the rest of the day repeating it. It became a family legend. So in reading the rest of this please keep one thing in mind.

I’m not stupid, I’m just a little slow.

That same Uncle Frank, who was only about 13 or 14 years old when I was born, went on to graduate from high school (a story in and of itself) and join the service, where he was stationed in and around Vietnam during the war, at the same time that my other Uncle, Chuck, was there as well.  (This too is another story – there are lots of stories when it comes to the Higgins side of the family, lots).  This leads to the next thing I want to talk about.  Yes, this is all leading somewhere – trust me, and remember – I’m just a little slow.

Anyway, one day when I was about 8 years old there was a neighbourhood picnic where the whole street had arranged to use a nearby park to have a barbeque and organize games for the kids, etc.  It was a hot summer’s day and I had just sat down at the table across from my mother preparing to tuck in to a burger when she suddenly jumped up and started running across the field, arms waving.  There was a strange man over there, silhouetted against the sky, and I thought he was maybe trying to steal some of the baseball gloves that had been lying on the ground.  I trailed after her, and watched as she wrapped the man in a bear hug.  I wandered up, perplexed as to what was going on.  I looked at the man – who looked a bit familiar – and finally copped on when she said “It’s Frank”. Again, and I can’t emphasize this enough – just a little slow.

I don’t remember if I also wrapped him up in a hug that day but I damn well should have.  Anyone coming back after having served deserved that type of welcome.  Frank was indeed back and, while looking older, he still had the same sense of humor and trouble, could still make my grandmother laugh and shout at him at the same time, could still raise a bit of hell when called for. 

He also managed to get himself a girlfriend and, through a variety of circumstance and fate two things rapidly became apparent.  First, my uncle had landed himself a bit of a babe and second, she fit in to the family about as well as it is humanly possible to do.

Let me take a moment to dwell on point number two.  This was not as easy a task as it might sound.  Now, there was never any question about being welcomed into the family – the clan is and was very much an “any friend of yours is a friend of mine” type of group.  The problem was, especially back then, surviving the welcome.  The Higgins family in and around the Berkshires was a very – how to put this – “energetic” collection.  On any given weekend back in the early ‘70’s you might find yourself:

a. taking part in a wedding where the larger part of the guest list ended up being arrested for overly enthusiastic celebration and placed in a jail cell where they promptly invented the game of “musical toilets”;

b. engaging in a decade long summer picnic at a location known simply as “The Land”, where all the adults and about 20,000 children slept in an old army surplus tent or their cars until rolling out of bed to start over the next morning. (By the way – note to Cleveland, congratulations on the championship, but you are not “The Land”. “The Land” is “The Land”, and “The Land” is in Hancock Massachusetts.  You are Cleveland and you are in Ohio.  Again, all the best on winning a championship, but this is not up for discussion);

c. featured in the local newspaper for supplying three-quarters of the entrants in a “beer-drinking” contest (hey – why not? – they gave out free beer if you entered), which was followed by a softball game where new meaning was given to the phrase “asleep in left field”.

And that’s just three random examples.  If I felt like sitting here and writing for the next three weeks I could maybe get through about half of the rest of the stories.  The point is – if you jumped into this group and survived – you were doing well.  If you enjoyed it – you were noteworthy or perhaps a bit crazy – possibly both.  But if you managed to master it – you were exceptional.

And that is where I really start to talk about the subject of this essay, my Aunt Linda.  (Bears repeating – a little slow, a little slow).

For my uncle, in what all would agree was one of his better moves, did in fact marry the girlfriend who had fit in so well with the group, and she had become an aunt in a seamless and (seemingly) effortless manner.  Linda may have been someone who came to the family from the outside – but it never felt that way.  Instead she seemed like she had always been there – someone who was equally at home hosting the Thanksgiving Day meal, pitching horseshoes with (and beating) all the men at various gatherings, or gliding across the dance floor whenever there was some kind of formal celebration, like a wedding. 

There is a subtle combination of grace and toughness, beauty and perseverance, elegance and grit, simplicity and sophistication that when mixed together creates a certain type of person.  Because it seems rare to find this we often project those qualities onto distant celebrities – who may or may not have the actual combination in their makeup – but we like to think they do. So we say “Jackie Kennedy” or “Grace Kelly” and automatically know what kind of image we are attempting to invoke.  The word most often used, is “class” – as in “that person has class”.  For a long time that’s what I thought – that you had to look to public figures to find representations of class.  After watching the example of my aunt (amongst others) it gradually dawned on me that there was class to be found in people much closer to home.  It took a while for this to register – again – not stupid, just a little…well, you know.  Nonetheless it was impossible even for me to miss.  In the laughter, thoughtfulness, inclusiveness and respect she engendered my aunt was obviously one very classy lady. 

Was.  That word hurts.  When someone becomes part of the family so quickly that you feel they’ve always been there the danger is that you begin to think they always will be there.  Reality can then provide a rude slap in the face.   When Linda became ill, not very long ago, it didn’t seem possible that she wouldn’t beat this.  When things took a very severe turn my reaction was much like my wife’s, who recently wrote my sister to say, “I can't believe this is happening. Poor Linda who was so nice to everyone...” But it was happening, and then this morning came word that Linda had passed away.  So the word is now “was”, and things switch to the past tense.  I feel so much for my uncle and my cousins.  I think I have a grasp on how much we’ve lost, for it is a shared loss, but there are some who carry more of the burden.  I wish there was something I could do to make them feel better – and being so far away doesn’t help.  Right now I feel both slow and stupid.

I’m often asked “do you miss the States?” and the answer is complicated.  The world is smaller, and I don’t miss the day to day things, because we all have daily lives and ways to fill the time.  If you can’t find a way to do that – then you aren’t doing it right.  But I do miss events – weddings, graduations, and, as strange as it sounds, funerals.  I’m going to miss this one and even though I’ll be back in a couple of weeks I’m not happy about it. 

There is a sense of comfort to be had in the gathering of mourners because there is the reminder that this is more than a remembrance – it is also a statement of hope.  Hope that the spirit of the person we are all missing endures – in all of our thoughts, yes, but also in a deeper way.  Such faith is often ridiculed these days – and sometimes with good reason.  There are a lot of increasingly vocal lunatics out there who use religion as an excuse for expressing their lunacy.  Critics of religion properly point this out – but they forget that people who aren’t looking to dispatch every non-believer are entitled to their beliefs.  We may not be able to provide an absolute proof of their validity but the comfort that is given at a funeral does provide proof of their value. 

There is a series of books written by C.S. Lewis about a country called Narnia.  Most everyone knows them.  Beginning with The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe they tell stories about children who pass between our world and Narnia and the adventures they have.  I loved those books.  I think I’ve read them each over twenty times. And it wasn’t until I was about 17 years old that I realised they were actually highly regarded as religious allegories.  If you are wondering how I possibly could have missed this rather obvious fact just let me tell you again – a little slow folks, a little slow.

Anyway – in one of the books, “The Silver Chair” (soon to be a major motion picture) two children, a long missing prince and one completely invented companion called a “Marsh Wiggle” are kidnapped by an evil queen and held captive in an underground kingdom.  The witch/queen prepares an enchanted fire and lulls the group into a belief that the underground world is all that exists, that their belief in an above ground life is foolish.  “Where does the light come from” she asks – and when they describe the sun she laughs and says “You actually believe there is a burning light that hangs above you”?  When they describe the sky she says “you actually believe there is a sky with no roof to keep it in – it just magically stays in place?”  The same applies to the stars and the mountains.  They all must be made up.  There can’t be any world beyond that which they can see and touch and as the enchantment takes hold the children and the prince begin to despair and agree – yes, there can be no sun, yes there can be no sky – they can’t see them so they must not exist.  Then, out of nowhere, the Marsh Wiggle, who had been an extremely gloomy and depressing character up to then, gathers his strength and stomps his bare, webbed foot into the fire, breaking the enchantment.  With the smell of burnt Marsh Wiggle clearing their heads the group hears their friend say the following:

I suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things—trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play-world.

I’m going to stand by it too.  Because as slow as I may be, I’m not stupid. I can make this world as good as possible without abandoning hope in a next one.  I can believe that the best things here do not just end.

That a strong spirit doesn’t just end.

That a sense of joy doesn’t just end.

That class doesn’t just end.

That Linda Higgins doesn’t just end.

So to my Uncle Frank, to my cousins, to the rest of the family I’m sorry I’m not there right now. Keep the faith, I’ll see you soon.  This is a terrible loss, but you’ll get through and the sun will rise.

Eternal rest grant unto her O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon her -

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.

Only 30 - And Already the Whole World Hates Him...

The latest poster boy for idiocy has landed, his entry for “Meme of the Year” has been received and it appears that he has a better chance of winning that award than Leonardo DiCaprio has of bagging that elusive first Oscar.  I’m speaking, of course, of “Pharma Bro” himself, the ludicrous Martin Shkreli.   Shkreli recently appeared before a congressional committee where he repeatedly “Plead the Fifth” by asserting his right not to answer any questions.  Unfortunately Shkreli forgot to assert his right not to appear to be a complete dickhead, as he went through an assortment of sighs, eyerolls, smirks and giggles - all while not responding to interrogation.

Shkreli is being grilled about the practice he has adopted of buying up the patent rights for certain drugs and then jacking the price up in order to bleed profits out of the people who must have the drug in order to survive.  For these people Shkreli is like a ticket scalper selling entry to a stadium that contains all of the breathable air on Earth – you can pay, or you can die a slow, choking, painful death. 

Most people pay – but they don’t have to be happy about it.

I agree that Shkreli is a contemptible, debased, horrible person.  I appreciate the sentiments expressed by people who wish him to rot in hell, choke on the money he worships or, (my personal favourite) the one who wishes for a 3-D printer to be developed that will allow him to reach through his computer screen and punch the smile off Shkreli’s smug face.  I would donate money to develop such a printer and I would be near the head of the line to test it out.  (I might add as an aside – if it worked I’d nominate a certain New York landlord for the second round of testing).

But I’m also a realist – and I have to recognise that while Shkreli is an insufferable horse’s ass, and while he might well be criminal due to his hedge fund activities before becoming the poster boy from hell for Big Pharma – it is likely that his price gouging activities are, while totally immoral, not illegal. 

Think about that for a second.  It seems it is completely legal for a company to use a government granted monopoly (which is what a patent is) as a means to force the price of a drug up from $13.50 to $750 per pill, a 5500% increase. 

If that is true (and it very likely is) then some of the testing of that knockout 3-D printer has to be reserved for America’s lawmakers.  To illustrate why I think this is so – consider this scenario.

The other day I was going through Facebook and saw the following video posted.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5J2gHXYMpq8

First of all – this is amazing footage.  I could watch that robot cut trees all day long.  I mean – what the hell is that thing?  I strongly suspect that those are the robots that end up taking over the world in the “Terminator” films.

Now, let’s say there was a country – I don’t know – we’ll call it, um – “Ireland”.  In “Ireland”, for the sake of argument, let us assume that there were no laws governing a person’s ability to cut down trees.  No matter what land they were on, or what kind of tree they were – or what importance they might have – tree cutting was fully legal.  Let us say then that I gained control of the only tree-eating robot in “Ireland” – and immediately set about cutting every god-damned tree I could find.

Remember – there are no laws stopping me from cutting as many trees as I want in Ireland.  I can go on to your land – cut your trees – and there’s nothing to stop me.  With my magic freaking robot I can clear cut your hillside in about fifteen minutes (give or take) – and I will do it. 

After I finish with you I can go cut down every tree in a watershed – leading to massive floods in the region.  Like a certain smug little pharma CEO I can paddle by the flooded out cottages with a wise assed smirk on my face, waving to the now homeless citizens who struggle through their water-logged fields. "Hello little swamp rats" I'd say, "want to buy some wellies? Only €3,000.00 a pair"...

But I’m not done – I keep cutting – there’s nothing to say I can’t.  I now target historic trees – let’s say in “Ireland” I know where the oldest tree in the country is (let’s call it the “Silken Thomas Yew Tree” – mainly because the Silken Thomas Yew Tree is, in truth, the oldest tree in Ireland). I can cut that sucker down, carve little wooden shamrocks out of what is left, and sell those things to gullible tourists for €45.00 a whack.  By the time I’m done there won’t be a tree left in “Ireland”.  But don't worry - I'll funnel a portion of my profits into R&D exploring how I can re-forest Ireland - so I can cut those trees down too.

This would never happen you say.  Before I’d get Gorgo the tree cutting robot into the first grove of trees somebody in Ireland would simply pass a law preventing me from doing this.  And you’d be correct. Nobody would ever tolerate allowing some little shitheel to run roughshod over the country’s landscape.

So then – explain to me why these sanctimonious representatives in Washington are able to whine so convincingly about the actions taken by Shkreli when the obvious solution is to pass a regulation preventing him from engaging in the kind of price-gouging they so loudly condemn?  If you leave your boots out in the desert – snakes and scorpions crawl inside. Make no mistake - Shkreli is a demon– but he’s an entirely predictable demon – and to the lawmakers in question his greatest sin is not one of existence, but one of degree.  If they really wanted to stop him – they could.  The fact is – they just wish he would go away and not be so blatant about his market abuse.  They pine for the days when Big Pharma would drive people to despair and death quietly, like gentlemen.

This sin of omission is explained in the attached article (though I think it may let Shkreli off a bit too lightly).  http://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/everyone-hates-martin-shkreli-everyone-is-missing-the-point  Shkreli’s unlimited patent rights and the unregulated industry he operates within amounts to Congress giving Big Pharma a fleet of tree cutting robots and turning them loose on America’s forests.  Goodbye redwoods.  See ya Yellowstone. 

Also remember that this is not like government sticking its nose into an area where it has no business.  Patents are granted by governments.  In a truly unregulated industry there would be no such state sanctioned monopoly and the likes of Shkreli would have to operate in an open, free market.  If government creates the limited market surely it’s not too much to ask that it regulate it? 

Of course – to do so would mean speaking out against one of the most powerful special interests there is – Big Pharma.  Given the amount of money they funnel into congressional and party coffers – that just doesn’t seem likely to happen anytime soon.  But what really gets me is how “shocked – shocked” these legislative buffoons seem to be by Shkreli’s actions.  Dudes – if he’s a monster (and he is) you’re Dr. Frankenstein.

So next time you’re looking at a picture of Martin Shkreli and wishing he would find some way to crawl up his own ass and die – remember to save some room for Congress in there.  Don’t worry – he seems to be a big enough anus to accommodate both houses.

One Last Trip Around the Bases

Ah Big Papi - if you weren't for real no one could have ever made you up.  Who would believe that someone cut by the Twins could re-surface not just as a last gasp insurance policy at DH if Jeremy Giambi didn't work out (he didn't) - but as one of the all time greatest hitters ever to don a Red Sox uniform, as the conqueror of an imaginary curse, defender of the realm and slayer of all kinds of dragons.  If I could do Paris one favour above all others I think I would wish for them a David Ortiz, to tell them "Il s'agit de notre ville putain" and make them feel in control again.

I'll be honest - my first reaction when we signed him was "Jeez, how many damn first baseman/dh's do they need"? Now I can't believe I won't be checking to make sure he's not due up every time I leave the room during a Red Sox game - you never want to miss one of Papi's at bats because anything can happen. The man has, of course, hit some of the biggest home runs in Red Sox/baseball history, but to me, none was bigger than the one I listed as the 3rd greatest personal moment I ever witnessed at Fenway, when he hit one out to win a routine July regular season game against the A's, which just happened to be the first one I ever brought my son to.

In honor of the greatest clutch hitter I've ever seen I'll post that list again and say that I can't wait to see him come to the plate every time this year because I know how much he'll be missed.

Thanks big man, clap and point. 

(See number 3 for my favorite Big Papi in person moment)

• 1. July 26, 1997 - Mo Mentous – Look, I was never going to be the guy who goes out to a strip club for his bachelor party. It was either going to be golf, deep sea fishing or a baseball game - and well, anybody who was betting on it would've gone with the ballgame. And so we made our way to Fenway about a month in advance of my wedding (Margaret and I were married in Ireland on August 22nd - Yaz's birthday - serendipitous coincidence). I had guaranteed some of my cousins a Red Sox win, and the day had played out perfectly as we all hung out in the center field bleachers, having a few beers, watching the game, soaking up the sun and enjoying the ride - except for one thing - the Sox were getting pretty soundly beaten. It was 6-4 Angels as we entered the 9th, and things didn't seem to be going our way - until Nomar ripped a single to left, John Valentin did likewise to center and Mo Vaughn came up. The park stood, and Mo delivered. It was a walkoff home run - which was special. It was my bachelor party - which was amazing. But even more than that it was where he hit it. Straight towards us - and I mean right out towards our seats. The ball went from the size of a pea to about the size of a basketball in a fraction of a second – and we could just see the entire thing develop as the park proceeded to go absolutely bonkers. The Red Sox stunk that year - one of their worst - but it doesn't matter, that game redeemed them. Later on - when we got home, we found that someone had taped everything. There we all were - frozen in the moment as the ball came towards us (well, most of us were frozen - my Uncle Frank was doing some kind of crazy dance even as the ball was in the air). You could see it all as the explosion began - the endless potential energy that every game starts with released in the instant we saw that ball head towards the stands. We watched it over and over again - Run, Pause, Rewind. (see the rewind here: http://www.backtobaseball.com/playballregularseason.php?page=85&IDindex=BOS199707260&date=July+26%2C+1997 )
• 2. October 3, 1990 - Bruno's Catch - I've been lucky enough to see three AL East championship clinching games live at Fenway. I was there in 1986, 1990 and 1995. The 1986 game was probably the most fun (Roger Clemens and Al Nipper hijacked a horse), but the 1990 game was, by far, the most exciting. The Red Sox had put together a blistering September to take over the lead in the East, but had faltered in trying to close things out, and entered the last game of the season requiring a win to clinch and avoid the possibility of a playoff. I got a seat in the right field sky boxes - my first time up there, and looked almost directly down on Tom Brunansky in right. The game played out fairly normally until the top of the ninth when the White Sox somehow, after making two quick outs, managed to put the go-ahead run at the plate in the person of Ozzie Guillen. One thing I was pretty sure of was that Ozzie wasn't going to hit one my way - he never hit to right. That is - until he did. Guillen hit a sinking line shot to the right field corner. Now if you’ve read through this list you'll know that about a month and a half earlier I had sat in Fenway Park and watched a ball hit into the right field corner turn in to an inside the park grand slam. So now, as I watched from the birdseye seat, all I could see was potential disaster as Brunansky raced into the corner. As the ball tailed away I looked down as Brunansky kind of half slid, half dove into the corner to make a sensational catch to save the game and win the AL East by preserving the 3-1 victory. I ripped up every bit of paper nearby as I and the rest of the cloud box denizens improvised a confetti shower and the Red Sox headed on to the field to celebrate. Good, good times - and points out one of the key reasons why I always felt the whole "Curse of the Bambino" nonsense was exactly that - nonsense. Even if the Sox went on to lose to the A's that year - so what? How could you be part of that event and think that the team was anything but blessed? Sure it was frustrating not having won the World Series - but for most of my life - certainly since 1967 - the Red Sox have been one of the most competitive teams going. There were East Championships in every decade, pennants every decade except the 90's (when they won the East twice and advanced to the Championship Series with one of the greatest comebacks ever in 1999 against the Indians), MVP's in every decade except the one where they ended up winning it all – really - what freaking curse? Cubs fans - OK - I hear ya - you have a case make. But Red Sox nation had the frustration of never landing the biggest fish in the pond, not the tragedy of the lake drying up. See the catch here: http://boston.redsox.mlb.com/video/play.jsp?content_id=4135761&c_id=bos
• 3. July 30, 2009 - Big Papi Hits One For Kevin - This was my first visit to Fenway with my oldest son, Kevin. The day was perfect and the Red Sox were taking on the A's. Now, one of the players in the A's lineup that day was Nomar Garciaparra - and this was important because, since Kevin was about a week old, he had been in possession of "Nomar Garciabearra" a by now off-white teddy bear that represented his first favorite Sox player, and despite his departure, he was still Nomar, still special. Now, at the advanced age of 8, Kevin didn't sleep with Garciabearra anymore, but he still had a place of honor in his room, and it was cool to see Nomar play in person, even if it was in the wrong uniform. Nomar didn't just play that day - he had three hits and scored a run as the A's ran out to a 5-3 lead. As the game entered the late innings, with the horrible prospect of the Sox losing Kevin's first game (and since we live 2,500 miles away it's tough to get back too often), the day was saved by both of our current favorite player - David Ortiz, who hit a three run homer in the bottom of the 7th to put the Red Sox ahead for good en route to an 8-5 win. And this wasn't just a home run - it was one of those moonshots, where you can have a conversation while the ball is in the air. I can still hear Kevin's "WOW!" as we watched the ball soar towards the bleachers, impossibly high, impossibly far away. With my 2 nieces there, visits from Wally on the cards, a bit of perfect weather, and good seats this was altogether one of my best days at Fenway. See the box score here: http://www.baseball-reference.com/boxes/BOS/BOS200907300.shtml and check out the pictures on the blog.
• 4. August 21, 1976 - Yaz Turns Back Time - In 1963, on the day I was born, Carl Yastrzemski went 2 for 5 driving in the Red Sox only run in a 4-1 loss to the White Sox. Yaz would go on to win the batting title that year and was still playing at the highest level 13 years later when I went to a game on a bus with my Aunt Marty. We had seats in the left field corner and Yaz happened to be playing left that day, taking over from Jim Rice for a stretch. Yaz was, and is, my favorite Sox player of all time. He was my introduction to the Red Sox when, at the age of four, I first became aware that they were a presence in my life. That was 1967 and while I don't remember details (other than a vague memory of someone saying "Tony Conigliaro is hurt") - I remember the buzz - it was unavoidable. I remember the talk about the "World Series". I remember the sound of the games over the radio as we would drive from Springfield to Sheffield and I remember Yaz. The crazy song that they played that year. The sound of the name "Yastrzemski" - like "Supercalifragilisticexpealodocious" but with a practical side. Yaz was always - always - there through my entire formative years. In 1975 he was not the Red Sox best player all year - but he was in the playoffs when he hit, and fielded and willed the Red Sox to sweep an Oakland team that had won three straight World Series. In 1976 I focused on him more than ever - because I knew he was good and because I knew he was chasing history. He was considered old for the time (players last longer now), but he still was a better left fielder than Rice (who wasn't bad by the way - Yaz was just better). In 1977 Yaz would start in the outfield for another year, win the gold glove and go through the whole year without making an error. But in 1976 we just happened to be lucky he was out there that day - and Yaz put on one hell of a show. He deked runners into stopping in the basepaths (which led to a double play). He wrapped out two doubles, drove in 2 runs, scored another, ran the bases, made the final putout of the game with a nice catch and nearly hit one out in the 2nd to boot. He had the guys on the bus singing the "Carl Yastrzemski" polka on the way home and lived up to every expectation in leading the Sox to 5-2 win. I'd seen Yaz live before, and I'd see him plenty after, but this was the performance I remember best. One other thing - that errorless season in 1977 - that was for real. Yaz did not play halfway. He would deke runners, bluff up against the wall, take shots at guys with throws and dive for line drives. Going a full year without an error might be a sign of caution for some outfielders - not for Yaz. See the box score here: http://www.baseball-reference.com/boxes/BOS/BOS197608210.shtml
• 5. August 4, 1986 - Here's Johnny - In 1986 I had just moved to Boston and found myself in a position I had always wanted to be in - I could go to Fenway just about any time I wanted to. I also had a name of someone who worked at the ticket window at Fenway who had no problem with getting me a great seat as long as I sweetened the deal a little bit. Today you are lucky if you can get a bleacher seat for a game but in '86 the team was not expected to be particularly good and you actually could walk up and finagle a field box. That's what happened one weekday in August - I left work, wandered over to the park, asked if there were any good seats for the game and settled in to watch Roger Clemens take on the White Sox. Clemens was in his breakout season, had struck out 20 earlier in the year (another game, another story) and stood at 17-3 as he went out to face the White Sox on his birthday. I settled into my seat, which was about four rows back from the field, and got ready to watch a little baseball. Just before gametime there was a flurry of activity as the ushers (three) flipped the seats next to me down and furiously began wiping them off. "who the hell is getting this treatment" I thought, and looked back over my shoulder. All I saw were a bunch of guys in Hawaiian shirts, bermudas and sunglasses sauntering down the steps. "Who are these bums" I thought - and as one of them made his way into the seats a Bloomingdales credit card dropped onto the floor, unnoticed. Being a sport I picked it up to hand back to the guy, glancing at the name. "John Nicholson" it read – and I found myself face to face with  Jack Nicholson. Strangely, the only thing I could think was "John – why does the card say “John”?" Nicholson was great to sit next to - we chatted about the year Clemens had been having, the work he was doing on "The Witches of Eastwick", and the Celtics/Lakers rivalry ("I wish we'd made the finals" was what he said and got a kick out of the fact that I agreed – because I wanted to beat the Lakers, not the Rockets). When Carlton Fisk came up for the White Sox I said "he hit the most famous home run ever in this park" - "what about Bucky Dent” was Nicholson's rejoinder, accompanied by his wicked grin. He offered to buy some beers for the people around him and sent the driver to pick them up – and when the driver came back saying "they'll only give out two at a time Jack" he tapped me on the knee and said "come on". We went up to the beer booth and Nicholson asked for "six beers please". "Sorry sir - only two per customer" was the answer from the attendant. Nicholson lowered his shades and gave a look through to the supervisor "how about six?" We got the beers. The only downside was when Mike Dowling, a local sports reporter, decided it would be a good idea to harass Nicholson with a camera crew. Dowling was an idiot, who has since faded into much deserved obscurity. The real tragedy is that this is the only game on this list that the Red Sox actually lost (a 1-0 tense pitchers’ duel) but the highlight of the day actually came when, flushed with my brush with celebrity, I snuck under the stands in about the third inning to call home (from a pay phone - no cell phones in those days). I got a hold of my mother and asked if she had the game on. "Yes - dad has it on now". "Well keep watching" I said "I'm sitting next to Jack Nicholson and the camera is sure to show him - I'll be next to him grinning like a fool". "Oh wow" she said and yelled in to my father "Kevin - Mike's at the game and sitting next to Jack Nicholson - watch for him on the television"! Then almost as an afterthought, she whispered into the phone "Mike - be sure to ask him for some golf tips". I thought about this for a second - I flashed on the fact that Nicholson had been cited by the cops for taking a golf club to the windshield of some guy who'd run into his car, but Mom wasn't much for sarcasm. Then it hit me what was going on. "Ma" I said - "You're thinking of Jack Nicklaus".
• 6. September 1, 1990 - Greenwell's Inside the Park Grannie - This one happened against the Yankees during the Sox AL East championship drive in the late months of 1990 (which would culminate with another game on this list). Even Yankee fans will admit that the term "Yankee's Suck" applied to this version of the Bronx Buffoons, as Stump Merrill's team had to have been one of the worst versions of the pinstripes ever assembled. In right field that day was Jesse Barfield, and when Mike Greenwell laced a groundball past first and down the right field line Barfield pursued it like a drunk chasing a dollar bill blowing down the street. Somehow Jesse managed to stumble into the wall along the right field foul line, knocking himself cold, and Greenwell, as well as the three runners ahead of him, raced all the way around to score in one of the rarest plays in baseball - an inside the park grand slam. The weirdest part of this is that for years I had had the strangest feeling that this exact play would happen sometime when I was at the park - I actually remember describing to someone how the lack of foul territory there, combined with the way the ball hugged the wall when it started rolling, was an invitation to someone cracking themselves up on the wall and the ball just rolling forever. The final score that day was 15-1 in favor of the Sox - and I got to see this blowout with my Dad, one of the last times we'd be in Fenway together. It doesn't matter how bad they are - it's always good to beat the Yankees. (See the recreation of the Grand Slam here: http://www.backtobaseball.com/playballregularseason.php?page=44&IDindex=BOS199009010&date=September+1%2C+1990 )
• 7. October 15, 1986 - Game 7 of the 1986 American League Championship Series versus the California (not yet the Anaheim) Angels. This was one of the best pure baseball days at the ballpark ever - immediately prior to the game I had gone to the Cask & Flagon where I figured I would have plenty of time to watch Game 6 of the NLCS and then wander over to watch the Red Sox take on the Angels in the Game 7 finale to what (up to then) had been the most improbable of the Sox post season series. The Mets were playing Houston and were in a situation where they simply had to win or face near certain elimination against Mike Scott in Game 7. Scott had been untouchable for a month - throwing a no-hitter at the end of the season and stifling the Mets in both starts thus far during the playoffs. The game see-sawed back and forth, with it finally being decided in the 14th inning with the winning run at the plate. The Mets had managed to claw their way through - an event that would foreshadow the near future. The Sox as well had taken themselves back from the brink in a bit of action that would foreshadow the future as well. Down to their last strike in Game 5 out in Anaheim, the late season addition, Dave Henderson, had given the Sox new life with a homerun to put them ahead and then a sacrifice fly (people forget this) to give them the win in extra innings. The Sox returned to Fenway somehow seemingly ahead in the series 2 games to 3 (they were 2). I never saw a more disheartened team than those Angels. In Game 7 it was a romp with the final score 9-1, Evans and Rice hit homers, and the park went absolutely crazy. We were certain it was history we were witnessing - had anyone ever seen a team one strike away from losing a series come back to win? Oh, if we only knew. (See boxscore here: http://www.baseball-reference.com/boxes/BOS/BOS198610150.shtml )

Lildis

Lil Dis, Lil Dat

Goodbye Grantland

I’d been meaning to write about the demise of Grantland, the ESPN sponsored website that was unceremoniously shuttered by the worldwide leader last week, but I was still too pissed off about the whole thing to be cogent.  Of course, there are some who would claim that I must be permanently pissed off because I am hardly ever cogent, and to them I would simply say, “You’re probably right”. 
I would then go on to remind them that since the topic at hand seemed to involve “piss off”, that’s exactly what they can do.

But back to Grantland.  In June of 2011, when I first started writing here, one of the first things I posted was a notification that Grantland was commencing operations, that it was the brainchild of Bill Simmons and that it would be interesting to see what became of it.  I said that it was “worth checking out”.  It sure was.  Grantland became one of the touchstone sites on the internet almost as soon as it began publishing its content.  It quickly morphed into a place where you could find first class sports writing but also intelligent and unique cultural articles concerning film, television, the state of journalism itself and a host of other topics.  Simmons was, by all accounts, an innovative editor and a good guy to work for.  He was also, by any reliable measure, a pain in the ass for his superiors.  He had a reputation for pushing hard for the stories he wanted, regardless of the corporate consequences, he would tweak the nose of the powers that be in Bristol (the Connecticut sanctorum where ESPN's corporate headquarters can be found) and he would knowingly give the business to some of ESPN’s biggest business partners.  Most notable of these was the time he got himself suspended for calling Roger Goodell a liar, which to me is a bit like calling Michaelangelo a “painter”. 

Of course he paints, and he’s a damn good painter.

But Simmons was also extremely good for ESPN and did exactly the job he was hired to do – expand the company’s internet reach, produce good content and ideas and make the brand relevant to a new universe of viewers/readers.  He developed the concept for the brilliant “30 for 30” documentary series, recruited amazing talent and made ESPN, if not “hip” at least tolerable to a generation of fans who had pretty much soured on Chris Berman’s swami routine.  Simmons was also, despite the confrontations, always open in his admiration for the opportunities presented him by ESPN, once devoting an entire podcast to the story of his improbable rise from bartender to media phenomenon and how pivotal the people at ESPN (whom he addressed by name) had been in making his career a success.  So what else would you do but fire him, which ESPN did earlier this year.

Then there was Grantland, which had to be considered the crowning glory of his tenure at ESPN.  Named after legendary sportswriter Grantland Rice the site was universally respected both for its approach to stories (which was amazingly eclectic yet retained a recognizable house “style”), and for its talent.  Bill Barnwell on football, Wesley Morris on film, Katie Baker on hockey, Charlie Pierce (as documented in this blog) on whatever he felt like writing about, plus a myriad of other talents along with Simmons  – you didn’t have to like everything on Grantland, but, trust me, you would like something.  On any given day you could find an oral history of the Pacers- Pistons brawl in Detroit, a review of the latest films, a podcast with the President of the United States or a bracket by bracket tournament conducted between the greatest movie sequels of all time.

So ESPN had a problematic but valuable group of employees who had created a vibrant and well-respected website loaded with talented and devoted writers, editors and staff - what else could you do except shut it down?

ESPN has issued the usual drivel about “difficult times” and “hard choices” that basically means they didn’t think they would make much money off the website.  This is nonsense. The content at Grantland was so good that it seems impossible to fathom that it didn’t make money for ESPN at some level.  Just the sales of “30 for 30” box sets, marketed so effectively via Grantland, would probably provide some decent revenue.  Nonetheless I accept that the site wasn’t conventionally profitable.  The problem I have is that it should have been – that the reason it wasn’t making money had little to do with the site and everything to do with the network’s attitude towards the site.  It was never promoted properly, was never featured as the prime location it was and gained significant notice from its parent only when it was being handcuffed, chastised, hushed up or finally, shut down. 

ESPN claims their decision was based on the bottom line – but here’s the real bottom line.  If you can’t make money off one of the best websites around that is a failure of the business department and senior management, not the editorial department or writing staff.  So why wasn’t there a purge of the people who managed to make chicken shit out of chicken salad?  Because, at the end of the day, the network saw Grantland as a pain in the ass, just like they saw Simmons.  Sure, they could have toughed it out for the sake of their audience and the concept of good journalism – but – that would have taken some effort, planning and, in all likelihood, some bloodletting amongst the ruling class at the network.  ESPN was sick of worrying about placating the NFL, hand-wringing over interviews with political figures, monitoring the movie reviews for disparaging comments about Disney films or staking out a claim on real journalism.  It was easier to let the whole thing go.  And we’re all the worse off for it. 

Professional sports is entertainment – and very good entertainment.  It tries to market itself as somehow “character building” or a force for good in the community – but that’s all nonsense.  If there is that impact it’s because of the devotion of the fans who make the brand capable of raising dollars for charity or just making people feel good.  The teams just play games that people like to watch, discuss and read about.  And that’s enough – it really is.

If there is any other impact that pro sports have (and I’m including big time college sports in this equation because, well, big time college sports is professional) it is that it can sometimes serve as a useful microcosm of the larger issues in society.  That’s why Ken Burn’s “Baseball” actually works as an historic review of the issues of race and labor relations in America.  It’s why Jim Bouton’s “Ball Four” was correctly identified as one of the most influential books of the last century.  And it’s why the debacle that ESPN has created over Grantland is a perfect example of what’s wrong with corporate journalism today.  The reason there is a complete lack of respect for the media these days is because things like this happen. The corporate parent calls the shots – and it is much easier to run a website that only posts the scores and when you can tune in to the games than one that writes things that are truly interesting.  Oh, there’s always an excuse - “we worried about editorial control” or “times are tough and we had to tighten our belts” but the reason you see less and less analysis and more and more talking heads shouting at each other is because no one in control has the guts to fight back.  The same cowardice that led ESPN to remove its name from a report on concussions and football (see here:  http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/10/sports/football/by-shunning-concussion-documentary-espn-gives-it-a-lift.html?_r=0) is behind the Grantland decision.  They were cowards then, they are cowards now and, truth be told, they’ll be cowards tomorrow.  I would say that the executives who made this decision will have to live with it on their conscience, but you need to have a conscience for that to be true.

In all of this my heart goes out to the people who have lost their jobs.  The “interim” Editor in Chief Chris Quisling, I mean Chris Connelly, has said that Grantland will “honor the staff’s contracts, including exclusivity”.  It’s a contract Chris – you have to honor it, and the “exclusivity” part – we know that means you won’t let the one’s you want to prevent from joining Simmons get away so easily.  You’ll make them cover curling or something.  Meanwhile a guy like Charlie Pierce, who was doing tremendous work, has to go through this shit yet again.  The guy must worry that he’s like a fart at a dinner party.  He’s left the Boston Phoenix, The National and now Grantland on the ash heap of history.  It’s not you Mr. Pierce, it’s the man.  That goes for all of the writers, Simmons and the other contributors to Grantland.  Thanks for what you did and what you had the guts to try to do.  Too bad you didn’t have a network with the guts to let you succeed.

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes

The argument about genetically modified foods and the role of large corporations like Monsanto in marketing the same is now in full boil on the internet.  People who have never done more than read the caption on a Facebook photo suddenly feel compelled to warn the planet of crops so dangerous that they are seemingly only one step away from joining the Taliban and invading our cities.  Despite the clear and present danger of an enraged onion knocking on my door I will nonetheless try to clear up a few myths surrounding this topic (while always understanding that for the true believers there is no way to convince them that GMO doesn’t stand for “Guaranteeing Mankind’s Obliteration”).

Myth One:  Modifying Foods' Genetic Makeup is “New Science”

I would hope that everyone is aware that we’ve been modifying the genetic makeup of foods since, probably, prehistoric times.  A banana in its natural state is a finger length inedible sprout.  It’s been so heavily engineered via selective breeding and genetic manipulation that it is now actually incapable of independent reproduction (that's why there are no seeds in bananas).  There are now hundreds of varieties of this one crop (most bananas in tropical countries are used for cooking and aren’t as long or soft).  All of this is due to a prolonged period of genetic manipulation. But nobody calls for banning bananas (say that 5 times fast).  In truth – almost all of our foods are genetically modified to a certain extent – it’s just that until we developed the knowledge of the genetic structure the means by which these modifications were introduced into the plant was through selective cross breeding in greenhouse laboratories or via independent farming “trial by error” horticulture.  This was actually often far more dangerous as it could result in the development of a product that might mask vulnerabilities. 

Take the potato as one example.  Having been introduced to the Old World following the Spanish conquest of South America it became a sensation in Europe, where it was bred into a larger, more easily harvested variety.  This then became the staple food for many countries – including, most famously, Ireland.  Unfortunately the modification of the potato crop by what would nowadays be deemed “natural” processes led to the plant losing its disease resistance.  When this resulted in the failure of the crop in mid 19^th century Ireland millions died or were forced to emigrate.  If current scientific methods had been available it is quite possible that the most traumatic event in Irish history could have been avoided.

Yes – current methods for modifying crops are more sophisticated – but this does not mean they are more or less dangerous than the methods used in the past.  The science is largely the same – everyone has always been trying to find out how to change a plant to make it bigger, tastier, more resistant to disease, cultivable in drier soil, impervious to higher or lower temperatures, etc.  The difference is that now we know where to go to within the plant to make that happen.  It is the method that is new – not the science.

Myth Two:  The Debate Over GM Foods Pits Big Business Against “The Little Guy”

Actually – no.  This debate is really one group of corporate giants against another.  It’s just that one is much more skillful at remaining hidden and manipulating the public.  That side is not the one that includes Monsanto, which has proven incredibly inept at generating good publicity.  No – it would be the agribusiness concerns that oppose greater expansion of GM usage that are the stealth bombers of this fight. 

The large concerns that have, for example, managed to get the EU to threaten to allow a ban on GM crop importation (that’s right – “threaten” – the EU has not banned all GMO’s, as many American activists like to allege) are doing so not because they have any real fear of genetic modification, but because they worry about their own bottom line.  This is what European science actually says about GMO’s:

The main conclusion to be drawn from the efforts of more than 130 research projects, covering a period of more than 25 years of research, and involving more than 500 independent research groups, is that biotechnology, and in particular GMOs, are not per se more risky than e.g. conventional plant breeding technologies.

So it’s not really the science that worries the people in Europe who wish to ban GMO’s – but what then could it be that creates the opposition?  The fact is that European agribusiness fears the cheaper crops that might actually cause its food businesses (among the world’s largest) to compete in the real marketplace.  Genetic modification might mean that African farmers, who currently can’t grow large volumes of crops because of the soil conditions and climate difficulties they face, might suddenly become competitive if given hardier crop varietals that could survive these conditions.  To forestall this –as well as competition from the Americas – there are wealthy and powerful interests that see an outright ban as the proper response to this threat.  The problem with this is that it condemns an entire continent’s worth of farmers to crushing poverty for no good reason.  It also means your food costs more than it really should.

All I’m really saying here is that you shouldn’t fool yourself into thinking that all the big money sits on one side of the controversy .  There are entrenched and powerful interests with less than pure motivations all over the place.

Myth Three:  There Is No Way To Tell What Food Is Modified And What Isn’t

There is an enormous amount of outcry over the fact that not everyone has seen fit to require companies that make use of GM foods in their products to advertise that fact on their label.  When you ask these people what type of GM they wish to have notified the typical answer is “anything”.  In which case you would simply put a label on just about every food known to be consumed by humans (see “banana”, above).  Eventually this demand is rolled back and labelling is requested “only” of those foods that have some degree of genetic engineering via gene splicing or “laboratory enhanced” means of altering the crop.  Unfortunately – this again would cover just about anything that includes corn starches, most sugars, large amounts of rice and even more products that have some contact with the commonly used means of putting together processed foods. 

Now I don’t necessarily like processed foods but I’m smart enough to realise that if I buy a box of Pop Tarts they probably weren’t sourced from a commune in upstate New York.  The ingredients (things like “blueberry preserve and fruit flavouring” or “enriched wheat”) are listed – but the somewhat subjective designation as to the genetic origin of those ingredients is not.  Big freaking deal – if you assume that there are no such ingredients in the product just because it isn’t listed on the label – you’re an idiot.  The best way to insure that you aren’t getting genetically modified foods if you don’t want genetically modified foods is to look for the label that says “This product was made without the use of genetically modified ingredients” or “100% organic”.  Believe me – if the producer of the product went to the trouble of keeping GM ingredients out – they’ll tell you about it.

This really goes to the core of the problem with the “nanny state” debate.  The assumption on the part of any group taking a position on something is that the sole reason to disagree with them is lack of information.  To the anti-GM activists it is the failure to inform that keeps the masses ignorant of the truth.  In reality it is much more reasonable to assume that people simply don’t believe that version of the “truth”.  We’ve all heard about this controversy – and the conclusion many have reached is that the proper term for corn that has been genetically modified and corn that hasn’t been genetically modified is – wait for it – “corn”.  I don’t need more information – the science has supplied enough evidence for people to decide that there is no rational basis to differentiate.  No – we are not all just too stupid to know what is good for us.  No – we are not all victims of corporate manipulation.  No – we are not all desperately waiting for enlightenment on this subject. I would never prevent a seller from truthfully telling someone they have not used a certain ingredient in their product.  Since this is the case all I would say is don’t make other producers notify me of a distinction that is, according to a perfectly rational argument, not worth making.

There are other myths out there and there are, admittedly, improvements in protocols that can be made.  But I can’t see the GMO argument as anything more than another version of modern Luddite behaviour.  “Science” is neither enemy or friend, conservative or liberal, capitalist or communist.  It is simply a process, a means of analysing data through the use of hypotheses, experimentation and conclusions.  It is people who are ideologues – but increasingly it is the scientific message itself that is seen as the purveyor of a position.  Look – the fact that the icecaps are melting is not a manifesto.  The fact that vaccinations have saved millions of lives is not a party political platform.  And a more efficient method for growing food in an increasingly populated world is not dogma – it is opportunity and should be treated as such.

Excerpt From "Along the Banks"

I've begun writing a guidebook/brochure that chronicles a bike trip I am taking along the proposed route of the Dublin to Galway cycle path. The majority of this will follow the course of the Royal Canal and I'm taking my mountain bike along the rough trail that currently exists in the hopes that it will help get the actual greenway, which is one of the best proposals for Irish tourism to come along in years, built.  So I'm going to take a trip along the canal and put down what I see with little side trips to discuss Croke Park, the original Bloody Sunday, Brendan Behan, fishing in Ireland and whatever else tickles my fancy.  Here's a very rough draft from the manuscript as a sneak preview. 

Every journey begins somewhere – and for the purposes of this book our beginning is on the North Wall Quay next to the metal drawbridge that marks the junction of the Royal Canal with the River Liffey.  The Liffey is a tidal river, and it is never going to be confused with the Thames, Mississippi or even the Shannon in terms of size, grandeur or economic importance.  But the people of Dublin have great affection for the river, celebrating it in song and story, and while its length may not be great it has a history that stretches from the Vikings through numerous wars, famines, kingdoms, empires, republics, declines and rebirths.  So before starting on the northside adventure that will follow the course of the Royal Canal have a pint in the Ferryman pub over on the banks of the southside, just a stone’s throw away from the Grand Canal (the older, southern, equivalent of the Royal) and gaze across the expanse of the river that provides one endpoint of the journey that lies ahead.

From the junction of the Liffey and the Royal, looking towards The Ferryman pub.

                                         

The symbol of the river is the famed “Anna Liffey” (Anna Livia) and a portrait can be found on an electrical box found at the junction of the canal and river.  Of course – there is no "Anna Liffey" – the name is actually a derogation from the Irish Abhainn na Life (meaning, believe it or not, “River Liffey”) but that hasn’t stopped artists from James Joyce to Pete St. John imagining the river as a woman.  Perhaps the most (in)famous attempt was a certain statue originally erected on O’Connell St. of a mermaidlike figure reclining in a fountain of flowing water.  Entitled “Anna Livia” the statue immediately fell prey to Dubliners’ inclination to provide nicknames to anything that remains in the city for more than a few hours.  The statue alternatively became the “Biddy in the Bidet”, “Hoo-er in the Sewer”, “Chick in the Crick” and the one that ended up becoming a nearly universally accepted moniker – “the Floozy in the Jacuzzi”.  The statue was moved from O’Connell St. to a less central location upstream some years ago – but we’ll see a few statues and memorials on our way up the canal.  So let’s get started.

A portrait of Anna at the start of the canal

                      

The "Floozy" back when she lived on O'Connell Street

 



The area where we begin has been transformed in the last twenty years from an industrial wasteland to a booming financial centre (well – sometimes more booming than others).  Known as the "International Financial Services Centre" (the "IFSC" to most) it has its origins in a tax concession that the Irish Government managed to obtain from the European Union.  The EU decided that it would allow businesses that agreed to relocate to the approximately one square mile area inside the IFSC to avail of a 10% tax rate.  The offer proved so attractive that soon the area was filling with international banks and fund managers - which led the Germans and other EU countries to reconsider whether they should have given the break in the first place.  Soon it was announced that the IFSC would have to conform to the same tax rate as the rest of Ireland - that the "special zone" status of the IFSC would be lost.  Ireland, faced with the prospect of the big boys taking their ball and going home asked the EU for a clarification - "Are you saying" they queried, "that all the corporations in Ireland need to have the same tax rate - that we can't have a lower rate for the IFSC crowd?"  "That's exactly what we're saying" replied the bureaucrats.  "Grand so" said Ireland, and lowered the corporate tax rate for everyone.  There it sits to this day, at 12.5% the lowest corporate rate in the EU, which bugs the hell out of a good few people in Brussels.  Before the tax break was given you were a thousand times more likely to run into a pack of wild dogs in the area of the IFSC than you were a banker.  Some might pine for the days of the wild dogs, but let's not be cynical just at the start of the trip.  

The Samuel Beckett Bridge from canal side and at sunset.

One of the Liffey’s newest bridges – the Samuel Becket, built to resemble a giant harp, looms in back of you as you make your way up the first stages of the canal past Dublin’s convention centre and across its above ground rail line, the Luas.  Almost as soon as we begin our journey up the canal side – well - we have to leave the canal side.  That’s a bit of a bummer – but the canal is shut from a lifting bridge through a large series of rail yards and switching stations.  Probably for the best – and we only have to take a short detour up Seville Place (one of Dublin’s rougher neighbourhoods) to Amiens Street – where we’ll take a right at the Five Lamps and head up the road about a quarter of a kilometre until we get to Charleville Mall and the Newcomen bridge where we can rejoin the canal after about a five minute cycle. It is here we meet the first of the 46 structures that will be found the length of our journey.  It’s time for a word about locks.

                                                                         The first of 46 locks

The word “lock” has its origin in the old English/proto Germanic word “Luik” or “Lucan” which meant to close, fasten or create a barrier.  This is more than a bit coincidental in that there is a town, Lucan, that sits very near the course of the Royal Canal but the name of the town comes from the Gaelic Leamhcán meaning “place of the elms”, and has no connection with the barriers that allow boats to traverse a canal.  The system of locks are among the most ingenious engineering feats of the pre-industrial world.  The ability to figure out how to close a watertight door and fill a chamber with water in such a manner as to lift a boat uphill across hundreds of miles sounds tough enough.  Consider now that these chambers were built during a time when there were no electrical or internal combustion engines to facilitate the job.  Now consider that much of the stonework set in place to achieve this engineering marvel is still sitting, and functioning, just as it was when the canal was first built.  So the locks will be referred to in the text of this book mainly as milestones – points of reference to let you know just how far along you are – but take a minute to consider the work that they do and that went into making them as you pass on your way.

From the first lock the trip proceeds along a well maintained but very urban pathway. There are some low bridges ahead so proceed with caution and, as is the case with any urban cycling watch out for dogs, broken glass and winos as you get started on the first kilometre of the trip.  As you duck your head under the bridges your eye will be drawn ahead and upward to the first, and largest, of the monuments you will see along the banks of the canal.  Looming over you is the historic majesty of Croke Park.

Historic Croke Park

As the sign outside the stadium says Croke Park is the home of the GAA - the Gaelic Athletic Association.  Along the course of the canal you will see many other reminders of the extensive popularity and reach of the GAA throughout Ireland.  It is the governing body of the traditional Irish Sports of Gaelic Football, Hurling and Camogie (and of handball – which is deemed a Gaelic game and whose domestic headquarters is found just outside of Croker).  That description makes the GAA sound rather simple, sort of like the NCAA in America or (God forbid) FIFA in soccer.  But the GAA is more than that -it is a cultural touchstone in Ireland and its headquarters is an historic outpost in its own right.  The scene of the original “Bloody Sunday” massacre, when British troops slaughtered players and fans after bursting in to a match on the 21^st of November, 1920, resulting in 14 deaths, Croke Park's significance transcends the world of sport.  The event is depicted in Neil Jordan’s film “Michael Collins” and the scene is found on YouTube here:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOiQRkK1tyg

The clip is not entirely historically accurate but the general thrust is correct – the player depicted as being shot is Thomas Hogan, and the “Hogan Stand”, on the north (far) side of the stadium, is named after him.  The canal actually passes under the stand at the “canal end” of the park, and so will you as you make your way up the canal.  It is through the canal end that the British forces entered the park on that fateful day.   But the GAA, and Croke Park, is about more than the events of Bloody Sunday.  The formation of the Association, back in 1884, occurred during a time known as the “Gaelic Revival” which included efforts to preserve the Irish language, develop the Irish theatre and promote Irish folklore and legends.  All these helped develop a sense of Irish nationalism, but by any objective measure the most successful was the GAA.  Traveling the one strip of land along the Royal Canal you will see dozens of GAA pitches and clubs – and that's not surprising since there are over 2,300 GAA clubs on the island of Ireland alone.  All of those clubs, and all of that activity, leads back to Croker at the end of each summer as the various counties compete to win the All Ireland finals in Hurling and Gaelic Football (the Liam McCarthy and Sam Maguire cups, respectively).  On final day the stadium will be filled with over 80,000 fans.  Similar crowds have been packed inside for concerts, rugby matches and the Special Olympics.  Any trip down the canal begins (or ends) in the shadow of this monumental edifice.

Gazing back at Croke Park from Phibsboro

(More to come)