The steroid plot thickens ...

I was pretty bummed to hear this week's revelation that Red Sox slugger David Ortiz tested positive for steroids back in 2003. The news left me wondering why I should care about a sport that seems perfectly happy to lie to me over and over and over.

Since then, the plot has only gotten murkier for the Beantown team. Today's Boston Globe has a fantastic article detailing how two security staffers for the Sox were fired last year for illegal steroid use.

Some quick highlights:

• One of the guards in question is Jerry Remy's son, and he looks like a total muscle-bound freak.

• Security guards only get paid $11/hour, but there are perks. What perks? How about driving around in player's cars that they can never afford because they get paid $11/hour?

• MLB investigators spent as little as fifteen minutes "interviewing" the dismissed guards:

Remy, 30, said he believed the questioning, conducted in a Fenway Park conference room by MLB investigator Eduardo Dominguez, lasted about 15 minutes. It seemed to him a perfunctory exercise in damage control.

“They didn’t ask much at all; they wanted to make it disappear,’’ he said.

“Major League Baseball asked me, ‘Have you ever seen any players do steroids?’ ’’ Remy recalled. “I said, ‘No. no.’ . . . He said, ‘If you’re honest with me, nothing will happen to you.’ Next thing I know, I get fired.’’

• The Remy freak (seriously, check him out in the article pictures. Oh, and did I mention that he allegedly enjoys beating up women? Yeah, the article covers that, as well) says he had conversations with the personal assistant of David Ortiz about steroids:

That salaried personal assistant, Felix Leopoldo Marquez Galice, is a Dominican currently facing possible deportation for covering up his illegal status by using the name of a Puerto Rican man serving prison time for a drug offense ... “He admitted taking steroids. We had conversations about steroids,’’ said Remy.

“We’d talk, ‘This one works for that. This one makes you bulky. This one makes you harder,’ ’’ Remy recalled.

And Remy also claims that MLB investigators never bothered to ask about Galice.

These are some sad times to be a baseball fan. Even if some of these admissions are nothing more than fiction, there's got to be a certain amount of truth buried underneath it all. To read the full article, click here.

Quick dispatch

These came in from a few friends over the past couple days:

• Dunkin' Donuts has tapped Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia as their new pitchman. Apparently they saw something in his Sullivan Tire exploits. You can read all about it (and see the first ad) over here at boston.com.

• I like 30 Rock. It's a pretty funny show (though this season has been pretty hit-or-miss). But I don't like 30 Rock half as much as this guy:

Maybe it's just me, but I see this guy and I imagine he's kept in some kind of basement dwelling similar to Sloth in The Goonies. 

The day after opening day

Ah, baseball is back. And for regular fans, nothing could be better than hearing the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd. 

But things aren't so pleasant when you're a manager of a fantasy baseball team.

We're one day into the season and fantasy baseball managers are beginning to freak out. Quite a few "sure things" were pretty bad yesterday. CC Sabathia surrendered 6 earned runs in 4 1/3 innings. Mark Teixeira went o for 4 at the plate. Cliff Lee (last year's AL Cy Young winner) left his outing for the Indians with a crushing 12.60 ERA. Arizona's Brandon Webb got beat down by the Colorado Rockies.

Quick, where's the panic button!

I've been there.

I used to run a squad called the "7 Colby 9" (I used to live at 7 Colby and, well, you've got 9 players on a team). I was roped into a fantasy league by an old co-worker.

It was hell.

Fantasy baseball is a 24/7 operation. You've got afternoon games, evening games, late night west coast games. Guys are always getting injured. Pitchers always need to be activated and deactivated. Trades are always going down left and right.

And the "sure things" always seem to backfire.

I'll be honest, I never had a good team. Sure, I had some great players, but I never seemed to last through the entire season. I was a cellar dweller and often fought for next-to-last place.

But it was addictive. Baseball became a second job. I'd be holed up with my computer late into the night, watching live updates on Yahoo Gamechannel, calculating how many hits I'd need to raise my batting average enough to take that week's point.

My relationship with the Professor, needless to say, suffered.

After two seasons, I got out. I couldn't put myself through the six months of torture again.

But it's like being a recovering addict. Every year, when spring training starts, I get the itch. I follow former players from the 7 Colby 9 during the season and keep track of their stats.

My name is Ben, and I am a former fantasy baseball manager.

  

Off-season acting classes?

Could it be? Has Dustin Pedroia, MVP of my beloved Boston Red Sox, been taking acting lessons this off-season?

I recently caught his new ad for MLB 2009, and it seems he may have gotten this acting thing down a bit more than he did last year:

In case you've forgotten, here's pre-MVP Pedroia in action:

Much better, yes? 

Sunday ramble

* Have you seen Coraline yet? If not, check it out before the Jonas Brothers gobble up all the 3D screens in America. 

The use of 3D is excellent and is in no way obvious, the stop motion animation is beautiful, and the story is pretty touching (and creepy).

* I learned a valuable lesson from a crazy homeless lady yesterday. If you want a sandwich shop's undivided attention, walk in through the front door and find the loudest thing possible to kick, then run out the door. Scared me out of my seat.

* Regardless of what one thinks of UConn basketball coach Jim Calhoun and his (rather large) salary, I think we can all agree that he could handle himself with a bit more poise when he's rattled by pseudo-journalists:

* Is it necessary for Oscar coverage to start 6 hours before the award ceremony begins? Do we love celebrities THAT much? On the same point, do we need live coverage of Red Sox spring training EVERY day? I mean, I like the Sox as much as anyone else, but I find watching men stretch, oh, I don't know, dull.

Lucky no more

Lucky, the oddball mascot of the Boston Celtics, has left the team. Whether or not he has been fired is still up for debate. The Boston Globe ran an article on the matter the other day:

Damon Lee Blust, the gymnast who plays the acrobatic leprechaun, has parted ways with the Celtics. According to a statement released last night by his agent, Blust and the Celtics "mutually agreed to relieve Damon from his contract as the team's mascot for the remainder of this season and next."

Celtics president Rich Gotham declined to say whether Blust quit or was fired. "It's a private employer-employee matter, something I can't talk about right now," he said. The team also declined to say whether or when Blust might be replaced.

I always found Lucky to be a strange mascot. Call me old school, but I like my mascots to wear big costumes. The mask-less Lucky was kind of strange. In person, he always looked a bit unshaven and gave off a gruff vibe. But he did do some great dunks during half-time.

I actually had a phone conversation with Blust once. He was trying to figure out a way to put a tiny video camera inside a basketball for a stunt he was trying to develop. He came off as a nice enough guy, though he did seem to think that there was some sort of cache by saying he was "Lucky." It was as if my co-workers and I would be bowled over by the celebrity that we'd want to bend over backwards to find a solution for his dilemma (what he was trying to do, in the long run, wasn't feasible - a super-lightweight, wireless, lipstick HD camera for a ball just doesn't work for no money). 

You can read the Boston Globe article, along with some really brutal reader comments, over here.

Pedroia: the littlest MVP (almost)

It was just announced that Red Sox 2nd baseman Dustin Pedroia has captured the 2008 American League MVP award. Congratulations to the little dirt dog.

To celebrate, how about a spin down memory lane with Dustin? Here he is, showing the secrets to his on-field performance, in his signature role as "Dustin Pedroia, Tire Salesman #1" in the 2008 Sullivan Tire classic I like to call "Tire Commercial":

Here's Dustin flabbergasted by the sight of Jim Rice:

Pleated pants? C'mon, Dustin, you're the MVP! Gotta start to show some style!

Anyway, enough poking fun.

Pedroia is actually not the shortest MVP in AL history. That honor, I believe, goes to Yogi Berra, he of non-sequiturs and picnic basket theft fame. Watch out for THAT guy if you're ever eating out at the park. Seriously. He's tiny, he's got this little sidekick named Boo-Boo, and he'll maul you if you don't do as he says.  

Bandit catchers of the NYC Marathon

The New York Times ran an interesting article the other day about a group of folks known as the "bandit catchers," employed by the New York City Marathon to prevent those who do not start the race, that is, the "un-bibbed," from finishing.

“Where’s your bib?” a woman with a bullhorn shouted. “We need to see your number!”

Beyond her, staggered along the final few hundred yards of the 26.2-mile New York City Marathon course, were about 15 other like-minded volunteers. They intently scanned the surge of runners coming toward them, their eyes darting across the midsections of the participants, looking for the race bibs that identified them as registered participants.

Being a runner, this sort of stuff always fascinates me. I've always wondered who out there helps keep events like this organized. 

You can read the full article at the New York Times website over here.

An apple. A day.

There's a special place in my heart for Brookfield Orchards. 

It is a place that in memories always had a clear blue sky overhead and hot apple dumplings waiting to be consumed, where the air always smelled sweet of fruit and cinnamon. Where, as I child, I'd go with my cousins and friends to play on the swings and the massive spinning wheel. Where we'd buy penny candy, candy apples, and sometimes picnic with parents. Where, as a teenager, I could escape the pressures of high school. Where I could troll around the used book section of the orchard store, fill my shelves with 25-cent paperbacks, and let my mind wander from SATs and calculus and college applications. 

It is a place of memories. Of fond, and sometimes profound memories. 

It served as the backdrop for my wedding, the greatest memory of my life. My wife and I exchanged vows in one of the front fields, surrounded by family and engulfed in the apple blossoms of springtime. Blue hung above our heads that day, and the air was as perfect as one could breathe. 

Yes, the orchard holds a special place. 

So, when my friend Mark told me that the orchard and the local Lions Club was hosting a 5-mile charity run for diabetes research, I knew I had to make the drive.

I rolled out of bed on Saturday morning, splashed some water on my face, tamed my cowlick, drank a glass of water, and got in the car. 75 minutes later, I was at the fountainhead. I signed in, paid my entry fee, and, with an hour to go before the start, stepped into the general store. 

Before long, I was stuffing a bag full of penny candy. Well, penny doesn't really apply anymore. More like dime and nickel candy. But I was happy to pay to get my Squirrel Nuts and Bulls-eyes and Banana Splits. No Mary Janes, though, which was a bit of a letdown.

Mark arrived as I was paying for my bag of sugar and a 1/2 peck of macintosh at the front of the store. I loaded my treats into the car. We sat and chatted for a few minutes, got up and stretched. And, it was then that I realized that this was the first time I had been to the orchard with Mark since my wedding day, when he served as my best man. It made me feel very sentimental for a moment.

But, time was getting closer. 

We watched as the folks choosing to walk the event lined up and left at 9:30. Then, at 9:55, we took our places at the starting line. A few words from a local politician later, we were off.

We passed fields, Lake Lashaway, orchards. The group participating was small enough that, after a mile or two, you were pretty much on your own to enjoy the quiet, cool New England morning. The roads were rough and disheveled. The volunteers were huddled at turning points, handing out water and words of encouragement. The sounds were of nature and breathing, the pat-pat of sneakers. No cars, no traffic. No sirens. No alarms. 

It was small town. It felt small town. There was a community among us. 

Having run the Hartford Half Marathon the previous weekend, it was a nice change of pace. 

Mark ended up coming in 3rd, which netted him a cool $50. I, on the other hand, scored quite possible the biggest jersey blanket in the world for coming in first in my age group (20-29, which I just squeaked into). Of course, I was the ONLY person in my age group, so that helped my chances. 

Here's a picture of me completely wrapped in the blanket:

After the awards were handed out, I got back into the car. I pulled away from the orchard around 11:30. The sun was out. The breeze was up. 

It was another memory of the place to file away. 

"Thanks for coming! Hope to see you next year," one of the organizers said to me as I was leaving.

Something tells me her hope will come true. I can't stay away from this place.

The Hartford Half Marathon: fun, pain, and a bag of junk

Saturday, October 11th, brought the 15th annual Hartford Marathon to our fair capital. And, since today is Sunday, October 12th, all signs point to myself having survived the festivities.

This is not to imply, dear reader, that I completed the full marathon. Oh no. I partook in the hosted half marathon, along with a sell-out number of runners (3,500, though only a little more than 3,100 completed the event and had their times recorded). Packed like sardines for the first few miles, we made our way around Bushnell Park, over Founder's Bridge, around East Hartford, back over Founder's Bridge, through downtown, over to Park Street, and eventually back to Bushnell. It was certainly an interesting way to get a tour of the city, seeing as I still hadn't explored Hartford since arriving in the state late this summer.

I ran with my uncle and good friend. We lost my friend shortly after the 7 mile water stand, but my uncle and I stuck together until about mile 12, when the mad dash to finish took place. I didn't set a personal record yesterday (I finished at 2:02), but I had a fun time getting from Point A to Point B. And, now that the event is over, I can let my sore hip, hurt about 6 weeks ago (thanks to one of the BEST drivers in West Hartford failing to stop for pedestrians at a crosswalk) and throbbing by mile 10, heal itself properly. Though, to be quite honest, I don't know if I can lay off the running for the week needed to rest.

So, congratulations to all the runners, from the 5k to the marathon to my brethren in the half. Just completing these runs are accomplishments and everyone involved should be proud. Now, enjoy your just desserts. Have a big bowl of ice cream. Order a big, juicy hamburger. You've all earned it!

Oh, and, for those attending and not running yesterday, thanks for all of the support. Your cheering really motivated all of us on the road. And, a special thanks to the folks that volunteered, manned the water stations, and provided course music and entertainment (and, "officer-dancing-to-'Bust a Move'," that especially applies to you).

A final note . . .

Non-participants may have noticed a sea of orange bags carried by runners before and after the race. What was inside? To be honest, mostly items filling many recycling bins this week. Lots of ads from sponsors. A few coupons. Some lip balm. A pen. A can cozy. A full page ad from McDonald's touting healthy foods and quality products (whaaaa?). Some sunscreen. Nothing very exciting, so you didn't miss all that much.

That's it. We went, we saw, we ran. And, after some ice packs and Advil (and, for me, 7 days of scheduled rest), we'll be ready to do it again.

Johnny Pesky to have his number retired

Today, it was announced that Johnny Pesky, beloved former Red Sox infielder, would have his number retired by the team this weekend during the regular season-ending series against the New York Yankees. Pesky already has the right-field foul pole named after him at Fenway Park (for the two of you that didn't already know that) and has been a fixture with the Red Sox for almost sixty years, from player to manager to team cheerleader. I swear, they must have a cot for him inside the Green Monster. The guy is always around the team.

Personally, I think this honor is great for the man. But, I wonder about the timing of the event. With the Yankees closing their stadium just the other night in New York, is the front office of the Red Sox trying to draw some attention by doing this in front of their New York rivals? Is this some sort of strange counter-punch? If so, then I feel bad for Mr. Pesky. I understand that the event, to happen in the regular season, has to take place within the next week, but I just wonder why the Sox chose to wait for the Yankees series, fully aware that Yankee Stadium was going to be in the thick of press coverage for closing, to honor Pesky? Why didn't this event happen earlier in the season?

I'm glad for Johnny. The man is a legend and lives and breathes for his team. I just hope the front office treats him with as much love as he has shared with their players for so many decades.

For an article about Mr. Pesky's number retirement, click here.

CT Lottery: Red Sox and Yankees

After posting yesterday about the Red Sox, I noticed that, here in Connecticut, the Lottery has issued scratch tickets for both the Sox and the New York Yankees (hiss). As a promotion, the good people at the CT Lottery have been running ads showing the accumulated total of each game's ticket sales. As of Saturday, September 13th, the totals stood at: 

image from CTLottery.com

Woo hoo! The Sox are in the lead! I can hear the "Let's go Red Sox!" chant already!

So, do these numbers mean that my new state is home to more Red Sox fans (and, by conclusion, more sane people)? The totals seem to say yes. But, (there's always a but) maybe these numbers mean something else. Maybe these numbers just show me that Red Sox Nation has a bigger gambling problem than Yankee Universe, or whatever they're calling themselves today. Could this be true?

I'd like to think Red Sox Nation is more prominent, but we've had so many lean years before 2004, we might just be hooked on gambling, as well. Something to ease the pain of so many defeats. This one's a toss-up. I'd flip a coin to decide, but I'm busy losing $5 to the Lottery with it at the moment. 

Red Sox player advertising: At least these guys can play baseball

Winning a World Series ring often comes with more than a bit of celebrity spotlight if you're a baseball player. Add in the fact that you're also a member of the Boston Red Sox, one of the biggest franchises in MLB (and one with the most rabid fans), and you've got yourself some embarrassing advertisement opportunities. I've tried to collect a few of these below, in hopes of inspiring others to think before signing on the dotted line.

Now, it should be noted that I am a big Red Sox fan. I've stated this here before. And I don't think it's a bad thing for these guys to get some attention off the field. In fact, most of the big, national ads that have been made, like the David Ortiz Vitamin Water spot, are actually very good. Then, you have the radio spots, which are always pretty forgiving (like Jacoby Ellsbury's Volvo ad, which is fine, though probably highly edited from multiple takes). 

 

But once you get into the regional spots, things only us New Englanders will ever see, I just have to admit, my team can't act.

First up, and possibly the winner of the "worst Sox actor in a local advertisement" award, is Dustin Pedroia. MVP candidate. Second base sensation. Tire salesman:

Dustin's done a few of these ads for Sullivan Tire. And he's always wearing those pleated pants. Granted, the wiry-haired face of Sullivan Tire isn't much to work off of, but Dustin seems completely lost and nervous, regardless of who his acting partner is.

Why can't he believe Jim Rice is there? Was he so lost in thought that he didn't see him walking across the field? Unfortunately, we'll probably never know.

Next is Kevin Youkilis. Yoooooooouuuuuuukilis. Though not much of a T.V. pitchman, last year's Gold Glove first baseman has popped up here and there in some print advertising. Here he is selling canned beans:

(My wife and I find this so amusing that we have it hanging on our fridge) 

And, here's Kevin selling electronics:

In both cases, I feel like Kevin will seriously hurt me if I don't follow his orders. And I'd assume you don't want a mad Kevin Youkilis on your hands, especially after eating that whole can of beans. Honestly, though, how could he have approved that bean photo? Was that the best shot of the session? If so, I'd hate to see the out-takes. Or was the photographer just goading him on the whole time?

"No, Kevin, meaner! I need to to show how ANGRY you are at the beans! Show your DOMINANCE over the beans!"

"Uh, what?"

"Just get angrier and eat the beans!"

"Um, okay."

Moving on, we come to the ubiquitous Jonathan Papelbon. From bad radio ads for car dealerships to the Dunkin Donuts ad seen here, the man has done it all:

Of course, this ad is light-years better than the ad he did a couple seasons ago for 125 Auto:

The difference in these two ads brings up an interesting observation. Watching the Dunkin Donuts spot, it seems that one can come to the realization that, compared to the car ad, the more the athlete keeps his mouth shut, the better he is in the commercial. Of course, for Papelbon, the exchange is having your hind-quarters slapped on television. But, to further this argument, here's the nationals Vitamin Water ad that Ortiz did and a link to a Phiten ad that Josh Beckett filmed:

In all three cases, the less the men have to act, the better actors they appear to be.

So, is this the solution to the embarrassing ads we get to watch every year? Do we just have players show up and smile? Do we keep their vocal cords rested to argue balls and strikes?

Maybe not.

The best actor of this season's local Sox commercials is rookie Justin Masterson. Even though he got caught in an Olympia Sports ad (fact: the closest Olympia Sports to Fenway Park is over 1 mile away, inside the Prudential Center, not "just around the corner"), he still seemed to get his lines out in a realistic fashion:

So, maybe Masterson is a glowing hope. A relief pitcher and potential acting coach for future Sox players making the leap to the glitzy world of advertising. 

Maybe next year we'll see some real acting chops. If so, they'd better get started on the basics. Masterson's got a lot of work ahead of him.

A Red Sox fan in shaky territory

Coming from Boston, and having lived my entire life in Massachusetts before relocating to Connecticut, I am, as you'd expect, a fan of the Boston Red Sox. However I find myself in a territory that seems to be a battleground between the Sox and their rivals, the New York Yankees. You'd think, West Hartford being a bit closer to Massachusetts than New York (about a third closer to MA), that being a Sox fan would be relatively safe. But I see quite a bit of pinstripes as I make my way about town. A bit too many for me to think this is safe territory.

Of course, I'm kidding on the whole "safe territory" thing. I'm not one of those moronic brute fans that hates anyone that has a different opinion. In fact, I will admit that I certainly respect the Yankees and even like a few of their players (this is easy to say this season, as they seem to be fading in the home stretch). That doesn't mean I don't want the Sox to win every single game against them. I'm reasonable, but not crazy.

The first Red Sox-Yankees series since I moved to Connecticut began last night. Though I was tempted to offer to my wife that we go out to watch the game, I figured it was safer to sit on our couch to take in the contest. With my luck, we'd end up surrounded by Bronx fans and the Sox would get crushed. I don't know many people yet in this town, and having that be my introduction to a large crowd wasn't high on my agenda. So, we sat and cheered from our living room, not too loud in case a strolling Bomber fan passed by the window, wallowing in the ineffectiveness of A. Rod (0-5, 2K, 2GIDP, 1 error) or the lack of pitching from Andy Pettitte (he's had an ugly record this season against the Sox in NY, so it wasn't much of a surprise). No, we kept the shades down and watched the NESN Red Sox feed, as opposed to the Yankee broadcast, two refugees in an uncertain realm. And the Sox won, 7-3.

And all was good . . . for half of West Hartford.