… 9:27 am, Saturday, Charles River, Boston, Mass. Head of the Charles Regatta. Senior Master Eights (men all over the age of 50)
Specifically the three seat of the Bulldog Rowing Club eight (which qualifies as the engine room), will be me, rowing starboard, a spare filling in for a friend with a broken rib. But still, a seat is a seat and the Head is the premier rowing event in the USA, best appreciated from inside a boat.
Here comes 17 minutes of cardiovascular distress.
Any evening that ends with a Kamikaze shooter after midnight in the Cask & Flagon is either an evening of triumph or one of ineffable despair. The case of post-alcohol depression I am carrying this morning is indicative of the latter. Put it this way, I was gifted magnificent seats to Game Four of the ALCS, Sox vs. Rays, in the Temple of Awesomeness; got dressed up, one step short of a face painting; arrived, stood in the $8.50 beer line for 30 minutes, emerged from tunnel, looked out at the emerald green of the Green Monstah and saw, like a turd in the punch bowl, that Shakey Wakey had already conducted batting practice and helped the Rays launch three runs out of the park before 8:15 pm.
It didn’t get better from there.
But hey, this is October. This is the Red Sox. Red Sox and October is a privilege, not a right. They’ve been here before, worse off in fact, so now they (insert sports cliche here) and get the win on Thursday. Otherwise the world is staring at the most boring, generic World Series imaginable. The Sox will save the world from mediocrity.
Bright side being in Fenway last night:
1. No Viagra ads. Sorry, but if side effects include loss of hearing and vision, AND the risk of a priapistic woody lasting more than four hours, then am I wrong in imaging some hapless deaf and blind man staggering and shouting naked, helpless and tumescent through his home, stubbing himself into the walls and door frames? Am I? I am so glad the children of America are singing “Viva Viagra!” on the playground today.
2. No TBS announcers. I threatened to start a “F$%k you TBS!” chant but there were children sitting in front of me and I could not be profane nor horrible.
3. The comradeship of fellow Massholes. It felt good to boo the home team, to hear the ugly discussion that what was needed was a good bench clearing, charge-the-mound brawl. Nice. That’s the Boston I know and love.
4. Something will come to mind.
Thanks to James, Heather, Tim (nice soul patch dude, stick with it, it will pay off) and Sean for the invite and hospitality. And Nicole for being the mastermind. And Starkey for making me laugh until it hurt.