Christmas Shopping Tips for the Busy Sports Guy

Christmas comes but once a year, goes the old saying, bringing panic, also fear.

That’s not how you remember it?  Maybe your local pro football team has already been mathematically eliminated and your alma mater finished its season with a press conference at which the head coach said he was leaving “to spend more time with his family.”  Yeah right.

If your still have a team in contention, however, you face an awful dilemma:  Continue to watch or attend games, or go shopping for a Christmas/Chanukkah/Kwanzaa/Pagan Tree Cult Holiday gift for your better half.  Or your better one-third, if you drink a lot of beer.

You could take the path of Eddie Murphy as Axel Foley in “Beverly Hills Cop”–”Here’s fifty bucks, go buy yourself something nice, I haven’t got time.”  Don’t try it–you’ll never pull it off.

As a service to its readers, Gerbil Sports Network offers convenient point and click shopping to help you navigate the busy BCS-NFL stretch drive-holiday shopping season.  Here are some great gift ideas that will warm her heart and light a fire under the mistletoe!

Pink camo hat:  What’s up with that?

Team logo pink camo hat:  Die-hard male fans scoff at women who wear these, but we think they’re cute!  They look like something Barbie and Midge would wear if they joined G.I. Joe’s battalion.  $23.95.

“Hey, Midge–’Taps’ means it’s time to hop in the sleeping bag.”

Team Logo Scrunchy:  What’s a scrunchy?  Glad you asked!  They’re those things women use to make a pony tail!  One size fits all, not available in Western Conference NHL teams.  $8.95

Screaming Slingshot Superhero Chimp:  Okay, so it’s not a romantic dinner at the Ritz.  It’s still a lot of fun, and at only $6.99, it’s a great way to save money for the expensive Valentine’s Day present you’re going to have to buy if you give her this for Christmas and want to have sex at some point in 2008.

Ice Skating Tickets:  Chicks dig ice skating–it must have something to do with the sequins and the tutus.  You can learn to enjoy it too, if your veterinarian got confused and neutered you instead of the cat.

“Was that a double lutz or a triple salchow?”

Thankfully, most ice skating shows are held in NHL arenas, so who’s to say there won’t be a little mix-up the day you buy the tickets–and end up with front-row seats to see the Boston Bruins face the St. Louis Blues!

Which will be a lot like the Ice Capades, but with helmets and mouthgards.

Cinema Surprise: Snooty French Mag Says “Ghostbusters” Best US Film of All Time

PARIS.  Cahiers du Cinema, the highbrow French movie magazine, today released its annual poll of French film critics who gave an upset victory to “Ghostbusters” as the best American movie of all time, displacing longtime title-holder Citizen Kane.

Nombre une, et nombre deux.

“Citizen Kane is good, but it does not have any green slime in it,” said Jean-Francois Friel, film critic for Le Figaro.  “Also, Orson Welles is fat.”

Cahiers du Cinema is widely regarded as the most influential film magazine in the world and the new poll is likely to result in a re-evaluation of the oeuvre of Welles, who at the end of his career was forced to appear in television commercials to make ends meet as he could no longer find work in the film industry. 

The Brain 

Welles was the inspiration for the genius lab mouse “The Brain” in the Warner Brothers cartoon “Pinky and the Brain”.  As he grew to weigh more than 300 pounds he was often mistaken for a beached whale, and would spray autograph seekers with spume from his blowhole.

Welles or whale?

“Ghostbusters” has been climbing slowly but surely through the ranks of noteworthy American films since it was released in 1984, passing Shirley Temple’s ”Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm” in 2002 and “Beach Blanket Bingo” in 2004.

Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and Beach Blanket Bingo:  Which is which?

Both “Citizen Kane” and “Ghostbusters” deal with the theme of lost innocence, as Charles Foster Kane, played by Welles, repeatedly invokes the image of “Rosebud”, his childhood sled, while Ghostbuster Ray Stantz, played by Bill Murray, recalls the Stay Puft Marshallow Man, a treasured icon of his youth.

Stay Puft Marshmallow Man    Ray Parker, Jr.

“In many ways the two films are comparable,” notes Friel, “but Citizen Kane leaves you with the image of a stupid sled, while you walk out of Ghostbusters humming a truly bodacious R&B hit by Ray Parker, Jr.”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Former NBA Great Kemp Says UFO Love Child “Not Mine”

SEATTLE, Washington.  As SuperSonics season ticket holder Mort Ruderman stood in the checkout line at a Whole Foods Market on northeast 64th Street here the other day, he could only shake his head.  “Kemp Fathers UFO Love Child” screamed the headline on a tabloid newspaper, next to a picture of a humanoid mother holding a bawling infant.

Shawn Kemp, airborne.

“The Reignman never could stay out of trouble,”  Ruderman said with a rueful little smile as he opted for paper over plastic.

Former Sonics’ forward Shawn Kemp is the all-time NBA career leader in illegitimate offspring, having fathered seven children by six women.  Larry Johnson fathered five children by four women, Charles Barkley–in his typically contrarian fashion–fathered three by five women, and Dennis Rodman fathered two and mothered three. 

Kobe Bryant was well on his way towards establishing the “double-double”–ten children by ten different women–before his philandering career was cut short by allegations of rape in Colorado.

The real father?  You be the judge.

Kemp, who retired after spending the 2002-03 season with the Orlando Magic, called the paternity claim a “shake-down” at a news conference here.  “That woman’s from the NGC 4414 spiral galaxy.  We never even played an exhibition there,” Kemp said.  “From the looks of the kid,” he added, “she oughta be going after Sam Cassell.”

Dr. Wendy Feldman of the Observatories of the Carnegie Institution supported Kemp’s denial.  “To the extent that we can ever get the Hubble Telescope to work, we have generally not seen any life forms resembling power forwards in that galaxy,” she said by telephone from Washington, D.C.  “A few off-guards and small forwards, yes, but nothing bigger.”

Illegitimate Kidz Fun Zone!

The NBA’s illegitimate children scandal was exposed by a 1998 Sports Illustrated article, and the league responded by creating a special exhibit at the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, Mass., to explore the delicate subject.  The Illegitimate Kidz Fun Zone! is located next to an interactive display on the history of the 24-second shot clock. 

Dan Dickau

Dan Dickau, the baby-faced guard for the Los Angeles Clippers, expressed surprise when told of the league’s continuing crisis of players who abandon their children.   ”We’re allowed to date fans?” he asked.  “Cool!”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Tempers Flare as Yao’s Translation Sparks Nuggets Conflict

DENVER.  Tempers flared in the Denver Nuggets’ huddle during Saturday night’s game against the Houston Rockets after Kenyon Martin learned the meaning of Chinese characters tattooed on Allen Iverson’s neck.

“I’m shopping at Target from now on!”

“I saw Yao Ming laughing in the lay-up line during warm-ups and I asked him what was so funny,” Martin said.  “He told me Allen’s tattoo means ‘Power Forward Stinky Pants’.”

Iverson denied the allegation, noting that Chinese ideographs often have multiple meanings.  “Everybody knows that the symbol for ‘crisis’ is the same as ‘opportunity’,” The Answer responded to questions from reporters.  “Everybody but K-Mart.  That’s why I shop at Target.”

“My pants do not stink.”

Yao acknowledged that his translation might have been too literal.  “If the tattoo appeared on his bicep the more likely translation would be ‘Strong Muscle, Smelly Pits’,” the Houston center said through an interpreter.  ”Mr. Iverson should have consulted with a knowledgeable interpreter before paying for a permanent mark on such a visible part of his body.”

“No, seriously.  It means ‘Pork Fried Rice’.”

The flap has raised the possibility that other Nuggets’ players may be sending coded messages to their teammates through tattoos as well.  Team officials said they would send center Marcus Camby to a Sino-American language expert for a translation of Chinese characters on his upper arms.  Camby has long maintained that his markings were copied from a take-out menu and mean “Free Delivery For Order Over Ten Dollar.” 

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

As Anti-Vegan Prejudice Grows, SaladShooter Vigilante Groups Emerge

BROOKLINE, Mass.  This overwhelmingly liberal community is situated just west of Boston’s Kenmore Square, a proximity that sometimes makes for uncomfortable encounters between drunken sports fans and nightclub habitues to the east and more pacific diners from Brookline’s many vegetarian restaurants.

Brookline, Mass.:  A nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to eat there.

“One of my friends was pelted with tomatoes as he was getting into his Prius last Saturday night,” says Siobhan Thompson, a “vegan” or strict vegetarian, as she looks up nervously from her brown rice and cauliflower entree at the Wholesome Harvest restaurant.  “There’s a Mexican restaurant next door where college kids get plastered on margaritas, then they hassle us on the street.”

“Let’s go get us some vegetablarian . . . ists.”

As if to confirm her assertion, a group of three obviously drunken young men can be seen through the restaurant’s windows.  “Rabbit food!” yells one at a couple who scurry quickly to a shelter for riders of the MBTA’s Green Line, rounding the corner just as overripe green and yellow peppers smash up against the clear plastic panels.

Police cars at Route 9 Donut Shoppe

“I think it’s time to take defensive measures,” Thompson says as she taps out a text message to the Vegan Defense League, a vigilante group formed to fill the gap left by local law enforcement, who jam the parking lot a mile down the road at the Route 9 Donut Shoppe.  “By the time the cops finish their coffee and chocolate frosted donuts, we could be dead.”

Outside the restaurant a sharp-eyed observer would notice stealthy figures on mountain bikes begin to take positions at strategic spots down the street and across the intersection from the Wholesome Harvest, with their weapons of choice–the Presto SaladShooter Slicer/Shredder–slung across their backs.

Lethal Weapon

Siobhan and her friend Marcy Axelrod complete their scrupulous calculation of each woman’s share of the dinner tab (“I had four of the seven spring rolls,” Siobhan says, “so I’ll pay 57% of the appetizer”), add a 15% tip, and make their way to the exit, where they scan the sidewalk for trouble.

“Looks okay,” Marcy says, and she cautiously steps out onto the pavement. 

“There’s the wind-up . . .”

“Crunchy granola girls!” yells Sean Fitzpatrick, an anti-vegetarian “meathead” who is known for the ferocity of his attacks after a night of getting “fleshed up” at Barkley’s Roast Beef and Burgers.  Fitzpatrick starts to launch a piece of rotten fruit into the air, but he has barely begun his old-school wind-up modeled on Cleveland Indians’ reliever Paul Byrd when he is hit from behind by zucchini and carrots shot from the Vegan Defense League’s Salad Shooters.

“I’m hit,” Fitzpatrick yells to his two buddies, Charlie “Carnivore” Watson and Bobby Cassel.  Cassel takes off, fearing an arrest that will send him back to the Mass. Home for Wayward Boys, but “Carnivore” Watson comes to Fitzpatrick’s side.

“What’d they get you with?” he says as he bends over Fitpatrick, who has a thin, ”Day of Beauty”-type slice of cucumber over one eye.

“A veritable cornucopia of autumnal delights,” Fitzgerald mutters weakly.

Watson is stunned as a thick chunk of carrot grazes his ear, and the Vegan Defense League moves in for the coup de grace.

“You wouldn’t kill us would you?” Watson begs as three herbivaceous commandos stand over the two meat-eaters. 

“You deserve to die,” mutters Evan “Eggplant” Wilentz, a towering hulk of post-adolescent fury whose play about anti-vegetarian prejudice–”The Zucchini Diaries”–has been performed at student unions across New England.

“But they’re animals too,” says Wilentz’s pacifist friend Todd Amboy.

Wilentz considers this point for a moment, then relents.  “I guess we’ll let you off easy this time,” he says.

“What’s our punishment?” Watson asks with an audible sense of relief in his voice.

Wilentz reaches in the pocket of his fleece pullover.  “You have to eat this carob-granola energy bar–without gagging.”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Self-Important Metaphors Seep Down From Colleges to Kids

MOBILE, Alabama.  It’s half-time of the final game of the season for the Winn-Dixie Pee-Wee Falcons, and the long faces on the eight year-old players reflect the fact that they’re down 12-0 to their opponents, the Continental Motors GMC-Pontiac Jets.  As parents bring plastic bottles of sports drinks to their children, Rob McGurt, an Assistant Professor of History at the University of South Alabama, tries to put together an inspirational talk to motivate his team.

Go Falcons!

“I’m kinda new at this,” he confesses to a reporter.  “One of the coaches has an out-of-state Thanksgiving dinner to go to, and the other went into the hospital for an emergency appendectomy this morning.”

McGurt has a son–Robbie–who loves football, but the bespectacled academic has no interest in contact sports himself and so has limited his previous volunteer activities on behalf of the team to minivan driver.   About to make what is probably the most important speech in young Robbie’s life, he finds himself ill-prepared for the role of extemporaneous Knute Rockne.

“Win one for the Gipper, or at least your hamster.”

All McGurt has to go on is a newspaper clipping he tore out of the Mobile Press-Register in which Alabama head coach Nick Saban is quoted as saying that his team’s loss to small-time Louisiana-Monroe was a “catastrophe” comparable to the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, or the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

Nick Saban: Master of Football Metaphors.

“He’s the top coach in the state, so I guess he would know how to get his players fired up,” McGurt says, as he takes several 3 by 5 inch cards out of his back pocket, clears his throat, and begins to speak.

“Fellas,” he begins.  “We’re down twelve to nothing right now.  I hope you realize what that means.”

“We have to score twice and make an extra point,” says Derrick MacClary, a speedy half-back who returns punts and kick-offs for the Falcons.

“It’s a little bit bigger than that,” McGurt says with a bit of an edge in his voice.

The kids are quiet except for Rodney Taylor, Jr., the “monster man” in the Falcons’ defense, who burps loudly as a result of guzzling his sports drink.

“You guys have probably heard of the Crusades, where the Christians tried to take Jerusalem away from the . . . uh . . . Turks–or somebody.  Well, it’s like that.”

“We learned about Jerusalem at Vacation Bible School,” says Joe Markey, an undersized boy who has been pressed into service at guard and defensive tackle because he’s not fast enough to be a back.  “And we made stuff out of gimp.”

Gimp

Joe shows off his cool bracelet to the other kids, distracting them from the stirring lecture McGurt has begun.

“Kids, I need to you to focus,” the coach-for-a-day continues.  “We’re down twelve points, so it’s a two-score game,” he says, holding up his index and middle fingers.  “Anybody ever heard of World War II? 

The Gap Band, of “You Dropped a Bomb on Me” fame.

“Is that the one where we dropped the bomb on the Japs?” Robbie asks his dad.

Tyrone Beasley begins to sing The Gap Band hit “You Dropped a Bomb on Me”, and the other kids laugh at his disco-era dance moves.

“Tyrone, cut it out,” McGurt snaps, and the boys become silent again.  “What those guys”–McGurt points across the field at the Jets–”did to you in the first half was a tragedy of the sort we haven’t seen since–the Spanish Inquisition.”

Spanish Inquisition:  “Let me know if this hurts.”

Hector Ramirez, a pudgy boy of Mexican heritage, raises his hand.

“Yes, Hector?” 

“If you have a question in Spanish I can answer it, Coach McGurt.”

“Thanks, Hector, but I’m pretty good at slinging the como estas’s around myself.”

McGurt flips to his final note card, and resumes.  “Anyway–you kids have got to put this game in perspective.  You’ve got to understand that it’s on a scale with the D-Day Invasion, the polio epidemic, and the explosion of the Challenger Space Shuttle.”

The kids soak in McGurt’s inspiring historical precendents as the referee approaches and directs the Falcons to line up for the second-half kick-off. 

“Okay–you guys ready?” McGurt fairly screams, the veins visible on his forehead.

“I’m not,” says Joe Markey.

“Why not?” McGurt asks, his voice as stern as a Marine drill sergeant’s.

“‘Cause you made me pee in my pants.”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Small Town Fights “Freak Dancing” With an Old Twist

KRACKOW, Mo.  This county seat of 1,200 people has never fit the stereotype of a narrow-minded small town, as traffic along the Missouri River has exposed its residents to the best and the worst the outside world has to offer. 

Freak Dancing at the Teen Center

“Charles Dickens passed through here on his American lecture tour,” says local historian Emmet Bevins, “and Jesse and Frank James holed up in one of the river caves after they robbed a bank.”

Charles Dickens:  “Actually, I was looking for Knob Noster.”

But local parents had a highly negative reaction to one of the more recent imports from urban America–”freaking”–a sexually suggestive form of dancing in which boys and girls grind in unison at the hip and pelvis area.  “If I want my little girl to dance like a slut in a strip club,” says Lurleen Ellis, “I’ll put her on a bus to Kansas City and be done with it.”

Freak dancing has stirred controversy across the country as school officials who intervene are praised by some parents and criticized by others, such as Velma Lou Nelson, a waitress at the Chez When, a local bar.  “I spent $150 on my baby’s prom dress,” she says bitterly, “and they threw her out after five minutes of dancing better than most of the divorcees in this town after three Busch Lights.”

So Krackow school officials have come up with alternatives that they hope will bring an end to the freak dance controversy, based on their somewhat-dated notions of adolescent eroticism.  “When I was a sophomore, Kevin Hurley turned me on to Twister,” says Assistant Principal Morris Byrum.  “Kevin was the unofficial make-out king of Krackow Consolidated Regional High School, and he said Twister was better than French kissing and feeling girls up.”

Oh yeah!

Twister is a game of physical skill manufactured by Hasbro Games in which a spinner directs players to place a specified hand or foot on a circle that matches the color the spinner’s needle lands on.  Due to the scarcity of circles, players are eventually required to put themselves in precarious positions, resulting in spills and pre-marital fondling.

The Potato Heads get into the game!

“We’re going to have the world’s largest Twister mat at this year’s prom,” says Byrum.  “And those kids are gonna learn just how much fun it was growing up in the ’60’s.”

Juniors and seniors are somewhat skeptical, but say they are willing to give their parents’ preferred mode of public sexual contact a try.  “I suppose if I have to I will,” says Naomi Miller, who was Homecoming Queen and president of the River Rats Pep Squad.  “But I’m going to keep my distance from Lyle Salloway,” a boy who is known for his chronic flatulence.

For those who don’t want to play Twister there will be a Twist Contest featuring the dance craze made famous by Chubby Checker, and supervised slow dancing that will be subject to the traditional “six-inch ruler” test.

Don’t get any closer.

“Couples must maintain six inches of space between their bodies, as measured by certified rulers provided by Donahue Insurance Agency to dance monitors,” says Byrum.  “Violators will be ejected from the dance and escorted to their cars where they can skip the charade and go straight to the real thing.”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

Jail Must Wait as Feds Seek Sitter for Vick’s Other Pets

RICHMOND, Virginia.  Michael Vick surrendered to U.S. marshalls yesterday to serve his jail term on federal dogfighting charges, but prison officials were unable to accommodate his request to begin his sentence early because no sitter has been identified to care for the Atlanta Falcons quarterback’s other pets while he is incarcerated.

” . . . remember to forward Maxim subscription, turn down thermostat . . .”

“We’ve got a bigger responsibility than just locking people up,” said Bureau of Prisons spokesman Tony Kilger.  “Mr. Vick has a number of pets who could do serious damage to his carpets if left unattended.”

Ant Farm

Vick’s pit bulls and other fighting dogs have been given to new owners or euthanized in cases where they were determined to be too violent to be re-trained.  Vick’s other pets include two male cats, an ant farm, guppies and ”Squawker”, parrot that accompanied him to autograph shows.

“Don’t jump the line–brawk!”

“Michael’s not signing that junk, brawk!” Squawker says as federal Pet Enforcement Agent Tim Schaefer moves cautiously through Vick’s mansion, taking an inventory of the animals who will need to be cared for.  “Whoa–look at this,” he says to his partner Clell Furnell, a former taxidermist who joined the PEA for the high hourly wage and federal pension that comes with it.

“What?” Furnell replies, before stopping in his tracks.  “Jesus!  There’s clumps of fur everywhere,” he says as the two cats disappear around a Barcalounger, screeching as they go.  “Here’s your problem,” Furnell calls out to Schaefer as he reaches the kitchen.  “They’re out of kitty chow,” he says as he picks up an empty dish on the floor and fills it from a bag to which a Post-It note has been attached:  “Do not fill bowl more than once a day–Thx, Michael.”

Blue neon guppies

Vick is said to be bitter that none of his former Falcon teammates has come forward to house-sit for him while he is imprisoned.  “They was all into comin’ over here to play foosball and watch the big screen TV before my life fell apart,” Vick complained at his sentencing hearing.  “Now that I’ve run out of cheese curls and the cable’s shut off, they’re nowhere to be found.”

National Foosball League

After Furnell takes care of the cats, Schaefer enters the living room where he sees a large aquarium filled with blue neon guppies.  He draws closer to watch the fish at play, then recoils in horror.

“Oh my God!” he screams.

“What’s the matter?” Furnell yells as he comes running into the room.

“The mommy and daddy fish are eating their babies,” he says.

Furnell looks into the tank and is mesmerized by the intra-family cannibalism taking place before his eyes.

“Do you think,” he says to his partner, “we could get them on the Jerry Springer Show?”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman

New This Month From Inflatable Love Doll Specialties!

You don’t need a woman for the best sex of your life!  Ready to ship today:

            Dental Hygienist:  Does the thought of a six-month cleaning between annual checkups turn you on?  Buxom D-cup boobs fill your ears, muffling the whir of the drill.  “Did you say ‘Need more flossing’,  or ‘Eat more frosting’?”  $89.99.

            Good-Government Gloria:  Rip the tailored suit off this League of Women Voters sergeant-at-arms and you’ll find she’s not all boring white papers and model legislation.  Non-partisan, non-stick surface.  $49.99.

            The Secretary of State (available in white or black):  Favorite fantasy fodder of mercurial dictators around the world, the new American tradition of female diplomacy invites you to check out her “diplomatic pouch”.  $99.99.

            Simone Weil:  Your ecumenical plaything–she’s Jewish, she’s Catholic, she’s whatever you want her to be!  No need to take this ascetic philosopher out to dinner first—she’ll just give her rations away to workers.  $59.99.

 

           The Surprising Soprano:  For the opera lover who’s too shy to be a “Backstage Johnny”, this voluptuous number puts a diva on your divan.  The fun isn’t over ‘til the fat lady squeaks!  Includes “Romantic Arias” CD.  $79.99.

            Adjunct Professor:  This bespectacled babe will do anything for a tenure-track position with health and dental benefits.  Ask her to change your grade in love from an “Incomplete” to an “A”.  $69.99.

 

           Goth Barista:  She’s like French Roast coffee—dark, bitter and hot!  Tongue stud not included.  $49.99.

            Female Security Guard:  Let this sadistic mall cop take you into custody—she wants to know what you’re hiding in your pants.  $49.99.

            Primatologist:  Monkey around with a nature girl who’s grown tired of life in the bush.  Show her you know how to use your “tool”, then “go ape!”  $69.99.

  

            Hedge Fund Hussy:  Admit that you’ll never make as much as her, and she’ll turn you into her “kept man”.  $199.99, financing available.

            Reference Librarian:  What’s your number, Dewey Decimal or Library of Congress?  This bodacious bookworm swings both ways.  $59.99

            Charity Ball Babe:  She’s on every fund-raiser’s “A” list.  After a “silent auction”, you’ll enjoy a “gala” evening for a “good cause”.  $99.99.

            Proceed to checkout.

Bridesmaids Again, Revolution Return to Boston for Consolation Parade

BOSTON.  In the past six years this city has celebrated three Super Bowl victories and two World Series championships, so local fans could be forgiven if they set high standards for their local sports teams.  “No, we love ‘em all,” says Mary McCarthy of Dorchester, “even when they come in second,” she adds with a laugh, referring to the 2-1 loss by the New England Revolution, the local professional soccer franchise, in the MLS Cup to the Houston Dynamo.

Boston City Hall:  Is it upside down or sideways?

The Revolution have now lost three straight MLS Cup games and four out of the last six, and have become the soccer equivalent of the Buffalo Bills, who lost four straight Super Bowls from 1991 through 1994.  Still, the streets of Boston are filled with anticipation today as the Revolution get a chance to celebrate their near-miss in a fashion that has become a Boston tradition–a parade through the Back Bay that culminates with a celebration in City Hall plaza.

Government Center “T” Stop.

Boston’s City Hall is a masterpiece of architecture that has won awards for its striking design, and Bostonians think of it as first in its class world wide.  “We have the ugliest municipal building in the world!” shouts Kevin Avery, a rabid soccer fan who has parked his car on the outskirts of town and ridden the MBTA or “T” into Boston to avoid the crush of fans and well-wishers that is expected to number in the mid two figures. 

Riot police outnumber fans.

A group of fans, proud of City Hall’s reputation as the pre-eminent American example of the “Brutalist” school of modern architecture, breaks into a chant of “We’re Number One! We’re Number One!” as Avery passes by, and he gives them a “thumbs up” signal to show his approval.

As the Revolution begin to make their way into the Government Center district, they are met by honking and the shouts of adoring fans.  “Get out of the way!” screams Lynette de Fazio, a secretary who is running late to work, as she leans on her horn.  “Whatta ya think yer doin’?”

“You guys are great,” shouts Revs captain Steve Ralston, and an excited fan screams “We love you!”

“Thanks mom!” Ralston yells back, his face breaking into a smile.

“Yer gonna have to move it,” a Boston police officer says to Ralston, who is driving a rented “Zipcar” with three of his teammates.  “Yer blockin’ traffic.”

Taylor Twellman

“We’re the New England Revolution,” says Taylor Twellman, the high-scoring forward who is affectionately known to the team’s public relations department as “Mr. New England Soccer”.

“And I’m Batman, pal,” the cop growls back.  He pulls his walkie-talkie from his belt and calls for backup.  “There’s some nut down here in Government Center who thinks he’s Paul Revere,” he says to Boston Police Headquarters just across City Hall Plaza.  “You’d better send the Taser Squad.”

Khano Smith

As the rally winds down midfielder Khano Smith is signing one last autograph for an adoring fan in a restaurant.  “Excuse me,” she says as he starts to walk off.

“Yes?” Smith replies, knowing how demanding Boston fans can be.

“You forgot to put your phone number on the check.”

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman