An Embarrassment of Riches

Ah, 'tis a fine thing of late to be a sports fan when you live in the Boston area. The litany of successes is well known, but let me repeat it one more time: the Sox win the Series in a sweep for the second time in four years; the undefeated Patriots put up astounding numbers and beat previously undefeated Dallas and Indianapolis in their home stadiums; the Celtics acquire Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen to make themselves instant contenders; even Boston College rises to a dizzying #2 position in the polls before a narrow loss to Florida State.

Nevertheless, success brings scrutiny and resentment. The Patriots, in particular, have been under attack for videotaping the defensive signals of an opposing team. Their brilliant but enigmatic coach, Bill Belichik, has been fined and the team has forfeited its first round draft choice. The piling on has been prodigious. It seems that every team that the Pats have pummeled in their recent run of excellence now want to use videotapes as an excuse. Perhaps the Patriots are making a point when they beat a team 52-7 without any taping. Then, instead, we hear the whining of "running up the score" as if the NFL were some feel-good, everybody plays equally kiddie league.

No, I'm not embarrassed by the Patriot's faux pas, nor am I embarrassed by the Red Sox $150,000,000 payroll. If the Celtics win the NBA crown with their big three, that won't embarrass me at all.

In fact, in all of Boston's surfeit of sports success, there have only been two situations that have made me wince: Manager Terry Francona's spitting, and Mayor Tom Menino's talking.

From all accounts, Terry Francona is a wonderful human being. I get the feeling he might lack a bit of confidence to be holding the position he holds, and I'm afraid that his self-doubt has manifested itself into oral regression. Throughout the playoffs and Series, the TV camera could not be on Francona for longer than three seconds without his hocking a juicy loogie onto the floor of the dugout. He was putting such large chunks of whatever into his mouth that his cheeks are now distended like Dizzy Gillespie's. Neither Eric Wedge (ejecting the occasional sunflower hull) nor Clint Hurdle (chewing his gum with his front teeth) had a chance against this master of great expectorations.

Then there is the Mayor. He's a great guy, and you don't like to make fun of someone's speech impediment, but Jayz, there's a limit. His Honor mounted a platform to describe the "rolling rally" and, in his unfortunately unintelligible garble, indicated that the team would be traveling on trailers, then, "No, not trailers, I mean, chaaa, duck duck" (the team was using amphibious tour vehicles). He told the public that there would be a "Jumbletron" (Jumbotron), and that "Dropkick Murphy" would be there (the band that plays "I'm Shipping up to Boston" is the Dropkick Murphys). Then, carrying the World Series trophy, the Mayor fell down the stairs. I hope his knee is better.

To make matters worse, His Honor is now featured on a television commercial in which he spreads his arms expansively and says, "Welcome ta B's'n, tha bes' sporshitty in Amera." So much for our image as the Athens of America.

Aye, but you have to love him. Terry, too.