Seventeen Years Ago in the City of New Orleans


When I think back to 2002, I’m fully aware that year is a good distance in the past.  I’ve certainly put a lot of calendars up on the wall since then.  But it sends a jolt down my spine it was seventeen years ago.

How can it be?

Ferris Bueller said it best, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

I’ve made it my mission to always stop and look around, and I’ve done a pretty good job at it.  But regardless of my efforts, time hasn’t given a shit.  The years keep on coming and coming, and I just cannot believe it’s been seventeen of them to the day since the New England Patriots beat the St. Louis Rams for their first ever franchise Super Bowl victory.

Most everyone roots for an underdog, and the “loveable loser makes good” is an enjoyable narrative that is imprinted in our DNA.  Hard to believe for a lot of people, but the Patriots were just that back then.

They had been in existence since 1960 and had been beaten badly in the two Super Bowls they played (1986 & 1997).  Outside of some mini-successes, they’d mostly suffered through dreadful seasons.  The nadir occurred in 1990 when they won one game and lost fifteen.  You couldn’t even watch them on TV when they played at home because the stadium never sold out.

That’s why it was such a joy to see them make that Super Bowl run in 2001-2002.  And outside of Raiders fans (who were still salty over the Snow Bowl loss), it seemed the majority of the country were hoping the Patriots could pull off the upset.  When the team I’ve rooted for since I was a kid went to New Orleans to face the “The Greatest Show on Turf”, they were the sentimental favorite.

What in the hell has happened since then?

While underdogs get major props, conversely, people seem hard-wired to have an aversion to “the consistent winner”.  In today’s insane social media culture of selective information tailored to fit the narrative we want to hear, this has been magnified and fueled into deep hate.  The us vs. them polarization has proliferated like a disease over the years.  Win once, awesome and good for you.  Win twice, meh.  Win three times (or more) and fuck you…you had to have cheated and I want my money back.

The Patriots have won five championships since February 3, 2002.   I was extremely fortunate I got to witness one of them in person four years ago in Arizona.  Malcom Butler’s interception is the greatest moment in sports I ever witnessed.


In 2019, outside of Pats fans, just about everyone who knows anything about football hates the team.  In a sense I understand the animosity because of the whole consistent winner thing, but mostly I don’t.  Hate is very strong, and it is the opposite of what the world needs now (just ask Burt Bacharach).  I can hate racism, and injustice, and war, and climate change, and all the truly destructive things in the world, but I could never hate a sports team.

Not even the Yankees.

I stand by that, but I think I’ve digressed a little bit here.

Let’s time travel back to that magical date of February 3, 2002.  I was thirty-one-years-old, living in Los Angeles, and desperately trying to break into the film business.  I had moved out there from Boston in 1998, and success had eluded me.  Pretty much nothing had gone the way I planned after I got my Master’s Degree at Emerson College and relocated to Hollywood.

But the Patriots gave me hope.

Rationally and logically I’ve always known the sports teams I love have no bearing on my actual life.  I can in no way influence whether they win or lose, and the Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins, and Celtics cannot dictate my success or failure.  But when it comes to fandom, rationality will take a back seat to emotions.  Back in early 2002, I thought if the Patriots could win the Super Bowl, I could sell a screenplay and be a successful writer.

I clearly remember the night before the big game.  I was at my apartment alone, drinking two buck chuck from Trader Joe’s and making Gumbo.  Since the Super Bowl was in New Orleans and I wasn’t going to be there, I wanted to somehow connect with the place.  I also bought Dixie Voodoo Beer and Abita (both from Louisiana) to help with the ambiance.

I watched the game at my friends Paul and Andrea’s place in Redondo Beach.  Despite being 14 point underdogs, I really believed they had a chance to win.  As the game progressed and they took a 14-3 lead at halftime, I knew I was witnessing something historic.

But the fourth quarter became a nightmare, and the Rams scored two touchdowns to tie it.  Visions of Bucky Dent, Bill Buckner, and Desmond Howard flashed in my head.  Momentum had shifted and things were looking bleak.  There was only one minute and twenty-one seconds left in the game, and the Patriots had zero timeouts when they got the ball on their own 17 yard line.

John Madden infamously declared the Pats should take a knee and play for overtime.

What happened next was magical.  The young Tom Brady drove the team down the field with huge assists by J.R. Redmond, Troy Brown, Jermaine Wiggins, and the offensive line.  The drive ended with Adam Vinatieri kicking a 48 yard Super Bowl winning field goal as time expired.

In Los Angeles, nearly three thousand miles from both Boston and New Orleans, I jumped up with joy and then hugged my buddy Paul.  I remember kneeling in front of the TV, watching as the red, white, and blue confetti rained down on the Super Dome, and just being awestruck that the Patriots had actually won a Super Bowl.  The same team who lost fifteen games in a season a decade earlier were now champions.

It was the first Boston/New England title since the Celtics beat the Rockets in 1986.

I cried tears of joy for the first time in my life. On the TV they kept replaying Vinatieri’s kick, and it was a true “pinch-me, did that actually happen?” situation. I didn’t want the feeling to end.  While I didn’t sell a screenplay that year or the rest of my time in Los Angeles, just remembering what happened on February 3, 2002 would always make me think it was possible.

It still gives me hope.

And today the Patriots will play the same Rams franchise (now located in Los Angeles) exactly seventeen years to the date of their last Super Bowl match.   It will be two great teams facing each other, and I’ll be rooting for the Pats to prevail.  I’ll also take a deep breath before the game starts, and be extremely grateful for this amazing run the Patriots have been on since the 2001-02 season.

I’ll tip my cap to all the years that have gone by since then, and stop and look around.

Time, Hope, and the Friendly Ghost of 2004

“The years shall run like rabbits …. all the clocks in the city began to whirr and chime: ‘O let not Time deceive you, you cannot conquer Time … In headaches and in worry, vaguely life leaks away, and Time will have his fancy, tomorrow or today.”

–  W. H. Auden, from As I Walked Out One Evening (1940)

Before Sunrise

Jesse (Ethan Hawke) & Celine (Julie Delpy) at Cafe Sperl in Vienna from “Before Sunrise”

I first heard the above poem while watching Before Sunrise in 1995, and while I could write for hours about that amazing film and its two outstanding sequels, tonight I focus on another topic.  The Red Sox – Yankees Rivalry.  Even more specific, how it’s almost impossible to believe it’s been fourteen years since those teams last met in the playoffs.

Tonight Boston beat New York and celebrated in Yankee Stadium just like they did in 2004. Exciting, amazing, and as a lifelong Red Sox fan, still in so many ways hard to fathom.  And while I was extremely happy and I made several toasts, I had one question that kept coming back.

How did 2004 become 2018?

When I rewind time fourteen years, all the way back before we broke the so called 86-Year Curse of the Bambino, the first thing that comes to mind is hope.  The team’s unofficial slogan in those days was Wait Until Next Year.  In 2018, this is difficult for a lot of people to understand.  Today the Sox just beat their biggest rival again, have three recent championship trophies, and the decades long image of the lovable loser has been completely transformed.

But in 2004, most people believed the Sox had as much chance of beating the Yankees and winning the World Series as Charlie Brown did in kicking the football.

Although I was a child in ‘78, I remember Buddy Bleeping Dent’s homerun off of Torrez and Yaz popping out to lose to the division to the Yankees on the 163rd game of the year.  As a teenager in 1986 I experienced a whole new level of heartbreak when the ball went under Buckner’s legs in Game 6 of the World Series (our first appearance there since 1946), and we eventually lost in seven to the Mets (another damn NY team).

Flash forward to 2003 and The Curse became a lot more real when the Red Sox would lose the American League Championship Series (ALCS) to the Yankees in agonizing fashion.  It was like taking the feelings of 1978 and 1986 (as well as 1999 ALCS defeat to the Yankees) and pumping them with performance enhancing drugs.  When the current coach of the Pinstripes hit that walk-off homerun off beloved knuckleballer Tim Wakefield in Game 7, it was truly the nadir of my misery.  I was simply too young in ’78 or ’86 to get it.   Soul-crushing was not a word in my childhood vocabulary, as you just don’t have a firm grasp on the concept of time when you’re young.

In October 2003, I was on intimate terms with time and I was devastated.  The hangover from the Game Seven loss lasted for months, and I wondered if I was going to become one of those pessimistic people who always expect the Red Sox to lose.

Thankfully that didn’t happen, and I never gave up hope.

We signed Curt Schilling in that off-season as well as closer Keith Foulke (not having a shutdown reliever for the 9th inning was a big reason why we lost to the Yankees).  We added these two huge pieces to an already amazing team, and 2004 had lots of promise. I was still living in LA when the season began, but by late summer I had moved to San Francisco.

It was a very important time for me personally, and I’m so glad the Red Sox success back then mirrored mine.  I not only began an eight year stint in one my favorite cites on the planet, I started writing my novel Lost in the Fog, and commenced working at a job that would give me a career in hospitality and human resources.  After experiencing failure in Los Angeles trying to make it as a writer, it was so wonderful to find these victories in San Francisco.

A lot has happened in fourteen years.

I’m not going to lie … I still take the Red Sox and the rest of my teams a lot more seriously than I should at my age.  But I can truly say that I’ve “grown-up” since 2004, and I no longer let the losses affect me as much as they once did.  Yes, I experience complete joy when my teams win championships and utter despair when they lose them, but I can put everything in better context now.  I let the joy linger for longer periods of time, and I make sure the gloom only stays briefly before I put it in the past.

This year’s Sox -Yankees playoff match-up was exciting, and I was so happy tonight when we won the series in an old-fashioned stress-job.  We were up by three in the bottom of the 9th, and while Craig Kimbrel was shaky, he eventually succeeded.  After the Yankees scored two we finally got the last out on an excruciatingly close play at first base.  This is an outstanding achievement for the team and a terrific memory for me.

But it never quite approached the emotional level that 2004 had.

How could it?

Fourteen falls ago the Red Sox had not won a World Series since 1918, were on the brink of being swept by their biggest rival, and were losing by one run in the 9th with the greatest closer to ever play the game on the mound.  And then a speck of pixie dust got blown our way.  Millar worked a walk, Roberts pinch ran and stole second, Mueller drove him in with a hit, and then Big Papi, the greatest clutch hitter in the history of the game, hits a walk-off homerun in extra innings to extend the series at least one more day.

It was electrifying, and it gave us hope.

I can remember exactly where I was and what I felt at every point in the ALCS in 2004.  I was in a bar at SFO for Game 5, having missed most of it while flying back to San Francisco.  But I watched all the innings unfold from the 8th to the 14th when Big Papi hit the single to score Johnny Damon for the win.  The guy next to me, a Yankees fan, said arrogantly to whoever was listening, “who cares.  We’ll win it at home next game”.

Game 6 I watched at Dave’s in San Francisco on 3rd Avenue, which unfortunately no longer exists.  The owner of the bar grew up in Boston and was a Red Sox fan, and there was memorabilia all around the place.  A few years later I got to meet Dave, and we had a lot of great conversations about New England and the Sox.  Helluva guy, and I hope he is doing well.  That night we jumped out to a 4 run lead on the Yankees and Keith Foulke was able to close it out to force a historic Game 7.


No team in the history of baseball had even made it to a Game Seven after being down 0-3.  Such a possible scenario had happened 25 times before.

For this legendary night I left work early and made it home in time for the start of the 2nd inning (on the West Coast the games began around 5 pm).  I considered watching it at Dave’s, but I knew I needed total concentration with full sound up and no distractions.  The night was going to be monumentally amazing or soul crushing.  I just couldn’t be around strangers.

It was October 20, 2004, almost exactly one year from Aaron Bleeping Boone and that terrible ALCS loss to the Yankees.  I remember saying “another Game 7, how could this be happening again?”  Sitting there in my apartment on Elm Street, I was praying it would not be a nightmare.  If we lost, I wasn’t sure if I could endure it.

Losing again to the Yankees would have been Dante’s “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate“.  In English, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

I doubted I could even handle the stress of a close game.  Just thinking of another extra innings affair gave me what Hunter S. Thomson used to refer to as “The Fear”.  Although in my early 30s then, if that happened I was sure my hair would have been shocked into pure gray.

Thankfully it didn’t.  The Red Sox scored early and often at Yankee Stadium, and Joe Castiglione’s call of “Grand Slam Johnny Damon” is one of the best things I ever heard.   We got up 8-1 after four innings, and by the time it ended, the scoreboard would read Boston 10, New York 3.  We would then sweep the Cardinals for our first World Series title since 1918.  The Curse was reversed.


The End of the Curse (October 20, 2004)

On some nights I have to remind myself it wasn’t all a dream.

Nearly a decade and a half later, how cool is it, in a world where everything changes instantly, that the century plus year-old Red Sox – Yankees rivalry is still going strong.  With due respect to that team over in the Bronx and all their titles, this year we were better.  And I hope in the next three or so weeks we can roll out the duck boats on the streets of Boston and celebrate our fourth World Series title this century.

But if not there will always be next year.

World Series Preview


2013, such a magical ride for the Red Sox

Sports is not real life.

Or rather, watching sports and rooting for your favorite team and linking your happiness or sadness to the outcome of a game that you are just a spectator to is not “real life”.  Win or lose, you’ll still get up in the morning, get dressed, go into work, and deal with things that would be happening if that game never took place.  If your team celebrates a championship or laments a failed playoff run, you will not be shaking champagne with them or patting anyone on the back in consolation in the locker room.

I’ve known this since I was young, and I am even more acutely aware of it now that I’m older.

So why do I still take sports so seriously?  Why do I get so elated when my teams win, and descend into depression when they lose?  Why did I get so upset a couple of weeks ago when the Red Sox lost to the Indians in the playoffs?

I’m sure it is tied into simple Freudian-type analysis.  For most of us, our lives are devoid of the opportunity of glory of the larger than life variety.  And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  While rarely epic, we still have the opportunity on a daily basis to make our significant others, family members, friends, co-workers, or even strangers happy.  We should always have that as a goal, and when it happens should celebrate it as a great day.  I surely do.

Glory should never be a pre-requisite of satisfaction, and such a concept is so far removed from our everyday lives we don’t even consciously seek it.  But the Epic Moment, the (as Lloyd Dobbler once said), “Dare-to-be-Great-Situation”, is something we still crave on a deeper atavistic level.


“I am looking for a dare to be great situation.”

If you’re lucky, you might get one in your life.  Or if you’re blessed by the gods of chance, maybe two or three.  But most of us will never experience something that fits the “according to Hoyle” definition of a Heroic Moment.

So for me, and millions of others whether they realize it or not, that is an allure of sports…the chance to witness and vicariously have a “Dare-to-be-Great” situation where you have ultimate victory.   And “sports” is actually not the apt word for this.  I can watch Tiger Woods playing golf and root for him, but at the end of the day I don’t really care if he wins or loses. The New England Revolution is the pro soccer team of the area where I come from, and while I hope they do well I have never followed them.  Rooting for Team USA during the Olympics is fun and there’s national pride to give a tendril of emotional attachment, but those games/matches will never have the same meaning as ones by the Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins, and Celtics.

For the wins or the magic moments of a sporting game to mean anything to me, there must be a deep emotional attachment to the team and to the players.

This feeling cannot be faked.  It cannot be manufactured after following a team for a few games or even a few seasons.  You earn emotional attachment by investing your heart and soul into years and decades of following and rooting for the success of a team in which you have zero control over.

And if you’re lucky, well actually let’s just say “really f’n lucky”, you’ll get to see your team win a World Series, an NBA Championship, a Stanley Cup, or a Superbowl.  And if you are “off-the-charts-stupid-lucky”, there will be amazing moments during that championship run that bring your team back from sure defeat.  Walk-off homeruns, epic 4th quarter comebacks, three goal deficits erased against your rival, and maybe even an interception on the goal-line to get your team the Lombardi Trophy.


I still cannot believe that this is my photo, that I was at this game!


I’ve got to witness all of that and more in the last 15 years, and I am extremely grateful for this amazing luck.   Four Superbowl victories (the last one I witnessed in person), three World Series titles, one Stanley Cup, and one NBA Finals victory.  There has been Tom Brady and Big Papi and Paul Pierce and Zdeno Chara and a host of other legendary Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins that I have been lucky enough to have on my side.

As we head into the World Series, I wish the fans of both the Cubs and the Indians the best of luck.  Chicago hasn’t even been to the Series since 1945, and it’s 108 years since they won it all!  Cleveland made it to Game 7 of the Championship in 1997 (their last appearance), only to lose in the 9th inning to a then five-year-old franchise when they could not close it out.  Their last title was 68 years ago!


Although I have no deep emotional attachment to the Cubs, I do feel a kindred spirit with their fans and I love their ballpark

I’ve been to Wrigley Field and still have that Cubs fishing hat I got there decades ago.  I’ll be rooting for them, but at the end of the day with no true emotional attachment I am hoping for a competitive and fun World Series.  But no matter what happens it’s nice to know that one team will make a long-suffering fan base collectively experience that Dare-to-be-Great-Situation, that ultimate feeling of victory.





The Dude vs. The NFL – A Look Back into the Archives

I’ve been in a writing funk recently, so I’m going back to my old (and original) blog from 2007 for some material.  I feel this entry is an apt one to repost, since my favorite football team played on Thursday and today I was left adrift with NFL games I truly didn’t want to watch.  But this Sunday, unlike my choices from 9 years ago, I decided to read a book instead of subjecting myself to the shitty games that were broadcast here in Honolulu.

But fun to look back at a Sunday almost a decade ago . . .

Thursday, December 13, 2007


This year The Patriots have played many games out of the normal Sunday afternoon schedule. And while it’s great to see your team compete on National TV, it presents challenges. If you’re married or in a serious relationship, there probably isn’t much of a problem. You clean your garage, you cut the hedges, you go to the multiplex to that romantic comedy with your special lady friend, or you spend a little more quality time with your children.

But if you’re single and live in a studio apartment. . . .

My God, it really forces you to take ugly looks at yourself.

The Patriots beat The Steelers last Sunday, and it was their first normally scheduled game in the last month. The previous three contests were all played at night, and it’s made Sunday afternoons extremely taxing. Take for example December 2nd. Living in San Francisco, the only game on my TV set was the 49ers and the Carolina Panthers. I didn’t want to watch even a second of it, but for some reason I switched the channel to Fox. I guess my brain waves have been wired to pant like a Pavlovian Dog for QB sneaks and shotgun formations and safety blitzes.

But I regreted my decision quickly. Only three minutes into the game the announcers (guys I’ve never even heard of . . . the Z team of Fox) have referred to Vinny Testerverde as “The Old Guy” at least 12 times. They even put it on their graphics as San Francisco’s key to the game: “Don’t Let The Old Guy Beat You”.

And here are the highlights of the first quarter:

*San Francisco calls a timeout before they punt.
*The timeout seems to be a genius move when Carolina muffs the punt and the 49ers look like they recover the ball. On the field the officials first signal SF ball and then give it back to the Panthers.
*It looks like the officials blew the call, but The 49ers coach, Mike Nolan, doesn’t challenge.
*Vinny, aka “The Old Guy”, has 1st and goal from the 3 but cannot score.
*It’s week 13 and the Panthers have yet to win a game at home.

I check ESPN hoping they’re showing The World Series of Poker. Instead it’s The Great Lakes Classic, a bowling event. Walter Ray Williams needs two strikes AND two pins to beat the immortal Mike Scroggins. This is tense. First strike wipes out all the pins quickly. His next strike is more dramatic, with the last pin wobbling before it falls. He only needs two more . . . and gets the win when he knocks down seven.

This is what happens when you live in a city with two bad NFL teams.

I shudder knowing the game after this will be the 3-8 Raiders. But I switch back to the “football” game. Here are some more stellar statistics:

*With 10:07 left in the half Carolina has used all their timeouts.
*Testerverde throws a TD, and it’s the Panthers first TD at home in something like 80 quarters.
*The 49ers somehow convert a 3rd down and keep a drive alive. Of course they end up punting four plays later, but damn they must have felt good about getting 10 yards in a series.

Back to bowling.

It’s now the women’s championship. It’s Carolyn Dorin-Ballard vs. Diandra Asbaty. Dorin-Ballard has a lunch lady vibe about her. She could easily be a tough aunt from your Dad’s side of the family that nobody fucks with. Asbady is actually cute, a red head with a nice smile who seems as if she enjoys drinking beer and, well . . . bowling. Both of these women have their names on the back of their shirts. Not printed, like a football player, but their signatures embodied into the material. When I notice this I flip back to the other game.

Trent Dilfer, who for some reason is the starting QB for San Francisco, gets sacked. It is only the 11th sack of the season for The Panthers. Dilfer then throws an INT which is returned for a touchdown. It’s 17-0 Carolina.

Could professional women’s bowling be better?

Yes. Yes it is.

Asbaty makes two strikes in a row. While I’m trying to figure out how old she is (my guess is 29), the announcers say she “has finally figured out the lane”. Figured out she was throwing a ball at ten pins from the same distance as every bowler does in the world? Is there a sand trap that creeped up without us noticing?

Then the announcer says that Asbaty wanted him to give a “shot out” to her grandmother.

Okay . . . switching to the football game Dilfer gets sacked again (The Panthers now have 12 on the season . . . my God- this is exciting). But I somehow pry my vision from the intense action and glance at the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen. The Dolphins lead the Jets 13-10. For a few seconds I ponder whether I’d rather be in Miami watching their winless club duel the hapless NY Jets. It’s a tough choice- their shit sandwich to the one that is now on Fox? There is no way to answer that question except to watch some bowling.

It’s too bad I’m not watching The Dude, Walter, and Donnie advance to next Round Robin.

Instead we’re now in the last frame of The Great Lakes Classic Championship. Asbaty needs a mark to win. They flash a graphic that says she was part of a NCAA Championship team from Nebraska in 1999 & 2001. That would put her at about 27 or 28 (I was close). I wonder how it would feel to date a professional bowler. Would she talk about 7-10 splits while in bed? Does she have a bumper sticker that says “I’d rather be bowling”? Could she drink me under the table?

And then Asbaty rolls . . . she gets a nine. I was hoping for somebody to yell “OVER THE LINE” and pull out their “piece” on the lanes. Mark it an 8! Am I the only one that cares about the rules?!!

No such luck. This is not The Big Lebowski come to life. One more pin and Asbaty is the winner. She gets it and is all tears. And then a guy rushes up and hugs her, who The announcers say is her husband. The dream is over.


With the “NFL Game” Dilfer has just thrown an interception with 1:24 left in the half. But Carolina doesn’t have any timeouts, and the “Old Guy” has to rush. The second quarter comes to an end after Vinny throws a ball that is astutely described by JC Pearson as being “way underthrown”.

It’s getting close to noon and I have yet to step outside. I would like to have the last hour and half back in my life, but I’ll simply have to use it as a good life lesson. I get outside for a walk and some lunch, and when I return I see the San Francisco 49ers were somehow worse than the Carolina Panthers today. Next time I will show more fortitude: when The Patriots are not playing on a Sunday morning/afternoon I will immediately leave the apartment.