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Post by alum on Aug 13, 2019 11:38:01 GMT -5
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Post by hchoops on Aug 13, 2019 11:43:53 GMT -5
Please copy and paste Pay wall
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Post by alum on Aug 13, 2019 14:00:34 GMT -5
DAN SHAUGHNESSY Keeping up with the times is a challenge for this ancient sportswriter By Dan Shaughnessy Globe Staff,Updated August 12, 2019, 12:45 p.m. 283 The author (not pictured) has begun feeling like Austin Powers, stuck with values from a different era and using outdated references.
We are all young when we start in this business of writing about professional sports; younger than the players.
I remember being petrified and intimidated, trying to ask questions of grizzled vet Carl Yastrzemski when I was 21 years old in 1975.
Dave Cowens — only four years older than me — was already an NBA MVP by the time I got to his locker in 1976. He told me my inquiry was a “high school question.’’ He was right. I was nervous, nerdy, and not ready.
Now I go into those same rooms and most of the players are younger than my own children.
I turned 66 last month. This means I am three times older than Rafael Devers. Not a little bit older. Not twice as old. Three times as old. For every day Rafael Devers has been on this earth, I have been here three days.
Some wise sports scribe once said, “You know it’s time to go when you are older than the oldest player.’’ In this spirit, the great Leigh Montville openly rooted for Tommy John to keep pitching in the late 1980s because Tommy John was two months older than Montville.
Get everything baseball from the Globe's Red Sox reporters every Monday-Friday during baseball season, and weekly in the offseason. It seemed funny. And true.
But now I am three times older than Rafael Devers and I’m still here. (Don’t get your hopes up, this is not a retirement announcement.)
Tom Brady turned 42 last week. Ancient, right?
Not to me. On the day that Tom Brady was born (Aug. 3, 1977) in San Mateo, Calif., I was in nearby Oakland, covering an 8-6 Orioles win over the A’s in front of 5,103 at Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum. It was the first time I’d ever been in California. I had dinner with Earl Weaver in Sausalito the night before the quarterback was born. Maybe Galynn Brady was in labor with her fourth baby (first boy) while Earl and I were dining on that fateful Tuesday night in the Bay area.
I thought about all this recently when I heard an ancient recording of Neil Young singing, “Old Man.’’ It’s a live performance and young Neil (the 73-year-old Young was 24 when he wrote the tune) introduced the song talking about an “old man” who works on his ranch, saying “he’s 70 or something.’’
I did the same thing in 1999 writing about 63-year-old Einar Gustafson, who was the original “Jimmy” of Jimmy Fund lore. Describing Gustafson walking about the Jimmy Fund clinic with 80-year-old Ted Williams, I wrote about the “two old guys.’’ And now I am three years older than Gustafson, who never made it to 66.
The Crimes of the Ancient Sportswriter are many. My references are too damn old. I keep quoting “Animal House” which came out in 1978. Describing Chris Sale’s Yankee Stadium mound implosion last week I referenced “Ninja Turtle shoelaces” which is what Roger Clemens wore when he had his five-star nutty in Oakland way back in 1990. Did anybody get that? When the bogus David Ortiz shooting investigation turned up 14 suspects and a case of mistaken identity, I invoked Claude Rains who said, “Round up the usual suspects” (”Casablanca”) in 1942. Claude Rains has been dead for 52 years. Even Matty in the Morning mocked me on that one and he’s older than me.
I am old enough to remember typing game stories on an Olivetti Lettera and delivering the copy to Western Union in downtown Seattle. I also dictated stories, as in “get me re-write!’’ I flew on team charters with the players. I worked with Clif Keane, who attended the first Bruins game at the Boston Garden in 1928. I worked with Jack Barry, who covered the original Boston Celtics and coined the word “turnover” to describe the act of giving the ball to the other team.
When you get older, your audience grows older. Some of my loyal readers still write letters to the Globe. None of them read “Barstool” or play “Fortnite.’’
If a kid fresh out of college asks for advice, I remind myself how old I am to that kid. Back in 1975, fresh out of Holy Cross, would I have cared about anything anyone from the class of 1928 had to say?
I use old guy words like “swell” and “breezeway.” I have some clothes that are older than Nora Princiotti who has already covered three Super Bowls for the Globe. I keep phone numbers in a black book and have a weekly planner in which I register all appointments. I call people when I know they’d rather get a text. I never hit “reply all” on group e-mails, and don’t answer direct tweets because the last time I tried my message went to 85,000 followers. I keep quarters in my car to pay parking meters, even though I am told there’s an app for that. I write checks. I carry cash. I hand out cigars when babies are born. I have an alarm clock/CD player on my desk. I don’t even know what gluten free means.
I was the last guy in the world with AOL. It was embarrassing in crowded press rooms when my laptop would blurt, “You’ve got mail!” Peers said it was like working with Austin Powers.
I still think a good starting pitcher should throw a complete game now and then. I long for the days of baseball games that are over in 2 hours 15 minutes. I believe in RBIs and wins for starters. I am allergic to analytics. I think the majority of batted balls that are scored hits should be errors. I remember 4-3 defenses in football and two-line offsides in hockey. I loathe NBA offenses which feature all 3-point shots.
I miss Tiger Stadium, organ music, and the Montreal and Los Angeles Forums. I insist on having ballgame tickets in my hand — not on my phone. I laugh when I hear “true freshman,” “exit velocity,” “player efficiency rating,’’ and “WAR.’’ I remember when basketball players were tall, not “long,” and when a split-fingered fastball was a forkball. I remember when the Big Ten actually had 10 teams and when being in a bowl game meant you were a winning team.
I am the old guy in the press box, reminding myself that you see something new at every game and we all should be in the business of learning new things every day.
Knowledge is good.
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Post by hchoops on Aug 13, 2019 14:07:41 GMT -5
Thanks, Alum Entertaining
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Post by KY Crusader 75 on Aug 13, 2019 14:54:10 GMT -5
It's an interesting piece from my classmate, but Dan, come on: it's "older than I", not "older than me".
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Post by rgs318 on Aug 13, 2019 16:29:29 GMT -5
...only if you care that it be correct.
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Post by A Clock Tower Purple on Aug 13, 2019 17:31:31 GMT -5
It's an interesting piece from my classmate, but Dan, come on: it's "older than I", not "older than me". Given its a light-hearted piece in the sports section of a daily fish wrap and not an 18th century novel, there's nothing wrong with writing "me".
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Post by longsuffering on Aug 13, 2019 22:26:18 GMT -5
I read it originally online and noted that almost all of the comments were positive unlike many columns where "Shank" gets raked over the coals. It was obvious that a large percentage of his readers are people "of a certain age." I am also hearing more and more on sports talk radio that Dan has a direct line to Red Sox management and that John Henry, the owner of both the Globe and the Red Sox likes him. I also remember a column by even more veteran Boston Globe columnist, the semi-retired Bob Ryan (BC '68) that Bill Belichick, who doesn't seem to like any media member does actually like Shaughnessy. Ryan gave as evidence being at press conferences where Belichick basically answered his and other reporter's questions with a grunt but then brightened up and gave more animated answers to Shaughnessy's questions.
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Post by timholycross on Aug 15, 2019 17:43:37 GMT -5
Good one today too about nicknames. I'll post later if no one else has
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Post by Tom on Aug 16, 2019 8:01:07 GMT -5
I read it originally online and noted that almost all of the comments were positive unlike many columns where "Shank" gets raked over the coals. It was obvious that a large percentage of his readers are people "of a certain age." I am also hearing more and more on sports talk radio that Dan has a direct line to Red Sox management and that John Henry, the owner of both the Globe and the Red Sox likes him. I also remember a column by even more veteran Boston Globe columnist, the semi-retired Bob Ryan (BC '68) that Bill Belichick, who doesn't seem to like any media member does actually like Shaughnessy. Ryan gave as evidence being at press conferences where Belichick basically answered his and other reporter's questions with a grunt but then brightened up and gave more animated answers to Shaughnessy's questions. Most people like HC grads more than BC grads
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Post by hchoops on Aug 16, 2019 8:04:31 GMT -5
I read it originally online and noted that almost all of the comments were positive unlike many columns where "Shank" gets raked over the coals. It was obvious that a large percentage of his readers are people "of a certain age." I am also hearing more and more on sports talk radio that Dan has a direct line to Red Sox management and that John Henry, the owner of both the Globe and the Red Sox likes him. I also remember a column by even more veteran Boston Globe columnist, the semi-retired Bob Ryan (BC '68) that Bill Belichick, who doesn't seem to like any media member does actually like Shaughnessy. Ryan gave as evidence being at press conferences where Belichick basically answered his and other reporter's questions with a grunt but then brightened up and gave more animated answers to Shaughnessy's questions. Most people like HC grads more than BC grads Most sensible people, anyway.
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Post by timholycross on Aug 16, 2019 12:00:16 GMT -5
Next weekend, Aug. 23-25, is baseball’s annual “Players’ Weekend” when major leaguers get to wear their nicknames on the back of their jerseys. As Peter Abraham stated in last Sunday’s Globe, Red Sox players did not get particularly creative with this. Nathan Eovaldi will be “Nitro,” Sam Travis is “Dr. Chill,” and Chris Sale went with “The Conductor” (like the railway man; a conductor gets a lot of punchouts).
Where’s Oil Can Boyd when you need him?
Sports and nicknames go together like mashed potatoes and gravy. If you ever played on a team, you know.
The obvious ones are abbreviated versions of a guy’s name. Dennis Eckersley: Eck. Carl Yastrzemski: Yaz. Andrew Benintendi: Benny. Alex Rodriguez: A-Rod. Gerry Cheevers: Cheesie.
Some of the greatest of our greats — Bobby Orr, Larry Bird, Tom Brady — never really had a nickname that stuck.
No harm. And no fun.
Fun would be Johnny “Way Back” Wasdin. Fun would be late Orioles/Red Sox hurler Sammy Stewart, who hailed from Swannanoa, N.C. Stewart was “The Throwin’ Swannanoan.’’
A single small moment from one’s past can give you a nickname for life. This happened in my hometown in Groton in the mid 1960s. At the end of basketball practice, the coach made players do the full-court three-man-weave layup drill. Up and back. They had to make 20 straight layups to bring practice to a close.
After 19 successful but exhausting runs, a kid named Dave Martin missed the 20th layup, which would have sent everybody home. This meant they had to start over. At the moment Dave’s shot clanged off the rim, a teammate screamed, “Jesus, Martin!’’
It became his name. All over town. Forever. Jesus Martin.
A few years ago after a Bruins games, a young man introduced himself and his father to me at a crowded saloon near the Garden.
“Dan, we’re from Groton,’’ said the thirtysomething man. “I’m John Martin. This is my dad, David.’’
I looked into the eyes of the sixtysomething man and asked, “Is that you, Jesus?’’
He nodded.
I was thrilled to meet the guy who missed a layup at basketball practice 45 years earlier. I think I asked him for his autograph.
When you are around any team for a length of time, you get to know the nicknames. This happened to me when I covered the Celtics in the 1980s. Rick Carlisle was “Flip” (big feet). Chris Ford was “Doc’’ (I think he tried a Julius Erving move). M.L. Carr was “Froggie’’ (don’t know why). Oh, and Cedric Maxwell was never “Cornbread” to his teammates, just “Max.”
Covering the Orioles in Baltimore, I learned that Hall of Fame pitcher Jim Palmer is “Cakes.’’ It had to do with a photo of a 20-year-old Palmer in front of a stack of pancakes before he beat Sandy Koufax in the 1966 World Series. He’s been Cakes ever since. For 53 years.
So if you see any of these men in a crowd, try those nicknames. It will get their attention. They will think you are an insider.
Here in the Toy Department, we sometimes give players nicknames. Joe Jackson was “Shoeless Joe.’’ Ted Williams was “The Splendid Splinter,’’ “Teddy Ballgame,’’ “The Thumper,” and “The Kid.’’ Joe DiMaggio was “The Yankee Clipper,’’ Whitey Ford “The Chairman of the Board,” and Reggie Jackson “Mr. October.’’ A Lansing State Journal sportswriter famously anointed young Earvin Johnson “Magic.’’
The late Will McDonough believed Roger Clemens was “The Texas Con Man.’’ Former Globe writer Peter May characterized a latter-day Artis Gilmore as “Rigor Artis.”
Boomers? We’ve had a few. But not too few to mention. Try George Scott, Norman Esiason, Chris Berman, and David Wells.
Michael Jordan was not a big fan of Bulls general manager Jerry Krause and named him “Crumbs,’’ in honor of food evidence that traditionally adorned the face and clothing of the rumpled executive.
New Celtic Robert Williams, who has trouble with alarm clocks, is “The Time Lord.’’ It’s one of the better nicknames of the modern era.
Our Kevin Paul Dupont dubbed Al Iafrate “The Planet” and Blaine Lacher “Let ’Em In” Lacher. I borrowed from this to name Red Sox third base coach Wendell Kim “Send ’Em In” Kim.
Back in the ’80s, I suggested that Red Sox reliever Steve Crawford was as useful as a sack of doorknobs. This made him angry, and it didn’t help when his teammates started calling him “Knobby.’’ Years later, when the late Nick Cafardo bumped into Crawford at Home Depot, the pitcher was shopping for . . . doorknobs!
“He didn’t even understand how funny that was,’’ Nick reported to me. “He was actually carrying a sack of doorknobs in the store!’’
What goes around comes around. Globe baseball writer Clif Keane called me “Baby-Faced Assassin.’’ My “Shank” moniker, so popular with the gang at WEEI, actually started out as a term of endearment when I covered the Celtics.
“Hey, Shank,’’ Kevin McHale would tease. “Is your shoulder sore from driving pipes through everybody on our team?’’
Carl Everett did McHale one better. When I dubbed him “Jurassic Carl,’’ after learning that Everett did not believe in dinosaurs, Everett fought back. In September of 2000, while I was in Australia, Everett addressed a Globe reporter in harsh terms, then added, “That goes for your curly-haired boyfriend, too!’’
CHB. Pretty good, I have to admit. Maybe I’ll put it on my press credential on Players’ Weekend.
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Post by efg72 on Aug 16, 2019 12:44:54 GMT -5
Thanks for posting -both articles were enjoyable reads on a Friday afternoon
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