The Flask Fiasco

Another true story...


     Josh couldn't believe his good luck. "Hey, Eric," he said on the phone, "you won't believe it! I just won tickets to the Pats' game next week at Gillette Stadium!"
     "No way?!!? You lucky s.o.b! How did you do that?"
     "I entered an auction at a fundraiser and had the winning bid! I got two other tickets and a limo both ways. Want to go?"
     "You kiddin' me? Course I want to go! It's a night game, right? How much did that set you back?"
     "A  lot less than buying a ticket from a scalper, and it was for a good cause. We could split it three ways. I'm psyched! You think Joe would want to go?"
     "Anybody in his right mind would want to go! Give him a call."
     "O.K. I'll let you know the details. I've got to talk to the limo company and pick up the tickets in the city tomorrow."
   
     On the day of the Patriots' game, the limo proceeded from Boston to Sudbury, Massachusetts, where the three men lived, a distance of approximately twenty-one miles. The driver picked them up at Josh's house in the late afternoon and proceeded to Gillette Stadium in Foxboro, Massachusetts, another 33.5 miles directly south.
     The three men wore navy Superbowl Championship sweat shirts. Red, white, and blue poster paint smeared their cheeks. "Here's my card, in case you need to contact me," the driver said, handing each a business card when he stopped at the drop-off entrance. "This is where I'll meet you after the game." The three bounded out and headed for the security lines.
     "Make sure you have my cell phone number," Josh told the others. "I've got yours. Here are your tickets, in case we get separated."
     Eric and Joe checked their cell phones and headed to the line on the right. Josh headed to the left. "Let's get a beer," Eric said, after the two had made their way through security.
     "What about Josh?"
     "I don't see him. We'll meet him at the seats."
     Twenty minutes later, Eric and Joe had settled in at the forty yard line. Josh hadn't appeared. "Call his cell," Eric said.
     Josh's cell rang and rang without an answer. "I'll go back down to the security line," Eric said. "If he shows up here, call me."
     It took fifteen minutes to buck the throngs of spectators coming into the stadium and maneuver down three ramps toward the security gate they had entered. No sign of Josh. Eric dialed Josh's cell again without an answer and turned around to join the thousands heading to their seats.
     "No sign of him," he said to Joe. "And he isn't answering his cell. What the hell could have happened to him?"
     "Beats me," Joe said. "He'll show up eventually. We got the coin toss, and Belichick likes to receive the second half. Here goes kick-off!"
     At the end of the first quarter, Josh still hadn't shown up. Eric called again without an answer. "Where did he go? There's no answer."
     At the end of the half, Josh still hadn't shown up. Eric called again without an answer.
     At the end of the third quarter, still no Josh and no answer on his cell.
     The game ended at 11:30 P.M. Josh still hadn't appeared. "What the hell should we do?" Eric said.
     "There's nothing we can do but go to the limo. Maybe he got a better seat for the game and he'll be there." Joe took a last swig from his cup and tossed it in a receptacle. "Brady's unbelievable, isn't he?"
     Josh wasn't at the limo. "Where's the other guy?" the driver said.
     "Beats me," Eric answered, red paint dripping down his chin. "He went through a different security line and didn't show up for the game."
     "They probably held him for somethin'. There an arrest warrant out for him?"
     "No way."
     "Well, the traffic getting out of this place is always backed up. It will take at least forty-five minutes, in case he shows up."
     Eric kept calling Josh's cell.  Around 1:00 A.M. the limo turned into Josh's driveway, where the others had left their cars. Eric's cell startled the two men from their semi-stupor in the back seat.
     "Eric! Help me!"
     "Josh? Is that you? Where in hell are you? You didn't show up for the game!"
     "I know I didn't show up. I'm in the brig underneath Gillette Stadium. Can you come get me?"
     "I'll ask the driver to take us back. Hold on."
     After agreeing on a price, the limo driver turned around with Eric and Joe still in the back. Gillette Stadium was a ghost town when they arrived. The floodlights had been turned off and there were no tailgaters in the parking lot. A guard stood near the entrance. Josh stood next to him in handcuffs.
     "Get in," the guard said, unlocking the cuffs and handing Josh off to his friends.
     "What happened? Where have you been?"
     "I had a flask in my pocket and they pulled me out of security and held me in the brig. Thanks for coming back! I heard my cell ring and ring, but they took it away so I couldn't answer. I owe you big time."
     "We're not the only ones you owe! You also owe this guy exactly two hundred big ones," Eric said, pointing to the driver. "And by the way, the Pats won."
   

   
   

   
   

Whitey Bulger and Aaron Hernandez: An Imaginary Encounter in Bristol Co., Mass., Corrections Facility

Hernandez:   Wassup?

The usual suspects

Bulger:  You talkin' to me?

Hernandez:  I don't see nobody else sunnin' in this resort, 'cept those two guys with rifles.

Bulger:  Nice 'toos.  What's that snake going round yr neck?  Looks like it ate a few pigs.

Hernandez:  That's my gang.  It mean, "Don't mess with me," but it came out like balloons together.  The guy doin' it was zonked.  I got 'toos all over.  My woman, Shayanna, she liked 'em.

Bulger:  What kinda name is that?  She from Wyoming?

Hernandez:  Watch y'r mouth, gran'pa.

Bulger:  She rat on ya?

Hernandez:  Like those FBI stoolies did to you.

Bulger:  Got that right.  Whadda they get you for?

Hernandez:  Murder.

Bulger:  How many?

Hernandez:  One.  Can't find nobody else.

Bulger:  That's nothin', man.

Hernandez:  How many they get you for?

Bulger:  Eleven convictions.  Can't find the other eight.

Hernandez:  You Bulger, right?  What kinda name is that?  Ain't it a wheat or somethin'?

Bulger:  That's "bulgar."  I'm Irish, nothin' else.

Hernandez:  Lotta luck you had, Mr. Potato Head.

Bulger:   You a mongrel, right?

Hernandez:  Y'u'r a wise ass.  I's American, just like you.  Land of opportunity.  Where's the $25 mill you hid?

Bulger:  Say what?

Hernandez:  Hey, man, ya'll never see it.  How old 'r ya?

Bulger:  Eighty-three.  Ya'll never see it, neither.

Hernandez:  Wha' else they got on ya?

Bulger:  Extortion, money laundering, weapons.  How'd they get ya?

Hernandez:  Dumped the body too close to home.  Shoulda put it in the cemetery, where it belonged. Wudda looked natural.  What'd you do with 'em?

Bulger:  Made a pit for all of 'em.

Hernandez:  An' I thought I was stupid!

Bulger:  You callin' me stupid?  How much you get a season?

Hernandez:  Three mill.

Bulger:  And you callin' me stupid.  I didn't get my ass kicked for chicken change.

Hernandez:  We both got 'cuffs and shackles, way I see it.

Bulger:  You been out here 'fore?

Hernandez:  You the first I seen or talked to in this country club.

Bulger:  What they got up their sleeve, throwing us two out here?  Ya wired?  Cuz if ya' got a wire, I'll break every bone in yur body, 'cuffs or no 'cuffs.

Hernandez:  I'm a mean, lean, runnin' machine.  Wires would show on this manchunk.

Bulger:  That's prob'ly what they want.  Us to kill each other. Save the state some dough.

Hernandez:  Only one'd come out alive, and it ain't you, old man.

Bulger:  Well, least I'll be famous.  They made a movie 'bout me with Jack Nicholson.

Hernandez:  Nobody could play me.

Bulger:  Yeah, you're one-of-a-kind.  The Pats are real proud a ya and Belichik's prayin' for your soul.

Hernandez:  Coach didn't pray.  He just made us run a thousand times.  I miss his yellin'.

Bulger:  Yeah, he misses you, too.



           

Sustaining an Injury

On April 22nd at 6:30 p.m. I will participate in a panel discussion in Cambridge, Mass., with our son Todd and Tom Brady's (the Patriot quarterback's) dad and, hopefully, his mom. Our son Todd, along with his older brother, were the subjects of my book published last April entitled, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS (on Amazon). The subject of the panel discussion will be, "Parenting Elite Athletes."

I'm sure that somewhere in the discussion the topic of injuries will arise, particularly injuries in the pros, where jobs are at stake. Although I am not in that category, I would like to relate my recent experience with a back injury.

I am a grandmother who works fairly hard to stay in shape. I have played on a tennis team at a rather high level for twenty years. We compete all around South Palm Beach County, Florida, from September till the middle of May. I have worked out at a fitness center twice a week for the same number of years, and I play golf twice a week. Sevven days a week I am running off to compete or exercise, including four-mile walks with my husband. I live to play sports, which are a huge component of my life, along with my family, and writing/marketing my book. Many of our current friendships today were made on the courts.

When my mother was in her eighties, she suffered from osteoporosis, then dislocated and herniated discs. Her will power enabled her to exercise faithfully for three months in a pool. This was a godsend, which kept her free of surgery till she was ninety. At that time, she cracked a vertebra, and the angioplasty (gluing procedure) which had worked for my father, unfortunately, had unforeseen consequences for my mother. After a piece of vertebra fractured off into the spinal column during angioplasty, she sustained two emergency surgeries and could not regain her strength. Ninety-two days after entering the hospital for the first operation, she passed away.

I have just experienced my first back problem, and it is purely a result of my mother's genes. Fortunately, I don't have osteoporosis, but I have a herniated and dislocated disc which has put me out of action for five weeks already.

When people say they experience back pain from stenosis or sciatica, I now know what they are suffering. The back is so fragile, and yet we put so much pressure on it with gigantic purses, books, cartons, groceries, even children and grandchildren that are too heavy for us. We do not lift with our legs, but instead with our backs. Women's heels put the back at an unnatural angle. I have learned that any treatment for the back is a matter of TIME and exercise, and the mending cannot be rushed.

I refused cortisone shots (a stopgap measure, in my view, and dangerous if too many) and stopped all activity. I entered five weeks of physical therapy; I wore a brace; I used a heating pad and always wore (and still do) sneakers for support. In order to sleep with the pain going down my leg, I bought a hard, contoured foam pillow to put between my legs to keep my spine straight. I swam laps five-six days/week. And I succumbed to taking an anti-inflammatory pill for one week, before I discontinued it because of warnings about stroke, cardio-vascular disease, and bleeding ulcerations.

Did I have withdrawal symptoms while I couldn't play team tennis? NO! I was too busy swimming laps in the pool; reading books I had piled up for months; and starting to organize the writing of my second manuscript. I actually loved the time off from the treadmill! Of course, I'm counting down the days till I step back on the court, but it will be a friendly social tennis game, not a competitive match. The matches might return eventually. One thing I've learned: you can't rush the mending of your body. Oh yes, I learned another thing: to get off the treadmill and do some things that are on your "bucket list."