The Verizon charade ...

Boston. Indecisive.

Oh, I feel a good rant coming on! One of the many things that really frosts my butt is how big companies can make just about any outlandish claim they want, knowing full well that most folks don't have the time, inclination or financial wherewithal to challenge such bogus statements. At the top of my list is Verizon. I've been a Verizon customer for a long time now, and for the most part I've been pretty pleased with my FiOS bundle. But the ads for their cell service irritate me to no end. Here's why. We live on the North Shore of Boston. Not some remote outpost of the country, like the Badlands of North Dakota or some God-forsaken desert in the Southwest or murky swampland in the Southeast. We are smack dab on the northern tip of the greatest metropolitan belt known to man, from DC through the Big Apple to Beantown. If you check out those cool satellite photos of North America at night, the New York Metropolitan Belt is lit up like a Christmas tree, and Boston is the bright star at the top. But do you think I can get cell service in my house? Not a chance. My house happens to reside in one of those quaint Verizon "black holes," the same black holes that don't exist according to Verizon's latest ad campaigns.

And we're not the only ones. If I'm driving through the toney suburbs of Topsfield, Boxford, North Andover, there's no guarantee that whatever signal I might have will disappear at a moment's notice cutting off any conversation I might be having in mid-sentence. Now, I understand the limitations of cell phones. I have no problem with those. It's when the company - in this case Verizon - pretends there are no limitations that I get my dander up.

If you temporarily lost your mind and actually believed the far-fetched ads that Verizon foists on us nowadays, you'd think that there are absolutely no "dead zones." None. Nada. Summiting Mount Everest? Share the experience with everyone on your Friends and Family plan. I love the seedy motel ad, when some Norman Bates lookalike threatens some poor, unsuspecting businessman with tales of his last room, a "dead zone." The businessman points to his accompanying Verizon armada, and says "but I've got the network." And the lunatic clerk quickly capitulates. Ah, if only it were like that in real life!

Lauri and I have often joked that if we ever met up with the obnoxious, geeky Verizon guy (you know, the "Can you hear me now?" clown), we'd pummel him on the spot. Clearly, we're not the only ones ... Check out this hilarious news story spoof on the Verizon guy getting his just desserts! But Verizon can easily brush aside these vents because they have gobs of money and, well, that pretty much gives them license to say and do anything they want. You want "truth in advertising?" Look elsewhere. But for corporate arrogance, you can't do mush better. You might be able to hear what the Verizon talking heads are saying, but I wouldn't believe a word of it.

Best,
-Brion

Coming to the mountain ...

Boston, simply beautiful.

This has been a good news/bad news day. The good news? It's a stunner of a day, and I'm planning to take some time early afternoon to grab a quick spin on the road bike. The bad news is that a quick spin is about all I can manage these days. I've had an old mountain biking injury come back to haunt me, and it's been a long while since I've been able to ride pain free. Occupational hazard, I suppose.

It was an incredibly clear, sunny day (much like today) just about two years ago when two buddies and I went out for a fat-tire spin through the sinewy singletrack of Bradley Palmer State Park. Since Lauri and the girls were visiting Grandmom and Granddad in Kansas (well, Lauri was actually in the air, but more on that later), I had a nice chunk of the afternoon to myself. So when Norbert and Mark came calling to saddle up the mountain bikes, I was more than game. Given the bright sun, I opted for dark sunglasses, which would prove to be a mistake. About 90 minutes into our spin, I realized I needed to get home quick, in order to run into Boston to pick up my bride at the airport. In our haste to get back, the Nobernator suggested a "short cut." And that's where my sunglasses led to my undoing.

I was racing along on Norbert's back wheel. We dipped into a shaded chute, maintaining pretty good speed. The problem (for me) was that I didn't know the trail, and my dark sunglasses hampered my vision. When Norbert swerved quickly to avoid a wash-out section, I wasn't able to react quick enough. My front wheel buried into the soft sand, sending me flying over the handlebars. I remember hearing an audible "Snap!" when I hit the ground, and was convinced I'd broken my collarbone. The pain was excruciating. I was lying flat on my back, looking up through the canopy of trees, trying to breathe and trying not to move. There's an old adage in mountain biking that you don't have to worry about a post-crash rider if his or her first words are: "How's my bike?" I didn't ask about my bike.

No one had cell phones, but fortunately a passing walker did. We called Mark's wife (who was only eight months pregnant at the time), and she drove down to the park's back entrance to pick me up. Norbert pedaled home, and called Lauri, leaving her a message that he would pick her up at the airport (I'm sure that didn't worry her too much!). Mark, after switching cars, drove me to the ER for X-rays. The good news was I didn't fracture my collarbone. The bad news was that I had a serious shoulder sprain, which effectively knocked me out of the Mount Washington Auto Road Hillclimb, a week later.

Mother Nature, however, decided to keep everyone off The Rockpile that Saturday in August, 2007. I was still there, riding support for a couple of buddies also doing the race. But freezing rains and insane winds forced organizers to cancel the event. In an odd way, I felt I'd dodged a bullet. Not that 2008 provided any relief. Lower back spasms resulted in my worst finish in three tries on Mount Washington, and I vowed I'd give it one more go in 2009. And that's when the shoulder injury returned with a vengeance. Whether its old age, or my own propensity for ignoring injuries, the condition of my right shoulder only got worse and worse during the spring. Every time I tried to ride, the muscles in my shoulder, below the shoulder blade, would knot in pain, and my right arm would go numb. Last fall, I had gone to see a couple of specialists, and had an MRI done of my neck. Nothing conclusive came from it. So this spring, with my shoulder deteriorating, Lauri convinced me to see my favorite orthopedic doc (after my brother Sean). Dr. John Boyle recommended physical therapy, and it was another good news/bad news scenario.

I went to see the therapist for an evaluation this week. The good news? The shoulder, while a mess, appears to be a worthwhile reclamation project. Surgery doesn't appear necessary, at least not yet. The bad news? Mount Washington will have to wait another year. Given my current state of fitness, maybe that's not such bad news after all.

Best,
-Brion

Guilt by association ...

Boston. Gorgeous.

Damn! I tweaked my left knee during my BBHC skate on Friday morning. Sadly, these days, that's not an unusual occurrence (I'm buried somewhere underneath that pile-up in the accompanying photo!). Goaltending is tough on anyone's joints, and even more so on a pair of 51-year-old knees. And a 51-year-old goalie trying to play a butterfly style automatically doubles the odds of knee trouble.

I started playing more of a butterfly style (employing a wider, inverted-V stance, and dropping quickly to my knees to take away the lower part of the net) over the past decade primarily because it was more effective. As Father Time started to mess around with my eyesight and my reflexes, the butterfly allowed me to take advantage of my 6-foot-2 frame. The butterfly is commonly referred to as a "blocking" style as opposed to a "reacting" style, and my bulk provided a pretty good blocking surface. Plus, recent advances in goalie gear gave me a new-found courage (Translation? I don't think I'd ever use the "blocking" style with the thin, leather-and-felt body "armor" of my high school and college days!).

The downside to the butterfly - as I'm always telling my students at goalie camp - is that it really requires a fair amount of athleticism. Dropping to make a save is fine, but recovering, and being able to move quickly along the ice, is essential for a butterfly goalie. That requires hard work, and it's hard on the joints, particularly the knees and hips. I find more and more, as I get on, that I'm still making the first save, but trying to react to rebounds is becoming my own private hell. I've had more than one "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up" moment, and in truth they're happening with more and more frequency. Which is why I know that, if I want to keep playing goalie, and playing with a butterfly style, I need to hit the weight room to build up the muscles that support my joints, and I need to make a commitment to a stretching and yoga regimen. Have I started? Of course not.

All of which brings me to my recent Friday morning skate. I stretched just a wee bit too far while making a left pad save, and knew immediately the moment I got up that I had strained my medial collateral ligament in my left knee. So, after I got home, I drop a note to my friend Matt Cann, who was holding onto my GameReady rapid-recovery machine. Matt had knee surgery not long ago, and I had lent him this amazing machine to help speed his rehab (essentially, the GameReady takes the RICE concept - Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation - to the next level, using ice water and compression cuffs). I apologized to Matt for having to grab the machine back, and that I would return it once my knee felt better.

"This whole 'getting old' thing is way over-rated," I wrote.

"We're not old," Matt replied. "Our knees are."

Now, I know what Matt's getting at. We're still young at heart, and in our minds we can still do most anything we want. Until our body betrays us. Then I thought of another great line, told to me by Larry Abbott, a former Boston University hockey player and owner of the HockeyTown rink where I got hurt on Friday. Larry once said, succinctly, "We don't come with any spare parts." And, with the possible exception of new hips, Larry's right.

So I replied to Matt, saying simply, "Guilt by association." For good or ill, I'm stuck with this old body. And I better start treating it with a little more respect if I plan to extend my hockey career. ;-)

Best,
-Brion

What a racket ...

Boston, and the return of the rain!

Yesterday, during the one sunny day we've enjoyed here this summer, my daughters asked me if I'd take them down to Patton Park to knock around a few tennis balls. This is one of the great joys of working from home ... Admittedly, I could probably be making a few dollars more by putting on a suit and heading into to city every morning, but you can't put a price on being able to walk away from the computer for an hour to play some tennis with two of the cutest girls in Hamilton. So I said "Sure!" But when Maddi came upstairs with the tennis racket that my Mom had given her two years ago, she absolutely stopped me in my tracks.

Grammy's racket is much more than a collection of composite materials and cat-gut (not that cat-gut is even used anymore). It is a symbol of all the things Mom represented for me - her skill and tenacity as an athlete, and her skill and tenacity as a parent. She loved playing tennis, and she played it with a passion. I'm sure the sport provided her a welcomed escape many, many times during those trying years when Mom was singlehandedly raising her six kids (including five teenagers!). But she also played to win. She was a competitor, and had little patience for partners who didn't share her fire.

I felt the heat of that fire on more than a few occasions. Though I was a decent player when I was young, I was rarely a match for Mom. We played often, but I don't remember winning more than a few games. I couldn't match Mom's intensity or steely resolve. I played a power game, which played right into Mom's hands. She calmly, coolly, returned just about everything I could serve up. And while I would rant and rave, my game unraveled. Just like Mom knew it would. She wasn't imparting tennis lessons; she was providing life lessons.

Two years ago, Maddi was telling her Grammy how she had started playing tennis, and how much she enjoyed it. That's when Grammy did something special. At the time, Mom was 76, and had resumed a long-running battle with breast cancer. One of the more devastating fall-outs of that battle was that Mom had given up tennis. Her body simply wasn't going to allow her to play at the level she demanded of herself. So on this day, much to my surprise, Mom gave Maddi her racket. Knowing my daughter, she was tickled with the gift (it is, after all, a very nice racket). But there's no way that Maddi could fully comprehend what was happening. Mom was passing the torch, acknowledging that she wouldn't ever play the game again. I was dumbstruck. Mom didn't make frivolous gestures. This was something she had obviously given considerable thought to. Part of me (and I'm sure part of Mom) didn't want to accept that her playing days were done. Clearly, Mom knew better.

Driving home that day, I put a pin in Maddi's balloon. I told her that, even though Grammy had given her the racket, she wouldn't be using it any time soon. Instead, she had to earn the right to play with it. Maddi is a happy-go-lucky kid, which I love about her, but sometime she fails to grasp the Big Picture. I wanted her to understand that the racket would stay in its cover until the day when it was as special to her as it was to me.

Last year, in late June, we lost Mom. It was just weeks before her favorite tournament, Wimbledon. But cancer doesn't care about such things. For my siblings and me, there was some sense of relief, that Mom's suffering was put to an end. But we miss her dearly, sometimes more than we realize. One of those moments snuck up on me when Maddi brought Mom's racket up from the basement. Just holding it in my hands unleashed a flood of memories, and I felt the tears swelling up in my eyes. Maddi looked at me, and asked if I was OK. I told her yes, and tried to convey how much that racket meant to me. Maddi will be playing with it soon enough. But not just yet.

Best,
-Brion

Time for Lance to "man up" ...

Boston, beautiful (for a change!) ...

OK, let me get this right out front. I'm in the minority regarding my opinion of Lance Armstrong. I think the guy is a peerless bicycle racer (the best of his generation), and an inspiration to thousands, if not millions, of cancer survivors. I get all that, and I admire Armstrong's myriad accomplishments. The guy is an absolute stud, and I still enjoy watching his Tour de France and World Championship wins. I've interviewed him on a number of occasions, and found him to be charming, clever, charismatic, articulate, and incredibly bright. But that's not enough.

In this day and age, we don't have to settle for athletes who tell us: "Hey, I get it done between the lines." Sorry, but that doesn't completely justify the multi-million pay days that these men and women are collecting. Lance has earned a gazillion dollars through his hard-earned cycling victories and multiple endorsement deals. He's given hope to millions of cancer victims through his Lance Armstrong Foundation. Kudos to him. I don't begrudge him the money, or the acclaim he deserves for his cancer work. Just don't ask me to ignore what a putz he can be, and has been, to friends, teammates, fans, and loved ones.

I always got a kick out of Charles Barkley's "I'm not a role model" commercial for Nike. That's because the message was clear and straightforward: Don't expect sports stars to raise your kids. I get that, and I'm OK with it. The difference with Lance is that he wants it both ways. He wants to be the role model, and collect the ducats and accolades that come with it. But he only wants the celebrity on his terms. Lance is always talking about others having to do "the right thing" (like raising more money for cancer research), yet he doesn't hold himself to the same standards, and he lashes out when people expect that of him. Lance doesn't want people to pry. If anyone - friends, media, fans - does cross him, he'll cut them off at the knees without a second thought. That's just the way the guy is wired.

One of my favorite writers, Roger Angell, once said that athletes "are what they do." I believe that. But when a guy (or woman) is pulling down a hefty seven- or eight-figure salary for his or her athletic feats, we're allowed to expect more. We have every right to judge the entire body of work, not just what Nike or Madison Avenue decide to spoon-feed us. When former Boston slugger Manny Ramirez body-slammed the Red Sox's elderly traveling secretary for not doing his bidding, I was happy to see his steroid-enhanced butt shipped out of town. And when Lance dumps the girlfriend who nurtured him through chemo, dumps the wife who gave birth to his kids, or dumps the celebrity singer/significant other the moment she was diagnosed with breast cancer, we have a right to weigh in on those actions as well. Which is why I've repeatedly said that I'm a fan of Armstrong the cyclist, but not necessarily Armstrong the man.

Am I being judgmental? Without a doubt. Do I have the right? I suppose that's debatable. But I choose to consider the entire package. Lance, as great an athlete and ambassador for cancer research as he is, shouldn't be given a free pass for his shortcomings. Not in my book, anyway ...

Best,
-Brion

The greatest hockey video ever!

Boston. Sun, at long last!

I've been thinking about the Red Wings Chris Chelios a lot lately. The fact that the guy is only four years my junior (he's 47, I'm 51), but is still playing hockey in the best league in the world, on one of the best teams in the NHL, simply blows me away.

Today's post-lockout NHL is a young man's game, with its emphasis on speed and skill (as opposed to the clutch-and-grab tactics of the pre-lockout game). Yet Chelios can still compete, employing the veteran wiles amassed over the past two decades (for reference, the Penguins captain, Sidney Crosby, hadn't even been born when Chelios broke into the league!). And though I've never been a big fan of Chelios the player - my favorite Chelios moment is when Flyers goalie Ron Hextall pummeled him after Chelios, as a member of the Canadiens, had cheap-shot Brian Propp during the 1989 playoffs - you've got to admire the man's longevity. The guy's got guts and durability. Heck, I rarely get through my hour-long beer league games or 90-minute pick-up skates without getting bruised and battered, either mentally or emotionally. And that's "no check" hockey! (On the other hand, I probably have a few more post-game beverages!)

Still, I can't think of Chelios without my all-time favorite hockey video coming to mind. While Slap Shot is the uncontested king of hockey movies (and one of the best sports movies ever made), this clip of Chris Chelios waxing nostalgic about childhood coach Jules Winfield (Samuel L. Jackson, reprising his Pulp Fiction hitman character) is absolutely priceless. The goalie sequence is a classic - I may play like the Gimp these days, but I still like to employ a little Billy Smith-style frontier justice every now and then. Plus, I grew up next door to Englewood, New Jersey, so the "Englewood Jack" tactic stirs some fond memories too.

Without a doubt, the clip scores on a number of levels for this old jock. Enjoy! And don't forget to check out Hextall performing the Englewood Jack, flawlessly, on Chelios! ;-)

Best,
-Brion

No hope on the Island ...

Boston. The ark is almost finished ...

Some friends of mine (well, actually only one) have been blathering on and on about how the NHL's only minor league franchise - the stumbling, bumbling New York Islanders - ought to take junior scoring sensation John Tavares in the annual draft. And that's exactly what GM-in-training Garth Snow did. Now, on paper, that seems like a reasonable enough game plan. But what my friend - Tony "Stale Blog" Davenport - refuses to accept is that Long Island is hockey's version of Purgatory. There is no hope, no future, out in Nassau County. Or, to quote the great Gertrude Stien, "there is no there there." This is where supposedly great players go to have their careers die.

Clearly, Al Arbour made some Faustian pact with Lucifer back in the 1970s. In exchange for a handful of hall of Fame players and four straight Stanley Cup victories in the early 1980s, Coach Al agreed to relegate the franchise to NHL backwater status for the ensuing four decades (if not all of eternity). How bad are the Islanders? They even make their neighbors in Manhattan - the dysfunctional New York Rangers - look like perennial Cup contenders.

Of course, the discriminating hockey fan will want proof of my hypothesis. Well, I haven't been able to confirm reports that Tavares was met by a sign stating "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here" above the front door of the crumbling Colosseum. But I think the accompanying three photos pretty much say it all. Obviously, the Islanders are incapable of finding Ice Girls who are even borderline attractive (seriously, not even push-up bras and plunging necklines can help these coyotes). But worse (for Tavares), I'm willing to bet that the moment these she-beasts get their fangs into fresh-meat Johnny T., he'll be running home to Momma in Ottawa, crying like one of Michael Jackson's playmates.

Really, how can the NHL, in good conscience, stand by idly while it entrusts one of the game's great young talents to an organization that can't even find a dozen Ice Girls who don't look like a bunch of extras from some Grade-B Bela Lugosii flick? (Maybe the Islander Ice Girls should think about sporting the same paper-bag head gear that the team's fans, other than Tony, have been wearing for years!) Of course, when you make a deal with the Devil, the consequences can last forever.

Too bad local (Boston) good-guy Scott Gordon has to make something of this mess. I wouldn't want his job!

;-)

Best,
-Brion

The Legend of Wilf Cude ...

Boston, still no sign of summer!

Today I dragged my tired old carcass out of bed at 5 a.m., in order to drive 40 minutes to Phillips Andover and subject myself to a barrage of pucks during 60 minutes of pick-up hockey. My legs were still sore from traipsing all over the hills of Pittsfield, Vermont, this past weekend, but I felt like I needed the workout. Unfortunately, there weren't enough other guys who felt the same way, as only 11 skaters showed for the session. That meant a single sub, and as luck would have it, he wasn't on my side. The results of these skates are pretty predictable ... Everyone wants to conserve energy, which translates into a shooting gallery for the goaltenders. Playing defense requires effort, and if there aren't any subs to bail you out, you're not going to be playing much D. Simple as that. So I spent the better part of the hour flipping and flopping and generally getting beat up pretty good. I decided early on not to keep score, in order to keep my sanity, so don't even ask.

But the juxtaposition of sanity and goaltending got me thinking about one of the most memorable stories I ever read about hockey goaltenders. I remember first hearing about Wilf Cude when I was just a kid, enamored with hockey, and hungry for any tales I could get my paws on. Born July 4, 1910 in South Wales, Cude played in 301 NHL games between 1930-41 for five teams, including the Detroit Red Wings and the Montreal Canadiens. At 135 pounds, Cude was likely the smallest man to ever tend goal as a professional, and was used as a spare throughout his career, loaned to whichever one-netminder team was suddenly in need of a goalie. He managed to play in two All-Star games but lost both, 6-5 and 5-2, though it's unlikely they factored into his unique way of deciding when it was time to retire.

Legend has it that Cude was sitting to a post-game dinner with his wife, his nerves more raw than his steak. Suddenly, and without warning, he picked up the slab of beef and flung it across the room, barely missing Mrs. Cude. The steak plastered against the wall, almost defying gravity. Reportedly, Cude told his wife: "If the steak comes down, I’m through." Cude was an ex-goalie an instant later when the sirloin hit the linoleum.

These days, goalies aren't quite as eccentric as Wilf Cude. Much of that has to do with the protection now available to netminders (Cude, for example, never wore a mask, and his "body armor" was nothing more than felt covered with leather). And although Cude was never forced to deal with slap shots or compositie sticks, it's safe to say that his physical (and emotional) well-being was subjected to near-constant assault. Conversely, goalies today have great gear, and it's been a long time since a puck did any serious damage to me (that's not to say I haven't had my share of hockey-related injuries, but those are more attributable to my lack of flexibility than anything else). Still, the position still brings certain emotional risks, including the inevitable bout of getting shell-shocked and subsequent post-traumatic stress disorder. Forwards and defensemen can screw up without culpability, but a goalie doesn't have that luxury. If we mess up, the puck usually winds up in the back of the net. That, my friends, is pressure. And pressure can do weird things to people.

That probably explains why I'm pretty vocal when I play, and I don't mind getting on my teammates if they aren't putting in the effort. I'll take ownership of the goals I should have stopped (and there are plenty), but I also need to vent -- my own pressure-release valve -- when my teammates are dogging it. After all, it's still a team sport, and defense shouldn't be an afterthought. Plus, the last thing I need, as an old jock, is to come home and start tossing perfectly good steaks at my bride!

Best,
-Brion

The Material World ...

Boston, sun and thunderstorms ... Go figure!

The guiding mantra in real estate, we all know, is "location, location, location." But Lauri and I didn't plan to buy a home in Hamilton. Our Beverly apartment was sold out from under us shortly after we got engaged. We started canvassing the entire North Shore, and happened upon a quaint cottage on a quiet circle in this bucolic hamlet. We were sold.

Lauri was the visionary. She saw the potential in the neighborhood for raising a family – lots of young couples, a safe street, schools with good reputations. What we didn't foresee was the demands that living in a wealthy town would place on us, and our kids.

Hamilton is an affluent community. That's just a fact. Our neighborhood abuts the Myopia Hunt & Polo Club (the baying hounds kept me awake until dawn our first night, and I thought we'd made a catastrophic mistake). Beneath the veneer comes subtle and sometimes exasperating baggage. Once, a good friend's son, with the unregulated honesty of a 9-year-old, asked during a visit: "Dad, why is their house so small?" My friend was apologetic, but I laughed it off. "It's true," I told him.

But this materialistic "arms race" got trickier once our girls came along. When she was in 3rd grade, Mary, our eldest, began dropping hints about getting a swimming pool. When I finally asked why a pool suddenly became so important, especially when we had access to several in the neighborhood, she spilled the beans. Apparently, a friend told her: "Why would I want a play date at your house? You don't have a pool."

It's only gotten more challenging. While carpooling to hockey or soccer, I've overheard kids brag about many toys they have to how gigantic their houses are. I know that's natural, and most of it is good-natured. This is what kids do. I keep reminding Mary and Brynne that there will always be those with more, and those with less. It's not the size of the house that matters, I tell them, but how much love is found inside those four walls. Our girls will never have every bauble. Now 12 and 10, they don't have Wii or X-Box or Play-Station or cell phones (though Mary finally got an iPod this past Christmas). They don't have their own TV, or their own computer. They share a room, with bunk beds.

That's OK with Lauri and me. We believe it's a good life lesson. I'm a freelance writer, and admittedly that's not the fast track to "Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous." Mom works too. But we both love what we do, and try to impart that philosophy on the girls. Mary and Brynne have never had to worry about having good cloths, good food, plenty of after-school activities, and a warm home filled with big hugs. And we're always here for them.

Best,
-Brion

USA? Yes!!!

Boston. What? More rain? No way ...

Now THAT, my friends, is how you shake US Soccer Nation right out of its collective doldrums! All but left for dead, the United States national team rallied in South Africa today to pull off one of the great upsets of modern-day soccer, slipping past mighty Spain, the world's No. 1 team, in the semifinals of the Confederations Cup, 2-0. What a great result for the boys in red, white and blue. Even better, I called it. OK, my guess was a 2-1 margin, but that still would have rocked the oddsmakers from London to Vegas, and probably would have set up a nice retirement account, if I had the guts to put a few bucks on the Yanks. I didn't.

Still, what a great result, and what a great game to watch. The USA squad scratched and clawed and willed themselves to this win. This was not a dominating performance by any stretch. Spain, which rolled through the preliminary round without conceding a goal, controlled the ball for two-thirds of the game. They were clearly the more talented side (as their 35-game undefeated streak and 15 straight wins would attest to). But this game was decided by heart, a few lucky bounces, and an immense performance by goalkeeper Tim Howard. The Everton goalie, who was tagged for six goals in two previous games against Italy and Brazil, was under siege much of the game, but proved impenetrable. Meanwhile, teenager Jozy Altidore scored a sublime goal in the 27th minute, shielding the ball from his Spanish defender before ripping a shot off Spain's Iker Casillas, nipping the inside of the right post.

For the next 50 minutes, it was the Tim Howard Show, as the American goalie collected eight saves, many spectacular. Then, against the run of play, American Clint Dempsey converted a mangled feed from Landon Donovan (see photo, above) and the US was up, remarkably, 2-0 with 15 minutes to go. It was, in all likelihood, the longest and most nerve-wracking 15 minutes ever played by this group of 11. The Spaniards would not go quietly, and they repeatedly pounded the ball into the box. The Americans proved equal to the task, however, clearing every dangerous cross and shot. And when the final whistle blew, the joy on the American side was palpable. It was sweet indeed!

Best,
-Brion

The USA's magic act ...

Boston, the Seattle of the East.

The United States soccer team is starting to remind me of my golf game. I keep playing that maddening game because, every once in a blue moon, I hit the ball perfectly -- right in the sweet spot -- and that one improbable moment keeps me coming back to the links. Likewise, Uncle Sam's squad can completely stink out the joint, like it did against Italy and Brazil last week. Collectively, the gang resembled my typical round of 18 -- unpredictable, uninspired, unconvincing, unable to finish. Then, everything changed with one thoroughly unexpected effort against a resilient Egypt team on Sunday. The Yanks won, 3-0, and coupled with Brazil's 3-0 dismantling of Italy, found themselves propelled into the semifinals of the Confederation Cup.

How crazy was that? Italy is the reigning World Cup champion. Although they looked old and tired against Brazil, they are still a formidable squad, having pasted the Americans 3-1 in the opening round. The real undoing for the Azzuri was a subsequent 1-0 loss to the Pharoahs, who summoned the will and tenacity to keep a clean sheet against the potent Italians (after losing a wild 4-3 affair to Brazil). Unfortunately for Egypt, it appeared the Pharaohs didn't have any bullets left in the chamber when they met the USA in the final game of the knock-out round.

The pride of Manchester, NH, Charles Davies, got the USA on the board in the first half with a never-say-die effort, eventually outmuscling three Egyptians to tuck the ball in the net (see accompanying photo, above). In the second half, the US went up 2-0 on a strike by Michael Bradley (not a bad Father's Day gift for the USA coach, Bob Bradley), and appeared to have the game well in control. Still, if they held the Yanks to two goals or fewer, Egypt would have gone through to the final round. But a tremendous header by maligned US forward Clint Dempsey (a former favorite during his New England Revolution days) dashed Egypt's hopes and dreams and jettisoned the Yanks into the semifinals.

The reward awaiting the Yanks is a date with Spain, the world's No. 1 ranked team, on Wednesday. Not only has Spain set a record for consecutive undefeated matches (35), they're also riding a current 15-game winning streak (unheard of on the international stage). Translation? Things don't look promising for the good ol' US of A. But as several pundits have pointed out in the past few days, that's exactly why the games are played on the field, and not on paper. And I vividly remember the United States' "Miracle on Ice" victory over the Soviet Union at the 1980 Olympics in Lake Placid. I'm not sure a result against Spain would resonate quite the same, but it sure would be cool. Should be fun; at least as much fun as a good walk spoiled on the links.

Best,
-Brion

Thinking of Dad ...

Boston, more rain ...

Today, on Father's Day, I find myself torn between generations. On one hand, I'm looking ahead to the coming challenges I face as a dad (my girls are 10 and 12; life is unlikely to get any easier in the foreseeable future). On the other, I'm thinking of my own Dad. It's been almost four decades since we lost Dad, a victim of a smoking habit he just couldn't break. I say "we" because, by all accounts, Dr. John Joseph O'Connor Jr. was an immensely popular man. That was doubly true under his own roof, with a beautiful wife and six kids who adored him. He finally succumbed to his Camel-induced cancer in the summer of 1971, just before I began 8th grade. I can't begin to describe the upheaval that loss caused, in part because I probably never fully dealt with it. We O'Connors are pretty crafty when it comes to compartmentalizing our feelings, though some are better than others.

Now that I'm past my own half-century mark, my own memories of Dad are somewhat faded, like the edges of an antique, sepia-toned photograph (similar to the one above, of Mom and Dad on an early date in New York City). I remember watching the ambulance leaving our driveway, not understanding that I'd never see Dad again. And I remember bawling my eyes out at the funeral, when the stark sight of his casket brought home the full impact of our new-found reality: Dad was gone, and gone for good.

The years that followed brought a rough-and-tumble road of highs and lows. Mom, a truly remarkable woman, managed to keep our clan together when a number of her kids – myself included – threatened to veer out of control. Later in life, after I began my career, it slowly dawned on me that Mom had been both a mother and father to all of us. The burden must have been immense, yet Mom never flinched (or, if she did, she never let on to us). So I suppose that, on this day, she deserves credit as well. But she had help. Just before Dad went in for exploratory surgery in January, 1971, he wrote us a letter, parting words of wisdom from a man who knew full well that no one is guaranteed to wake up from the operating table. Mom saved the letter, and made sure we each got a copy after Dad passed away. I wish I could say Dad's words always kept me on the straight and narrow, but I've made too many mistakes. But those are mine, not his.

Still, for a man who understood that he might be looking the Grim Reaper straight in the eye, his words were kind, supportive, almost soothing. Here's an excerpt:

"As for loving and helping each other, this is the greatest gift you can give me. Sometimes it's hard, I know, but it can be done, and once done is a great and warm feeling and a wonderful thing. And you bigger children, watch over and guide Pooken especially – he's awfully little and will need all of you.

"Always stand straight and honest – work hard, hurt no one, enjoy the really good things in life. Look at trees and the sky and flowers and really see them as God's gift to us. Be fair in all your dealings with people. Try to see and understand their side. Don't get into arguments over unimportant things – rise above that – but be strong and steady in your principles. If you have to stand all alone for what you believe to be right, do it! And somehow know I'll be beside you always. "

Over the ensuing 38 years, the simple, straightforward 400 words in Dad's letter have buoyed me, nurtured me, and sustained me. They've comforted me, and motivated me. I still cannot read his line about being beside me without my eyes watering. Clearly, the words don't replace the man, but they've kept his legacy alive. There was no better proof of that than the spring of 2008, as my Mom was in the final stages of her own struggle with cancer, and my five siblings and I gathered in Manchester, NH. Our spouses later commented on just how moving it was to see the bond that the six of us have, how close we are, how much we care for one another. This, again, is part of Dad's legacy. He would have been proud, I'm sure.

For the longest time, I was convinced that I'd never have children of my own, due in part to my own fears of what the future might hold, and the possibility of leaving them prematurely. Then I met an amazing woman, one who had maternal instincts in spades. Fatherhood no longer seemed so daunting, not as long as I had Lauri to share the load. We've been blessed with two terrific daughters, Maddi and Brynne. Neither are perfect, but given the fact that I'm their dad, that would be an unfair expectation.

I've now lived longer than my Dad, though my girls are younger than I was when he died. That responsibility sometimes scares the daylights out of me, even now. In those moments of doubt, I still talk to Dad (and Mom), asking for advice, and for patience. I know they're both beside me. More than anything else, they taught me that family come first, no matter what pitfalls life throws in our path. But I also need to find the strength to avoid disappointing them. That's not a burden. It's a blessing.

Best,
-Brion