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A recurring headline across U.S. sports outlets this snow-laden Monday was how rookie quarterback (QB) Jayden Daniels shone brightest on a frigid NFL weekend—he plays for the Washington Commanders—as lame a franchise name as there is in the NFL—but hey, 2025 might be the year they lose their Redskins hoodoo.

Saturday night in the motor city, the Daniels-led Washington Commanders pulled off a stunning upset, defeating the top-seeded Detroit Lions 45-31 so advancing to the NFC championship game, marking their first appearance since winning the Super Bowl 33 years hence. Daniels had two touchdowns and zero turnovers, throwing for 299 yards and rushing for 51 yards—a telling quinella.

Detroit, who entered the playoffs with a franchise record of 15 regular season wins and holding the popular vote amongst non-represented NFL teams, were plagued by turnovers—five in total. Their QB, Jared Goff, had a tough night, throwing three interceptions and losing a fumble. On the other side of the ball, the Lions' defence struggled to contain the Commanders, allowing a season-high 45 points. When the dust settles, Detroit must feel they missed an opportunity.

As a side note, being unable to stream sports is disappointing when you subscribe to a service, and they decide to geo-block you for being out of the country. January is typically BBL (cricket) time—especially when there's Geelong representation. Anyway, I shouldn't whinge. No cricket, more football (NFL), has been the medicine. A 65' TV, comfortable couch, reasonable proximity to the fridge, with Back East Brewing available, what more do you need—Kayo.

So with that, it had me thinking—why is Jayden Daniels so good?

And how did Sachin Tendulkar do what he did at such a young age?

Tiger Woods, where do you start?

Pelé was 17 years old when he played in his first World Cup.

Boris Becker should have been sitting exams; instead, he was booming passes down the forehand line.

Michael Jordan transcended basketball the moment he put on a Bulls uniform.

It's too easy to say they were all naturals, destined to become who they became. Yes, they were superstars in their respective sports, but just saying they were natural is too easy.

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"What stands them out, other than the obvious?" I asked.

Tendulkar's case is more straightforward because I'm a cricket person. He was rarely out of position; Tendulkar waited for the ball as if he could read the bowler's mind—which he did, giving a false sense of time and space. The little master created his window with a preemptive mindset.

Tiger Woods embraced his Father's military background, developing a killer-like (that may be a bit strong) persona from the moment he turned pro. Nothing could replace the winning habits he forged from an early age. Becker's game was blindingly orthodox. Single-handed from both sides, a booming, curving serve and a commanding net presence, giving Becker all the tools he needed.

I can still see Pelé rising above his defender at the back post to head home the opening goal in the 1970 World Cup Final. The goal highlighted Pelé's incredible aerial ability and positional sense, appearing to hang in the air before powering the ball inside the near post. It was intuitive positioning and stealth finishing on the game's biggest stage. Pelé's marker, Tarcisio Burgnich, said later, "I told myself before the game, 'He's made of skin and bones just like everyone else—but I was wrong."

And where to start with Michael Jordan? A recurring theme from the beautifully crafted Netflix series ‘The Last Dance’ was his relentless competitive drive and ability to turn any perceived slight into fuel for excellence. The series particularly highlighted how Jordan often manufactured personal vendettas to maintain an edge and fuel his motivation and obsession to win at all costs.

From Tendulkar's almost mystic ability to read opponents to Woods' military-precise winning mentality, to Becker's technical mastery, to Pelé's positional brilliance, and Jordan's legendary competitive drive—each demonstrated that true greatness requires both mental and physical excellence operating in perfect harmony. They didn't just play their sports; they reimagined what was possible within them. Another trait shared is their lack of weaknesses—rank-and-file professional athletes must co-manage gaps in their games and concurrently stand up in clutch moments. I often tell young players, "It's better to know what you cannot do than know your strengths."

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Jayden Daniels entered the NFL with a compelling combination of elite athleticism and rapidly developing quarterback skills. His college career at LSU, particularly his final season, showcased a player who evolved from an athlete playing quarterback to a quarterback who happens to be an exceptional athlete. His decision-making, ability to read a defence, and confidence in his passing game all rose rapidly.

To my untrained eye, what makes Daniels watchable is his ability to process information in play. Most of the rest, QBs, either run or pass—Patrick Mahomes aside. Yet Daniels maintains his passing options even when escaping the pocket—and those nasty big guys with the high jersey numbers—showing a rare ability to extend plays without defaulting to the run or getting sacked.

I didn't know this! "Most plays in the NFL rarely unfold as designed." I'm curious about the dialogue behind those guarded play sheets.

NFL football strikes me as a coach-driven game—even if the plays don't always follow script. So, the challenge to progression for Jayden Daniels might not sit in his hands but that of his coaches. Given the breadth of his ability and game awareness, the job of coaching and nurturing his talent might not be a straightforward practice. Less is more could be the mantra.

One last trait of the above is their 'ease of movement.' None seem hurried when pressured. Their motion is slow to the eye yet quick enough to outpace their opponents.

Why not Jayden Daniels and the Commanders?

However, Sunday, I discovered a palatable remedy to the unrelenting New England chill: a marathon of NFL playoff football—aptly named the 'Wildcard round'—that would make even the most die-hard AFL fan raise an eyebrow at its duration. Four-quarters of AFL footy generally fills the void. In the land of excess, I managed three games back-to-back-to-back, starting at 1 pm and stretching well into the night—this also a result of possibly the worst set of commercials you could ever imagine! Yes, there is just too much Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson.

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Most people have opinions on the Australian version of football, but the same holds true across the Pacific. Dressed like inseminated Zebra's, the bundled-up refs do their best to instigate crowd unrest. Granted, 'Razor Ray' had an air of arrogance in his officiating, but these guys are good, too. Even in the event of a decision being overturned by someone six states away, the Zebra'a maintain a commendable level of elevated superiority. They also have jersey numbers—Zebra’s look alike!

It's easier to say something is overrated when it's given so much spotlight.

The quarterback (QB) position exalts virtuoso status here. Once the domain of the 6' 2' straight A's white caucasian, things have changed. The position is now open to anyone who can throw quickly and accurately, run forward and back at speed, and avoid big guys whose job is to flatten you royally. Oh, they must also remember a playbook that would fill regular bookshelves—hence the straight A's need. The Minnesota Vikings Sam Darnold—a white caucasian—did a 'Sydney Swans' last night (this was the Monday night game—yes, I’m hooked). He and his team didn't turn up. He's the quarterback. I felt bad for him—the big guys who are supposed to protect him must have been watching the McConaughey and Harrelson commercials. The other (defensive line) big guys and smaller quick guys ran amok—I believe they manhandled him ruffly more than six or seven times. My closing position on this is that the QB gets far too much credit and far too much blame. Also worth noting is that most former players in commentator roles played quarterback; the others are mere tokens to make things more even. The QB broadly measures an NFL team's success or failure. Anyways, the Vikings lost to the Los Angeles Rams.

The Rams' win was a much-needed moment of collective joy and unity for Los Angeles, a city grappling with devastating wildfires. Despite playing in a temporary stadium—Arizona lent their field, the Rams' played with remarkable resilience and a deep sense of responsibility to their community. Although their connection to LA is relatively complex, apparently, they are "a franchise that Wanderlust created." The full title is: Cleveland-Los Angeles-St. Louis-Los Angeles Rams, a "serial carpetbagger in a mercenary sports world." That's harsh.

The games rules are complex but not impossible. One change I propose is to the one-point conversion that follows a touchdown. It looks almost impossible for the chiselled—white caucasian—kickers to muff this—and it's only one point! So, what to do? I suggest the team on the receiving end chooses who kicks the conversion. It might lighten a relatively inconsequential passage in the game. Just saying.

For those still reading and vaguely interested, here's a TLDR of the three Sunday games and a beer count:

In Sunday's NFL Wildcard playoff action, three games delivered varying levels of drama. The Buffalo Bills made short work of the Denver Broncos, dominating in a 31-7 victory that sets up a blockbuster divisional-round matchup with the Baltimore Ravens. Game two saw the Philadelphia Eagles outlast the Green Bay Packers 22-10, with QB Jalen Hurts returning from injury to throw two touchdowns while their defence excelled. The day's finale provided the most excitement, as the Washington Commanders edged out the Tampa Bay Buccaneers 23-20 thanks to rookie QB Jayden Daniels' strong performance and a dramatic winning field goal that bounced in off the upright, giving Washington their first playoff victory since 2005.

Two beers!

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And for the dedicated followers, an Aus-centric summary:

Game one: There's not much to see here. The Buffalo Bills defeated the Denver Broncos 31-7, securing a place in the divisional round against the Baltimore Ravens (my Super Bowl tip—so they have no chance). Denver did score first with a 43-yard touchdown (TD) just minutes into the game. However, the heavily-fancied Bills remained composed and ultimately dominated the Broncos—racking up 210 rushing yards and maintaining possession for nearly 42 minutes (I found that on the internet, it's not bad here)—almost as long as the fkn commercials. The Bills look forward to a highly anticipated rematch with the Ravens, who apparently handed them a 'new one' earlier in the season!

Game two: The Philadelphia Eagles defeated the Green Bay Packers 22-10. Eagles quarterback (QB) Jalen Hurts returned from a concussion to throw for 131 yards (he did it in stages) and for two touchdowns (TD's), including a 24-yard score to Dallas Goedert (he's a big dude that stands at the end of the offensive line). Goedert's touchdown was significant due to three impressive 'Dusty Martin' stiff arms—two to the same guy.

Both offences struggled for much of the game, with Philadelphia's defence dominating the game, intercepting Packers QB Jordan Love three times (that's picking off his throws). I believe Darius Slay and Zack Baun each recorded an interception in the first half, while Quinyon Mitchell secured the victory with an interception late in the fourth quarter. Josh Jacobs (outstanding, in my view) led the Eagles' rushing (running without bouncing) attack with 119 yards, including a 31-yard run in the third quarter that set up his own 1-yard TD. Kicker (often much maligned) Jake—white caucasian—Elliott kicked three field (3 points—so it's OK for the paid kicker to boot) goals for the Eagles.

Game three: The Washington Commanders defeated the Tampa Bay Buccaneers 23-20, this being the tightest wildcard game, and so securing their first playoff victory since 2005. Rookie quarterback Jayden Daniels—not white caucasian—led the Commanders offence, completing 24 of 35 passes for 268 yards(not all at once), adding two touchdowns while also running for 36 on 13 carries (no need to bounce the ball here). Daniels joins a select group of rookie QB's, including Joe Flacco, Mark Sanchez, and Russell Wilson (personal favourite QB—not white caucasian), to win their first career playoff game on the road (playing away—who'd want to stay in DC).

Dyami Brown (Receiver—by law, the position is the WIDE receiver) emerged as a key playmaker for Washington, recording a career-high 89 receiving yards and one touchdown on five receptions. A crafty play from kicker Zane Gonzalez—not sure—decided the result when he bounced a field goal attempt off the upright for the win. Yes, this would have been a single point in the land of Oz, not six or three!

Buccaneers QB Baker Mayfield, who threw for 185 yards and two touchdowns, lost a crucial fumble (dropped catch) inside the Commanders' 20-yard line, leading to a go-ahead (against the head) touchdown for Washington.

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And from the couch, that's all she wrote!

Mazzulla grew up in Rhode Island, America's smallest state, which neatly fits his personality and how people view him.

Unlike Tasmania, Rhode Island isn't detached from mainland America; still, to many, it might as well be.

In Australian Rules Football, players from the island state of Tasmania often face unfair biases and receive less recognition than their counterparts from the mainland, despite their talent. It's just a blinkered bias. You could blame geography and ignorance. I believe Mazzulla affords the same prejudice.

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Father Dan was also a basketball coach and a heavy influencer in Joe's formative years—he was a lot more than just a basketball motivator. Ultimately, it would be Dan's core values that Joe carried forward into his playing college career and then when he transitioned from player to coach, first at the college level and then into the pro ranks. Dan's guiding hand is still firmly planted on Joe's shoulder.

Joe attended Bishop Hendricken High School in Warwick, RI, where he built a standout basketball career, making all-state first team and he played in three state championships, the last courtesy of a Mazzulla buzzer-beating bucket. Many savvy pundits commented on Mazzulla's off-the-charts basketball IQ throughout his high school career.

From there, Mazzulla went to West Virginia University. He helped the team win the 2007 National Invitation Tournament and played a crucial role in an upset of Duke in the 2008 NCAA tournament. Despite a debilitating shoulder injury, he returned and led West Virginia to the 2010 Final Four, finishing his college career with 700 points and 340 assists. The injury caused him to red-shirt for a season and hindered his playing aspirations. After a thumping loss to OCK as the Celtics interim coach, he said, "You gotta go through some sh#t if you want to get to where you want to get to." Mazzulla has always been okay with the hard yards.

To where he is now, the journey has been rapid. There was some college coaching as an assistant, then as a Head Coach, and finally to the Celtics as an assistant. In the game of coaching, timing is everything; often, there is no way of controlling your entry and exit points. The timing afforded to Mazzulla, in my opinion, has been impeccable. You could attribute that to luck or, more rationally, his ethics and faith.

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Since 2021, the Celtics had undergone significant disturbance in their coaching ranks. After eight seasons leading the team, Brad Stevens stepped down as head coach in 2021 to take on a front-office role, citing the grind of coaching as the primary reason. His replacement, Ime Udoka, was anointed as the team's saviour, the calm hand to piece together their disjointed roster. It lasted just one tumultuous season, marred by stories of an inappropriate relationship that led to a season-long suspension. All the time, Joe Mazzulla was chipping away at the cornerstone, trying to get better, day by day.

Ironically, after the Udoka hire, Joe Mazzulla was retained based on positive player and staff recommendations. A revered Hollywood actress once said, "I'm such a profound believer that timing is everything; I would tattoo that on my arm." I bet Joe Mazzulla never gets inked, even after a Championship ring.

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With few options, the Celtics punted on Mazzulla. The turnaround was remarkable, with the interim coach guiding the Celtics to the NBA Finals and posting historic win totals in his first season in charge. The meteoric rise was a testament to the Celtics' trust in him and his fearless conviction in his methods.

As we fast-forward to the 2023-24 season and with Mazzulla installed as Head Coach, more of the same has followed. This time, with time and resources to plan out the season, Mazzulla and his Celtics have hardly missed a beat.

The more I read and observe Joe Mazzulla, the more it seems his preference was a KISS principle: Keep it simple. I prefer to drop the 'stupid'. That shift was beautifully manageable. First, shift training and scrimmaging methods from an individual bent to a team first orientation. Then, as the body of work mounts, work the pivot to a team first basketball into games. The definitive test has been in the Celtics playoff run; it's not been without bumps, and this is to be expected. However, the green of Boston has made it through; for Mazzulla and his team, it will be a matter of holding it together for one last run.

What challenges will Mazzulla face in the Championship series against Dallas?

Mazzulla must devise a game plan to contain the Mavericks' potent offensive line led by Luka Doncic. Dallas's ability to space the floor and move the ball could pose problems for Boston's reluctance defence. Additionally, Mazzulla will want a more sustained presence in the defensive paint.

However, if I were Joe Mazzulla, I would focus on inward-facing troubleshooting. His team has the firepower to withstand the on-court pressures that Dallas will bring. Crucially, Mazzulla must continue to verbally and physically entrust his methods and the players he asks to play the roles. At this level of competition, the coach has to know and understand his position in these series, and he might only have two or three opportunities a night to influence a game seriously. The rest will be down to the players.

I like his presence courtside. Mazzulla has the look of a junkyard dog, quietly prowling, surveying the landscape, waiting for his opportunity to strike, to feed the belly. Yet, we know he has a heart full of faith. I am confident Joe Mazzulla would always crack his bread with whoever, whenever.

The Celtics have been underdogs in their last four championship finals, dating back to 1986.

2024 seems them installed as favourites. The spotlight will shine brightly on Jayson Tatum and co, and yes, to a lesser extent, Joe Mazzulla.

If the Celtics prevail, Joe Mazzulla's record will stand at 125 wins from approximately 170 games, with a Championship ring.

He is ready to silence the coaching orthodoxy.

Ps. That’s green for the Celtics!

Agreed, very judgemental. I'm saying that as a blow-in on all four counts; however—and this is the main narrative of the column—all four cities share rich and varie…

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You don't need to hear about all the goings-on at Hilton Head. In short, Scottie Scheffler did it again. He's too good—too good at driving it long and straight, hitting irons that find their target like homing pigeons, and the short game keeps on getting better, Ya'll. I see he promotes a bank (Vertex). They'll be calling him for loans soon.

I wrote this Masters piece last week and ended up not posting. So, a week late, like Mrs Scheffler….

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He won a second green jacket (who needs two!), some cash (well, plenty of it), and finally, validation as the best golfer in the world (we've all been asleep at the wheel, here). He also received a second lifetime membership to purgatory, that’s Augusta National purgatory.

I’d wager that Scottie Scheffler doesn't go to Augusta National much; he'd prefer a Dallas municipal over Georgia perfection. That's just my lob-sided view—born out of jealousy more than anything else!

Sure, I'd love to hit a golf ball like Scottie Scheffler, wear my green jacket to a neighbour's dinner party, buy the most expensive wine and drink it knowing there's a driver (wheels type) waiting outside. And the 'best player in the world' tag would also work. However, another lifetime Augusta National Golf Club membership would be a no-thanks. I like my golf courses on the rocks, not straight! But that’s just a lob-sided viewpoint.

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Yes, April means only one thing in golf: The Masters, golf's sole 'Invitational' Major, played annually at the Augusta National Golf Club (ANGC) in Georgia. The Masters is so beautifully predictable in its traditions and immaculate setting.

Or is it?"

Some will argue that predictability adds to its allure. Others, myself included, might say the predictability contributes to a staleness that will continue to alienate the Masters from the mainstream. I know where I stand.

What say you?

Before we get to this, there’s a broader question: LIV golf and/or the PGA Tour? Or the PGA Tour and/or LIV golf—golf's most divisive debate.

This tug-of-war hasn't gone away. Still, in this protected corner of Georgia, the persistent unsavoury rhetoric has ultimately given the Masters some much-needed credibility. Players from both sides, for the most part, will compete together this week. Talor Gooch and Dean Burmester (and others) might have different viewpoints! Although, in their defence, the Masters committee answers only to themselves.

For what it’s worth, I believe all golfers should be eligible for the Majors and Ryder Cup based on their Official World Golf Ranking (OWGR)—not what tour they play on.

However, despite calls from some of golf's biggest names to accelerate reunification, this split only made Masters viewing all the more compelling and, perhaps, a little more unpredictable—you see, this story has two sides!

I must mention the ANGC's propensity for overt suppression; take a look at the Champions dinner photo. Can anyone find Mr Phil Mickelson? He and Mr Garcia (LIV) are practically out of shot!

Also, the defending champion, Jon Rahm, who hosted Tuesday’s Champions dinner, took the LIV money in February. More than any other LIV player, Rahm would have been challenged by the whole 'money over matter' dilemma. It's not widely known that Rahm is a historian of the game. He understands and appreciates the importance of those who went before today's golfers; the inner demons must have taken some quietening for Rahm.

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First, beautifully predictable:

Well, the unnerving straightness of Magnolia Lane and the flowers that bloom perfectly every year. Hand-operated scissors edge the lawns like a Wahl beard trimmer—this is something else. The dogwoods and azaleas dutifully stand to attention, promising never to fall, 47 different shades of green present everywhere you look, and caddies don white jumpsuits that paint them as inmates.

Emotional storylines are curated and presented daily, early morning TV in Australia with constant reminders of Greg Norman's (LIV) 1996 collapse to Nick Faldo (sorry, that's Sir Nick Faldo, who thought the Champions dinner was appalling), the over-hyped Amen corner.

The bafoons (members) that bellow, "Fore please, Tiger Woods driving, white male conservatives (committee) milking non-liberal narratives at every opportunity. Pimento cheese sandwiches, weather delays, amateurs that grow a pair and then slide off the leaderboard, and golfers who shouldn't be playing are still playing.

The par-three tournament, played on a mini-golf imitation, that stubbornly prevents its winner from doubling up with a green jacket. Patrons, who are discouraged from running, for fear of trampling grass, after the bafoons finally decide to open the gates. Where do you stop?

Predictable? Yes. It is beautiful in so many ways, yet equally as tedious.

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So how could it be different? Lets try this:

Every player to park in the same lot, ditch the Champions-only space—and, there will be a first-come-first-served rule in place, if you have a late tee-time and have to park on the street, too bad, we’ll send down a green electric cart to get you up Magnolia lane.

The 47 shades of green, I agree on this; the green stuff has to stay; jackets and all.

Now there’s so many calamitous runner-up stories that I propose the bridesmaid’s be allowed to the Champions dinner, the only two stipulations are: first they eat on a separate table with the junior committee members, and second, they wash the dishes while the champs smoke cigars and drink cognac—the junior committee people will also be consigned to the kitchen.

The iconic Butler Cabin to be re-decorated by the internationally renowned artist, Banksy. (Read more about him here).

Sand coloured sand to is to be used when repairing divot’s. Caddies will be allowed to roll up their prison whites to the knee—’no show’ socks also allowed. Rules officials will be instructed to interpret the rules as they are written, not at the direction of the CBS production truck and Jim Nantz.

Patrons can run, they can openly squabble, and if required, they can pummel each other. Pummelling is a good thing; first-aid will be readily available. This, in my view, is likely the winner when it comes to change.

Now, April is the domain of pranks and ‘fools days’. With this in mind a plan is to be hatched where CBS anchor (for want of a better word) Jim Nantz is thrown a curve ball. As we know, Nantz takes great pride in his hair set-up, my plan is to hide the hairspray that travels with him everywhere, preferably right before the ‘Banksy’ Butler Cabin presentation.

Food trucks will be allowed on the property Thursday and Friday, then it will be stale Pimento cheese sandwiches on the weekend.

Friday evening, compulsory for all players that make the cut, there will be an annual dinner at the local Hooters restaurant, hosted by Mr John Daly. Mr Daly will have his normal curfew (lock-in) in place. Good luck to those who squeezed under the cut-line, and don’t be late for your tee-time.

Like the Waste Management caddie sprint, there will be a caddie swim-off on 16, the length of the pond. The swim-off is to be confined to Sunday's last group pairing.

At 12, we will have a floating table with patrons armed with Jim Beans and catapults designed to intercept balls as they fly overhead.

There you have it—the Masters, so beautifully unpredictable.

"See ya'll next April. Good night." Thank you, Sir Fred Ridley; you can now go back into cold storage with the rest of your cronies.

Ps. Mr Ridley was excellent throughout the week. Bravo.

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It’s been a steady couple of weeks in the Taylor Swift sphere. Tay Tay Swift, the global music superstar, predictably dominated the latest Grammy Awards, the highlight being her record-breaking fourth album of the year win. Standing in the minority, I remain a confused sceptic regarding all things Tay Tay Swift. How can one person hold so much influence across so many genres? I’m sorry, it’s just not on! I did like this; “Tay Tay’s boyfriend is playing at the Usher concert this weekend!

Andy Reid, though—Head Coach of the Kansas City Chiefs—that’s another story. I am an unabashed fan and, by association, a Chiefs barracker. Also, I was, by chance, an Andy Pandy fan back in the day. Andy Pandy was much loved, as is Andy Reid. For me, Andy Reid is the consummate coach; he oozes covert confidence—the best kind—I hear he is ultra-inclusive with players and coaches alike, and his steely unpredictability as a tactician sets him apart from his peers. Kyle Shanahan and the 49ers best bring their A-Game.

You've probably heard love is in the air down at the Chiefs. Tay Tay Swift has recently hooked up with Trav Trav Kelce, the Chief's star tight end—that's a position on the offensive side of the ball, in case you thought he had short arms and long pockets! It's all the talk; Swift has been seen at games wearing a stop-sign red sweater, jumping up and down whenever Kelce gets anywhere near the ball. Apparently, Brittany Mahomes, wife of star quarterback Pat Mahomes, is big-time pissed. The TV cameras constantly pointing at Mrs Mahomes now focus solely on Tay Tay Swift's in-game antics.

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There's more to all of this. Try this first:

Donald Trump and his GOP—they need no intro—are pushing an outrageous conspiracy theory based on Swift and Kelce's romance being nothing more than "carefully crafted political propaganda." Taylor Swift endorsed Joe Biden in 2020; seemingly, some of the more radical right still bear significant grudges toward her. So, in the eyes of the right, the 'star couple' will presumably pull off some sort of endorsement that the masses will buy. And, to go a step further, former Republican presidential candidate Vivek Ramaswamy offered that the NFL would fix tomorrow's game so Kelce/Swift/Reid would win to make it all the more impactful. I mean, seriously, this is madness, right? Swift is undoubtedly liberal, but who can blame her for finding love with a bearded tight end who sweats 'Woop Woop'.

And this, second:

Taylor Swift uses Trav Trav Kelce as a bridge to get to Andy "Pandy' Reid. She is in love with the older guy! It's as plain as mud. My inside mole intercepted this communication (below), which frames what we now know—Tay Tay Swift is playing a tryst triangle with two of KC's finest. If Brittany Mahomes was privy to this mail, all would be right again in her 'perfect world.'

Swift extricated Andy Reid's number from Kelce's phone and sent this text. She had written a song dedicated to Reid and his Chiefs; Swift had done what she knew was best; all that remains is for her to give him a rendition behind closed doors. Personally, I don't see Tay Tay as Reid's type!

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Andy, I know this might come as a surprise, but you have moved me to a point where I just had to dedicate a song to your name and legacy. Please let me know if you would like to. Hugs & pecks, Tay Tay #87

"Andy ‘Pandy’ Reid, oh Andy Reid

You're a football genius, indeed

Leading the Chiefs to victory

With your playbook of mastery.

Tay Tay sings just for you, wishing we can be just two and two

Every play you call is gold

As you pave the way for the Lombardi to hold

With Travis Kelce by your side

The opposing teams better run and hide.

KC fans will chant and roar

As the Chiefs score more and more

Super Bowl LVIII will be your crowning glory

A trophy for Kansas City's story.

But the 49ers are here to try

To take down the Chiefs, oh my!

But Mahomes and his crew

Won't let that dream come true.

Andy Reid, don't lose your nerve

We know the 49ers will try to swerve

But your Chiefs will hold strong

As you march towards the Lombardi song.

So let's go Chiefs, show them your might

In Super Bowl LVIII, win this fight!

Mahomes, Kelce, Reid - let's make history

And bring home the trophy for KC and your one and only Tay Tay”

I might leave it to you which conspiracy you believe. For me, I’m all in on both!

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OK, serious hat on. This, the Super Bowl, is the "Greatest Show on Turf."

This should be a pisser. A QB who will now be judged solely by his number of rings and his comparisons to Tom Brady. On the other side of the line, you have a quarterback who plays the gamebook. We know Brock Purdy has more than just facilitation. Fascinating.

Enjoy the game. Go Chiefs

After all, we had agreed that someone would break this 0–3 spell sometime soon. Wait, why not now? It’s just bloody hard to buy into one’s own optimism.

Why? Because, the Boston Celtics are proving tough to read!

In fact, they’re impossible to figure out, whether you rest your head on a Southie pillow, or live on a different continent! They’re harder to pick than a crooked nose.

In the last offering—Game 6— they dominated Miami for three quarters, seemingly in control at both ends of the court—as they did in games 4 and 5 after slipping to a 0–3 deficit. Then, again, the Celtics' wheels started spinning, Jimmy Butler warmed up, and it all came down to an excruciating 2.9 seconds!

I won’t bore you with what happened—it was extraordinary, though, from both teams. But we have to say, Derrick White, you bloody ripper. A buzzer-beat rebound put-back silenced the Miami crowd (including Diddy) and sent his Celtics to the brink of the promised land. A 150-game curse is about to be broken—or will it?

Enter our friend, the protagonist of all this uncertainty and, arguably, the star of the show. ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly.

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Last time out, we left Pat sat at Mul’s diner bar with a mug of tar-black American coffee and breakfast on the way. It went something like this:

"What's up, kid? Watta you doin’ here? I thought ya only liked the bars!" Pat said mischievously.

"Well, Pat, I’m actually here looking for you and wondering where you’ve been."

"That’s a story, kid. Those fackin’ Celtics, I tell ya, something's up."

At this point, the Celtics were 2-3 down and had to play Game 6 in Miami. They did have momentum; however, back-to-back wins on the road were unlikely—and, unlikely is just how Pat likes to roll.

Before I got to the basketball, I wanted to check if everything was good with Pat. After all, I had never seen him without a beer or using a knife and fork before!

If you remember back to version one of Pat Donnelly, you might remember me saying Pat's mother had worked in the local diner.

"His father was a union worker, and his mother worked at the local diner."

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Pat disliked food, especially healthy options, and only occasionally tolerated diner food. I was curious about Pat's order.

"Kid, I don’t do suppah, right? Breakfast I tolerate, usually ‘ere, the scran is pretty sweet. Ya know me Ma used ladel ‘ere; she ran the joint, brought most of the cheddar home; the old man played the odds—usually lost!" Never went to Shirley, though!" Pat laughed.

"What did ya say?" His noggin’ wasn’t on today.

“Ahh, I just wondered what you ordered.” I replied.

"The usual, kid. Omelette, bacon on the side, and pancakes, King’s ransom, know what I’m sayin’?

No sooner had Pat finished talking; than his food came out. If he ate the 'king's ransom' every day of the week, we might replace the ‘slim’ with ‘big’! Three full plates filled the counter.

My scran followed soon after and we sat in relative silence working our way through the various plates—they clearly like to keep the dishwashers busy at Mul’s! I finished what I was going to eat ahead of Pat, which gave me some time to formulate my Celtics dialogue.

Straight after Pat had finished he jumped into the role of food critic.

"Wat you reckon, kid? Fill the gap?" I had enjoyed the black pudding and beans. "Absolutely, Pat, the food was great."

"Why ya leaving some then? You have a feline at home." I presumed he meant cats. "No, I travel too much for that kind of thing. No room left, Pat."

"Ahh, get it, kid. My scran hit the spot, perfect." Pat appeared content; now it was time to get down to business.

"Pat, you mentioned you thought there was something wrong with the Celtics?" "What was that?" I inquired.

Pat took a swig from his American coffee and leant in closer. "You know what kills me, kid? I told 'em, I told 'em too many times to focus on their fackin’ defence. But, like the felines, they don't listen. They presume it's all about scoring points—the three-buckets. Well, lemme tell ya, you can't win games without solid defence, ‘specially when you've got that Butler dude pulling all kinda tricks. And, don’t get me started on Caleb Martin; he cutting us up like confetti!"

I nodded agreeingly, knowing that Pat would be on the money. "So, where have you been hiding, Pat? "I haven't seen you around lately."

Pat sniggered, his eyes twinkling playfully. "Ah, ya know, kid, there’s times a man needs a break—not a Shirley break though!" Pat roared with laughter. He went on, "Southie's damn crowded with all these newbie places poppin' up. Can't even recognise the old ‘hood anymore." "Makes ya wanna barf everywhere; just needed some Pat time, know what I’m sayin’"

If that was an answer, so be it. Although I could not disagree when you see the changing landscape of Southie. The knarly charm was being strangled by a new modern demographic of residents and retailers.

"I agree, Pat; the place is changing; and in too much of a hurry, like a stubborn teenager." "Ya damn right, kid," Pat replied.

Pat smirked, a whimsical look in his eyes. "Mul's is a damn institution, though. Been comin’ here since I was a bairn. Still the best breakfast around. Stick ya fancy brunch crap in the trunk—with the wise guys, just good ol' breakfast and lunch." Pat added.

After a short pause to not sip American coffee, I got back on the bike.

"So, Pat, what's your take on the Celtics' chances in Game 8?" I asked, hoping to get something other than how important defence is!

He wiped his mouth clear of the black tar coffee and leant in like a post-up power forward.

"Well, kid, we’ve seen the green haul ‘emselves off the floor before, and no doubting there in a tough spot. The talent’s there; the will is also. They gotta know the ‘hood has their backs; play like it’s a damn pick-up game down the local courts. No Game 7 if they can’t pull off the heist. It’s gotta be a miracle in Miami, kid. Ya, know what am sayin’?"

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I nodded, always impressed by Pat's passion. "You're right, Pat. They need to play with freedom; process over outcome." I held my breath; that sounded way too technical and covert. Nothing came back, so I continued. "Boston deserves a championship team." I’m not sure on what grounds I am qualified to make such a statement. Anyway, I just did.

Pat kind of smiled. "Ya friggin’ right, kid. This ‘ere is a sports town to the core. We bleed green for the Celts. We truly believe there’s unfinished business."

Pat finished his coffee, I just stared at mine wishing for it to disappear. There was a clatter of dishes out back, more food was being ordered and fresh scran was appearing. As we got up to leave, Pat slapped me on the back; maybe a sign of Southie comradeship!

"Thanks for finding me, kid. Good to have someone to talk Celtics with. Here’s hopin’ the boys bring Game 7 back to Boston. I wanna see Butler and Martin with me own peepers; Smart will fit them both with straight-jackets. Mark those words, kid!"

I smiled and shook his hand with renewed optimism. "No problem, Pat. It's always good to chat with you, my friend. Take care, and I'll see you after Game 7." "Sully’s Tap Room?"

"You damn right, kid. Ya starting to get the caper, know what I’m sayin?" Pat laughed for the last time.

As I walked back to the T, I couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of hope for the Celtics. If there was one person who believed in them, it was ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly, the Southie local with a heart as big as Boston itself.

And maybe, just maybe, his unwavering faith would inspire the team to break the dreaded 0–3 spell.

As always, thank you for being here.

Boston feels like it's meant to be dark and dank. And, if and when it gets hot, it seems like nobody knows what to do. Puffer jackets and woollen headwear have become the uniform, while t-shirts, shorts, and sunglasses look out of date. To me, it just feels like the kind of city where it’s easier to complain about the weather than embrace it. Growing up in Manchester, where weather-bashing is an art form, I can certainly relate.

Wednesday is ‘hump day’ wherever you are, like reaching the summit of a mediocre mountain; it helps you feel OK about the descent into the weekend. This Wednesday I was in Boston; the Celtics had just avoided being swept by Miami, and Game 5 was Thursday night at TD Garden.

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Travelling into town on the commuter train—after spending the night in Beverly—I pondered how the locals might be feeling after the Celtics slipped to a 0–3 position against Miami. The Heat had been all over the Celtics like a cheap suit. Could they rally on home court? I'm pretty sure they’ve lost five of the last seven at TD Garden. Or would this be the end of the line for Joe Mazzulla’s Celtics?

It’s an interesting ride from Beverly to Boston’s North Station. The line hugs Massachusetts Bay, originating in Newburyport, before reaching the North Shore and then winding its way through some very unremarkable landscape. You first get sight of the city skyline at Chelsea—yes, that place nobody wants to go! Then it’s on to North Station, which is an extension of TD Garden. Pretty handy if you're travelling in to watch a game.

My plan was to cross town to Southie and see if I could locate ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly.

Pat had been missing in action for a few days now, so I wasn’t too confident in finding him. I was pretty sure he’d be pissed at the way the Celtics had been playing. He did tell them to look after their defence first!

I made it to Southie a bit after 11 a.m. There were a few options available: I could go over to the 'Mad Hatter'," and I'm pretty sure it would be cranking by now. There were a couple more bars close by that might appeal to Pat on this intemperate Wednesday, or I might wander without any sort of purpose, hoping to cross paths with our protagonist. I did take the last option; it felt too early in the day to be in a bar.

Broadway is the main thoroughfare in Southie, it runs in a north-south direction from City Point in the south to Andrew Square in the north. It serves as a crucial transportation artery, connecting Southie to Downtown, and other surrounding neighbourhoods. For me, it was my exercise for the day, I planned to walk its length, taking in the hustle and bustle, and optimistically I would bump into Pat.

Recent years have seen a revitalisation and resurgence, with new restaurants, bars, boutiques, and residential developments emerging. This is a long way removed from the shady history of its past. Clearly, Pat would have preferred it to remain as it was.

I was slowly making my way towards Mul’s, an institution when it comes to classic Irish diners. Mul’s has been feeding the Southie faithful since 1937 and holds a special place in the hearts of locals and visitors alike. Home fries, french toast (not as posh as it sounds), corn beef hash, eggs anyway you can imagine, pancakes, bacon that looks like gammon steak—it’s all there; the menus are as thick as the Bible!

I had black pudding and baked beans on my mind; I must have been salivating as I nearly walked clean by Mul’s. Oh, I didn’t mention the coffee. Mul’s takes American coffee to a new level—terrible. It’s my only knock on the place, saying that I still drink it; you have no choice. There’s no refusing a refill at Mul’s.

With a spare seat at the bar (that’s a diner bar) and a full view of the grills and kitchen, this was me for brunch. By the way, if you make it to Mul’s, or any other diner for that matter, do not mention brunch. It’s either breakfast or lunch.

"What are ya goin’ to have?" The server asked. It looked like she’d been here since the place opened! Searching for my best Aussie accent, I went back with, "Some black pudding and baked beans, please." There was an awkward silence. "What na eggs?" she shouted, just so everyone in the place could hear. "Of course, sorry, scrambled, please?" To be honest, I can never remember the over-easy stuff on eggs, so I just go scrambled, which isn’t always well received!

With my order in and the tar-black coffee on the way, I settled in for some classic people-watching. First a span to the left, then back to the kitchen, and finally a sweep to my right.

"Holy hell, Pat, how long have you been there?" Yes, it was an uncanny coincidence that "Slim’ Pat Donnelly was sitting on the next stool!

"What's up, Kid? Watta you doin’ here? I thought ya only liked the bars!" Pat said mischievously.

"Well, Pat, I’m actually here looking for you and wondering where you’ve been."

"That’s a story, kid. Those fackin’ Celtics, I tell ya, something's up."

A good place to pause with the Celtics on the floor in Boston. We will get back to the story later, over the weekend.

As always, thank you for being here.

Someone has to break the spell on an unbreakable curse, though. The optimistic might say, "So why not now? Why not the Green ‘n White?

With that said, the Boston Celtics continue to stare down the barrel of inevitability in their Eastern Conference final against the Miami Heat, despite taking out Game 4 at Miami’s Kaseya Center.

Granted, it’s only one game; however, the Celtics did manage to rally and haul themselves off the Florida floor with a timely 116–99 win over the Heat. Solid defence, forced turnovers, and greater productivity from their starters certainly helped.

Preceding this—Game 3— the Celtics had turned in a game of unforced turnovers, missed shots—some of them airballs—technicals, open prison defence, and incessant whinging to the officials. It all led to a 128–102 drubbing. For all intents and purposes, it looked like the Celtics had given up the goat!

The Celtics coach, Joe Mazzulla, took the blame like a wily veteran. In case you didn’t know, Mazzulla is 34, the youngest head coach in the NBA, and has only been in the job permanently since February. His shouldering the blame for the loss was magnanimous, given the combined output of his esteemed starters.

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When asked about his side’s abject Game 3 performance, Mazzulla said:

"I just didn’t have ‘em ready to play; I should have. Whatever it was, I have to get them in a better place. That’s on me—I think they’re doing everything they can—I just didn’t execute the proper game plan. It’s on me to be better so they can play better.”

Honourable, but a little bit ridiculous if truth be told. Mazzulla’s trump card, Jayson Tatum, was ice-cold again with just 14 points, a bunch of missed three-pointers and several turnovers. Jaylen Brown was equally frigid on a no-show night for the starters.

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As you now know, we have a man on the inside, ‘Slim Pat Donnelly. However, Pat has been missing in action for several days. Post-Game 2 saw me in Sullivan’s Tap Room, expecting to resume our conversation. No dice. Pat was nowhere to be seen.

Granted, the North End is not his preferred destination, but post-Celtics home game, you would have to wager the house on him being in situ!

One can only imagine what Pat might have been saying after the Game 3 debacle. Something like this comes to mind:

"Slim Pat told ya so, ya won’t fackin’ listen, ya gotta fit that Butler like a damn glove. He’s one tricky roller; gotta friggin’ r’spect im." "What we do? Let im run the damn floor like he’s one uv us. I don’t get it for a minute."

Of course, Pat’s no dummy when it comes to the basketball caper. The Heat have turned the tables on Pat’s Celtics. Showing more heart and belief. Their defence has been exactly what Pat asked of the Celtics; their hustle and speed have lapped their more fancied opponents. And as for Jimmy Butler, my god, he’s run the show from start to finish!

For now, I’ll let Pat be, wherever that is. Hopefully, the win today will give him a spark, and I’ll find him in Sullivan’s after a Game 5 victory. Not wanting to dampen spirits, though, the Celtics have lost five of their last seven at TD Garden—the fackin’ North End curse!

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So what can be done with this unbreakable curse? Maybe, just maybe, it will take some cross-town appreciation to get things rolling in Boston.

From now until Thursday, the Celtics and their fans should be reminding everyone that the Red Sox turned a comeback trick against the Yankees in 2004.

Last night saw both Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez at the game, and we can only hope they found their way into the Celtics locker room—not that there would be any chance of that. They do know a thing or two about comebacks, though!

Game 4 saw the Celtics trailing by 9 in the first quarter, by 6 at the half, then assume control with an 18-0 run early in the third—what do they say about third quarters and championships? In the end, they led by 18 late in the fourth. It was easily the Celtics best two-sided ball of the series. Pat must have been smiling!

Tatum finished with 33 points, 11 rebounds, and 7 assists. Here’s hoping he and Pat are warming up. See you all Friday.

As always, thank you for being here.

Now, the first difficulty for some is differentiating between New York City and New York State (I wonder how many of you know the capital city of New York?)—leave a comment.

When you have this sorted, to me, it’s hard to see that there is a western part of New York State—I see everything as being due north. Hear this:

"Go north, young man, and before long you’ll find yourself in the quarrelsome wilds of Canada!"

Indeed, it should be confirmed that Oak Hill Country Club is situated in the western region of upstate New York. Interestingly, this week marked the fourth occurrence of this distinguished venue hosting the PGA Championship.

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Being this far north in the month of May has its challenges. In fact, Thursday morning saw a frost delay—fair dinkum, this isn’t a Sunday morning fourball in wintery Manchester! No, my friends, this is the second major of the season, the PGA.

This championship is known for doing things a little differently. It’s not dissimilar to a spirited black sheep in a bursting family. Its non-conciliatory behaviour sets it apart from the distinguished lineup of its major championship brethren. I mean, it had its bloody birth certificate tampered with; no longer is it appreciated in August, and it was placed at number four in the batting order. No, it was moved forwards to May, sandwiched between its more illustrious cousins, the Masters and the U.S. Open. No wonder it swims in confusion.

Eventually, a New York State specialist prevailed. Brooks Koepka has now won three of his five majors in New York, the previous two being on Long Island at Shinnecock Hills and Bethpage Black.

It’s true, and it makes little difference: Koepka is the first LIV-affiliated golfer to win a major.

Granted, I keep dancing around this whole PGA Tour and LIV spat. I have to say, though, in Koepka’s defence and that of his LIV comrades:

The PGA Tour is no shrinking violet in all this palaver! Their hat is well and truly hung on being a not-for-profit organisation and one that raises millions of charity dollars. The actual percentage of those charity dollars is a whopping 16% of the revenue gathered, compared to an industry average of 60%. Sound a little sinister, or even a little hypocritical? You betcha it does.

Anyway, leaving that aside for now, you don’t have to be a golf nut to appreciate the ‘stand-up’ that Koepka showed today. He led from the bell to the buzzer, hitting darts at tough pins all day; it was a truly masterful performance.

Koepka now sits 15th on the all-time Majors list with five wins. He is tied with Seve Ballesteros, and Phil Mickelson and Nick Faldo have one more win each. Bobby Jones and Arnold Palmer are next on the list with seven wins each. Of the golfers ahead of Koepka, only Tiger Woods is still playing, and he’s barely going. However, Koepka is just 33 years old and as fit as an Arkansas bull, with lots of Major golf ahead of him. Who knows where he will get too?

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It was impossible to overlook the profound impact Michael Block had on the tournament.

Block was one of 20 teaching pros in the PGA field and emerged as a promoter's dream. Historically, club professionals would often linger near the leaderboard for a brief moment before succumbing to the pressure of a major championship. However, Block defied convention. Instead of retreating, he embraced the challenging conditions presented by Oak Hill and showcased his competitive prowess when even esteemed touring professionals faltered. His four-round effort was outstanding.

The slam-dunk ace at the 15th on the final day is likely to be remembered with the same vivacity as Koepka’s victory. With a swing that seemed to have been honed in the depths of a New England basement, Block’s seven-iron was fixated only on the bottom of the cup. Apologetically, he circled the elusive "1" on his scorecard, hardly believing what had just transpired.

And some back story: Michael Block is a 46-year-old PGA teaching pro at Arroyo Trabuco Golf Club, a public course in Mission Viejo, California. Don’t be fooled; he’s good. good enough to win the Southern California PGA Player of the Year in nine of the last 10 years—and he’s shot 59 (that’s for 18 holes, not nine!)

It seemed Block might have had a Sunday morning money game arranged back at Arroyo Trabuco Golf Club. His return flight was set for 10 a.m. Saturday, so convinced was he of missing the cut! He didn’t just make the cut; he was kinda in contention going into moving day! The money game would have to wait; Block continued to play extraordinary golf Saturday, which eventually led to a Sunday pairing with Rory McIlroy—this really was a fairytale.

Starting the final day six shots behind Koepka, good folk kept telling him how much money he had a chance to make—the winner made $3.1 million, and anyone in the top 15 would make around $300,000! Block shook his head and said he didn’t want to hear about the money. At one point, ESPN’s Scott Van Pelt told him how much he enjoyed the interview they’d had, and Block wheeled around to his caddie, John Jackson, and said, "This is ridiculous. I don’t even know what I’m doing."

Standing on 18 tee—after making a "1" two holes back, Block needed a par to finish in the top 15, earning an automatic invite to next year's PGA—he probably had no idea at the time. A pulled approach, followed by a remarkable pitch, left him a curling 10-footer, which he duly drained. What a week! What a game golf can be!

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Has there been a golf restoration? Maybe, for now, thanks in main to a remarkable week of golf in western New York. Brooks Koepka is slowly emerging from the murky shadows of a separated golf world, and Michael Block made many golfers realise there is a lot more to golf than a number on the scorecard.

Has there been a restoration in the world of golf? Perhaps, as evidenced, at least in part, by an extraordinary week of golf in western New York. With each step forwards, Brooks Koepka is slowly emerging from the murky shadows of a separated golf world. Meanwhile, Michael Block's awe-inspiring performance served as a poignant reminder that golf encompasses far more than mere digits recorded on a scorecard. For now, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

As always, thank you for being here.

Harnessing their fabled legacy, the Celtics have transcended the troubled streets of North and South Boston, bypassing territorial loyalties and nurturing a tangible sense of unity and fellowship that surpasses neighbourhood conflict.

A paraphrased quote might say, "Workers of Boston unite; you have nothing to lose but your chains."

Be sure, Bostonians will unite behind the green and white as they aim to take down the Erik Spoelstra-led Miami Heat. And, we have an inside man in ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly

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Before we get to Pat—I found him at Sullivan’s Tap Room—a quick recap of Game 7, in case you missed it?

After rallying to defeat the Philadelphia 76ers in Game 6, so fighting off elimination, the Boston Celtics showcased their championship credentials with a resounding home court 112-88 victory.

Jayson Tatum (JT) fuelled a third-quarter surge that saw the Celtics open an unassailable lead, eventually leading to the blowout. The 33–10 quarter floored the 76ers, with Tatum dropping a cool 51 points for the game after a frigid performance in Game 6.

Sullivan's Tap Room, conveniently situated just across the street from TD Garden, is a treasured pre- and post-game haunt for Celtics fans. Its lively atmosphere and wide selection of cold brews make it an ideal spot to dissect and discuss basketball.

As is the norm with finding Pat, proximity to his previous location is the key to discovery. I decided Sullivan's would be my first stop.

The bar was busy, to be expected, I suppose, and there seemed to be no available bar stools and no sign of Pat. My gaze shifted to the back tables, not normally a place to find Pat, and there he was, I must say, looking a little smug.

I wandered over to say hi. "Hello, how’s the noggin tonight, Pat?"

"Ahh, much better. Was a bit egged after that OT loss, tho; threw that one down the dunny! What brings ya here, kid?" Pat sounded pretty level for him, and I believe that might have been the first question Pat asked of me!

"I just wanted to check in with you, talk some Celtics, and have a beer—maybe a whiskey!" I said this with an air of optimism.

"Sounds good to me," Pat said. "Lemme get us a round of talls and a coupla firewaters for the side." "Ur starting to get it, kid!"

"Ere you go, kid." Pat sat the four drinks down on the table. "This’ll straighten you out. And, listen, don’t go dallying on ‘em like ur reading one of ya books in the friggin’ parlour! We're not long in this joint; time's a-tickin', kid." Southie was calling.

Note to myself: the key tonight was swift drinking and rapid-fire questions that wouldn't agitate Pat. Small talk was the devil to Pat, still, I was determined to break through his tough-as-teak exterior. Getting his read on where the Celtics are at was paramount in my thoughts.

I decided to dive straight in. "Hey Pat, how come it took the Celtics seven games to get past the 76ers?"

"Looka here, kid, you don’t ‘hey’ me; a little more ‘spect for ya buddy, Pat. Got it?" So much for not agitating him!

I offered up a retreat of sorts: "Apologies, Pat, do you think the Celtics could have taken care of business in less than seven?"

It was a measured response that came back over the net.

"Kid, the 76’rs are good. Embiid, Harden, and Maxey—they all ball. And our boys are wet still, learning ropes—get what I mean? Playoffs are tuff; it’s just what the men in green needed—seven games of hustle. Look at JT (Jayson Tatum), he’s a pisser comin’ down the stretch and rates ‘emself best in the world. Na, we’re talking!"

Pat was referring to Tatum’s infamous self-inflammatory quote, which was originally taken out of context. “Humbly, I'm one of the best basketball players in the world.”

I felt like Pat was warming up—basketball chat and drinking!

I decided to shift the conversation to the upcoming Conference final and asked Pat about his take on the Miami Heat. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Pat leant back with a mischievous glint in his eyes and took another gulp of his tall.

"Ah, the Heat," he sniggered. "They think they can mess with our ‘Tics, huh? Well, lemme tell ya, kid, ain't gonna let 'em. We bring intensity from the get-go. Shut down those shooters; keep 'em honest. And don't start me on that Jimmy Butler fella. Gotta fit ‘im like a glove; make sure he pulls no tricks."

He leant in closer still—I’m nervous now—continuing, "Ya know the key, kid?” Pat sounded and looked as serious as I had seen him.

“It’s a belief thing. Ya gotta believe in this team; everyone from Southie to this shithole, they’ll leave it all on the court, them ‘tics. You mark those words, kid."

“Pat, I’m with you on this one.” I replied.

Backing up a little, I wanted Pat to detail how the Celtics might handle Jimmy Butler.

"Jimmy Butler, Pat. Like you say, he’s tricky. Who’s likely to take care of him?"

A pause ensued, then a two-pronged drinking stop, with a loud throat-clear to finish.

"Pisser question, kid."

"It goes like this: I don't need no crystal ball ta know who’s taking care of Butler. Marcus Smart is a goddamn horse, both 'nds of the court. He got some heart, kid; he’ll babysit ur man Butler, be sure of that!" He added, "We've got the grit, heart, and talent to beat any team in this biddy lookin’ league. This ain’t going to fackin’ Chelsea, kid!"

Now I’m confused. “This ain’t going to fackin’ Chelsea, kid!" Apparently it’s a locals thing; nobody wants to go to Chelsea!

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It was my hook—that’s Australian for turn-at-the-bar! “What will you have, Pat?" I asked, trying to play it oh so cool.

"Get me a tall and a Makers to keep it company, kid," Pat replied, his tone returning to the gruff and no-nonsense vibe.

"Coming up, sir," I replied, my manner now gaining confidence. I turned quickly to the bartender, placing the order and already formulating my next question.

"Cut that fackin' sir stuff out, kid. How many times do you need tellin'?" Pat snapped, his Southie accent dripping in irritation.

"Sorry, Pat," I stammered, trying to regain my composure. "I'll remember for next time." “Might not be another time at this rate, kid.” he replied.

Pat proceeded to grumble something unintelligible, clearly unimpressed with my apology. I quickly fetched the drinks, hoping to salvage the conversation.

"Here you go, Pat," I said, trying to sound confident, as I handed him his drinks. "Enjoy. Here's to a Celtics championship run!" I exclaimed, raising my glass in a toast.

Pat glanced my way with a hint of scepticism, his ruddy face hiding any sign of approval or disapproval. He quickly raised one of his glasses, clinking it firmly against my offering. At least that was progress, of sorts. Taking a swipe of his drink, he finally cut to the chase.

"Celtics championship, huh? Every damn fan wants that," Pat muttered, his voice tinged with a mix of suspicion and cautious optimism. "Let me tell ya, kid, it ain't gonna be no walk in the park."

Taking a chance, I leant in, eager to hear more. “So, what will it take for the Celtics to come out on top?" I ventured, bracing for the reply!

Pat took another swipe at the tall, his gaze scanning the room for any infidels, or maybe he was searching for the right words. Finally, he caught my eye.

"Fackin’ defence, we gotta step it up, starting now. Clean the boards and pickpocket the guards, like they do up at Shirley!" Pat roared with laughter. This was the first time I’ve heard him laugh at his own work.

He continued, "We gotta play both courts, half and full. Marcus Smart is our Donny Trump; we want ‘im to run the fackin’ D thing."

I innocently interjected, "Where’s Shirley, Pat?"

"It’s where that damn Donny Trump should be!" Again, Pat roared with congratulatory laughter. "Oh, yeah, I get it; nice lines, Pat." I offered it up meekly.

He wasn’t finished. "Stop other teams scoring; you almost there, kid. The keys to the damn Championship right there, kid."

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Clearly, Pat’s fondness—I nearly said love— for the Celtics is unwavering, no doubt forged over 40 years of watching legends like Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, and Paul Pierce. However, the North End held little significance for him; it might as well have been in Alaska. His heart belonged to Southie. Paying lip service to the other side of town was merely a nod of respect to the Celtics.

Our conversation, for now, was coming to an end. The tall and the Makers were all but gone, and it was evident he was not long for Sullivan’s. The pull of Southie was tugging hard at his strings.

Game 1 of the Eastern Conference finals kicks off in Boston Wednesday night local time. Pat has a ticket and will be making the trip to TD Garden. I’m expecting to find him in Sullivan’s post-game. My drinking boots will be on, and there will be no calling him sir! We should have a great time throughout the Finals series.

As always, thank you for being here.

Yes, that spooks me too! It may sound cliché, but something about the city speaks to me, especially this time of year, when the Red Sox are back at Fenway, the Bruins are playing finals hockey again, and the Celtics look poised to make a championship run. Where else would you be?

My connection to the city extends back to 2013! Not quite as old as Boston's storied past.

A wise editor once told me not to fuse history lessons with storytelling. Keeping that in mind, I will follow his instructions and get straight to the point!

Pardon first, a personal digression. An integral part of this attachment to Boston is that my son lives and works in the city. He’s been a resident close on ten years: first at prep school, then college, and now into the wilder world of Dorchester!

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So, from there to a bar in Fenway—Loretta’s Last Call—I had taken in a Red Sox and New York Yankees springtime double-header. I believe the year was 2014. And, as one does, I become one-day friends with a couple of wise heads. Their names escape me; one barracked for the Yankees, the other for the Sox, one lived in New York City, the other had recently swapped Boston for leafy New Hampshire. I had no preference either way; a great time was had with them regardless.

As you would expect, the baseball was absorbing, and the refreshments were appreciated, but the banter between my new friends was better still. It felt like they were watching a different game. I like baseball; I even study it to an extent, but these guys' take on proceedings was next level. Talk about predictive analysis—we do in cricket—again, both were next level.

I’m not certain, but I recall the games being split. The first game was a close win for the Sox, and the second was a blowout for the Yankees. It was early season, with both teams still working to find their best combinations—that’s what my guys said anyway!

Loretta’s Last Call billed itself as a country venue in the heart of Fenway; this would be our destination, after the games finished. Packed to the rafters, it felt like a good ol' rodeo mash! The noise was deafening, and it was hard to hear yourself think—perfect drinking conditions. A round of three talls went by like a summer vacation, then, where to next, I pondered. My New Hampshire buddy offered up a solution; he suggested a cab ride to South Boston and a place called the Mad Hatter. Only he and his buddy wouldn't be taking the trip—this sounded like a stitch-up!

The inside of the Mad Hatter was like walking into someone’s front room, not unlike a Manchester (England) pub. And yes, as you might have expected, everything stopped the minute I got through the door.

Two options presented themselves: look lame and wander around until the bathroom gave itself up, or take the high road and head confidently to the bar. Typically, it would have been the former option, but the three talls had done their job, and I was ready to order!

There was no menu required here. "I’ll take a tall of Sam Adams, please." I wasn’t convinced the please was necessary!

A long pause ensued before a reply: "Will that be it then?" "Yes, thank you." I said again, without conviction.

The female bartender looked pissed—not literally; that's the American version. "Guys ordinarily take whiskey on the side." "Makers?"

"Oh, sorry, I just wanted a beer." I replied meekly. And that was that—my chance of a smile was gone, like my two one-day friends!

Armed with Sam Adams as my ally, I sought refuge in the cheap seats. Alas, of course, there were none to be found. The Mad Hatter was lively without being full. A standing space at the bar beckoned, and my night was about to change. To this day, I’m not sure if it's for better or worse!

Pat "Slim" Donnelly looked like he’d been in situ for three days! His slightness blended perfectly between the wooden stool he was perched on and the curvature of the bar. As previously prescribed, two drinks sat in front of him: one tall beer and a whiskey chaser.

Born and raised in South Boston, Pat "Slim" Donnelly came from a production line of Irish immigrants. His father was a union worker, and his mother worked at the local diner. Pat regularly skipped school, preferring the hustle of the streets. Eating got in the way of drinking, hence the nickname. Pat continually courted trouble but never fully immersed himself. He knew where the line was drawn—thankfully! Despite the rough exterior, it was clear Pat held a soft spot for the underdog. He was quick to lend a hand; and this is what brought us together.

Back to 2014. That night in South Boston, I met a guy called Pat "Slim" Donnelly. Actually, I met a guy called Pat; we got to the other stuff at another time.

We shared some drinks and each told a few tall tales, and for me, the meeting might have gotten me out of a tricky jam.

Sometimes you find yourself in places you have no right to be. Truly, I don’t blame my baseball buddies; in a way, they might have been preparing me for the best. All’s well that ends that way. I was indebted to Pat.

On subsequent visits to Boston, I sought Pat out; sometimes I found him, other times I wasn't so lucky. There was no phone number to call or text, and most certainly no email to correspond with. It was potluck if I ran into him. It’s funny how bartenders are trained in local espionage—not one of them will ever give anyone up—particularly in South Boston! When I did see him, it was like we’d never been apart; not once did he ask about Australia. He knew I lived there—I believe he might have thought Australia was in Connecticut!

Fast forward to May 2023, and it’s been four years since I raised a glass with Pat. The Mad Hatter, as it was, is no more. I believe it moved to a larger premise and transformed itself for the worse—there will be no use looking for Pat there. There’s little doubt that he’s found a new home. Southie is fast becoming gentrified; some say for the best, and many think for the worst. Change is inevitable, I guess. Last time I was there, I recall there being an hour wait to get into a bar—that’s just flat-out bullshit!

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So, with the legend of Pat "Slim" Donnelly in mind, I thought we could have a little fun talking to him over the next few weeks about those damn Celtics and their 2023 championship prospects.

Fictitiously, of course! So, to start things off:

“Hey Pat, great to see you. Isn’t Boston one helluva town?” I blurted confidently. The thing is with Pat, you have to get him comfortable, no curly questions up front.

He took a large swipe at his Makers before barking, "OK, I get ya. Nah, c'mon now Aussie; ya gotta gimme a minute here. My eyes and ears ain't workin' too well today, ya know what I'm sayin'? Lemme catch up."

"Of course, Sir, take your time." That sounded patronising, and it was so received!

"Sir, don’t fackin’ sir me, ya wrench. Ya wanna talk Bahston, like ya some kinda local?I've got a friggin' foghorn going off in me noggin, ya know what I'm sayin’, and you got some fancy questions to say! If ya can slow down, and let me dial that again. Ya saying Bahston is one helluva town, yeh? Of course it is kid." I believe we are agreeing!

Pat drained the last of his Makers and added, "Ya have it, bro; just ask anyone who lays a noggin on a pillow in Southie!" "It’s a pissa place, kid."

Navigating the "non-Boston thing" (like being fresh off the boat) can be tricky, and it's uncertain if one can ever truly become a local just by wanting to. For now, I'm content being Pat's "kid" (or buddy).

That might be a good place to pause. The Celtics got past Atlanta and are now locked at 1–1 with Philadelphia after a resounding victory at TD Garden on Thursday night.

So, for now, that’s all she wrote. No doubt Pat will come to life in the next chapter!

As always, thank you for being here. And have a great weekend, wherever you are.

Lately, though, that interest has waned. Quite frankly, golf is now confusing and a little sad. The childish bickering between the status quo and the new kid is both irksome and irritating.

Surely the PGA Tour and its LIV adversary could give some thought to the game of golf rather than protecting their punctured reputations. The game is already in a state of disrepair—in the professional ranks—where to from here?

Really, how much money do the players need, and what amount of free equipment and clothing is enough? And what’s wrong with flying commercial—a dose of realism might make them play a little quicker and smile once in a while.

Anyway, thankfully April and The Masters is different.

For one, its location never changes. Secondly, apart from a few measured adjustments here and there, the golf course presents as it always has (yes, agreed, the weather does have a say here). That same weather threw my Saturday morning viewing out of whack.

And thirdly, there were two opposing tribes competing at the same event.

The PGA Tour players—the status quo. And the competing tribe, the Saudi-backed LIV golf crew. Everyone was on tenterhooks.

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Fred Ridley, the chairperson of Augusta National Golf Club (ANGC), presents as a stereotypical ANGC overlord.

His coiffured bouffant must take an age to arrange. I’d wager he takes as long in front of the mirror as Patrick Cantlay (PGA tribe) takes to three-jab from distance when he has no chance of winning—this with the two leaders waiting patiently on 16 tee—or in Koepka’s case, impatiently.

Ridley is the seventh chairperson of the ANGC, a position that warrants a good deal of self-protection. Before him went some alluring names: Hootie Johnson, Hord Hardin, and Clifford Roberts, to name a few. But there was one person who is rightly considered the founding father of Augusta National, Robert Tyre Jones Jr., aka Mr. Bobby Jones.

One of Jones' enduring legacies is the preservation of amateurs in golf. He never chose to turn professional. Instead, Jones collected academic honours at the same rate as he won golf's major titles.

Academically, there was a mechanical engineering degree from Georgia Tech, a degree in English literature from Harvard, and then a law enrolment at Emory University. Bravo. Post-golf, Jones practiced law to pay the bills.

On the golf course, he had no peers, just people to play golf with.

In eight seasons, yes eight summers, Jones won 13 major championships, including; five U.S. Amateurs, four U.S. Opens, three British Opens, and one British Amateur—at this time, the U.S. Amateur and British Amateur were considered major championships.

So with that in mind, how would Jones look down on the current poster boy of Mens amateur golf, Sam Bennett?

Bennett plays nicely, albeit slowly. He has a smile ready for when cameras are present—not so when they are absent. He actually spits on his own clubs and cleans them—this was dramatised ad nauseam in the media! He also spits without his clubs being in range—this wasn’t reported!

He talks gallantly of going back to classes when he gets the chance—he’s in his fifth year at Texas A&M; maybe study is getting in the way of golf. I would say Mr. Jones might fret over Bennett’s academic record.

And here’s the deal-breaker.

At my last count, Bennett had SIX visible sponsors on his hat, shirt, bag, jocks, and wherever else there was white space. Initially, I thought his locker must have been adjacent to Kevin Na's and he had availed himself of Na’s leftovers! No, this was all from his own duffle bag.

There was a golf company based in Phoenix, a community bank (at least it was a Texas bank), a golf clothing brand, a home brand, and a Texas uplifting service—whatever the f*ck that is!

So, Mr. Jones, what do you think of all that?

There doesn’t appear to be any evidence suggesting Jones was impartial to professionals at the time of his own golfing greatness; however, if he did have a direct line to Ridley, he might suggest young Bennett avail himself of some Masters merchandise to play in until he returns next year as a professional.

OK, a disclaimer—I know, there’s the ink on his left arm, reminding him of his late father’s message: "Don’t wait to do something." Worry not, Mr. Bennett, your son is a listener. Still, what would Mr. Jones really say?

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And to the "Civil War" that has engulfed golf recently:

On one side is the incumbent powerhouse: the PGA Tour.

In world golf, the PGA Tour has always been ‘the tour’ to get on. Ask Greg Norman—he couldn’t get out of Townsville quick enough. They have monopolised professional golf like Google has dominated search.

LIV, on the other hand, which is funded by the Public Investment Fund—which is the sovereign wealth fund of Saudi Arabia—has no base to work from and can be perceived as something akin to a traveling circus, the main difference being the artists are paid in millions, not shillings.

So why are two tribes at war?

Put simply—which is a strength of mine—the dispute was initially centred on a misappropriation of funds by the PGA Tour. They were doing as most large corporations do: milking the golden cow as long as it keeps coming back, neglecting their rank and file, and, of course, lining their own very deep pockets with gold shillings.

Little did they know that one of their most trusted employees, who had successfully milked that golden cow for years, would be the one to first break ranks. Phil Mickelson—Lefty—finally said enough of this.

Mickelson was peeved at the PGA Tour for apparently owning his own digital rights and assets. He came up with a ridiculous $ number that had been wrongfully withheld from himself and his brand—there was no mention of Mrs. Mickelson or his long-time, not always paid caddy, Jim ‘Bones’ Mackay. This was the basis of his spat with the PGA Tour.

Mickelson had a willing ally in Norman, who himself had cultivated a mistrust of the other tribe over a number of years. Then there were the Saudis, ever willing to wash some dirty laundry. The stars aligned. And LIV was born.

Again, Mr. Jones must have wondered what all the commotion was about. He might simply view it as nothing more than grownups squabbling over who can play with who. Financial reward directly from a tournament's purse had no bearing on his golfing rationale. Winning tournaments was enough for Jones.

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When all was said and done, the 2023 Masters finished on a Sunday afternoon, as per normal. Where a winner was ushered into a cabin named after a dude named 'Butler'. He was asked some bland questions by a dude called Jim—who, by the way, challenges Fred Ridley in the bouffant stakes—and then an ill-fitting green jacket is placed on the square shoulders of a Spaniard called ‘Jon’!

Jon Rahm became the fourth Spaniard to win the Masters. His play throughout the week was flawless. His win rightfully confirmed his deserved world no.1 tag.

I would describe his play as having a hint of monochrome artistry; a healthy dose of ruthless cold-bloodedness; and, most importantly, he controlled a volatile streak that can get in his way. He is very good at what he does.

You could say the same of Mr. Bobby Jones.

PS. Thanks again for being here.

Johnnie B. "Dusty" Baker Jr. is an American baseball manager and former outfielder who is the manager of the Houston Astros in Major League Baseball.

His team, the Houston Astros, was locked at 2-2 (now 3-2 - Astros) with the Philadelphia Phillies in this year’s World Series. When pressed on the upside-down state of play, Baker said pragmatically, “It’s strange” - pure realism from the 73-year-old.

Another quote to savour came when he was pressed on his nocturnal activity before the series started. “Will you sleep before Game one?” Baker replied, wearing a wry smile, “I’d get in the bed, but that don’t mean I’m sleeping, know what I’m saying?”

“Know what I’m saying?” The street never leaves the mind that was formed there.

Getting back to Baker’s bio …

“Former outfielder” — Wikipedia is such a lame douche. How dare they diss one of the best humans in baseball. It’s like saying Glenn McGrath was one of the best ‘Fine leg’s’ in cricket. (North American readers note: this is Fine leg — it’s akin to sitting in the bleachers — third base side of home plate while still playing.)

Anyway, back to cricket, no sorry, it’s Friday — it can be anything — baseball it is then. Thank God it’s Friday. And, thank god for Dusty Baker!

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As mentioned, Dusty Baker has been the subject of previous scribbling. However, rather than rehash that in its entirety, I thought it best to paraphrase and summate, if possible. So, here we go …

Sport is obsessed with championships. It torments itself with the notion that absolute validation of a sportsperson’s worth lies in winning these elusive trophies. God forbid if you are a run-of-the-mill athlete who elongates a career by getting the job done. Here in Geelong, one of its most decorated players recently given the tick of approval by winning a premiership — Patrick Dangerfield (Yes, for North American readers, that is his name — and he doesn’t wear pads)

The Astros go back to the World Series after previously losing to the Atlanta Braves. A mere five minutes after their last out, Baker was at his pragmatic best again — or you could swap pragmatic for prophetic — it took him three words to sum up the situation, "We'll be back.”

For Baker, the chase for a ring goes beyond the Astros trying to prove that they can win without cheating. Their last, only victory was in 2017. Post-2017, the Astros found themselves engulfed in a cheating scandal. Players were illegally using unauthorised video feeds to steal signs and used garbage bins to transmit calls, desperate and irresponsible behaviour. The hiring of Baker was an attempt to regain some integrity in the baseball community.

Winning a World Series as manager is the only achievement left on Baker's baseball wish list. He entered last Friday's World Series between the Phillies and Astros as the winningest manager (2,093 victories) in Major League Baseball history, without a championship. The New York Mets manager Buck Showalter (For the Australian readers, what a name), who owns 1,652, is a distant second on that list.

Do you think the media pressed Baker on this perceived irregularity? Of course they did. And, his counter? “I love to win.” he said. And, “I’m hungry for a ring, yes.” And, no, not an onion ring. He believes he’s heading to the Hall of Fame either way. Dusty, it is the elephant in the room though!

His players. Do they want to win for him? Of course they do. Alex Bregman (third baseman - mid wicket for the cricket readers) said, ""We would love to win for him," "He's been unbelievable since he's been here — unbelievable man, human being, manager. He's connected with every single one of us so well, and we really would love nothing more than to win for him."

This is a great quote from Jeremy Peña, the Astros rookie shortstop, "Dusty's a cool cat," Peña said.

The everpresent tooth pick, the wrist bands, the black gloves, Dusty has all bases covered. Peña describes him as having “swag.”

Where as other managers choose to fill a spittoon with re-cycled chewing tobacco, Baker opts for the taste of wood, with only the odd discharge.

Cito Gaston, the former Toronto Blue Jays manager, one of Baker’s closest friends hits the nail on the head, “Dusty is a great communicator.” “You have to have respect from your players, but you also have to give them respect. That’s how you win.” Isn’t that the case in the current coaching world.

You could ramble forever on Dusty Baker’s baseball resume. How’s this though?

Baker is a dead-set polymath!

He owns a winery (explains his penchant for wood) — he’s formed an energy company (Baker Energy Team - he might need to some work on his marketing) — he’s written a book, Kiss the Sky, that chronicles Jimi Hendrix’s legendary performance at the Monterey Pop Festival, in 1967. And, of course, he was at the concert.

OK, back to baseball. In fact, a quick diversion. Did you know OK was an acronym? Yes, you did. And, the words? Here you go - All Correct, that was purposely misspelled — Oll Korrect.

Baker is trying to become the third African American manager to win a World Series, after Gaston and Dave Roberts of the Los Angeles Dodgers in 2020.

Baker says on being an African American manager, “Every town is not conducive to hiring you. It takes a special owner, it takes a special town that’s not afraid of facing their friends at the country club, or the bank, or the Kiwanis club, or whatever club that they’re in, about ‘why did you hire this guy?'” Yes, that stuff still exists and no doubt prospers.

Major League Baseball has witnessed a marked decline in African American participation in the big leagues. I believe this will be the first World Series in more than 70 years without a single American-born Black player.

Cito Gaston, Baker’s closest friend, believes an Astros win could remind African Americans of the opportunities available to them in baseball, and help revive the connection between African Americans and the sport.

Dusty Baker will be wishing for both.

And, the last word, he says, “I swear, confidence ain’t my problem. Not at all.”

Go the Phillies!

Friday,November 4

Baker is one win away from that elusive ring! And a departing elephant.

Go Houston!

As always, thank you for being here.

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This week I wanted to change things up by delving into the archive of someone different, a literary giant, no less. No, please come back, of course, that’s not me! Surely I’m not that pretentious?

I am talking of Roger Angell - the written word creator of America’s summer game — baseball. Although Angell was not merely a sports writer, he was predominately biographed as a preeminent American essayist. Somehow, an essayist reads more significantly than a writer of sports. In any case, I believe Angell to be peerless in both spheres.

Roger Angell’s work created a baseball writing dynasty against which all others are compared, and usually pale. One of his many books — The Summer Game — essentially changed the course of baseball writing forever. Angell discarded the crass nature of reporter style sports writing, instead swapping it for a more thoughtful, elegant, and two-sided view of America’s summer game. His game-day narrative was written through both the lens of an ordinary fan, and that of an educated baseball fanatic. He meandered in and out of the action like childhood sweethearts moving from one to the other, losing you in the mystique of an afternoon at the ballpark, before yanking you back to the nitty-gritty of a critical pitch or play. He was truly a master storyteller, and one that always had his readers on the hook.

Roger Angell died in 2022, at the tender age of a hundred and one. You could say he went the full nine innings, like a pitcher throwing a no-hitter.

His career dates back to 1944, firstly as a New Yorker contributor, before progressing to a fiction writer in 1956. It was an extraordinary career. Later, a pivot to sports writing saw him penning words on all manner of pastimes: tennis, hockey, football, rowing, and horse racing. But, it was baseball where he carved his niche.

On reflection, Angell seemed a particularly modest man. Fortunately, I stumbled upon him in late 2019 and have read him consistently since. His prose mirrors that of the legendary English cricket writers: notably Neville Cardus, who you could say was equally humble in his own way. For the record: Cardus was born in Manchester. And, Angell, New York City.

Arguably Angell’s defining moment was in 2014 — when he received the J. G. Taylor Spink Award, the highest honour given to writers by the Baseball Hall of Fame. Although when you peruse his wikipedia page, specifically the references section, you should get a more accurate feeling for the weight of his work.

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I know, in Australia it is Saturday, but Friday is still happening in the U.S. — which is relevant to this post. So, please accept my apologies for the late filing.

I decided on two pieces form the vast library of Roger Angell’s baseball writing. I hope you enjoy them — remember the dates and his age at the time of publishing. I will leave links at the bottom of the post.

By Roger Angell

May 2, 2018 - The New Yorker - Baby Giles

Next-day baseball writers are there to explain or elucidate, but I give up this time. The Yankees’ four-run uprising against the world champion Houston Astros’ reliever Ken Giles ruined a spectacular performance by Houston starter Justin Verlander, who had struck out fourteen batters over eight innings in the so-far-scoreless battle. Verlander had delivered a hundred and one pitches at this point, but why in the world didn’t manager A. J. Hinch send him back out there in the ninth, to see if he might not dismiss the first couple of batters, Aaron Judge and Didi Gregorius, quickly or luckily, and then perhaps give way to the closer?

But no. Giles came in and gave up a single to Judge and a double to Didi. Giancarlo Stanton struck out feebly, bringing up the red-hot Gary Sanchez. A mound conference ensued, and the decision was made—Duh? What! My God!—not to walk him. Sanchez, who had delivered three home runs and six hits over the past seven games, hit Giles’s eleventh pitch four hundred and forty feet into dead center, for three runs, dropping his bat affectionately at his feet before making the tour. Aaron Hicks singled, and Giles was done.

What followed was transfixing, another Never Before, as the stalking-off Giles began punching himself, first in the chest and then in the jaw. The instant image was of a newborn flailing in his crib, and an adult baby, disrespectful of Sanchez and the Yankees and everyone watching. In the dugout, he smashed a bat to the floor and huffily made his departure, but left an image that will last his lifetime.

Six Yankee pitchers delivered thirteen strikeouts of their own and one more zero, bringing the surging Yankees their tenth win in the last eleven games. The two teams will engage again tonight and tomorrow. Part of the fun will be watching Giles on the bench and looking for bruises.

Mr. Angell didn’t suffer cry-babies!

By Roger Angell

November 2, 2017 - The New Yorker - Long Wait, Great Win

Enough already. Enough baseball—bring on the Iditarod or synchronized swimming. Bring back the six-day bike racing. The Houston Astros won their first World Championship last night—their first after fifty-six years’ trying—taking down the Dodgers, 5–1, in L.A., in the seventh and final game of the World Series: a glorious but un-tense finale in which the ’Stros did all their scoring in the first two innings. Astro fans everywhere, including the jam-packed hordes at their home, Minute Maid Park, who were watching on giant television screens, loved every moment of this three-hour-and-thirty-seven-minute trial, but, dutifully sitting by my home set, I longed for the thrilling back-and-forth of the previous six, including even that 13–12, twenty-eight-hit, ten-inning monster of Game Five.

As happens so often in a long series, the joys and triumphs of the winners and their rooters remain pure, while the rest of us, and not only the Dodger fans, try not to think about several inexorable but excruciating failures and pains. We must put aside, for instance, what today must look like for Yu Darvish, last night’s Dodger starter, who was gone after those two innings, and who had lasted for a bare five outs in his Game One start, while coughing up six hits and four runs. Dodger first baseman Cody Bellinger struck out three times last night and seventeen times in the Series, in the end resembling only an embarrassed high-school swinger up there. He set the record for the most strikeouts in the post-season, twenty-nine. Dodger ace Clayton Kershaw pitched four useful innings in a relief role last night but now must ponder his astounding eight homers surrendered in the post-season. Yasiel Puig and his bat, although close, will undergo some counselling this winter. He by turns licks, gnaws, whispers to, and kisses his partner between pitches, but throws her violently to the dirt when she fails him. They probably love each other, but this is an abusive relationship.

There’s a bit of sunshine, however, for the notable Dodger cleanup hitter Justin Turner, who batted .130 for the Series, but perhaps even this afternoon will take himself to the barber, to be shorn of his enormous pinkish-red mane and whiskers, which have grown untouched since some rash vow last spring.

This Astros championship began with fresh ownership and management after 2013 and 2014, when the team suffered more-than-a-hundred-loss seasons. Brilliant draft picks and front-office algorithm strategizing brought us this cast of thrilling newcomers now fixed in our baseball consciousness—the stubby and exuberant José Altuve, with his three successive two-hundred-hit seasons, Series M.V.P. center fielder George Springer, whose five Series home runs tie a record previously shared by Reggie Jackson and Chase Utley, and the tall and athletically eloquent Carlos Correa, among others.

My own happiness at this outcome is centered on some older guys, familiar to me from earlier seasons. I’m thinking about the illustrious Carlos Beltrán, now forty, who has his first Championship ring after nineteen years’ service with six prior teams, including the Yankees and the Mets. I also respect catcher Brian McCann, a former Yankee reliable, and almost forgive his ceaseless high-school-corridor whisperings with his pitchers. Most of all, I’m happy for Justin Verlander, who pitched strongly for the Tigers over thirteen seasons, picking up Cy Young and Most Valuable Player awards along the way, before joining the Astros in a last-minute midsummer deal. He went 8–0 for them during the season and won four out of five games with a 2.21 E.R.A. during this year’s post-season. He had played in two prior World Series, but this was his first championship.

Verlander is workmanlike and minimal on the mound, with an intelligent pre-pitch gaze that almost allows us to share the pitch plan and the grip and angle of the ensuing delivery. He accepts the result, good or bad, with a grizzled composure. As the starter (and eventual loser) for the Astros on Saturday, he had struck out seven batters over the first five innings and was protecting a 1–0 lead when he gave up a single to Austin Barnes and then saw a pitch of his nick the next batter, Utley, on the foot, just before the go-ahead single and sac fly that put the Dodgers ahead. He left the mound after an inning-ending strikeout and was gone from the game, but displayed no or few sighings or mutterings on the bench. You take what comes. Now he has played in his first World Series, and it has brought him a Championship ring and a sweet winter off. For the rest of us not in or around Houston, the reward after two thousand four hundred and fifty-eight regular-season games and thirty-eight more in the post-season is a bit more sleep and, for the moment, at least, no more innings.

I wonder what Mr. Angell made of the Astros being latterly exposed as cheats, or not quite playing within the rules. He would have been a stickler, for the rule-book, is my guess.

I love the openings, and closing of his writing.  The way he slips in and out of commentary, and colour.  One can only hope to be read in the same way; for now, it’s best to read, and enjoy.

References:

https://www.newyorker.com/contributors/roger-angell

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Angell

https://www.newyorker.com/sports/sporting-scene/baby-giles

https://www.newyorker.com/sports/sporting-scene/long-wait-great-win-houston-astros-los-angeles-dodgers-world-series-game-seven

As always, thank you for being here.

Similar to Augusta in golf, it seems Wimbledon treats its players with contempt.

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This article was tentatively started just after Kyrgios lost to Novak Djokovic in the men's singles final; it could be confidently argued that Djokovic defeated Kyrgios, with the champion having to call on all his resources to see off the combative Australian.

I intended to run the column as a prelude to the U.S. Open, which has just commenced, then I saw the draw and thought it best to wait to see if Kyrgios could get past his partner and friend, Thanasi Kokkinakis.

Kyrgios was abjectly apologetic when commenting on his first-round victory, "When we both saw the draw, it was a nightmare, honestly. We never want to play each other and he probably beats 80 percent of the draw tonight. He has been playing really good.”

Loyalty appears reciprocal to the Canberran. If you have Nick Kyrgios’ back, he has yours. If you’re not with him, then you are against him. It feels like there is very little middle ground, an absence of softness in his character and relationships.

Born from a mixed parentage, his father is Greek and his mother Malay, Kyrgios grew up in the planned environs of Canberra, the very word ‘planned’ fans in the face of his instincts. His peers describe him as talented, talented, and even more talented. The fate gods dealt him an impossible hand with their Canberra placement!. This might explain some of his resentment toward administration.

So, after a full month of deliberation, I decided to push on and try to finish what I started. With the cogitation set aside, and Kyrgios through to the third round, why not argue that the Wimbledon defeat could well be the catalyst for this sublimely artistic tennis player to shed the potential tag, and embrace the values of performance.

Thinking back to that Sunday afternoon in South-west London, many will remember Kyrgios screaming at the players box, and not the tennis. Both he, and Djokovic played out a thrilling final. It is important not to forget this.

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When the match ended, Nick Kyrgios immediately looked up at his box, and his shoulders slumped this after repeatedly asking them for more love–it seemed like no matter how much they cheered and applauded and praised and clapped, they could not offer enough love to sustain him. He was ‘all out of love’

It is hard to know what was swirling around his mind.  Kyrgios spares nobody in defeat, especially himself, but, just maybe, he allowed himself to think, ‘That’s as good as I could give today, and it wasn’t good enough, my day will come another time, just as long as I play like this, and sustain my efforts like I did today.’  ‘I take my coloured cap off to you Novak Djokovic.’  ‘Wink, wink.’

Goran Ivanisevic, coach to Novak Djokovic, described Kyrgios as a “tennis genius” leaving Kyrgios to ponder if he belongs in the games upper echelons. His immediate reaction was affirmative. A conclusion reached of his own accord. Remember, Kyrgios chooses not to employ a coach.

He said afterwards, “I feel like my fire’s been lit this whole year (2022). I’ve obviously met a lot of amazing people this year who have just given me extra motivation,” he said.

“Amazing people.” How interesting it would be to pin Kyrgios down on who the people are?

The art of listening underpins both personal and professional development. I believe Kyrgios has always inherently listened but hasn’t been able to successfully decode all the information he receives, leading to hierarchical breakdowns with those looking to help him, namely coaches.

Kyrgios went on to say, “To find people that finally have my back, that I just love being around and they just want to push me to be a better person and to be a better tennis player, they realise that I’m immensely talented and I have a lot of, I feel like, a lot more to do in this sport.”

Fast forward to Queens, New York—the U.S. Open—a tournament removed from Wimbledon. Queens feels like an urban jungle with close to 2.5 million inhabitants, as opposed to Wimbledon, which resides in leafy South West London. Wise guys and Runyonesque characters fill the sidewalks of Queens, an environment much better suited to Kyrgios' instincts.

In drawing comparisons between sportspeople, the conspicuous parallel is the comparative skill levels and performance. Then you might look at their styles, techniques, and maybe last, character similarities. In the case of Nick Kyrgios, the obvious route is ‘character similarities’—because there are, or have been, very few tennis players who have displayed similar characteristic patterns.

Jumping off the page is John Patrick McEnroe. McEnroe was a showman—an incredibly smart one at that. Using his volatile court persona to unsettle his rivals, in particular—Jimmy Connors and Bjorn Borg—through the late seventies, and early eighties. His performances were littered with tantrums, invective, and “racket abuse”—saving his best for the 1990 Australian Open, where he was ejected from the tournament.

Does Kyrgios differ from McEnroe? I would say yes in part.

McEnroe had genuine rivals; Jimmy Connors, who could be equally abrasive, but amazingly seemed to be more readily accepted by administration and fans. And then Bjorn Borg, who was everything that McEnroe wasn’t in style, play, and character. Kyrgios, though, does not have a direct rival. It seems like everyone could be his rival. The opponent to fear most might be himself.

McEnroe graduated to the commentary box; he is a New Yorker, and the sidewalks hold no fears for a man easily cast in a Damon Runyon short story. His Alma mater is Stanford; the man is no dummy.

Kyrgios is no dummy either.

He could traverse the sidewalks of Queens and not be out of place—locals would welcome him as one of their own. He can stand opposite anyone in world tennis knowing his best is good enough. Kyrgios is a homebody too—he loves nothing more than returning to his roots. The previous version of Kyrgios was always impatient to get home to Australia—the newer version, we hope, has a greater sense of practicality, and a desire to stay the course.

As we speak, Nick Kyrgios is still in Queens, New York, after advancing to the third round with a four-set win today. I will bet Wimbledon wasn’t a detour. I believe it was the catalyst for change, a change that had been brewing for some time.

Kyrgios said of Djokovic after the Wimbledon final, “Yeah, he’s a bit of a god, I’m not going to lie, I thought I played well.”

And—hypothetically of course—Kyrgios said of himself after winning the 2022 U.S Open, “Yeah I’m pretty good, I’m not going to lie, I thought I played pretty well today.”

“Sometimes the road less travelled is less travelled for a reason.”

As always, my thanks for being here.

DUSTY BAKER and the Houston Astro's get a taste of 'DIRTY WATER' .. or not .. SpeakingNick, October 2021

So, here we are - it’s that time of the week again - ‘Thank god it’s Friday’.

It was October 2021. Somewhere in New England, U.S.—I felt like the peerless Stephen King, holed up in the dense woodlands of Vermont, fighting with a flimsy internet connection and a cold, unresponsive qwerty keyboard—so, actually nothing like Stephen King!

Anyhow, I was there at the bequest of Australian PM, Mr. Scott Morrison, who decided, in his infinite wisdom, to make it impossible for Australian citizens to return home during the recent pandemic.

Anyway, to quote Stephen King on New England, “I was a political democrat with typical Yankee suspicious of life outside of New England.”

My experience in New England has taught me that its natives are blindly passionate about their slice of North America. Education is unashamedly important to them, of equal importance is authentic maple syrup—yes, it is—I have been to breakfast with folk who bring their own. And, the list can go on.

Circling back to the sport, that’s why we’re here, right? New England’s sports teams are arguably the most lauded set of franchises in the world. Located in Boston (the capital of New England)—the Red Sox (Baseball), Celtics (Basketball), Patriots (Football) and Bruins (Ice Hockey) are all storied teams in their respective sports.

Their players are equally lauded. Again, there are too many to list. So, if I can share my favourite—David ‘Big Papi’ Ortiz—this not so much for his stellar play for the Red Sox, but more his rallying rhetoric after the tragic marathon bombings of 2013. Big Papi famously said, “This is our F***ing City!”, the support was overwhelming, and the “#BostonStrong” was born.

Today, August 26, 2022, the Houston Astros defeated the Minnesota Twins, extending their season record to 81/45 with a .643 win percentage. This week's Thank God it’s Friday’ travels back to that wooded terrain in Vermont, and my account of their duel with the Red Sox, playing off for the 2021 American League Championship.

The Astros finished off the Red Sox in six games, so advancing to their third World Series in five years.

Game three saw the Red Sox lap the Astros 12-3, with their version of ‘Baz-ball’ and Neil Diamond blowing up Spotify. ‘Dirty water was flowing, and I was kind of excited. And, then, next minute … Dusty Baker and his crew ran the tables, Sweet Caroline was retired for another year, and the good folk of Boston had to lay the blame somewhere … enter Laz Diaz. You can read the rest below.

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DUSTY BAKER and the Houston Astro's get a taste of 'DIRTY WATER' .. or not ..

SpeakingNick

The Red Sox offense is swinging like they do in Beaumaris! - swinging from the fences, and connecting with alarming regularity. Laundromats are full in Beantown. Washing trolleys are at a premium, crashing down the aisles, much the same as home run hitters in the Boston dugout. This venerable sports town is buzzing. Dan Shaughnessy is salivating! Start the car – The Red Sox Nation is rocking 'Dirty Water'

And, it’s not looking great for the Astros. 2-1 down with another Fenway date this evening, it might be a green monster too far for the Texas collective. After all, they are not mandated fans.

Welcome, Johnnie B. "Dusty" Baker Jr. ‘Dusty Baker’

A man who knows all there is to know about dugouts has plenty on his plate. Legendary player-turned-manager Dusty Baker, unjustifiably maligned in some baseball circles, has to rally his troops in a hurry and look for a return to regular-season form. He may consider putting himself in tonight’s line-up, the 72-year-old swapping his hoodie and bobble hat for a Marucci and playing cap.

Alex Cora, the opposing Manager, equally maligned in other circles, is winning the manager’s spittoon contest. Same as his batters, Cora is hitting his targets without fail, and the receptacle is full. Dusty might consider a replacement pot, or maybe a quiet night at third base with some Marucci swinging!

First pitch goes down at 8pm. Likely starting pitchers are Nick Pivetta against Zack Greinke.

Neil Diamond is ready and willing.

The Red Sox continued to play an all-out offense. Home-run swinging at virtually every plate appearance. 

It appeared they believed it was down to the probability that their swinging bats would catch the right ball eventually. The Red Sox missed a trick. Reading and reacting is a prerequisite skill for high-performance professional athletes; a mixed offense approach would have been more prudent, setting aside the complexity of probability, or chance.

Conversely, the Astros employed a more passive-aggressive approach to their play. Mirroring the great Ali v Frazier fight—The Rumble in the Jungle. Like Ali, they wore down their opponent with a sustained blocking defense, before eventually prevailing with a withering finish. The Sox will feel as aggrieved as Frazier did on that steamy night in Zaire.

The Astros prevailed 9 runs to 2—leveling the series at 2-2.  Both sides’ momentum returned to a position of equilibrium.  

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Tonight’s encounter, Game five, will be intriguing viewing—key personnel will change from last night’s game, and so might the strategy of both Managers. Will the Red Sox stay true to their overstated course, and will the Astros move away from their passive-aggressive tact?

Baseball games, well, most games, are played between two teams. Ground-breaking!

Then to the fans. Both the Astro’s and Red Sox’ continue to enjoy unwavering support. Next, the media. This medium allows the wider community to participate in the spectacle through print and vision. Last, but not least, we have to include the officials! 

Last night wasn’t a good night for the umpires.  Their officiating was too visible, and eventually changed the course of a compelling contest.  For the worse, it has to be said. 

Most of my playing career, cricket, not baseball, was played in a submissive state toward umpires. Stupidly thinking they might take pity on my inadequacies as a player, in hindsight, it was a foolish approach. Officials are a law unto themselves.

Laz Diaz, the home plate umpire, had a night to forget.

His view of the strike zone changed like Spring weather in Melbourne. He had the smoking hot JD Martinez in the gun all night, also confusing both sets of pitchers with his inconsistent and inaccurate viewport.

Diaz was demonstrative, argumentative, combative, and worst of all, unwavering in his belligerent attitude. Red Sox manager, Alex Cora, should have applied for an extradition order!

The game changer, though, was a game breaker—after approximately 23 missed ball-strike calls. Diaz botched a two-strike, two-out breaking ball from the starter, and turned closer, Nathan Eovaldi.

The fortunate recipient, Jason Castro, then proceeded to drive in the go-ahead score, and the rest is history, much the same as when Ali beat Frazier in Zaire.

This oversight will remain in the memory of every Bostonian—the only resolution will be a series win and a ticket to the World Series. Diaz will not be forgiven, just excused.

Boston is a tough joint. 

Pitching under the gun can also be a risky business—there was ample evidence last night, leaving some icing their arms, knowing they could be on the mound again tonight, with a shot at retribution.

All of them, though, hoping Mr. Diaz will be watching from his armchair. Who would be an umpire?

Have a great weekend, and as always, thank you for being here.

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As for Kerr, he was quite content to appear as an ‘extra’ - a part he played to perfection throughout his N.B.A. career, which is in no way devaluing his playing achievements. And now continuing that role into his coaching career, which is equally as decorated.

Kerr coaches the Golden State Warriors; they are described as a team that plays ‘beautiful basketball.’  He might be described as a ‘wonderful coach’ - I think so.

And, it’s that time of the year - N.B.A finals. The Warriors emerge from the Western conference looking like a good thing, their opponent, the Boston Celtics will be equally expectant. I have a parental allegiance to the Celtics, and an appreciation-crush toward the Dubs.

I read Kerr: I watch him intently in-game, and then listen to him run the press in circles.  I subscribed to a recent podcast - ‘The Flying Coach’ - and for me, it is hard not to have an appetite that consumes all things Steve Kerr. He is a consummate professional.

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As a coach, at a different level, I find his life, and coaching rhythm sublime to observe, the demeanour rarely changes whatever the situation, sitting as close to his players as he needs.  Then, when required, he retreats to the X’s and O’s seamlessly. I unashamedly plagiarise without consent, not that he would ask for that.  There is no copyright in Mr. Kerr.

With that said …

What is most relevant currently are his words on America’s gun laws. I know, a swift change of direction - please persist.

Kerr’s words are not isolated to the horrific happenings in Buffalo and Uvalde, Texas. No, Kerr is a long-time advocate of gun control, and a long-time critic of politicians who do nothing to change this ridiculous situation. He specifically targets the Senate, who continue to abstain on passing legislation as simple as a requirement for universal background checks. Surely this can be a bi-lateral starting point.

He has repeatedly supported a bill that would require more rigorous background checks on people buying firearms. My research shows the bill passed the US House of Representatives in 2021 - but did not get to the Senate. He is suitably frustrated.

In his words: “I’m fed up. I’ve had enough.” “When are we going to do something?” he added. “Enough!”

You would think much of his ideology is shaped by the traumatic loss of his own father. In 1984, during Kerr’s freshman year at the University of Arizona, his father, Malcolm, was shot and killed by assassins outside his office at the American University in Beirut.

His life changed forever.

After the carnage of last week - Kerr dismissed the importance of basketball when asked about his team’s chances of sweeping the Dallas Mavericks, so advancing to the pinnacle of his current career, in basketball, the N.B.A finals. This would be the Warriors sixth finals appearance in the last eight years - winning three - giving Kerr his three coaching rings.

Instead he switched gears and drew on the weight of his own life, a perspective he has carried since 1984. He had struggled through so much, the resonance that accompanied his words was deserved.

“We’re going to play the game tonight. But I want every person here, every person listening to this, to think about your own child or grandchild, or mother or father, sister, brother. How would you feel if this happened to you today?”

He mocked that a moment of silence, and a basketball game would numb the pain, make it go away. Almost, patronising his own standing.

“That’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go play a basketball game. Fifty senators in Washington are going to hold us hostage. Do you realise that 90 percent of Americans, regardless of political party, want background checks — universal background checks? Ninety percent of us. We are being held hostage by 50 senators in Washington who refuse to even put it to a vote, despite what we the American people want.”

Kerr stands front and centre when sports use their voice to expose governments who abdicate their responsibilities. There is no backing down, more a further commitment to use his voice, and credibility. For now he is a basketball coach. Later, I think we know, he will hold many sets of feet to the fire, or loafers as is the case for the cozy senate.

Again, he is teaching without lecturing, the narrative he conveys is easily digested by this scribe. And, I hope, his messages are equally accepted everywhere. He surely has a career after basketball.

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For now, he has a job to do on the basketball court. Kerr will narrow his focus to the 4,500 odd square feet that will determine the victors of the 2022 N.B.A finals series. His Warriors will be there till the end; the Celtics will be hoping they can conquer their inner-doubts. It will be fascinating viewing.

I am fortunate to be able to spend time in the United States. To me, it is a wonderful country, so much diversity, so much room to grow. For now, I will do as I do - listen to Steve Kerr, follow his lead, try to self-educate on this intensely complex issue. Or is it complex?

On the court - go Celtics! In the debate - go Steve Kerr.