TGIF: Those Damn Celtics and the legend of Pat "Slim" Donnelly, a South Boston legend.
I have a confession to make: I love the city of Boston.
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.
Nick a sublime piece of poetry…. Could havebeen Hemingway….nice work.. cheers AQ