Really now, is it that hard to be a good sport?  There’s plenty of blame to go around.  Let’s start in reverse with the horrible officiating in Game 5 of the Celtics/Magic Eastern Conference finals.  NBA Ref Eddie F. Rush gave Kendrick Perkins his second technical foul of the game on a ridiculous call, resulting in an automatic ejection.  It changed the complexion of the game just before halftime and threatened to turn the series upside down.  With Perk reaching the maximum number of technicals allowed in postseason play (7), he was facing a game suspension.  Fortunately the league came to its senses and rescinded one of the technicals, which means Perk won’t have to sit a game out.

Perk clearly has a chronic complaining problem, but his reaction to what was an awful call was somewhat understandable.  What’s inexcusable was Eddie Rush’s rush to justice.  It’s the playoffs for goodness sake!  You have to let a lot of little stuff go.

What’s everyone talking about the next day?  The officiating.  When sportstalk radio is focusing on officiating, clearly we have trouble.

Doc Rivers not having it from Eddie F. Rush/NBA & Getty Images

A couple of hours before that there was Umpire Joe West who called two balks on White Sox Pitcher Mark Buehrle.  West quickly tossed Manager Ozzie Guillen out for arguing the first one, and Buehrle after the pitcher threw his glove down in disgust after the second.  Between a dozen or so f-bombs, Ozzie provided profound wisdom.  Paraphrasing Ozzie here, “Nobody comes to a f*&$%’n game to watch a f*#&!’n manager or umpire.  They come to watch the players.  Joe West thinks people come to a f*#&%’n game to watch him umpire.”

Ozzie’s right even if his choice of adjectives isn’t.

Ozzie Guillen & Joe West/Courtesy AP

And on Tuesday during the Red Sox and Rays contest Carl Crawford was tossed after arguing with Umpire Bob Davidson.  Crawford clearly went too far by nudging close enough that the bill of his helmet bopped Davidson’s nose.  Contact is an automatic ejection.  Then Rays’ Manager Joe Maddon got tossed too.  Davidson had to throw them out, but his willingness to shout profanities back within inches of Madden’s face is unprofessional umpiring at worst and sophomoric at best.

Courtesy: Getty Images

There is a gulf of resentment between players and umpires and it’s growing wider by the day.  The  jealously over money and attention is as bad as anything you’d find in a sorority house.  With that kind of drama simmering below the surface, one only needs a nudge to spark the explosion.  Players should know better and have respect for authority.  At the same time those authority figures ought to bigger about it when players/managers & coaches try to make them look small.  Let me steal a line from WWE Superstar The Rock,  ”Know your role and shut your mouth.”

That’s part of being a Good Sport, which by the way is the title of my blog.

Wellesley Veterans Day Parade

Whenever I wear pink there’s always some guy somewhere who makes a comment about it.  I hear it when I wear pink dress shirts and pink ties on TV doing sports.  I even heard it from a few folks while walking with the Girl Scouts in the Wellesley Veterans Day Parade. 

I get it, and I’m generally amused by it.  You(guys) may not like it, but girls and women do–and that’s all that matters.  What else are we dressing for?  My daughters pick out my outfits sometimes.  If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me.

Here’s a funny story, about walking with Samantha and her troopmates in the parade.  The pink shirts were in support of an anti bullying platform.  Anti bullying is the hottest social issue going.   As I was walking by the Wellesley Hills post office someone shouted at me, “Hey what do you do to support anti bullying?”

“If someone acts up, or starts bullying someone else, I go over there and tell the bully I’m going to beat him up,” I teased.  

“Isn’t that bullying too?” he asked.

“Probably, but it’s the only language the bully understands,” I reasoned.  “You gotta give them a taste of their own medicine.  Might is right.”

That’s easy for me to say, I know; and I said what I said with my tongue planted firmly in my cheek.  The guy knew what I meant and he laughed.  ”Those are pretty strong words from a guy wearing a pink T-shirt,” he said.

It was a good jab.  I admit it.  But just because I wear pink doesn’t mean I’m a pushover. 

Any comments?   Bring ‘em on!

I just returned from a whirlwind trip that included two speaking engagements in 12 hours, 350 miles miles apart.  The first was to Rotarians in Boxborough, Massachusetts on Friday night.  As soon as I finished I got in the car and drove seven hours through the night to speak Saturday morning to bone marrow transplant survivors and their families at Temple University in Philadelphia.  I shared with them my story of being a bone marrow donor and writing a book about it, The Marrow in Me.

Receiving Paul Harris Fellow Award in Boxborough, MA

The trip was physically exhausting, but I got such a lift out of telling and hearing stories of hope from others.  Villanova Football Coach Andy Talley told the story of his star football player, Matt Szcur, who turned up as a bone marrow match for a one year girl he’d never met.

Matt Szczur, Donor for Infant Girl

Joy Janice, searching for donor

 I had been riding the trip’s high for a couple of days until I got an email yesterday that made my heart sink.  The email introduced me and dozens of others on a long email trail to Joy Janice of suburban Philadelphia.  Joy had breast cancer a couple of years ago and beat it with the usual treatments which included chemotherapy.  Sadly she has cancer again.  It’s not breast cancer, it’s leukemia; the unfortunate complication from the chemo. 

Mitch and Joy

Joy doesn’t have brothers and sisters, so she’s searching for a matching stem cell donor.  So far no luck in the registries.  Be a hero, register as a potential donor today.  Believe me, there’s no greater joy than receiving the phone call that you’ve turned up as the chosen match to join someone on what could be a lifesaving journey.  Matt Szczur I’m sure would tell you the same.    Click on the link for the Be The Match website, http://join.marrow.org.  After completing the qualifying questions(toward the end of the process), enter JJ1605 into the field labeled “Promo Code”.

A cheek swabbing donor kit will be mailed to you.  I like to say everyone is a match for someone somewhere in the world.  It’s just a question of whether that person will get sick, and whether you’ll be in a registry.  Swab away.  It would mean a lot to me, and I know it would mean the world to Joy and those who care about her.

I wanted to give this one a little time to sink in.  Let’s go back to when the emotions were most raw after the Bruins epic Game 7 collapse.  The background:  Bruins up 3-0 in the series and up 3-nothing in Game 7 only to see the Flyers roar back and score four unanswered goals to win the game and the series.

Courtesy: Boston.com

It was enough to put a sour puss on Claude Julien’s face.  More than a few Bruins fans looked as if they had eaten a bushel of lemons too.

I was speaking to a regional conference of Rotarians in Boxborough, MA, Friday night about my book The Marrow in Me.  A table of 40-somethings was monitoring the game on Blackberries and I-Phones.  Two nothing Bruins the guys signaled.  Then three nothing.  I’m speaking and thinking, no way the Bruins lose.  Then 3-1, 3-2, tied up.  After I finished a crestfallen guy comes over and says “They lost 4-3.”

After signing books it was a good time to get out of town.  Considering I had a speaking engagement at Temple University in Philadelphia the next morning I figured it would be nice to leave the funeral and join the fun on the other end.  But I was conflicted.  Born and raised in Philly as a lifelong Flyers fan I switched allegiances when I moved to Boston last summer.   That freaks my friends out, but it’s geographically honest, and it’s consistent with the When in Rome Philosophy.   

While driving through the night I thought it’d be good to put Boston in the rearview mirror for a short time.  One problem, you can’t outrun the radio.  Listening to sportstalk radio is like a popping a zit.  By facing and squeezing the monster there’s a release.  But really who wants a puss postule on their face to begin with?       

For about an hour or so I listened to drama queens on the air breaking out in collective agony.   The complexion of the local sports scene erupted like the North Star on your prom date’s nose.

Courtesy: Ed Hille, Philadelphia Inquirer

I had never welcomed an entry into the New York radio market more than that Friday night/Saturday morning.  Nobody on NY radio cared.  And it wasn’t long before I drove into the Philly market just south of Trenton, New Jersey.   Now that was a radio party!  It perked me up just as I really started to feel the effects of a sleepless night.  What a contrast.  It cleared my mood just like Clearasil clears a hormonally challenged face. 

When I got to Philly there was no shortage of ballbusters waiting to point out the obvious about what happened hours earlier.  Even if Philly isn’t my home anymore, that kind of reception felt like a homecoming.  Philly is more than the City of Brotherly Love, it’s the town that loves you back–even if they smack you around upon reentry.

I just finished reading Dream On, One Hack Golfer’s Challenge to Break Par in a Year.  It was an unlikely quest for a 24 handicapper and an Irishman’s Irishman, John Richardson, to meet the premise spelled out in the title.

I didn’t seek Dream On out, rather Richardson’s publicist contacted me.  As an author I know how it is seeking publicity.  You ask for it in places you think you might get it.  While I couldn’t provide that on television, I told them to send me a book with the promise that I’d review it on my website.  Here we are.

I’ve read a few books like this before that have a similar context, Tom Coyne’s Paper Tiger, in which the high single digit handicapped author attempted to qualify for the PGA Tour’s Qualifying School comes to mind.

John Richardson is a 24 handicapper trying to balance the demands of work and family while putting in the necessary diligence to give himself a shot at glory.  It’s a story that would’ve easily played out over a few pages of a magazine.  Richardson turned it into a book.  That won’t work for some readers who might see John Richardson’s working, personal and recreational life spelled out in 192 pages as information overload.  But then again those are the same people who read magazines because they have the attention span of a gnat, and they are the same people who hit into your group when the golf course is backed up.

 If you read Dream On in its entirety, you will learn to like John Richardson the man.  Like a lot of men with families, his golf joys are mixed with guilt for being away.  Who hasn’t felt the same way?  As he writes about balancing golf lessons, rounds and time on the range, we are left to wonder how happy our families would be with us if we took up a similar challenge.  And that’s where Dream On connects with the patient reader.  You will vicariously live through the author and his quest, substituting your own challenges and golf goals.

So the money question, is it worth your $23.95 and time?  I say yes.  Is it a must read like any John Feinstein golf book, or Mark Frost’s  The Match: The day the Game of Golf Changed Forever?  I wouldn’t go that far.  John Richardson worked for more than 15 years in the coffee-bar and restaurant industry.  Here’s an analogy of what Dream On amounts to in food terms.  It’s kind of like the corner pub, neighborhood diner, or Elbow Room.  You will not get an exquisite meal at those kind of places, but the food is always good, and you’re always glad you came.

Courtesy: Matt Slocum, AP

Alleged biting incident. Courtesy: NESN

Every now and then something idiotic happens on the Philadelphia sports scene that takes on a life of its own.  The fact that not one, but two idiots in consecutive days hopped the fence and went for a joy run in the outfield at Phillies games doesn’t help.  Sprinkle in the accusation of toothless Flyers’ Goon Daniel Carcillo that Bruins’ Center Marc Savard bit his finger in a scrum, you have a Gong Show. 

But here’s my beef.  By the time the stories exit the orbit of Philly, the context of what happened, and a description of what Philadephia and its fans are like is totally out of whack.   An esteemed Boston radio voice today called  Philadelphia a ”cess pool” among other things.  Predictably his on-air partner brought up the tired “they booed Santa Claus” story.   They are not pioneers.  So many others have said it too.  Being provocative makes for good radio.  But let’s please set the record straight.  Philly fans didn’t just boo Santa Claus, they threw snowballs at him too.  They booed the Easter Bunny. 

Philly is the toughest place in the world to play pro sports.  Sorry New York and Boston, it’s not even close.  Donovan McNabb and Mike Schmidt apologists bemoan the booing of their heroes.  Here’s the deal: Philly fans are tough, but fair.  You get out of them what you put into it.  And it’s not always about success.  It’s about hustling and caring.  Look at Bobby Clarke, Ron Jaworski, Moses Malone and Aaron Rowand.  If you whine and show even a hint of apathy, you’re toast.  Wait a minute, make that scrapple.  Donovan McNabb and Mike Schmidt come to mind.         

For someone who was born and raised there, and has spent ample time in other places, I am the voice of reason.  Philadelphia is an interesting place.  I intentionally used the word orbit two paragraphs above because Philly is truly a different planet.  It’s very parochial.  People love and protect their own.  They have little tolerance for outsiders who don’t embrace the place.  Philadelphia went 25 years without a title.  That’ll make just about anyone crusty.   I’m not defending, just explaining.   Philly folks don’t need anyone else’s approval.  They know they’re a little crazy and apologize for nothing.    Philadelphia is not for everyone, but for those who live there, there’s no other place they’d rather live.

Samantha and Dad fishing in Naples, FL.

Remember that poster of a child sitting on a dock, holding a fishing pole, that read Give Me a Fish I Eat for a Day, Teach me to Fish I Eat for a Lifetime?  One of your elementary school teachers probably had hanging on the wall.  The lesson of the message goes without saying.

Taking your child fishing is a lesson in a lot of things: patience, honesty and respect for wildlife among others.  I took my little anglerettes fishing on the golf course while visiting the in-laws in Florida.  Although we’re catch and release folks in my family, fishing is an exercise in the appreciation of what it takes to find food and hunt for it.  It tests your patience, of which we know children have in short supply. 

On one sojourn I had both of my girls with me.  Amanda hooked and landed a two pound largemouth bass within minutes.  The rest of the hour or so we had of remaining daylight amounted to a rush by the older Samantha to duplicate the effort.  No such luck.

One the way home I heard Samantha pleading with Amanda to include her in the storyline of helping to catch the fish.  I can understand a child’s desire of inclusion, but adding that onto the true account wouldn’t have been truthful.  If there’s anything I’m trying to get children hooked on early on, it’s telling the truth.  The truth is Amanda caught it on her own.  Sammy threw it back.

Sammy couldn’t wait to get back to the pond on the 17th hole at a later time.  A couple of nights later I took Sammy to a spot where I knew we’d catch fish.  It took a little effort but we caught three, including a lunker by a culvert.  We took pictures to remember it.

Of course I’ll remember squeemishness of Sammy putting her small hands in the largemouth’s mouth to strike a pose, but I’ll most remember the lessons we learned before, during and after landing the big one.

It was one of those really awkward moments on the subway, or the T as they call it in Boston.  It was just after the Bruins defeated the Flyers 3-2 to take a two game lead in the Eastern Conference Semifinals.  A shot in the final minutes by Milan Lucic got by Flyers’ goaltender Brian Boucher.

Brian Boucher gives up game winner. Courtesy: philly.com

 There was guy on the Green Line, traveling toward Kenmore, wearing an old 88 Eric Lindros jersey.  He was sitting diagonally across from me on the right, and a young buck wearing a Milan Lucic Bruins’ jersey was sitting diagonally on my left.

Flyers Fan on Green Line

Lucic said said some playfully insulting things to Lindros who, to his credit, handled it well.  Whoa the person who wears a Lindros jersey with the Captain’s C.  They are going to hear it everywhere.  If you remember, Lindros was a terrible disappointment for the Flyers on the ice and a crybaby off of it.  But it was a guy sitting straight across from Lindros on the T who joined the discussion and made an A out of himself.

It almost came to blows with different young man wearing a Bruins shirt saying “Bro I’m not even kidding.  You don’t even want to go there.  I’m a professional fighter and this is not going to end well, it never does.  You’re not even built for this.  Trust me you will not like the result.”

And with that the situation ended.  You don’t see many fights on the ice in the NHL playoffs because the price for a penalty is too high.  Sure there’s pushing and shoving after the whistle, but it usually doesn’t amount to much other than a good visual without the benefit of hearing what the players are saying.  That’s kind of what played out in front of me on the T.  But here the sound was clear, and oh yes, it was rated R.

This is a story about two friends.  One was older than the other.  The younger friend I knew better.  First the older man, who was about 70.  He was the next pew over at 12:30 Mass.  He caught my eye and, for a brief moment, I thought I might have met him before.  After Mass he came over.  ”Are you Kevin from Comcast?” he asked.  “Yes,” I told him.  “My name is Herman Romero.  We met at one of your book signings in Wilmington, Delaware.  I bought one of your books for my son.  I thought I remember you telling me you were from Wellesley, Massachusetts.  I’m visiting my daughter who lives in Needham.  I thought that was you and your family,” Herman said.

A familiar sight presented itself to Herman, albeit in a different place.  Turns out Herman was a member of our previous parish, Immaculate Heart of Mary, in North Wilmington.  That’s 350 miles away!  Even though we’d never spoken at lenghth prior to our brief meeting at the bookstore, Herman remembered the visual of my family.  Having a pretty wife and two really cute girls always gets attention.  As I left church I just had this feeling it might be one of those days when good things happen.

Later in the afternoon I was coming out of the lunchroom at Comcast Sportsnet New England with a cup of Green Mountain Coffee in hand and saw two familiar faces.  It was John Boruk and Neal Slotkin of Comcast Sportsnet Philadelphia.  They were in Boston to cover the Bruins/Flyers playoff series.  John says to me, “Hey Kev, check this out.  I have something to show you.”

John Boruk, Comcast Sportsnet Philadelphia

John pulled a Be The Match registration card out of his money clip.  “I registered because you inspired me with the story that you told me about you being a bone marrow donor.”

Marc Savard, Courtesy: Charles Krupa/AP

Well that just made my day and affirmed my earlier feeling that something good was going to happen after bumping into Herman at Mass.  I just didn’t know how it would present itself.  By being a bone marrow donor and writing a book about it, it’s always been my hope that others would do what John did; and God willing, would turn up as a lifesaving match that went to transplant.  It could be John, or it could be someone else.  To know that I might have had a hand in making it happen, that would be the greatest gift of all.  I gave John a gift before he left.  It was the rest of the story, in written form.

A couple of months ago I wrote about feeling lost after losing my wedding band.  Teri, my dry cleaning pickup lady, found it in my laundry.  She really saved the day.  

Here’s another story about my wedding band and how it saved me.  I took the family to Disney World last week and got my fingers stuck in a closing gate at the Indy Race Cars.  The gate swung hard and I felt a slight squeeze.  I couldn’t believe it didn’t hurt more.  With all the little fingers that touch stuff in the Magic Kingdom, I figured the geniuses at Disney probably rigged the gates to cushion such accidents.

Later that night at the hotel I had a hard time taking my ring off.  After a mighty tug I realized why.  My ring had changed shape dramatically.  It looked like a squared oval.  Think of the race track at the Indy 500, that’s what it looked like.  I had no idea what caused the reshaping of the ring, and I asked a few people about it.  Nobody could recall ever having seen such a thing.      

The next morning while stomping on my ring to, if not make it round at least make it wearable, I figured out what happened.  The gate at Disney World must have closed precisely on my wedding band.  In absorbing the impact, the ring changed from round to oval.  Judging from how smushed the ring was I’m almost positive that without it I would have broken a few fingers, if not lost a digit.  ”Better keep wearing that,” my wife Jean and Sister-in-Law Jennifer joked.  

Another reason to wear the hardware. 

Got any good ring stories?  Post a reply.