Mark Wilson/Getty Images

Here’s the thing, this never had to happen.  At the very least Roger Clemens had three chances to save himself from a federal indictment for allegedly lying to Congress.  But he willingly walked himself into an opportunity to incriminate himself.   Who does that?  This, in my opinion, is the definition of stupidity.

Ask yourself for a second, if you knew your henchmen had a sizable pile of evidence against you, but they gave you an option to avoid legal trouble, wouldn’t it be wise to walk away?

Clemens could have done that.  But he asked for the hearing which put him in a dangerous situation by his choice.  Then, as investigators would have you believe, he tried to bullsh*t his way out of it, essentially making a hole of his digging even deeper.  Who does this? 

Clemens says he’s completely innocent and looks forward to his day in court, which means at the very least we’ll be subject to more rounds of his sanctimonious denials.  Here’s my take and the lesson that ought to be learned.   If you mess up,even a little, fess up.  Does anybody talk about Andy Pettitte admitting he took performance enhancing drugs anymore?  No.  But they’ll be talking about Roger Clemens forever; not so much because of The Rocket’s alleged steroid use, but because of his insistence to waste lawmakers’ time and taxpayers’ money in a ridiculous spectacle.

I welcome your comments on the matter.

Well this is going to be interesting.  Shaquille O’Neal, all 7′1″ 325 pounds of him is going to have a huge impact in ways beyond basketball.  There is nothing small about Shaq; in how he lives, plays, talks, acts, etc.  OK maybe his defense has shrunk, but whose D doesn’t on the back nine of a career?

Shaq does everything extra large.  Big body, big entertainer, a human quote machine.  Need sound, find Shaq.  You can’t miss him.  

A bunch of us in the Boston media are maneuvering to give him a nifty nickname so we can coin it.  I thought I said The Big Shamrock first, but I’ve heard at least three other people say it too–including Gary Tanguay–so I guess it’s not original enough.  My colleague Kyle Draper suggested The Big Leprechaun.  That’s a good one.  It might have legs taller than the logo on the parquet at The Garden.  If The Big Leprechaun sticks, Draper I’m sure will annoy me constantly about how clever he was for having come up with it.

The basketball heads are fighting about whether Shaq is a good fit for the Green Team, or just a clog on an aging team.  My thoughts: it’s a PR boon and it just might be the difference in putting the C’s over the top.  Really what’s the risk?  He’s only signing for the veteran’s minimum.  If it doesn’t work, release him.  There is no risk.  We’ll all be watching.

When I write ”down on the farm” in the above headline, I’m not talking about the place where cows graze and drop steaming bowling balls on the ground.  I’m talking about the farm club of a major league baseball team.  In this case, the Red Sox Triple-A team in Pawtucket, Rhode Island.

Fishing for Autographs

I went down to the farm yesterday to chat up future Red Sox big leaguers.  It’s nice to get out of the studio every now and then, so I welcomed the ”designated for assignment” term that’s used when big leaguers are sent down.  McCoy Stadium in Pawtucket is a nice place and the clubhouse is miles away better than Fenway Park’s clubhouse.  But really, which clubhouse would you rather be in?

You see things at minor league games that you just don’t see in the bigs.  Autograph seekers here are fishers rather than barkers.  Instead of shouting at a player and begging for his signature, some dangle the goods over the dugout.  I like this one, a milk jug on a shoestring, with a baseball and a Sharpie placed inside.  Others drop down mesh bags or clipboards with baseball cars attached.

Lars Anderson/Pawtucket 1B

Lars Anderson, a surfer dude from inland Northern California signed happily after he finished up a conversation with a newspaper reporter.  Could you see this happening at Fenway Park, Yankee Stadium, or Citzens Bank Park?  Neither can I.

Courtesy: Michael Cohen/Getty Images

Regardless of how he plays in the US Open, 30-year-old pro golfer Erik Compton has the heart of a champion.  He’s a good man with a healthy perspective on life, despite a life of mostly poor health.  I interviewed Erik ten years ago when he was on his second heart, a gift from a 15-year-old girl who was killed in a drunk driving accident. 

Erik was a part of the first draft of my recently published book, The Marrow in Me.  Of course back then it wasn’t called that and there were other elements in addition to my bone marrow donation to a 16-year-old boy.  The book was originally called Sharing Life.  In addition to my story, I wrote a chapter about Erik.  I also included stories of kidney and pancreas transplants.  I dropped the stories other than my own and revised the title at the advice of my then literary agent. 

I always wondered what would become of Erik as he pursued his dream to play the PGA Tour. We saw with Erik what we’ve seen with a lot of other star amateur golfers–not much professional success.  Despite winning a handful of mini-tour events, Erik largely disappeared from major golf coverage while his health deteriorated.

While fishing three years ago he suffered a heart attack and came within a whisker of dying.  He pulled through, but his second heart was kaput.  He put off pro golf, sold his equipment, and prepared for a new life with a second heart transplant if; of course, he were lucky enough to get it.  He did, a very healthy heart from a college volleyball player who died in a motorcycle accident.

Courtesy: Cannon/Getty Pictures

When Erik’s health came back, so did his desire to play golf again.  He played well enough to qualify for the US Open at Pebble Beach, his first major.  Even if Erik never reaches the level of stardom so many thought he would when he was once the best junior golfer in America, he’s shown enough heart to fill the Hallmark aisle at CVS.  That’s more than enough for me.

I’m a big believer in supporting the hometown team.  It’s geographically honest and it’s always appropriate to adopt the “When in Rome do as Romans do Philosophy”.  Boston is home now.   But I love when Philly folks come to town.  It brings back great memories.

My pal and fellow author Lorraine Ranalli came to town to promote her wildly entertaining book Gravy Wars.  I was sitting next to her nibbling on a pesto pizza in Bertucci’s when a man came in to get one signed.  “You paisan?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said as they chatted about sauce vs. gravy semantics and origins. 

Afterward I strolled over to Fenway Park and saw a Philadelphia paisan whose Philly attytude spills over like gravy off the sides of a wooden spoon.  It was St. Joseph’s Basketball Coach Phil Martelli, minus 40 pounds.   Then I saw Phillies announcer Tom McCarthy who looked like he lost some weight too.  “I don’t eat the ice cream at Citizens Bank Park anymore,”  he said.  ”It’s Turkey Hill you know.” 

Kevin (left), with St. Joe's Coach Phil Martelli

I know, I had plenty of it when I covered the Phillies for Sportsnet in Philly.

Even Ryan Howard looked a good 20-30 lighter than the last time I saw him.   Hey I’m proud of them all, but when familiar faces look noticeably slimmer, you wonder if it might be time for you too to shed a few. 

Phillies First Baseman Ryan Howard

And then there was a couple of dudes from South Jersey, which (surprise!) included two paisans, who hopped in the car spur of the moment and drove 5 1/2 hours to check out the weekend series.  The Sox promptly dropped 9 runs on starter Jamie Moyer, who didn’t get out of the second inning as the Sox whupped the Phillies 12-2 in Game 1.  Game 2 wasn’t much better.  Fortunately for the Phils and their traveling fans they squeeked out a win in Game 3 before moving on to New York to play the Yankees.

A largely non-successful Phillies series in the Bean on the scorecard mattered little to the traveling faithful.   It was non un gran problema as Italians might say.  The thrill was just being there.  And considering the South Jersey boys had a Red Sox tour guide to show them around Fenway Park, that made it an embarrassment of riches.  Abundanza!

South Jersey Fellas

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.

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.