Summer Recap 2015

Sunday, when I returned to Syracuse from Maine, I stepped off the bus and felt thoroughly too cold. It was jarring. When I left Friday, Syracuse was balmy, too hot even. A sweltering 93 degrees on day. This was more my speed. I know this Syracuse.

But putting on sweatpants for a trek downtown signaled to me that summer is over. I’d been ignoring the signs for weeks, but I now I have to give up.

So in homage to summer, here are some of the adventures I traveled on since May:

It all started when I got the Esquire gig.

Before I left campus, I had to illegally stream a boring boxing match and found out why boxing is dead. In more realizations before New York, I tracked Bill Simmons’ saga right after leaving ESPN for Part I and then in Part II the one month later fallout was dissected.

Then I got to New York and THINGS STARTED HAPPENING.

I saw Bartolo Colon, Least Likeliest Major Leaguer to Hit a Double, hit a double.

I saw an unbelievable baseball game in Yankee Stadium featuring a crazy comeback in the ninth inning that a friend of mine wanted to skedaddle early from.

After that, history in Belmont Park as American Pharoah raced to the Triple Crown. I was totally under dressed and under duress.

Coney Island, Brooklyn, a train ride away, was the site of summer’s greatest moment: The Hot Dog Eating Contest, and the summer’s greatest man: George Shea.

I also got time this summer to write a story about Strafford, New Hampshire’s own, Bobby Wegner, he of the 7-foot-8 stature.

Then I started wandering around Harlem. First, I went to historic basketball court, Rucker Park.

Then I realized Harlem represents the struggle baseball and basketball are having for national attention.

It struck me, through my friend Joey, that relationships are like saving baseball games…everyone will blow some every once in a while, just have the confidence to come back out and pitch.

Lastly, and most dreadfully, I spent a lot of time at Citi Field and sort of fell in love with the New York Mets. I’m sorry, everyone.

Then I came home. And after subjecting me to a summer of dreadful offense and atrocious pitching, the Red Sox did a nice thing for me.

(End note: This is a list of me getting very lucky and being in the right place at the right time. I feel #blessed to have been able to do all this. Thanks so much to my family and my friend Sam Blum, who made many of these adventures possible.)

Sam Fortier is a displaced New Englander living in New York. He likes baseball, crunchy peanut butter and the sound Kanye makes in his songs, which he thinks is spelled “HAAH.” He’s not a fan of grammatical error’s. You can read him here every Monday, follow him on Twitter @Sam4TR, or email him at sam.fortier@yahoo.com. 

Mariano Rivera and Sealing the Deal With Girls

At that indeterminate point between “late” and “early,” the door to my dorm room was flung open.

My friend Joey walked in and sat on the end of my bed and put head in hands. He was thrilled. The night had gone well with a girl he’d had an interest in for a while. Sitting in the dimming glow of liquid happiness and the harsh glare of hallway lights, he wanted to know how he could get it done. This wasn’t the first time my door had opened late with Joey seeking a conversation.

He had been trying to bridge the gap between Friend-dom and Relationship-landia for a while. He’d been putting in the time–helping with homework, texting consistently, making time to see her.

I remember putting on a shirt and getting out of bed and know that, at some point, Joey somehow ended up on the floor of the hallway. Other than that, not much else. But that night I gave the most inspirational speech I could muster. I drew on what I knew.

I told him he was a big game starting pitcher who’d just pitched eight innings with a slim lead. Joey had been taking care of business and setting himself up to succeed all game long. He’d navigated tough spots, but he’d answered the bell when called upon.

Now, the only thing left to do was close the deal.

I repeated myself quite a bit in my attempt at Knute Rockne, but eventually arrived at the best advice I could give my friend.

Twenty minutes later, Joey’s roommate texted me, “Just walked into the room and Joey’s watching Mariano Rivera highlights?”

I had jokingly told Joey that if he wanted to close the deal, then he should watch the career highlights of the man who’s saved the most games in Major League Baseball’s history.

Unfortunately, things didn’t end up working out between Joey and the girl. Hey, for the 652 games Rivera did save in the Bigs, he also blew 73 of them. After all, the game at which Rockne gave his legendary speech, Notre Dame went on to lose 45-10. Maybe that was my fault. Maybe I should’ve showed him this instead.

Either way, like Rivera and like the rest of us, Joey will get another chance to go out the mound and pitch.

What It’s Like To Watch a Game in Rucker Park

The man at the free throw line dribbled twice, exhaled and began shooting the ball.

Just before he released, a voice boomed over the sound system, “Hey! Look who it is! Junior Junior!”

The shooter bricked the ball off the back rim and shook his head. He didn’t even look back. The announcer who had interrupted the free throw ran onto the court and shook hands with Junior Junior. The second free throw swished and Team French Montana inbounded the ball and ran past the two men reminiscing at midcourt.

Yes, two men are standing in the middle of the floor talking during a game. And yes, it appears to be the normal. Several members of the crowd laugh. Not one of the players look angry at the new obstacles.

The sun is fading behind the fences which close off Rucker Park from the rest of Harlem on a Wednesday night. This storied park, the place where Kareem Abdul-Jabar and Julius Erving honed their games and Kevin Durant dropped by to stay in shape during a lockout, is just a community gathering place tonight. After a patdown from metal-wanded security guards, the walk is short to the metal bleachers to see the blue basketball court painted with the Rucker Park logo underneath each basket. There are about 300 people here. An older man in the bleachers is eating a ham sandwich, enjoying the Entertainer’s Basketball Classic, a league held from 6 to 10 p.m. every Monday through Thursday in the summer. The man says he comes every night, a place to keep him entertained and out of trouble.

Team Madoff, now on defense, steals the ball and dribbles back down the court. The players on a fastbreak almost knock down Junior Junior, who was told to go outside so the announcer could give him a proper entrance. Junior Junior—clad in a white Bahama shirt and white pants and white dress shoes—ambles in, waving to the crowd as “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” plays and the announcer screams, “Look at that pineapple outfit! Junior Junior is style, boy boy!”

The announcers seemingly every sentence with the expression, “Boy boy!”

The players are good. Every so often a player will cross up his defender with an ankle-breaking move which produces a blush from him and “oohs!” from everyone else. Once in a while, an angry dunk by “Optimus Prime” will energize the crowd as he hangs on the rim, scowling, only to run around high-fiving the audience. But the players—even apparent EBC superstars “Kiki” and “Brandon”—are largely forgettable. (Except for the hickey on Optimus Prime’s neck, which is undoubtedly the largest hickey I’ve ever seen in my life.)

But the announcers make it memorable. They are the show. Junior Junior’s hype man jumps and screams with his partner, a man who arrived 10 minutes before tip-off and hurriedly changed out of his army fatigues, grabbed a microphone with glued-on brass knuckles and donned a silky white boxer’s robe embroidered with “Da Most Electrifying” in gold lettering. (It’s the same announcer from the Kevin Durant video.)

The abandon of the two announcers is an infectious energy that produces many smiles and guffaws throughout the game. They speak in rapid, rhythmic staccato, punctuating the rat-a-tat-tat of their statements with “Boy, boy!” It’s similar to the rhythm heard by subway bucket drummers.

The announcers berate the players—when one player misses a wide open 3-pointer, the boxer says, “Hey, it’s a cold, cold world”—and debate what to call their fathers, who are both in the crowd that night. “I always call my Pops, Pops,” said Junior Junior’s hype man. “I don’t call nobody dad unless I’m trying to box.”

Junior Junior’s hype man Shmoney dances to Bobby Shmurda’s hit “Hot N***a” while Team Madoff goes on a 10-2 run. He wonders aloud, “Can you do this dance anywhere?” He almost debates himself. He argues that the dance is perfect for the club on Saturday night and the pew on Sunday morning. He said he’s going to try it this Sunday.

“If you don’t believe me, meet me there,” he says. “Every Sunday, 8:45 a.m., 550 west 155th Street, Church of the Intercession. Come on out.”

When a French Montana player buries a 3-pointer which buries the hopes of a comeback, the two hop around and go, “Ohhhhh! They’re gonna need to talk about that one!” Anytime Brandon touches the ball, they yell, “Shooooo-TER” and they laud every swished jumper with a quick, “Bottom of the net!” There’s one white player out of both teams and he’s tall, bearded and balded and white. They call him Gortat, in reference to “The Polish Hammer,” Marcin Gortat, who plays in the NBA.

Junior Junior’s hype man is always scanning the crowd when he’s talking, and I don’t know what he’s looking for. But suddenly, he asks the man sitting in front of me, “Where are you from?” Ecuador, it turns out. He pokes fun at Ecuador for a while and then starts asking others where they’re from. Take it as you will, but Junior Junior’s hype man asked five people out of the crowd of 300. All five were white. Yes, he asked me.

I was from New Hampshire, the guy down the bench from me came from North Carolina, there was a Canadian. When the last guy said Brooklyn, Junior Junior’s hype man put his hands up like, “My bad!”

I hadn’t spoken in a while when he asked, so I choked out “New Hampshire.” And when he was calling out, “Is Ecuador in the building?” and the one guy cheered, I knew what was about to happen. He said, “Is New Hampshire in the building?”

Wanting to represent my state well, I went to cheer as loudly as I could, but again, I hadn’t spoken in a while and my mouth was dry. I yelled something like, “Woo!” but my voice broke in the middle and it sounded like a tone deaf junkyard dog howling falsetto at the moon.

As soon as “the sound” left my mouth, I knew.

Junior Junior’s hype man’s back stiffened and he turned around to look at me, a grin akin to Mr. Burns’ spreading on his face. Barely containing a laugh, he said, “You’ve waited your whole life for a New Hampshire shoutout in Rucker Park, haven’t you? I bet this is the first.”

That joke kicked off about a solid minute of asking me if I had vocal cords or whether or not I had hit puberty. It went on for about a minute. I laughed most of the way. Moments later, something else had caught his interest and he was dancing and shouting.

Sam Fortier is a displaced New Englander living in New York. He likes baseball, crunchy peanut butter and the sound Kanye makes in his songs, which he thinks is spelled “HAAH.” He’s not a fan of grammatical error’s. You can read him here every Monday, follow him on Twitter @Sam4TR, or email him at sam.fortier@yahoo.com. 

Why This Year’s MLB Home Run Derby Might Be the Most Exciting One Yet

I hate to do this to you, Faithful Reader (and yes, there’s a reason that’s singular), but this post is essentially just a link to this week’s work.

Today for Esquire, I wrote about the changes coming to Major League Baseball’s Home Run Derby. You should definitely check it out. If you’re here, come a little further.

Sam Fortier is a displaced New Englander living in New York City. He likes baseball, crunchy peanut butter and the sound Kanye makes in his songs, which he thinks is spelled “HAAH.” He’s not a fan of grammatical error’s. You can read him here every Monday, follow him on Twitter @Sam4TR, or email him at sam.fortier@yahoo.com.

 

Never Leave The Game Early

Sam Blum uncapped his metaphorical Sharpie, ready to write in the New York Yankees as winners.

Sitting in the fourth deck behind home plate in Yankee Stadium on a pleasant June night, I couldn’t argue with him when he said the game was over.

The Yankees held a dominating 8-1 lead entering the top of the ninth inning. The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim looked as confused in the field as most fans feel when trying to decipher where the team actually hails from. The Angels had squandered seven runners (five in scoring position) so far. The stars weren’t playing well; neither Mike Trout nor Albert Pujols had a hit. Boring game.

Blum wanted to leave. He didn’t enjoy seeing a big Yankees win and the New York Mets (his team) were about to begin a game out west against the Arizona Diamondbacks. I balked at his suggestion. I never leave a game early.

But honestly, other than principle, I didn’t know why I wanted to stay either.

Stephen Drew, the former Red Sox shortstop and current New York Yankee, the same one who might’ve had the worst playoffs of all-time in 2013, had two home runs which, off the bat, looked like little pokes over the first baseman’s head. That’s what you get for playing in Yankee Stadium with a 314-foot right field porch.

To increase frustrations: Whenever the Angels seemed primed to score, Kirk Nieuwenhuis came to bat.

Blum knew Nieuwenhuis – and his disappointments – from his Mets days, which had ended recently. New York had traded the outfielder to the Angels for cash a week earlier, on May 27. The Mets didn’t receive any players. It’s not being traded for 10 maple bats, but that’s still pretty bad – as was Niewenhuis’ .079 batting average in 40 games.

After a lead-off double in the second inning, Nieuwenhuis reached (on an error) and was promptly picked off. That was the beginning of his 0-for-5 day. He also ruined my night, but more on that later.

Even though I wouldn’t leave early, Blum wanted to beat the crowd to the subway, so he asked if we could go down a few levels to stand watch the last half-inning. I acquiesced. As we climbed down the stairs, it opened on to the street and out towards the subway. I stared out at the street for a second, and quickly climbed back up the steps to the second deck while Blum’s calls of, “You’re crazy!” followed me.

Blum became more exasperated when he saw what we’d stayed to watch. Angels manager Mike Sciosia had waved the white flag, subbing scrubs for stars. Mike Trout was replaced by Grant Green. (Who?) Albert Pujols sat down for Efren Navarro. (Who?) Erick Aybar’s night finished as Sciosia went with Taylor Featherson. (Owl.)

But suddenly, after a Johnny Giavotella single and Featherston double, the Angels were threatening. I looked at Sam and jokingly said, “Watch this comeback.”

And then, something remarkable happened.

Green singled, Navarro walked, Kole Calhoun singled. The Angels scored twice, still had the bases loaded and hadn’t recorded an out!

Esmil Rogers, the Yankees pitcher, was sent to the showers and the Yankees brought in Dellin Betances.

Here’s the situation: One of the American League’s nastiest pitchers – who hadn’t allowed a run in 29.1 innings – facing the bottom of an Angels batting order, which is one of the worst offenses in baseball?

The rally was cute. It was fun. But it was also over.

The numbers indicated that a dominant pitcher versus a bad offense wouldn’t produce many runs.

Baseball is a game of numbers – except when it’s not.

The two home run game by Drew should’ve told me that earlier.

Betances was getting squeezed, the booing Yankees crowd thought. He walked in a run. Another dribbler snuck through the infield. All in all, the Angels first eight batters reached and the tying run stood on second base with still no one out. This type of thing doesn’t happen in real life, I thought.

And then who comes up to bat – the only hitter not to come up this inning?

Captain Kirk Nieuwenhuis.

What’s he do?

What he does best. Strike out swinging on a 3-2 pitch.

But it’s OK. There’s still a chance.

Giavotella smacks a ball toward the hole between third and short, but the Yankees short stop made a nice play. Didi Gregorious flipped it to second for the force out, but the Angels got within a run.

8-7 Yankees. Top of the ninth inning. The tying run, 90 feet away.

Then Sciosia pinch hits for Featherston, the guy who smacked a double off the wall to start the inning, for Carlos Perez, a rookie with 20 games of MLB experience.

Perez strikes out. The game’s over. The Angels still lost, just by six fewer runs.

And later, I think, Blum said he was glad we stayed.

Sam Fortier is a displaced New Englander living in New York City. He likes baseball, crunchy peanut butter and the sound Kanye makes in his songs, which he thinks is spelled “HAAH.” He’s not a fan of grammatical error’s. You can read him here every Monday, follow him on Twitter @Sam4TR, or email him at sam.fortier@yahoo.com.

LAST NOTE: June 10, the Angels designated Nieuwenhuis for assignment. June 13, the Mets claimed him. Comedic genius.

The Jubilant (and Strange) Scene at the Belmont Stakes

Getty Images/Rob Carr

ELMONT, N.Y. – As American Pharoah rounded the third turn and pulled away from the field, the man in the navy blazer turned and – to no one in particular – screamed, “BRING ME MY MOTHERF*CKING MONEY!”

He seemed not to care about the Coors Light slopping from the glass in his right hand onto his white shirt and khakis.

As the horse grew closer, men jumped up and down, shaking the bleachers and slapping one another’s backs. A woman – who said she’d traveled globally for horse racing – stopped screaming as her voice caught. Three girls popped small champagne bottles and the corks flew over the raised hands.

Even Navy Blazer’s continued bellows were drowned out by the crowd as the horse neared the finish line. I am not a horse racing fan – this was my first time at the track – but suddenly, I felt caught up. Numbly, I felt myself cheer wildly and high-five strangers.

American Pharoah, the first Triple Crown horse in 37 years.

Sitting at breakfast, my friend Sam asked me to come to Belmont with him, which he was covering. I agreed begrudgingly because the ticket was $10 and there was an outside chance at history.

After buying the ticket, I realized my error. For breakfast, I had thrown on thrice-worn board shorts and an old, stained, The Office-themed “Scott’s Tots” t-shirt. That would not do for one of the only sporting events in the country where the dress is as much a competition as what happens on the field. But I didn’t have time to go home.

Of the 90,000-plus in attendance Saturday, I saw one other man without a collar.

Wanting a better view of some of the earlier races, I slipped into the “Club section” – credit my mother’s lesson about always assuming an air of belonging – where my ugly-duckling complex worsened.

There, an usher grimaced at me. She asked me politely to leave – though it may have had more to do with my absence of a green club wristband than the presence of a t-shirt. As I turned to go, a hand grabbed my shoulder.

A stumbling, well-dressed blond man seized hold of me and shouted at the usher that I belonged. I must’ve misplaced my bracelet. (The same usher had just evicted this man from the reserved seats, perhaps prompting his rebellion.)

“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop disturbing my friend, uh…” – a glance at my shirt – “Scott! He’s with us. We love Scott.”

Already frayed from his earlier belligerent protests, the usher harrumphed and left. The pinstriped, straw-hatted man guffawed and stuck his hand out.

Jesse, a “former frat star” at Lehigh, was rolling with his frat pack. The four of them smelled of liquor and smoke. Right then, that smelled like victory.

After a few races, Jesse & Co. went to the bar. I met up with Sam. We didn’t really know how to bet the horses, but we picked the ones with middle-of-the-road odds. Consulting an elderly woman, she explained what the numbers on the slip meant (which is almost nothing). But we really learned the meaning of gambling by playing and, of course, losing.

Sam left to keep working and I sat for a while, attempting to conceal my non-club-level clothing and taking a rest. (We arrived at 11 a.m., the big race post time was 6:50 p.m.)

Women wearing colorful dresses and ludicrously-shaped hats strutted in heels higher than Jesse. Men in loud suits bought expensive champagne and tallboys, carrying them back to the seats.

Benches facing the five televisions with racing coverage filled with men furiously scribbling in notebooks and, sometimes, shouting at the screens, at a horse, to run faster. Sweaty men tore up betting slips in line to wager more. Later outside, one man, sitting at the top of section 308, launched into a rage as the horses came out from the tunnel for the race preceding the actual Belmont.

“Are you f*cking joking?” he yelled as he grabbed his head. “My horse is overweight! She’s got fat legs! My horse has fat legs!”  (The horse finished a close second.)

Before, the Belmont was relaxed, even abuzz with nervous energy; waiting on history. Not a hint of Hunter S. Thompson’s purported decadence or depravity.

But after, with a rush on the ticket offices to claim the winners, the scene was madness: Inebriated patrons in bizarre clothing stumbled in a mass of cacophonous voices towards the little windows. It seemed like a disorienting, non-childproofed version of a Mad Hatter tea party.

Despite the excitement and the energy, it felt strange watching. A man clutching two champagne glasses dozed off on a bench. An announcer shouted over the TV, “That’s why this is the greatest sport in the world!” The owner of the horse accepted the Triple Crown hardware on TV and said he’s never felt prouder of a horse.

But I thought: What does that horse care? He’s going to go back to his paddock tonight and cruise for sugar cubes like any other night. He doesn’t know what he’s just won.

I thought of the words that a man had said to me while waiting for the race to start.

“Your first race, huh?” he said. “Sh*t, if Pharoah wins today, you might never need to go to another one.”

Sam Fortier is a displaced New Englander living in New York City. He likes baseball, crunchy peanut butter and the sound Kanye makes in his songs, which he thinks is spelled “HAAH.” He’s not a fan of grammatical error’s. You can read him here every Monday, follow him on Twitter @Sam4TR, or email him at sam.fortier@yahoo.com.

Baseball’s Pitch Clock, and Other Timely Thoughts

courtesy of MiLB.com

Numbers flashed on the small square, getting smaller and smaller.

The man on the hill didn’t seem to look at the clock. He just kept shaking his head.

The numbers rapidly tick away. At five, the pitcher still hasn’t made a movement towards home plate. He needs to throw it. Four. He’s still not moving. Three. This is the part where I watch you throw. Two. C’mon, man! One. THROW THE BALL. YOU HAVE TO.

The black box goes blank and, five seconds later, a slider misses the outer half of the plate. No one says anything about the pitch’s tardiness.

Sitting in the stands with a friend of mine at Hadlock Field, home of the Portland Sea Dogs (Double-A, Boston Red Sox), we took in what could be the future of the game. The same clock sits behind the catcher and umpire from ballparks across the country, from Syracuse to Sacramento, as Major League Baseball tries to decide what to do. The clock starts at 20 and counts down, putting the pitcher on deadline; one that he’ll miss if he shakes off the catcher too many times. As a in-stadium spectator, it’s distressing.

This invention, implement in minor league parks this season as a test, directly resulted from cries of sports fans that baseball is too slow, too boring. According to Nielsen, 55-year-olds and up accounted for 41 percent of the sport’s fans 10 years ago. Now, it’s up to 50 percent. For baseball, that’s a terrifying jump. It means the sport’s failing to hook kids. It mean the fan-base may eventually shrink and dry up. A Washington Post article compared baseball to Blockbuster Video. (There are some people who say baseball doomsday soothsayers are embellishing; that the game is OK.)

“:(” – Rob Manfred, MLB Commissioner, probably.

Baseball’s counter-strike may make the game quicker, more easily digested and more accessible to younger fans, but for me, it produces anxiety and rushes a game which thrives on its relaxed nature. Part of the reason one heads to the ballpark with family or friends is to enjoy one another’s company, not enter and exit with time efficiency. Plopping into a ballpark bleacher seat on a midsummer night is a dream, for as long as the game lasts. Clocks are baseball’s antithesis.

But then again, maybe I’m an idealist. Maybe I can’t – or at least don’t want to – face the harsh reality that there’s a bottom-line here which must be met. Fans must be drawn in, even if it means forcing pitchers to pitch. I grew up a fan of the Red Sox, which, in the American League East, had all five of MLB’s slowest pitchers, but didn’t get discouraged. (Plus, I only go to – at maximum – five MLB games per year, so I don’t think the organizations cares too much if I complain about having a pitch clock.) But it’s not about me, it’s about the fringe fans. The ones who love, say, basketball because it’s so fast-paced and one highlight reel dunk can be followed by an equally as jaw-dropping dunk which puts a player on a poster.

Baseball, like any business, wants to expand its market reach. And it certainly wants to slow, and reverse, the current disintegration of its young fan-base. They just want people to watch, and they feel like this is one way to achieve that. It’s a much better scenario than the alternative of losing viewers and revenue and quality of product, I’ll admit that.

Lose the fans, lose the game. Try adapting to fans, rush the game. Attract more fans, save the game.

If instituting the ticker is what it takes, then I’ll support it.

But I really hate that clock.

Sam Fortier is a displaced New Englander living in New York City. He likes baseball, crunchy peanut butter and the sound Kanye makes in his songs, which he thinks is spelled “HAAH.” He’s not a fan of grammatical error’s. You can read him here every Monday, follow him on Twitter @Sam4TR, or email him at sam.fortier@yahoo.com. 

The NFL Draft Prospect You Wish You Knew, Were

There are can’t-miss prospects, and then there are prospects who are all miss.

Shaquille Green-Thompson was both at different points in his life. The linebacker out of Washington is a near-lock to be drafted in the first-round  of the NFL Draft this year, but there was a time he couldn’t hit.

In 2012, as an 18-year-old playing for the Boston Red Sox in the Gulf Coast League, he registered 39 bats and struck-out 37 times. (To his credit, he also earned eight walks.)

The Red Sox had took the 6-foot-2, 220-pound hyper-athletic prospect in the 18th round of the 2012 Major League Baseball draft based on defense alone. He played 13 games. Deadspin chronicled his mis-adventures throughout the summer and Green-Thompson became a hackneyed punchline on the Internet.

Mercifully, his season ended early because Green-Thompson decided to honor his commitment to Washington as one of the top safety recruits in the country. He shipped off to Washington, started going by the simpler Shaq Thompson and never returned.

***

Notes: Part of me wants to laugh at Thompson because he played baseball and was really bad at it, but a few things stop me:

1. He played pro baseball and I never will.

2. He proactively took at-bats from other prospects my favorite team could’ve been developing.

3. Thompson’s plan was my plan. When I was seven-years-old and the best at every sport I played, I knew that someday I’d be drafted by the Red Sox and play for them. I never got nervous either, because if that didn’t work out I could be drafted by the NFL’s New England Patriots and play for them.

3.5. That was my plan, but this guy IS ACTUALLY DOING IT.  I’m super jealous.

4. He could probably definitely beat me up.

Sam Fortier recommends this more in-depth piece by Emily Kaplan of Monday Morning Quarterback for more information on Shaq Thompson. He also wants Shaq to know, if he reads this, Sam’s only slightly mad that Thompson denied his interview request. It’s OK, he guesses. You can read Sam here every Monday, follow him on Twitter @Sam4TR, or email him at sam.fortier@yahoo.com. 

Red Sox Wrap-Up

The second week of Boston Red Sox baseball quickly applied the brakes of some zealous Sox fans who forecasted 100 wins after a nice opening week for Boston.

While the team won a sloppy, wet Marathon Monday early start game Monday, it has had a mixed week.

The Sox took two of three from the visiting Washington Nationals and split a four-game set with the Baltimore Orioles, but there were concerning points throughout.

First there is the ongoing debacle with on-again-off-again ace Clay Buchholz. Against Baltimore, he allowed two runs over six innings of work – pretty good stuff from what management hoped would be a number-one guy heading into the season. But Buchholz allowed 11 hits. He pitched around it with seven strikeouts, but Buchholz gave up 10 runs in the Yankees game from two weeks ago while allowing fewer hits and only issuing one more walk. The varying Buchholz results make him unreliable, and the Buster Olney report that he “quit” and scouts hated his body language during the Yankees game is even more cause for worry.

The worry extends beyond Buchholz and to the rest of the rotation. As of Monday, Boston owns Major League Baseball’s worst starting pitcher Earned Run Average (6.24) – nearly a half-run higher than the second-place Milwaukee Brewers.

The pitchers aren’t going deep into games, either. The 66.1 innings hurled by starters is good for 10th-worst among all team’s starters; the Sox hold the same rank for walks allowed (24).

There are positives, though.

Boston sits around the middle of the pack when it comes to batting average against (.262) which, when combined with the gaudy runs figure, means that luck may just be against Sox starting pitching at the moment.

Another positive is that, even with the pitching struggles, Boston went 4-3 on the week. The team raked, scoring seven or more runs in five of the seven games.

If Boston built a team to be mediocre on the mound and dominant offensively to out-slug teams when a starter isn’t “on” then it appears the strategy might work.

The team is tied (with Toronto) for the highest-scoring offense in the Majors (70 runs) and is drawing walks at a higher rate than anyone else in the league. The team has drawn 61 walks on the year – nine more than the second-place Tampa Bay Rays. Though the pop hasn’t been in the Sox lineup – smack-dab in the middle of the league in average, on-base, on-base plus slugging, home-runs, total bases – they’ve still managed to score. That’s a positive for the team moving forward.

Surprising contributions have also come from Justin Masterson (2-0) which was regarded by some (myself included) as the worst acquisition of free agency. Yes, Masterson gave up seven runs to Washington over 4.2 innings, but he pitched well against Baltimore Monday, surrendering just one run on three hits over five innings.

It seems as if every Red Sox pitcher is “OK. Not great, pretty inconsistent,” but it seems as if Masterson has some upside.

We’ll have to wait and see.

Summer News

Hey y’all, in lieu of a real post on this blog (though the Red Sox won in a big way today!), I wanted to let everyone know what’s going on with me this upcoming summer.

I found out last Saturday that I will be working in New York City as an intern for Esquire Magazine.

The guy I’m working with has not provided specifics on start and end dates, but I do know the program is 12 weeks. It is my hope that I will come home for roughly 10 days after school ends (May 4) and return 10 days before school begins (August 30). Though, I am skeptical.

I’m excited to work for Esquire – its 725,000 subscribers means it’s slightly larger than this site – but possibly even more thrilling, I’ll be in close proximity to Coney Island this July 4 in order to see arguably America’s greatest sporting event, the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. (Though Joey Chestnut slacked last year. Only 61 dogs? C’mon, man!)

But really, I’m ecstatic to be working at Esquire. It’s significant to me.

The first time I ever read Esquire, my grandfather’s profile was in there.

I had never heard of the publication until then, but I remember my parents buying almost a dozen copies in a Maine mall one night after an extended family gathering.

Seeing my Papa carry it around everywhere, how much he loved it and what something like that meant to him…That’s something I’ll never forget. The fact that he had a bigger picture than Quincy Jones and many others in that magazine and how proud he was of it…seeing the effect of an article on a subject is one aspect which makes me love writing. The spread still sits on the shelving above my bed.

Esquire also published two of my three favorite sports articles of all-time. One about Joe DiMaggio in retirement and another about a crotchety old man named Ted Williams.

Logistically, it will be a challenge. The cost of living in N.Y.C. is bonkers, but I have a plan. I will live at an Uncle’s house, about a 30-minute bus ride from downtown. I’ll also be able to store LaVern, my car, there. A few friends live in the city, so I might be able to stay with them infrequently too, if only to spell my Uncle.

I have also pre-ordered 15 pallets of Ramen.

OK, that’s not true, but I have a few packages and am prepared to live a bare-bones lifestyle in order to make the internship work.

Moving from Strafford, New Hampshire, a town of 3000 people and zero stoplights, to the largest city in America in 12 months is a huge jump for me.

I’m a little nervous. It’s a big change. But here’s to hoping it goes well.

Cheers.

Sam Fortier is a displaced New Englander living in New York. He likes baseball, crunchy peanut butter and the sound Kanye makes in his songs, which he thinks is spelled “HAAH.” He’s not a fan of purposefully misspelt business names (“Kathy’s Kut & Kurl”) or grammatical error’s. You can read him here every Monday, follow him on Twitter @Sam4TR, or email him at sam.fortier@yahoo.com.