| | | I should have figured the strip-search was coming when I strolled through London Heathrow in my cut-off jeans, flip-flops, Duval-esque wraparounds and "I (Heart) Amsterdam" T-shirt, with the letter "m" taking the shape of a wild, natural plant commonly found in northern California.
|  | | Like Jerry Rice in a Raiders uniform, Page 2's Brian Murphy was a bit out of his element in Europe. |
What a way to end a European vacation.
But like Jerry Rice in a Raiders uni, I'm a survivor. I handled the pain. The only pain I knew I could not handle would greet me at the Water Cooler, upon my return Stateside after a week at Lytham and another in the green fields of Ireland, the Mother Country.
The harsh reality: After those milkshake-creamy pints in the Greatest Little Village in the World -- Tulla, County Clare (pop. 200, seven pubs, and I'm not kidding) -- I would return to a Monday morning under the flourescents, to a Cooler full of ... blecch ... water.
My dreams of a Cooler filled with Guinness? Gonzo. To think, I could see it in my dreams all the way home, the transparent plastic of the Cooler holding back the coal-black nectar of the heavens. The vision nursed me through the suffering of a transcontinental flight that offered only films starring Keanu Reeves and Freddie Prinze, Jr. I would shut my eyes to the video tripe and dream of a small paper Dixie Cup under the spigot. In that dream, I pulled it halfway full of the stout, then set it aside for a good few minutes, only to top it off with another pull, two fluid ounces of nirvana.
Guinness shots: I was going to change the American bar scene forever. Instead, I woke up intermittently to the sight of a dish stuffed with chicken that was a vague shade of gray, next to a batch of beans harvested when Cesar Chavez was making a name for himself.
Now? Back home? The Cooler contained only H-two-oh, with the emphasis on the "oh."
Truly, I was back.
But that's good and bad. See, there's nothing like a Euro holiday to make you appreciate the things about America you never did. You know, things like: a Barry Bonds homer into a bay, shower pressure that goes beyond the feeling of some unseen dude hocking loogies on you, and that brunette bird on "Sex and the City."
But travel abroad also opens your eyes to the things about America you're ashamed of. You know, things like: the entire concept of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, NFL preseason football and "Fear Factor."
So it all evens out in the end. On the one hand, you travel Europe proud that the bard Bruce Springsteen is part of your home culture; on the other hand, you lay low when anybody brings up the fact that Dan Quayle was once a heartbeat away from the hot seat.
|  | | New Hall of Famer Kirby Puckett is a national treasure ... right up there with Springsteen. |
But we have waited too long to remember our calling, no? After all, this is the place where the weekend of American sports is put into perspective, and while we're at it, should we add the "List of Five" to things American culture should be ashamed of?
Without further ado:
1. Cooperstown: The Tulla of America
If those thick pints and all-night pubs in Co. Clare are the essence of Ireland, then let the tree-lined enclave of our nation's Baseball Hall of Fame take its place among the great villages of the world. I've actually heard people go to the Baseball Hall of Fame and tell me they were "disappointed," because it was "too small" and they were "expecting
more." These people, understand, are "total morons."
I defy any American with a soul to visit that place and not break down like Bill Mazeroski watching "Terms of Endearment." The sight of Kirby Puckett (up there with Springsteen), Dave Winfield (forgiven for wearing a Padres cap on his plaque; hell, on second thought, I'll salute him for that) and Maz, enduring tear-duct overload, was enough to remind me it's high time I got back to that place.
Gentlemen, you are welcome to play ball on the fields of our nation's memory in perpetuity.
2. That Tribe-M's game
|  | | When Omar Vizquel capped the Indians' 12-run rally, groans went up in the press box at the Jake. |
You could almost hear the groans coming out of Bristol, Conn., when Omar Vizquel tripled home the three runs that capped the 12-run rally over the last three innings . Here's a crew of SportsCenter cameramen, anchors, writers, interns just to tape SportsCenter, then blaze 90 mph out of that cowtown, and the Tribe decides to make history
and hang a 12-run rally over the last three innings.
Idle thought: Will this be the game that turns Seattle's season into a downward spiral, and will the M's only finish with 110 wins before their inevitable October ouster because of a dire lack of offense? Or will this game merely be known as the one that caused Cleveland sportswriters en masse to lob their laptops off the third-story press box at the Jake, having already written and filed entire game stories about the Indians' pitiful third straight loss to the Mariners?
Bottom line, kids. It's always good to remember the edict I learned from the wise old ball scribe, Ron Bergman, who will tell every cub reporter who hath filed their story before a ninth-inning rally: "Remember! There is no clock in baseball." For the record, Bergie usually has a wicked, ironic, veteran grin on his face when he says it.
3. NFL Preseason football
Listen, nobody's a bigger grid-head than me. That said: Stop preseason football, and stop it now!
4. Call your bookie: The A's are the bomb
|  | | With Tim Hudson anchoring the staff, the A's could be a major factor in October. |
I've had this love-hate-love-waffle-hate-love-waffle thing going on with Artie Howe's crew. In March, I watched them in spring training -- which, Tags, is not televised nationally -- and told GM Billy Beane, "I think you guys might win 100 games." Billy, ever humble, said: "I think we might have the best team in baseball." He'll deny he said that, but it's OK. He was right.
Then the 2-10 start, the 8-18 nonsense, the failure to sign Giambi ... and now here's what you have: The best 1-2-3 starters in baseball in Tim Hudson, Mark Mulder and Barry Zito; the best first baseman in the game; maybe the best outfield in the game in Jermaine Dye, Johnny Damon and Terrence Long; and the best-kept secret in the game in
Miguel Tejada.
I swear to God, these guys might win it all. You heard it here first.
5. Woosie fires his caddie
The friggin' English. They're still dogging the Irish, even after all these centuries. So when it came out that Ian Woosnam's Irish-born caddie, Miles Byrne, carried 15 clubs to Royal Lytham in the final round, a tabloid on Monday morning produced this headline: WOOSIE'S PADDY A BADDIE CADDIE.
|  | | Ian Woosnam couldn't tolerate another major mistake from his caddie. |
Then, Sunday, said Paddy failed to show up for the final round of the Scandinavian Masters. Woosie sacked him. In fairness, it was probably a mercy kill from Byrne himself. There was no way he could continue to loop for Woosnam, and he might as well start another career with another player.
Besides, I think back to the quote I read in the Irish Independent from Byrne's mother in Dublin. Said Mrs. Byrne, and you could almost hear the maternal indignance: "At least he didn't murder anyone."
Somebody pull that woman a milkshake-creamy pint. Preferrably from the taps of Tulla. We're still working on this Stateside Cooler.
Brian Murphy of the San Francisco Chronicle writes the "Monday Morning Water Cooler" every week for Page 2. Send this story to a friend | Most sent stories
|
|
|
