Steel Kaleidoscopes

Ho-Hum Run Derby

The Home Run Derby is one of the most overrated events in sports.

The under card to the Major League Baseball All-Star Game is a snooze fest after a few minutes.

One by one, some of the game's top sluggers step up to the plate and launch long home runs off of batting practice pitchers.

Big deal.

And then, to create some kind of storybook drama, the cameras pan to the other All-Stars not participating, sprawled on the grass watching the festivities with their kids in one arm and camcorder in the other.

Yawn.

The home run is not even the most exciting moment in a baseball game, unless it immediately changes the outcome. It's much more compelling to watch a well-executed double play, a diving catch or someone scampering from first to third on a hit-and-run.

In the Home Run Derby, the pitches come in with the speed of an adrift balloon and must look the size of a volleyball to the hitter. The result is predictable: There's a swing and a deep drive to left; it's gone.

And when it comes up short, we watch a gaggle of little kids trying to catch the ball, most times the ball falling over their head or in between.

That's compelling.

The Home Run Derby is a field-day exhibition that should be reserved for family and friends.

Bring on the three-legged race.

Sunday Foursome

So one of my best friends, Richard, and I have a Butternut Farm tee time yesterday at 9:32 a.m.

Since it's a Sunday, there's no way we're going to play alone. Sure enough, Terry and Ron join us at the first tee.

The conversation is somewhat pleasant and they both talk much more than Grumpy Dick. Problem is, they seem to be obsessed that the group in front of us is from France.

Whatever.

So off we go and both Richard and I are striking the ball fairly well while Terry and Ron are clearly struggling. Hole after hole we're waiting while Ron, who kind of resembles the Hunchback of Notre Dame, is punching the ball out of the woods and Terry, an angry Asian-American, is hitting low line drives that are going sideways instead of forward.

Terry has a golf swing like the former great Red Sox hurler Luis Tiant pitches. Standing behind Terry, he comes face to face with you during his backswing and you wonder how he can even address the ball.

It's freaky.

While Terry's unorthodox swing is a bit unsettling, it's his temperament that is scary.

After hitting a bad shot out of the woods, he curses and viciously whacks a tree with his club. And then he does it again.

Richard and I glance at each other and, without saying, decide we aren't going to carry a conversation on with these guys, especially Angry Terry.

Just play golf.

Except Angry Terry decides to start picking up my ball now and then which, if you play golf, is understandably annoying.

On the fourth hole par-3, my ball is just short of the green in the rough. Angry Terry thinks he finds a lost ball and pockets it. Until I confront him that he just picked up my ball. It's a par 3!

Later in the round, instead of acknowledging my ball visually, he has to touch it to determine if it's not his.

But perhaps Angry Terry's most annoying act comes when our round unfortunately comes to an end after our tee shots on the par-4 15th hole. A wild thunderstorm blows in, with whipping wind, light rain, thunder and lightning.

My tee shot is clean in the fairway and I walk to the safety of the trees, fully prepared to hit my approach shot if the storm blows through fast enough. I make a quick call to my wife to make sure she puts the umbrellas down because a thunderstorm is heading her way and I look up to see that Terry has pocketed my ball and is heading toward the clubhouse.

Turns out Richard has had enough and, despite hoping to play out, we walk back to the clubhouse.

Where I ask Angry Terry if he picked up my ball.

He gives it back.

It's the principle.

Unreal.

And it turns out the group playing in front of us isn't from France.

Green is the Color

Congratulations, Celtics.

NBA title No. 17 is sweet.

On 6/17. And the Boston area code is 617.

Guess it was in the numbers. Or in the stars.

But this is a team of stars.

And we'll raise another banner.

Parade time.

Celtics-Lakers

This is retro. Nostalgic.

The last time the Celtics and Lakers hooked up in the NBA Finals was 1987, and I was living in a flat-topped house in Allston, walking two blocks to the corner laundromat to do my laundry.

I was a twenty-something sports writer, covering some of the games courtside and making very little money.

But it was a good life.

Watching Larry Bird, Dennis Johnson, Kevin McHale, Robert Parish and Danny Ainge up close was special, and I knew it.

Because I worked nights, I had the time to go for jogs along the Charles, running varied distances using the Arsenal Street, River Street and Western Avenue bridges to cut back and forth in the middle of the afternoon.

Back on Westford Avenue, I practiced my putting on the warped, carpeted floor between the kitchen and the living room, eating grilled cheese sandwiches and potato chips with no worries about my waist line.

We bought eight-packs of 7-ounce Lowenbrau and listened to U2 and Duran Duran. When I had the night off, we went to see stand-up comedy at Stitches and Play It Again Sam's.

And when we really wanted to rock, we went to the Rat, Bunratty's or the Cage in the basement of Molly's.

When we wanted a mellow night in, we watched "The Cosby Show" and "Cheers."

Through it all, there was the Celtics, and the regular season had little meaning other than to wonder when Johnny Most was going to lose his voice when the Celtics were trailing (never losing) before fiddling and diddling their way to yet another victory en route to the grand prize -- meeting the hated Lakers in the Finals.

And so goes the walk down memory lane when the Celtics and the Lakers hook up in the Finals beginning tonight, new teams with new hopes.

And lots of history.

To hell with Jack Nicholson and Dyan Cannon.

Beat LA.

Catching a Foul Ball

As a kid, I always brought my glove to a Major League Baseball game in anticipation of catching a foul ball.

When you are well into your teen-age years, it's not so cool.

And when you're a certified adult, the only thing you should have in your hand is a cold beer and a hot dog.

So here it was, the last game of the season, Oct. 6, 1991, at Fenway Park. And I'm gloveless, falling into the latter category.

Red Sox-Brewers.

Roger Clemens and the Red Sox go on to lose, 6-3, but it doesn't matter.

My fiance and I are sitting in the upper deck behind first base and Paul Molitor fouls off a Clemens pitch. The ball is arching above our heads and comes down in between several testosterone-filled guys who lunge for the ball but come up empty. It hops off the pavement directly into my hands.

Way cool.

The scuffed official American League baseball still sits in my basement, tucked away.

And Molitor sits firmly in eighth place on the all-time hits list at 3,319, trailing only Pete Rose, Ty Cobb, Hank Aaron, Stan Musial, Tris Speaker, Honus Wagner and Carl Yastrzemski.

Not bad company.

Clemens' steroid drama aside, what are the odds of catching a foul ball off the direct transaction of two Hall of Famers?

I'll keep it.

Boston Sports Scene

Within two days, cancer-surviver John Lester pitches a no-hitter and the Celtics win an epic playoff Game 7.

It's a good week to be a sports fan in Boston.

Big Brown

Thirty years later, America will have a Triple Crown winner.

Big Brown is that good.

Thoroughbred horse racing has had 10 near Triple Crown misses since Affirmed won the Kentucky Derby, The Preakness and the Belmont in 1978, but no horse has managed to stay in front over Belmont's grueling 1-1/2 mile dirt route to claim bragging rights for winning three races in a five-week span.

Just a gut feeling, but it's going to happen this year.

Big Brown will deliver.

And you just know "Big Brown Delivers," a reference to its UPS-inspired name and recent marketing agreement, will be the headline in papers across the world.

Funny Cide and Smarty Jones seemed like locks in recent times, but couldn't get it done. Spectacular Bid, Pleasant Colony, Alysheba, Sunday Silence, Silver Charm, Real Quiet, Charismatic and War Emblem came up short.

Jockey Kent Desormeaux has a chance to make history with Big Brown, who easily galloped to victory in the Kentucky Derby and demolished the field yesterday at the Preakness.

The competition is just not there. There's no Easy Goer in the field. No Empire Maker. No Victory Gallop. No Touch Gold. There aren't any horses who can seriously challenge Big Brown, so if trainer Richard Dutrow does his thing and Desormeaux rides him like he has in the last two races, it's going to happen.

Bet on it.

Celtics Pride?

So we're supposed to get behind this Celtics team?

It's kind of tough.

Not to sound dated, but this ain't the Larry Bird era.

Not even close.

Admittedly, I haven't been paying much attention to the Celtics for the last 15 years.

And there was no reason to do so.

But after peripherally watching the Celtics run up a 66-16 record during the regular season, my interest returned.

I've spent time watching some of these playoff games, including the one last night against the Cavaliers.

That's a few hours I'll never get back.

In the mid-'80s, guys like Larry, DJ and Danny hit clutch shot after clutch shot. When they missed, Kevin and Robert muscled their way to the ball and hit a turnaround or a rainbow. The fourth quarter was the best part of the game, because whether they were up by 10 or down by five, the money players hit the money shots.

I was dismayed at how many missed shots there were in the fourth quarter last night. Garnett, clang. Pierce, clang. Rondo, boing.

Different time. Different team.

Here's hoping the Celtics win it all this year.

But this ain't the '80s.

Not even close.

Going the Distance

At 3:22 p.m., well after the elite runners have crossed the finish line and satisfied their interview obligations, the "Don Powells of the World" take those final strides down Boylston Street at yesterday's 112th Boston Marathon.

(Photo courtesy of Gold in Medford.)

Boston Marathon

They come from Seattle, Peoria, Des Moines and Dorchester to run 26 miles and 385 yards.

But ultimately at the Boston Marathon, the runners who make the first strides across the finish line are Kenyans.

It's a global race with an African face.

One of these years, that may change.

But today's Boston Marathon will belong to Africa.

In the men's division, the winner has come from Africa 16 of the last 17 tears.

In the women's division, the winner has come from Africa nine of the last 11 years.

Must be something in the water.

Or maybe the intense training.

Whatever it is, they sure can run.

Off they go.