Odds and ends: The Bearded Sox, November's warmth, Fort Williams, and thoughts of summer

"Don't point that beard at me, it might go off”

— Groucho Marx

AUBURN, Maine — Forget the bonuses and trophies! The Red Sox management would be doing the right thing by having the entire team deloused for winning the World Series.

Those beards have to go. Really! Get the razor out and have these ZZ Top refugees shave off their facial hair that looks like an overgrown forest hanging from their chins.

I understand team unity, but I can't image dealing with all that moss draping over my chest. I can't believe all that growth didn't distract them in the batter's box.  A simple patch on my jersey to demonstrate team spirit works for me.

The irascible Dick Williams would never allow a Red Sox player on the diamond with a beard like that in 1967.

Can you imagine the effort required to maintain their hairy faces and the increased cost of shampoo to make sure their beards are more bouncy and manageable.

Youz guys won the World Series and dealt the Cards another loss in the postseason so go visit your local barber shop for an old-fashion shave. Youz guys can afford it.

I once grew a mustache and that touched off a round of barbs directed at me. I shave every three days to keep that Don Johnson look just in case they revive "Miami Vice."

Turn the clock back 30 or 40 years and no manager in baseball would tolerate long hair or beards that could give the sleep Rumpelstiltskin a run for his money.

According the Associated Press, the Sox will shave their beards for promotion. How about cutting it all off for fans who believe in a clean-cut, Marine appearance. You don't need a paycheck to look good. Just ask the guys and gals who serve our country.

But this America — the home of the free — and bearded Major Leaguers in dire need of a shave.

No more garden party

The garden is done and November's chilly hands are reaching out to all of New England.

How would I rate this year's crop? It was good, and as usual, some vegetables came across with the goods and others failed to produce.

That's the life of a small-time farmer who knows he is at the mercy and whim of Mother Nature — that stubborn dame of weather.

When thoughts turn to summer

I had the pleasure of covering a state cross country meet at Twin Brooks Recreation Facility, which is a wide-open swath of land that serves Cumberland and surrounding communities.

http://www.sunjournal.com/news/local-sports/2013/11/03/cross-country-running-lewiston-earns-second-state/1446583

There was non-stop sunshine as temperatures hovered around the mid 60s during the 3.1-mile races.

This facility is also open in the winter for avid cross country skiers who enjoy traversing this expansive landscape and gives me one more good reason to live in the Pine Tree State.

But you know about what they say about the weather in New England — "Just wait a minute."

The cold air has returned, and despite strong sunshine, it is damn chilly out there.

When winter closes in, I can't help but think of summer, the garden, and our adventures around the Northeast.

In late October, we visited Fort Williams in Cape Elizabeth, a wealth community littered with beautiful parks and other tourist destinations.

This is the place to go for a short hike around the former military outpost that overlooks part of Casco Bay and the rest of the Atlantic Ocean.

Pack or buy a lunch, find an open bench and enjoy a postcard view of the sea.

According to www.capeelizabeth.com, "On April 13, 1899, President McKinley named the one-time subpost of Fort Preble, Cape Elizabeth's first military fortification, Fort Williams. Named after Brevet Major General Seth Williams, Fort Williams grew to be a tremendous military asset during World War II. Besides protecting the shoreline of Cape Elizabeth, the infantry and artillery units provided the Harbor Defense for Portland. After the war, many of the forts in Casco Bay were closed, including Fort Williams, which traded in its defense of the coast for caretaker status and Army Reserve accommodations. Fort Williams was officially closed and deactivated on June 30, 1963."

"Although often a place full of runners, bikers, baseball games, and picnics, Fort Williams has managed to maintain some of its historic past. When the Town of Cape Elizabeth purchased the beautiful 90+/- acre park on December 1, 1964 for $200,000, the old military buildings became Town property as well. Along with the various batteries is Goddard Mansion. Although not in the condition it was when Colonel John Goddard and his family lived in it during the mid to late 1800s, the walls of the great mansion still stand high on the hill overlooking Fort Williams."

Pictures tell the whole story about Fort Williams, and here are few that we took in October.

Enjoy!

Great Scott, The Boomer is gone, and a Sox fan laments

AUBURN ― Like any kid, I truly believed all my sports legends lived forever. All great athletes were immune to old age and death. Wrinkles and senility are for the rest of us, but icons like Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, Carl Yastrzemski and Bobby Orr are immortal, so I thought.

I was six years old when George Scott made his debut at Fenway Park for the Boston Red Sox in 1966. He was a big bastard with a wide, friendly smile, and one helluva of an All-Star first baseman. He was known to fans as The Boomer, and boy could he knock the ball around the diamond. I loved watching him perform during an unforgettable era when Curt Gowdy, Ken Coleman, Mel Parnell and Ned Martin called the games on the radio as listeners were bombarded by Narragansett beer commercials.

"Hey, neighbor, have a 'Gansett," blared all over the a.m. dial as Coleman gave me play-by-play descriptions of Red Sox games on my transistor radio.

Scott was my Big Papi during my childhood, and I marveled at his hitting power and his gold-glove performances

In 1980, I was visiting with a family in Yarmouth, Mass. I worked with a fellow bartender at Logan Airport.

When he invited me to Cape Cod, I just couldn't say no to a weekend in paradise. A trip to the Cape with a free-room-and-board offer during the summer was like having box seats along the third-base line at Fenway. We made the rounds at several local establishments at night and enjoyed the company of beautiful women. But during the day, my bartender friend decided to take his frustrations out at one of the local batting cages. My friend spent a hot summer's day murdering the ball with a 36-inch, wooden bat.

Watching my friend, who had the nerve stare down those mechanical fast balls, was entertaining. But to the left of us, we noticed a big man who was tearing the cover off the hard ball. Out stepped Scott from one of cages, sweat dripping from his brow.

We introduced ourselves and found an empty bench in the hot sun to talk about hitting and baseball. Scott was about 40 years old, but time and age did not diminish his swing or power. He certainly had no problem holding his own against a robotic pitcher.

Of course, the conversation was all about America's pastime. Spending a hot day in the batting cage for Scott was a treat for him. The first baseman discussed the science of hitting and what it takes to face pitchers whose fast balls could take skin off your forearms. Scott is the kind of guy you want to buy a drink and then spend the next hour talking about baseball.

The game was his life and the sport was good to him, and he never forgot that. He played in the majors for 13 years and retired in 1979 at the age of 35. He also played for the Yankees and Royals and won eight Gold Gloves. He was a member of 1967 "Impossible Dream" team that thrilled this seven-year-old Sox fan when Boston won the American League pennant.

If the gentle giant could have defied old age, he would have played baseball for all eternity. 

George Scott, a genuine human being who thrilled Fenway's Faithful, died last Sunday at 69.

It was privilege meeting The Boomer, and we were all lucky to watch one of baseball's  finest perform in a Red Sox uniform.

Scott's booming presence on the diamond made a lasting impression on me as a child and as an adult.

So long big fella. You were one of the best.

Green thumbs up

AUBURN, Maine — A sunny forecast means all systems are go to plant my garden this Memorial Day weekend.

I am giddy just thinking about it because Mother Nature has given me the green light to get down and dirty with the rich soil in my well-groomed backyard.

I have an old beat-up radio on standby for that afternoon. Listening to the Red Sox, no matter how pathetic they might be, is a glorious way to spend an afternoon planting a garden. And then there is the option of imbibing a dark beer brewed right here in the Pine Tree State.

Sure, Mother Nature is an old fuss and quite sassy, but according to our local weathermen, the sun will burn brightly in the sky. If our weathermen screw up, I will know who to blame, and I will become as nasty as Mother Nature. I will show up with the rest of the farmers bearing sickles and torches, calling the weathermen out.

I know how these town folk can be when the weather lets them down.

Of course, we are talking about an extended forecast that can change on a dime in New England. Weather is fickle up here in north country. Never ever take your eye off the forecast — especially if you are a serious gardener like me. It is like taking your eye off a Clemens fastball that can peel away your skin with its velocity.

All gardeners mean business even though they understand they are at the mercy of the elements.

But if Mother Nature delivers this weekend, I am weeks away from eating fresh fruit and vegetables. It also means I won't be handing over my money to grocery stores to purchase expensive produce that is anything but organic.

Here on the Ponderous, we don't use chemicals and other crap to grow vegetables. It is verboten. I am like a damn hippy when it comes to going all natural to raise stuff you can eat without getting poisoned. I know Little Joe, Hoss, Adam and the patriarch of the family — Ben Cartwright — would agree with me.

Sure, I use fertilizer to get the ball rolling, but it is all natural compost. No dam chemicals.

I ran the tiller over my garden a second time last weekend, and since it is nothing more than one giant compost pile, the soil is looking real good.

So it is off to Farmer Whitings to purchase seedlings and to visit with fellow gardeners who also like to see things grow.

The rest is up to nature.

Another friend departs

"Why does it take a minute to say hello and forever to say goodbye?" — Author Unknown

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together?　 I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave.　 Someone always leaves.Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos." — Charles M. Schulz

AUBURN, Maine — The corner deli was a hangout for lifelong gamblers, sports fanatics, coffee lovers and loyal customers who purchased  top-shelf salami or ham.

Conversation was just as important as making money at one of the best delis in the Greater Boston area.

The older gentlemen met at the corner of Broadway and Revere Street to sip a strong cup of Joe on Sunday mornings — and buy a pound of mortadella. 

The usual customers lingered long after they bought their meat to sound off about the Red Sox or Celtics. They were all arm-chair prognosticators and self-proclaimed experts on the future of Boston sports teams. 

But gambling was always the hottest topic of the morning. Everybody had a tip on a horse or dog in the ninth race. They talked about laying down their  bets at Wonderland or Suffolk Downs. I often referred to Suffolk as Suffering Downs, where hard-luck gamblers emptied their wallets looking for that one big score. The cliental at the Wonderland dog track was no different.

My father was the big draw at DiPietro's Deli. He was the high school baseball coach who  also served as  a spokesman for this unofficial brotherhood of sports nuts and gamblers. He would carry on in-depth conversations about the Patriots or that horse in the eighth race in between slicing meat and ringing up purchases

Of course, the owner, Carl DiPietro, would, on some occasions, make an appearance on Sunday mornings. Carl was a big man who could handle himself, but he was also a kind and trusted human being with integrity. He had the instincts of a  boxer and the brains of a college professor.  He was no stranger to colorful language , but the use of his ear-splitting adjectives made him one of the boys. 

Carl fit right in with the rest of the Sunday bunch. Like all of them, he loved to gamble and was regular at Wonderland. Revere is that kind of town where the action can be seductive.

I respected him for the respect he gave my father and me. He was a generous employer who took care of his help during the Christmas onslaught when hundreds of customers stopped in to buy expensive prosciutto for their pizza gainers. Old ladies would vie for the prosciutto bones to make their Italian soups.

When I worked with him, Carl would regale me with his exploits on the strip at Revere Beach. He was a regular at some pubs and enjoyed the Boston nightlife. He was not one to hold back or keep his opinions to himself. He was an avid listener of Elvis Presley and remained loyal to the King long after Presley was laid to rest in Memphis. Carl was also a fan of Roy Orbison and the Beatles because the guy really had good taste in music.

He also had a big smile and loved good jokes, and he was not shy about telling a few naughty ones when he was in the company of his trusted friends. I was  lucky  to be  included in his inner circle.

When I needed of $700 to pay off a student loan, and I didn't want to bother my dad, I turned to Carl for a loan. I was apprehensive, but Carl turned to me and said, "Just keep track of your hours and work it off." That was it. The deal was done. But I was always grateful to this man for that generous act of kindness and understanding.

Carl once told me this: "Don't ever steal from me. Eat anything you want, and take a sandwich to school if you would like. But just don't steal from me."

I never did.  Betraying this man's trust was simply out of the question.

But Carl was stolen from all our hearts when he died this week at 64 years old  — way too young for man who still had a lot of living to do.

English poet and priest John Donne once wrote, "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind."

Carl took an interest in me and played an important role in my youth, and in doing so, he became a friend for life

  He will eventually become a treasured memory of my past, but that's just not good enough for me.

Take me back to the ball game

"You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you're a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen."

- Joe Dimaggio

     AUBURN, Maine — Whoever thought a short story  about one spectacular moment in Red Sox history could resurrect a dormant memory about my deceased mother's past.

      The fond memory had been shoved aside to make room for the daily deluge of life's experiences that cram my crowded brain.

Songs, smells and certainly pictures of the past can also pry memories loose. Strolling the isles of an indoor flea market sends me down memory lane, too. All it takes is a rotary phone or an old Philco radio to trigger recollections of family members who have passed away.

This book, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," has now become a treasured possession. It was graciously given to me by my sister, Brenda, a year ago. 

The article detailing Ted Williams' last at-bat at Fenway Park on Sept. 28, 1960 was written by the late Pulitzer-prize winning author John Updike, and it first appeared in "The New Yorker" on Oct. 20, 1960. The 52-year-old magazine piece was turned into a book and published in 2010.

Updike writes about his fascination with baseball and Williams, who was also endearingly known as "The Splendid Splinter" and "Teddy Ballgame." It is indeed a splendid book about Williams' last hurrah at Friendly Fenway.

The storied moment, when Williams smacked his 521st home run in last at-bat in his 19-year career, is still talked about by the Fenway Faithful.

Decades later, my mother mentioned Williams' parting shot in passing at the kitchen table. She told the tale with a wide smile. I have spent hours in the kitchen listening to my mother's stories about her childhood and marriage to my father. My dad, on the other hand, left the storytelling to my mom, and she could spin a good yarn.

      

What I forgot was that my mother was THERE when The Splendid Splinter cracked one out of the park and into the record books. 

I know baseball fanatics who would trade their homes — or their wives for that matter — to witness Williams make his final round trip around the diamond. I know I am romanticizing this extraordinary moment in Major League Baseball's history. It is like watching "The Natural" all over again, and Williams is my parents' Roy Hobbs.

I was rolling around in a crib when my mother and father witnessed history on a cloudy September day in Boston over five decades ago.  My dad, whose memory is disappearing as Alzheimer's gets the upper hand, doesn't remember who babysat me. My mother was our living reference. When we had questions about our family's history, she was the go-to person until she passed away two years ago on a warm March Monday.

I cling to this memory of my parents catching a glimpse of Williams' final performance at Fenway Park. I need to hold on to those memories of my mother since I can no longer hold on to her in this life. I remember when she spoke about Williams and his home run. She just smiled as her eyes lit up the dinner table.

Williams' Fenway farewell in September 1960 is just another opportunity to remember my mother and keep her close to my heart.

But if Ray Kinsella could grant me one baseball wish, I would ask the Iowa farmer to find me a seat at Fenway on that September day to see — my parents together again as they watched Williams hammer out a piece of Red Sox history.

Get over it, Pats fans

"Listen, I don't mean to be a sore loser, but uh, when it's done if I'm dead, kill him!"

- Paul Newman as Butch Cassidy in the movie, "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

AUBURN, Maine — There was still snow on the ground Monday morning. The wood stove was hot as hell, providing comforting heat as I ambled toward the coffee pot to pour myself a hot one. Our silly cat was clawing at the door. I reached for the morning newspaper in the cold air.

Nothing had changed since Sunday night when the New England Patriots lost a heart breaker to the New York Giants. It's been seven days, and if you are still brooding or whining, get some professional help. There are plenty of shrinks in the phone book.

I didn't turn to the bottle for a little Southern Comfort or call my family in tears. No finger pointing from my sofa seat. No loud cursing. No banging on the stop sign outside my home on a quiet street in Mayberry RFD.

I am betting some fans wanted to throw themselves off a bridge Sunday. 

Not me! I hit the sack and drifted off without any tossing and turning.

I was over the Patriots' loss as soon I flipped the television channel to watch Masterpiece Theater on PBS. OK, I am a snob and enjoy watching British-made mysteries.

It's not that I didn't give a damn. I am not a disgruntled fan shopping around for another NFL team to root for next season. I will always be a Pats fan. Hell, I grew up in the Greater Boston area in a town that is a stone's throw away from Fenway Park.

Give up on the Pats? Never, god damn it! I am from Massachusetts, god damn it! That's like turning my back on the Bruins, Celtics and Red Sox. That would make me a communist, a traitor or even worse — a member of the Republican Party.

Look, Tom Brady and the rest of his crew marched off with a truck load of cash that you or I will never see in this lifetime. Nobody died and it was game that kept us all on the edge, especially when Brady launched a long-distance pass into the end zone. I knew it was a long shot, but that didn't stop me from acting like Pollyanna while the ball sailed into the air. I crossed my fingers and promised to give up four-letter words or never touch a drop of dark beer.

Well, not really.

Sure, watching New York take one Giant step past the Pats left me gut shot with a hole the size of cannon ball. But my wounds quickly healed with a strong cup of coffee and the love of a good woman.

I made no plans to travel to New York to disrupt the Giants' celebration. I am not a sore loser. I wish the Giants and Eli well in their next endeavor.

Of course, there will be THOSE fans who want to make a villain out of Wes Welker and label him a Bill Buckner, who was crucified by overzealous Red Sox fans who seemed to take pleasure in punishing this man.

So Welker didn't catch the ball and there were other dropped passes during those crucial 57 seconds. You know that that means — these guys are human. Anybody can screw up. Leave this man alone. He probably feels worse than any rabid Patriots fan covered in face paint.

You feel let down by the Pats' loss. Get a frigging life. Remember, knucklehead, it's a game. Accept it!

In Boston, it was sad to see that a handful of people were arrested after the game for acting like morons. So your team loses a close one, and that gives you an excuse to turn over cars and shoot up the neighborhood? Forget jail. Stick them in a deep hole in the woods.

Look, New England, we took it on the chin this time.

The best remedy for our broken hearts is to throw our full support behind the Celtics or Bruins.

Better yet, spring training is around the corner. Before you know it, the Boys of Summer will be back on the diamond and the memory of that cold day in Indianapolis will fade in the summer sunshine.

FRIGHT NIGHT

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown." - H. P. Lovecraft

AUBURN — Since we all have crosses to bear, I decided to build two of mine out of wood to celebrate Halloween, and maybe, just maybe, have a devil of a good time spooking trick-or-treaters on my front lawn.

I am not a big fan of a holiday that observes things that go bump in the night and turns sane adults into candy pushers who are complicit in triggering a nationwide sugar high among this nation's youth for several days. My wife and son, on the other hand, enjoy being rattled by a good ghost story as well as putting up Halloween decorations and butchering, aaah, I mean carving a pumpkin.

I couldn't care less about zombies, vampires, ghosts, the undead, and no, I am not referring to members of congress. What frightens me about this night is the spike in cavities across this great nation — and the fear of rational adults handing out healthy treats.

When I was a kid a couple of centuries ago, I thought it was a nightmare to receive a nutritious snack instead of a chocolate bar. It was like staying after school for talking too much in class. How could grownups traumatize a child who longed for a bag full of M&Ms and Malo Cups? Finding a fruit bar at the bottom of my bag was like getting pajamas for Christmas.

No toys! What was up with Santa, anyway!

But this Halloween, my son wanted to go all out and shake up the neighborhood kids with more spooky stuff. I suggested we use leftover two-by-fours and build a pair of crosses to send chills up our neighbor's spines. But I wasn't sure what names to use on our grave markers. Anthony didn't flinch when he suggested the last names of Terry Francona and Theo Epstein, the Boston Red Sox's manager and general manager who are no longer employed with a baseball team that burned up in orbit at the end of the season.

I smiled, got out my wood-burning tool and went to work on the crosses. I love the smell of burning pine as I carved deep letters into the soft wood. I put my skill-saw and tape measure to good use to make our macabre endeavor come to fruition. We stained our crosses to make our grave markers weather resistant and then surveyed the front lawn to choose a location that would induce nightmares for weeks to come. I understand that location is everything when it comes to scaring unsuspecting trick-or-treaters out of their socks.

But please understand that I had no desire to see Francona or Epstein banished from the Sox organization. These guys brought starving Red Sox fans two World Series titles after decades of disappointment. I was not happy to see these fine men leave Beantown. I didn't show up at Fenway Park with a mob, and sickles and torches in hand, demanding to see heads role. So, when you see our crosses bearing the names of these two fine human beings on my front lawn during this evening of fright, this is not a demonstration of anger toward two men who ended Boston's drought. This father-and-son duo is merely having a little fun at the expense of the Boston Red Sox.

Besides I will never understand how fans go berserk when their team comes undone or how they "hate" an opposing team. Look, I grew up 10 miles from Friendly Fenway, but there has never been a day when I uttered the phrase, "I hate those damn Yankees." I don't hate the damn Yankees, Montreal Canadiens, New York Jets or the Los Angeles Lakers. I do enjoy watching the Yanks take it on the chin when they play Boston, but I also think Derek Jeter is a class act. I do not carry a grudge against Bill Buckner. And I was hoping Francona would stay on for another year.

So the Red Sox had a meltdown and missed the playoffs. Life goes on, and there will be other seasons for Boston to make amends

So lighten up, and remember, this is not a trick, but a treat. So take this candy bar as an expression of our goodwill. But we also hope you leave our front lawn frightened and looking over your shoulder when things do go bump in the night. 

Taking the chill out of Autumn

The Great Falls Balloon Festival - a sight to behold

The Sea Dogs at Hadlock Field in Portland

AUBURN, Maine — Winter's emissary, Autumn, announced itself when it blew into town with its frosty air and brisk temperatures on a bright Friday morning. Trees swayed in 40-mile-per-hour cold winds, which swept away three days of stifling humidity.

I closed all the windows to seal in the heat and ignored the thermostat. Flipping on the furnace is a no-no in September because the sun heats our house to 75 degrees on cool days. And thanks to price-gouging oil companies, I won't consider burning oil until October. Call me cheap or a concerned environmentalist who has been forced to conserve fuel thanks to overpaid CEOs and greedy speculators. I have my trusty wood stove on standby and all my wood is stacked, cut and ready to burn when Old Man Winter engulfs New England in an icy embrace for the next five months.

But I do have a treasure trove of warm memories of a summer to take chill out this family's bones. Pictures of the Great Falls Balloon Festival and our trip to watch the Portland Sea Dogs play baseball at Hadlock Field in Portland will make winter bearable.

Away all balloons

For the past 19 years, the Twin Cities have hosted a balloon festival in late August. The weekend event draws thousands of spectators from all over and is a sight to behold when, if the steamy weather cooperates, dozens of giant balloons crowd the skies during the six launches. The early-morning flights are the best. The weather is cool and the threat of thunderstorms is minimal, guaranteeing an eye-opening launch on a bright summer morning.

My son took our camera and raced around the streets of Lewiston and Auburn on a Saturday morning, snapping nearly 80 photos, which were included in a slide show. Some people go for the entertainment, the shopping booths and fast food, but for me, the unique balloons lifting off with apprehensive passengers is worth jumping out bed at 5:30 in the morning.

Sometimes, if we are not up for a morning launch, balloons will drift by our home and a blast fire from their loud propane burners will wake us. I will run to the door and watch the low-flying airships hover over us. From what I have been told, if they are forced to land in your yard, they will present the homeowner with a bottle of champagne for an unscheduled landing.

But what really makes these large balloons so unique is their sizes and shapes. The behemoths can make the sun disappear as they drift over head.

Evening launches draw larger crowds at Railroad Park, but when there is a threat of thunder, balloon pilots will stand down and not risk putting their passengers in harm's way.

Going to the Dogs

Can't afford a $300 day at Fenway Park? Apprehensive about taking your life into your own hands when driving around Boston? Scared of getting mugged when taking the "T" to Fenway? Paying for watered-down beer at $10 a pop astound you? Worried that 

the guy next you will light up a three-foot stogie and smother you in cloud of a second-hand smoke?

Save money, time and avoid Boston's insanity and visit Hadlock Field in Portland to checkout the Sea Dogs. This is great entertainment at an affordable price without playing bumper cars with Massachusetts drivers. Parking is a jaw-dropping $5 to watch the Double-A players man a diamond. 

Look, competing with Friendly Fenway on any level is a lesson in futility. And Boston's glamour is a tough act to follow even though I think Portland is a great little city with so much to do without going broke.

I confess I am a Mass Hole who grew up 10 miles from Fenway's finest. When you attend a game at Fenway, it  feels like you have entered another country. This is one of the few old parks left in Major League Baseball where you don't feel like you are watching a team from the cliffs of the Grand Canyon. There's an intimacy about the park, but I also get that feeling from Hadlock Field. I enjoy the Dogs' sideshows in between innings and their numerous raffles. It really feels like the old days when the pros did the same thing for fans.

But making it a day at Fenway Park means taking out a small loan at the bank. Parking is $25 and ticket prices can make a grown baseball fan cry, and then there is the cost of food and drink. Throw in gas money for the long commute and you really got yourself a ball game for the price of about $300 for a father and son who love America's pastime.

Attending a Sea Dogs game won't blast a hole in your bank account. Ticket prices are reasonable and so isn't the food and drink. Sure, it's Double-A ball and Hadlock isn't Fenway and Portland can't compete with Boston, but who really cares when it comes to watching baseball. And there is a replica of the Green Monster at Hadlock, which isn't so astounding because the Dogs are a minor league affiliate of the Boston Red Sox.

But if you have $60 in your wallet and your son or daughter wants to watch a baseball game at a cozy park, then you have just enough cash to hit one out of the park at Hadlock Field.

So take them all out to the ball game without going broke.

Fenway Park can wait.

Malignant cells

AUBURN, Maine - My wife and I were waiting patiently at a clinic in a hospital. We brought our books (Kindles, E-Readers and iBooks are dirty words in our house) because we are patrons of the printed word.

We believe in being quite in close quarters, and when I speak with my wife in the next seat, we whisper out of respect for patients who also sit in silence.

I was reading about the origins of the Boston Red Sox, giving me the perfect excuse to ignore a TV daytime talk show host's interview with another narcissistic celebrity. We were engrossed in our reading when this annoying voice erupted and disrupted our concentration, making me lose my place in the book.

The volume grew as this impolite person let the entire room in on her cell phone conversation, which went on for nearly 15 minutes. What about leaving the room? How about: "I can't talk now" or "I will call you back." Something short and sweet, giving the rest of us a break from your nonsense.

I am not a nosey person. We are a "please and thank you" family who respects the privacy of others. I didn't need to know her business. I thought about politely telling our babbling roomy to be quiet, reaching for a can of Mace or requesting a bucket of water to drown out the conversation and destroy the phone - sort of a two-for-one deal.

There is no escaping these annoying, self-centered cell phone users whose ranks grow each day. All you need to do to join them is to be rude and become oblivious to your fellow man.

I understand we move in a world of instant communication and cell phones can be handy in emergencies and checking on our children.

Still, I can't count the number of times when a distracted driver, with a cell phone in one hand and the wheel of a two-ton SUV in the other, nearly knocking me off the road. When I use a horn to express my dismay, these inattentive drivers certainly don't mind telling me I am No. 1 with the usual hand sign that often triggers road rage. 

I have been privy to numerous cell phone conversations in a grocery market. I learned about Uncle George doing a 5-to-10 stint at Folsom State Prison for knocking over a bank while I tossed coffee into my carriage. I witnessed customers talking on the phone as they slowly reach for their wallet to pay the bill at the register. I watch in horror as a driver texts at 60 miles per hour with a car full of children. I can't believe people have a phone to their ear at the beach, on a hike or walking down the street.

Shut the damn thing off, will you please!

I don't know how to text and I don't want to learn because I hate looking down on the world. I welcome face-to-face conversations with my next-door neighbors. I was raised on a street where 17 of my relatives lived. Hot nights were spent on porches discussing the Vietnam war or the weather.

And I don't want a phone call in the car when Eric Clapton's "I feel free" is playing on the radio.

I snicker when people confess that they couldn't survive without a cell phone. We went without a mobile phone for four years and somehow we made it through the rain and kept our point of view.

Last summer, I went overboard and purchased a $10 TracPhone and spent another $20 for 60 minutes, which lasted four months.

The extent of my conversations usually goes like this:

"Hello?' I answer.

"Hi Tony, we need milk," said my wife.

"OK, I will pick up a gallon on the way home. Love ya, bye," I say.

I am off the phone in less than a minute. Besides, what could I possibly add to that conversation.

And I didn't annoy a soul during that brief call.