Those damn Yankees do it again

A hero is someone who understands the responsibility that comes with his freedom.

                                                                                                                                            — Bob Dylan

A few days ago, three brave young Americans — Spencer Stone, Alek Skarlatos and Anthony Sadler — put themselves in harm’s way when they placed themselves between an armed terrorist and fine citizens going about their business on a high-speed train traveling from Amsterdam to Paris.

These guys didn’t flinch when they went after a man carrying a Kalashnikov assault weapon, a Luger automatic pistol and a box cutter. 

By the way, these courageous fellows were unarmed.

There’s an old saying: “Never bring a knife to a gun fight.” 

And they didn’t even have a knife. 

All they had going for them was their brawn and fists — and it was enough to subdue the attacker.

It is reassuring when people with a sense for the greater good, uncommon valor and the overwhelming desire to protect law abiding citizens from mayhem come forth to save the day

There is a lot to be said about America, and some of it has been nasty, but when we step up, there’s really no stopping us — and I don’t say that with arrogance. 

Just ask the Nazis!

These young men didn’t give a damn about their own personal safety after taking down a Moroccan national who was armed and dangerous

Now, those three big Americans, who were holiday in Europe, have suddenly become heroes because of their decisive and fearless actions.

I know there were other courageous passengers who also attempted to foil the terrorist. This example of bravery is just one reason why terrorism doesn’t stand a chance in a civilized society.

Too bad it takes a nefarious act to bring us all together despite our obvious differences.

I believe these three Samaritans deserve more than a hand shake from the governments of France and the Kingdom of Netherlands.

And that is why President Francois Hollande presented France's highest honor — the Legion d'Honneur medal — to the three Americans and a Briton on Monday. I am proud of these three young men.

I commend the French for paying tribute to these heroes. I have always been grateful to the French for their meticulous care of cemeteries where Americans soldiers rest after giving their the last full measure of devotion to their country and to the rest of the free world. Of course, Americans should always appreciate the French for giving us the Statue of Liberty and allowing the Marquis de Lafayette — a french military officer — to serve in the Continental Army during the American Revolution.

All I can say is "Vive La France" and kudos to those three Yanks who put the kibosh on a possible terrorist attempt, and I am not alluding to that damn baseball team from the Bronx.

After, I am Boston-bred and a diehard Red Sox fan.

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.