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Not-So-Super Bowl Memory: Chest Pain

Well, well, well…. here we are again!

The New England Patriots are back in the Super Bowl again, and it feels so good!  With just a few short years since the Brady/Belichick Dynasty, we have a new regime in Foxboro.  Welcome Coach Vrabel and Drake Maye – the new Pats Dynasty officially will commence on Sunday!  Good luck, boys!

But I am not looking to discuss this future phenomenon of a football organization.  I am not looking to review the 20 years of glory led by Tom “I have No Skin in the Game” Brady and Bill “Cradle Robbing” Belichick.  Nope, I am here today to review my least favorite Patriots Super Bowl; the 1996/7 Team that faced the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl XXXI (that’s 31for you kids that will never learn or need Roman Numerals).

January 26, 1997, New Orleans, Louisiana

This Patriots team was commanded of legendary Bill Parcells and our Golden Boy Quarterback of the 1990s, Drew Bledsoe.  The Pats we clear underdogs and it showed from the get-go.  Brett Favre and Company were heavy favorites, but we were not going to let that stand in the way of us.

But the game was not the storyline of the day…

  You see, I was a senior in college during that Super Bowl run.  I was living in a triple-decker tenement in Worcester with seven (4 Patriots fans, a Phillie degenerate, 2 Long Island nerds, and a human bottle of maple syrup from Vermont) my best college bros.  It was a wonderful time to be alive!  Each and every Sunday of that season we hunkered down in that squirrel-infested shithole and watched every play of every game, into the playoffs and magically into the SBXXI! 

As the big game approached, we all agreed we needed to go big time with our game day party plan.  Go big or go home!  We had every type of cuisine on speed dial (because clearly none of us could cook anything!  I’m not sure we have an oven in the dwelling?).  As the sun rose that glorious morning, we were “pumped and jacked”, to quote former Patriots Head Coach/Hype-Man, Pete Carroll.

And this is where the story begins…

As we rolled through the morning, the excitement was palpable!  We were gonna have an epic watch party and do this thing right, despite the desperate realization we could not win this game.  Alas, it did not deter our spirits.

At approximately 1000 Hours Woosta Time, one of the Long Islanders – who was an Art Student – proposed what he thought was a great idea…

“Hey, why don’t you tough guy Patriots Fans paint your chests like you were at the game?!”

“F%$& you, you losah!” was our collective knee jerk reaction.

Wildly inappropriate verbal barbs (that are no longer acceptable in this sensitive, crybaby culture we live in) ensued.  Until finally we broke under the foolish peer pressure.  The next thing you know, four 21-year-old men allowed a fledging doodler to apply (what I later learned was a toxic brand) paint to our bare chests.  Real men of genius!  Approximately one hour later, we each brandished the New England Patriots logo across our pasty white torsos.  We were all in and, in a very childish way, proud of this “badge of honor”.

It was now 12:00PM and we needed to get some stuff done. And by “stuff” I meant buy a keg for the game.  And so, myself and my City of Brotherly love buddy headed out (after putting on a shirt – I wasn’t that much of an idiot.

This mission took not even an hour, and we returned with the magnificent vat of cold brew.  LFG!  By that time, my fellow chest branders had also put on some cover ups.  After all the game was still 5+ hours away.

The revelry began.  We tapped the keg and we were off to the races!  The beers were flowing like wine (Dumb and Dumber tribute there).  And as the clock to kickoff continued to wind down, I felt a massive sense of discomfort.  Around 3PM, this once-a-good-idea paint experiment was started to trouble my cheap Irish skin.  On the down low, I whispered to my co-chest cohort,

“Hey, is this paint bothering you guys?

Each very quickly replied with a definitive “No”. 

“Oh, OK.  It’s a little itchy, but I’ll muscle through.”

I could not bear the thought of the non-New Englanders making fun of me.

Time marched on.  The casual itchiness soon turned to downright discomfort.  But I would not break.  I ducked into the bathroom to take a peek.  Oh man…. this doesn’t look good. Red and irritated, I was not going to bend.

At last kickoff was here.  It was time for us to show off Pats Patriotism.

As I tore off my covering, my skin looked like I was in an outpatient program from the Shriner’s burn center.  It was not pretty.  As I looked to my compadres, the laughter began.  What I quickly realized was that they were ALL irritated by the poison paint.  They had removed during the time I was generously pick up our frothy libations!  I suffered for five and a half hours alone.  Like a sucker.

I raced to the shower and scraped that lacquer from my person as fast as you can say jack rabbit.  But the damage was done.  Disaster.  It took days of creams, ointments, lotions and potions to get back to normal.  Thanks a lot, friends.

Oh, and to make it all worse, Green Bay Packers 35, Patriots 21.

Needless to say, there will be no chest paint come this Sunday…. just my face.

GO PATS!!!

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Irrational Fear: SHARK ATTACKS

In honor of JAWS 50th anniversary (June 20, 1975) here is a throwback

(Originally published August 1, 2013)

With the onset of Shark Week, I have opened a new series in the Can I be Frank? tales; Irrational Fears.  We all have fears in life.  Some are founded, others are completely ridiculous.  I realized that I have many of what I am calling, irrational fears.

An irrational fear, by my definition, is the fear of something – be it a person, animal, object, activity, or geography – that is likely to be perfectly safe and unlikely to cause any bodily harm.

First on my agenda of these fears is the ultimate adversary to mankind.  Of course, I am referring to sharks.  All shapes, all sizes.

Here are just a few “real” facts on shark attacks from the liars at National Geographic…

·        93% of shark attacks from 1580 to 2010 worldwide were on males.

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·        In 2010, North American Waters had 42% of all confirmed unprovoked attacks worldwide (32 attacks).

·        2010 was the most dangerous year for unprovoked shark attacks in a decade with 79.

·        Since 1907, 201 out 220 Great White Attacks have occurred when the human was less than 6ft from the surface.

And my favorite…

·        You have and a 1 in 3,700,000 chance of being killed by a shark during your lifetime.

Oh, I so beg to differ, N-Geo.

Based on the extensive research I have performed, which includes watching JAWS, Finding NEMO and (foolishly) going to the beach, I am confident in revising these fraudulent statistics printed by “one of the largest nonprofit scientific and educational institutions in the world.”  Hogwash.

Let me get your attention.  My research leads me to believe the odds of being attacked and eaten by a shark in Massachusetts are, actually, 1 in 4.

Sobering, isn’t it?

Don’t believe me?  Need more evidence?  Fine.  Let’s start with the most factual testimony ever produced about shark attacks; the 1975 cinematic masterpiece, JAWS.  Most people believe that JAWS was simply filmed by Steven Spielberg (who, unbeknownst to most, is an international shark expert) as entertainment for movie-goers.  Wrong.  Dead wrong if I must use a bad pun.  JAWS was a non-fictional narrative of what happens every single day on the waters off of the scenic Massachusetts shores.  Sharks are there.  Sharks are waiting to eat you.

The quacks over at CNN actual proclaim there was only ONE shark attack in Massa-CHEW-setts during 2012!  Yeah, and I have a bridge I want to sell you (maybe the Bourne Bridge, a.k.a., “America’s Gateway to Sharkland).

In just over TWO HOURS of the JAWS documentary, we witnessed SEVEN shark attacks, SIX of which were FATAL!  And for the three main characters: Brody, Hooper and Quint?  One dead and two attacked. Plus, add insult to (fatal) injury, Quint was the greatest shark hunter in the world.  In. The. World.  And how did he ultimately die?  Exactly.

Am I starting to get through to you people?

These hard and true facts are what lead me to my conclusion; a shark attack is likely going to happen to each and every one of us over the course of our lifetime (I would actually contend it will happen during a 1 week vacation to Cape Cod, but I have not concluded this segment of study).

There is an old adage that there are only two certainties in life; death and taxes.

I would revise this statement to read “death BY SHARK and taxes”.

Deep breath. 

Despite my findings, the ‘main stream media’ would argue that you have a better chance of dying by being struck by lightning, catching the flu or simply taking a bad fall.  These “statistics” should prompt me to pause, step back, think and lean on modern research and science to relieve me of my fear of these ruthless, blood-thirsty destroyers of man.  Yes, that is what I should do.  I just can’t.

Don’t say you have not been warned.

As shark attack escapee, Martin Brody so eloquently stated, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”  I would advise you to skip the bigger boat, skip the beach, and certainly skip entering the treacherous ocean waters.  Just stay home.  Life is too short.

ENJOY SHARK WEEK!  I’ll be under the covers.

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A Letter to Frankie: Commencement of another kind

Dear Frankie,

Happy Birthday, bud!  22!  Hard to believe! 

We are so proud of you as you move on to the next exciting chapter of your life.  While most parents of children your age are watching them cross the stage of their college graduation, we have the privilege of watching you transition to adulthood in a different way…but equally awesome.

I know you appreciate so many people, Frank, but I will do the honor of pointing them out for you.

First, thank you to your sisters, Elizabeth and Maura, for being the most patient, loving, and soulful humans you could ask for.  Words cannot capture the amount of gratitude and admiration Mom and I have for these two.  What a blessing you were granted when they came into your world.  We love you so much, girls.

Thank you to our family and friends for all you have done over the years.  It takes a village, for certain, and you have been a great one for Frankie.

Thank you to all the amazing teachers, paraprofessionals, administrators, coaches, doctors, caregivers, and peers (you know who you are) for the incredible support you have kindly provided our son over the past two decades.  Frankie’s journey has been a long and hard one at times, but he has taught our family so much. 

And now, Frankie, congratulations to YOU on your “graduation.”  Well deserved, my boy. 

And onto the next.  Moving forward. The next adventure begins for you.

Happy birthday, pal.  I love you.

-Dad

Can I Be Frank, Sports

BET THE MORTGAGE: ROAD TRIP!

Well, my main man Matt (aka the “BET THE MORTGAGE” kid) is about to embark on a sports trip of epic proportions this week.  As many of you may recall, Matt is an absolute sports fanatic.  He lives it.  Breathes it.  Digests it.  Each and every day.  Matt loves all sports but football is his pure passion…unless you count the Celtics and Red Sox. 

After some intense research, Matt mapped out a road trip  that reads like a tall fairy tale.  Matt investigated if there was a possible way to attend (3) NFL games during the same game weekend…within driving distance.  Are you kidding me?  Impossible, right?  Well, he figured it out and on Wednesday, he and his Dad hit the road to make it happen.

Thursday

The first leg.

Just a short 556 mile voyage from Boston to Pittsburgh, PA to catch the dreadful New England Patriots play the sneaky Steelers on Thursday night football.  No big deal.  Quick 9 hour cabin cruise to the 3 Rivers in Pennsylvania. Let’s (NOT) Go Pats!

Sunday

Leg number 2.

After enjoying the Steel City, Matt and Crew will make their way to Baltimore, MD to get a view of the Ravens versus those pesky Los Angelos Rams on Sunday afternoon.  A quick 250 mile, 4 hour trek for some Crabcakes and football – that’s what Maryland does!

Tired yet? 

Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.

Monday

Off to the Big Apple.  Only a 200 mile and 3 hour trip north. Pfft…like a speedy jaunt to the grocery store after this week. The New York Football Giants versus the frozen-tundra-behemoth Green Bay Packers.  Why not close it out with a bang watching two of the NFL’s oldest and most storied franchises.  Well played, Matt.

Wheels up back to Boston right after the final whistle in Rutherford, NJ.  Home by dawn. Matt is about to live like a rock star for a few.  Kid needs a NIL contract and some Adderall!

Have a blast, my boy, and don’t be shy to ask Uncle Frank if he can maybe jump in on this epic gridiron journey!

P.S. Matt will divulge his football picks throughout the trip! #betthemortgage

Can I Be Frank, Frank McCabe, REAL MEN

REAL MEN: SLATTERY

As I have noted in previous REAL MEN columns, I only feel the inspiration to write them when I recognize the subject has made an indelible mark on me. A person – in this case – PERSONS that made an impact on my life in some way, shape or form. Most of the men I have chosen are my elders. Dear friends and family that have all guided me through my almost 50 years on this big, spinning, blue ball. However, this chapter is being dedicated to a large brood of kind, soulful, hysterical and 100% crazy men that I have been around for a very long time.

Hello Slatterys!

Yes, welcome to the Crazy Train indeed, folks.

Born, bred and proud Lowellians, the five Slattery Brothers are an army of awesome. With no disrespect to their solo sister, Kelly, this series is about men, but I am confident she could measure up to her kin in many, many ways (Apologies, Kelly. If I ever develop a ‘REAL WOMEN’ spin off, you will make the cut. God Bless you for tending to these screwballs for more than half of a century)

And now on to the boys and their individual accolades from this man’s perch.

Actually, let me back up for as second.

The Slatterys are a larger than life (literally and figuratively) Clan that have been causing mischief and mayhem around the Mill City for a long, long time. Educators, corrections officers, civil servants and (arguably the greatest) bartenders a plenty, these fellas do not f&$k around. Each and all have very storied and, somewhat epic, athletic histories taking them from the gridiron of Cawley Stadium to college stadiums across New England and beyond. A gifted brood of jocks that each appear to be a little better than the one in line in front of them. And while all of that is impressive and widely known, these cats are simply great dudes. Fun, fiery, loyal and wild. The epitome of a classic 20th century Irish American family.

Here are their stories (insert the Law and Order DAH DAH!!!).

In birth order, each hold a special spot with me for incredibly different reasons. (Jesus, I hope I don’t piss any of these monsters off. Here goes!)

Ted “Bubba” Slattery

Became friends with Teddy at a later age and have always been honored to call him that. It’s almost ironic he bears the name Teddy – because he truly is a Teddy Bear of a human. (Of course, I don’t recall knowing or owning a Teddy Bear that would rip your head off if you crossed him or his family. I digress.) Ted is actually a gentle, considerate, kind and awesome guy. The first guy to offer a handshake, a hug, or ice cold beverage. Most of the time I have spent with Teddy has been on a golf course or in a saloon. While we both suck at golf, we make up for it in the barroom. Our sessions are always fun and packed with laugher. We all could use a guy like Bubba in our corner.

Paul “Pipes” Slattery

Oh boy. Where do I begin with this 6’5, 250 pound mass of coolness? The Pipa is an absolute legend and a gift to us all. A hilarious, story-telling, drink-slinging gentleman of historic fame, Pipes, for lack of a better term, is just freaking fantastic. One of those people that you light up when you see because you know you are on the receiving end of an amazing story, joke or (likely exaggerated) tale. Paul was the pourer of my very first (illegal) alcoholic beverage. The now-defunct “KEG” pub, tucked over in Lowell’s Centralville section, was where one squeaky-voiced Frankie McCabe Jr. ordered his first beer at the tender age of SIXTEEN in 1991! Yes, really. Tagging along with some older cousins and buddies, I was a wreck. Paul asked for my identification. My stomach dropped on the spot but then he quickly followed with, “I’m “f%cking with you buddy, what do you need?”. The best. A single-handicap golfer, Pipes still remains the man around these city streets.

P.S. – Ask him to croon Springsteen’s Thunder Road if you bump in to him.

Kevin “Coach” Slattery

Kevin was on my high school football team’s coaching staff. While he was busy directly coaching the “biggins” and not us soft, little, delicate guys, he always made a point to know all of his players. Truly an intimidating figure, Kevin taught me a healthy amount of fear and respect for my superiors – which is highly lacking (and needed) in today’s world. Just prior to my senior season, Kevin decided to put a temporary hold on his coaching career; and that stung. I recall my Dad pulling him aside and virtually begging him to stay just one more year until I moved on and continue providing me direction. He was a powerful influence on a whole gaggle of punk teenage boys. A builder and leader of men, Kevin is a role model and a Real Man if you ever met one. Thanks Coach. You made a valued and important imprint on me.

James “Don’t you dare call me Jimmy” Slattery

Nope. No stories. No banter. Nuh uh. Not doing it. Ain’t no way on Turkey Day. Guy scares the shit out of 99.9% of the population (the only 0.1 % that are not scared are his brothers – maybe). Have a good day, sir. Sorry to trouble you. Carry on. God Bless.

“Administrator” David Slattery

Baby of the Slattery Clan. Arguably the craziest. Arguably the toughest. Arguably the sweetest. . Positively one of the best. David is closest in age to me and I consider him a dear friend. There are 10,000 David Slatts stories that I won’t bother to reference; except for one. At a very low point of my professional life, when I really needed a break, David was my guy. At a career-crossroads for yours truly, DS stepped up and offered me daylight to get me back on my feet. It turned out to be, perhaps, the most meaningful part of my working life and I owe that to him. And speaking of education, a University of Rhode Island football (and Lowell break dancing) legend, Dave will get the pleasure of my company at those Rhodie tailgate parties as my middle child is about to become a Ram for the next four years. Can’t wait, buddy!

And there it is. Hope I didn’t upset any of you big boys with these words, but if I did, I want you to know Shaun McCarty held a gun to my head and made me type this.

REAL MEN.

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The Obituary of Pee Wee Herman

Herman, Pee Wee, 70

Beloved entertainer, tuxedo model, purported serial sicko, Pee Wee Herman has passed away from complications from an apparent bicycle accident.  Authorities have ruled out foul play. 

Best known for his incredibly insane behavior Pee Wee Herman was last seen alive at a Level 3 Sex Offender rodeo in El Paso, Texas this past Saturday.  The long-time tuxedo and bow tie touting Herman was in several feature films including Pee Wee’s Big Adventure and Big Top Pee Wee.  He also was the lead weirdo in the non-award winning television series titled Pee Wee’s Playhouse where he could be spotted every Saturday morning screaming at his came-to-life furniture and singing showtunes with (a then unknown) Laurence Fishburne. 

Famous for his wildly odd style, stage-ready makeup and odd voice, Herman was a terribly lonely and haunted individual, but a beloved entertainer. Many of Herman’s former co-stars and friends have commented on his passing…

“Pee Wee was misunderstood.  Sure, he was a very mentally ill human, but he was my greatest customer and friend,” stated a very distraught Mario, owner of Mario’s Magic Shop.

Neighbor and bath-taker/chubby thief, Francis Buxton, is deeply grieving his departed friend and rival.  “I always thought I would go before Pee Wee,” the portly, pasty gum-chewing Buxton wrote in a prepared statement. “I’ll never forgive myself for stealing his prized bicycle nearly 40 years ago.  It will haunt me until I reach my own non-shallow grave.”

Herman’s lifelong companion, Dottie, assistant manager of Chuck’s Bike-o-Rama, (who predeceased him when she mysteriously died from a horn blowing incident in 2011) loved her Pee Wee.  As etched on her tombstone, ‘See you on the other side Pee Wee.  You were a loner and a rebel, but you were mine.”

Estranged hitch-hiking supporter, “Large Marge” was reached by phone for comment.  “The last time I saw Pee Wee was at that roadside diner so many years ago when he got out of my tractor trailer.  Tell the Lord Large Marge sent you, Pee Wee.  Rest easy.”

Herman loved magic, tomfoolery, fashion but his lifelong passion was to his bicycle.  When the prized bike was stolen in 1985 Herman traveled the country in pursuit of his famous two-wheeled form of conveyance.  While Herman and his bicycle were eventually reunited it would become a total and complete compulsion.  Herman vanished from main stream society in 1999 after a scandal involving a transsexual dwarf prostitute, a large supply methamphetamine and nearly 1,000 yards of red licorice in a Las Vegas brothel.

Herman leaves no family behind except for his longtime friends Clocky and Chairy who both miraculously escaped from the famed PlayHouse Fire of 1990.

Private services will be held and Herman will lie-in-state in the basement of The Alamo in San Antonio, TX on Friday, August 4 from 2:00PM-8:00PM. 

In lieu of flowers, Mr. Herman’s next of kin, his dog Speck, has asked that donations be made to “The Amazing Larry Foundation”, a non-profit organization with the mission of ending furniture molestation in America.