The trails were dusty and pitted.
Transportation by overland stage jostled a traveler’s bones like lottery ping pong balls. Arriving on horseback between cities that we can reach in hours took days. Instead of a motel and shower, adventurers found basic comfort laying in a bedroll by a campfire and bathing in a stream when they could find one.
Ah, the legend of the wild West, from the time gold was discovered at Sutter’s Mill until wondrous inventions like the automobile and telephone turned dusty memories into legend.
That truly was a long time ago, when men did things like punching a man in the gut for looking at him funny or shooting him for anything worse. A popular saying at the time was, “There’s no law west of the Misissippi River and west of Dodge City, there’s no God.”
How uncouth. We don’t do anything like that today, refined and cultured as we are. Heavens no, or do we?
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the internet, where lawlessness and anarchy reign just as sure as they did behind the swinging doors in those shoot-em-up western saloons.
Maybe it’s even worse. At least if somebody threw a punch or fired a shot at you at the Long Branch Saloon, you knew who was delivering it.
On the lawless plains of the internet, perpetrators don’t even have to announce themselves to fire shots. They use false names and even misrepresent other people whom they hold in contempt.
Unlike our gruff western ancestors, they don’t have the guts to stare a man in the eye before they strike. They don’t provide the courtesy of even the most despicable gunfighters inching closer and closer with gun hand ready as the women and children head for shelter. They hide behind the brambles of anonymity, shielding themselves cowardly from any possible retaliation.
Even these techno-twerps need some kind of forum in which to spread their venom, and sports make a fine vehicle. Many take aim at the local pro or college teams. Arguably, they’re fair game with their million dollar salaries and in the case of college athletes, the free education they receive at a value of a few hundred grand.
While the pros and high-profile collegians have mothers too, I’ve given up railing about how Sox and Yankee fans yearn for even more superstars in the lineup after every defeat. Fire away, malcontents. I wonder what it’s like to have no life.
But attacking high school coaches? In the Old West, that would be akin to staging an Indian massacre where mothers and babies were fair game.
A high school basketball coach earns in the neighborhood of $5,000. Most of them are teachers primarily, folks with the vision, talent and desire to guide our malleable youngsters through the challenge of their turbulent teens.
They play to win, but temper that with an attempt to give deserving candidates a fair shot. An athlete has got to be a student and good citizen first. From there, they are rewarded for how much they put into their respective games and the talent with which they’ve been blessed.
From the minds of the people behind giving trophies to Little League teams that go 0-16, I remind you that enabling youngsters presents them with a false sense that life habitually rewards non-achievers. Thus, if a high school sophomore loves baseball but simply can’t play, the coach is morally committed to suggest other avenues of self-expression.
Because many of today’s parents absorbed unfortunate messages during the start of the Everybody Gets Trophies Era, they simply can’t see beyond their own needs. They don’t get their way so they go into their cozy computer rooms, strap on their holsters, load their six-guns with misspelled invectives and fire away.
So you think the world has progressed so much since Marshal Dillon dined with Doc and Miss Kitty? Think again. Custer had his day of reckoning and I can only hope the internet snipers get theirs.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
NEW BLOOD
If I spend too much time on this entry telling you about the tenuous future of newspapers, I would be wasting your time. You all know that newspaper circulation is down and young people aren't in the habit of turning pages between sips of morning coffee.
Since my salary comes from being a sports reporter, the viability of the industry is of great consequence to me. Thus, I will never stop trying to promote newspapers, whether it's on the deck of a sinking ship or not. If it is sinking, I'm too set in ways to do anything but go down with the ship.
Throughout my time in the business, I have always availed myself to youngsters showing an interest in our craft. It has turned up some interesting twists and turns that have helped the papers I've worked and assisted young people in shaping the foundation of their professional lives.
I like to tell the high school athletic directors I know to keep an eye out for talent -- a devoted interest in sports and a love for expression through writing. A number of years ago, former Rocky Hill High AD Brian Fell told me of such a young man. The discussion cleared a path for my learned colleague Ryan Pipke joining the fold, first as a part-timer, then as a full-time writer and now as assistant sports editor.
About the same time, I was asked by golf coach/student newspaper advisor Bob Francini to speak to a group of aspiring journalists at New Britain High. Among them was a sports-loving young man with a flair for said expression named Ryan Cote.
Cote eventually became a part-time writer for the Herald, a position he held for the most part to augment our comprehensive coverage of local high school football.He did a nice job but ultimately determined that a lifetime as a newspaper sports reporter was not what he wanted. He opted to get his teaching certificate and is teaching part time at his alma mater.
A segment of life came full-circle Tuesday morning when I made a presentation to HIS class. As always, I found some of the youngsters bright-eyed and interested while others doodled and gazed into space, but whether the seeds sprout remains to be seen. As always, I found the experience to be personally fulfilling because the youngsters keep me feeling as young as this tired old 57-year-old body allows.
Since my salary comes from being a sports reporter, the viability of the industry is of great consequence to me. Thus, I will never stop trying to promote newspapers, whether it's on the deck of a sinking ship or not. If it is sinking, I'm too set in ways to do anything but go down with the ship.
Throughout my time in the business, I have always availed myself to youngsters showing an interest in our craft. It has turned up some interesting twists and turns that have helped the papers I've worked and assisted young people in shaping the foundation of their professional lives.
I like to tell the high school athletic directors I know to keep an eye out for talent -- a devoted interest in sports and a love for expression through writing. A number of years ago, former Rocky Hill High AD Brian Fell told me of such a young man. The discussion cleared a path for my learned colleague Ryan Pipke joining the fold, first as a part-timer, then as a full-time writer and now as assistant sports editor.
About the same time, I was asked by golf coach/student newspaper advisor Bob Francini to speak to a group of aspiring journalists at New Britain High. Among them was a sports-loving young man with a flair for said expression named Ryan Cote.
Cote eventually became a part-time writer for the Herald, a position he held for the most part to augment our comprehensive coverage of local high school football.He did a nice job but ultimately determined that a lifetime as a newspaper sports reporter was not what he wanted. He opted to get his teaching certificate and is teaching part time at his alma mater.
A segment of life came full-circle Tuesday morning when I made a presentation to HIS class. As always, I found some of the youngsters bright-eyed and interested while others doodled and gazed into space, but whether the seeds sprout remains to be seen. As always, I found the experience to be personally fulfilling because the youngsters keep me feeling as young as this tired old 57-year-old body allows.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
TIME FOR THE ROCKING CHAIR
I have nothing against the UConn men's basketball program. Ambivalence would be the best word to describe my level of interest in it.
But when the media covers each game like Under Armour apparel, I generally take a look.
I read with interest one account of how Jim Calhoun berated a state columnist. The columnist couldn't even get one-third of the question out of his mouth when the coach publicly ridiculed him. I could see if the question was inane, and as a person who has to conduct interviews often, sometimes our questions can be weak, but that wasn't the case here. It had the makings of a question that needed to be asked yet was never fully articulated.
I have a deep respect for Calhoun. Anybody who doesn't would be a fool. The man is a coaching genius and has done plenty to put Connecticut on the sports map, but he isn't so high and mighty that he should embarass (a word the coach used often in his postgame press conference after the 60-48 loss to Cincinnati) an esteemed journalist trying to do his job.
The Huskies lost? So what. Somebody loses every time a game is played. The coach's reaction was like that of a petulant teenager who had his I-phone taken away.
I truly believed after hearing of Calhoun's recent medical leave that he should leave the coaching ranks for reasons of self-preservation. I would like to see him enjoy his family and friends for a few years before his time here is through. Judging from the nature of the reports on Calhoun's recent malady, stress is at the roots. Stress is a killer, and if I were Jim, I wouldn't let the bastard win.
With his medical leave over, I thought Calhoun would tone down his act but I guess he can't. Perhaps raining verbal abuse on reporters and columnists is something that has gone on in UConn postgame circles for years. That I wouldn't know because I've never covered a UConn game and nor do I want to.
He reminds me of the grade-school bully who rules with an iron fist at the top of the heap until somebody, or in this case something, knocks him off. I revel in the body of his work but given the account of his postgame actions, that's where my respect ends.
The Huskies are having a bad season. Certain things didn't work out. Live with it, Coach Calhoun, and stop trying to slay the messenger. It's Valentine's Day, Jimmy. Can't you show a little love?
But when the media covers each game like Under Armour apparel, I generally take a look.
I read with interest one account of how Jim Calhoun berated a state columnist. The columnist couldn't even get one-third of the question out of his mouth when the coach publicly ridiculed him. I could see if the question was inane, and as a person who has to conduct interviews often, sometimes our questions can be weak, but that wasn't the case here. It had the makings of a question that needed to be asked yet was never fully articulated.
I have a deep respect for Calhoun. Anybody who doesn't would be a fool. The man is a coaching genius and has done plenty to put Connecticut on the sports map, but he isn't so high and mighty that he should embarass (a word the coach used often in his postgame press conference after the 60-48 loss to Cincinnati) an esteemed journalist trying to do his job.
The Huskies lost? So what. Somebody loses every time a game is played. The coach's reaction was like that of a petulant teenager who had his I-phone taken away.
I truly believed after hearing of Calhoun's recent medical leave that he should leave the coaching ranks for reasons of self-preservation. I would like to see him enjoy his family and friends for a few years before his time here is through. Judging from the nature of the reports on Calhoun's recent malady, stress is at the roots. Stress is a killer, and if I were Jim, I wouldn't let the bastard win.
With his medical leave over, I thought Calhoun would tone down his act but I guess he can't. Perhaps raining verbal abuse on reporters and columnists is something that has gone on in UConn postgame circles for years. That I wouldn't know because I've never covered a UConn game and nor do I want to.
He reminds me of the grade-school bully who rules with an iron fist at the top of the heap until somebody, or in this case something, knocks him off. I revel in the body of his work but given the account of his postgame actions, that's where my respect ends.
The Huskies are having a bad season. Certain things didn't work out. Live with it, Coach Calhoun, and stop trying to slay the messenger. It's Valentine's Day, Jimmy. Can't you show a little love?
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
WEATHER OR NOT
I had to pick up a few groceries Tuesday afternoon and found the Stop & Shop parking lot jammed.
Now I'm not one for watching weather reports. I figure why worry about something I can't control. If it's going to snow, I'll wear my galoshes. But small talk is a great conveyor of current events so it did dawn on me that there was a blizzard in the forecast.
I never could understand why a nor'easter sends people to the market to stock up like they're going to be snowbound for a month. When was the last time any of us spent more than a full day in the house because of a snowstorm? Inches fall, the plows come out, you shovel the drive and you're good to go the next day. I'd swear these meteorologists must get free groceries every time they mention snow.
Anyway, while I was checking out, I was checking out this divine little check-out girl named Jenni.
"Jenni," I said. "Whaddya think about all this snow talk?"
She said, "I hate snow. It's not going to snow."
"Okay, I'll remember that."
So it snowed, not the 10 to 16 inches that the weather reports stated but a mere dusting. The moral of the story is, if you want a better weather report, see your neighborhood check-out girl. She'll probably be closer to being right.
Now I'm not one for watching weather reports. I figure why worry about something I can't control. If it's going to snow, I'll wear my galoshes. But small talk is a great conveyor of current events so it did dawn on me that there was a blizzard in the forecast.
I never could understand why a nor'easter sends people to the market to stock up like they're going to be snowbound for a month. When was the last time any of us spent more than a full day in the house because of a snowstorm? Inches fall, the plows come out, you shovel the drive and you're good to go the next day. I'd swear these meteorologists must get free groceries every time they mention snow.
Anyway, while I was checking out, I was checking out this divine little check-out girl named Jenni.
"Jenni," I said. "Whaddya think about all this snow talk?"
She said, "I hate snow. It's not going to snow."
"Okay, I'll remember that."
So it snowed, not the 10 to 16 inches that the weather reports stated but a mere dusting. The moral of the story is, if you want a better weather report, see your neighborhood check-out girl. She'll probably be closer to being right.
Monday, January 25, 2010
PONDEROSA PINING
They're all gone.
The four men who stimulated my childhood television viewing experience every Sunday night at 9 p.m., and for decades later in syndication, have now all died.
The show was Bonanza. The last living resident of the Ponderosa Ranch, Pernell Roberts who played the role of Adam Cartwright, the eldest of Ben Cartwright's three sons, died of cancer Sunday at the age of 81.
Roberts turned his back on the show that catapulted him to stardom after six seasons. Ben (Lorne Greene), Hoss (Dan Blocker) and Little Joe (Michael Landon) carried on. David Canary, who still stars in one of the soap operas, replaced Roberts on the show, but only as a ranch-hand, not a Cartwright.
When Pernell goes to his final resting place, he brings with him a huge part of my youth.
The four men who stimulated my childhood television viewing experience every Sunday night at 9 p.m., and for decades later in syndication, have now all died.
The show was Bonanza. The last living resident of the Ponderosa Ranch, Pernell Roberts who played the role of Adam Cartwright, the eldest of Ben Cartwright's three sons, died of cancer Sunday at the age of 81.
Roberts turned his back on the show that catapulted him to stardom after six seasons. Ben (Lorne Greene), Hoss (Dan Blocker) and Little Joe (Michael Landon) carried on. David Canary, who still stars in one of the soap operas, replaced Roberts on the show, but only as a ranch-hand, not a Cartwright.
When Pernell goes to his final resting place, he brings with him a huge part of my youth.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
TWEETING WAS FLEETING
A few months ago I experienced a very unusual surge.
This mysterious force convinced a man who prefers black-and-white movies over computer-generated aliens, Have Gun Will Travel over the Simpsons and the literature of James Fenimore Cooper over Steven King suddenly decided to look into this social networking phenomenon that's sweeping us up.
Yes, the guy who has watched Casablanca 30 times and wouldn't go see Avatar if he had an engraved invitation, a free bucket of popcorn and a limousine ride to the theater decided to peer into the present.
Sorry, I didn't like what I saw.
I was tweeting for awhile, and I must say that speaking my mind in the framework of 144 characters is hardly my style. On top of that, my Twitter account was hacked and threatened to bring down my computer, which as you would gather I use quite conservatively. So to my young colleagues, I say, tweet to your heart's content but you'll no longer find me among the songbirds.
Then there's Facebook.
The moon must have been aligned with Jupiter or something the day I signed up for Facebook. At first, I enjoyed it. I wrote some notes about what I was up to and chatted with friends and colleagues. Then I came to my senses.
Why the heck do I want everybody to know what I'm doing all the time? It's not that I'm ashamed of it. What can possibly be decadent about covering high school basketball or disruptive about taking long rides through the countryside listening to the Grateful Dead? And I'm not even lighting up.
I don't cheat on my wife nor do I have the slightest urge to do so. Thus, I'm not particularly interested in rekindling old flames. Any old friends with whom I'd like to reconnect aren't going to be on Facebook anyway. Many of them may not even have computers. Heck I have friends who refuse to allow the internet to invade their homes, and I'd be fibbing if I said I hadn't given that some consideration.
But the bottom line is this: I have no urge to thrust my thoughts and meanderings into the face of others. I truly couldn't care less that somebody's kids are going to a birthday party and another's are playing hockey. I'm not interested in the weather in Orlando or somebody's family photos from their European vacation. Thus, I don't figure anybody's interested in my visit to Goodwin Tech last night, or the fact that I'm looking for a good restaurant in Springfield tonight before the New Britain boys play. I'm not figuring anybody cares who I think is going to win the Super Bowl. I'm sure I'd be wrong anyway.
I have regressed, or perhaps progressed, to the point where neither Twitter nor Facebook will soak up my free time. I'll check Facebook now and then to see who wants me to be their friend or to see if any long lost buddies are buzzing around, but I'm not prone to feign such self-importance that I'm going to prattle on about the accomplishments of my offspring, siblings or myself.
So crank up another episode of Gunsmoke. Time for another chapter in my Humphrey Bogart biography. Think I'll drive around the corner an extra time to hear the end of "Truckin," but I believe for the time being, the only tweeting done around here will be by the robins come April.
This mysterious force convinced a man who prefers black-and-white movies over computer-generated aliens, Have Gun Will Travel over the Simpsons and the literature of James Fenimore Cooper over Steven King suddenly decided to look into this social networking phenomenon that's sweeping us up.
Yes, the guy who has watched Casablanca 30 times and wouldn't go see Avatar if he had an engraved invitation, a free bucket of popcorn and a limousine ride to the theater decided to peer into the present.
Sorry, I didn't like what I saw.
I was tweeting for awhile, and I must say that speaking my mind in the framework of 144 characters is hardly my style. On top of that, my Twitter account was hacked and threatened to bring down my computer, which as you would gather I use quite conservatively. So to my young colleagues, I say, tweet to your heart's content but you'll no longer find me among the songbirds.
Then there's Facebook.
The moon must have been aligned with Jupiter or something the day I signed up for Facebook. At first, I enjoyed it. I wrote some notes about what I was up to and chatted with friends and colleagues. Then I came to my senses.
Why the heck do I want everybody to know what I'm doing all the time? It's not that I'm ashamed of it. What can possibly be decadent about covering high school basketball or disruptive about taking long rides through the countryside listening to the Grateful Dead? And I'm not even lighting up.
I don't cheat on my wife nor do I have the slightest urge to do so. Thus, I'm not particularly interested in rekindling old flames. Any old friends with whom I'd like to reconnect aren't going to be on Facebook anyway. Many of them may not even have computers. Heck I have friends who refuse to allow the internet to invade their homes, and I'd be fibbing if I said I hadn't given that some consideration.
But the bottom line is this: I have no urge to thrust my thoughts and meanderings into the face of others. I truly couldn't care less that somebody's kids are going to a birthday party and another's are playing hockey. I'm not interested in the weather in Orlando or somebody's family photos from their European vacation. Thus, I don't figure anybody's interested in my visit to Goodwin Tech last night, or the fact that I'm looking for a good restaurant in Springfield tonight before the New Britain boys play. I'm not figuring anybody cares who I think is going to win the Super Bowl. I'm sure I'd be wrong anyway.
I have regressed, or perhaps progressed, to the point where neither Twitter nor Facebook will soak up my free time. I'll check Facebook now and then to see who wants me to be their friend or to see if any long lost buddies are buzzing around, but I'm not prone to feign such self-importance that I'm going to prattle on about the accomplishments of my offspring, siblings or myself.
So crank up another episode of Gunsmoke. Time for another chapter in my Humphrey Bogart biography. Think I'll drive around the corner an extra time to hear the end of "Truckin," but I believe for the time being, the only tweeting done around here will be by the robins come April.
Monday, January 4, 2010
NBHS HOOPS: A GREAT PLACE TO BE
My experience at Monday’s boys basketball game between New Britain and Northwest Catholic reinforced my appreciation for high school sports.
It starts with the people.
There’s John the ticket seller. I never walk into a New Britain sporting event without John having something nice to say about my work. With the intense nature of getting out stories with a 10 p.m. deadline, I really don’t have the time to chat with him to the extent that I’d like but every writer likes to hear that people are reading the stories and blogs.
The Northwest Catholic folks are terrific. Athletic director Josh Reese and boys coach John Mirabello are two of the nicest people around. No wonder kids love to play hoops there. I’ve always wished that the Herald could cover Northwest. I haven’t seen girls coach Karl Herbert yet this season but no one is more deserving of the success that he’s enjoying. He’s got his club at the top of the state polls and it wouldn’t surprise me if he ends up there.
The Indians lost to New Britain, 63-59, yet Mirabello, as always, stressed the positive after the game. He truly felt that the lessons gained by his young club will pay dividends down the line. I don’t doubt it. He’s got a nice mix of veterans (Julian Harris, J.C. Carr, Tom Bourdon) and perhaps the best freshman in the state in 6-foot-8 Kuran Iverson.
Again because of how pressure-packed it is to get a story out, I rarely have a chance to chat with the fans. There were so many former NB players and parents and I’d love to sit down for a cup of coffee with them all. I just hope they fully understand that stringing together a game story in a matter of minutes chips away at my free time.
The same goes for the New Britain administration.
The work of athletic director Lenny Corto, site director Bill Ackerman, clock operator Paul Majeski, official scorer Michelle Abraham and the other coaches like Mimi Parks who lend a hard is generally unnoticed. The atmosphere wouldn’t be as pleasant if the PA system is malfunctioning but Ackerman makes sure everything is in order. Abraham balances the scorebook quicker than anybody I’ve ever worked with, and that’s a huge bonus when you’re trying to get a story out. The PA work turned in by Randy Brochu gives Chick Shea Gym a college-like aura.
East Hartford’s talented 6-foot-6 forward Jakarri McCalop went out of his way to stop by to say hello after the game. He wanted to know when I was going to cover one of his games. I hope I get the pleasure because New Britain and East Hartford are not scheduled to play during the regular season. Maybe I can catch him when the Hornets play Newington. His kindness warmed my heart.
I had the chance to chat with Tebucky Jones after the game. I could talk to him for hours. I hope I can find the time to do that soon. What a great job he’s done raising his family. Tebucky Jr. is a terrific young man.
The New Britain coaching staff headed by Stan Glowiak is outstanding. Stan is a true friend. Todd Stigliano and Darwin Shaw, too.
I saw Mayor Tim Stewart walk in and provide his support. You’ve got to appreciate that he can find the time to attend the games and he’s at quite a few. Every mayor should be as sports-minded and supportive. Former principal Paul Salina rarely misses a game. He’s there with his camera, snapping photos that he’ll give to the kids. Current principal Mike Foran put in a full day at school and doesn’t have to be there, but he is … almost all the time.
The pep band and cheerleaders add to the atmosphere.
Gradually, the crowd thins out. I’m typing like a madman as the custodians clean up, roll up the bleachers and prepare the gym for Tuesday’s school day. I don’t know all their names but their work is indispensible and their kindness is greatly appreciated. The one I do know is former NBHS lineman and Northeastern grad Corey Thomas. I’d be proud to call him my son, but I don’t think that great dad of his is giving him up any time soon.
Then there was the game. It was just a great high school game, close all the way, well-officiated and extremely well-played. So many people said so as they left the gym. What a great night!
The season is still young. Many great games both at home and on the road remain. Why don’t you consider joining the family.
It starts with the people.
There’s John the ticket seller. I never walk into a New Britain sporting event without John having something nice to say about my work. With the intense nature of getting out stories with a 10 p.m. deadline, I really don’t have the time to chat with him to the extent that I’d like but every writer likes to hear that people are reading the stories and blogs.
The Northwest Catholic folks are terrific. Athletic director Josh Reese and boys coach John Mirabello are two of the nicest people around. No wonder kids love to play hoops there. I’ve always wished that the Herald could cover Northwest. I haven’t seen girls coach Karl Herbert yet this season but no one is more deserving of the success that he’s enjoying. He’s got his club at the top of the state polls and it wouldn’t surprise me if he ends up there.
The Indians lost to New Britain, 63-59, yet Mirabello, as always, stressed the positive after the game. He truly felt that the lessons gained by his young club will pay dividends down the line. I don’t doubt it. He’s got a nice mix of veterans (Julian Harris, J.C. Carr, Tom Bourdon) and perhaps the best freshman in the state in 6-foot-8 Kuran Iverson.
Again because of how pressure-packed it is to get a story out, I rarely have a chance to chat with the fans. There were so many former NB players and parents and I’d love to sit down for a cup of coffee with them all. I just hope they fully understand that stringing together a game story in a matter of minutes chips away at my free time.
The same goes for the New Britain administration.
The work of athletic director Lenny Corto, site director Bill Ackerman, clock operator Paul Majeski, official scorer Michelle Abraham and the other coaches like Mimi Parks who lend a hard is generally unnoticed. The atmosphere wouldn’t be as pleasant if the PA system is malfunctioning but Ackerman makes sure everything is in order. Abraham balances the scorebook quicker than anybody I’ve ever worked with, and that’s a huge bonus when you’re trying to get a story out. The PA work turned in by Randy Brochu gives Chick Shea Gym a college-like aura.
East Hartford’s talented 6-foot-6 forward Jakarri McCalop went out of his way to stop by to say hello after the game. He wanted to know when I was going to cover one of his games. I hope I get the pleasure because New Britain and East Hartford are not scheduled to play during the regular season. Maybe I can catch him when the Hornets play Newington. His kindness warmed my heart.
I had the chance to chat with Tebucky Jones after the game. I could talk to him for hours. I hope I can find the time to do that soon. What a great job he’s done raising his family. Tebucky Jr. is a terrific young man.
The New Britain coaching staff headed by Stan Glowiak is outstanding. Stan is a true friend. Todd Stigliano and Darwin Shaw, too.
I saw Mayor Tim Stewart walk in and provide his support. You’ve got to appreciate that he can find the time to attend the games and he’s at quite a few. Every mayor should be as sports-minded and supportive. Former principal Paul Salina rarely misses a game. He’s there with his camera, snapping photos that he’ll give to the kids. Current principal Mike Foran put in a full day at school and doesn’t have to be there, but he is … almost all the time.
The pep band and cheerleaders add to the atmosphere.
Gradually, the crowd thins out. I’m typing like a madman as the custodians clean up, roll up the bleachers and prepare the gym for Tuesday’s school day. I don’t know all their names but their work is indispensible and their kindness is greatly appreciated. The one I do know is former NBHS lineman and Northeastern grad Corey Thomas. I’d be proud to call him my son, but I don’t think that great dad of his is giving him up any time soon.
Then there was the game. It was just a great high school game, close all the way, well-officiated and extremely well-played. So many people said so as they left the gym. What a great night!
The season is still young. Many great games both at home and on the road remain. Why don’t you consider joining the family.
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