Ryan is a teacher, writer, journalist, basketball coach, sports aficionado, occasional real estate agent, and political junkie. He graduated from both the College of the Holy Cross (bachelor's) and Boston College (Master's), and knows anyone who has never heard of Holy Cross probably would never have gotten in there anyway. He is an unabashed Boston sports fan and homer who, according to lore, once picked the Patriots to win for 25 straight weeks on the "NFL Picks Show," which he co-hosts with Vin Diec, R.J. Warner, and Burton DeWitt. He is also an original co-host of SportsColumn's "Poor Man's PTI." He is married, lame, and a lifelong Massachusetts resident (except for a brief sojourn into the wilds of Raleigh, NC) who grew up in North Attleboro and currently lives and works in Everett.
By Ryan McGowan
I’ve been thinking of metaphors over the last few days, searching for an elusive analogy of universal experience so I could begin to understand the complex four-team deal at the trade deadline that sent long-time Red Sox shortstop, five-time All-Star, two-time batting champion, and franchise icon Nomar Garciaparra to the Chicago Cubs, in exchange for Orlando Cabrera, Doug Mientkiewicz, and Dave Roberts.
By Ryan McGowan
There it was, the unmistakable trademark fist-pump after the last out was recorded, that he would later reveal was more to mask his fear of failure than to show up his opponents. The team in white ran onto the field and the crowd erupted in jubilation. The Eck had done it again, had finished off a big win one more time, the ultimate Omega to a host of various Alphas.
Thursday, July 29, 2004, is a gorgeous day here in the Hub of the Universe, Boston, Massachusetts. Unlike yesterday where I braved the rain, security, and the supposed transportation nightmare of the Democratic National Convention to attend a rally at the Charlestown Navy Yard, today is a beautiful, sunny day. The birds along Commonwealth Avenue are chirping, the flowers in the Public Garden have never looked more radiant, and the golden Bulfinch dome of the State House is shining triumphantly in the sun (when it is not being obscured by green-clad snipers armed with machine guns). The weather seems to be metaphorically representative of this most anticipated of moments, the long awaited day when hometown Senator John F. Kerry of Beacon Hill steps to the podium at the Fleet Center and delivers a speech accepting his party’s nomination for President of the United States.
By Ryan McGowan
As an optimistic fan, I hope that a game like Saturday’s epic renewal of the ancient feud between the Red Sox and the Yankees can be a catalyst for the sudden phoenix-like revival of an otherwise frustrating 2004 season for the Boston Nine.
As a human being, I was happy to finally see the Olde Towne Team whup some ass.
By Ryan McGowan
If you think back to summers when you were a kid, they all kind of blend together. Summer memories all evoke a certain nostalgia: long, lazy days in the pool, unending games of stickball, wiffleball, tennisball, or whatever games you played to pass the time, running from adults after sneaking into their yard to retrieve a home run ball, following the baseball standings, reading the box scores. Of course, some of our readers might have different memories of being chased, in this case by the cops or jealous girlfriends rather than by fascist neighbors. Either way, the summers of one’s childhood tend to be a hazy collection of blurred, pleasant memories.
On Tuesday I ventured down to the Wonder of It All, Foxwoods Resort Casino in lovely southeastern Connecticut. (I pledge that that is the last time I will ever use the words “lovely” and “Connecticut” in the same sentence.) As a former high school teacher and future graduate student, you can imagine I have a lot of time on my hands this summer. And, as I so aptly rationalized, what better way to spend said free time than in a smoky, tacky, leech-filled poker room 70 miles away?
I do not track these statistics, but if I were a betting man (and I am), I would wager that the percentage of calls into WEEI that cry for Red Sox manager Terry Francona’s head to be put on a chopping block is somewhere around 10-15%. He might be the most unpopular Red Sox manager since, well…. Grady Little. The more things change…
In the long tradition of ripping off the Sports Guy, I present to you my 2004 All-Star Game running notebook.
8:07 PM. We’re live from Fanta Grape Field… er, Minute Maid Park, here on the Planet Houston. (I take no responsibility for anyone who doesn’t get that reference; such a person is already cursed for not appreciating the phrase, “Son of Jor-El: kneel before Zod!”) I am taking advantage of my parents’ HDTV, watching the game with my younger brother, Patrick, and my mom, who had surgery earlier in the day on a broken finger and is all drugged up. Dad is out of town, so the occasional semicoherent comments from Mom will have to suffice for humor tonight. Kevin Kennedy and Jeannie Zalasko are both wearing yellow roses on their lapels. When did the All-Star Game become the Enchantment Under the Sea dance?
On Sunday afternoon, wandering around East 153rd St. outside Yankee Stadium with the lovely Better Half, Jennifer, my eyes were drawn to one particular t-shirt for sale outside one of the myriad Yankee souvenir stores that dot that litter-infested slum. The shirt, in full obnoxious Yankee-blue splendor, proclaimed triumphantly, “GOT TWENTY-SIX?”
Sometimes, you take a vacation and find yourself immeasurably removed from the pertinent events of your everyday world. Other times, you take a trip and end up right into the belly of the biggest story in sports. Or, as it turned out, the biggest non-story of the summer (at least until Shaq isn’t traded).
Who ever said July was a slow month for sports?