30 for 30: Judging Richard Jewell

DATELINE: Dumb Media

  Heroic Richard Jewell

As we await the viewing of Clint Eastwood’s new movie, Richard Jewell,we took in a short documentary from ESPN that was produced in 2014 for their award-winning series30 for 30. It had the ancillary attraction of being a story about the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta.

Richard Jewell was a heavy-set Southern man in his 30s who wanted to be a police officer, posed with weapons, lived alone in a rustic cabin when not living with his mother. He was one-step away from being a mall cop: he hired on as part-time security at the Olympics. He spotted a suspicious backpack, cleared the area before it went off, saving hundreds of lives.

Then, one suspicious former employer called the FBI and said he was an egotistical nobody with hero wishes. Suddenly a modest, unattractive man became the epitome of a lone Bubba Bomber. The media hounded him, made him run gauntlets, peppered him with questions about his fake heroism.

Jay Leno and Tom Brokaw joined the chorus of FBI and Atlanta Journal Constitution media hacks. They never apologized when 88 days later the FBI cleared him. Several years after that another man, the notorious Eric Rudolph, pled guilty to the bombing and went to prison for life.

Jewell was there to see justice done, though it was elusive for him. The media sneered at him. And they still do.

Few apologies and retractions followed Richard. Centennial Park in Atlanta never acknowledged his heroic action. The slime-ball newspaper ACJ still attacks Jewell through the new Eastwood movie.

Jewell enjoyed Clint’s movies—and his mother is grateful for the new film. Alas, Jewell himself died in 2007, likely driven to death by stress and pain—despite being cleared.

The ESPN documentary at 22 minutes is a succinct overview of justice denied, justice perverted, and justice delayed.

Kick to the Groin by Patriots

DATELINE: Brady Boys Up a Tree

New England’s Patriots have done the near impossible: they have kicked themselves in the keester after a cramp nearly decapitated them of a head below the belt.

Bill Belichick has reached a stage of joking.

This week he thought about recalling Wes Welker out of retirement to be his emergency kicker. You know this idea did not emanate from Tom Brady—or it would have been seriously dead on arrival.

Welker is now coaching Jimmy G in San Fran where the Pats’ true heart is in little cable cars, halfway to the stars.

Brady himself pulled his foot out of the kicker sweepstakes by claiming his boot is in Denver. It may be where he ends up playing for the next five years.

With appendectomy, halitosis, and assorted ills, every kicker in the Patriot backfield has found himself unable to lift his leg to do more than pretend to be a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall for the holiday show.

Can a team go to the Super Bowl without a man with the kick-ass power to kick ass?

Julian Edelman may want to consider his role as slot receiver unfulfilled when word filters out that slot receiver and former Brady favorite Welker holds a record of sorts for kicking while catching.

So Julie may need to catch Welker while he can.

Practice makes perfect, but a full-blown rehearsal may be needed.

Can it be the Patriots are ready to lose every game for the remainder of the season? Can it be they will be out of the playoffs sooner than later?

Kick the Patriots in the scorecard and maybe they will wake up with their boots on.

 

Tom Brady Assaults Media Twice in One Week

 DATELINE: APB FOR A&B (NOT ANTONIO)

Brady mask, life-size! 

Tom Brady just lambasted the media for making up stories about his desire to leave New England. It’s just “hype,” according to TB12. It’s a bunch of horse pucky from people trying to make money off the Brady name and legacy.

You mean people like Robert Kraft? The NFL? ESPN? CBS? MNF? TNF? SNF? You mean corporate types like Under Armor?

Yes, we would concur that all of the above named are trying to make money off the TB12 brand—not to mention his trainer, his real estate agent, and sundry souvenir marketing gnomes.

It was the second assault and battery on the media by TB12 in a weak moment. Maybe his patience is wearing thin, but we aren’t sure why.

Deflategate never bugged him like rumors of leaving Bean-town half-baked if you want a dozen Super Bowl parades.

As for making money off Tom, we wish we could hook up to that choo-choo train, but the milk train doesn’t stop here anymore. Flora Tom Goforth is about to go forth. Just call us the Witch of Capri. Our name has once again been crossed off the guest list.

Of course, Tom—the man who hides the truth under a thickening layer of Botox—never directly responded to the notions counter item that he is selling his home and his contract is up after the season.

He did not give an answer that re-assured, like he wants to play in New England until the end of the line, or that he even hopesto be back in the area next year.

That hope was hung out to dry with his TV appearance that mocked his owner, beloved Kraft of massage fame. As Tom complained testily, you dastardly media are reading metaphors into fiction where similes will do.

Oh, Tom, you coy boy.

Yes, Tom Brady Wants Out of New England

DATELINE: Better to Receive than Deceive 

 Unimpeachable Source?

If you listen to the experts in Boston sports, apart from us, you have learned this week that Tom Brady is greasing the skids to slide out of town at season’s end.

Tom knows which way the wind blows:  and it is blowing westward toward the San Andreas fault, where Tom can shake the earth on his own terms.

We must agree with the details that Tom Brady is done in Boston, though the bigger picture may be smaller.

It seems that Tom has two reasons to leave: and they are Bill Belichick and Robert Kraft, both of whom have left him stranded without a receiving corps in an annual denuding of first-rate players. Whenever Tom finds someone to his liking, that player is sent packing for reasons usually salary-related.

And Tom remains among the lowest paid superstars at QB position. Taking a hit for the team has grown tiresome for Tom.

It may be that Tom wants to prove, finally, in his golden years, that it is he, not Belichick, who won six Super Bowls.  If New England wants a seventh, he may provide it on the way out. The door may slam on someone’s ass—but it won’t be Tom. Bill Belichick will stay on. Perhaps Josh McDaniel, beloved Babe, will follow out west.

Tom can win two or three more Super Bowls playing for the Raiders in his hometown. Fifty may be the new retirement goal.

Then again, Tommy—and Belichick too—want to show they never needed the other to win the next SB. Unfortunately, they both do need each other—and only will a final separation prove it to them and to the world. Belichick will hold on until his son can become the new King of the Patriots coaching corps.

For New England fans it will be too late and a bitter pill. Tom doesn’t love you anymore.

In the meantime, Tom snipes at the Boston press—whom he has grown to dislike more than ever—and he and his best friend-trainer, the Svengali of TB12 methodology—have put their Massachusetts homes up for sale in prep for the next season in Oakland.

Yes, you can go home, Tom. And Boston was never home, even after 20 years of suffering through fame and fortune, bad weather and a hundred-fold of receivers.

Another Canard Tossed at Tom Brady

DATELINE: Uncle Tom’s Cabin and White Rice

 Racist Tom at Kentucky Derby 

If being an old codger in the NFL isn’t enough to create mockery, now a humbug New England sex professor is accusing Brady of the canard of a can of worms: the racist card canard.

Every time we try to extricate our reputation of being a Tom Brady critic, the forces of New England sports pull us back into the maelstrom.

Our latest laugh riot opinion centers on a University of Rhode Island Gender Studies professor who has written that Brady’s appeal is to white nationalist-types and typos.

If you know academia, like we do as a former don of the academic mob, you know this sort of “professor” has used gender politics as his bread and butter with jam topping.

Brady, guilty of deflating footballs and playing when he should be in a rocking chair, has now incurred the wrath of some transplant transgender New Englander who hates sports and loves gender misidentification. This sensation-seeking pariah now has taken aim at Brady’s Trump-loving demeanor.

It seems back in 2015, Uncle Tom expressed support for Trump and kept a MAGA hat in plain view that incensed Chicagoans like Jussie Smollett.

Now Brady is accused of fostering racism on his Kentucky Derby trips with many friends (nearly all of whom are, uh-oh, white in a sport that has 66% black players). As a crypto-Nazi sort, Tom-boy is always kissing owner Robert Kraft (who is Jewish) and Julian Edelman (who is lesser Jewish).

You may want to overlook that Brady recently invited black icon Antonio Brown to live in his home where his young daughter and model wife also reside. We have to complain that this is surely a coverup of his racism, unless you want tenure at URI.

Prof. Kyle Kusz sounds like a mixed bag of a political windbag variety.

Throwing a log onto the racist Brady theory encourages racist supporters’ fire-down-below is a low-blow even for an academic in New England unless he already has tenure and loves death threats.

Enough of Moral Lepers (Antonio Brown)

DATELINE: Gone Not Soon Enough!

  Devils You Know!

 

Let us rant: we are tired of defending the indefensible. Walking out of a press conference as did Bill Belichick is not a legitimate response. Throwing Antonio Brown overboard the S.S. Patriots was legitimate.

Antonio Brown has now crossed a line even we have lost the heart and stomach to defend. Yes, he is a talented player who could guarantee a Super Bowl for Tom Brady and Patriots, but enough is enough. Robert Kraft chose to end the symbiosis before it became thrombosis.

Brown has now sent out tweets (reminiscent of another serial criminal escapee) that threatens a woman who said he was sexually lewd and offensive to her. What is worse he impugned her motives as wanting money—when she has asked for none.

Then, he tweeted out photos of her children. Yes, his accuser’s innocent underage children. What has caused this society to spawn creatures of such darkness that to pillage, to rape, and to shoot anything that so moves them?

We are weary of defending moral cripples and serial predators. We are tired of letting mentally-challenged slime-balls pass by the balls they catch because they might help a professional sports team win. There are no balls big enough to support such disgusting fiends.

By next day, he tweeted he was fired by the Patriots.

We are sick and tired of behavior that may be as twisted as ethics of modern money can buy. Yes, these people use money as a power bludgeon. We no longer want to support with our business and attention the works of people like Antonio Brown, or Jeffrey Epstein, or Donald Trump, or Roy Cohn. Yes, we lump them all together as moral lepers.

Invitations are not open-ended, and tolerance of bad behavior is even shorter.

If you don’t see a difference here, you may be an evangelical hypocrite, or a simple-minded sports drunkard who roots for the home team when it is the home-wrecker team.

Family values may not be our thing, but decent human behavior is. It’s time to put us out of misery: put Antonio Brown on the NFL “enemies list.”  He has now thrown away millions of dollars, his career, and any hope of sympathy.

 

NDA Day in NFL!

DATELINE: Brown’s Grade, AB Positive

sample! Not for Player Use!

Quiet!  Shhhhh!  The big secret of the NFL is the notorious nondisclosure agreement, aka NDA. You may remember that little bitty from Donald Trump crying about Stormy sex crimes. Your Non-disclosure agreement puts you in the high chair.

if you molest someone by grabbing genitals, you simply pay the victim a large sum of money to keep his or her mouth shut with a small stocking stuffer. NDAs are the ways to go.

That’s how you play footsie with a wide receiver.

Grabbing genitals is congenital in the NFL. But an NDA saves the day!

If you cry havoc, cry rape or cry wolf, you may have an x-rated Xmas while the gridiron is hot!

Short of murdering people on the streets of Boston in the manner of Aaron Hernandez, you could probably get away with quite a few garden-variety crimes with a few golden nuggets in your pocket party.

Don’t be stopped at a red-light zone by police for soliciting sex at a massage parlor!  If you keep the bare rumpus in your home, you can keep the victims quiet by throwing large wads of cash on their bare bodkins.

Your signing bonus is primarily a tool for legal expenses in pro football.

Fear not, rapists or child abusers, there is a kill-fee awaiting at your favorite David Pecker-run tabloid.

We know NFL players are paid beyond normal pay-scale and most have water on the brain, so quantitative quantum finance means loads of non-disclosure agreements. That way the NFL never can hear about what might cause suspension, investigation, or exempt status.

Your next super bowl will be held in the toilet bowl.

 

 

 

 

Dangerous Hunting Game

 DATELINE: Richard Connell Classic

 Fay Wray Sees Something!

If you are looking for the prequel to 1933’s King Kong,you will have found it with this first major adaption of Richard Connell’s famous (or infamous) story called The Most Dangerous Game.

Right from the opening credits, you will recognize the style and tone of the classic big monkey movie. That’s for a number of reasons: foremost, the producers of the Kong and Son thereof films honed their approach to the topic with this classic.

You have the basic premise of a sea captain taking his ship and passengers out into remote and uncharted waters where lurks an island with mystery. It almost seems like the same prologue to each film.  Officers are concerned with strange locales not on maps.

Instead of Bruce Bennett (or is that Cabot), you have interchangeable leading man Joel MacRae as the resilient young adventurer. When he is washed up on the shores of a strange island, he meets none other than Kong’s leading lady, Fay Wray, who is also stranded there with her brother, played by—you guessed it—the man who gave us the Eighth Wonder of the World—Robert G. Armstrong (not Carl Denham this time, but a ne’er-do-well with the same personality).

They are the guests not of a giant gorilla but of the King of the Island, General Zaroff, (played in slimeball style of the 1930s by Leslie Banks). It seems he has a strange fetish: he likes to hunt big game that is truly dangerous, like people. Back in those pre-Hitler times, he was not a Nazi, crypto-Nazi, or neo-Nazi, but some kind of twisted member of the aristocracy.

With its chase scenes through the jungle, the pounding music, and the production values of Merriam C. Cooper, you have a sense of been-there, done-that, from the next year version of King Kong.

It is a delight to feel the similarity, and you keep wondering where the dinosaurs are.

 

Tom Brady’s Cloudy Future?

DATELINE:  Tom’s Time Runs Out

bad bad bundchen Mrs. Tom Brady.

Reading Tom Brady’s tea leaves is pretty difficult, because he doesn’t drink tea!

Nevertheless, fans have requested that we look into the future of Tom Brady, as we have written several books on him and his general flakiness (See Tom Brady Swinging on a Deflategate, Amazon, paper and ebook).

It appears first that he has signed a large new contract extension with a raise that makes him the sixth highest paid player among NFL quarterbacks. Not bad for a GOAT.

Once again this year Brady gives the Kraft team more money to spend on other players or massages.

The big news is that he has put his house in Brookline, Massachusetts, up for sale for under $40 million buckeroos.  Well, it is up and down.  It appeared to be for sale, then it wasn’t. There’s no hurry as he intends to play for at least one more year in New England.

Patriot fans, who have come to think Brady may be a mere mortal  after all, believe he may play just one more year and move to New York where he has bought a high-priced condo for his wife and children.

Like former teammate Gronk, Brady has loyalty to New England only as far as he can play as the team is concerned.

Gisele, one time model and actress, his wife, a billionaire in her own right, has other interests in the big city of the Big Apple .

These two are a Met gala power-couple with international ties who belong only to the money they have: no teams, no countries, no political groups .

Tom and his wife Gisele can do anything they want, and they will.

In the meantime, Tom has admitted that one of his great frustrations is that his second son doesn’t want to be an athlete like dear old dad. This young man is independent and wants to follow his own star, which may not be his father’s star.

All in all, the tea leaves say Tom, star of Tom v. Time, is headed for big changes in his ticking biological clock.

Ossurworld has written several books on Brady, including Tom Brady Swinging on a Deflategate. Available on amazon.com in print version or e-book for smartreaders.

 

 

 

Shocks of the Week?

 DATELINE: Trump Wins Friends & Influences Racism

Forrest animal

We don’t know where to begin, as usual.

First, Donald Trump admitted that he actually read a book cover to cover. The report happened to be the Mueller Report.

Call us a cynic, but he may mean he read the front cover and back cover, but likely nothing in between. We still hold to the conspiracy theory that Trump is a functional literate, graduating from college because of a purchased degree and a laxity of grading policy.

Trump claimed he was not a racist, but never defined his terms.

We are hearing that he was so close to pedophile Jeffrey Epstein that they knew each other’s peccadilloes. It is true that Pecker of National Enquirer was killing stories about Trump’s connection to Epstein as well as his tie to Stormy Daniels.

Believe or don’t. We have a problem with Trump’s truth, when he tells press that he brokered peace between India and Pakistan. Really? India’s prime minister disputed the veracity. But how can you trust someone with such dark skin, according to Steven Miller, Trump’s icy aide-de-camp.

Politics was not all Trump. Some of it fell onto Trump’s pals, like Tom Brady. On vacation in Costa Plenty where his family have an off-season home, the dare-devil and aging Patriot gave his haters some fodder. He jumped off a cliff with his 6-year old daughter into lagoon, as befits a big goon.

Some regarded this as sexist torment and child endangerment. We doubt anyone would have complained if he had jumped with his sons.

Defenders called him a good parent, instilling fearlessness in a little girl who deserves it as much as a little boy.

Meanwhile, another Trump pal, Alan Dershowitz, said he had one massage from an Epstein connectee—and hated it. He is not a massage kinda guy. Well, lawyers are like that.

All the Democrat candidates for Prez in the Senate voted against the Trump choice for Secretary of Defense, except Bernie Sanders who was absent. The vote was 90 to 8.

Never let it be said the politician ride below patriotism, and police in Louisiana are threatening to kill a squad member of the Congresswomen brigade.

Trump’s era is nothing short of Caligula’s era.

David Ortiz Questions Persist

DATELINE: Pardon Us!

GOATS

Boston sports media always protect their own. If you have questions, you may not always receive answers. Not even the get well wishes of a former President of the United States can hide bigger puzzlements.

Dark questions haunt the situation surrounding the hit on David Ortiz. Oh, yes, make no mistake: it was a hit that fortunately did not end Big Papi’s game. As he told doctors entering surgery, “I am a good man.” He did not want to die.

So, we wonder why the Red Sox organization decided to fly Ortiz out of the Dominican Republic as soon as possible, even before he stabilized (despite the medical opinion to the contrary).

If you think he was stable, he arrived in Boston to face immediate second surgery. Did someone botch the job in the ER of the DR?

In New York’s Post, you see the words “hit man.” This does not surprise several of his former teammates, who indeed think an assassin’s bullet is not out of the question.

You may well wonder why Ortiz returned often to the DR. Was it to see his family—while leaving his wife and children back in Boston?

You may well wonder why the assassin is tied to drugs and why his companion was a police officer. You may well wonder if the long-ago charge that Ortiz used illegal substances in his baseball career might resurface.

They removed Ortiz from the DR before another attack might finish him off: how easy it is to die in a hospital from complications after being shot up and losing your intestines, spleen, and other organ parts.

Septic poisoning is but a day away.

Big Papi’s agent thinks something odd is going on. Well, when you are spirited out of the hospital before the police can question you, there is an appearance that leaves a dubious feeling.

We can count only on the fact that the Boston media has thrown up another protective shield around David Ortiz.

Big Papi Survives Assassin Bullet!

DATELINE: Celebrities Face Russian Roulette!

ortiz

An assassination attempt on the life of Red Sox legend David Ortiz, known in the baseball world as Big Papi, is vaguely reminiscent of the attack on the life of John Lennon or Tupac Shakur.

Those two chilling actions of murder put a damper forever on how celebrities interacted with the public. Now, again, the fame or infamy of sports stars—and their relative accessibility to the general public may shut down appearances in informal settings.

David Ortiz has lived under a lucky star as athlete and pop hero. Next to Gronk, he is a New England fixture and dizzy icon.

Big Papi is enormously popular in Boston, and in fact was expected to attend a charity event in town this week. He keeps a high profile in the New England area, mainly owing to product endorsements and advertising, which likely provides income and attention.

However, Big Papi also put his local house up for sale this week in the Greater Boston suburbs. He was shot in the back in his native Dominican Republic, not Boston.

He became an American citizen a few years ago, and also defended Boston at a ceremony after the Boston Marathon bombing a few years back.

He was shot in the back by an assailant who clearly meant to kill him. The bullet went through his stomach. The shooter on a motorcycle, or someone presumed to be the gunman, was attacked by an incensed crowd at the night club where Ortiz had appeared.

Those familiar with the two countries sharing an island in the Caribbean call the DR a dangerous place. Americans have died there recently in mysterious hotel incidents.

What is clear is that the violence of the world and the social media attention celebrities receive internationally has made a new wrinkle for assaults or assassinations by deranged individuals with a sense of entitlement.

Big Papi may well survive this attack, but he will never be the same—nor will sports stars who may find themselves paying a heavy price for fame and bodyguards.

Dead Again, Guilty Again!

DATELINE: Jussie on Steroids.

HERNANDEZ

If you want to know what makes a ghost return to his haunts, you only have to see another case of Massachusetts justice. It will give you the heebie-jeebies.

The Commonwealth Supreme Court has re-instated a guilty of murder verdict on Aaron Hernandez, the serial killer for the New England Patriots. His first trial had been overturned unceremoniously, and he was “not guilty” in his double murder second trial.

You are never declared innocent, no matter what.

The Hernandez conviction was overturned upon his suicide because in Massachusetts, if your appeal is unfinished upon death, you are declared free at last. It need not matter how heinous you were, or how and who you killed, you are no longer a convicted killer. Your jury has wasted its time. Your victim’s family is thrown into turmoil. You are released from prison for cremation or burial.

The evil you did lives on. The good was interred in the state Supreme Court.

So, the Supreme Court feels it has restored justice by playing ping-pong and pin-ball with the guilt of Aaron Hernandez. The law was called archaic and insensitive to modern victims. Hence, Hernandez is back in the eternal prison cell of ghosts like Jacob Marley.

We presume such a finding is enough to send the dead scrambling back to their previous haunts: like the mansion in Attleboro where Hernandez lived his rococo lifestyle. It remained empty for years. No one would dare stay there overnight.

If you want to guarantee that the spirit of Hernandez remains housebound to the place where his victim often visited, you have restored the dead zone. It is likely that Odin Lloyd, the victim, may also be there.

What a cozy arrangement: killer and victim stuck together for eternity. When you play ping-pong with fatality, your fate may be hell on earth and re-living what is never dead.

William Russo is author of the notorious book, The Strange Case of Aaron Hernandez. You can buy it in the old-fashioned print style, or a version designed for you if you are a smartreader.

What Red Sox Teammate Stalked Moe Berg?

DATELINE: Cold Spy

Real Moe Berg Real Moe!

Being of a certain generation, we have been asked about some of the accuracy of the movie The Catcher was a Spy.

Paul Rudd plays Moe Berg, an enigmatic athlete who finished his career with the Boston Red Sox in 1939.  Pushing 40, he was pushed out of the locker room to make room for more rookies. And, the Sox had a few.

In the film, one rookie looks in the locker room with suspicion at Berg and notes his reservation about sharing a shower stall with a man with unclear sexual tendencies. Another veteran player (Lefty Grove?) tells him to keep it to himself.

Yet, this player seems to stalk Berg and follow him to some clandestine gay bar of 1939 in Boston. When he comes out (and we do not see what happens in this odd locale), he knows he is being followed—and confronts the young rookie.

He slugs him several times. The player is identified as the fictional Bill Dalton. No one by that name was on the Sox roster.

So, who was the offending rookie stalker?

The Red Sox had several notable rookies in that season with Berg:  Ted Williams was the most famous (also known as the Garbo of the Dugout for his reclusiveness) and Bobby Doerr, one of Ted’s close friends, and Johnny Pesky, all future Hall of Famers.

Was it one of them who had a confrontation with Moe Berg?

You will be hard-pressed to find out something that was kept in the shadows by all concerned. Berg would never talk, and neither would Ted Williams. Berg reportedly offered Ted advice and insights on the greats he played with (and he told Ted he was most like Shoeless Joe Jackson of Field of Dreams).

If the incident is true, and we have no doubt about its veracity, you can now play To Tell the Truth.  Alas, the real stalker will not stand up years after all have passed.

We put our money on Teddy Ballgame. The other two were amiable sorts and often thought to be mediators and peace-makers.

Casey & AC at the Bat: Managers in World Series

DATELINE: Field of Dreams at Fenway Again

casey Casey, not AC?

If you were to ask, we doubt we’d have said we would return to watching the Red Sox again. Our last blog on them was several years ago, but it is the World Series in Boston, again.

If you were to ask if writing about the managers might be a possibility,we might shrug. However, we realized that two former Sox players were now in back in Boston as managers:  Yes, there was an aging star Dave Roberts, now with the Dodgers, and his counterpart Alex Cora.

Might we say there is Magic in the Moonlight at Fenway? Well, only because we saw Magic Johnson there in the stands, as an executive braintrust with the Los Angeles baseball team. Wasn’t he part of the Bird-Magic story in Boston?

No, wait, we were thinking of Moonlight Graham playing in Field of Dreams when Kevin Costner was sitting in the stands with James Earl Jones who played Terence Mann, the writer who wanted to play with these same Dodgers.

No, we were shocked to see Alex Cora, or AC as his players call him in the modern familiarity with supervisors and managers. He was running a talent-laden team that had replaced the previous manager for not winning a World Series.

When AC pulled the hot rookie Devers and replaced him with a pitch hitter named Nunez, we were more in marvel at the assortment of beards on the players. Yet, suddenly, AC became a genius before a national audience.

The last time we saw that it was someone in another era by the name of Casey Stengel. He managed the New York Yankees, another talent-laden team that kept winning. Stengel would pick a pinch-hitter out of a hat who would win the game.

Suddenly there was AC channeling Casey. How appropriate, if not poetic. AC picked the man to win the game with a homer to the Monster Seats. It was a ghost movie for baseball once again.