from the Headless Horseman of Mill Circle
from the Headless Horseman of Mill Circle
Tom, is that you?
How can we compete with the humor of Tom Brady?
What does the star quarterback of the New England Patriots do on his off-day during a short week? Well, if it’s Halloween on the calendar, Brady is up to some masked hijinks. Check it out in our highlight.
Don’t ask who that masked man is in the Whole Food grocery store chain? We can show you that right here. He put his autograph in a canister of candy for a lucky buyer.
Okay, it is a paid promotional stunt, but it still manages to be head and shoulders above Peyton Manning trying shove an extra piece of pizza down your throat, or Aaron Rogers attempting to escape his nemesis and stalker, the Cheesehead guy/girl.
Walking into a public supermarket and not being accosted is likely a rare experience for Brady. And only on the days before Halloween can he likely do it, wearing an oversize head that likely would be a tight fit for Richard Sherman, Sheldon Richardson, or Chris McCain.
Brady has posted his trick to his usual haunt, the Facebook page where he deposits most of his funny stuff.
We are almost tempted to run to the local emporium and snag a couple of buckets of healthy candy. Would Brady endorse anything less than that?
If he wears that mask during the game on Thursday, we believe a whole bunch Dolphins will swim back to Miami.
With the remnants of Hurricane Patricia about to descend on Gillette Stadium, Tom will whip up his own storm of touchdowns. We saw online the other day that “Gronkowski” is Polish for touchdown.
As we said at the start, our whimsy can’t compete with reality.
DATELINE: WHIMSY & DROLLERY
Which one is Napoli?
This is the fourth time the Red Sox and Cardinals shall meet in the World Series. No one can find many alive who recall 1946. There are a few more for 1967, and there is a plethora of whelps who recall 2004.
No one wants to remember the first two series because the Sox lost those games to the legendary Curse of the Bambino. Now that the magical enchantment has been reversed, and fans believe the Sox are destiny’s children, if not a team whose individual stats hum like a large Hadron Collider.
We now hear so many fans smugly defying the concepts of chemistry and magic. These are the same crews or children of crews that found decades of woe in curses and damnation.
Nowadays, damnation has been replaced by Red Sox Nation.
We are here, as we were decades ago, to say forearmed is forewarned—or is it the other way around? Those who do not learn from the history of the cornfield are doomed to fade into it.
We rather enjoy being one of the doomsayers; it relates to magic and curses. It relates to chemistry and legends.
Baseball has survived two centuries because it inevitably falls back on those concepts and on religious fervor, unlike the brutal power of football or thuggery of basketball.
With a team looking like the old jokes from the House of David league, the Red Sox may be culturally significant, even statistically significant (which the sabermetric crowd may comprehend).
With the St. Louis Cardinals, there is no Goliath. There is no Bathsheba, and we may end up crying, “Absalom, Absalom, my son,” before seven games ends on Halloween.
Bring on the incantations, the beard-tugging, the rabbit’s feet, and the Ghost of Christmas Past. The Red Sox will need every one of them to bless this series.
NOTE: beard does not help.
Red Sox finally in the ninth inning threw a pumpkin head at the Tigers to no avail.
If ever you need a definition of ‘ignominious’ defeat, the Red Sox handed you one. It would be a shame and disgraceful if you had to look it up.
The team noted for manufacturing of runs and vaunted home field advantage showed that you are in big trouble when you cannot manufacture a hit till the game is nearly over.
In the first postseason meeting ever between and betwixt the Red Sox and Tigers, we had a vision of meeting the enemy and discovering he is we.
The Tigers were no great shakes with their home run hitting lineup because they scored only one run. Of course in this wistful game of chicken hearts, one run beats one hit.
The game went on toward the witching hour. We learned that the horn blows at midnight when the clock struck twelve and the Red Sox struck out.
Purists will tell you that this is only one defeat when the Tigers need four out of seven. It could be they will need only four out of four if the Red Sox juggernaut crashes into icebergs rather than tilts at windmills.
Perhaps this first game loss is no Titanic, but merely a Costa Concordia or Andrea Doria. If this is the end, it could only be worse if James Franco was the star of This is the End. Oh, no, he is the ill-fated star.
James Franco may have been right: the series will go 127 hours and the Red Sox pitching staff with cut off its arms to spite its bats.
The only other team nowadays to be more outmatched than the Red Sox would be the Republicans in Congress.
With a few more games like this one, the National Park Service may step in and close down Fenway Park as part of the sequestration. The only team in Boston that has less scoring punch is the New England Patriots, and that’s a Halloween tale for another day—er, for later today.
Oh, the ignominy of it.