Slowest run ever? These stats speak for themselves.
According to my RunKeeper app, I just ran 1.1 miles in 36 hours and 7 minutes. That translates to a 32 hour, 56 minute mile.
The sports world was amazed when Roger Bannister first ran a 4-minute mile in 1954.
Moroccan Olympic gold medalist Hicham El Guerrouj now owns the world record for the mile at 3 minutes 43 seconds (watch him do it).
So how did I wind up taking 527 times as long as Mr. El Guerrouj to strut a mere four laps around my local high school track?
Forgetting to shut off the RunKeeper app will do that to you.
P.S. The world record for the Beer Mile — an insane competition requiring runners to chug a can of beer every quarter mile — is 4 minutes 57 seconds.
I took Brainfall.com’s personality/reincarnation quiz and their proprietary past-life algorithm matched me up with Emily Dickinson. Perhaps it has something to do with the formative years I spent in Amherst, Massachusetts.
“Ahh, you have the heart of a true poet. Deeply introspective and keenly sensitive even to the most subtle of life’s nuances, you may one day produce a work of staggering artistic genius at some point – You’re gonna get right on that, right?”
I really don’t see the parallels since Dickinson never wrote one word about baseball or “Welcome Back Kotter,” but more importantly, ever notice that no one was ever the guy shoveling horse manure in a past life?
An open question to the reincarnation experts out there: How is it possible that all of us were famous in years past, but we got stuck with our boring underachiever selves in this century?
Dear John Henry:
This is my souvenir ticket stub from Tuesday night, Jon Lester’s second-to-last game in a Red Sox uniform.
I went to Fenway Park expecting no issues getting a seat to watch a last place team. I was so wrong. Unlike other evenings when I’ve purchased Standing Room tix, this game really was sold out. Wall to wall people — a wonderful sign of a faithful fan base.
The line at the Game Day ticket office on Lansdowne Street extended the full length of the Green Monster, meaning that I was guaranteed to miss an inning or two. I didn’t care. I was meeting a childhood friend who I don’t see often and the ballpark is my favorite place to hangout.
But Fenway’s charming atmosphere shattered the moment I handed over my credit card. After I signed the receipt and put the pen down, I heard the ticket agent behind the bulletproof banker’s window mumble something I couldn’t understand. I smiled at him, said “thank you” and started to walk away.
“I SAID, PUT THE PEN BACK UNDERNEATH THE WINDOW!!!” he yelled through the glass.
His angry facial expression and tone would be appropriate if I had been trying to steal something from the Red Sox gift shop. I told him to chill out and walked away, trying my best to forget this unfortunate “Welcome to Fenway.”
Oh, I still had a good time and have a thick skin, but even if I had tried to steal your employee’s 10-cent pen, do you think this is the first impression Red Sox fans should get when they go through the turnstile? Continue reading
The Red Sox Facebook tribute to the players they kicked out the door at yesterday’s trading deadline: Jon Lester, John Lackey, Jonny Gomes, Stephen Drew, Andrew Miller — and two guys they dumped earlier with little remorse: Jake Peavy and Felix Doubront. (Double click to enlarge)
Dear Boston Red Sox: These players were traded. They were not killed serving their country.
Don’t act as if you’re going to retire their numbers tomorrow.
P.S. You made a HUGE mistake getting rid of Andrew Miller. He would’ve made the perfect closer next year.
I was a Red Sox fan growing up, but how could I NOT love Kansas City Royals closer Dan Quisenberry, the guy who led the league in saves throwing underhand!
Handwritten letters are endangered species.
About the only places they live on are birthday cards, thank you notes and summer camp letters, which kids are forced to write because nostalgia keeps their parents signing those checkbooks (another endangered medium).
On the occasion of one of my favorite childhood baseball players, Dan Quisenberry, missing out on the Baseball Hall of Fame, I just wrote a column for The Atlantic reminiscing about the thrill of receiving a two-page letter from him in 1981. (“How Athletes Ensure Immortality: Not all greats make the Hall of Fame. Not all Hall of Famers are remembered. But a player who forges personal connections with fans with live on.”)
You can read the story here, but I’d also like to share the full text of the letter for the benefit of the world’s Kansas City Royals fans — or anyone who still cherishes the power of handwritten letters.
The idea of a professional athlete, let alone the American League’s best closer, taking the time to write a two-page letter to a kid he thought was “creative,” is unfathomable to me as a jaded adult. Sadly, Quisenberry died of brain cancer at age 45 — younger than the age that many of the kids watching him pitch would be now.
Here’s Dan’s letter for you to read for yourself:
Dan Quisenberry Letter – Page 1 of 2 (Double click to enlarge)
** Continue reading
Dramatic action scene of the most critical moment in the T-BONES Steak vs. Cactus Jack’s Restaurant Mascot Race. (Photo courtesy of New Hampshire Fisher Cats)
So perhaps you’ve heard of the 1919 Black Sox scandal? Pete Rose betting on baseball? Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa using steroids?
Hold on to your seat cushion, because I am about to reveal the most outrageous sports scandal in the history of outrageous sports scandals.
But you’ll have to read all about it in New Hampshire Magazine!
That’s a “Wizard of Oz” reference with visions of the Green Monster landing on the Wicked Witch’s ankles.
Last night, as my friend Mark and I were enjoying dinner before the Red Sox-White Sox game, we were told there was a tornado warning in effect for Fenway Park. As we walked from the Prudential Center to Lansdowne Street, the skies got darker and there were a few flashes of lightning.
I LOVE rainstorms and enjoy getting drenched — especially during or after exercising — but tornadoes are a different story.
Mark and I ducked into Jillian’s pub and bowling alley and watched the pregame show on TV until they announced when the game would start. I had a root beer float.
Surprisingly, Fenway was still packed on a rainy tornado-ridden weeknight, but we managed to find seats in the last row of the grandstands behind home plate (with our bleacher tickets).
The weather hysteria was far more enjoyable than the game itself. The anemic Red Sox only managed to get two hits all night.
Here’s the best commentary on the situation: