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HAMHOCKS.50megs.com

Wednesday Night, August 10, 2005

             Last night at the Blacktop saw a couple of possible BoB-altering injuries. First, defending BoB champion Kurtis "Adam Cartwright" Gonsalves went down with a recurring groin pull injury. Shortly thereafter, The King retired with a serious looking knee injury. Both of these injuries could play into what happens at the BoB, 48 hours from now. Will The King be able to answer the bell?  Will Adam be able to defend his championship? Standby. /// Rick "Chuck" Taylor was in attendance last night, which gave him legitimacy in being a part of the BoB Saturday. Since Chuck had only been to the Blacktop once in April and once in August, last night's attendance made sure that he has a roster spot for the BoB. Chuck was in the midst of controversy last night when, after Chuck's team pulled out a victory over Ben and Little Joe's squad, Little Joe mentioned that Chuck frequently spends up to 15 seconds at a time in the lane while on offense. Chuck denied Little Joe's assertion and, as they calmly discussed it, Cartwright patriarch Ben "Jose The MVP" Cartwright approached Chuck Taylor and began to strong-arm him. Chuck realized that a Cartwright posse was being formed at his expense, with Adam Cartwright lurking in the background, and desperately looked for some assistance from a teammate. Being the espirit de corps type of guy that I am, I came to my teammate's aid. Ben Cartwright immediately verbally assaulted me and basically threatened me with bodily harm if I didn't mind my own business. Now I'm well aware of the legacy of the Cartwright clan, but I wasn't about to let me and my teammate, Chuck Taylor, be intimidated and strong-armed. As Ben menacingly approached me, and knowing it was 3 against 2 (Ben, Little Joe and Adam versus me and Chuck Taylor), I quickly shifted gears and told Ben that when my son Michael arrived, evening the sides, we'd do whatever we had to do to straighten this situation out. In the spirit of fairplay, Ben called off the Cartwright posse and we awaited the arrival of Michael. By the time Mike arrived things had calmed down somewhat. Plus, with the Cartwright's knowing that Mike is a student of the Rex Kwon Do dojo, they decided to disman their posse. /// Stigmata was back in the fold on the Blacktop and even stuck around after the basketball activities were concluded. I'm not really sure if that's a good or a bad thing. We'll see. ///  It's starting to appear that the upcoming Billy Eccles nuptuals could be the 1st big Black Ops mission of this summer. With no invites forthcoming, I have contacted Laidlaw bus lines in order to arrange for transport of our operatives from the deSilva residence to Mr. Eccles' house for the wedding. We will storm the grounds of the Eccles residence and take the wedding reception over by force, if need be. Ask The Assassin about it Rasheed. You don't know what you're getting yourself into. /// Before his injury last night, The King committed some of the most flagrant, atrocious offensive fouls ever committed in the history of basketball. Unfortunately for me, I was the receiver of his outrageous charging, at one point receiving a bruised larynx from the forearm in the throat that The King stuck me with as he attempted to run over me. What did The King have to say about the obvious offensive foul calls? He said that I didn't fall down. Like to prove what was already an obvious charge (or in this case charges) I'm going to fall backward onto the Blacktop and risk further injury, besides the already fractured thorax that I had received from the previous charge. I'm telling you, you can't make this stuff up. /// The Assassin left very early, after already arriving late to the Blacktop last night. Ambrose "Chainsaw" Smith, who is always truthful, said that The Assassin told him that he was leaving because he didn't want to be on my team anymore. Now, I know that I have that effect on many other Blacktoppers, but I was a little taken aback that The Assassin would make such a comment. He may have to pay for that statement at the BoB Saturday. I wasn't, and still am not, very pleased. /// Ambrose "Chainsaw" Smith also mentioned that I was a 48-year old "punk" because of my demeanor out on the Blacktop. Just because I stop play to watch defenders as they run by me during heated contests, Chainsaw refers to me as a "punk." Well, truth be known, I enjoy being the Bugs Bunny of the Blacktop. According to Kramer ("Seinfeld"), Bugs is an instigator (remember the episode where Mr. Pitt is going to hold down the Woody Woodpecker balloon in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade?). I like to consider myself the Bugs Bunny of the Blacktop, so maybe Chainsaw is correct again. /// How about the play of Ben "Jose The MVP" Cartwright again last night? After trying to push me and Chuck Taylor around, Ben showed some unbelieveable athleticism out on the court. How about the move where he upfaked, drew 5 defenders into the air on the left side of the hoop, and then calmly went to the right side of the hoop and banked (or should I say kissed?) it in like he was doing a Mikan drill? Even though we had been adversaries in the earlier 3-second argument, I still had to start the familiar chant of "MVP, MVP ..."  /// I'd like to end today's article with something that will hopefully inspire you all at the BoB Saturday - The Coyle Fight Song. I did a short rendition last night as I was leaving but, as a result of a number of phonecalls to my home last night and this morning requesting the inspiring lyrics, I've decided to print them here. This should get Bueller going as much as 5 Mountain Dews. ------ Fight on you Warriors, fight men of Coyle /// Fight for the blue and gold, of your patron true - CHS /// Onto the battle, with courage strong /// da da da DA da da da da da /// So win, Coyle win.      


Spec's BoB Poem

My name is Steve Roberge

My game I need to purge

On my defense Rick will splurge

My team I will submerge.

I really have no game

On the web I use many a name

I just can't play the same

My game is oh so lame.

Tomorrow I can't win

Once the games begin

Stigmata is my twin

My game's a mortal sin.

Jose's MVP

King has hurt his knee

Hammy's on NC

I will play no "D."

Assassin's on a roll

For Ferris the bell will toll

On the court I have no soul

My game is as black as coal.

Here comes Little Joe

Brother Adam will be his foe

Air balls I will throw

This you all should know:

That once I could really play

But now it's gone away

What else can I say?

I'll lose again Saturday. 



Band of Brothers Tourney and Hall of Fame Enshrinement

             Saturday, August 13, 2005, was the day everybody at the Blacktop has been waiting for; the BoB Tournament and the HoF inductions. The teams for the BoB, as put together by Commissioner Roberge and his able assistant NC deSilva, were as follows: 1) Jose the MVP, Adam Cartwright and NC;  2)  Me, Spec and Stigmata; 3) KC, Bob Craig and Chainsaw Smith; 4) Rasheed Eccles, The King and The Assassin; 5) Little Joe, Nate Gagnier and Hamhocks; 6) Chuck Taylor, Brock Morrissette, Dr. J-Man and Billy Shea; 7) Ferris Bueller, Al Morrissette and Grant Harrison; 8) Dave Harrison, BJal and Justin Paulo Coelho. The regular season was won, with a 9-1 record, by the Rasheed, King, Assassin combine. That same team went on to sweep a two game final series versus Spec, Stigmata and Chainsaw for a 13-1 overall record and a Band of Brothers Championship. Congratulations to the victors for their outstanding play on a 98 degree day with 100% humidity. The King was later voted the MVP of the tournament. Both Rasheed and The Assassin could have laid claim to the MVP award also but, by a close vote, The King was the 2005 BoB Tournament MVP. Bueller predicted that if The King was on the winning BoB team and, worse yet, was voted MVP, he would be a problem before the day was over. Bueller must be psychic because he was right on the button ... but more about that later. The BoB's first casualty was Dr. J-Man, who had to leave early to go to a wedding. The second casualty was KC Grandfield, whose day was cut short by severe leg cramps due to the heat and humidity. The 3rd casualty was yours truly, who retired during the first playoff game for my team. #4 was Little Joe, who wrapped it up after I walked off of the court during our game. The 5th and 6th casualties were Hamhocks and Nate Gagnier, whose day ended when me and Mark retired for the day. Spec, ever the opportunist, chose to upgrade his team with the acquisition of Chainsaw Smith after I retired and, with the Chainsaw picking up the slack, their team went into the finals. In retrospect, I wish that I hadn't reacted the way I did when I stormed off of the court but, at the time, it seemed to make perfect sense to me. Unfortunately, throughout the years, I have had many impulsive decisions that I later regretted, but that I couldn't come back from, and this one will take its place there. There is a song by John Mellencamp called Minutes To Memories that is one of my all-time favorite songs. If you've ever heard it, the refrain goes, "So suck it up and tough it out and do the best you can." As often as I've listened to that song, which is very frequently, I didn't follow what the lyrics advise. So be it. One thing did go as planned in regard to the BoB, and that was the prediction by Spec that neither Chuck Taylor nor Ferris Bueller would win their first attempt at a BoB championship. First, Chuck Taylor's team almost screwed up Spec's prediction by holding a 9-3 lead over Bueller's team in round one of the playoffs. Unbelieveably, Bueller's team came all the way back to pull out the victory and advance, and also eliminate Taylor's team from the tourney. Bueller's team then went up, in the next game versus Spec's team, by a score of 10-4. It looked like Bueller's team would advance to the finals (and possibly ruin Spec's no title prediction) against Rasheed's squad when, on the determination of Chainsaw, Stigmata and Spec, Spec's team came all of the way back to pull out the victory and advance to the finals, and also eliminate Bueller's team. The finals were over before they started, with Rasheed, The King and The Assassin dominating play from the outset. It appeared that Spec's team was out of gas from the amazing semi-final comeback versus Bueller's team and had nothing left for the finals. As a result of my walking off of the court in mid-play, Spec has subtlely advised me that I will be on waivers for next year's BoB and probably put on one of the 4-man teams so that, in case I walk off again, there will already be a sub available. This was the 3rd time that I've been paired with Spec for the BoB and, for whatever reason, we haven't taken the trophy. Year 1 of the BoB, I was on the Jose The MVP and Chainsaw Smith team that lost to the Spec, Paulo and Hamhocks team. Year 4 of the BoB, I had a broken wrist and Spec figured that would enable him to win his 2nd BoB tournament, which it didn't. Maybe, if Bob Palindrome can make the BoB Tournament next year, he'll let me play on his team.//// Later in the afternoon, the Hall of Fame ceremonies were simply fantastic. Cooperstown, Springfield and Canton wish they could have ceremonies like that. The speakers were tremendously entertaining and the awards, as procured by The Assassin, were beautiful. Little Joe, Jose The MVP, NC and Hamhocks were masterful in the content and delivery of their respective speeches. So many funny memories were recounted in hilarious fashion by all of the speakers, at the expense of every Blacktop member. The new Band of Brothers Tournament Champions were also on stage with the Hall of Fame inductees and all awards were distributed. Congratulations to Jose The MVP and Hamhocks on their well-deserved enshrinement into the Hall. Also, congratulations to their presenters, Little Joe and NC, for outstanding jobs in introducing the Hall of Famers. It was really a great ceremony and Jose The MVP's sports jacket was also very appropo. Although Jose The MVP and I seldom agree on anything, his speech about how lucky we are to have a place like deSilvas' to get together and play was right on the button. Where else would I have an opportunity to play with my son (or maybe, if I'm really lucky, sons)? Hearing Jose The MVP's speech made me feel even worse about my walk-off earlier because, really, it's all about having fun and some comraderie with your friends.  //// I'm going on record right now regarding my nominees for next year's Hall of Fame. If asked by the committee, I will nominate (in no particular order) Ambrose "Chainsaw" Smith, Dr. J-Man and Steve "Spec" Roberge. I also believe that the old-timers committee, if there is one, should seriously consider the nominations of Mike Croteau and Paulo DaSilva at some point in the future. Of course, these are all things that can be discussed over the next 300 days by the participants of the Blacktop. It's just my opinion and, since I am the Webmaster, I can put it here if I like. //// I'd be remiss if I didn't thank the deSilva family for everything they did Saturday and everything that they do year around to make certain that everybody has a good time at their residence. I can't even imagine what a mammouth undertaking it must be to host something like they did Saturday. It was a great time and thanks alot. Also, Joselyn Cartwright and her husband did an outstanding job cooking all of that food for everybody. And how about Jen "Hanna" Gaspar spending 12 hours doing videotape of the BoB. Thanks Hanna. I can hardly wait to see what's left of the film after Stigmata gets done butchering it.  More on The King, and Bueller's prediction about him, to come in a soon-to-come article.    


THE KING AND HIS SOLDIERS

             As Osama mentions on the "Guestbook Page," The King was expounding the other night on how he "had to release a few soldiers." Now I know that right now, in this context, with no further information, you have no idea what the King was talking about. I, at the time, had no idea what the King was referring to either. As a little background, let me say that the King's team had just won the Band of Brothers Tournament and that the King had also been voted as the tourney's MVP. So, after having imbibed a few frosty beverages in celebration of these events, the King became a little loose-lipped on the porch of the deSilva residence. In front of God and eveyone, the King began to talk about an allegedly very attractive young lady who apparently fancied the King (just like any other female does). The King, at this point in the festivities referring to himself in the third person, told the story of being at a bar and that this young lady approached "The King" (which is exactly how he referred to himself while telling the story, "The King") to say that she wanted "The King" to speak to her, regardless of the fact that she already had a boyfriend. The King did speak to her and the next evening this same young lady calls "The King" (his words, not mine) and says she wants to see him at the bar again. Now, at this point, it's clear that this young lady, in the words of Lloyd from "Dumb and Dumber," is a "raging alcoholic." At any rate, The King explains that he's not feeling too well and that he will not be able to go to the bar. Undeterred, the young lass advises that she must see "The King" and that she will come to his humble abode to see him. This is where it gets a little bizarre. The King stated that, not wanting to be hauling around a loaded gun when the young lady came to his apartment, he decided to "release a few soldiers". At first, being as old as I am I guess, I didn't understand the reference. Then, thanks to my "Seinfeld" expertise, I slowly began to realize that the King was saying that he was not the "master of his domain," for all of you "Seinfeld" fans. The King stated that "little Cliff," evidently the pet name for the King's unit, could not rise to the occasion, so to speak, in order to get the job done. Sometime later, the young lady arrives and one thing leads to another and yada, yada, yada, "little Cliff" can't answer the bell again. The disappointed young lady left "The King's" (again, his reference, not mine) apartment with quite the story to tell her female friends, as well as her boyfriend. In fact, the King stated that this fair, young damsel now refers to the King, in public, as "sickdick." What a pleasant nickname coming from such a pleasant sounding young lady. I, and my Blacktop brethren who were on the porch at the time, just sat there slackjawed, unable to even comment on the King's story. To top it off, the King said that the next day the boyfriend spotted the King (probably at the bar, I guess) and shook the King's hand for not defiling his sweet, young girlfriend. If the boyfriend only knew where the King's hands had been do you actually think he would have shaken his hand? The most alarming part of this tale is that, in a couple of weeks, the King will be my oldest son's roommate. With all of this talk of bars and babes, I am very concerned about if and when there may be some time put aside for college courses and studying, which is ostensibly the reason for being up at Bridgewater in the first place. Now I don't know if the King is ambidextrous or what, but I do know that he shoots a basketball right-handed (how many millions of shots have we seen the King take?) and therefore probably takes care of most of his other business (if you know what I mean) right-handed also. Please consider this the next time the King wants to shake your hand or high-five you at the Blacktop. For sanitary reasons alone, please do not make contact with that right hand. In fact, after the King had finished this story on the porch, Chuck Taylor came over to bid adieu for the evening and, at the same time, introduced his lovely wife, The Queen, to the King. As The Queen shook the King's right hand, in the customary greeting that we all do, I couldn't help but wonder when was the last time the King had used soap and water on that right paw. If and when Chuck Taylor reads this, he may punch the King in the kisser the next time the two of them are at the Blacktop together. As I say frequently on this website, you can't make this stuff up.      



THE ASSASSIN STRIKES - Wednesday, August 17, 2005

           The Assassin did what the Assassin does Wednesday night at the Blacktop. Namely, he took KC Grandfield out and sent him to the emergency room of Charlton Memorial Hospital. Now, in this case, I'm not suggesting any malicious intent on the part of the Assassin. This is just what the Assassin does, almost as a reflex. Let me set the scene. During the first game of the evening, KC was on the west side of the court, approximately where Bueller was a few weeks ago when the Assassin took him out. As KC began his drive to the left side of the basket - BOOM- KC goes down like Linda Lovelace used to do back in the Y. of L. The Assassin, no doubt familiar with that old Linda Lovelace flick, just stood back and waited to see the result of his handiwork. I wouldn't say there was dismay on the face of the Assassin as KC got to his feet, but I could tell by his expression that his mission was not accomplished. In the second game, while Chainsaw Smith and I sat on the sidelines as observers, KC again had the ball, this time in the backcourt, down near the eastern-most basket. As I saw the Assassin approaching KC's location all I could do was cringe. Sure enough, BANG - the Assassin makes contact and down goes KC. I could almost hear Howard Cosell doing his famous play-by-play, "Down goes KC, down goes KC." Anyway, on his way down, KC instinctively put his left hand out to break his fall and, in doing so, may have broken his left wrist again. I watched the Assassin after he dropped KC and I could see that he didn't have his usual expression of glee plastered on his face, like he usually does after he makes a hit. It was then I realized what was going on. You see, unlike Spec and Bueller, the Assassin actually likes KC. This hit had nothing to do with disdain by the Assassin for the individual who was taken out, unlike the hatred that the Assassin has for both Spec and Bueller. No, the Assassin's expression was one of total unattatchment. It was obvious to me that, in this case, the Assassin was just doing what comes naturally to him. He was basically just doing his job, with no actual animosity toward the victim, in this case KC. It was kind of like Paulie Walnuts clipping that chick on "The Sopranos." The man has a job to do and he does it. No emotion. No real malice, except to get the job done. If it wasn't my son, I'd almost have to admire the Assassin for his professionalism and proficiency. At any rate, KC is out of commission for the forseeable future and the legend of the Assassin continues to grow. It is now obvious to me that the Assassin doesn't HAVE to dislike you to perform a hit on you. /// Speaking of possible broken wrists, it should be fairly obvious to everyone by now that the Grandfield family, whether it's some kind of calcium deficiency or whatever, has a problem with weak bones in the wrist area. A year and a half ago, KC broke his left wrist while drawing a charge playing up at Plymouth State College. Two weeks later, Michael Grandfield broke his left wrist while playing in a basketball league down at the Bank Street Armory, in Fall River. Shortly thereafter, I broke my left wrist when the Assassin took me out at Jay Williams' basketball court. Here's my question. Why has the King never sustained a broken wrist with all of the court time he has logged with the Assassin? After reading the above article, I think we all know the answer to that question now. The King's wrists, from all of the activity that they're involved in, are bulked up like Raphael Palmeiro's biceps. With all of the releasing of soldiers that the King apparently does, I would have to say, in my professional medical opinion, that it's far more likely that the King will incur carpal-tunnel syndrome of the wrists (from overuse) before he ever fractures them.

 




AN OPEN LETTER TO "BIG CLIFF" FROM "LITTLE CLIFF"

Dear King,

           I understand that you've been talking about me to your fellow Blacktoppers. I hear that you even told them that, when speaking to me, you refer to me as "little Cliff." As embarrassed as you were that night that you were by yourself and I couldn't get it together, how do you think I felt? I, too, was also tremendously embarrassed when the female showed up later that evening and I still couldn't obey the command to "ten hut!" Did you ever consider that maybe it's all your own fault that I couldn't respond and that by blaming me you're just shifting the responsibility to someone (or, in my case, something) else. Let's look at the facts. Sure, I'm an appendage of yours and, therefore, subordinate to your wishes. And, believe me, I do try to answer the bell on every occasion. But look at the sheer number of occasions there are. You're killing me. And, on the very few occasions where a female is actually involved, you expect me to still be ever ready. The pressure to perform is simply unbearable. There is such a thing as solo overuse, you know. You make contact with me more than Captain Nelson rubbed the bottle that Jeannie was in during that old TV series "I Dream Of Jeannie." I feel like a motorcycle operator who, without wearing leather gear, is thrown from the bike onto the asphalt. I'm suffering from the same type of roadrash, only mine is self-inflicted by you. Give me a break. I'm receiving so much self-involved contact from you that my cycloptic eye is bruised and swollen just like Sylvester Stallone's Rocky character's eyes were in the original "Rocky." I'd holler, like Rocky did, "Cut me, Mick, cut me," but I'm not a total sado-masochist. If you could just give me a break, I'm sure that the next time a female is actually involved I can help you out. Remember, I've got other functions that I handle for you. How'd you like me to totally wrap it up on you, like Lenny did at the Band of Brothers, and have your kidneys burst or your bladder blow? This ain't no joke. I'm begging you, at this point, to just let me catch my breath, that's all. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Wait a minute. I didn't mean it like that. Don't scratch me at all. Just leave me alone.

                                             Sincerely,         Little Cliff