It Was a Good Year, After All

What good does it do to whine?

Sure, nearly half of our retirement savings is gone. Yeah, the value of our house -- once our "Can you believe what our house is worth?" dream-come-true -- ain't what it used to be. We just spent more than we (translated, "I") wanted on Christmas presents for our spoiled kids, but...

It's all good. And, yeah, I know "it's all good" is so 2006...

In 2008, I got to spend so much time with my family. What's better than that? OK, so I'm mad at my buddies for not planning a golf trip.

I got to coach both of my sons baseball teams. Got to see almost every one of their soccer games, too. I got to caddy four times for Tyler on the U.S. Kids Tour (his final year on that Tour).

Watched Tyler and Beau's teams win "town" Little League titles. And Beau's All-Star team won District 11. I had the honor of managing Tyler's 11-year old All-Stars and, even as we bowed out in three games in the Districts, we took part in three of the craziest baseball games ever. As my pal Tim Kurkjian likes to say, "You can watch a baseball game every day and still see something you've never seen before." Our loss to North Wall and our win over Ocean were proof of that.

I got trounced by both boys (10 and 12) in our Five-Mile Turkey Trot. Not even close to either.

I got to play a good amount of golf with my dad...something I treasure so much. And my dad also got to play quite a few times with Tyler, something Pops treasures, I'm sure. I was also happy when my dad accepted new irons for his birthday. Usually, Pops says, "I don't need new irons" and asks us to return them.

I took Tyler on an assignment, to beautiful Akron, Ohio...and he thought it was "awesome." I think what he thought was really awesome was that, for three days, he ate like a sportswriter.

Linda and I renovated our house (see before and after), turning it into our dream house. Now, we just have to pay for it. A minor detail.



We all got to see my nephew Michael score against Bayern Munich on television (that's him below). That was a great moment.






And we were able to get all the Bradleys together (Mom, Dad...Scott and Mary and Kevin, Kyle and Scotty...Rob and Lindsay and Michael, Kerry and Ryan)...along with me, Linda, Tyler and Beau...for Christmas.

That day alone made 2008 a great year.

Here's to 2009.

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Nearing the End

Well, I'm getting down to the final couple of days of this fantastic journey to Hull and back. Don't expect anything well-worded or cogent at this point as my focus is on the words that will matter.

Still, I feel the need to let a few thoughts fly.

1. It's very difficult to eat in pubs in this part of England. Even places that advertise "Food All Day" look at you cross-eyed when you try to interrrupt their pint business. And, honestly, when I'm in a place where NO ONE is eating, I am usually not going to step up and ask for a menu.

2. This is my fifth hotel on this trip. And it is the fifth time I've struggled with getting the temperature right for a shower/bath. Now, before anyone thinks I chose a bath on purpose, you should know that my last stop was at a fantastic Bed and Breakfast in the wonderful town of Beverley. All that was missing from my cozy room was a shower. Wish I had some Mr. Bubble.

3. We speak the same language, yet we don't speak the same language. Just had some Fish and Chips in a place that's mostly a Take-Away joint. I tried to keep it simple, ordering a small Fish and Chips. "Wrapped or open?" I was asked. I had to ask for an explantion. Wrapped was to go, Open was to eat right away. I went for Open. "Can I have some ketchup for my chips, please," was my next question, and the answer shocked me. "Ten pence each, sir." Say what? Yes, a packet of ketchup goes for about 17 cents at Toby's. And, the amount of ketchup in the packet was so little, it got me through about three fries...errr....chips. On a positive note, the "small" fries put an American large to shame. In lieu of ketchup, I loaded on the salt.

4. My latest hotel is a World Class dump. And could someone please get the British to hand over a real bar of soap in a hotel room, please? I have had it with the hair and body gel in the squeeze bottle or packet. Next time I come over, note to self, pack a bar of Irish Spring.

5. I ran from Beverley because the owner of the B & B (and adjacent) pub was trying to entice me to stay by showing me his backroom "disco" that will be hopping tonight (Friday). One thing England does not need to see is my arse on a dance floor. And another thing this 45-year old does not need on Day 9 of this extravaganza, is a night in a disco.

Also it's the night before the game and The Gaffer wants me fit. Cheers and thanks to all who've taken the time to read my tales from England. See you all back in the States.

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Who Ate All The Pies?

A memorable sporting event can show up where you least expect it, or so it seems right now as I thaw out in my hotel room in Northeast England. A last-minute decision I made, based mostly on industrial park hotel boredom, led me to Glanford Park, a tiny football stadium nestled behind a strip-center. Yes, an American-made Toys R Us, KFC, McDonalds, Travelodge ensemble that had me thinking for a second that my pony-tailed cab driver made a wrong turn on Doncaster Rd. and put us somewhere outside Fort Myers, Fla.

The 35-mile trip was for a match between Scunthorpe United (aka The Iron) and Tranmere Rovers in the Northern Semi-Final of a competition known as the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy.

If that don’t get the juices flowin’, nothing will.

I got to the ground in time for a pre-game pint and a little pre-game conversation with Scunthorpe fans at the Iron Club. I settled into a standing-room spot behind the goal in the home supporters end, got myself a Pukka Pie (it was a meat and onion pie, and I purposely did not ask for the pronuncation of “Pukka”).


It was yet another one of those taste sensations that is both delicious and gross at the same time (see previous blog item about Sour Patch Kids and the McDonald's Southern Style Chicken Biscuit). Pies are all the rage at football matches in England, more popular than hot dogs by a long shot. The Pukka Pie did not agree with me, or perhaps it was the sausage roll I chased it with. I was later told that you don't go with back to back pastry.

It would be too easy to say the game was like a minor league baseball game, because the crowd size, about 2,600 would remind you of a Class-A game somewhere in the U.S., but as I listened to conversation all around me, it became clear that, to the good folks of Scunthorpe, this is The Show. These guys dissected the lineup, criticized the formation, ripped into players who have been "in poor form" of late. They took this match and their team seriously. Mere mention of Premier League Club Hull City, who in recent years have battled against The Iron got the following reaction. "F--- Hull City." Brilliant then.

In all likelihood, most of the fans’ fathers were Scunthorpe fans, as well as their grandfathers and great grandfathers…and “mums” and “nans” too. You're born into this stuff and it sticks.

When The Iron took a 1-0 lead in the first half, the home fans began to sing, “Que Sera Sera. Whatever will be, will be. We’re going to Wem-ble-lee.” That would be Wembley Stadium in London, where the finals of the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy will be held. For a club like Scunthorpe or Tranmere Rovers to play at Wembley is a thrill, even if it's to play for a less-than-glamorous trophy named after a paint company.

Tranmere tied the match, 1-1, in the second half and their supporters (about 300 made the two-hour trip from Liverpool on a Tuesday night) sang the same song.

As the minutes ticked off the clock, I was told that there would be no extra time if the game ended in a tie. It would be straight to penalty kicks. “But,” the fellow next to me said, “We have a flair for the dramatic. We have been known to score in stoppage time.”

On this night, however, it did not seem likely as the clock moved past 90 minutes. That was when Scunthorpe manager Nigel Atkins brought in striker Paul Hayes, who had broken his cheekbone and was too injured to play the game. He was being brought in for the purpose of taking one of his team’s penalties in the shootout and was wearing a half face mask reminiscent of Jason in Friday the 13th. But with the referee just about to blow his whistle to end the game, a foul was called on a Tranmere player about 30 yards from the net. Hayes stepped up to the ball and banged a hard right-footed shot that deflected off a Trannere defender, skipped off the wet grass, then clanged off the right post and into the net. The masked man had done it.

“Que Sera Sera. Whatever will be, will be. We’re going to Wem-ble-lee,” the Scunthorpe fans sang once again. “Told you so!” my new friend said to me, giving me a high-five.

Indeed you did, mate, and I won’t forget it.

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How Little of the Giants

I did not intend to watch the Giants game last night, but on Day 3 over here, the jet-lag, time-difference crap hit me like a frigging Louisville Slugger to the temple. So, at 1:30 a.m., that's 8:30 Manasquan Standard Time, the Giants and Cowboys kicked off and I watched.

And I watched, and watched. And I turned the TV off two, maybe three times, and I could not sleep, so I watched the whole dreary thing. Not good considering I had an 8 a.m. (3 a.m. MST) wakeup call. So, you do the math. Finally nodded off around 4:30, got me 3 and a half, solid.

Then it was a full day of work that I will not bore anyone with. Too much driving, too little food and a return to the hotel at 10:15 p.m. to learn that they stop serving food in the restaurant at "half past nine."

Mother-bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

"We can have a cold sandwich made for you, sir," the gal at the front desk said, to which I think I replied, "Gimme, gimme, gimme...." Snorted a chicken salad sandwich on "brown" bread, threw back some hot nuts (right) and a Guinness..and God, help me get 6-8 hours tonight. Please help me, dude.

This is when, at 45, I get homesick. I do not like 11-day roadies anymore. Three nights away and I'm usually ready to get back to Linda, Tyler and Beau. That's where I am right now. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're all thinking, "Cry me a river, Brads." I think I just need some sleep.

Big news is that I'm checking out of Hotel Sterile -- in some industrial park -- and into some neighborhood Inn. Once Brian (the owner of the Inn and I are now mates), told me they had wireless internet, I was in. Being in England is only fun if you can get out and see things. When you have to get a cab any time you want to see something that doesn't look like Lyndhurst, then why the hell do you want to be in England, anyway? So, I'm moving into the Market Cross soon.

Met and interviewed a lot of good people today. Might be able to see me on telly here soon. I'll let you all know. As many of you know, I'm about as comfortable on TV as Albert Brooks in Broadcast News (how 80s is that reference? Does anyone but me remember that flick?).

No games to keep me awake tonight. Let's hope there's not a sequel to the Blondie Documentary.

Lovely then.

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Just Because it's My Blog

Sometimes having limited TV channels to choose from can lead you to some great viewing.

Last night, not much to watch on my four channels here in England, so I buckled in for a documentary on...Blondie.

All I can say, as someone who earns a living trying to draw interesting stories out of celebrities (athletes), I wish everyone had as compelling, surprising and crazy a story as Deborah Harry and friends. I also would love for athletes to be as open and honest about their past screw-ups as DH and her bandmates were on this show. From punk to disco to pop, this band lived it all...amazingly they're all still alive to recount the gory details.

One more thing, I instantly had to go in search of Blondie's amazing comeback tune, "Maria"...

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Port to Port

The sun finally broke through the clouds here in England. Oh, it’s gone again. Seriously, it was that quick. We’re back to gray, damp and cloudy.Little matter as I’m back on a train bound for Leeds. Then, after a change, it’s on to Hull. Before I go on a rant, I want to thank the train attendant (is that what they’re called?) who looked at my ticket and asked, “Where are you going to change?” I said, “Manchester Picadilly,” to which he shook his head and said, “If you get off at Picadilly Station with all that luggage, you’re going to have to pull it all the way to the other side of a large train station. If you stay on this train ‘til Leeds, you just walk across the platform.”

Thanks, mate. You just earned points for your country, tipping the scales back in your favor. Honestly, Good was trouncing Evil until yesterday when I confronted three of the most pretentious ‘wipes I’ve ever dealt with in 20 years in my business. Going to slip back to vague-speak a bit here, but it was halftime of the Liverpool-Hull match and it was time to head to the bathroom and the press room for some split pea soup (I’m serious). It was my second trip to Anfield and I did not remember where the bathrooms were, so it took some time finding them, and then waiting in line for a spot at the trough and, blast it, a spot in line for the hand blow dryer…no towels. Anyway, by the time I was done taking care of business, which included burning my tongue on the soup, I looked at my watch and figured the second half was about to begin. Better head back to my seat.

Anfield’s press area is quaint, and the seat location is phenomenal, right at the midfield stripe, close enough to the pitch that you can here the players shouting at each other and the linesmen, and you can tell the difference between a well-struck ball and a shank by the sound of the ball coming off a player’s boot. Really cool. The press area is, however, as outdated as any I’ve ever worked in. The big problem yesterday was that, I was seated in a spot where three sportswriters would have to get up to let me back in to my seat. I arrived just as the second half was about to begin and the three gents who had to move their fat sportswriter asses to make room for me went ballistic. The first one slammed both of his hands on the table. The second huffed, “Are you serious?” The third said, “We waited for ages for you!” I mumbled that I was sorry…got no response…and quietly watched the second half. My sin cost three scribes about 11 seconds of viewing. I write about this only because I hope none of my colleagues would ever be so rude to a foreigner who entered one of our workspaces. I should point out that the fellow to my right, Chris, who did not have to move, was very cool. Score one more for Good.

I’ll stop whining now, just as Adam Duritz is done whining in my ears. Man, I used to consider Counting Crows among my favorite American bands, but Adam now grates on me. I mean, here’s a fat, ugly dude who dates supermodels. He should be much happier.

Ate me another “crusty” today in the train station. Learned that the place is actually called “Upper Crust” and I surely was confusing the name with the “Crusty Crab” where SpongeBob SquarePants works with Patrick. Sorry, honey, but I ate more bacon. This happens every time I come to England. It’s bacon, burgers and fish and chips and beer. I mentioned to my new friend Ian that I was not eating very healthily on this trip and when I told him what I’d eaten, he shrugged and said on his trip to the States – to Vegas – it seemed that all Americans ever ate was pancakes. “Bacon seems healthy to me,” he said. Here's to more bacon.

Nevertheless, I can feel my arteries hardening and by belly bulging over my sweat pants. Yeah, I’m looking sharp today in sweat pants and a wool Navy pea coat. One of those travel wardrobe nightmares (my wife would be ashamed). Wanted to be comfortable and there was no way I was going to squeeze the pea coat inside a suitcase. So, I look like an ass, what else is new? And in the land of "fashionable" jeans with all kinds of pockets and zippers...the land wear "hip" footwear still has velcro straps and looks very much like the bowling shoes you rent at the lanes (Hey, I've witnessed it) I don't feel all that out of place.

Cheers

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A Day In The Life

Woke up, got out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up, i noticed i was late
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat...

Liverpool 'round Christmas time...nothin' like it, mates.

'Twas an interesting day all around. Slept in only because my body-clock's still adjusting. Made my way out to Anfield (Think Fenway Park only rectangular). Ate "bacon roll" and drank coffee..err. Nescafe for breakast. Had me first pint before 12..arrrghhh! A man's gotta be a man.

Trying to stay on the vague side of town, but I met some of me mates in the pub (Arkle's) for some good craic 'round half-one. Arsenal and 'Boro were playing the early match and I caught a good bit of the action. Shared pints with Ian...I owe him plenty when we get to Hull.

Met some good blokes who filled me in on what, exactly, it means to be born into a side that's playing way beyond your wildest dreams. I mean, one day you're agonizing over a loss to York City, the next your winning at Arsenal. How can you explain it? You can't. So today, they meet Anfield after two and a half hours in the car. It's silly. Even they know it.

Arsenal and 'Boro draw, but only because former Gunner Jeremie Aliadiere connects for Boro on a ridiculour header. "That's the game, innit?" one of me mates ask. "Indeed," I say.

At half-three it's time to head for my post at Anfield. Like I said, it's Fenway, only Fenway has a few more modern amenities (more on that later), and all 44,000 seats are sold including 3,000 that have been allotted to visiting Hull City. I've been here before, but I still get goose bumps when the Liverpool fans sing "You'll Never Walk Alone" just before kickoff. Amazing.

The next little bit is for my ol' friend Anthony, a Jersey boy who's settled on the West Coast. What I witnessed was classic. A team that came in hoping for a point and, next thing you know, they score off a set piece and get an own goal and are up 2-0 before we've played 20 minutes.

Ah, but when the home side has a boy like Steven Gerrard (and I need to check, but I believe I watched Stevie's debut at Anfield some 10 years ago against Blackburn Rovers), you cannot rest on a two-nil lead. Gerrard scores twice before the interval and anyone in their right mind has to think that Liverpool will power their way to a victory. Ah, but 'tis a funny ol' game. While Liverpool leaves their 20-milli0n-pound striker Robbie Keane on the bench, Hull City finds its defensive shape and wills its way to a 2-2 draw against the Premier League leaders. Classic.

It takes me more than an hour to flag a cab back to the hotel. I eat fish and chips (not bad) in the hotel, then venture out to a few pubs. The first one features karaaoke acts that make me feel young. The second is slightly better or a solo American. I watch Barcelona and Real Madrid, first half, in the pub...then walk home briskly to see Barca score two goals and win.

Tomorrow, Liverpool to Hull. Hopefully more good craic to be found.

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