Is it safe?

Probiotics vs antibiotics.  Dentist prescribed antibiotics so the novocaine functions when he pulls my tooth later this AM.

Crunchy granola crowd is REALLY down on antibiotics, as am I for several reasons.  But, then again, I'm not terribly brave in the dentist chair.  Ever seen Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man?  I flash back to that when they strap me in.

So I have been doing the stomach biotic 2-step, surrounding my doses of Amoxicillin with probiotic supplements downed with Russian Kefir. 

Pharmacist (who clearly falls into the big Pharma camp, by title if nothing else) told me to delay the probiotics for a couple of hours to let the anti-biotics do their work. I went the other way, Pro-biotics first so the good bacteria in my gut doesn't get decimated.

I'm putting Emergency Medical Techs on my speed dial in case I need help getting pried off the dentist's ceiling in an hour.

stay tuned...

Qualies begin at Open

It's the U.S. Open, but it's not.  Think Bizarro World and the Seinfeld alternate Universe.  I walked into the Billie Jean tennis center, and there were no lines.  The fans looked the same, but no one had tickets.  Sparse security welcomed in fans carrying their own food. CBS Sports coverage was projected on all the video screens, but instead of John McEnroe, it was Justin Gimelstob. Yes, it was the world turned upside down, but in a wonderful way, a return to decades gone by when one could interact with a sporting event other than being herded into consumer lines.

I attended on a spontaneous whim, with three of my 12 year old tennis clients piled into the Prius. We parked free at Citifield and walked in from the Subway boardwalk.  There was a Smorgasbord of matches and we moved freely about, sampling several.  After a quick snack in nearly abandoned food court, we took no more than 15 steps to the Court 11 end zone seats, my pick as the best seats in pro tennis.  We sunk our teeth into a classic opening round match featuring American college product Rhyne Williams decked out in his Tennessee Volunteer orange against Vasek Pospisil, who represented Canada in the Olympics.  The kids got to see the bright faced American upset the 7th seeded Pospisil in straight sets with a classic hard court game: big first serve and an undying desire to hit forehands, backhands a last resort.

Tennesse Vol Rhyne Williams in signature orange gear

We caught up with the engaging Williams after his match, the kids getting autographs while I shmoozed.  I learned firsthand that Williams was the 2011 NCAA runner up for the Vols as a sophomore and has thoroughly enjoyed his first year on the tour.  No credential necessary as Williams shared his story out in plain view,  not in a crowded press room.  Is there a better way to take in a sporting event?

Having collected the last Order of Play being handed out at the entrance (did I mention there was a hint of magic to our spontaneous excursion?) we cruised over to the newly completed Court 17, an intimate theater reminiscent of the Court One "Bull Ring" in Roland Garros.  The kids were free to run around, moving closer and closer to the front row during Bobby Reynolds' victory over Ukrainian masher Illya Marchenko.  From the kids' perspective it might as well have been Rocky Balboa against Ivan Drago.  Seeing the pace from the front row blew the minds of the middle school tennis hopefuls. Tennis memories were being permanently etched, emphasis on the word "tennis" as opposed to memories of standing in line to use the rest room or being ejected from elite seats by irate ushers.  12 year olds with free rein at a major tennis venue, such conditions seriously sparked their imaginations as sports fantasies prospered.

Post match I went down to a group of fans pulling for the 30 year old Reynolds, convinced that they were part of "Team Reynolds," and sure enough it was his his family from Georgia.  I proceeded with my well-rehearsed shmoozing, prodding for connections while learning from Bobby's dad about moves from Cape Cod to Mobile to Georgia. Bobby's aunt asked about my location, and it turns out she teaches middle school math in my town.  As she shared that info my 12 year olds arrived, and here was where the magic kicked in.  As Bobby's aunt described how she employed her nephew's pro tennis exploits into her lesson plans, the boys jaws dropped a bit.  One of them had taken her math class, the other will be in 10 days.  They were now drawn into the Reynolds inner circle as I watched, amazed as everyone else at the serendipity. We all visited and exchanged ideas on teaching and coaching and kids and both big and small time tennis until the Reynolds politely exited to connect with their tour pro. For my 12 year old posse, the magic of the moment shimmered due to its insane improbability.

ROSOL launching his signature boomers

Our dessert was the final match on court 17, Lukas Rosol's opening qualifier. Despite his mind-blowing upset of Rafa Nadal at Wimbledon earlier this summer, Rosol was still ranked only 93, and he had to grind through qualifying matches like the majority of the elite tour wannabe's.  So we all crouched in the front row of the end-zone during his warmups, snapping pictures on our phones.  Rosol sure looked like the same guy who smoked Nadal in the 5th set at Wimbledon's famed Centre Court, booming serves and moving with grace and extreme quickness here on cement in the early evening.  I hadn't noticed the exquisite tattoo on his left calf.  Unfortunately we couldn't ask him about it after his dismissal of 6' 5" monster Kamil Capkovik because it was getting late and parents were wondering exactly how late their tennis cherubs would be getting home.

We returned to our car surrounded by Mets fans filing into CitiField for the early innings of their game against the Rockies.  A couple of blonde women, deep into their cups of suds, chided us for leaving the Mets game prematurely.  I let them know we had just come from a full day of tennis, and they acknowledged that we had made the better choice.

Early in the ride home I teased the boys about how they could have stayed in with some of those pros on several of those points, how they could have returned those second serves, and then I left them alone for the 30 mile drive west.  Soon, two of the three had dozed off, tired from a day marching around their cement tennis playground.  You didn't need a psychic to predict their dreams.

Salvaging Black Monday for American Tennis

ROCKY DAY FOR AMERICAN TENNIS DAY 1 AT THE BIG W

June 25, 2012 was referred to as Black Monday for American tennis.  Donald Young struck the first ball of Wimbledon and had as disappointing a loss as you'll ever see, blowing a half dozen points to go up two breaks and a set on the imploding seed Mikhail Youzhny.  In the next few games Young went from a confident player strangling a seed on a Wimbledon showcourt, to a rank amateur, getting whisked away in what Brad Gilbert described as "15 minutes."  The U.S.T.A. will not appreciated this adjective, after all the treasure they have sunk into Young's ill-fated career, but Young's performance was embarrassing. It was his 12th consecutive tour loss.  "Shocking to me and people around me." The guy who used to be the poster child for American tennis development is shattered right now.  And that was only the beginning.

Good guy James Blake, now a brittle 32 year old, lived out the exact same script as Young, only an hour later. Up a set and a break with several chances to lock up the second set with another break. And he, too, failed.  Flip the Direct TV feed over to Court 2, and there was gentle Venus, the flip side of the coin to her intimidating younger sister, falling in straight sets. Her loss, the worst in her Wimbledon career, was caused at least as much by her medical condition as it was by the skills of young Russian Elena Vesnina.  They say that since Court 2 has been remodeled, it isn't necessarily the same ol "Graveyard of Champions."  Watching 5-Time Wimbledon champion Venus Williams--yes 5, the combined totals of Evert and Connors--slog through a straight-set drubbing at the hands of a heretofore unknown player is as big a scalp as the old Graveyard ever had.  It was reminiscent of another Great Champion's final match at Wimbledon.  33 years ago Arthur Ashe, plagued by heart troubles, was ushered out of his Wimbledon playing life here on Court 2. Does anyone think Venus will return to the AELTC after her Olympic obligations are over?  We have all learned a bit about Sjogren's Syndrom thanks to Venus, along with grace and humility in her loss.  And to those who say "good riddance" because of her guilt by sibling association? You are revealing your ignorance.  Venus Williams' was a role model for grace under pressure, exiting Wimbledon with a wake of class and dignity. It bears repeating, a five-time Wimbledon singles champion.

American sports fans who wait until lunch to catch up on their sporting news were in for a shock this Monday.  Three of the biggest names in American tennis, had been vanquished from the All-England club before dessert and coffee.   What about Melanie Oudin, she of the stunning grand slam debut as a 17-year old at the 2009 U.S. Open? Having just turned 20 she is now pulling herself together professionally after the inevitable letdown. Leading up to Wimbledon Melanie did something Americans haven't done in decades, she actually won a tour event on English grass.  The 2012 Birmingham champion was facing an unknown on a court without TV cameras.  Unless you were in Southwest London with a precious ticket, you were forced to watch the drama on a computer screen.  This was a three-set thriller, one in which the eye-witnesses reported that she fought bravely, but even on the small screen the numbers were painful to absorb. Broken in the 8th game of the critical third set, little Melanie's Grand Slam comeback was shut down before it began.

What about Wimbledon Marathon Man John Isner? Involved in a 5-setter on Court Three against a Colombian clay courter? That's gotta be money in the bank.  No dice.  The #11 Seed, USA's best shot to go deep into week 2, dead in the water on Court 3.  Black Monday indeed.

Yet like so many of those lengthy days in London, some light seeped through the wall of dark clouds.  That battlin Cajun Ryan Harrison of Louisiana gutted out a 4-setter.  Another Ryan, 24 year old Ryan Sweeting, a U.S. citizen born in the Bahamas, claimed his match after his opponent retired in the second set. Teenager Sloane Stephens won her match, and suddenly there was restored pride in the Red White and Blue. Young players with shiny futures were replacing the aging champions and contenders from a previous era.  The good news continued to roll in as the Centre Court crowd slipped off for dinner.  22 year-old Jamie Hampton entered Court Three moments after the shattered Isner exited.  She proceeded to grind out a spirited straight-set victory over the seeded Slovak Daniela Hantuchova.

The American tennis equivalent of Rocky Balboa, 34 year old qualifier Michael Russell from Detroit, collected his second Wimbledon match victory of his pock-marked career.  5 shiny pennies from a day that had dealt out 6 numbing losses.  As the longest naturally lit tennis day of the year came to a close, there was that irrepressible Jersey girl, Teaneck's Christina McHale, simply refusing to cave to the Britain's Johanna Konta and all her fans flocking about Court 17.  She stubbornly forced the decisive third set into "overtime," and daylight finally failed, the match to be continued on Day 2.

For the American players, 6 ushered out and 6 survive to fight another day. For the fans, it's time to learn some new story lines.  There is talent is out there wearing red, white and blue, and best of all, there is hope.

Barry MacKay R.I.P.

The incredible BEAR


It's 3 in the afternoon on a Sunday, but 5 of the HBO Wimbledon "idiots" are in the dark in a West London squash court. Desperate to live out our grass court fantasies, we have crashed the uber-exclusive Hurlingham Club pre-Wimbledon party. Barry was our ringleader, and at 25 years older, he was the perfect "Uncle" Barry to help us pull this off.  "Bring your kits with your gear," he told us the night before. So we're all giggling and dropping trow in this unlit squash court, hopping around looking for that missing sneaker.
Moments later we emerge, all white-skinned with no professional sponsor patches, with the Armitraj brothers holding exhibitions on the courts we are so eager to trespass. One of Rafter's girlfriends is in attendance, along with all of the tennis aristocracy in Britain.  We idiots are nervous as cats. Not Bear.

"Man oh man," he says loudly for all the passerby's as we stride to an open court, "The Club's never looked better," he says with that magic midwestern honest charm.  The rest was easy.  Next thing we know we're all out on the court with Barry channeling Harry Hopman, barking orders as we do our jumping jacks on the manicured laws, getting warmed up for the greatest afternoon of our lives.  A couple of sets of tennis, several trips to the Pimms bar, a garden party on the back 40, essentially, business as usual for Bear, getting every possible drop of joy from each scenario he encounters.

Pro Tennis is probably the most selfish pro sport imaginable. Everyone is a rock-star wannabe. And here is this former #1 player in the U.S. who stands like a beacon because of his full-smile generosity. Like that rent-a-car he gave to Patrick McEnroe for playing doubles at the TransAmerica while he was still a student at Stanford. I think they were still waiting for the car's return when Hertz closed that branch.

The HBO Wimbledon "Idiots" of the 90's, TV freelance production's answer to the Buffalo Heads of Red Sox 70's, wised up and pooled our hotel money for the first Wimbledon village rental in the final years of HBO's contract with Wimbledon.  It took us a decade to figure out the math, but essentially when it comes to living the free lance dream, our ship had come in. And Barry was our honored guest. He loved everything about the house--full fridge, access to the betting parlors, minutes away from the courts--what's not to like?  And Hell, the owners happened to be named MacKay, this beautiful villa was known then and forever as the Mackay house.  A famous torch passing between the Bear and Johnny Mac on a glorious June afternoon in our garden will never be forgotten. I think they discovered the cure for glaucoma.

Everyone has stories of Barry's love and generosity, and I'll try not to bore you with mine, but the guy was a MENSCH.  Put me up on first day of my honeymoon, found me a freelance job at the Open 21 years after being persona non grata, treating my college roommate like his new best friend, taking me to the Ascot for turf racing and teaching me to bet, finding me the cheapest hotel in San Francisco, treating me to classic Tea in London's quaintest hotel. Sharing his tip of Stich over Becker in straight sets in the 1991 final at the Cathedral...bust out the champagne boys. Oh, Idiots delight.

It was incredible sad to discover the passing of Barry, but with his passion for desserts and California Chardonnay, we were lucky to have his joy as long as we did. He lived with pathos: the death of a son, an elusive Wimbledon title, (oh that muffed backhand volley against Laver with the match on his racket) and having never scored the pay day that would have put him in the comfort zone. A Bay Area sportswriter did the math in a column, Projecting Barry's potential earnings from his 1960 season in 21st Century dollars.  Enough to allow Barry to leave tennis and hang out with his beloved ponies.

But we all got the benefits from Barry's near misses, our favorite Uncle with the best jokes and the best smile and the best wines. The Joy from that man is impossible to describe, fortunately anyone connected to tennis has experienced it firsthand.

Oh, a final note. Barry was a hell of a pro in the booth. He transformed himself from a whispering sideline reporter to a play-by-play host. And until the very end, he was sharp. He ALWAYS pre-read the stage manager cards before reading them live on the air. and he caught plenty of production mistakes and NEVER held a grudge.

A life lived that we should all emulate, joyous expression from wire to wire. Saying you will be missed BEAR is the grandest understatement of them all.

Key moment

I hadn't seen the damn key in over 2 hours, it was now post-game, the beers were flowing, and I knew that time was running out.  If I didn't retrieve the keys soon, before the room began clearing out, I would be walking home, unable to swap my car keys with the USA Hockey Feds at the front desk.

I was failing miserably going from player to player asking who had the keys.  I needed the one figure that had a chance to rise above the din and speak to the group collectively...CUB.  I grabbed him be his shoulders to get his attention and to let him know the sense of urgency of the mission.  I guess from the accounts of the episode that the blood was flowing pretty freely, rushing so furiously to my head that it blocked my hearing and slowed my already suspect ability to process info efficiently.  But I knew one thing, he didn't have the keys and no one he spoke to did.

Because he is a kind man, Cub agreed to negotiate on my behalf with the USA Hockey Feds.  I later found out that they told him NFW, emphatically.  My last chance was Georgie, he had opened an locked the door, albeit with the rink's master key, but he was my last solid lead.  I was in full mania at that point, not understanding much of what he said other than that he did NOT have the original.  Crisis mode, final resort, I did the one thing that I knew had no chance of succeeding, but that George and Cub had both recommended.  I reached into my jeans.

And it was going down the rabbit hole. I reached in and felt the tiny little cardboard square, the faux-copper micro clasp, and the solitary key attached.  My world had returned to normal, presuming there really is any normalcy in my world.  The locker room roared, the blood threatening to explode in my head calmly retreated, thanks to a well-earned laugh at my expense.

I now have a fallback slogan for my headstone, and another entry in the litany of Suns idiocy.  "Where are the Fucking KEYS?!!!  

Oh So Close

    MISSED IT BY THAT MUCH



Setting Suns return west (or northeast for some of us) having taken HMS and North Carolina to overtime. They are the two clubs playing in the 50 and Over Championship game.  In both games we led in the third period, games in which we...oh, you get the idea.  Using the proper mathematical formula, the Suns should be champions if you insert enough Woulda Shoulda and Coulda's.  "I'm stickin with that story," said coach Cub.

Before I forget, John Otsuki scored a clever backhand goal in Game 3 vs Carolina, giving the Suns a short-lived lead late in the second period.  It actually went between a defenders legs on its gentle flight to to the top shelf.  The changeup contrasted with the "rockets" we were firing into the Carolina goalie's accomplished glove hand.  (Thank you John for the family subscription to SportsRap.)

We now limp home, having met new friends, and expanded dozens of relationships, all more meaningful as we play the back-nine of our lives.  Hockey is merely a useful common denominator for this club of friends.  If we were just hockey junkies, we would have never left the Brandon Ice Forum, watching live games on the ice and Stanley Cup playoff games in the lounge, talking puck and sippin Labatts in the hallways...oh, right, half a dozen of us did just that.  All right then, equal measure hockey love and camaraderie.

The Suns are the best hockey fraternity of them all, the favorite stop of USA Hockey legends Badger Bob, his son Mark and Art Berglund. Wearing the sweater, the pizza crest on the chest, lining up with Ketchum, Hailey and Bellevue Idaho residents is one of the grand privileges of a hockey life.

University of Maine head coach Tim Whirehead, a national figure in the hockey world, had his dream of joining the Suns come true after years of visiting, playing and yearning for the chance.  One of our opponents came up to us in the Brandon ice lounge and dealt out a left-handed compliment for the ages: "You're the best winless team I can remember."  Why I oughta...  Here's Glenn Hunter's (see "digit"ized photo above) summation:

"We must remember that we come from a resort town. Our goal has always been to accommodate and keep visitors happy. That's why we don't beat them, we don't want them feeling too bad."

There was no sadness amongst the Suns, we outplayed the two clubs playing for the title.  Cubby Burke was back on the ice and we got to play together, and for the record, I witnessed him arcing around the ice skating full tilt, panel to panel in neutral ice, and there was some of that wind flap going on through his jersey, kinda like a sail.  "I think the jersey was too big," said Cub, coming to the bench after each board battle, whether the shift was :15 long or :50.

Learned last night that Kurt Wenzel has found gainful employment, and Banjo Williams got his third daughter into Bowdoin, both grand accomplishments.  As John Weekes has said a time or two, "A finer bunch of guys you'll never find." Or words to that effect.  See you all next year, and if you find the locker room key please give it to...ANYONE BUT ME. 

DOWN AND OUT IN THE BAY

THE REMAINS OF THE DAY


Goalie Tony Benson lay sprawled in his cage, $1000 worth of goalie equipment hung out like a yard sale with a body buried in the midst of pad and gloves and blocker.  Glenn Hunter and Dale Johnson hunched over, unconsolable.  What appeared to have been the Suns finest hour on ice had been raked out from under them in maddening fashion, a 5-4 Overtime loss to team IMS, a loss that skewered the Suns chance to make the medal round.

IMS is an easy team to root against. A Tampa-based billionaire hockey enthusiast cobbled together a team by importing the best half dozen players from Detroit, including former NHL standout John Ogrodnick.  The IMS firepower was based on stretch passes and partial breakaways, which they employed in the early moments for a 1-0 lead, and expanded it to 3-1 when the clubs left the ice for the second intermission ice resurfacing.

But there was cause for optimism, the Suns forwards had found their legs and were wearing down the less mobile IMS defenseman.  And as the third period unfolded, coach Cubby Burke's enthusiasm proved to be well-founded.  The Suns systematically reeled off three consecutive goals:  defenseman Barney  jumping into the rush, Johnny Miller cashing in from in tight and Dave Hutchinson with a 25' screamer into the top shelf.

The Suns were on a roll, confidently outplaying IMS with 5 on 5 hockey, grinding them down thanks to quick-footed forechecking.  The dreams of IMS to buy a championship contender were crumbling.  And then with just over 7 minutes left in regulation and the Suns leading 4-3, fate struck.  An attempted IMS breakaway pass was 20 feet in front of their cherry picker, and Suns goalie Benson skated out of his crease to smother the puck.  The IMS forward charged into the prone Benson, gouging him with his stick and the boot of his skate, leaving a series of marks.  The Suns were furious--Benson was clearly injured with no backup on the bench, laying prostrate on the ice for several minutes. When the arguments subsided and Benson dragged his beleaguered body back to the crease, IMS had been issued a 5 minute major penalty with 7 to play.  Despite the apparent man-power advantage for the Suns, it was a deadly gift.

"I wish we could have declined the penalty," said the Cub in hindsight.

The refs, having just asserted themselves late in a tight game, got whistle happy.  3 consecutive minors were blown on the Suns, and the 5 on 4 manpower advantage soon devolved into a 3 on 4 penalty kill.  The break in momentum, the break in the forecheck flow, the wide ice for the Detroit snipers all contributed to the precipitous momentum shift.  The defense tandem of Rappleye and Johnson, Rap and Sluggo, immaculate in the 2011 tournament, were torched for the umpteenth time in 2012, permitting the tying goal on a 2-on-2 rush with a couple of minutes left.  What had appeared to be an inevitable, emotional victory that would spring the Suns into a prominent spot for the medal round, had come down to an overtime struggle to survive.

5 minutes of sudden death with their playoff lives on the line.  The Suns regrouped and carried the play, generating half a dozen legitimate chances in overtime.  With 2 minutes remaining in the extra session, IMS desperately tried to clear the zone.  Sluggo dropped to his knees at the offensive blue line and took the slapper in his body, 60 feet away from the winning goal.  IMS had skated past him, not expecting the gamble.  Johnson found time and space to close another 5 feet, and put his whole existence into his own slap shot, a low rocket headed for the far right corner. For a millisecond the shot appeared to have found its mark, but the IMS goalie flashed his leg and got a toe on the shot.  The Suns were sucked in too deep, and this time the IMS clearing pass found its mark, and Detroit's best sniper was in on a clear breakaway.

No one would fault Suns MVP Benson if he failed to stop this breakaway, and the IMS forward put on a sensational deke. But Benson did a Hasek-like snow angel, windmilling around with his back to the puck and blocked the fatal goal with his wrist. A roar came from the Suns bench, quickly followed by deathly silence. A rebound had been shelfed from an impossible angle, and IMS was celebrating like a gang having just been given a reprieve from death row.

It's hard to say if the Suns deserved a better fate.  It was clear to all observers that they were in control of this game, until events began to spiral in another direction.  It was terrific sports theater, drama that only intensified because of the severe consequences of the outcome.  And the ultimate consequence of this thrilling game is that the Suns final Game on saturday vs North Carolina will be about pride and fun, because that elusive national championship trophy will be going to Heartland or St. Nick's or IMS, and the Suns will be going back to Wood River Valley.