[No Man Is An Island. Nomar Is A Shortstop. Probably no athlete has ever “owned” Boston at the height of their prime as much a Nomar Garciaparra. Larry Bird was the Ultimate Celtic, but his roots were irretrievably deep into the soil of French Lick. Bobby Orr had it all, but he was “boy-next-door” modest that he never captured the female heart. Tom Brady had it all, but he brought it with him–the starlet, the super-model. Ted Williams was the star you loved to hate. But Nomar had it all. He came into the league with two other premier shortstops (Derek Jeter and Alex Rodrigues) and for about six years the best barroom arguement at the Eire Pub in Dorchester was about which was the best of the three. But Nomar, of the three, had the skill, the looks, the swagger, and the charisma. A girl from Mattapan or Somerville could still hope. SB SM]
Artie calls Ike Frietag, the Sports Editor of The Boston Globe:
Mr. Frietag, my name is Arthur Gordon. We’ve never met, but you may be familiar with some of my work as a filmmaker. I wrote and directed The King of California, Tails of Beyonder, and, most recently, My Mother, My Lover… you saw the video? Great! I won’t ask if you liked it.
The reason I’m calling has nothing to do with making films. I’ve become very interested in fly fishing for striped bass in Boston Harbor, and most of what I’ve learned has come from Sandy Beach. I tried to get in touch with Mr. Beach, but I learned that ‘Sandy Beach’ is a pseudonym and that his forecasts, columns, and books are ghosted by Globe staffers.
No, I’m not calling you in any official capacity. No, I’m not representing any media. I’m just a guy trying to catch a fish, and my journey has been guide by this Sandy Beach.
Lunch? I could do that. Wednesday will be fine. OK, the Globe cafeteria at 1 pm. See ya.
Ike Frietag is wearing a blue oxford shirt, no tie, dark chinos and running shoes. He is in his early forties, a fact betrayed only by the flecks of grey hair by his temples. He is trim, clean-shaven, and exactly where he told Artie he would be. (Shown circa 1961)
They greet each other and immediately get to a first-name basis. They make small talk on the way through the cafeteria line. Frietag recommends the Philly cheese steak, then takes a taco salad for himself. Small talk in Boston usually involves the Red Sox. The question is never if they will break our hearts, but how. What fiendishly original way will they come up with to give us hope, then take it away?
At the table, Frietag takes a bite of his salad and then comes up with the requisite “So you’re interested in Sandy Beach? I know this will strike you as unusual, but may I see some identification?”
“The last time I was asked was at the Quincy landfill, but at least they had a valid reason,” says Artie who reaches to get his billfold and lets Frietag see his California driver’s license.
“I need to be sure who I’m talking to,” says Frietag, handing it back, “because, you see, I want to know about Sandy Beach, too.”
I came here four years ago from Reuters news service where I was managing editor of the sports department. Big promotion for me. Like most of the people in the department, I’m most interested in the team sports – Red Sox, Patriots, Broons, Celtics. My job is to keep things running smoothly and to continually try to upgrade the accuracy of the reporting and the quality of the writing.
Fishing is of no personal interest to me, but it has an audience so it gets space in my section. Like a lot of the specialized subjects we deal with, we work with free-lancers and pay on a per word basis. I had been here two years, and I found myself reading Beach’s Think Like a Fish column regularly. Suddenly it struck me. I’ve never ok’d a payment to Sandy Beach.
I around the newsroom, and as you might I expect, I find a secretary who has been at the Globe since whenever and who knows a lot more about my department than I do. Apparently there was a Sandy Beach who wrote a fishing column for us back in the 1960s. The guy died and someone came up with the idea of continuing the column under his name, which was a pseudonym anyway. We also had the little charicature of Beach that we use as kind of a logo.
The column fumbled along continued this way until in the early 1980s a reader began sending in area fishing reports, notes, and commentary, all professionally prepared and fully copy-ready. Their reports were much better than our own, which inevitably were generated by the lowest-ranking intern in the newsroom. This person obviously knew the harbor like the back of his hand. The material arrives–still does– always meeting deadline, in a plain envelope with no return address. The writer asks for no payment and provides no contact information. It was against all of the Globe’s journalistic principles to use unsolicited, unfact-checked, and unattributable material, but it was also against all principles of human nature to look such a gift horse in the mouth.
A few years ago , Beach starts sending in edgier material relating to the deteriorating water quality in Boston Harbor. The writing was quite good, very impassioned, and generated a very favorable reader response. Luckily, politicians read the sports pages and Beach’s message was heard.
Of course, it’s also against my personal journalistic integrity to accept such material without attribution, but the stuff is better than anything I can get from a staffer, and whenever I’ve fact-checked it, it’s been airtight. I’ve tweaked the presentation slightly, and Beach’s material has evolved into his “Think Like a Fish” column. It’s been a sports page fixture, and a popular one, ever since. But who is Sandy Beach? To coin a phrase, I’m letting that sleeping dog lie. It doesn’t affect budget, it doesn’t cause problems, and I even get the credit. I hope that’s not a situation you’re looking to change.
Artie smiled, “My interest is 100% personal, and to use my own cliche, ‘If it ain’t broke …”
Frietag takes the offered hand, “… why fuck with it?”
Back at the cottage, Artie debriefs Shea:
At first the material was mailed in a plain envelope with no return address. Then, for a few years it came via public fax, and now it comes via email from sandybeach@hotmail.com . I don’t know who this guy is, where he lives, or how he gets his information, only he does a good job.
Shea is nursing a glass of red wine. “It’s comforting to know there are still a few unsolved mysteries to life.”
“I’ll drink to that,” says Artie, raising his beer. “And if you’ve been keeping current with ‘Think Like a Fish’ you might have noticed that there is big fish named Esterina heading this way.”
When Artie checks his messages, there is one from Elaine. Sony Pictures has announced that they are putting My Mother, My Lover… back into theatrical release, opening on 1200 screens nationally. According to the trades, this is to signal the Academy of Motion Pictures that they think the picture deserves serious consideration for an Oscar. Universal has jumped in on the bidding for the sequel, and has jumped the bid to ten million plus two points of gross. Gross, for chrissakes, Arthur, gross, bleats Elaine. Artie calls he back to say he still hasn’t made up his mind, but he feels himself getting closer.
ANd bEcAUse we cAN!
Sandy Beach’s Fishing Forecast for September
It’s the time of year to keep your eye on the advance. What happening to day off the coast of Africa might be affecting your ability to think like a fish next week.
There’s the good news and the bad news. The cooler water can energize the bass and perk up their appetites. Time to fatten up for the journey south. There’s far less traffic on the water, and fewer idiots roaring around on jet skies. The smelt come in, and sometimes you can have fun taking a break from bass if you encounter a school of smelt. It can be fun to watch them scatter from a big, scary fly. The bigger fish seem to linger a bit longer, meaning your solitude can be shattered at any moment by a boisterous bull of a bass.
But the colder water means the wading becomes progressively less comfortable. You can compensate by wearing more layers of clothing, but that carries its own set of risks, especially if you take a header.
Even when it’s warm and sunny, there’s a tinge of sadness just knowing that the fish are leaving. It’s not unlike the feeling of going back to school after Labor Day. It’s just a transition, but transitions aren’t things that fisherfolk handle well.
Watch the moon. Fish the strongest tides, especially when they happen at daybreak and dusk. As the days grow shorter, so will chances of catching The Big One. That’s really bad news.
-Sandy Beach, from The Boston Globe
Labor Day
Labor Day came early, September 2. As a young boy, when Indian Mound was still a colony of cottages, this was both Artie’s favorite and least favorite day of the year. In the morning there would be a ceremonial raising of the flag by the water- front. Some old person would rattle a drum, or for a few years. Cuzzin blatted a trumpet. Then, while the adults sipped coffee and munched on coffee cake, the kids engaged in feats of prowess and dominance-foot races, three-legged races, egg tosses, sack races. Artie took these very seriously and always came away with his share of prizes, but so did everyone else, he eventually realized. For a few hours it was like the Fourth of July all over again, but whereas on the Fourth the celebration continued as if summer would never end with water races, a costume parade, a potluck dinner, and even dancing on the waterfront, on Labor Day the festivities ended abruptly. Moms were in a fit of packing. Dads were boarding up cottages that were filled with light and life just a day before. People said their good-byes.
Until next year.
But then came the road, and the cars, and the pavement, and adolescence, and the assassination of JFK, and Vietnam. Even worse kids started going back to school before Labor Day!
In future years, no matter where he was, L.A. or on a set somewhere, Artie always tracked Labor Day, and it always made him feel the same, and he could never quite explain the feelings. Each year he died a little on Labor Day, but it was such a pleasant death.
Tracking shot. The people leaving Indian Mound, as seen from behind. The super hero-a young, seemingly average-looking boy-uses his powers to accelerate the rotation of the earth so that fall, winter, and spring are condense into a nano-second, and it’s the dawn of summer again.
“Pretty fucking lame,” Artie says to himself. “Why did they wreck the world, all in the name of progress?”
This is the first year he has stayed at the cottage in September. The first two weeks are sheer delight. It’s quiet. Things have settled in for a different season. Liam has returned from L.A. and is back at Berklee. He has already announced that he will be going back to L.A. when he finishes the semester in January. He and Mieko are starting a band. Elaine has come out again from the Coast, ostensibly to talk with Artie about the stalled negotiation. This time she stays with Cuzzin who is blue with the non-status of his restaurant.
Artie and Shea are sleeping together every night. In August they are exclusively in the cottage. As September progresses they migrate to Shea’s.
Estherina
The hurricane season runs officially from June 1 to November 30. No one pays much attention until after Labor Day. Estherina is the fifth hurricane of the season. It forms as a tropical depression off the west coast of Africa, gathers strength across the Horse Latitudes, socks the hell out of Bermuda, then spends a couple of days idling before making a leisurely bee line for Indian Mound. With top winds of 255 kilometers per hour, it’s hard to think of any aspect of the storm as “leisurely,” but it moves at the pace of a fast walk or a slow trot (you can’t have it both ways) up the Gulf Stream.
The residents of eastern Massachusetts have ample warning. When Artie goes to The Depot, he finds Atherton, his favorite Department Manager out straight, connecting people with duct tape, plywood, generators, gas cans, chain saws, flashlights, water containers, and batteries. There’s a sense of excitement and pur- pose in the air, just as there is when the Red Sox are still in the pennant race.
“You going to board up your cottage?” he asks Artie.
“Naw. The place has lasted through a hundred years of hurricanes. If its time has come, its time has come.”
“But this is a Category Five hurricane! This is a monster. Andrew caused $30 billion in damage back in 1992. Mitch killed 10,000 in the Caribbean. Neither of them were Category 5s.”
“How much of that $30 billion ended up flowing into the registers at The Depot?” asks Artie.
“A lot. We have special merchandise selections for this time of year. Look at all these people. It’s a feeding frenzy.”
“Well, I just need you to feed me some duct tape.”
“No kidding, Mr. Gordon, you’re not planning to stay at the cottage through this storm?” At the note of concern in Atherton’s voice, Artie pauses. This kid has seen him through gardening, painting, and every botched project in between. Now, he’s concerned about his safety. Artie is suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude, nostalgia, and affection.
“Yes, I am,” he changes tone. “I didn’t do all this work just to see the cottage get blown away. And if it does, I want to go with it. Atherton, I want to thank you for all your help these past months, all your answers to my stupid questions. I really do have a friend at The Depot.”
“I dunno. You don’t want to take any chances with Estherina. She’s a Category Five, and they’re saying she’s going to hit at high tide and during the full moon.”
“It’s still nearly a week away. They can’t predict these things that accurately. I do appreciate your concern, really. I’ll be all right.”
“Hey, I finally saw your movie.”
“Didja like it?”
“Not really. Didn’t have enough action or sex.”
The residents of Pissiwagassett tape their windows with masking tape, and pull the few remaining boats from the Bay, but no one evacuates. Five days have passed since Artie’s trip to The Depot and Estherina has evolved from legend to real. Now, the storm is predicted to hit at mid-day and at low tide, meaning that flooding will probably not be serious. Everyone draws extra water and readies the candles and food, but the overall attitude is now drama and anticipation, not fear and horror.
Shea lobbies for them to be together at her house, but when he repeats his determination to stay at the cottage, she agrees to join him.
Estherina does not disappoint. She sweeps in by mid-morning with a blast of tropical air and horizontal rain. Artie, Shea, and several others go to the beach to experience the awesome power first hand, but a falling branch reminds them that Mother Nature neither provides entertainment nor plays games. Everyone scurries back to protection.
“Protection” is perhaps an overstatement of what the cottage provides. “Veneer” is a more apt word. The wooden frame groans during the gusts. The chaos outside is barely kept at bay. By ten a.m. the power has been lost. Even Artie’s cell phone is mercifully inoperative.
“Want to fool around?” says Shea.
“I’m astounded by the way your mind works,” says Artie. “If you knew what’s really on my mind, you’d really be astounded.”
“I’m sure I will find out soon enough.”
Shea removes her t-shirt with a flourish. She is wearing no bra. Artie takes her in visually and, in the true spirit of American manhood, says simply “ok.”
They are standing in the middle of the living room of the cottage. She embraces him and they kiss passionately. Under other circumstances they might have been sensitive to the prospect of a neighbor seeing in or dropping by, but enveloped in the womb of Estherina, they feel safe.
Shea slides down Artie’s body, tugging on his belt, then pulling his trousers and underwear down to his ankles. Quickly, she goes to one knee, then two, taking his penis into her mouth and sucking on him until his entire brain has descended. Then, she pulls back, keeping a strong hand on his manhood.
“Jesus,” murmurs Artie, returning briefly to the planet. “This is what you had in mind?”
“Even better,” she says, staring directly into the eye of his penis, then running her tongue along the bottom of his shaft. “Now, I’m going to feed you grapes.” Abruptly she stands, releases his penis, and walks into the kitchen.
“Am I supposed to stand here?” asks Artie, suddenly feeling slightly foolish.
“Meet me at the couch, she says, returning with a bunch of grapes. She pushes aside the small coffee table in front of the couch, and removes her clothes and underpants in a single motion. “And why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” She goes to Artie, takes his penis gently in her hand, and pulls him toward the couch. With his ankles shackled by his trousers, however, Artie can manage only baby steps.
“Do you want me to lie with my head in your lap?”
“Actually, I’m going to make you work a little harder for these grapes.” Shea sits on the couch and draws her knees up to her chest. She pucks a single bright green grape from the bunch, puts it briefly in her mouth, then pulls it out with a thumb and forefinger and inserts it in her vagina.
“You washed these, I hope,” she says.
“Oh yeah,” says Artie. “Plus, they’re organic.”
“OK, then, ‘Mangia!’” she says.
“Why are we doing this?” asks Artie, standing before her, staring into her crotch.
“Because it feels good. Because it’s fun. Because we’r adults, because we’re alone, and because we can,” she responds. Artie falls to his knees and begins to probe her with his tongue. Shea begins soft murmurs of pleasure.
“Got it!” says Artie, softly, but with enthusiasm.
She holds up her bunch of grapes, places another one in her mouth, and says “One down and about a hundred to go.”
After the fifth grape, Shea pulls Artie up gently into her horizon. “Now, Arthur, I want you to bone me good.”
Artie does as he is told, thrusting himself into her. She urges him on with a crescendo of pants that climaxes in an almost blood-curdling orgasm for her. But for the roar and chaos of Estherina are Shea’s moans and release as silent as the tree falling in the forest.
Artie, who has been exerting copious amounts of energy, withdraws and kneels with his head resting on her stomach. “You’re not giving up, are you?” asks Shea.
“Yeah, it’s just the eye of the storm,” he says, still gulping breaths.
“That was quite a performance and the best orgasm of my life,” she says. “Don’t you deserve the same?”
“It’s really not necessary.”
“Of course it is. I insist.”
“You can’t insist that I cum off.”
“No, but I can make myself irresistible.” Shea pushes Artie’s head down towards her groin and clasps him to her pelvis. “You can’t resist those pheromones,” she says with a playful tone. “It’s just like with those horseshoe crabs. You poor, dumb males don’t stand a chance.”
Shea pushes Artie away and turns over, leaning her forearms on the back of the sofa and wiggling her behind seductively. She speaks in a pouty little voice designed to provoke:
“Oooo, is de big bull striper going to spread his milt over de wittle girl striper?”
“I’ve never seen this side of you. You really are kind of a slut.”
“What if de wittle girl striper wiggles her wittle tail, kind of like this. Now is de big bull striper going to squirt his milt? Or is de big bull striper going to let de wittle girl striper swim away so that some other big bull striper can spread his milt over her.”
Artie grabs her firmly by the hips and enters her. He speaks to no one in particular in single words that escape between clenched teeth. “No . . . big, bull striper . . . gonna do the mandatory . . . gonna do whatever . . . gonna do you . . . BecauSe I Am the kINg . . . thE KINGdoM . . . THe PoweR . . . THE glORY . . . beCAuse IT fEEls goOD . . . BeCaUsE it’s FuN . . . beCUZ wE’Re ADuLTs . . . ANd bEcAUse we cAN!.”
As he climaxes, spilling himself into her, he sees his own reflection in the glass of a framed picture of a whaling scene.
He sees a middle-aged man, with a slight potbelly, thinning grey hair that sprouts randomly around his body, now shouting incoherently while clutching ferociously to the hips of a woman who would not, could not, will not, cannot be denied. As his ejaculation ends, the couple becomes still, quietly remembering that they are in the midst of Hurricane Estherina.
“Good job, Captain,” says Shea, turning over and holding out her arms.
Artie falls into them gently, willingly. He is slightly surprised to hear himself saying “I love you.”
Outside, Estherina tries to pry the roof off the cottage. She’s a very angry woman.