And don't forget John Lowenstein

Whoa, check it out! It's a weekend edition of the long-lost Random Lists of Five . .


The five leading rushers on the record-setting 1978 Patriots:
1. Sam Bam Cunningham: 199 carries, 768 yards, 3.9 average, 8 TDs
2. Andy Johnson: 147-675-4.6-3
3. Horace Ivory: 141-693-4.9-11
4. Steve Grogan: 81-539-6.7-5
5. Don Calhoun: 76-391-5.1-1

Five receivers chosen in the second round by the Patriots.
1. Bethel Johnson, '03 (fast and clueless)
2. Tony Simmons, '99 (fast and clueless)
3. Kevin Lee, '94 (busted his jaw in preseason and is still on IR as far as I know.)
4. Deion Branch, '02 (fast, smart, fearless, clutch . . . and rich.)
5. Chad Jackson, '06 (fast and clueless so far . . . but there's hope)


Five players drafted ahead of Kalamazoo's own Derek Jeter and his barely pubescent intangibles in the 1992 MLB draft. (Cap'n' Jetes went sixth, to Team Beelzebub.)
1. Phil Nevin, 3b, Houston Astros (Astros scout Hal Newhouser quit after his pleas to pick Jeter were ignored)
2. Paul Shuey, RHP, Cleveland Indians (whatever happened to him, anyway?)
3. B.J. Wallace, LHP, Montreal Expos (never made the majors)
4. Jeffrey Hammonds, OF, Baltimore Orioles (Charismatic underachiever, he was compared to Rickey Henderson while at Stanford. Turned out he wasn't even Steve Henderson)
5. Chad Mottola, OF, Cincinnati Reds (Quadruple-A lifer who had a cup of coffee with the Jays this season at age 34.)

Five best episodes of The Office:
1. Casino Night (Watch it again. There is not a wasted word or moment in the seamless, Steve Carell-penned script. I dream of writing something that good someday. Once.)
2. Booze Cruise (Krasinski deserved an Emmy nod alone for his performance during the famous deck scene that featured 30-something seconds of silence.)
3. Diversity Day
4. Boys and Girls (You know how we feel about Jenna Fischer - Hi there! Meow! - but even someone who doesn't find her as lovely as TATB does must admit that she never fails to capture Pam's anguish/vulnerability with subtle brilliance.)
5. The Merger (Best line of many: "Wow, you're exotic-looking. Was your dad a G.I.?" Also: "Hi, I'm Jim." Perfectly in character for the situation.)

Five Maine Guides only me and Steve Buckley have heard of:
1. Steve Marsden
2. Doug Simunic
3. George Cecchetti
4. Barry Brunenkant
5. Wil Culmer (the original Pedro Cerrano)


Five wild 'n' crazy characters on the otherwise forgettable 1975 Cleveland Indians:
1. Oscar Gamble and his kick-ass 'Fro
2. The Eck
3. Boog Powell
4. Blue Moon Odom
5. Gaylord Perry

Five favorite sports talk radio shows (in no particular order):
1. The V Show, late-night weekends, ESPN (Bob Valvano is affable and reasonable)
2. Mike Felger Show, ESPN 890, Boston (Felger makes fun of himself enough to make up for the Corey Dillon-is-mean-to-me melodrama; a hell of an alternative to the Big Blow on 'EEI)
*3. The Home Team, WGAM 900, Nashua, N.H.
*4. The Shootaround, WZON 620, Bangor, Me.
*5. The Sports Zone, WTPL 107.7, Concord, N.H.
* - Blatantly sucking up because TATB is/has been a regular guest. And we're always looking for more . . .

Five best NFL teams I've ever seen:
1. 1994 San Francisco 49ers (So ridiculously stacked, Ed McCaffrey and Wesley Walls were scrubs.)
2. 1985 Chicago Bears (Lose points here for stiffing Payton in the Super Bowl.)
3. 1992 Dallas Cowboys (Back when Emmitt could really dance.)
4. 1978 Pittsburgh Steelers
5. 2004 New England Patriots (Will history give them their due?)

Five best NBA teams I've ever seen:
1. 1985-86 Boston Celtics (Walton hitting Bird on a backdoor cut. Basketball poetry.)
2. 1986-87 L.A. Lakers (Magic's best all-around season, and Worthy and Byron Scott were in their prime.)
3. 1982-83 Philadelphia 76ers (If you never saw Andrew Toney before he got hurt, you missed out.)
4. 1984-85 L.A. Lakers. (Gotta give 'em credit for getting over the hump and taking the Celtics out in 6.)
5. 1995-96 Chicago Bulls (72 wins? Ah, I say the '86 Celts beat 'em in 5.)

Five defensive backs Belichick and Pioli were brutally wrong about:
1. Brock Williams (waste of a third-rounder in '01)
2. Dexter Reid
3. Guss Scott (though injuries have robbed him of a legitimate chance)
4. Antonio Langham (God, was he terrible)
5. Tommy Knight (a first-round pick of the Cardinals in the '90s . . . in other words, he had no chance.)

Five players the Sox should pursue instead of Lugo and Drew:
1. Eric Gagne (isn't anyone going to close next year?)
2. Dave Dellucci (ideal 350-at bat stick off the bench)
3. Mark Teixeira (among all the Manny rumors, this is the most intriguing)
4. Brad Lidge (but not as a closer - he's too jittery post-Pujols - and certainly not in a deal for Manny)
5. Some anonymous middle reliever who will work cheap and deliver a sub-3.50 ERA. (Ah, those guys don't exist, do they?)

Five coolest members of Phi Slamma Jamma:
1. Benny Anders (he's the Jheri-curled flash who misses a steal by thismuch right before Lorenzo Charles's famous dunk, and one of basketball's all-time enigmas. )
2. Larry "Mr. Mean" Micheaux
3. Akeem Olajuwon (pre-H)
4. Michael Young (Celtics first-rounder who was beaten out as a rookie by Rick Carlisle)
5. Alvin Franklin (much was made about the revelation that he didn't know where the library was on the Houston campus. Not sure that would be news nowadays.)


Five favorite Bruins (and remember, we're too young for Orr):
1. Cam Neely (the ideal Bruin and a better man whose lasting legacy has nothing to do with hockey)
2. Terry O'Reilly (he shoulda been from Southie)
3. Stan Jonathan (all-time favorite goon, though John Wensink is a close second)
4. Adam Oates (there's always room for a natural passer on our team)
5. Bob Beers (Mighty UMaine's own, and let's just say he had the reputation of living up to his last name)

Where have you gone, Tom Newell?

(Article originally published in Down East magazine, April, 2002.)

They're a forgotten footnote in Maine's sporting history now, but a decade before the Portland Sea Dogs captured the hearts, imaginations and wallets of local baseball fans, there was minor-league baseball in our state. The team was called the Maine Guides, and I considered them mine.

The Guides were a Triple-A-level ballclub, a ladder-step higher than the Sea Dogs and just a lucky break from the major leagues. Their home, called The Ballpark, was as clean and simple as its name. Just a five-minute walk from my family's summer home in Old Orchard Beach, it was where I happily lounged away those breezy summer days before pictures of girls replaced ballplayers on my walls.

The Guides arrived in 1984 to much anticipation. They drew 6,144 for their inaugural home game, in 38-degree temperatures. The team won, and won some more. A writer from Sports Illustrated came to town and wrote a fawning four-page spread. One player said he enjoyed Old Orchard so much, getting summoned to the majors felt like a demotion. Even the helicopter-sized mosquitoes, the logical result of the illogical decision to build the park in a forest near the ocean, were part of the charm.

The Guides' owner, Jordan Kobritz, didn't believe in promotions and mascots and loud, endless distractions. He believed the game was the draw. For a time, it was. But the Guides preceded the baseball nostalgia boom, and eventually, without any marketing, the magic died. The team bolted town in 1988 for Scranton/Wilkes-Barre, Pa., leaving a trail of debt in its wake. In the franchise's final innings, the ballplayers outnumbered fans, and the mosquitoes went hungry.

But in between the glorious beginning and ignominious end, I spent some of my fondest days attending their games. For the first three years of their existence, players were provided by the Cleveland Indians, an organization whose haplessness inspired the comedic movie Major League. (Players were later provided by the more capable Philadelphia Phillies.) Although I obeyed my obligation to root, root, root for the home team, I was aware that most of the guys who would make a comfortable living in the sport were in the opposing dugout.

I learned this at my first game. The Guides lost to the Toledo Mud Hens by something like a 17-1 score. Of all the Mud Hens who circled the bases that day, it was a rotund, shiny-scalped outfielder with an easy smile who caught my eye. I asked my dad, holding the game program, for the player's name.

"Kirby Puckett," he said, adding indifferently, "A guy built like that will never make it."

A week later, Puckett was gone, up to the big leagues and the Minnesota Twins. I doubt he's been back to Toledo or Old Orchard since, but he did make it to Cooperstown this summer. Kirby Puckett is a Hall of Famer. My dad still is not a scout.

Usually, my partners in attendance and crime were my cousins Kris and Tom, who visited each summer from Illinois. Armed with our Sharpie pens and a stack of baseball cards, our pregame ritual consisted of leaning over the railing and hollering, "HEY, CAN WE HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH, MISTER?" at anyone who happened to be in uniform. I remember my excitement the time I secured the signature of Barney Nugent. I also remember my disappointment when I discovered the only Barney Nugent listed on the Guides roster was the trainer. I suppose the belly lapping over his belt should have been a clue he wasn't some gifted young slugger.

One time, we met a big bellied guy who did turn out to be a pretty good ballplayer. We had seen this mammoth man play before, so we knew his name . . . or at least thought we did. "SEE-cil! SEE-cil," we yelled and pleaded in unison, waving our cards and pens. SEE-cil turned and glowered our way. The thought of fleeing seemed reasonable. "My name is Cecil (SESS-il)," he said, his glare quickly turning into a Bet-I-scared-ya-didn't-I? smile. He signed our cards. A few years later, a larger-than-life Cecil Fielder hit 51 home runs for the Tigers. I imagine kids who nagged him for autographs that summer pronounced his name right.

The players we saw pass through in visiting uniforms could stock an All-Star roster for this generation. Dwight Gooden, on his first comeback from drug abuse. David Justice and David Wells. Tom Glavine and John Smoltz. Fred McGriff and Jay Buhner. But for every Puckett or Fielder, there were dozens of Greg Leggs and Junior Noboas, Pichy DeLeons and Alan LeBoeufs - oddly unforgettable names with utterly forgettable careers.

And then there was Tom Newell.

Tom Newell is without exception my favorite baseball player of all time. My cousins and I got his autograph so many times that he knew us by sight if not by name. "It's you guys again?" he'd say, then shake his head, smile and sign whatever we were waving at him that day. Tom Newell looked like a ballplayer, tall, trim and tan. He acted like every fan's friend.
I rooted desperately for Tom Newell to make the major leagues, and he did, with the Phillies at the tail end of the '87 season. I'll forever recall seeing him at The Ballpark the day in September he learned he'd be going to the majors.

"So you got the call," I said. He looked up from signing his name. "Yep. Flying to Philly after the game. It's my dream come true," he said, his grin the truest confirmation.

His dream came true only for a moment. The next spring, he blew out his rotator cuff, the kiss of death for a pitcher. He bounced around the minors for a number of years, never quite regaining his health or his fastball. Tom Newell never again wore a big-league uniform.

I last heard of him too many years ago, when I read in the back pages of Baseball Weekly that he had been released by the Double-A Albany-Colonie Yankees. Listed were his career major-league statistics: Two games. One inning. Four runs allowed. Earned-run average: 36.00. It was his baseball obituary.

While old ballplayers are laid to rest in the agate type, old ballparks die a more protracted death. During a recent visit to my family's home, I stopped by to check up on an old friend. It was a melancholy experience. The Ballpark is abandoned now, surrounded by a chain-link fence to discourage would-be intruders. Peeking in, I could see the crumbling press box, the sunken clubhouse roof, the outfield fence full of holes. The field desperately needed a mowing. So did the parking lot. I saw some ghosts - hey, down by the bullpen – that’s where I caught my only foul ball - but mostly I saw neglect.

While there were few signs that the Guides ever existed, their indirect descendants in Portland are going strong. I know this firsthand; I attend a scorebook's worth of Sea Dogs games a summer. But of course it's not the same. I'm older now, and I understand that the game is not enough; it needs the marriage with marketing to thrive, to survive. So in that case, the Sea Dogs will be around awhile, I am certain.

Sometimes, though, while watching the frenzied fans feed French fries containers to the "Trash Monster" or cringe as they wail along with Slugger the Sea Dog on another tinny version of "YMCA," I catch myself wondering where they all were when my Guides needed them.

And sometimes, I wonder if any of those fans ever heard of Tom Newell.

Or for that matter, Barney Nugent.





(Special thanks to Brian Merzbach at ballparkreviews.com for use of the photos.)