The Writer's Life 5/30 - Risk

There is interesting news on the financial side of pro sports. According to sources, the Stanley Cup finalists, the New Jersey Devils and Los Angeles Kings, are both up for sale, although ownership and the league deny that is the case with the latter. On his PBS talk show, Charlie Rose once remarked that the most common regret of successful businessmen was ownership of a sports franchise, which seems to require persons more interested in publicity than profit. The Devils have been on the brink of ruin for a while now. Their deep run in the playoffs will wipe out losses for this season, but future financial prospects remain bleak. Lou Lamoriello is one of the greatest General Managers in the history of sports, keeping the team competitive despite a limited fan base and paltry revenue. The Devils are vying for their fourth Stanley Cup, astonishing given the circumstances. Way to go, goombah.

Red Sox pitching hero Curt Schilling, he of the famed bloody sock, stands to lose the 50 million he earned playing baseball. A venture on which he gambled, 38 Studios, has been a bust. I feel bad for him, but any help should come only from the private sector. He took the risk, he must suffer the consequences. Same for all who invested in Facebook, including me. No one twisted anyone's arm to buy. The whiners are pathetic. Worse are those gloating about the fall of the stock. It reminds me of how wonderful a Yankees losing streak is to me. Stocks can and will go down - who knew?

Old Smoky visited the floating book shop. He was down in the dumps, feeling persecuted by the human race. He brought along a comforter - a flask of whiskey. When he parked his butt on the ledge of the fence that surrounds the garden where I set up, I feared I was in for another two-hour visit that would scare away customers. He soon suffered a prolonged coughing fit that had passersby edging away. I was relieved the wind was blowing the other way. Whenever he suffers such a bout, one thing crosses my mind: TB. Fortunately, one of his confederates happened by and they soon departed. Of course, I had to shout at him to retrieve the flask, which he'd left behind.

Big Al, local beat poet, is confident the Haiku poetry he has posted on the web will one day attract a publisher. He dubs it Loveku. I thank him and Mr. Almost/Mikhail for their purchases on a day of dull business. There was some action, though. Nine police cars, three unmarked, converged on East 13th. Two turned away when it was obvious they weren't needed. An officer had chased a young man from the train station a couple of blocks away into an apartment building. The perp was led away in cuffs. When a woman who spoke only Russian asked what had happened, I pantomimed as if I were in handcuffs and raised an index finger to signify one offender. She smiled and nodded in understanding.

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