Wednesday, September 24, 2003
I always thought the Irish and Italian didn't like each other much. At least that's what my eighty-three-year-old Italian uncle from Brooklyn used to say. Back in the thirties you wouldn't have dared step onto the wrong street corner in Brooklyn or have risked getting the holy Jesus kicked out of you, he used to tell me. I've heard similar stories about the Boston area from my days of doing city tours for German-speaking tourists.
But there they all were. The Mc's, O's, and the -ancy's along side the -liano's, -ezo's, and -ardi's. Indeed every local name I've come to know my first nine months here as my Rep's aide at the State House was there. This translates into about one hundred and fifty or so of the city's power brokers guffawing on the city golf course for my boss's annual fundraiser event in memory of his father yesterday.
Here is the story, according to Anna, of how the 'Mc's' and the '-iano's' came happily to the same event: Tucked away and out of reach from what my aesthetically sensitive eyes would call a third-world-skid row, is a hidden jewel. Others might say the hidden jewel is simply tucked away in your typical New England working class town of gnarled, pot-holed roads, past-their-prime colonials, and a hodge-podge of automotive garages, liquor stores, and apartment buildings in between. This hidden jewel of which I speak is a public golf course that many a private one might wish they looked like. From the 6th hole, one has a sweeping view of downtown Boston while the rest of the course is a verdant green that meanders through woods of acorn, birch, and oak. How this public golf course manages to remain so well kempt given the current fiscal crisis I can only speculate.
The Mc's and the -iano's who came to golf yesterday are hard-working, family men who have pulled themselves up a notch from their working class roots and who now own successful businesses, and/or are in politics, and/or are lobbyists (well maybe the lobbyists aren't so hard working). But they remain very close and connected to their roots -- and boy do they have the salty Boston-area accents to prove it. Most but not all looked to be in their mid-fifties and most requested XX-Large-sized vests as part of the golf tournament package to which they had sent at least a $200 check to play. These are also generous guys; during the day they bought raffle tickets freely in the name of a good cause.
Throughout the month of September and into October, there are dozens of such golf tournaments. Seems like sort of a lot of wasted paper to me (at least from a check-writing perspective) given that each participant is just attending each other's event, if you will, and ultimately writing out a check for approximately the same amount to each event. But obviously the social aspect is what is important here. Swirls of cigar smoke trail each little electric golf cart as it strains to tote twelve hundred Italian and Irish pounds to the next hole. Six hours later these guys have had plenty of quality time to network, or perhaps, I thought, as I drove back through this money-deprived town, to reinforce the associations meant to make sure that the ever-growing influx of new immigrants -- the Latinos and Russian, not find out where their beautiful golf club is. For now they are safe. The Latinos and Russians are too busy knifing each other up on the street corners as they fight to become the next heir apparent.
But there they all were. The Mc's, O's, and the -ancy's along side the -liano's, -ezo's, and -ardi's. Indeed every local name I've come to know my first nine months here as my Rep's aide at the State House was there. This translates into about one hundred and fifty or so of the city's power brokers guffawing on the city golf course for my boss's annual fundraiser event in memory of his father yesterday.
Here is the story, according to Anna, of how the 'Mc's' and the '-iano's' came happily to the same event: Tucked away and out of reach from what my aesthetically sensitive eyes would call a third-world-skid row, is a hidden jewel. Others might say the hidden jewel is simply tucked away in your typical New England working class town of gnarled, pot-holed roads, past-their-prime colonials, and a hodge-podge of automotive garages, liquor stores, and apartment buildings in between. This hidden jewel of which I speak is a public golf course that many a private one might wish they looked like. From the 6th hole, one has a sweeping view of downtown Boston while the rest of the course is a verdant green that meanders through woods of acorn, birch, and oak. How this public golf course manages to remain so well kempt given the current fiscal crisis I can only speculate.
The Mc's and the -iano's who came to golf yesterday are hard-working, family men who have pulled themselves up a notch from their working class roots and who now own successful businesses, and/or are in politics, and/or are lobbyists (well maybe the lobbyists aren't so hard working). But they remain very close and connected to their roots -- and boy do they have the salty Boston-area accents to prove it. Most but not all looked to be in their mid-fifties and most requested XX-Large-sized vests as part of the golf tournament package to which they had sent at least a $200 check to play. These are also generous guys; during the day they bought raffle tickets freely in the name of a good cause.
Throughout the month of September and into October, there are dozens of such golf tournaments. Seems like sort of a lot of wasted paper to me (at least from a check-writing perspective) given that each participant is just attending each other's event, if you will, and ultimately writing out a check for approximately the same amount to each event. But obviously the social aspect is what is important here. Swirls of cigar smoke trail each little electric golf cart as it strains to tote twelve hundred Italian and Irish pounds to the next hole. Six hours later these guys have had plenty of quality time to network, or perhaps, I thought, as I drove back through this money-deprived town, to reinforce the associations meant to make sure that the ever-growing influx of new immigrants -- the Latinos and Russian, not find out where their beautiful golf club is. For now they are safe. The Latinos and Russians are too busy knifing each other up on the street corners as they fight to become the next heir apparent.
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