Merry Christmas - Lennon

(Warning: Very strong content and some disturbing, violent images are in this video)

BOSTON, December 25, 2013 -- I wish everyone a very, Merry Christmas as I share this shocking, rather gruesome, but poignant video clip. Today, on this important day marking such an important day in world history, I ask a simple question:

Will the WAR ever, truly, be over?

A Special Message: Brought to You by my Friend Shelby with Love & Best Wishes for a Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays:

(For my Blog Entry on Christmas Eve over the past five years, I've alternated by posting memorable columns from a few of my all-time favorite writers. This column is, by far, my favorite column of all-time so read on, my friends, read on).

EACH CHRISTMAS DAY ALWAYS CONTAINS the PRESENT, FUTURE AND PAST FOR BOTH the YOUNG and OLD ...

By SHELBY STROTHER

TL's Favorite Book

It did not matter that the wind-chill was life threatening. It was Christmas morning, and a bright sun stabbed the frozen land. And children were playing.

The decision over which to play with - the official World Cup soccer ball or the Turbo Football - never materialized. With all the snow, a soccer match was out of the question. So spirals of pink and black performed in the most sincere imitations of Rodney Peete and Joe Montana floated back and forth in the yard.

What a nice sight.

The Annual Second Chance is near - it's called New Year's Eve. It is the window of opportunity where the hopes and fears of all the year (not to mention the mistakes) can be erased.

But Christmas Day is a time of reinforcement and the essence of tomorrow. And children playing with toys are the finest examples of what that tomorrow looks like.

I look out the window. I've been in that yard. All young boys have. Sports become such a part of childhood. Santa is aware of all of this, naturally.

This particular day is exquisite, I think to myself. I take personal inventory, not only of blessings and personal satisfaction, but of the presents of Christmas past. Still the kid, I suppose.

I got my first basketball when I was six. I made my first basket a year later. There was a tetherball set; I must have been eight. And a football helmet when I was ten. A Carl Furillo-model baseball mitt at eleven. There were tennis rackets and fishing poles and boxing gloves and shrimp nets and a Mickey Mantle 32-inch Little League bat and one time, even a badminton set.

Every Christmas, I'd play out my dreams and my mind would fly over the rainbow, imagining my propulsion. Of course, I would become a major-leaguer, an All-Star, an all-time great, a Hall of Famer. We all would. My vision extended well beyond the day.

My athletic ability, alas, never kept stride. It was not the worst realization I would ever make.

But I have noticed a direct correlation between Christmas gifts and sporting dreams. The dreams are for the young. So are the gifts. Usually, the two disappear in unison. The rare few who project into greatness discover they do not need imagination to make those lofty flights of fantasy. Hope is not the co-pilot. Expectation is.

It must be a wonderful view.

I was thinking about all of this when another memory nudged me. My 17th Christmas I got a typewriter.

It was about the same time that I'd maneuvered my fantasy a few extra miles. I'd received a baseball scholarship to pitch at a small school in Florida. There were other opportunities, other colleges available. But none that would allow my athletic vision to continue.

I had expected a Christmas of more games in the yard. More dreams to celebrate. I got a typewriter instead.

"What am I going to do with a typewriter?" I asked.

My mother said I'd need it for college. But she also said, "Sometimes you get too old to play games. But you never get too old that you can't use your imagination."

Sometimes Christmas is taken for granted. Almost always, in fact. I think Christmas music, and I hear bells. I turn on the radio and I hear someone named Elmo and Patsy lamenting their grandmother's head-on collision with a reindeer. I think of the meaning of Christmas, and I think of the most special birthday in the history of the world. But I turn on the TV and there are all these Claymation raisins doing Doo-Wop homages to the joys of buying machines wherein a microchip can seize command of entire generations.

Christmas (will soon) be gone, 364 days to go. But children still play. They chase the wonderful image of themselves as they would like to be seen. Christmas is their favorite arena. But they settle for lesser stadia.

But remember this - the present is sometimes confused with the package it comes wrapped in. Sometimes the gift is simply the freedom to imagine. There may be no greater one.

It was a great typewriter. I still play with it.

###

Notes: For those of you who did not know Shelby Strother, I pass these little tidbits along; He was a very good friend. I've lost a father, and an older brother. I've agonized and felt helpless as we've since watched close relatives and friends of the family pass away, but Shelby was the first friend in my life who went out, got cancer and died.

Shelby attended the 1991 NBA All-Star Game in Charlotte, NC. That Sunday night, he said that he didn't feel well and was going to bed early. That was about Feb. 10, 1991. The next month was a bad dream, each minute of every day for a solid month. Shelby died in the suburbs of Detroit on March 3, 1991, leaving his wife, Kim and two great little guys, Tommy and Kenny (the latter joined Shelby in heaven a few years back but that is a terrible fact of life to be told another day). Shelby grew up in the great State of Florida and loved it. I met him when he was a writer for the Denver Post. He went on to be a sports columnist for the Detroit News, but when big news was breaking and the News needed a writer, they sent Shelby. Berlin Wall coming down, off went Shelby. I could go on.

If you want a great Christmas present for a friend or yourself, type in to "Amazon" or "Google" the words "Saddlebags" and "Shelby" and "Strother" and see what comes up. Buy it. Saddlebags is where the story above was written. There are dozens of other great stories just like this one.

Christmas Cheer: Bird Understands the True Meaning of Christmas

My business colleague and good friend, John Caron, passed along a column by longtime Boston Herald scribe Joe Fitzgerald.  It was written for the December 21, 1997 edition of the Herald and John took the time to get the page blown up to "posterize" the words for all patrons of "West End Johnnie's" to see when they visit our establishment during the holidays.

Larry Bird (left) with Earvin "Magic" Johnson

It's been an amazing year for Johnnie's.  From the scary economic times and touch & go operation of 2008-09-10, we turned the corner and haven't looked back.  It's still not perfect, but Johnnie's is healthy and proud of the hard work that has brought the restaurant to the year 2012 with a promising future ahead.

My business partner(s) put in a lot of hard work and we've been thrilled with the wonderful atmosphere that the patrons of Johnnie's bring out in our joint.  No one has worked harder than John Caron and Dave Glucksman as they strive to make West End Johnnie's a destination for everyone in Boston who wants to have some great food, great drinks and meet some great people in Boston's West End, near TD Boston Garden.

So, here's a great column, recommended by John Caron and brought to you by his proud business partner and friend, The Blog (at) TerryLyons (dot) com

***

By Joe Fitzgerald, Dec. 21, 1997

Larry Bird, out of a Celtics uniform since 1992, left a ton of memories at this address, but none more poignant than a Christmas memory he shared with several hundred Boston schoolkids, repeated here this morning because, quite frankly, sports could use a dose of reality.

"What kills me about Christmas," he said, "is that while it's a time of excitement for some people, it's a time that makes other people sad, like kids who just can't have the things they see their friends getting. A lot of people - and I know people like this - can't wait for Christmas to be gone.

"You know how they say it was the Grinch who stole Christmas? It wasn't the Grinch at all. It was the rich people. They're the ones who've stolen it, buying everything they can for their kids and not worrying about other kids who are going to end up feeling left out. They've taken Christmas the wrong way.  I mean, it's suposed to be a time for letting people know how you feel about them, isn't it?

"That's why, next to family, the most important thing in my life today are the old friends I have back home, the guys I went to school with, the guys who look at me and don't see money, or the cars, or even the Celtics. They couldn't care less about all of that. They live in a different world, the world I came from, where old buddies are still buddies 'cuz they know what's important, and it sure ain't money.

"I look at my little brother today, and when I see him wanting Reeboks, or Champion shirts, it bothers me because kids don't realize fads and fashions aren't what determine how good you are, or how important you are.

"Whenever I'm out speaking to a bunch of kids, maybe doing a playground clinic, I always look for that one who stands off by himself, whose clothes don't look too good.  I'll go out of my way to make a big deal over him because I used to be that kid.

"We got mostly clothes at our house every Christmas, 'cuz that's what we needed.  I can remember my friends getting bicycles, and thinking how I'd buy the best bike in town if only I had the money.  But that just wasn't possible.  Still, my Mom did a good job.  Christmas was a big thing around our house. There was always a pile of five or six gifts for all of us; as soon as you opened one, you went right to the next one.  It was chaos, and even though we knew it wasn't going to be a lot, we appreciated how tough it was for our folks to get us what they did.

"So I'll tell you what we did one year. We knew there'd be no toys that year because the funds just weren't there. My older brother got the rest of us together and said, 'Let's do something special for Mom and Dad before we open our presents. Let's just tell 'em we love 'em and see how they react, OK? I'll do the speaking.'

"You've got to understand, 'love' wasn't a word we threw around much in our family, so just hearing it said that way was new to me.

"Anyway, we're all sitting around the tree and my brother stands up.  He says, 'Mom, dad, we want to say something to you tonight. We want to tell you we appreciate all you do for us, giving us things we know you had to work overtime to get. And, we just want to tell you we love you.

"Well, I'm sitting there thinking, 'Gee, that's a pretty strong statement,' when I saw tears coming from my mother's eyes - and my Dad, he just sat there so proud. You could tell it really hit a chord.

"So look, if you guys want to do something really special this Christmas, tell your parents you love 'em, OK? Tell 'em thanks for all their hard work.

"That's all I really came here to tell you.  Thanks for listening.  Good luck to every one of you, and Merry Christmas."

- L. Bird

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.  Check in on The Blog tomorrow for another special column - a Shelby Strother piece - that's become a bit of a tradition at this space each and every Christmas Day.

On the first day of Christmas

Four calling Birds?

One Bird a'calling?

On the first day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
A partridge in a pear tree.

On the second day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the third day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Twelve drummers drumming,
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree!

EACH CHRISTMAS DAY ALWAYS CONTAINS the PRESENT, FUTURE AND PAST FOR BOTH the YOUNG and OLD...

Just as I did back in 2007, here's a little Shelby for Christmas.
By SHELBY STROTHER

It did not matter that the wind-chill was life threatening. It was Christmas morning, and a bright sun stabbed the frozen land. And children were playing.



The decision over which to play with - the official World Cup soccer ball or the Turbo Football - never materialized. With all the snow, a soccer match was out of the question. So spirals of pink and black performed in the most sincere imitations of Rodney Peete and Joe Montana floated back and forth in the yard.

What a nice sight.

The Annual Second Chance is near - it's called New Year's Eve. It is the window of opportunity where the hopes and fears of all the year (not to mention the mistakes) can be erased.

But Christmas Day is a time of reinforcement and the essence of tomorrow. And children playing with toys are the finest examples of what that tomorrow looks like.

I look out the window. I've been in that yard. All young boys have. Sports become such a part of childhood. Santa is aware of all of this, naturally.

This particular day is exquisite, I think to myself. I take personal inventory, not only of blessings and personal satisfaction, but of the presents of Christmas past. Still the kid, I suppose.

I got my first basketball when I was six. I made my first basket a year later. There was a tetherball set; I must have been eight. And a football helmet when I was ten. A Carl Furillo-model baseball mitt at eleven. There were tennis rackets and fishing poles and boxing gloves and shrimp nets and a Mickey Mantle 32-inch Little League bat and one time, even a badminton set.

Every Christmas, I'd play out my dreams and my mind would fly over the rainbow, imagining my propulsion. Of course, I would become a major-leaguer, an All-Star, an all-time great, a Hall of Famer. We all would. My vision extended well beyond the day.

My athletic ability, alas, never kept stride. It was not the worst realization I would ever make.

But I have noticed a direct correlation between Christmas gifts and sporting dreams. The dreams are for the young. So are the gifts. Usually, the two disappear in unison. The rare few who project into greatness discover they do not need imagination to make those lofty flights of fantasy. Hope is not the co-pilot. Expectation is.

It must be a wonderful view.

I was thinking about all of this when another memory nudged me. My 17th Christmas I got a typewriter.

It was about the same time that I'd maneuvered my fantasy a few extra miles. I'd received a baseball scholarship to pitch at a small school in Florida. There were other opportunities, other colleges available. But none that would allow my athletic vision to continue.

I had expected a Christmas of more games in the yard. More dreams to celebrate. I got a typewriter instead.

"What am I going to do with a typewriter?" I asked.

My mother said I'd need it for college. But she also said, "Sometimes you get too old to play games. But you never get too old that you can't use your imagination."

Sometimes Christmas is taken for granted. Almost always, in fact. I think Christmas music, and I hear bells. I turn on the radio and I hear someone named Elmo and Patsy lamenting their grandmother's head-on collision with a reindeer. I think of the meaning of Christmas, and I think of the most special birthday in the history of the world. But I turn on the TV and there are all these Claymation raisins doing Doo-Wop homages to the joys of buying machines wherein a microchip can seize command of entire generations.

Christmas (will soon) be gone, 364 days to go. But children still play. They chase the wonderful image of themselves as they would like to be seen. Christmas is their favorite arena. But they settle for lesser stadia.

But remember this - the present is sometimes confused with the package it comes wrapped in. Sometimes the gift is simply the freedom to imagine. There may be no greater one.

It was a great typewriter. I still play with it.