Abuzz over Buster

He's just a rabbit. Poor little guy probably just wants to nibble on some lettuce, snooze in a pile of cedar shavings, and do all those other wild things that rabbits do.

Apparently "hanging out children who have lesbian parents" is one of them. And the Christian right has come out fighting, determined to keep the little varmint caged with children of traditional parental households and nobody else. What righteous and proper rabbit would dare to do otherwise?

It all started with the animated children's show Postcards from Buster, a spinoff from the popular Arthur kids series. In "Postcards", which airs on PBS, Buster visits with real-life kids and their families in different parts of the country while being exposed to their cultural heritage, ways of life, and local traditions. Recent airings have seen Buster learning everything from Mexican cooking to Tai Chi, from Native American drumming to Norwegian dance.

But in an episode not yet aired, the furry critter heads to Vermont to visit and learn about farming and maple sugaring. Two of the friends he meets happen to have lesbian parents, and both couples appear in the episode. And that's what raised the ire of Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings:

"Many parents would not want their young children exposed to the lifestyles portrayed in the episode," Spellings wrote in a letter sent Tuesday to Pat Mitchell, president and chief executive officer of PBS.

The network has decided not to distribute the episode to its affiliates, though PBS management claims it's for reasons unrelated to the Secretary's comments. Somehow I doubt it's a coincidence. WGBH in Boston, which produces the show, is one of 13 stations that will move forward with plans to broadcast it.

Though I'm far from a regular viewer, I've caught enough snippets of the Buster series to opine that, like Arthur, it's a tremendously positive show for kids. Buster seems to do a great job of exposing children to the diversity of peoples in our society, and the Vermont episode seems a fairly benign extension of that principle. There's no evidence that any outward vulgarity or promiscuity is displayed, nor anything sexually suggestive, in this episode or any other.

Postcards from Buster, along with Arthur, was created by Marc Brown, who released the following statement:

"I am disappointed by PBS's decision not to distribute the 'Postcards From Buster' episode to public television stations. What we are trying to do in the series is connect kids with other kids by reflecting their lives. In some episodes, as in the Vermont one, we are validating children who are seldom validated. We believe that 'Postcards From Buster' does this in a very natural way - and, as always, from the point of view of children."

Response from Democrats has also been swift, though they didn't pass up the opportunity to get in their jabs on tangential issues. DNC Chairman Terry McAuliffe stated that Secretary Spellings was ''confined to a very narrow and selfish agenda if her first action in office is to threaten an American institution like PBS. While America's schools are crumbling and our students are falling behind in basic skills, Republicans in Washington are too busy pursuing an intolerant agenda to try to solve the real problems."

I'm quite certain the coming days will bring more comments in similar partisan veins from both sides of the aisle. But for now, we have the newly appointed and sworn Secretary of Education feeling duty-bound to throw in her two cents on the issue. As she should.

Similarly, activists and lobbying groups from the bible belt, as well as from the Hollywood- influenced left-leaning visual arts industry, will soon try to gain some elbow room in the Capitol. Most of them have no idea what Buster even looks like, yet they will feel compelled to air their views. As they should.

And many citizens, including those without children and those who've never watched the show, have been bombarding their local PBS outlets to support or decry the show's content. As they should.

So why should all these seemingly uninvolved yet meddling forces be allowed to interfere with the programming choices of a television network? The common thread that ties everything together is government funding. Postcards from Buster is produced with subsidies from the federal "Ready-to-Learn" program. As such, those in charge of overseeing the distribution and proper use of these funds, including the Secretary, have a duty to maintain an active interest in the content they subsidize. They are, after all, stewards of the federal taxpayers -- the ones picking up a substantial chunk of the tab for Buster, Frontline, Nova, and many other programs airing on PBS stations nationwide. The federal tax base includes both individual and corporate contributors, which is where the lobbyists and individual citizens come in. Their voices will, and should, be heard.

However, the real flap shouldn't be about lesbian couples on TV. Instead we should be assessing the role of government-funded television in society. The Corporation for Public Broadcasting was established by Congress in 1967, when American television was strictly a three-network circus. When PBS was formed under CPB's funding wing in 1969, its two original primary objectives were programming diversity and a commercial-free platform.

These days nearly every PBS show has multiple sponsors, and they all seem to be getting more than just a cursory mention. At the beginning and end of every This Old House episode, for example, we're treated to mini-commercials for Home Depot, Andersen Windows, GMC Trucks, and State Farm Insurance. And how could we forget the regular pledge drives, where several programs are interrupted up to four times an hour so station personnel can beg and plead for donations? All told, the "commercial-free" aspects of PBS have all but disappeared.

There's no question that 35 years later, PBS still provides tremendous programming variety, and I enjoy a good number if its shows including Nova, Charlie Rose, and the various cooking and home improvement programs that air on weekends. But if they were shown on a network other than PBS, I'd still be watching. With the vast proliferation of cable and satellite broadcast outlets, and the targeted advertising opportunities they bring, there's plenty of room in the private sector to make almost any type of programming a profitable endeavor. Most PBS programs are fully capable of standing on their own if privately produced and broadcast to targeted markets.

Kids programming such as Postcards from Buster could just as easily air on Nickelodeon or one of its offshoots. A network like MSNBC could broadcast Frontline. Ken Burns could sell his documentaries to ESPN, BET and the History Channel. Austin City Limits seems a perfect fit for the Nashville Network or CMT. The possibilities are endless.

Under such an arrangement, if an issue with content was to arise, it would become a private matter between the network, its sponsors, and its viewers. Government officials wouldn't have to waste their time with special interest groups debating the trivialities of "Two Mommies in the Kitchen" -- nor would they have the power or the right to determine their fate. Program producers such as Marc Brown could create artistic and editorial content unencumbered by congressional or judicial intervention. And the many individual cable channels wouldn't have to live in fear that their funding, predicated on the politics of governmental whim, would be slashed or disappear altogether.

Sure, cable channels generally carry more commercial advertisements than PBS, but so what? The gap between them has most certainly been narrowed. Don't want the commercials? Get TiVo. Hit the mute button. Record programs to DVD and edit the ads out. The technology's out there just waiting to be utilized.

Such steps would be but a minor nuisance if they helped to get Uncle Sam out of the "Politically Correct Broadcasting" business. Like the many cookie-cutter multi-purpose stadiums of the 70's, PBS has outlived its usefulness, and the $400 million spent each year by taxpayers would be better invested elsewhere, or returned to its rightful owners.

The Needle Never Met Vinyl

I thought I’d be able to handle "IT". My reasoning was that the passing of 18 autumns would surely have dampened the pain. Then there was that certain ground ball stabbed by Keith Foulke and underhanded to Doug Mientkiewicz last October: The proverbial wing tip crushing the cigarette, extinguishing the embers of agony.

So at 6:00 pm yesterday evening, as another wave of snow fell outside (53 inches and counting this month, for those scoring at home...), I got a fire going and settled in with some meatloaf and a 4-pack of Boddingtons to watch "IT" again. If you’re a Red Sox fan who’s old enough to qualify for a Taurus rental at Hertz, then “IT” can only mean one thing. “IT” remains the ultimate close-but-no- cigar game, the one in which absolute elation evaporated without a trace in the span of exactly one minute, 57 seconds. “IT” made instant legends of Gary Carter, Ray Knight and Mookie Wilson while rendering the likes of Calvin Schiraldi, Bob Stanley, Rich Gedman, John McNamara, and William Joseph Buckner as perpetual goats.

“IT”, of course, was Game 6 of the 1986 World Series, which aired as part of NESN’s World Series Winter. The broadcasts have been going on for nearly a month now, and February will feature the magical 2004 postseason, including a much happier ending. Earlier this month the classic ’75 Series was shown, and I was able to endure the final inning of Game 7 with my chin up. Even as Joe Morgan’s blooper landed softly in short center field, and again as Yaz flew out to Cesar Geronimo, I was able to hold my head high. After all, those ’75 Sox had overachieved against the vaunted Big Red Machine. Losing hurt, but it didn’t dim the glow of that special season.

I figured this game wouldn’t be much different. The 1986 season had offered its own kind of magic, with Roger Clemens, Wade Boggs and Dave Henderson coming up huge. There were grizzled vets like Tom Seaver and Don Baylor alongside energetic tikes such as Mike Greenwell and Spike Owen. Great moments like Seaver’s complete game 5-hitter in August, Roger’s 20 whiffs vs the Mariners, and Hendu’s pennant-winning shot off the late Donnie Moore. Not to mention an enigmatic yet entertaining pitcher named Oil Can.

It was in the midst of my senior year at UMass, and the fall semester found me in a killer apartment with three buddies in South Amherst. Lots of great nights at Time Out and The Pub, and plenty of parties at Smith College. And to top it off, on Saturday the 25^th night of October, the Boston Red Sox were about to win baseball’s World Championship.

As “IT” turned out, they didn’t. The collapse was brutal, far worse than Torrez grooving a slow burner to Bucky Dent in ’78, or Aparicio’s slip while rounding 3^rd in ’72. The ending obliterated much of what I’d hoped to remember about that night, and most of what remains is the bleakness. In an episode of the long-running television series M*A*S*H, Pierce was unable to save one of his best friends on the operating table. Before going under from the anesthesia, his pal whispered to him, "I never heard the bullet..."

Red Sox fans never heard it either.

“IT” was supposed to have been a slam dunk. Clemens, looking spry and strong, was starting on five days’ rest. When pitching with a similar layoff between starts in the regular season, he'd gone 9-0. At the plate, Boggs had been placing the ball anywhere he pleased for most of the season, usually out of the opposition’s reach. Dwight Evans had found his groove, and the Sox were playing tremendous defense at nearly every position.

Meanwhile, the Mets were trotting out junkballer and former Sox pitcher Bobby Ojeda. His changeup and curve could be effective, but his fastball was very hittable. And it didn’t seem possible that their lineup, which featured Wilson, Rafael Santana, and Ojeda in the 7-8-9 holes, would have any chance whatsoever against the high-90’s heat of Clemens.

How could they beat us? HOW???

My roommates – Rude, JB, and Pud – shared my optimism. Though less of a baseball fan than the rest of us, Rude nonetheless was pumped. JB, who’d grown up with Rude in the Boston suburb of Randolph, was more rabid. But the x-factor was Pud, the ultimate cynic from Fairhaven who wore his southeastern Massachusetts accent as a defiant badge of honor. He was the first person I’d ever met who knew more about baseball than me – volumes more, in fact. When it came to the elements of the game, Pud was always right. Even If everything seemed to be going well, Pud always could – and always would -- tell us what why it wasn’t. But I couldn’t recall having seen him as confident as he was on this night. The celebration was imminent, and the fridge was stocked with enough Budweiser longnecks to prove it.

We should have known something was awry in the top of the first when, following Boggs' infield hit, the game was interrupted by a skydiver named Mike Sergio. In 1975, he’d taken the only photos of Owen Quinn making the world’s first known base jump – from the top of unfinished Tower #1 at the World Trade Center. On this night it was Sergio himself who drifted onto the infield while Buckner was at the plate. But the oddity was quickly forgotten as Evans laced a double off the wall in left-center, missing a homer by four feet and putting the Sox on the board. What none of us knew at the time was that Sergio had placed a hex on Buckner which wouldn’t become apparent until the late innings.

As Calvin Schiraldi came on to pitch the last of the eighth with the Sox guarding a 3-2 lead, my buddies and I had no earthly idea that the tension and stakes would make him fold like a road map. Perhaps we were too busy reveling in the glory of Clemens' brilliance over seven solid innings, including four innings of no-hit ball to open the game. But it's more likely that Schiraldi's prior performance had given no reason to doubt his pedigree. Despite his youth, he'd been overpowering in his first season with the Sox, with 55 strikeouts and only 36 hits and 15 walks in 50 innings of work. Opposing batters had hit just .197 against him as he logged a 1.41 ERA. A former Met, he’d joined his ex-University of Texas teammates Owen and Clemens in Boston, and now here he was facing his old team needing six more outs to close out the Series.

Almost from the outset, Calvin struggled with control and consistency. He seemed tentative and unwilling or unable to go for the throat. His indecisiveness led to a throwing error on a routine bunt by Lenny Dykstra left runners at 1^st and 2^nd with nobody out. Following another sacrifice, he was forced to walk Keith Hernandez to load the bases. Gary Carter then sat back as three straight offerings from the six-foot, four-inch Texan were nowhere near the plate. With a 3-0 count, Carter lined out to Rice in left field, plenty deep to score Lee Mazzilli with the tying run.

It was during this at-bat by Carter that, 18 annums later, I began to feel those same familiar pangs of doubt. My nerves were unsettled and, needing another drink, I popped open another pub draught can and eased the golden liquid along the slope of the tilted pint glass. But if waiting for the head to settle out seemed an epoch, then the suspense of watching Darryl Strawberry’s sky-high fly ball to center finally land in Henderson’s glove was an eternity.

After a scoreless and threatless ninth for both sides, the game moved to extra innings. Looking back, I recall how Pud was livid that Schiraldi had cost Clemens the chance to be the winning pitcher in the clinching game. But he was still outwardly brimming with confidence in the outcome as the Sox batted in the 10th. Dave Henderson was due to lead off, and NBC’s producers spared no moment in making sure the clip of his mammoth Game 5 home run was shown in full. There he was in Anaheim, silencing the crowd, launching himself out of the batter’s box after contact (much like Sammy Sosa would a dozen years later) and bringing the Sox back from the dead when they were one strike away from elimination.

With Rick Aguilera now on to pitch for New York, Henderson stepped in and took a huge rip, whiffing on an opening fastball. Aguilera then tried to slip a slider in on the wrists, but he left it low and over the plate and Henderson took another mighty cut, pulling the ball hard down the left field line. Once again we saw him launch, then twist, then backpedal down the first base line as he willed the ball fair. As it landed in left field seats, he broke into his characteristic home run trot -- arms tensed at the elbows yet hanging nearly straight along his sides, with his hands flard out below his hips. Hendu was the hero once again.

My thoughts now drifted back to Amherst, where a well-oiled Pud had jumped up from the couch and opened the front door. “The fackin’ Mets suck!!!” he yelled at peak volume and within earshot of the few dozen New Yorkers who resided at Southwood Apartments and Brittany Manor. Then, laughing, he slammed the door and started looking for the phone. “I gotta call my fatha” he kept repeating. We finally talked some sense into him, convincing him to hold off.

Meanwhile Owen and Schiraldi had just whiffed, and Boggs laced a double to the alley in left-center. Barrett knocked him in with a solid base hit up the middle, making it a 2-run game. When Buckner was ht by a pitch on his right hip bone, we wondered if we’d see a pinch runner. Buck had been fighting chronic pain in his ankles and knees most of the season. He'd played a full nine innings in the field this night, and it seemed like a perfect time to get some fresh legs in the person of Dave Stapleton. As Jim Rice strode to the plate, we were somewhat puzzled to see no other activity in the Sox dugout, but we just shrugged it off. Even after Rice lined out to end the inning, we were feeling no pain. After all, we were up 5-3, and victory was inevitable.

Pud had cracked open another beer and had begun rifling through my LP record collection. This is a guy who, with the exception of college football fight songs and a few Springsteen tunes, hated music. But there he was, thumbing his fingers through the N’s, O’s and P’s. I knew what he was looking for, but he was still having trouble pinning it down.

“Hey Brownie!! What the hell album is ‘We Are The Champions’ on??” he slurred.

“Queen – News of the World,” I replied. Within a few moments he’d located it and as I watched him fumble around trying to get the black disk out of its sleeve, I decided not to entrust my brother’s Technics turntable to Pud’s less-than-gentle hands. I placed the record on the rotating platen, set the speed to 33 RPM, and cued the stylus over the proper track for him. Now all he had to do was lower the tone arm lever and the celebration would commence. But first, all the Sox needed were three more outs.

The bottom of the 10^thstarted harmlessly enough, with the fans at Shea Stadium clanking cowbells, and the organist climbing the scales with the “Hut-2-3-4-Charge!” chant. Before we knew it, there were two out as both Backman and Hernandez lofted easy fly balls to the outfield.

“This is it!!! THIS IS IT!!” Pud begain yelling to nobody in particular. “Sixty-Eight Fackin’ Yeahs!!” None of us could sit, and outside we heard more loud yelling, girls screaming, and firecrackers going off. Pud opened the door and returned the shouts, with more derisive comments directed towards the local Mets fans.

NBC then flashed a graphic proclaiming Marty Barrett, who’d reached base in all five trips to the plate, as the Player of the Game. Hard to argue, though a case could have been made for Clemens' seven brilliant innings in spite of a heavy workload. In the background, the recorded trumpet charge was blaring from the PA speakers, and Kevin Mitchell was coming up to hit for Aguilera. There were no hints whatsoever that at that very moment we were witnessing the beginning of the end, and that within 13 minutes and 17 seconds our emotional states, and those of all Sox fans, would be abruptly and cruelly altered.

Eighteen years later, I now have my answer. I knew what was coming, and I couldn’t watch. Even with a World Series trophy now residing on Yawkey Way, I still had to mute the audio, look away, and, ultimately, change the channel. The wounds, I’m afraid, are still fresh after all.

That one minute, 57 second span I noted earlier? That's how much time elapsed between the instant that Stanley's pitch deflected off Gedman's mitt (scoring Mitchell), and Ray Knight's planting of both feet on home plate (following a grounder to first). There’s really no point in detailing what transpired in Amherst from that point forward., but suffice to say there was a can of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee Beef Ravioli embedded in the drywall to the right of our TV. Our apartment then fell silent while outside the walls those sporadic groups of Mets fans were celebrating with jovial glee. On campus that night, dozens of arrests and several injuries followed skirmishes between fans of both teams.

Me? I sulked over to the turntable, secured the tone arm on its rest, and removed the LP from the platform. Then, holding it with a thumb on the label and my ring finger on the edge, I guided it slowly into the protective paper jacket. Finally, I slid the record back into the cardboard sleeve, and returned it to its proper alphabetic location on the bottom shelf of my bookcase.

That album hasn’t been played since.

Shut Up Already

Just when I thought he'd receded from view, when it seemed he'd returned to his posh multi-mansion lifestyle and the backbreaking work of uplifting the downtrodden, he reappeared. It was on CNN that I first caught the report and, try as I might to ignore it, I simply could not avert my attention.

John Kerry, the man whose head looks like it was crushed in one of Norm Abram's carpentry clamps, decided to spend Martin Luther King Day having breakfast with African-Americans. But it was more than omelets and hash browns he wanted to share with his fellow citizens --- it was his version of the cold harsh truth. And he apparently wasted no time in spitting it out.

So the whining commenced. Election this, unfair that, disenfranchised voters, yada yada yada, blah blah blah....

"The Massachusetts Democrat, Bush's challenger in November, spoke at Boston's annual Martin Luther King Day Breakfast. He reiterated that he decided not to challenge the election results, but "thousands of people were suppressed in the effort to vote."

"Voting machines were distributed in uneven ways. In Democratic districts, it took people four, five, eleven hours to vote, while Republicans (went) through in 10 minutes -- same voting machines, same process, our America," he said.

You'd think that by now, more than two months after the election, those sour grapes in Kerry's mouth would have fermented into a soothing, mellow cabernet. But what he instead spews forth is rancid vinegar.

My favorite portion of this escapade is this whole "reiteration that he decided not to challenge the election results" thing. Frankly, I wish he had done so -- and to the fullest extent that the American judicial system would allow. Because the results would have been a total embarrassment for him. Think he looks like a sore loser now? Can you imagine if he'd been garnering headlines the past 60 days with this tired tripe, only to have his appeals denied like a layup swatted away by Ben Wallace?

If Kerry truly believes he's not challenging the results, then he should shut his mouth about it. He comes off like former Baltimore Orioles manager Earl Weaver -- a crusty curmudgeon whining about the umpires, yet not filing any formal protests on the outcome of the game. Kerry's decision not to appeal to the courts doesn't make him any less of a protestant on the issue. He remains vocally bitter, and one can thing that's clear from the tone of his remarks is that he actually believes he was robbed by long lines at polling locations. It's funny, but I actually respected Al Gore to a degree because in the wake of the 2000 elections, he stood firmly by his guns and steadfastly pursued legal remedies with vigilance. Well ...at least he did so for about a month. Regardless, it's more than Kerry's done.

But here comes the icing on the cake. This afternoon, two sons of prominent Milwaukee politicians were hit with felony charges of criminal damage to property. Three alleged co-conspirators were also indicted.

Their crime? Slashing the tires of rented vans which were to be used to drive voters and election monitors to polling locations on Election Day. It’s all right here

The irony, of course, is that the five young men who are alleged to have committed these childish acts, which John Kerry would term as heinous and brutally unfair, were doing so on behalf of Kerry's own party. Yes, you read that right. They rendered 25 vans useless -- vehicles that had been rented by the GOP to ensure that several “disenfranchised voters” would get to the polls. Could republicans have asked for a better way to make the Democratic presidential nominee look like the court jester?

So why haven't we heard from John Kerry on this issue? I mean, it's only been a week since he was swallowing sausages and sipping coffee with his brothers in arms. Perhaps the press corps can't figure out which of his multi-million dollar estates he's convalescing in today. Who knows, maybe he's hunkered down on blizzard-ravaged Nantucket.

I hear he's got a nice spread there...

Finally... A little daylight

The winds never stopped howling last night, but that didn't prevent me from falling asleep. As the Blizzard of 2005 was winding down, the Patriots had crushed the overmatched Steelers for the AFC title. So with that warm happy feeling, and a little Makers Mark in my blood, there was no way nature's fury was going to keep me from catching a few winks.

When I awoke, the skies had cleared and the big orange moon was preparing to set across the bay. The winds were still whipping though, having only downshifted a gear by daybreak. They'd done their best work overnight, transforming the drifts and piles into artwork. Shallow or even non-existent in some spots, deep and imposing in others, but with a collective beauty that rarely shows its face in these parts. A blizzard on Cape Cod is rare indeed.

As the sky brightened, I dressed in layered attire more befitting the Michelin Man and ventured out to shovel the necessary paths: Along the upper walkway, down the stairs, in front of the basement door, and up the driveway. The air was clear and crisp, but each gust sent a shiver to my bones. As the work progressed, I found myself enjoying the serenety and beauty less and less. My spirit was waning and in a state of drudgery, lamenting the fact that I'd abandoned the relative warmth of Atlanta for this. After all, the previous January hadn't been especially kind either, with two arctic blasts that found their way through every unsealed crack and crevice of the sparsely insulated summer home where I'd taken up residence. My visions, and my demeanor, clouded over as I made my way up to where the driveway meets the road.

Clearly I wasn't suited for this environment. Yet the birds, from the broad-winged seagull to the tiniest chickadee, seemed to be enduring just fine, if not thriving. The squirrels were bounding about through the drifts, searching for acorns and other edibles. At first I convinced myself that these creatures were performing these tasks out of necessity, with their very survival hinging on the few morsels they'd be able to scrounge up on such a day as this.

But I wondered -- if this is the case, why do they seem so full of life? You never see birds or squirrels crying or whining about the cold and snow. They just go about their work with a focus and a determination that can only come from enjoying what they do. And then it dawned on me that these critters aren't tied down to this unforgiving habitat. They could certainly fly, or scamper in the squirrel's case, to some other area if they didn't like things here. And this migration could have occurred over the hundreds and thousands of years that their ecosystems have evolved. Yet here they are, and here they've remained.

Which brings me back to the Patriots. As professional football players, they're obviously well-compensated for their work which includes hurtling themselves at full speed into the path of others of similar size and stature in the pursuit of a few extra yards here or there and, eventually, victory. Often they do so in harsh conditions of icy winds and blowing snow. Yet these particular players, these Patriots, have chosen to do so here in New England where such surroundings are more commonplace. Surely many could have chosen to play in warmer climates, or in one of those cozy comfy domed stadiums. In fact they all could have chosen to ply a different trade altogether. Surely there are moments where their will is tested, their energy is sapped, and their confidence sags. Yet here they've come, and here they've stayed. And, as they did last night in the sub-zero wind chill of Pittsburgh, here they've thrived.

It's all about choices in the end. In spite of daunting elements, the birds and squirrels live on as they have through the generations. In a climate most view as unkind, these Patriots have made Mother Nature their friend. And with that thought, my spine stiffened and I gained resolved. "I'm here to shovel because I choose to shovel," I thought to myself. And I forged onward, obstinate and determined, through the waist-high, starch-white drifts.

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Ironic as it may seem, the Pats' front office should be inviting Dick Lebeau to Jacksonville, as well as any victory celebrations which follow. And Rodney Harrison should get a triple-share of any post-season money.

Why? Because without them, there's a good chance the Patriots don't get Corey Dillon. And you can shave a few wins off the team's record if that's the case. No telling where that puts the them during the post-season.

From the Jan. 17 issue of ESPN the Magazine:

Dillon's agent, Steve Feldman, began shopping for a team. Oakland looked to be the front-runner, but the Raiders would give up only a third-round pick and (Cinci owner Mike) Brown wanted a second. Talks stalled. Then, at the advice of another client, Patriots safety Rodney Harrison, Feldman dialed New England. Yes, that New England. Selfless New England. Initially, the Pats brain trust didn't consider Dillon a fit, believing he was too me-first. "All that stuff in Cincinnati," Dillon says, "That'll make anyone leery."

But Belichick and Pioli heard raves from former Bengals coach Dick LeBeau and decided to give up the second-rounder pending a face-to-face with Dillon and Feldman...

Funny how things work out sometimes.