Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part 11.

Realistically, it does not appear that a spring sports season will be possible.

The Massachusetts Interscholastic Athletic Association is caught between a rock and a hard place these days. The governing body of high school sports in this state has the concerns wrought by the coronavirus pandemic to deal with on one hand, while on the other, it has to placate a growing number of restless participants that would risk all to resume sports for the spring season that has been delayed.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

The latest word is that the association has approved the resumption of the high school sports season by May 4, pending whatever other restrictions may be extended or added by the commonwealth by that time. Presently, schools and non-essential businesses are to remain closed until at least May 4 per order by Gov. Charlie Baker.

Under the guidelines approved by a vote of the MIAA Board of Directors (19-0) on Monday, the first games can be played seven days after the official opening of the season, with a regular season of 8-12 games and a playoff structure to be announced later. Games must conclude by June 27.

All well and good, if it is assumed that the coronavirus panic is going to be over and done with in a month's time. But right now, that appears to be a pipe dream. The number of reported cases rises every day, and there does not appear to be a cessation anywhere in sight, at least before the summer.

None of the major professional sports active now -- NBA, NHL, MLS, MLB -- have announced plans to resume their schedules. The Tokyo Olympics have been postponed for a full year. So what is it that the MIAA knows that these other organizations apparently do not?

In a word: Nothing.

Personally, I think it's been a bad idea for the MIAA to hold out hope for an abbreviated spring season. I understand the premise because nobody likes to take away hope from young athletes, particularly the seniors who are seeing their last competitive season (and for many, the last competitive seasons of their lives) evaporate.

But at the same time, it's wrong to mislead these young people, and really sends the wrong message. At a time when governors of the states are grappling with the idea of ordering complete lockdowns to prevent the spread of COVID-19, the MIAA is offering a false hope that will most likely be yanked away from the athletes once it's determined on May 4 that the virus is still a significant threat to the public.

Maddening as it may be, the best way to combat the spread of the virus is to stay home and wait it out. That is not going to happen if young athletes are allowed to cluster in groups again before it can be conclusively be proven to be safe.

I wrote that in a tweet the other day, and I was quickly and roundly attacked by those that objected, suggesting that I was a bad person by "taking the athletes' hope away from them." Yet I have a feeling that the comments were coming from those with ulterior motives, possibly worried about a son's or daughter's possible college scholarship, or just otherwise presuming inaccurately to be able to speak for the athletes.

In my experience of more than 50 years of high school sports coverage for various media, I've found that most kids aren't stupid. They know what's going on. They can figure things out without much help, although some may be at a disadvantage because the messages they might be hearing at home are misinformed and misleading them.

Things will improve. There are signs in some parts of the country as well as in other countries that social distancing is helping to slow the advance of the disease. But there's a ton of misinformation out there, and it doesn't help matters much for the MIAA or any other regulatory body to publicize plans for a return to normalcy that will most likely have to be scrapped if current projections are to be believed.

There's nothing wrong with planning for every eventuality. But what is worse? Taking away hope, or creating false hope? I would prefer that we underscore to the young athletes of this state the need to act responsibly in a time of crisis.

The Owner's Box, Ep. 18.

NESN'S Jack Edwards.

Miss the Boston Bruins? So does Jack Edwards, for a good reason. He's the play-by-play "voice" of the Bruins for their telecasts on NESN. He stopped by The Owner's Box to offer his take on what may happen to the rest of what was looking like a possible Stanley Cup season for the B's, and suggests that the ongoing coronavirus crisis could have serious ramifications for not just this season, but also beyond for the National Hockey League.

We also talk about Jack's road up the ladder as a broadcaster -- I met him for the first time in the early 1980s when he was a reporter and weekend sports anchor at WJAR-TV, Channel 10 in Providence -- and how a change in philosophy at ESPN, where he later worked, and home delivery of the Boston Globe led to his dream job of calling the action for the Bruins.

On top of all that, Jack gives me a few pointers about how to do play-by-play -- information I can always use in my new role as local announcing mercenary. And we both agree that having knowledgeable analysts at our sides makes a big difference in the quality of the telecast.

It's all here in Episode 18. Enjoy.

Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part 10.

Hi, folks. I took some time off yesterday to lounge around and be totally unproductive at anything -- which, as some would have you believe, is the best way to save the world right now. Glad to know I did my part.

Your humble blogger on "Sports Pulse" in 2006.

Anyway, I was originally supposed to be part of a multi-guest podcast with my old friend Ed Berliner this morning. Ed used to be a sportscaster in Boston about 15 years ago, maybe more, and when he was working for Comcast, he created a great nightly show called "Sports Pulse," which was really ahead of its time.

I would say that "Sports Pulse" was the precursor to the number of shows that are staples of the programming on NESN and NBC Sports Boston today. Ed put together timely highlights for a nightly sports recap, and he sought out in-studio guests from several different disciplines that had a lot to offer the viewership, but may not have been sought out by other sports media because they weren't from the Globe or Herald.

Ed Berliner

And yes, I was one of those. I probably guested on "Sports Pulse" five or six times and I enjoyed it immensely. Ed did like to run a fast-paced show, but he asked good questions and gave his guests the time and encouragement to flesh out answers and thus, hopefully, be more informative than could be accomplished in the sound-bite style of other media.

We used to shoot the show live at 11 p.m. at Comcast's studio on Commonwealth Avenue in Brighton, not too far from Boston University, and the lateness of the show made it an easy ride. It's also the only time I had to wear makeup on-camera.

"Sports Pulse" was available only to Comcast subscribers, most of the time on Channel 8 on their home cable boxes (the channel was called "CN8"), but that had a pretty good reach into a large portion of New England. And people did watch it, even if only by accident; I remember riding the elevator up to the press box on a Sunday at Gillette Stadium with members of the Chicago Bears' coaching staff, and one of them turned to me and said, "Hey, weren't you on TV last night?" I admitted I was, and the assistant coach said, "Good stuff."

Over my many years on the Patriots beat, I was a guest on many radio stations in the United States and Canada (yes, even New York's fabled WFAN) because sports stations are always looking for a knowledgeable beat writer who has a good voice and comes cheap. But I'll always appreciate Ed Berliner, who now lives and works in the Fort Lauderdale area, for giving nobodies like me an opportunity to shine on TV in their home markets when none others would.

I'll try to get Ed to chat about the "Sports Pulse" experience on a future episode of "The Owner's Box."

** So I braved the elements and the invisible clouds of alien virus to hit a supermarket in nearby Sharon today, looking for a few necessities without subjecting myself to the panicky gatherings I've been hearing about in my own home town. And as I suspected, this particular market was not overrun with those stocking up for 40 days and 40 nights of terror.

Fortunately, I don't need toilet paper. They had none. Besides, I have 14 rolls here at last count, and each roll tends to last me about 8-10 days depending upon the state of my digestive tract.

I don't want to get into TMI territory here, but I am limited per poop in the amount of toilet paper I can use. When my parents put additions on the house back in 1985, my mother opted for wall-mounted toilets in the new bathrooms because she believed they would be easier to clean around. She was right in that sense, but she did not know that these toilets had a lessened flushing capacity because they flushed horizontally to vertically, and not just vertically.

What does that mean, you ask? Well, a large load inside the bowl isn't helped by gravity initially, and thus the bowl tends to overfill before the poop parade gets going. To avoid that, I have determined that my limit for TP usage to ensure a successful flush is three forearm-length unrollings, folded (and not wadded) to prevent leakage and to promote maximum cleaning ability. Hold to that limit, and it's a happy flush every time.

So that being said, I'm still in good shape, TP-wise. But I still can't fathom why people have swarmed the stores to hoard the stuff. It can't be need; even a family of eight with explosive diarrhea can't use as much in a week's time as what I've seen people buying.

I can understand the disappearance of some necessities, but I was astounded when I reached the soft drinks aisle, For the third time in three recent supermarket trips, there were absolutely no 2-liter bottles of Diet Dr Pepper. Seriously??? Did they discover that Diet DP is the cure for COVID-19 and nobody told me? This is maddening to me, on a par with the temporary closing of the Forbes Boulevard Starbucks.

NESN's Jack Edwards

** Tomorrow around noon or so, there will be a new episode of "The Owner's Box" available for your listening pleasure. The guest is Jack Edwards, the TV "voice" of the Boston Bruins on NESN, and we'll talk about what it's like for him to not be calling the games for a Stanley Cup contender, what the future may hold for the Bruins and the NHL in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic, and Jack even gives me a few tips for calling play-by-play -- which, as many of you know, I have been doing for local cable TV channels during the high school sports season. I can use all the pointers I can get.

It's a good hour of conversation and very timely, so don't miss it. I'll have links up here and on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribers to Apple Podcasts, Google Play, iHeartRadio.com and other platforms will have them automatically sent to their smartphones.

And in the meantime, if you haven't yet, listen to the current episode featuring Norwood High boys' basketball coach Kristen McDonnell, one of my favorite guests. Kristen speaks quite candidly about her first season as a boys' varsity coach, which was overwhelmingly positive except for a few circumstances that made her wonder if there's still a lot more work to be done for her to be accepted as an equal to the other coaches, just because of her gender.

As the Bears' assistant coach said, "Good stuff."

** Time to make a bowl of pasta and warm up the meatballs. See you all tomorrow.

Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part Nine.

I have been blessed to grow up and live in a part of our nation that is steeped with historic significance. Massachusetts is the birthplace of the United States of America; my home town of Mansfield was founded as a community that held its first allegiance to England, breaking off from Norton and becoming a municipality of its own one year before the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

The Paul Revere statue and Old North

Church, off Hanover Street in Boston's 

North End, as photographed on Thursday.

And yet, sometimes I wonder if I have taken full advantage of the opportunity to soak in the lessons of our past. Yeah, I've been to Plymouth Rock. Who hasn't? But there aren't many other monuments of our colonial and revolutionary past that I've visited. I've been to Concord once in my life, and that was to cover a Mansfield High football game at Concord-Carlisle. I haven't walked the full extent of the Freedom Trail, or any part of it, for the expressed purpose of simply walking it. I haven't visited the Bunker Hill Monument, or Old Ironsides (at least not as an adult), or the Old North Church. And that statue of Paul Revere atop his horse, heading out from the Old North Church to warn the colonists of the redcoats' invasion? I had no clue where it was -- until Thursday, that is.

I drove into Boston around dinner time to pick up my takeout order from the restaurant owned by Mansfield native Jen Royle on Hanover Street (if you haven't been paying attention, it's called TABLE, and you can find a link to its new takeout menu on the left-hand side of this web page), and because of the ongoing coronavirus scare, there was plenty of on-street parking available within quick walking distance. So I drove past the restaurant, turned back around, found a spot on the opposite side of the street about an eighth of a mile away, and started walking.

As I did, something caught my attention and I stopped as if I had walked into a brick wall, transfixed by the sight to my left.

It was the Paul Revere Mall, in the middle of which was that well-known monument to the patriot that rode the countryside on that fateful night. And in the distance was the unmistakable spire of the Old North Church, where the lanterns were hung to alert Revere to the advance of the British troops.

Now, did I recognize it from a photo in a text book, or maybe something from a historical documentary?

Nope. It was from an old TV show from the 1960s.

When I was growing up, my favorite TV drama was an hour-long show that aired Friday nights on CBS called "Route 66." It was the tale of two young men, Tod Stiles (played by Martin Milner) and Buz Murdock (played by George Maharis), who traveled the nation's highways and byways in a 1961 Corvette convertible looking for love and adventure.

The Paul Revere statue and Old North

Church, in a still from a 1962 episode of

the CBS drama "Route 66."

It was a somewhat ambitious show for its time. "Route 66" ran from September 1960 to April 1964 and it was shot totally on location, and rarely on the original US 66 that ran from Chicago to Los Angeles. It tackled a lot of mature issues, some ahead of their time -- including in the final season, when actor Glenn Corbett, taking over the sidekick role from Maharis after a contract dispute, played US Army Special Forces veteran Linc Case, who had served as an advisor to South Vietnamese troops in that conflict (then in its infancy) and returned to his native Texas with a raging case of post-traumatic stress disorder -- although it wasn't known by that name at the time.

As with many episodic shows of that era, young actors that would go on to become Hollywood royalty (Robert Redford and Robert Duvall among them) would make their TV debuts on "Route 66" -- sometimes returning in different roles a few episodes later. And there was no shortage of episodes, as they'd shoot maybe 32 of them for each season. Sure, there were some quirks -- such as how the guys had new Corvettes every year (Chevrolet was the primary sponsor). But the show certainly kindled a love of travel in my pre-teen heart, which I still feel today.

As I mentioned before, "Route 66" was filmed all over the country. Several episodes where shot in the Boston area, including "To Walk with the Serpent," which aired on Jan. 5, 1962. It starred Dan O'Herlihy as John Westerbrook, an ultra-right-wing zealot who believed that immigration was the cause of American decline (sounds familiar, doesn't it?). Tod and Buz are tasked by FBI agents to infiltrate Westerbrook's hate group after a chance meeting at the Bunker Hill Monument, hoping to foil his plans for a terrorist act that will rally public sentiment to his cause.

The episode takes us in glorious black-and-white to several iconic landmarks -- the U.S.S. Constitution, Lexington Green, and climaxing on the Paul Revere Mall, where Westerbrook's minions have filled Paul Revere's tri-corner hat with plastic explosive amid hopes of detonating it during a political rally, causing massive loss of life.

Indeed, in a soliloquy delivered at the foot of the Revere statue before the climactic moment, Westerbrook decries the influx of immigrants that has somehow cheapened the American way of life. The camera pans around the mall to illustrate what he's saying -- and while you might expect a contemporary telling of this story to focus upon persons of color, a common complaint of hate groups today, in the camera lens of the 1960s the focus was upon individuals that appeared to be of Italian descent, immigrants and children of immigrants that have made the North End their home for generations. Different faces, same reprehensible premise.

It's during that scene that the camera briefly focuses solely upon the statue with the Old North Church in the background -- the same image I saw Thursday afternoon that stopped me in my tracks. I took a photo of what I saw -- and then found my DVDs of "Route 66" to take a snapshot of the very same scene from 1961, when it was filmed.

Needless to say, Tod and Buz and the FBI foiled the dastardly plot. Indeed, the guy who was going to shoot the plastic explosive was played by the same actor that played the sergeant in "Gomer Pyle, USMC" a few years later, Frank Sutton. And all the while, this took place just a few hundred yards from where Jen Royle would open her dream restaurant some 58 years later.

How about that. And yes, the short rib Bolognese was delicious.

Now, a few more thoughts along the road to the apocalypse:

** Rest in peace, Tony Calcia. If there was ever a Mr. North Attleboro, that was you.

** A new podcast is coming Monday, and it will hopefully whet the appetite of those that miss hockey on TV during the pandemic. My guest will be Bruins' TV play-by-play announcer Jack Edwards, and we talk about whether the NHL can return from its unplanned hiatus, what effect that might have on future seasons, and good broadcasting topics in general. Get it where you get your podcasts, or click on the links on this site.

** I have never seen more people out walking or running down my street than I have the last two days. And not all of them are social-distancing, either. Where were all these fitness gurus before the attack of the killer virus?

** By the way, I've decided that the next time I see a basketball team that can't play a lick of defense, I'm just going to say that they are social-distancing the other team.

** Farewell, Forbes Boulevard Starbucks, until three weeks from now -- I hope. I may be a raging homicidal maniac by the time your lattes are available to me again.

** Normally, my house is roughly on the glidepath for commercial aircraft landing at Logan Airport. Usually the planes are around 5,000-7,000 feet over my house. But the one thing I notice these days is how few of them are flying overhead. It really is like we've leaped backwards into 1962.

** If I weren't recording my podcasts, what would I be doing to pass the time? Well, I might be watching the woodchuck in my backyard. He's such a character, a really goofy guy. But what a set of ears on him -- I can't open the back door even in the slightest before he hears it and is off like a shot to the cover of his burrow.

And no, I have not seen him chuck wood.

See you tomorrow.

Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part Eight

A lone seagull keeps watch over my backyard on a sunny Thursday.

That sunshine today feels amazing, doesn't it?

Of course, I've only experienced it from my backyard. This is the age of isolation, and it is getting a little frustrating. I've been fortunate that I have shown no symptoms of anything but my annual spring allergies (and it is pretty cool to see the grass greening and the willows budding and blooming, even if they all make me sneeze), and that I can reach out to friends via the podcast, but I still want to talk to something animate and in person instead of just yelling at the TV screen every time I see one of those White House pandemic updates.

It's gotten so that my longest non-podcast conversations take place with the seagulls that claim my pond as their temporary home until it's time for them to head back to the coastline. Now, I understand that there will be those that will berate me for this admission, but every now and then I venture out into the backyard with some old bread -- and the second these gulls see the door close and the big man walking toward the fence, they take flight -- first a scout or two to make sure it's legit, then the whole flock races to meet me, knowing there's a meal awaiting them.

I know, I know, don't feed them, blah blah blah. The way I see it, they've been foraging for crap through the harshest of months, and it isn't going to bring society to its knees if I drop a few morsels of slightly-crunchy honey wheat bread at them. Besides, the squirrels, bunnies and my lone woodchuck enjoy it as well, as long as the seagulls don't eat it all.

They fly over, they chirp or squawk quietly as opposed to the screeches you may hear at the beach, and I remind them from time to time that they should refrain from pooping on me during their flyovers. So far, so good in that respect. Then, once they feel I'm a safe distance away, they start their touch-and-go landings to pick up the morsels of bread. It's fun to watch.

Yep, life in the new reality. And now they're closing my coffee shop. I will probably be bat-shit crazy by the time this all ends.

Now, other thoughts from the side of the road to the apocalypse:

The iRig 2 is a popular interface device.

** One bit of good news came from the Amazon van on Wednesday, when a little piece of equipment was delivered that may allow me to expand my podcasts to even more potential guests.

It's called the "iRig 2" and it's used by musicians to hook up their guitars to smartphones and recording devices. It's also good to use with a mixing board so you can record a podcast directly through the board, which makes for pretty good sound quality -- not as good as Skype, which I have used for several podcasts, but some people think Skype is too complicated. And if nothing else, I want to be accommodating.

I almost have it figured out -- a friend called me and I could record his conversation, but he couldn't hear me through the mixing board. I've tried to watch tutorials on YouTube to figure out what I'm doing wrong, but they all seen to whip through all this stuff so fast, even stopping the video doesn't help all that much. But I'm close. And it's helpful to have something to do every day other than sitting in front of the TV binge-watching "Curb Your Enthusiasm."

** I don't know how much longer they're going to let us drive in this state, so in just a few hours, I'm going to be picking up a couple of orders of beef bolognese from Mansfield native Jen Royle's restaurant in the North End of Boston, TABLE by Jen Royle, and those should last me for a couple of days.

You can find the details of what Jen is offering on her takeout menu by going to the lecft-hand side of the web version of my blog site, and scrolling down to where it says, "Dining Fearlessly." Click on the photo and it will take you directly to the restaurant's web page, which has all you need to know about ordering any of her Italian delicacies.

Plenty of restaurants are offering takeout during these difficult times, and I certainly hope they will be allowed to continue. It's their only way of staying in business right now.

** Want to feel like you're at a game? Watch the Dow Jones ticker on TV and you'll either stand and cheer as the numbers go up, or shout and boo when they start to dip. By the way, as I type this, the Dow is back over 22,000. Maybe I won't have to become a male prostitute after all.

** I was going to do my taxes this week. Then I had a lot of work to do on podcasts and the like. then they extended the deadline ... but I think I'll still try to beat the original April 15 deadline. I just need to focus.

** That's all for today, folks. Stay safe and wash your hands. Every day I hear we have more cases of the coronavirus around here, but I'm not one of them, and I don't want you to be one, either.

Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part Seven.

Me (at 3 years old) with my Dad, Tony Farinella.

When I think about the qualities I inherited from my parents, I realize there are many. My gregarious nature, at least as shown to the public, definitely comes from my father, Tony Farinella.

Although Dad died in 2001, and it hardly seems that long ago (nor does it seem right that he would have been 100 years old last October), I still channel him every day -- and sometimes, that can be a very positive thing. Sometimes it's just "flirting" when women are involved, and I take some heat for it from a few individuals in my life that don't want to try to combat the negativity around them with a smile, but I try to keep it pleasant and not too heavy-handed -- especially in the #metoo era.

And when it works, it makes me feel good because it made somebody else feel good. Here's an example.

I braved a trip to a supermarket on Wednesday afternoon. I was running low on a few items of need (no, I still have plenty of toilet paper), and while I'm not keen about heading into an enclosed space with a lot of people inside that didn't seem to be as wary of close contact as I was, things had to be done. I can still move pretty swiftly through the aisles and while I managed to pick up a surprising $127 worth of food and other goods, I moved quickly enough to hopefully at least make the coronavirus break a sweat before it caught up with me.

This particular supermarket had the foresight to open up several checkout aisles, so I didn't have to wait for long or 6 feet away from anyone. But as I was unloading the items onto the belt, I noticed that the two young girls working the checkout late looked exhausted. I emphasize "young," because they looked like a couple of high school girls with part-time jobs that had been trapped inside the market for a very long day, and were very weary of the experience.

So just before I was fully cashed out and the bagger was almost through with my bags, I turned to both of them and said, "Hey, I just wanted to thank you both for being here and working. I think of you as heroes for risking yourselves and dealing with us. I mean, I'm an old guy and I'm scared to death to be outside."

Both looked shocked at what I said, and practically gasped. For a half-second, I almost worried that I had offended somehow. But then the girl who was bagging my groceries, a tiny young woman with flowing dark brown hair and big black glasses, spoke up.

"There's just been so much negativity," she said, "and then someone like you comes in and you made it all go away. Thank you SO much!"

I felt I did my good deed for the day -- Dad would have been proud -- but I really meant it, too. Those kids are heroes. So is everyone that is still working to make our lives more tolerable during these troubling times.

The Forbes Blvd. Starbucks, under construction in 2018.

** Not long afterward, something absolutely heartbreaking happened. I know this is selfish of me, but when I heard that the Starbucks at Forbes Boulevard in Foxboro (frequently mentioned on this blog's Java Watch) will be closing for three weeks starting Friday, I took it personally. After all, I feel like I waited 64 years for that store to open, and now I have to worry if it's going to re-open by April 19, or later, or ever.

OK, I know there are good reasons for some of the fast-food outlets to shutter stores. But I didn't think that there would be any reason for this one to be shuttered because it has done a brisk business since it opened in 2018 and at times even seemed overwhelmed. And just a day ago, the lines for coffee at the drive-thru were entirely circling the building.

I'm not sure what options are available. The Foxboro store is off the Starbucks map, as are the ones in South Attleboro, Plainville, Franklin and Walpole. The only familiar drive-thru left is the one in Norwood on US 1, and God forbid what the lines will be like if that's the only one left to compete with the evil empire of Dunkin'.

Man, that's enough. It's time to seed the clouds with Lysol and end this pandemic once and for all.

** Also, Gov. Charlie Baker ordered that schools stay closed in the commonwealth until May 4. That ditches any hope that the Massachusetts Interscholastic Athletic Association had to stage spring-season tournaments this year. So my guess is that if you want to listen to me calling high school sports on TV, you're going to have to wait until Glen Farley and I return to the broadcast booth at Macktaz Field in Wrentham in September for King Philip football.

** That's enough for tonight. Body temperature is 96.8, no coughing or breathing trouble, the usual aches and pains for an old man. Let's just hope the supermarket visit doesn't do me in. See you tomorrow.

The Owner's Box, Ep. 17.

Norwood High boys' hoop coach Kristen McDonnell guests via Skype.

Kristen McDonnell, the coach of the Norwood High boys' basketball team (and yeah, she won four state titles as the Braintree High girls' coach), makes a return visit to our podcast. But because she and I are both responsible adults in this time of pandemic crisis, we maintained a separation of about 23 miles -- using the impressive capabilities of Skype to record as if we were just across the table from each other. We chat about her first season at the Mustangs' helm, as well as some other hot-button topics from the recently concluded basketball season -- and we even have some surprise guests (her dog and her mom's dog), marking the second straight podcast in which a pet pooch has crashed the recording session.

It's always good stuff from Kristen, and it will fill an hour of your self-quarantine with quality entertainment and information. Please give it a listen.

Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part Six.

OK, I'm sufficiently depressed for the day, so it's time to write. I've listened to Gov. Andrew Cuomo of New York  (so when are the Democrats going to draft him for the presidential nomination?) and Gov. Charlie Parker of Massachusetts (well, that's what Joe Biden called him. Of course I know his last name is Baker). I've listened to Tom Brady's Tampa Bay conference call and Mike Pence fielding Fox News softballs in the Rose Garden. And I'm watching people ignore the social-distancing guidelines across the pond in my backyard. Just another day in the coronavirus panic.

So far, I've been fine. I'm in that vulnerable group -- 66 years old with pre-existing (but controlled) medical issues -- but I've shown no symptoms and my last gathering in a group was a week ago Sunday. My body temperature has been consistently in the 96.0-97.8 range, which is normal for me. I've had a few sniffles, but those have coincided with the annual emergence of the flowers and grasses, to which I have been allergic all of my life. I don't have headaches or new body aches, at least any more than I had going into this thing. The only new pain has been from watching my retirement accounts dwindling into the ether, but I've been told not to panic. I think the day I was told not to panic was the day when I started to panic.

I have to admit, I'm starting to run out of provisions here. I've put off any trips to the supermarket since last week, It's not that I can't afford to miss a meal or two, but I don't want to sustain myself with McDonald's or Burger King for the next two weeks. I did drive into Boston last Friday to get takeout food from Mansfield native Jen Royle's restaurant (read earlier posts) and may do it again as long as I'm not going to be hauled off into a detention center for being on the roads.

By the way, Ms. Royle was interviewed last night on WBZ about her transition at TABLE from sit-down restaurant to takeout. It's on the CBSBoston.com website.

And now I'm watching President Trump (still pains me to even think that) enjoying his latest video lovefest on Fox News. Just infuriates me. If brainpower could light a city, this guy couldn't get a lightbulb to work inside a refrigerator.

(Deep breath.)

OK, let's get to the other apocalyptic thoughts for today:

** Sad news at my former newspaper as the coronavirus crisis has forced layoffs. Still not sure how many of them, but one was veteran political reporter Jim Hand. Ted Nesi of WPRI-TV, a Sun Chronicle alum, quoted editor Craig Borges as saying these were being regarded as furloughs so that those laid off can collect unemployment benefits as soon as possible. No word whether they will be called back to service once the virus disappears and advertising revenue starts coming in again, but from what I'm told, that's possible.

Let's hope so. This area needs a local daily newspaper. It needs an independent watchdog, not stupid "Everything (Town Name Here)" Facebook pages where people can throw shit against a wall, see if it sticks, and then claim they are informed.

** Tom Brady didn't offer any revelations in his conference call, his first as a Tampa Bay Buccaneer. There were some questions from Boston reporters about his departure and whether he thought the Patriots did enough to try to keep him, but he took the high road and said that he enjoyed his 20-year tenure here, and that he felt it was time for a new challenge. Can't say I expected anything else from him.

** Speaking of change, I hear that the Patriots will have new uniforms this year. The Flying Elvis logo will remain, and from what I am told, the changes will be subtle and not overwhelming. I'm not a fan of change, but maybe since their uniform has not changed since 2000 and the out-with-the-old philosophy seems to be in place, maybe a different era requires a different look.

Also, I'm told that there will be seven teams in all with different unis this year, including the Rams, Browns, Chargers, Falcons, Buccaneers and Colts. Sad to hear about the last one -- I love teams that keep their look from the pre-merger NFL.

** The NFL Draft will take place as scheduled at the end of April. There will be no fans present in Las Vegas, and apparently Roger Goodell can't hug all the picks. Some things never change.

Sarah Behn

** You may have heard that former Foxboro High School basketball star Sarah Behn resigned her post as head coach of the Brown University women's basketball team after six seasons.

It's been a rough stretch for Sarah; Brown was just 17-40 and 3-25 against Ivy League foes over the past two seasons. But in addition to the recent passing of her mother, Diana, she has also had to endure a controversy in which seven former members of the team accused her of body-shaming (which she steadfastly denies), and she was involved in a domestic incident in August 2018, in which she was accused of assaulting her husband during an argument. The matter was only recently resolved when her husband chose not to testify against her in court; they are getting divorced.

It's a reminder that rarely is anyone's life perfect, and it's even more difficult for those involved when problems are exposed in the public eye. The fact remains that Sarah Behn is one of the best basketball players I have ever seen, and she will have a lot to offer if she chooses to return to the game -- and I hope she does.

** Three guests lined up for the immediate future on "The Owner's Box." I'll do my best to help you while away the hours. All done remotely, by the way.

** Wash your hands, folks. More thoughts as they pop into my head.

Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part Five.

Since most of us have little else to do but sit in front of our televisions, I'm sure you're getting the feeling that the politicians may be lying to you about when this pandemic and its almost complete idling of the American economy is going to end.

After all, why wouldn't they? The only thing even remotely redeemable about Donald J. Trump in his bid for re-election has been the state of the economy. A revival that begun under President Obama took off to unheard-of heights over the past three years, but now, all the gains of those years are gone -- and for those reliant upon those gains for their retirement, things are getting desperate.

So, to be honest, if you were President Trump, wouldn't you want to say just about anything you could think of to reassure potential voters that all will be well again? Even if it was all lies?

Well, it wouldn't be the first time the government has lied to the American public in a time of crisis.

"Fallout Protection," a 1961 pamphlet

issued by the U.S. Department of Defense.

The pamphlet pictured here is something I found recently in an old chest of drawers. It's called, "Fallout Protection: What to Know and Do about Nuclear Attack." It was published by the Department of Defense's Office of Civil Defense in 1961, 59 years ago during the administration of John F. Kennedy, as a means of reassuring the nation that it could survive a full-scale nuclear attack by the Soviet Union with just a few simple preparedness tips.

In retrospect, most of the tips would be laughable if not for the fact that a full-scale exchange of the nuclear arsenals of the United States and the Soviet Union -- which was close to happening in October 1962 -- would have laid waste to the entire infrastructure of both nations and the radioactivity unleashed by those weapons most likely would have eradicated almost all life on earth.

The effects of nuclear detonation are discussed in some detail early in the pamphlet, but the fiction begins in earnest on Page 20, the beginning of a chapter called, "Individual Action: Family Shelters." Within that section, suggestions for home sheltering are outlined, ranging from cinder-block structures within one's basement or underground bunkers in the backyard, or something as simple as a lean-to covered with dirt on the outside of the house or boxes piled up around a table in the basement, under which you can crawl to survive the attack.

Saving yourself in your basement.

The pamphlet also suggests what tools and products you'd need to ride out a maximum of two weeks in your shelter, how to deal with sanitation issues (assuming there was no run on toilet paper before the bombs fell) and some first-aid tips to deal with the relatively minor injuries that might occur when running for your life during a nuclear attack.

But the truly unintentional humor comes on Page 38, the start of a chapter called "First Steps Toward Recovery." It's topped with an illustration that shows a street scene in Anytown, U.S.A., the setting totally intact and damage-free, with men washing down the street with fire hoses and brooms to get rid of the last pesky vestiges of that dastardly fallout, while Old Glory flies proudly from a flagpole in front of a pristine community center. Forget the fact that the whole scene would likely be nothing but radioactive rubble and smoldering corpses strewn about.

Scary stuff.

Fear not. A few firehoses will make everything fresh and new.

I remember reading this pamphlet when I was a child and being scared silly by it, but that was part of the deal about growing up during the 1960s. It still amazes me that cooler heads prevailed during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and it's probably a good thing that the government glossed over what the real outcome of a nuclear war would have been. To be honest, episodes of "The Twilight Zone" did a much better (and more terrifying) job of representing the potential horror than any government pamphlet.

So I guess it's fair to say that Donald Trump didn't invent the art of lying to the public. He's taken it to new levels, it seems, but it's as old as George Washington and his cherry tree -- and even the sainted JFK felt the need to gloss over the facts in a time of growing crisis.

That's it for my apocalyptic thoughts for today, folks. My body temperature is 97.5, I'm not coughing, everything seems fine but it's snowing and I'm depressed. I'll try to put a happier spin on everything tomorrow. Stay safe and wash your hands.

Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part Four.

The view of the Outside World from inside my Fortress of Solitude.

I'm looking out over the pond that abuts my back yard, and there are 12 cars parked in the parking lot of the small park on the other shoreline. And there are people walking all around the pond's edge and in the park.

Oh, yeah. There's an emergency, all right. Except that most everyone I've seen is treating it like an extended vacation. There may be some "social distancing" going on, but from here, that looks like a farce. 

Admittedly, I've gone out for a few rides during this pandemic panic. I just got home a few minutes ago from a ride looking for coffee, and I was unsuccessful. The line at the Starbucks at Forbes Boulevard in Foxboro wrapped fully around the building, which also includes a Moe's Southwest Grill. So I hotfooted it to Plainville and the new Starbucks at the intersection of US 1 and Mass. Route 152, only to find it closed entirely.

So, to avoid making it a total waste of a trip, I stopped at the Shell station at 152 and 106 and filled up the Beetle for $1.97.9, the first time in at least five years that I can remember the price dipping below $2 a gallon locally. (An aside: I have a box full of surgical gloves at home and used two to operate the gas pump. Someone told me that people are getting the virus when they fill up. Probably nonsense, but better safe than sorry.)

Of course, I won't be driving that much and will probably be able to stretch this tank to May, at which time I expect the price to be closer to $3-4 a gallon as Trump will allow his buddies in the oil industry to make up their losses.

And even upon my return to familiar territory, the Foxboro 'Bux still had a full circle of cars waiting for coffee -- including the two that pulled into the line just ahead of me. So I called an audible and decided that a large Diet Dr Pepper Cherry from the local Wendy's would have to suffice for my caffeine fix until I make a pot later tonight during the second episode of "Westworld."

And with that, I segue into a few other random thoughts along the apocalyptic course ...

Tom Brady waves farewell.

** So the Patriots have re-signed Brian Hoyer in the wake of Tom Brady's departure. Well, whoop-tee-doo.

I understand the idea that Hoyer is a veteran who is well-versed in the Patriots' offensive system, and that he will be the low-cost support mechanism for second-year veteran Jarrett Stidham as he is groomed to take over as the starter. At least that should be the only role for Hoyer, because every time he has had the opportunity to prove whether he can execute those plays on the field, he has failed miserably.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. It's time to roll the dice on Stidham. It should have been Jimmy Garoppolo a few years ago, in fact, but the time has come for Bill Belichick to make a full commitment to the youngster-in-waiting rather than even remotely considering Hoyer as anything but the harbinger of a 5-11 season should he become the starter.

** Temperature was 97.6 upon waking. No symptoms. No coughs upon holding my breath for 60.8 seconds. The usual aches and pains. It's now been seven days since the last time I was in a large group of people in a confined space.

** Drove by at least three houses where lots of cars were parked and parties were going on outside. They just don't get it, do they? But that should come as no surprise, as we're hearing stories now of how college students that partied en masse on the beaches of Florida last week are now testing positive for the coronavirus. 

** First-World Problems: How frustrating is it when the light bulb in your refrigerator burns out, and it's in the socket so tightly that you're afraid to grip it with any force lest it shatter in your hand?

** People that own VW Beetles (the newest ones) know that they have two glove compartments, a large one and a smaller one built into the retro-look dashboard. And it's in that smaller one where I found another bottle of hand sanitizer that I apparently bought a few months ago and forgot all about. So I was accidentally hoarding all along.

** Don't you just hate it when you're watching a movie or TV show set before 1959 and the American flags that appear in various scenes have 50 stars? I, of course, was born in a country that had 48 states at the time. And there was actually a 49-star flag that was issued briefly between Alaska's entry into the Union and Hawaii.

** Time to start writing a script for another episode of The Owner's Box, so I'll see you along the road to Perdition again tomorrow.

Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part Three.

Just a lazy day here at La Casa Farinella. Got up late, went out for coffee and to pick up a prescription, observing the social-distancing rule at all times. Then came back home and was visited by my long-time friend Alex Salachi — we sat in front of my house, again observing proper distancing for a pandemic.

It was good to greet a visitor. I’m not a social animal to begin with, but when we’re ordered to be distant and aloof, it makes it all the more difficult to comply. Conversation takes on more meaning when it’s done in person, too — we can all text or email, but it’s nice to be assured of someone’s continued presence when you hear it in person.

Rigatoni and meatballs from TABLE by Jen Royle.

Later in the day, I opened the fridge and pulled out the second entree order I got yesterday from TABLE by Jen Royle in Boston — rigatoni and meatballs. For a more detailed discussion of my trip up to the Hub yesterday, just scroll down to the following post.

I re-heated Jen’s dish the right way — slowly, in a pot, adding just a tiny bit of my favorite sauce to compensate for what might evaporate in the process. Needless to say, the order really hit the spot. I also still had some bread from last night and warmed that up, and topped it all off with two of her yummy ricotta zeppoli. I may not eat for the rest of the week.

And now, like many of you, I’m binge-watching TV. As my friend Jen Toland of the Worcester Telegram & Gazette would say at various times when there’s nobody available to interview within the Patriots’ locker room, “This is what it’s come to.” Indeed, it is.

Now, for a few other thoughts on the road to the apocalypse:

** I just got through watching the third-season debut episode of “Westworld” for about the 18th time. HBO, you are killing me. But there just aren’t any good movies on and I’ve already spent enough this month on “on demand.” Saw “Bombshell,” the story of the sexual harassment scandals at Fox News, and boy, was Charlize Theron impressive as Megyn Kelly.

And no, I can’t bring myself to watch “Road House” again.

** I’m already sick of the tweets and Instagram posts in which Tom Brady is shilling for more season-ticket holders in Tampa.

** You know you are old when movies you saw in theaters are now on Turner Classic Movies.

** Have you noticed how quickly gas prices have dropped during the height of the suggested stay-at-home period? Regular is down to $2.19 or less around here, and a few miles closer to the coast, it’s actually slipped under $2 a gallon. And I suppose it will spike ridiculously up once people are moving about again.

** Guests coming up this week on The Owner’s Box are Norwood High boys’ hoop coach Kristen McDonnell and Boston Bruins play-by-play voice Jack Edwards. Stay tuned.

** Body temperature is 96.1, breath was held 62 seconds and no coughs, no extra pains, no sniffles. And I have plenty of toilet paper. Ready for another day. See you then.

Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part Two.

Yes, I'm stuffed. I just took a drive -- a long one -- for takeout food, and I chose well. Given the lessened traffic going in and out of Boston, it was a snap to drive up to Mansfield native Jennifer Royle's restaurant in the North End (see the review at the left-hand side of this web page) and pick up enough food to last me for a couple of nights.

Tonight's takeout dinner from TABLE by Jen Royle.

Jen is one heck of a cook, if you haven't noticed. She was an Emmy Award-winning sports reporter for the Yes Network, covering the New York Yankees, and then after stops in Baltimore and back here in Boston, she made a career change that few could even remotely attempt to accomplish -- first as a private chef, then opening her own restaurant in the restaurant-thick North End.

If you haven't heard by now, TABLE by Jen Royle is unique. It's family-style dining, two long tables in a relatively small space and everyone is served as if they're at their Italian grandmother's house on Christmas. I've dined there twice since it opened a little more than a year ago, and these days, it's tough to get in on short notice.

With the help of a very good product and some very good press, Jen has carved out a niche for herself. She's had to overcome some reluctance over the family-style concept that turns strangers into dining mates, as well as a delay in getting a liquor license from the city (she's got it now), and things were going pretty well until the COVID-19 crisis struck.

Like many other restaurateurs all over the nation, Jen has had to do a 180-degree turn and suddenly come up with a takeout menu until the government decrees that we can all go back to sitting inside a restaurant. That's a snap for Applebee's, TGI Friday's or your local House of Pizza, which already operate with takeout as part of their business model. But Jen's restaurant is truly fine dining, and she's had to be nimble on her feet to keep things going -- and remember, this is HER investment, not some corporate franchise.

I'm sure it's stressful as all hell, but Jen Royle is one tough cookie. She's made a lot of new friends with her culinary delights, and hopefully they will all support her in this critical time. And as I've said before, if you're close to Boston or don't mind a little ride, order online at her web site (www.tableboston.com), choose your pickup time, and she'll have it waiting for you at 445 Hanover Street.

I got the chicken parmesan and ziti with San Marzano tomato sauce, a couple of her famed meatballs (tasted like my Nonni Gandolfa's), and garlic shrimp for tonight, and an order of rigatoni and meatballs for tomorrow night. Oh, yeah, and the ricotta zeppoli for dessert. I can't move.

Now, for some other thoughts along the apocalyptic road:

Boston's Central Artery, probably in the early 1970s.

** How strange was it to be able to drive into Boston at around 4 p.m. and be back in Mansfield by 6 p.m., and not hit a lick of stop-and-go traffic anywhere? And to have plenty of parking at any of the lots in the North End?

I guess people are staying home -- and before you get on my case for going into Boston to get takeout food, keep in mind that aside from the MIAA Tournaments, I've been in Boston all of three times since February 2019. And my body temperature this morning was 97.1, I held a breath for 61 seconds without any hint of coughing, even my springtime-allergies have disappeared for the time being, and nothing new hurts. And when I walked on the sidewalks from the parking lot to Jen's restaurant, I gave all of the runners -- and there were quite a few out -- a wide berth.

The scene reminded me a lot of when I was a mere child -- 60 years ago in fact, when my parents and I would pile into the '56 Chevy and drive downtown on the Central Artery to the old Jordan Marsh, where we would pick up those incredible blueberry muffins that people still recall so fondly. There wasn't a lot of traffic on the Central Artery back in the early 1960s, although few remember it that way.

Aside from the fear of a deadly disease, it was a pure joy to take a carefree ride into Boston for a change.

** While the pandemic restrictions continue, the Massachusetts Interscholastic Athletic Association is trying to address what will happen to the spring sports season once it's deemed safe to resume outdoor group activities.

Right now, it sounds as if the MIAA will opt for reduced regular-season schedules of anywhere between 8-12 games in order to have a tournament. But if the spring season does not begin by April 27, the tournaments will be ditched and schools will just play a few games (if any) before the kids head out for summer vacation.

Don't know what all that means for my North TV telecasting schedule for the springtime, but I'm not holding out much hope until it's time for Glen Farley and I to do King Philip football again in the fall.

** My retirement accounts? Down 25 percent. Maybe I'd better start taking this play-by-play stuff seriously.

** Remember in your prayers, if you will, Jeanne Chambers Farinella (July 2, 1926-March 20, 2015), my mother, who passed five years ago today. Thanks.

** See you soon from further down Apocalypse Highway …

Thoughts during the apocalypse, Part One.

I'm sitting at the computer and mixing board inside what I like to call "Fulton Pond Studios," but it's actually just the dining room of my house, in which I never dine. This is where "The Owner's Box" comes from, although there have been two among the 16 episodes thus far that have been recorded at remote sites.

That, I assume, will be put on hold for a while. Nobody is supposed to go anywhere during the panic caused by the COVID-19 pandemic, but I'm trying to connect with potential guests through Skype or some new gimmicky whatzis that I just ordered from Amazon and should be here soon. And yes, I am still making daily treks to the Starbucks at Forbes Boulevard in Foxboro because there ain't no germ that's going to come between me and my coffee, no sir-ee.

Manning the board inside Fulton Pond Studios.

By the way, it's been nine days since what may have been my most likely opportunity to breathe in the coronavirus. I was at the TD Garden for the Mansfield vs. Lynn English boys' basketball game in the MIAA Tournament, and there was a significant crowd there in the lower section of the arena. I was in a luxury box quite a bit removed from the masses, but I'm assuming that we're banning large gatherings because distance doesn't make a lot of difference. And I came back the next night for the Foxboro girls' game against North Reading, rinse and repeat.

So far, the body temperature has stayed within a range of 96.0 and 97.4 (that's normal for me, as I am a cool customer in every sense of the word). I don't have headaches. I'm no more sleepy than usual (and in my retirement from print journalism, I have been a sleep glutton to make up for all those 18-hour days of the past). I can hold my breath for up to 60 seconds without coughing, and I don't cough when I take a breath. And the aches and pains apparently are what's normal for a 66-year-old who's carrying too much weight and has already damaged most of his joints over that time.

But aside from the Starbucks trips, I'm social-distancing -- which is kind of normal for me. One notable exception was on Tuesday, when I took a ride to a desolated Gillette Stadium and checked in with my long-time friend, Lisa Edwards of the NFL Network, who was practically alone within the home of the Patriots as the news about Tom Brady's departure broke.

You can listen to us talk about the visit on Episode 16 of my podcast, the links to which can be found here on the website. As you will hear, it had a very eerie quality to it -- Lisa emerging from the media workroom and walking up to the blue steel fence that separates the rabble from the inner sanctum to chat with me. If you've ever seen the movie "Red Dawn," the scene that came to mind was when Patrick Swayze and Charlie Sheen speak through a chain-link fence to their father (played by Harry Dean Stanton), who's detained inside a concentration camp set up outside their hometown by the Soviet invaders. The only thing missing was me yelling "Avenge me-e-e-e-e-e!" to Lisa as she walked away at the conclusion of our conversation.

I've seen some weird things, even though I haven't ventured far from my hometown. One of the strangest was the sight of people filling their shopping carts with what little available toilet paper there was inside the Mansfield Stop & Shop, and looking cross-eyed at me for looking at them. Of course, they may have noticed the disapproving look on my face. So what!

I have probably 12 rolls of TP here at the homestead. Even though I am a prodigious pooper, those should last me into May. It's just me here, so that cuts down the demand, but seriously, I felt no need to race around the county looking for untapped caches of TP. And if worse comes to worse, my thanks to Mom and Dad for having the foresight to install a bidet in the bathroom back in 1985. I still struggle at using it without the spritz of water splashing off my chin, but if I have to, I'll get the hang of it.

As for hand sanitizer, well, I can thank my own natural forgetfulness for keeping my supply well-stocked. So many times I'd go out with a friend who demands clean hands in her presence, and I'd forget to bring a small, refillable, trial-size bottle with me. So I'd stop at a CVS and grab a pack of three small bottles and bring them along, and then pile them up on a dresser in my bedroom. As a result, I have gallons of the stuff -- and it was hoarded long before anyone had ever heard the word "corona" without thinking of a Mexican beer or an old typewriter.

Still, it is boring here. I'm in contact with a lot of friends via social media and I've not heard of any infection among them yet. I really hope it stays that way. I'm a lousy cook, too, so I'm going to take a risk and order takeout for tomorrow night from the restaurant to which I've linked at the left-hand side of the web-page version of this blog. Please check it out, and if you live near Boston or don't mind the ride (should be less traffic), help keep my friend Jen Royle in business until all this blows over and we return to normalcy. And after that as well.

OK, enough rambling. Got to make a salad, or a hot dog, or something. This could be good for me if I lose 55 pounds or so over the next two weeks (ha! As if!).

Please stay safe. Don't think about Mookie Betts, or Tom Brady, or Chris Sale's Tommy John surgery. Listen to my podcasts to while away the hours. And wash your hands!

The Owner's Box, Ep. 16.

Tom Brady leaves the Patriots, and because of the coronavirus crisis, only two TV reporting crews were allowed inside Gillette Stadium on Tuesday. NFL Network field producer Lisa Edwards’ crew was one, and she is the guest for Episode 16, detailing what it was like to try to bring breaking news to the public in the midst of a global pandemic.

Not with a bang, but a whimper.

For some reason, I just had to be there.

He wasn't there, nor will he ever be again unless it's as an opponent. Hardly anyone else was there, either, as precautions against the COVID-19 pandemic were being fully enforced at Gillette Stadium, turning it into a ghost city within the town of Foxborough.

But it was entirely fitting. The skies were gray and misty and the surroundings had a post-apocalyptic look to them Tuesday, which scriptwriters would have chosen to illustrate the day that Tom Brady left the New England Patriots.

Brady made the announcement from afar, dropping four pages of farewell comments on Instagram (or perhaps "Snapface," as his former coach might be predisposed to call it) early Tuesday morning. There will be no press conference at Gillette Stadium, no hugs or handshakes (and not only because of the fear of infection). The only public acknowledgement of Brady's departure from the team for which he played for 20 seasons, and won six Super Bowls, will be in the city where he lands -- and as of this writing, that had yet to be revealed. (Update: Late Tuesday, word was that Brady and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers had reached a contract agreement.)

Tom Brady's image covered the end-zone

lighthouse after he was suspended to start

the 2016 season.

(Photo by Mark Farinella)

But I still had to be there.

Twenty years earlier, inside a wood-paneled "Stadium Club" that no longer exists, I asked the skinny young rookie from Michigan in a semi-private aside if he knew an Attleboro-bred basketball player who was just about to start an ill-fated career there. I knew that within the world of big-time college athletics there was very little likelihood that there would be cross-pollination between the football and men's basketball teams, but to my amazement, Brady actually admitted to knowing who Leland Anderson was.

"That's a note," I thought, and indeed, I added it to the tail end of the "notebook" story I wrote at the end of a day in which the media met all of the 2000 draft choices and priority free agents. It wasn't a big deal. Tom Brady was not supposed to be a big deal, just another low-round quarterback that might only serve as cannon-fodder in training camp amid the search for serviceable backups to Drew Bledsoe.

But soon enough, one realized that Brady had caught the eye of those whose job it was to evaluate talent. He was kept as the No. 4 quarterback on a 53-man roster, almost unheard-of today. He didn't contribute anything of consequence in that first year, rarely playing on Game Days, but he was watching and learning. And by the time the next training camp begin, it was readily apparent from the start that Brady had transformed himself into a challenger for the backup role, and he had clearly won it by camp's end.

Then, 2001. It's all a blur by now. The Jets game. Bledsoe hospitalized with a life-threatening blood vessel rupture. Brady taking over as starter. Keeping the job even when Bledsoe was healthy again -- although Bledsoe had one last moment of glory when he entered the AFC Championship Game in Pittsburgh just before halftime and steered the Patriots to the victory. And the Super Bowl win over the Rams in New Orleans -- just the first of nine Super Bowl appearances, and so meaningful in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

There is no need to list all of Brady's accomplishments here. Even the two major "cheating" scandals that dogged the Patriots during those 20 years will not tarnish Brady's glow when it comes time to make him a first-ballot Pro Football Hall of Fame selection five years after he finally decides to hang up the spikes. Most notably, an entire generation was born and reached adulthood knowing no other starting quarterback (Matt Cassel doesn't count) for the New England Patriots. They watched him grow from a system quarterback to an unquestioned field general. They watched him date movie and TV stars and then hit the jackpot with the world's highest-paid supermodel, to whom he was introduced after a game in San Diego (yeah, I was there) and has become his loving wife and the mother to two of his three children. Tom Brady's successes, on and off the field, became the vicarious experiences of New Englanders for two full decades.

And now, it's over.

On Tuesday, I strolled through the empty pavilion between the shuttered commercial concerns of Patriot Place and the Patriots' Hall of Fame, a walk I had taken thousands of times from 2002 through the first two months of the 2018 season (when my newspaper's new owners decided that an accomplished and knowledgeable pro football writer was a luxury it could no longer afford). I haven't been totally absent from the premises since then, thanks to the Associated Press, but it does feel different -- and it certainly will be far more different when the time comes to cluster around a guy wearing No. 4 as the starting quarterback.

I stopped at the blue steel fence and gate that leads to the media workroom and the field, and texted a friend I knew would be inside. Lisa Edwards, a field producer for the NFL Network, was spearheading the network's coverage of the breaking news along with her reporting crew, and I was fortunate to catch her during a break between live remote telecasts.

She came out of the workroom and we stood on opposite sides of the fence, at least 6 feet apart in full accordance with present CDC guidelines. "Plus there's the force field between us," I joked, referring to the standing orders of the security crew to keep the rabble away from the football field.

Former Patriots' quarterback Tom Brady

gives a post-game press conference.

We chatted for about 10 minutes on a variety of topics, not the least of which were the absolutely eerie surroundings of a stadium practically in lockdown. Edwards' crew was presently the only media allowed within the building, while other broadcast crews were relegated to a corner of the parking lots several hundred feet away. That made it even more difficult to fathom that Brady's tenure with the Patriots had ended. An invisible virus, which has stoked fear in the hearts of millions of Americans, proved the only thing capable of making another apocalyptic event take a distant second place in the media's eye.

We said our farewells and wished each other well, and I started the stroll back to my car. I looked up at the faux lighthouse that loomed above us, and recalled how, at the start of Brady's four-game Deflategate suspension to start the 2016 season, the team draped it with a full-length photo reproduction of Brady in uniform, shouting defiantly. It was regarded as a little too arrogant for the NFL's tastes and removed, but that's what Brady was to the Patriots and their fans -- larger than life, and possibly even above the law.

I noticed that the Pro Shop was closed, so the 70-percent-off sale of No. 12 jerseys will have to wait for some time before it can begin. One or two other brave souls were also on site, probably also in search of some sort of higher understanding of the events taking place. I then drove past the TB12 training facility on my way back to US 1, and I wondered how long it would take for that to be vacated -- and whether the end of the Brady era might also signal an end to the relevance of Patriot Place. Time will tell.

Truth be told, this day was almost overdue.

Brady's departure was going to happen eventually. As he will be 43 years old this August, it's absolutely amazing that he was able to play at all for so long, let alone still lead his team to a Super Bowl championship in his next-to-last season as a Patriot. Any decline in his play last season, while apparent, could also be explained away as a failure on the part of his team to get him the offensive weapons he needed and the protection along the line to minimize whatever regression was in progress.

But if I'm Bill Belichick -- and I'm not -- I'd be thinking about how the window was closing to rebuild the team without Brady's continued presence becoming a hindrance. The Brady situation was threatening to become the football equivalent of Larry Bird, Robert Parish and Kevin McHale, whom the Celtics kept far past the point of no return. Yes, they were beloved by fans throughout New England, and yes, they had become iconic players among others that played for that storied franchise, but their continued presence in a salary-cap era hamstrung the Celtics in their efforts to rebuild, and that lasted for almost as long as Brady played for the Patriots.

No, the time had come for the Patriots to move on. No one ever said it would be easy.

In a perfect world, Brady would have won another Super Bowl and scheduled his farewell press conference a week later, leaving with the distinction of being a Patriot for life.

Instead, it will be remembered that Brady's last pass for the Patriots was a pick-six interception in a playoff loss. It wasn't exactly Willie Mays out at the plate for the Mets; that will be reserved for the fans of some other team, who will probably feel at some point that they were sold a bill of goods when he swapped the Flying Elvis for their logo.

It shouldn't have been allowed to happen that way. But this is not on Robert and Jonathan Kraft or Bill Belichick. The decision was Brady's.

I still had to be there, though. It looked, and felt, exactly as I thought it should.

In remembrance of Lefty, 10 years later.

Amid all the bad news that has overwhelmed us this week, it's time for a sad remembrance. Today marks the 10th anniversary of my losing one of my best friends.

Lefty was a nut, plain and simple, but I always felt he was part of me. I used to have a ball with him. Granted, he wasn't a leader. He never took the point; just liked to hang around, usually with his twin brother. But if you could get him going, he'd bring the juice. You could always count on Lefty at closing time.

Sure, sometimes I caught him drooping. As we both got older, he often needed more sack time after work. But he was always willing. He had his quirky moments, but that's what made him unique. His favorite band was Wang Chung and he would laugh and laugh and laugh when he heard the Mounds/Almond Joy theme ("Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't …"). But he was first and foremost a baller, and that's how he always wanted to be remembered.

Then came the tragic accident in the Solara ... nobody knew how hurt he was at the time because he soldiered on, but eventually we knew something was terribly wrong. He might get testy when I'd chide him for singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" to himself, but little did I know that he already knew what fate awaited him.

I'm sometimes up, and I'm sometimes down
Comin' for to carry me home
But I know my soul is heavenly bound
Comin' for to carry me home. 

We went to the hospital on St. Patrick's Day, 2010, and then he was gone.

Even in death, Lefty seemed larger than life.

I'll never forget you, Lefty. Your brother and I still hang out, but it just isn't the same without you.