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August 27, 1998

Between the lines and in the showers
Boston’s only catty sports column

Friends of mine know that there is nothing I hate more than authority. Stick it to the man, is what I say. Stick it to the man, any chance you get. But I must say that I was quite perturbed — or as my friend Charles would say, discomposed — when I read Antoine Walker’s verbal display of bratty, "I’m an All-Star" fireworks in the Globe recently.

So, the king of the shoulder-shake made it to the All-Star game and now he thinks he doesn’t have to sweat? I’ll bet our Italian savior (that’s Mr. Pitino in case you’re wondering) will be whupping his million-dollar gluteus maximus with more than words when camp really starts.

Ooooooh … that Antoine thing just absolutely exhausted me. Somebody get me a multivitamin!

The leaves do fall, so slow to the ground

Looks like the Red Sox are winning, err, losing again. I say do this: don’t pay attention until October. By that point the leaves will have turned and there will be brighter things in Red to look at.

Aaaa-llison, I know this world is killing you ...

I was sadder than a dusty apricot when I heard that the Harvard-gym-rat-turned-pro-ballplayer broke her foot less than a month into her pro career. As a new member of the dazzling L.A. Sparks, Allison Feaster was poised to shed the sloppy chains of Ivy-league roundball for the spectacle that is now the WNBA. One second she is the best college girl in the nation and then the poor girl just snaps her foot like so many dry, brittle pretzels.

I think I’ll mail her an ice pack and a big tin filled with love.

Sing it girls! Let your hair down and play ball!

You ladies didn’t hear this from me but my friend, Salsa Joe, who tends bar at Jacques’ on Tuesday nights (which, to this humble columnist, is the only good night to go) said that he saw a certain local ballplayer doing his best Diana Ross on stage. I can see why you’d need to cut loose once in a while. That upper echelon Red Sox management is wound so, so tight! Hmmm, meow, purr. Let the music play, ladies!

Heaven knows I hate the bourgeois and the bland more than anything, but here is a tip for all you guys and gals that like to swing a stick (that’s golf lingo, you sickos). Turn your hips. There, I’ve said it.

Phew! I’m exhausted. Everyone knows that the distance and power comes from the hips (I’m still talking about golf, you horny sea captains!) Until next time ...

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