Is this Real Life? (Part II)

I EXPERIENCED THAT FEELING AGAIN.

People often ask in the seven plus years -seven plus years of conversations, photoshoots, events, meetings and various encounters- since starting BostonMan Magazine, what of those have been my favorite moments? What do I point to as the pivotal junctures that have perhaps been a little more special, mattered a little different amongst the myriad of cool things we’ve been blessed to be part of over our first thirty releases.

What moments stopped me in my tracks to make me say, “Holy shit! Is this real life?”

The first, as anyone who has read this column for a little while now knows, I experienced six years ago. Just over fourteen months in with BostonMan, the journalism gods, on a November evening, had me at a private dinner in the North End with the great Bob Ryan.

Bob Ryan to the world is simply the greatest basketball writer of all time. The recipient of just about every journalism award and honor as it relates to sports and basketball, Ryan also bears the unofficial crown -as named by Bill Simmons- ‘The Commissioner’ involving anything to do with Dr. Naismith’s game.

To me, as a young boy with a love for basketball, reading, and writing; Ryan was a sort of mythical teacher and mentor. I began to develop my journalistic style by rewriting columns and essays of my favorite writers. Many Sunday Globe NBA columns from years ago have been written twice: once by Bob Ryan, and then once again by a youthful Matt Ribaudo.

That November dinner in the North End, my first time meeting Bob, is something I will have with me forever. Three hours of conversation about our two favorite subjects: basketball and writing.

In the ensuing years, it’s been an honor to have Mr. Ryan pen multiple cover stories for BostonMan Magazine; and a blessing to have many more conversations with him as a mentor and friend.

Writing of my excitement to publish Bob Ryan’s work in my magazine, led to questions from readers over the years on who else is in my Mount Rushmore of writers -my bucket list of journalists- that I would be euphoric to have with BostonMan?

The day Ryan started at The Globe in 1969 he was part of an intern group hiring of which story should unequivocally one day be told in a 30 for 30 documentary.

Among those in Ryan’s class included a 17-year old George Regan, who a few years thereafter would become press secretary and key advisor for Mayor Kevin White -as well as playing pivotal roles in Jimmy Carter’s election- before building his own empire as the patriarch of Regan Communications.

Another was Peter Gammons. The greatest baseball journalist of all time. Gammons writing and impact on the game of baseball is what Ryan’s writing is to basketball. (Kudos to whoever was hiring interns at The Globe in the late 60’s.)

As a student at the University of North Carolina, Gammons was mentored by the legendary Dean Smith, who told him that being a good listener is the key to both journalism and life—a lesson Gammons has long taken to heart.

His ‘Sunday Notes’ column in The Globe, a combination of baseball and pop culture, were re-scribed many times by ten-year old Matt Ribaudo.

A recipient of the prestigious J.G Taylor Spink Award from the Baseball Writers Association of America, his story from Game 6 of the 1975 World Series is largely considered the greatest game story ever written on deadline.

Whether on television, radio -and especially with his writing- Peter Gammons is a statement. You don’t just see his love for baseball, you feel and experience it with him.

So over the last six years when asked ‘the question’ I have found myself modestly admitting to the curiosity of what an opportunity for a Mr. Gammons cover story could look like?

Then a funny thing happened. Last July, while preparing for our Summer Soiree reception at Hotel Commonwealth, I saw the greatest baseball writer of all time in the lobby.

That day the interaction was brief with Peter Gammons. I introduced myself, gave him a copy of our summer issue with Dwight Evans on the cover -delivered via courier to me only an hour before- and after some small talk we agreed to have HC general manager Shane McWeeny put us in touch down the road.

With 2026 marking the 40-year anniversary of the 1986 Red Sox World Series, I knew BostonMan would do something this spring or summer in remembrance of that team.

And I knew -if I had a chance- who I wanted the writer to be.

When Shane and I called Peter that morning in mid-March I paced my apartment living room with the same mix of nerves and excitement I used to feel when mustering the courage to call a girl I had liked for weeks in the seventh grade.

I don’t remember exactly how I asked -or if I even asked- but as soon as ‘1986’ came up, Peter began telling stories.

The greatest moments, those special experiences that matter most are the once-in-a-lifetime storytellers I get to have conversations with. The once-in-a-lifetime storytellers I get to listen to.

Shane and I didn’t say much on that mid-March morning call with Peter. We listened. Listened to a treasure cove of stories about that ’86 team. About Boggsy, Rice, Dewey, Hursty, Seaver, Buckner, Oil Can, Hendu, Spike, Geddy, Baylor, Marty, Fisch, McNamara.. and The Rocket.

“So when do you need it by?” the greatest baseball writer of all time asked, as I was coming back to consciousness from the Field of Dreams he had just rendered me in.

“Need what by Mr. Gammons?”

“Your spring cover on Roger Clemens and the ’86 Sox.”

(Ten-year old Matt, whispering in the ear, to speechless current day Matt: ‘Just say yes, give him a deadline and please don’t embarrass me!’)

Is this real life?

____

This essay is dedicated to my Pepere, a lifelong, diehard Red Sox fan. Born in 1918, like many from his generation he passed away a few short years before the Sox finally reversed the curse of Babe Ruth in 2004. During the Summer of 1986 my family moved from Maryland to Connecticut, in part to be closer to my grandparents in Maine, and as a blessing from God -or perhaps from my Pepere’s bride of almost 50 years, his beloved wife in heaven, my Memere -I got to spend most of that magical summer in Maine by his side. I learned a lot about life that summer. My grandfather showed me how to tend a garden, mow a lawn, and even attempted to teach me a thing or two in the kitchen (I wasn’t quite ready for that yet though.)

Most important, in the evenings we shared that mythical 1986 Red Sox team together. Before each game he would take me to George’s for a ‘Maine Italian’ (if you know you know); one night in August as I dug in to my favorite adolescent meal for the who knows how many consecutive night in a row, he asked “Do you want something different? Are you tired of this yet?” I looked at my grandfather, and simply said, “No, I’m happy.” The Great Man looked back at me, smiled, and said “Me too.” We then watched The Rocket lock in and deliver another master outing; a youthful curiosity and excitement taking over both of us, albeit for different reasons. Him wondering if this would ‘finally be the year’ -me not knowing yet, but now wondering if there will ever be another year like 1986.