Wednesday, April 22, 2009

The Boston Breakers: Beantown's Hottest Team

It was a day not much different than any other here in the Hub. The weather was warm (considering it was April in Boston) and the sun was shining brightly on Kenmore Square; spring was finally in the air.

I walked along the "Bank of the River Charles" and noticed that the landscape was covered with my all time favorite species. They were everywhere. Like starfish washed up on Nantasket Beach, the co-eds clad in nothing but an ipod and a belly button ring lined the shore of Boston's famous river.

I continued to Newbury Street, Boston's version of Rodeo Drive. Store front windows were dressed with the hottest fashions from Paris, New York, and Milan. Styles that all stylish women have to have. A sharply dressed shopper with legs up to here hurries across Newbury with a handled Hollister bag in one hand and Aldo Shoe in the other.

My journey continues as I attempt to track down the hottest women in Beantown. Over to Harvard Square I head. A Tracy Chapman wannabe plays acoustic guitar near the T stop. A blue haired gal with a spiked dog collar drinks Starbucks on the corner of Cambridge and JFK. Boston's college scene is ablaze with activity.

My jaunt takes me into historic Harvard Stadium.

And there they are.

I stop and watch them for seconds that seem like minutes.

Long muscular legs. Shapely figures and beautiful pony tails that bounce with each rush across the Harvard Stadium lawn. Dressed in short Puma shorts and tops with rolled up sleeves that expose their muscular bellies.

I watch continually and become aware of the delicate balance between sexy and athletic. Cute and cuddly, yet strong and powerful.

They're the Boston Breakers Women's Soccer Team and, coming off their 2-0 home opening victory over St. Louis, they are the hottest team in Boston. Hotter than the smokin' as the Celtics and muy caliente when compared to the Revolution.

I walk the sidelines as the ball moves up to my end of the field. I imagine that Kristine Lilly and Angela Hucles are advancing the play up to my end of the turf solely to get a closer look at me. I quickly push my protruding belly up to my chest, lick my hand, and coif my wind blown graying hair. I comb an extra piece from the back of my head to the forehead as Heather Mitts heads to Kasey Moore.

Abby Crumpton and Ariel Harris stop to sip from their water bottles and look over at me with love in their eyes. Ariel raises her arm and mops a sleeve full of sweat off of her brow. I look to her and do the same in a slight mocking gesture. She stares at me with a look of confusion on her fair but athletic face and calls over Amy LePeilbet. They cover their mouths and giggle shyly as if playfully teasing me.

I flip my styling Foster Grants onto my forehead and part my eyebrows slightly to each side of my forehead. They laugh. Playfully.

Then Fabiana, the gal from Brazil, runs right towards me. I have a thing for women with only one name...Madonna, Rihanna, and Queen Latifa.

I think I'll buy her poster from the Breakers Online Store to add to my collection. Newspaper clippings of Ali Lipsher and Sue Weber already adorn the walls of my slick Chelsea efficiency.

I know that Fabiana's running towards me, as she seems to be running to me in slow motion. I hear music playing softly, totally unaware that the Harvard College band practices in the distance. She tries to get to the rolling sphere before I pick it up. The Brazilian Bomber won't be denied.

She gently hip checks Ariel Harris out of the way and continues in my general direction.

And then she stops. And looks right at me. I quickly pull my Jordache jeans a little higher. I'm stylin'. The cat's meow.

Then she speaks to me in Portuguese as her slight accent flows from above her powder blue mouth piece. She nods once. Then again.

I can feel my heart begin to beat just a little faster as Fabiana's eyes meet mine. And then I hear her voice. Like the angel from south of the equator that she is, she says those familiar words that I've waited so long to hear.

"Hey, Mister." she yells. "Could you get off the field? We're trying to practice for our next home game, May 2 against the Los Angeles Sol."

I look around, totally unaware that I'm standing in the center circle. I'm on cloud nine. I know she really wants me.

At that moment, a security guard walks across the field in my direction. He points, blows his mall cop whistle, and hollers through a bull horn to "vacate the premises." Another Dudley Do-right blind sides me and tackles me to the turf. I pull a mouthful of grass from the meticulously manicured Harvard Stadium field as the Bobbie slaps cuffs on me and lifts me to my feet.

I smile at Fabiana, who has a look of new found respect for me on her face. She loves the bad boys.

I nod knowingly at Boston's Hottest Team.

I just love when they play hard to get.

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