Same Song, Only Different

Several weeks ago, whilst my wife and I were adding our individual “u” and “e” to the ever-increasing queue to get into the Los Darks Festival in Santa Ana, California, I had an epiphany about a song that was playing by Mareux (he was currently on stage):

It’s a cover!

“The Perfect Girl”—his signature darkwave, atmospheric, moody, synthesizer-driven tune—is a cover of The Cure song, first released on their album Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me (1987).

Which got me musing…

We’ve all been at the pub with our dates, mates, and Speight’s, listening (and dancing) to the house band going through their set. Unfortunately, they endeavour to make each song sound like how it was performed by the original artist.

Yeah, nah.

I want my house band to go rogue. I want them to make it their own, imbue it with their own creative spark, exercise their musical alchemy. I want my covers to be original, a rendition so unique that when you realize it’s a cover song, you default to your inner Brit and exclaim:

“You’re joking!”

Which got me musing…

In one sense, we’re all cover artists. We are each afforded the opportunity to reflect our unique soul-spark bestowed by our universal Creative Artist. We are all derived from the same Cosmic Source, only different. To repeat the modern aphorism: “You do you; everyone else is already taken.”

So, in the spirit of same song, only different, and a tip of the Jacaru to the Top Ten List format made famous by Mr. David Letterman on his late-night talk show, from the home office in Oban, Rakiura, New Zealand, here are my top ten covers and the reasons why:

1. Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho

"Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho" is a spiritual composed by enslaved African Americans probably in the first half of the nineteenth century.

This song reminds me of my childhood. Sundays often included visiting Nana and Poppa and going to the Salvation Army Church. My poppa played trombone, and during the ride home, we would sing Christian songs—“Jesus Loves Me,” “The Devil Is a Sly Old Fox,” and “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho” are a few that come to mind.

The singsong tradition has come full circle. I’m now Poppa, and along with Grandma, we sing harmony with our grandson, Silas, as we travel to church. In addition to the songs listed, he also likes “I've Got the Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart."

Where?

Down in my heart, mate!

Cover by Mahalia Jackson

Paul Robeson and Elvis Presley do excellent covers, but Mahalia Jackson’s is my favourite.

Her voice reverberates throughout the song with such passion, power, and potency that all walls of impediment to human actualization—especially the oppressed—must “come tumbling down.”

2. My Way

The original was a French pop song entitled, “Comme d’habitude,” written by Claude Francois and Jacques Revaux (1967). Paul Anka transformed it into “My Way,” which Frank Sinatra made famous.

Cover by Sid Vicious

My musical coming-of-age was in the late seventies in West Auckland, New Zealand. British music, especially punk music, was a cornerstone of my musical taste, including the Sex Pistols. Sid Vicious was a member of the band (he replaced Glen Matlock,) and his version was more an anti-cover to the classic made by the Chairman of the Board. It spoke to my membership in teenagers-of-the-bored.

3. Mony, Mony

The original was written by Bobby Bloom, Ritchie Cordell, Bo Gentry, and Tommy James and released by Tommy James and the Shondells (1968).

Cover by Billy Idol (live version, 1987)

Growing up, I had never heard the original song, but I loved Billy’s version. He truly “Idolized” it with a British bad-boy energy, a leather jacket and sneer. Mea Culpa: I did practice the sneer in the bathroom mirror while listening to the song on the radio.

4. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

The song was released on May 26, 1967, by the Beatles on their album Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

The Fab Four are and always will be my favourite group of all time. If my life had a soundtrack, it would be composed of songs written and performed by John, Paul, George, and Ringo. The first album—vinyl no less—I ever bought was from The Liverpool Lads, from a secondhand record store on Great North Road in Henderson, West Auckland.

Cover by Sir Elton John

Sir Elton John was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II on February 24, 1998, at Buckingham Palace. It was for “services to music and charitable services.”

From my perspective (the Commonwealth cheap seats), this cover motivates me to add the honorific title “Sir” when referring to Elton Hercules John.

Sir Elton transforms a hazy, mellow, meandering trip “on a boat on a river” into an Icon of the Seas mega-cruise with its own pop anthem and a climactic, energetic refrain:

“Lucy in the sky with diamonds.”

5. I Fought the Law

The song was written by Sonny Curtis and released in 1959 by his band, The Crickets.

Cover by The Clash

The Clash’s cover appeals to my punk-rock sensibilities and is a reminder that I was once a part of the law (Number 94 Recruit Wing, NZPC).

The aggressive energy reminds me of a particular middle-of-the-night scuffle I was involved in on Great North Road, Auckland.

The law won.

6. A Forest

The song was released on April 8, 1980, by The Cure on their second album, Seventeen Seconds (see previous blog, “Seventeen Seconds).

Cover by Bat for Lashes

English auteur Natasha Khan is the creative energy behind the moniker.

I hear her voice

Calling my name

The sound is deep

In the dark

Her haunting voice, hypnotic synth chord, and electronic drum machine invite me to transcend the rings-pass-not limits of passive listening into a mystical soundscape “running towards nothing, again and again and again.”

7. Smells Like Teen Spirit

The original song was released on September 10, 1991, on Nirvana’s second studio album, Nevermind, and was the sonic herald of Grunge music, its epicenter being Seattle, Washington.

On its release, I was in my late twenties, living in the U.S., but with sufficient teen angst samskaras (and un-Met Gala-esque wardrobe) to appreciate what the song expressed. And I do aspire “to be worst at what I do best.”

Cover by The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain

Sometimes the best antidote to angst, lyric paradoxes, and the stench of melancholy is to have a good laugh, nay, guffaw. This orchestral cover delivers!

Pip, pip, cheerio!

8. (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction

For those living under a large stone that has never rolled, shifted, moved, or been displaced, the original is by the English rock band the Rolling Stones. It was released as a single in the United States in June 1965.

Cover by Devo

If rockstars Mick, Keith, and the lads “can’t get no satisfaction,” what hope is there for the rest of us yobbos? And how does anyone cover and reimagine Keith Richards’ three-note opening guitar riff.

Welcome Devo.

In their 1978 debut album, Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo, the band “de-evolves” and subverts the sexy, virile frustration of the original into a corporate, frantic, high-pitched repressed mantra:

I can’t get no satisfaction

I can’t get no satisfaction

Cause I try, and I try, and I try, and I try

I can’t get no, I can’t get no

So come on, slip on your yellow radiation suit and don your red energy dome hat and let’s while away another lifetime on the commercial and sensory treadmill:

No satisfaction

No satisfaction

9. Personal Jesus

The original is a song by the English band Depeche Mode and appeared on their seventh album, Violator, released March 19, 1990.

Cover by Johnny Cash

As a Kiwi, I am drawn to all things black—All Blacks, Black Caps, Ice Blacks, and Tall Blacks. I also like wearing the colour and listening to The Man in Black.

I am all for having a personal relationship with Christ Jesus, and Cash’s version speaks to that in a somber and intimate tone, more so than the high-energy, synthesizer-driven original.

The original reminds me of a house band at some megachurch where the minster has poofed-up hair and perfect teeth, and wears Nike Air Yeezy 2 sneakers.

Cash’s cover reminds me of a world-weary singer with a guitar slung over his shoulder, walking a country road in the sweltering midday sun to Damascus, Maryland, for a church social.

When Cash sings: 

“Your own personal Jesus

someone to hear your prayers

someone who cares,”

I sense he is recounting the sentiment from personal experience. It resonates with me.

10. Don’t Dream It’s Over

For the last track—you knew I was going there—it had to be southern hemispherical. The original was the fourth track on Crowded House’s debut album, Crowded House, released in June 1986. Cheers to Neil Finn, Nick Seymour, and Paul Hester (RIP, mate).

Cover by Sixpence None the Richer

The cover doesn’t completely meet the criteria I list above, but I love the feminine energy Leigh Nash, the lead singer, brings to the song. I am also enamored by the name of the band (I’ll let you C. S. Lewis aficionados dig out the “sixpence” reference to that literary Christmas pudding).

I am also pleased to report that both the original and the cover have received a lot of playing time at the grocery stores I visit in SoCal. I have had a few “hey now” encounters while manhandling my avocadoes, apples, and apricots in the produce department.

Maybe that’s why great covers resonate so deeply—they remind us that originality isn’t about inventing a new song but singing it in our own voice.

What cover song made you say, “You’re joking!”—and why?

© 2026

Ever The Bride: Reanimated, Reimagined, Reclaimed

“You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being.”

Sound familiar?

Such elevated dialogue is from Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel Frankenstein, spoken by the Monster to his creator, Victor Frankenstein.

In today’s eyes-glued-to-the-cellphone world, that request could be texted or posted on X as, “I’m lonely; I want a mate!”

Whatever the mode of communication, the yearning for companionship is part of our “human” DNA. Even God Almighty noted that “It is not good that the man shall be alone” (Genesis 2:18).

From that primal request in Mary Shelley’s original novel to modern cinematic reinterpretations, the figure of the Bride of Frankenstein has evolved from a constructed companion into a symbol of female autonomy and agency.

Origins: Shelley’s Vision

One can empathize with the Monster (put yourself in his size twenty shoes). Hardly a looker. In Volume I, Chapter IV, the novel notes that “no mortal could support the horror of that countenance.” In the Georgian era, your dating options were limited. No swipe-right apps for the Ugly and Deformed. No mail-order brides from Vietnam, Russia, or wherever they come from.

But there was the possibility of a made-to-order companion.

On the remote Orkney Islands in Scotland, Victor Frankenstein does commence the task but has a change of heart. "I thought with a sensation of madness on my promise of creating another like to him, and trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged."

He then put the mangled body parts into a basket weighted with stones, rowed out on the sea, and dumped it. “I listened to the gurgling sound as it sank, and then sailed away from the spot."

Order cancelled; request denied. The Monster’s female was now fish food.

Obviously, Mary Shelley did not write a sequel to Frankenstein. I do not know if she ever documented any desire to regalvanize this character. She certainly was a prolific writer throughout her life in a variety of genres. Included in her canon are the novels Valperga, The Last Man, and Lodore. She also wrote short stories, travel narratives, poems, and articles, and journaled extensively about her life.

However, the idea of a sequel, specifically about a female, was not lost at sea. That creative endeavour was picked up after Ms. Shelley’s death. The potential narrative of her life was a creative void that needed to be filled. And you know what our Latin-versed mates say (including my KBHS Latin teacher, Mr. Staniland): “Natura abhorret vacuum.”

Reanimation Through Culture

Remnants of the fish food have washed ashore on the creative mindscape of some very talented people. Firstly, a huge tip of the Jacaru sea cap should first be credited to James Whale. He directed the 1935 Universal Pictures Bride of Frankenstein. Mary Shelley’s female was now upgraded to a bride, specifically built for the monster[.

The movie also introduced the meta-narrative of having the same actress, Elsa Lanchester, play both Mary Shelley (in the prologue) and the monster’s mate at the end! And, of course, forever hair-sprayed into our collective consciousness is the bride’s Nefertiti Hair with the white lightning-bolt patterns on the sides.

Despite being the titular character, the bride’s screen time was only five minutes toward the end of the film. Still, as the Hollywood expression goes, “There are no small parts, only small actors.” And Ms. Lanchester gave a towering performance (I’m guessing seven feet tall). In her brief performance she hisses, screams, and, with drop-dead body language, rejects the monster.

In a poignant response, the monster replies: “We belong dead.”

Yeah, nah: In a story meme that deals with reanimation, there is no end to how many artistic ways the bride of Frankenstein and the monster can be regalvanized; there’s still flesh on those narrative bones. And over the past ninety-plus years, there has been a smorgasbord of options for whatever your bridal appetite.

Some other notable cinematic brides of Frankenstein: Jane Seymour (Frankenstein: The True Story, 1973); Jennifer Beals (The Bride, 1985); Madeline Kahn (Young Frankenstein, 1974); Fran Drescher (The Hotel Transylvania Franchise, 2012–2022); Phyllis Diller (Mad Monster Party, 1967).

Across other creative genres, the Bride has appeared in numerous reinterpretations—from theatre to modern animated franchises, theme parks, fashions shows—each reshaping her identity to reflect cultural attitudes toward women and autonomy.

And who hasn’t channeled their own inner monster…

The Modern Bride: Agency and Identity

 

While these earlier portrayals shaped the Bride as an object of creation, Maggie Gyllenhaal’s 2026 film The Bride! challenges that narrative entirely.

The meta-mantle is again picked up as author Mary Shelley breaks the fourth wall and rhetorically asks at the beginning of the film if the story to follow is to be a ghost story, a horror story, or a love story.

Categorically all three, but most saliently: The bride’s story! Exclamation point!

The dictionary tells us that a bride “is a woman about to be married.” The title of Gyllenhaal’s film insinuates “to whom” is a matter of the bride’s choice. Her marriage, should it happen, will be one of choice, not construct.

The film opens in 1930s Chicago. True to his identity, Frankenstein’s monster, who calls himself “Frank,” contacts rogue scientist Dr. Cornelia Euphronious with his unceasing request: He wants a companion. Dr. Euphronious perfunctorily refuses. But this is not Frank’s first reanimation rodeo. He knows that people with this creative ability also have egos.

“I thought you were a mad scientist?”

A flash of hubris animates the doctor’s eyes.

CUT TO: Frank and Dr. Euphronious digging up Ida’s body, formerly a gangster’s moll, from a potter’s field. She had been killed by henchmen of crime boss Lupino for speaking out about his malefactions.

Ida’s subsequent animation, in fact the entire narrative, is sustained by feminine energy. From Mary Shelley’s book to Gyllenhaal’s script, the main characters—Ida/The Bride/Mary Shelley (played by Irish actress Jessie Buckley), Dr. Cornelia Euphronious (Annette Bening), Detective Myrna Mallow (Penélope Cruz), crusty maid Greta (Jeannie Berlin)—all contribute.

Jessie Buckley in particular is riveting in all three of her roles and gives an Oscar-winning, nay, Oscarette-winning performance (who needs another male stiff to validate your rendition?).

Unlike the Monster, Ida/The Bride is not a mishmash of female body parts. She is her own woman, with her own body and agency, but suffers from amnesia upon her awakening (Frank lies to her that her name is Penny). But she is no yes-woman and does exercise her ability to say “nay,” or more poetically, “I would prefer not to.”

This iconic line comes from Herman Melville's famous 1853 short story "Bartleby, the Scrivener." Ida/The Bride clarifies the correct author during the breakfast scene where Dr. Euphronious and her maid Greta are debating whether it was penned by George Eliot or Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Authorship and voice are themes that permeate the film. As an artistic creator, Ms. Gyllenhaal is a student of classic cinema, literature, pop culture, and the issues du jour. Part of the enjoyment of watching the film (I have seen it three times and counting…) was recognizing the homages paid to authors and their art. Some associated with cinema include Ida Lupino, The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), Young Frankenstein (1974), Bonnie and Clyde (1967), and Top Hat (1935). And in terms of headlines making current social media streams, the bride even utters the words “Me too.”     

The phantom Mary Shelley possesses Ida/The Bride’s character and often engages in rhythmic outbursts in a British accent, using the reanimated body as a vocal channel for her bridled aspirations. 

However—Lo! This is not your great-great-great-grandma’s Mary Shelley (or even my English nana’s either) or her fictional characters. Ida/The Bride’s language pole-vaults the entire spectrum of language and posture—from the poetic to the profane (the film is rated R). In one carnal request the bride makes to Frank, even my toes curled!

Of course, a woman who speaks her mind, speaks truth to patriarchal power, and, as memories of her murder begin to flood back to her, increasingly vents her rage against those who abused her, she and Frank soon run afoul of both the law and the lawless. A classic cinematic showdown ensues.

And the ending—you must see in person—oh, the ending…what can I say?

I would prefer not to.

© 2026

🥝🥝🥝🥝

Moa, Please

“Poppa, what’s that?”

 

“Why, Silas, that’s a moa, M-O-A, moa.”

 

“Moa. It’s so big.”

Silas's eyes slowly scan skyward, feasting on New Zealand's biggest big.

 

“Sure is, lad. And tall, too. Our moa mate here is about three metres in height.”

The above-listed conversation has played out in my mind many times. In the reverie, my grandson and I are enjoying an afternoon at the Auckland Zoo. It is a warm summer day. A few puffs of Aotearoa’s namesake adorn the azure. All is well.

 

As we saunter, skip, hop, and meander our way around the zoo, a smorgasbord of sensory perceptions vies for our attention: Chirps, snarls, grunts— and that’s just the humans—assail our ears.

 

And the smells—ah, the bestial bouquets, a scent one wouldn’t purchase in a crystal flacon at the perfumery for a beloved—tickle our nostrils, an olfactory reminder from the Animal Kingdom to slow down, smell the roses, orangutans, kangaroos, and kiwis. (Nay, Mr. Thackeray, nor sniff any “wombat waddle in the straw.")

 

At the Lookout Café, we stuff down a couple of Kāpiti ice creams (a feeding not requiring zookeepers). And then that last bite of the cold ice “creamery” douses the reverie:

 

It was New Zealand’s tallest bird.

 

Moas were hunted to extinction upon the arrival of the Māori centuries earlier. But what if we could engage in a genetic change of tense and make “was” “is”?

 

Hitherto, the only moas I’ve ever seen in New Zealand have been frozen in time in museums. But recently I had a flicker of hope, a Sir Elton John, “candle-in-the-wind” quiver of hope. What if moas could be scientifically thawed, regenerated, and released from the glass cages to wander the sacred land of Aotearoa or adorn an enclosure at the Auckland Zoo?

 

Now, before the vapours of doubt accumulate, saturate, and “the rain set[s] in,” “lend me your ears,” imagination, and brolly!

 

I am not proposing creating life (“Get in behind, Trev!”). Let us stay in our lane, keep to our job description, and leave that duty to “Our Father which art in heaven.” We have all read Ms. Shelley’s 1818 classic novel, seen the movie monster and his missus; playing God does not bode well.

 

I am not a rocket scientist, geneticist, microbiologist, or any other “ist.” (I am an imagineer, licensed in all three states…of human experience—subconscious, conscious, superconscious.) But the folks at Colossal Laboratories and Biosciences are.

 

I propose that we build on and support their genetic vision. As they state on their website, they are dedicated to “combining the science of genetics with the business of discovery” and endeavoring to “jumpstart nature’s ancestral heartbeat.”

 

This is a vast cry, or growl, from Victor Frankenstein’s efforts when he stated in Chapter Five, "I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet."

 

A tip of the Jacaru to Colossal’s efforts, for they have produced fruit…dire fruit—dire wolves! In 2025, the company announced the birth of the first "genetically engineered" dire wolf-like pups: Romulus, Remus, and Khaleesi.

 

You may remember the species from George R. R. Martin’s epic fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire (adapted into the TV show Game of Thrones). In the first book, The Game of Thrones, the Stark children find a litter of orphaned dire wolf pups in the snow.

 

Now look who is holding the baby—dire pup?

And the good news, nay, great news: The New Zealand moa is on Colossal’s “De-extinction Species Index.”

 

Music to my ears!

 

Readers: Let’s take a station/reading break for our scheduled Handel Hallelujah Moment:

 

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

 

Even New Zealand’s acclaimed filmmaker Sir Peter Jackson has given his support of the scientific breakthroughs by Colossal. And he has the cinematic creative cred. After all, he “jumpstarted” the 1933 classic King Kong in his 2005 remake. He states on Colossal’s website: “As far as the health of the natural world goes, this is the most positive news any of us could hope to receive. It’s great—I’m feeling like an excited kid again."

 

Agreed!

 

Now, we have all read The Original Mandate in Genesis:

"And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth" (Genesis 1:26).

Sadly, that dominion has devolved into the disappearance of thousands of species. But there is hope. Let’s turn that flicker into a bonfire and right the dereliction of dharma. Right our historical wrongs. And embrace the Kiwi expression “She’ll be right, mate (Mother Nature)!”

To the lexicographers at Merriam-Webster and Oxford English Dictionary, let’s expand on the meaning of “dominion” to include “de-extinction.” In many ways Terra Mater is like a huge Pottery Barn, and we have all read the Pottery Barn rule on Sunday afternoon meanderings with the missus: “You break it, you pay for it.” I say let’s pay it forward for my grandson, Silas, and all our grandsprogs and their sprogs.

Imagine.

As John Lennon (my favourite Beatle) once sang: "You may say I'm a dreamer / But I'm not the only one…”

…“Poppa, more please. Ice cream.”

Oh, lad, there is no Oliver Twist privation in your future; only plenty.

I turn to the young lady behind the counter at the Lookout Café.

“Two more Kāpiti ice creams…and a moa, please.”

© 2026

So Fine a Stadium: A Life in Five Sporting Moments

I am a sports fan.

As a kid I played rugby, cricket, and running, representing my high school, KBHS, in all three sports.

And, of course, plenty of backyard cricket with Kim, my best sidekick-sister-mate—my southern hemispherical Huckleberry Finn.

These days, I’m a couch coach—screaming and yelling plays at the telly when I’m watching a game of note. But on rare occasions, I do visit an iconic stadium.

For that to happen, one, some, or all these criteria need to be met:

1. I am emotionally vested in one of the competing teams, including cursing the ref when he makes a bad call against my team. Suffered as the Bard stated in Hamlet, “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” and heartbreaking defeat. And even...prayed to Almighty God to take a break from running the universe to Bless my team with a victory. Pathetic? Desperate? Maybe. To quote the final words of Edgar Allan Poe (according to his attending physician Dr. John Joseph Moran), “Lord, help my poor soul.”

2. I attend the game with my crew, posse, best mates, fam, or loved ones.

3. The stadium/arena must be iconic, have a history with the community, and be a special space with a vibe and ambience that I want to experience again and again and again.

Here’s a list of the top five stadiums I have visited and watched games, from the most recent to the distant past.

December 27, 2025. SoFi Stadium
1001 S. Stadium Drive
Inglewood, CA 90301
Los Angeles Chargers versus Houston Texans
Texans won, 20-16.

In November 2016, construction began on SoFi Stadium. Rising like a phoenix from the ashes of the Hollywood Park Racetrack, which was demolished in 2014, it officially opened on September 8, 2020.

With a price tag in the billions (that’s a capital “B”), the 3.1-million-square-foot stadium seats approximately 70,000 and is the largest stadium in the NFL. It is also the first indoor-outdoor stadium.

Continuing with the B-word, SoFi Stadium is Big, Bold, and Beautiful. And the county—Los Angeles—in which it is located bustles with Beautiful people with Big, Bold dreams who expect Big winners!

The stadium was christened on Sunday, February 13, 2022, when Super Bowl LVI took place. In this matchup, the hometown Los Angeles Rams defeated the Cincinnati Bengals, 23–20.

On Saturday, April 1, 2023, WrestleMania 39, “WrestleMania Goes Hollywood” took place at SoFi Stadium. Some of my favourite peeps-posse-fam—B-Man, Chris, Kim, Denise, and Grandpa—attended Night 1 of a red-hot ticket, two-night event.

Later, as B-Man fondly recalled, “Everybody loved Grandpa: His aura was infectious, and it was easy to see why I remember many people asking to take pictures with him outside the stadium. This brought me great joy because if it weren’t for him and Uncle Miguel, Chris and I wouldn’t be the fans that we are today, and for that I’m forever grateful.”

By 1:33 p.m., I had nestled my nates in Section 542, Row 17, Seat 11. My posse included my wife, Teresa, daughter G, and her beau, Brandon. My seat included a bird’s-eye view of the field and Infinity (the screen, mate, the screen). It was game on, bolt up!

The bolt did not come from the blue and yellow, for within the first six minutes, C.J. Stroud had thrown two long touchdowns on Houston Texans’ first two drives. By halftime (14-3), I was feeling the blues, and left singing ’em.

July 17, 2019. Angel Stadium
2000 E Gene Autry Way
Anaheim, CA 92806
Los Angeles Angels versus Houston Astros/MLB Baseball
Houston won 11-2.

Happy birthday, sis!

And here we were at Angel Stadium to watch the Los Angeles Angels play the Houston Astros. A perfect way to celebrate my sister Kim’s birthday: watching a sports game live with my best sporting-mate-sis-fan!

Let me clarify: I am a sports fan; Kim is a sports fan riding/sculling a Red Bull! She talks the talk—rugby, cricket, rugby league—and don’t get her started on Australian Brisbane Broncos player “Alf” Langer, or South African cricketer Jonty Rhodes!

And when push comes to punch, she’s got a mean left hook (one time she gutted me with a blow so intense, it took all my thespian skills to smirk it off). Many a childhood afternoon, we played our own international cricket matches in the backyard. I was always a B-A-S-T-A-R-D, never cutting my younger sister any slack; she a C-O-M-P-E-T-I-T-O-R, never quitting, ever.

As we entered the stadium on that fine Wednesday evening—warm, clear, quintessential Southern California weather—the irony of naming moniker did not escape me: two sibling “angels” enjoying time together at this glorious stadium. As kids in West Auckland, New Zealand, the term “naughty devils” was frequently bandied about by some of the rellies (fortunately, this game was being played on a field, not ice; in Anaheim, not New Jersey).

Things did not go heavenly for the darling Angels in the outfield, infield, pitcher’s mound, or home plate. Grrr—in part due to the pitching of Astros’ Gerrit Cole and a three-run homer by George Springer in the fifth innings.

Despite the loss, we did get to see Shohei Ohtani before he became “SHOHEI OHTANI.” And as almost foreshadowing his future free agency signing, my sister did quip to me on our exit, “We should have gone to a Dodgers game.”

March 29, 2015. MCG
Brunton Ave
Richmond VIC 3002
Australia
New Zealand versus Australia/ ICC Cricket World Cup Final
Australia won the match by 7 wickets.

MCG. The “G.” G-zero of the heart of Australian sport. Located in Yarra Park, it is one of the blue-blood stadiums of sporting venues with a long, sacred history.

In 1877, it became the birthplace of Test Cricket when it hosted the very first Test match ever played (Australia versus England). It was also the main venue for the 1956 Summer Olympics and the 2006 Commonwealth Games.

On March 15, 1956, this sacred ground also hosted America’s Pastor, The Reverend Billy Graham, when he held a historic religious crusade.

On March 29, 2015, the ICC final was a day-night match. My crew included my wife, Teresa, my sis Kim, her husband, Len, and 93,009 other spectators. Got my derrière to Level 4, Q37, Row FF, Seat 7. Game on.

New Zealand won the toss and elected to bat first.

I can’t believe I’m here at the MCG watching New Zealand take on our perennial nemesis Australia in the final. Pinch me!

My reality check came in the first over when New Zealand Captain Brendon McCullum was bowled for a duck by Mitchell Starc; I knew duck/kiwi-hunting season was now officially open. In 45 overs (out of a maximum of 50), we scored 183 runs. Australia reached 186/3 in 33.1 overs to win the game.

After it was all over, Teresa and I ducked out to avoid any trash-talking from the victorious Australians. None came. They were graceful winners. Even my best mate, Aussie filmmaker/auteur Mark Savage, whom I love to chaff whenever the All Blacks wallop the Wallabies, remained silent. Add “Gentleman” to his résumé!

And “Chagrined” to mine.

Years later when I asked him about his verbal restraint, he quipped with typical Aussie assurance, “Why would I need to sh*t on your cricket team; they’re miserable enough!”

Ouch.

July 28, 2011. Fenway Park
4 Jersey St.
Boston, MA 02215
Boston Red Sox versus Kansas City Royals/MLB Baseball
Royals won 4–3.

Boston is one of my cherished world cities (tip of the Jacaru also to Auckland, Edenborough, Las Vegas, London, Melbourne, Nashville, Rome…) Its history, culture, accent, and vibe all enchant me. And they do know how to throw a tea party!

The city has had its fair share of famous visitors: When Paramahansa Yogananda first visited America, aboard The City of Sparta, he arrived at Harbor Pier in Boston, on September 19, 1920.

Visiting Titletown was part of an East Coast road trip I took with Teresa and the sprogs. My mum, who was visiting from New Zealand, also joined us.

On a warm, sunny New England Thursday afternoon, my eldest daughter, Sadie, and I visited Fenway Park, the oldest continually operating ballpark in Major League Baseball, as part of a dad-daughter day (none of the others were interested in attending). We were there to eat pretzels, see the Green Monster, sing “Sweet Caroline,” and cheer on the Red Sox. We were there to enjoy, in her words, “a fun day!” My word: together.

We did all that and more, including watching Royals Billy Butler hit a knock-your-socks-off fourth inning, three-run home run off Red Sox starter Josh Beckett. Ouch.

Sadie left with a pair of red socks; I with a contented heart.

February 1975. Eden Park.
42 Reimers Avenue
Kingsland, Auckland 1024
New Zealand
New Zealand versus England/Cricket
England won by an inning and 83 runs.

Spending time with my father, “hanging out,” involved toiling alongside him in the orchard during all hours of the day and night. His given name was Paul, but in reality, he was the reincarnation of Sisyphus, and I was Sisyphus’s son. His shoulder-to-the-boulder assistant to the never-ending tasks, jobs, errands, and duties fate had assigned us.

One fateful morn, as we ate breakfast in ritualistic monastic silence, Dad glanced up from the sports section of The New Zealand Herald and said, “The English cricket team is in town. They’re playing New Zealand at Eden Park today. Wanna go?”

I was completely caught off guard. Dad was serious—but in a good way!

With a mouthful of food, I struggled to reply. I swallowed slowly on juicy pieces of lamb to prolong my reaction time.

Would I like to go? Would I like to go? Are you kidding me? A day away from the orchard so I can hang out with Glenn Turner, Geoff Howarth, Dayle Hadlee, Ewen Chatfield, and my dad! Together, I’m sure we could teach these pommes a thing or two about the game they had created. Let’s go!

“Sure, Dad. Thanks.”

I replied with a controlled amount of enthusiasm and sincerity. Dad was not one who indulged a sprog’s flashy displays of emotion, and I did not want to jinx the experience. Today was to be a day of relaxation, a day of cricket, a day of father and son.

Dad slid his empty plate toward me. “Wash up the dishes, and I’ll meet you at the car.”

So this is what it’s like to die and go to heaven. Eden. Stadium of Eden. Eden Park, here we come…

…Eden, Fenway, MCG, Angel, SoFi: each so fine a stadium, a cavernous cauldron of percolating memories, shared moments, and the sweet taste of fandom.

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2026

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