Our friend Ted shares the idealized version of his late 70′s youth, in which his girlfriend is Wonder Woman, his best friend Richie Rich, his supply of Jolly Ranchers is limitless, his credo is Dynomite Magazine, and his dad is Isaac the Bartender. We were there with you, Ted.
Keep up with Ted’s work here:
If Art Larsen had played twenty years later, Boast would have been all over him. From his obituary:
“More than for his victories, however, Larsen was known for his personality quirks. On side changes during a match, his routine included stepping on certain lines and avoiding others. He sometimes addressed an imaginary bird on his shoulder, and he was widely known as Tappy because of his superstitious habit, perhaps a compulsion, of tapping people and things a given number of times on given days.
Larsen was not an ascetic athlete. A smoker, a drinker and a partygoer, he earned his success in spite of his disdain for training. ‘That’s the understatement of a lifetime,” Savitt said. “I don’t think he knew what the word ‘training’ was, but he was in great shape. He was thin and he could play all day.’ ”
Art Larsen, Quirky Tennis Champion, Dies at 87.
You never forget your first jean jacket. Brand-new, rigid, navy, preferably Levi’s. Every single self-respecting American male teenager owned one of these from the 1970′s to the mid-1980′s. Buying your first denim jacket was a rite of passage. It was okay if your mom bought it for you, but it was not okay to buy a “vintage” jacket from a thrift store. You had to do the work yourself, and buying a pre-worn jacket was just cheating.
In a world where everyone was wearing nearly identical jean jackets, you had to find a way to express your individuality. This is where buttons came in. Adam Ant, David Bowie, English Beat, Talking Heads, or for the rebellious, perhaps the Sex Pistols, Misfits or Siouxsie and the Banshees. You could arrange the buttons in any creative way that you could think of– one side, both sides, different formations. But there was always a fine line between an acceptable abundance of buttons and crossing the line to “button guy”– you did not want to go there. Better yet, you could stand apart by wearing a Boast polo underneath with a drop tail showing in back.
In New York, your jean jacket marked you as an intrepid traveler along 8th St. in the West Village, where you would join your fellow denim wearers on a quest for “imports”, i.e., imported British records from overseas, the more obscure the better, with the illegally pirated copies the most prized. Postermat, Bleecker Bob’s, and Second Coming Records were mandatory stops along the route, as was It’s Only Rock ‘n Roll, where you could check out the rack of Dead bootleg cassettes before adjourning to the back of the store to play the Journey video game amidst the smoke emanating from the men’s room.
- Gray H., Team Boast
The guest submission series begins.
There is a successful series of commercials centered around a man dubbed “The Most Interesting Man in the World.’ While he seems like a nice chap, he has nothing on the Boast Man. This mythical, yet real flesh and blood man, is the true torch (or should I say Japanese Maple) bearer. To start, I need to give some context of time and place. In the 1980′s as a 13-year old I learned how to play tennis at a Playboy Club. Yes that’s right, a Playboy Club (well, OK, to be fair, by the time I began playing tennis, Hef had shed the property to a large hotel chain). But, I do remember as a young kid being served lunch by the Bunnies, and the aroma of 7 and 7′s, cheap perfume, and cigarettes still lingered in the dimly lit corridors.
Although owners changed, one thing remained a constant: “The Boast Man.” He was the owner of the tennis club and shop. Late ’30′s, beach blond locks. Short white tennis shorts, striped green Boast polo. Collar up. Top down in his slightly worn Mercedes 560SL, in powder blue, dark blue top. This man would be thrown room keys off the upper spectator gallery upon entering the smoked doors of the indoor courts. With a wry smile he would nod a wink to Mrs. Peabody from Warwick. Was that a confirmation of a 10am lesson, or a 10pm nightcap? Probably both.
The Boast Man pulled off the impossible on the court. While his knees were worn with scars from surgery from beatings taken on the satellite circuit, he could still run down every ball. I once saw him beat the head pro of a rival club easily, despite being 15 years senior and playing with a visibly broken frame. And not just a crack, a completely broken racket. A super human feat. One of many I witnessed in those days. Equipment didn’t matter. The opponent didn’t matter. Just the attitude and the customary Boast shirt.
I learned everything I could from the Boast Man, how to gently come over the ball in the perfect one-handed backhand, the sneaky half volley, and the love of tearing someone to pieces using the worst equipment. I also learned how to hustle. “I’ll eat the court fee if you pay me cash to hit with you.” Worked out pretty well for this Boast wearing teenager who was now running the club. By this time the Boast Man had married a rich widow, and instead of ripping a rival 6-0, 6-0 on Sundays, he played church organ. I saw the Boast Man for the last time while I was in college. I stopped into say hi at his new fancy club. Both of us had tattered Boast polos on. Of course, what else would we wear?
-Anonymous Boast fan.
Have a knack for writing? We are looking for guest bloggers, and our next post could be yours. Submit a story about Boast to questions@boastusa.com. If your work is used on our site, you can expect a little something from us in your mailbox.
From guest blogger Randy K.
A few weeks ago an iconic brand and purveyor of kick-ass shirts asked for some thoughts, memories, musings and words as to their product. Knowing that I desperately needed to write more it was not hard to sit and spit this out in a few minutes….
The re-emergence of Boast gave me pause to think back another generation, growing up in the 70′s, a teenager in St. Louis. It truly was a simpler time where leisure was cultivated, massaged and slowly simmered. As long as your parents had a general idea where you were, you simply made it home whenever. No cell phones, Internet, Facebook, over scheduling or grande-190-degree-no-foam-caramel-fucking-macchiato. We rode our bikes, came home when it was dinnertime and wrote letters to girls…with a pencil. We dialed numbers to call a friend, never heard of sunscreen and coffee only came black or with cream & sugar. Sweet baby Jesus…how I crave those times again. If only to show this world how simple and innocent things really can be as a kid.
At that time the tennis tour, ATP or WTC, stopped in St. Louis each summer. I was lucky enough to ball boy a number of matches over the course of a few summers. 1976 or so…teenage prepster rockin’ the Jewfro, running down mishit balls, dodging bullets from Tanner, marveling at the hugeness of Laver’s left forearm and not yet knowing just how cool Newcombe’s ‘stache, Gerulaitis’ hair or Vilas’ snarl were at the time. St. Louis prize money was $100K in 1977. As a pre-teen I played with a Kramer wood wearing Stan Smith shoes that eventually evolved into a Donnay/Fila inspired Borg-fest on the court. Yeah, the shorts were too short and the Fila shirts too tight but these guys were Gods. We wanted to be closer to them.
I first saw a Boast shirt during one of these matches on a humid, sweat-induced haze of a night at the Dwight Davis Tennis Center in Forest Park. I’m not sure if it was Roscoe or Charlie Pasarell. It may have even been Vijay but being on the court, bouncing a ball to one of these Boast wearing tennis freaks was a coming out of sorts. I had to have one. Was it the absence of Boast gear in the Midwest? The confusing yet storied leaf? I honestly don’t know. I just know from the moment I convinced my parents that I needed a few new polo’s and a warm-up from Boast, my tennis and social life changed.
My backhand suddenly became a bit easier to hit cross-court. My first serve torpedoed wherever I chose. I no longer had issues with confidence while rushing the net. My hair grew longer and I actually enjoyed spending time with girl’s…doing nothing. Unfortunately, during college tennis became more of an afterthought as the Boast Polo became my go-to shirt for a party. Simply put, it was a game changer. I arrived, grabbed a drink and could sometimes stay in one spot for hours. I became convinced my Boast polo had this strange, magical aura that attracted funny, smart like-minded people. I wore those polos out.
As I recall, my very last, flawlessly worn in Boast was given to a girl on a beach in New Zealand the night before she was to leave the country. It was 1983. She was from Seattle and we had met while both hitchhiking for months up and down the two islands that make up the most beautiful country on this planet. We had spent her last two weeks in NZ together with the promise of meeting somewhere in India in the not so distant future. She specifically wanted that shirt to remember.
I never saw her or that perfect Boast polo again…
Thanks for at least bringing Boast back into my world.
Why Boast? Simple, Irreverent, Authentic, Innocent, Free, Classic, Confident, Compelling, Fresh, Hip, God-like, Bold, Women, Worldly.
-From Randy K.
Classically trained breakfast chef, occasional setter of trends, published author, photographer, businessman, attorney, and Boast fan.
Thanks for the Boast blog submission, Randy. We like your site:
St. Louis Senior Portraits | St. Louis Headshot Photographer
My uncle was the consummate gentlemen, a strategic storyteller and everyone’s favorite at the Club. I could do no wrong as his sidekick and I’d make sure to drop no more than five feet or so behind him, afraid of what might happen if I fell back too far. Would I lose my privileges for the deep end at the pool? Would they put an end to the all the Roy Rogers I could drink?
My uncle taught me at a very young age that in life it is better to be joyful than boastful. He rode horses, skied, fished and competed well into his eighties (grandfathered golf cart privileges helped) and his laughter always drowned out his wins and losses. Each night we would bet a quarter on a best-out-of-five ping-pong match. A sign above the ping-pong table read “Win with Honor, Lose with Grace” and I tried with all my might to act accordingly.
It was impossible to ignore my uncle’s distinct, casual sense of style. When he wasn’t dressed in ancient jodhpurs and a tattered master-of-the-hounds waistcoat, he often wore sweaters struggling from too many days in the stream and classic polos from Boast. I’ll never forget the end of one weekend visit, when he brought me into the pro shop and bought me one of my own with the Club’s logo on the front. I was afraid to wash it after days of showing it off at school. Twenty years later, it’s a pleasure to add to the collection.
-Will R., Boast fan
By Courtney Goldsmith Broadwater
Courtney is a New York illustrator and storyteller. See more of Courtney’s work at the cat and the bear
PS The cat found the women’s polo online, just last month at the Boast Women’s Shop
I asked Bill St. John what happened to the maple leaf in the middle of the “O” outside the warehouse and he doesn’t recall but thinks it’s been gone since ’89. I’m guessing the new owner of this tin leaf the size of a basketball is either an avid fan or just a curious Floridian that rolls around with a crowbar. Anyway, nice sunsets here when it rains.
A friend of Boast sets forth his personal and exacting rankings of the James Bond franchise, pre-reboot, on a scale of one through four.
✰✰✰✰
Flawless, the standards against which all Bonds are measured
Goldfinger
Obviously. This film is first-rate, it defines what a Bond film is. Honor Blackman is also underrated as a Bond babe (and she was 37 during filming)
From Russia with Love
A classic spy caper with the most intelligent plot line of any Bond film.
✰✰✰
Strong contributions to the series & unequivocal good fortune during a Bundathon
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
Embrace the power of OHMSS! Sure, Laz was a minor drawback, but Diana Rigg pulled off one of the best performances ever as the high maintenance Teresa, Telly was the best Blofeld going away, and the ski scenes coordinated by Willy Bogner are kick-ass. Add in the soundtrack (Top 10 all time, world wide), a trip to the Admiral’s house to find him in a green velvet smoking jacket, Louis Armstrong’s final recording, a wicked fat DB 6 wheeling into the Palacio, and a cameo by the Daytona, and you have one of the very best here. OHMSS rules, really this film is a good test to determine whether someone gets what Bond is about.
Thunderball
Blunderball has a lot going for it, including an excellent plot-line and fantastic underwater cinematography. Connery’s rug is kept in place nicely, and this film establishes the look and feel of Bond as a water sportsman in tropical Caribbean locales, inspired by Fleming’s love of Jamaica. So why isn’t Thunderball 4 stars? The post production is pretty horrific. The editing is as bad as about any you’ll find in the Bond series regrettably – consider the following sequence: Bond goes with Domino to the “Junkanoo,” a Bahamian Mardi Gras, clearly in the early evening (it is dark), wearing a blue blazer and tie, but is met by Leiter telling him that Paula has gone missing, so he tells Leiter to stay with Domino and wait for Mr. Largo. With a cut he is suddenly sporting a black knit shirt in the next scene, travels to Largo’s house, Palmyra, horses around in the shark tank and escapes. He comes back to his hotel, beds the redheaded villainess Fiona Volpe, and then gets dressed in a nice grey suit to leave with her for the Junkanoo, presumably the same evening. All this in a film in which references are made that there are only “50 hours” until Spectre’s ultimatum expires… come on, get it right! I am just at a loss to explain how Bond savant and Lead Editor Peter Hunt could have allowed this to happen. Really bad dubbing and continuity errors (Connery grabbing a black mask from a dead diver underwater, then wearing his own blue one in the next frame) left and right as well. Still a gem on the whole, but 4 stars were within grasp here before the hatchet job in the cutting room began.
The Spy Who Loved Me
The fact that die-hard Connery fans admit this was Moore’s finest effort really says a great deal for Spy. My first Bond ever, in the theater at age 8, and as such I’m probably not the most objective here. But still, the sets were incredibly cool – Ken Adam experimenting with “rounded shapes” by his own accord, and with brilliant results. The Lotus ruled, Oger was still looking fit, Curt Jurgens called him “Bund,” and how about Bar in the shower…yes. Carly’s title song is probably as good as any, and has there ever – really – been a better teaser sequence than Rick Sylvester uncorking the Union Jack parachute? Genius! And who does Jaws take a back seat to in the lead henchman department? Maybe Grant and Oddjob, but that’s why those films get 4 stars. This IS Bond in the 70s, complete with flowing tuxedo trousers, and you have to be ok with that. The silliness of simultaneous nukes denies 4 stars though.
Dr. No
Joe Wiseman was better than most people remember (“I see you are just a stupid policeman”), as was that set. A clean storyline, Connery’s youth and Ursula Andress take care of the rest here. Simple, but pacesetting. Bonus points for Jack Lord and those shades, and of course for the great location shooting on Jamaica.
The Man with the Golden Gun
Yes! I present the case for Gun. Why does this film hold a strange power over me? Perhaps just its simplicity – Moore is young and still smooth, and the scope of the film is nicely understated – no wacked-out plots to destroy the earth, no obligatory battle of armies at the film’s conclusion (too often formulaic and vapid in the series). Instead we get a simple and compelling duel — mano a mano — at Scaramanga’s super cool pad, filmed exquisitely in Phuket and one of the best sets ever. Now, I’m the first to admit that the karate school sequence and a second helping of J.W. Pepper push the envelope in the wrong direction 2/3rds of the way through, but Britt Ekland’s bod in the bikini restores order moments later and allows this one to end with some style. Gun!
Live & Let Die
Die is a curio for certain. How Cubby and Harry decided to let Rog get his feet wet in a film with the look and feel of an early 70s blaxploitation film is beyond me, and I am still amazed that this film didn’t just shock most ardent Bond fans at the time… though I suppose they were still recovering from Diamonds. At any rate, Moore acquitted himself nicely under the circumstances, and, in the words of co-star Yaphet Kotto, “made it his,” – no small feat considering that most people would think they were flipping past Shaft or a Burt Reynolds movie with the remote control during most of this one. But Rog does look great and a jailbait Jane Seymour never hurts.
For Your Eyes Only
A whisker away from slumming it with 2 stars (like one more in the leading lady’s mustache), Eyes holds on due to some great stunt work, a reasonably intelligent plot-line (in many ways echoes of From Russia with Love), and a nice turn by Topol as Colombo, evoking both Kerim Bey and Marc Ange Draco. Rog is starting to lose it but looks by comparison about 10 years younger than in Octopussy.
✰✰
watchable, still Bund, but with serious shortcomings
You Only Live Twice
Welcome to Japan Mr. Bond, and welcome to the two star doldrums. How the team went from making Thunderball one minute and then putting scotch tape on Connery’s eyes the next is beyond me. Donald Pleasance is a ridiculous Blofeld and that mini helicopter was silly as well. And what a shank in not finding better looking Asian babes. Nice work by Charles Gray though.
Moonraker
This one didn’t have to be bad. The teaser is great, Lois Chiles is really hot, and there is some solid locale shooting in both Rio and Venice. Then Roger Moore spends the last 30 minutes of the film wearing a mustard colored jumpsuit, a leather helmet, and a pair of matching Chuck Taylor high tops.
Diamonds are Forever
A paunchy Sean stumbles through a mindless script with production design – and a moon buggy – that are discredits to Ken Adam’s career. Well I suppose Blofeld’s penthouse lair atop the White House was decent… Ken never really totally shanks but this is decidedly sub-par. Large servings of Charles Gray are a mixed blessing… Jill St. John works every time but can’t save this one.
Goldeneye
Is this really a worse film than Diamonds? Not sure. Famke Janssen has to be worth at least a star by herself I suppose…
Octopussy
Some silliness here, with an ancient Moore sporting two tons of dyed hair wrapped around his 57 year old pate. But then there’s Maud…
✰
embarrassments to the franchise, you feel as if there isn’t really a Bond film on
All Brosnans save Goldeneye… Dame Judy Densch as M is dumb… A View to a Kill
…horrid…. All Daltons… license to jit up the Bund series
Guest submission:
Typical Summer Saturday in Darien, CT at Middlesex Club. The Schenck Men (my dad, two brothers, and me) are finishing up a round of doubles and all representing in Boast. Club players joked that my father, had three sons, so he could always get a game of doubles. Sergio Tacchini was front and center on the Men’s Tour, but in Darien, Boast was the brand of choice as you can see.
One of the best things about Boast was that it looked just as at home off the court as it did on it. So after a hard fought round of family doubles, you’d head home, hop in the shower, throw the shirt in the wash, and get it ready for a night on the backyard barbecue circuit in 06820.
-Witt S. Laguna Hills, CA
