Word: teas
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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Boston's other teams haven't been burning up the turf either. The New England Tea Men took it on the chin (or is it shin?) twice this week: first striker Mike Flanagan lost the league scoring title to New Yorker Giorgio Chinaglia, and then the Fort Lauderdale Strikers struck the team from the playoffs. We're not sure which is sadder, but it still means an end to pro soccer around these parts for quite a few months...
Boston's two other division-leading clubs are getting ready to close out their seasons in somewhat more stylish fashion. The Tea Men, fresh from a little get-together with some British customs officers in Boston Harbor, should finish up atop their little bailiwick in the North American Soccer League, although their chances of survival in the playoffs are cloudy at best. The season will end for the team on Saturday in Memphis, with Teaperson Mike Flanagan making a last stab at surpassing New York Cosmo Giorgio Chinaglia for the league scoring crown (at this writing Flanagan trailed...
...next days he will tramp his district from dawn to sunset. He will attend the Mother Cabrini Festival and countless block parties. Downey will loiter at the commuter train stations, roll through areas in his mobile van. Every voter will be invited to a Sunday-morning tea at his parents' home in West Islip. Downey is sustained because the people consider him a good guy who works for them...
More devoted types might want to head out to Schaefer Stadium early next week to watch the Tea Men, currently fighting for second place in the American Conference of the North American Soccer League, do battle with somnambulent Tulsa (on Sunday) and Detroit (on Wednesday). The Detroit tilt will be the next-to-last game of the season for the booters, and a lot should be on the line--a favored spot for the playoffs, Mike Flanigan's chances of edging New York Cosmo Giorgio Chinaglia for the league scoring crown, and lots of pride. But we suspect the Yankee...
...Molehill File by Michael Kenyan (Coward, McCann & Geoghegan; 192 pages; $7.95). There's no time for tea in this sardonic unraveling of Establishmentarian rottenness. The sleuth is doughty Detective-Inspector Henry Peckover, a passable published poet who can no more aspirate his aitches than preserve his skull from duggery. Relegated by Scotland Yard to a dead-end fraud investigation, he links the murder of a May fair tart to a web of political, financial and sexual hanky-panky that encompasses a titled M.P., a police chief superintendent who turns drag queen by night, Middlesex pols and proles, bird hunters...