There’s a story about a man who planned to make a cross-country trip, on foot, to prove that people are inherently good. The man spent several months in preparation for this noble journey, raising money, gathering supplies and mapping out the course he would follow.

When the big day arrived; the day he was to set out on his adventure, his quest to set the record straight, to redeem the reputation of all humanity; he packed up his supplies, got his gear together and set out on his bold expedition, hiking for several hours until he came upon an old wooden bridge that spanned a deep, rocky ravine.

The man decided to rest before traversing the bridge and slipped out of his sizeable backpack, set it down on the ground and took a long, cool sip from his canteen.

Suddenly, a man leaped from the underbrush, grabbed our hero by the shoulders and pushed him down a steep embankment where he laid unconscious for quite some time.

When he finally regained consciousness; he crawled slowly up the side of the gully on his hands and knees, struggling all the way and in considerable pain, only to discover that his backpack, which contained his wallet, his credit cards and all of his money, had been stolen.  

I grew up in Mansfield. I was born with a natural hatred for all things Foxboro or, if you prefer, Foxborough. No matter how you spell it, Foxboro was not my favorite place; Foxboro people were not my favorite people and, above all; the Foxboro Warriors were not my favorite sports teams. They were the enemy. I hated them! Seriously, I actually hated them. It was a significant part of being a kid from Mansfield - hating the Foxboro Warriors, our nemesis.

The only time any of the Mansfield kids ever went to Foxboro was to go to Dairy Queen or to listen to The Marauder’s, and we always went in large groups. There’s safety in numbers you know. If you aren’t familiar with The Marauder’s, they were a Foxboro-based band in the mid-sixties who later became the Satin Subway and then transitioned to Full Moon. Ask one of the ‘townies’ who were around during the sixties. They’ll know about them.

Oh, I’m sorry. I sort of left you hanging there. That story I was telling you; the one about the man who set out on the journey to prove that people are inherently good – that man was from Mansfield and the other guy, the no-good, dirty rotten thief, was from Foxboro. True story – I swear!

Okay, now that I have your attention, let’s talk. Obviously, that story’s not true, but you’ll remember me now – won’t you? I’m Bob Havey – that’s H-A-V-E-Y. There’s no, R, in there, so don’t let me catch you sneaking one in. I hate that! I’ve put up with that all my life and frankly, I’ve had enough! I’m sick of it so don’t do it! My name is Bob Havey, not Bob Harvey. Got it?

Wow! Sorry! I got a little steamed there for a minute. I think it’s all this Foxboro/Mansfield, Warriors/Hornets talk. It really gets my testosterone flowing - what there is left of it!

Fraternizing with the enemy is a serious offense. One’s archrival is to be held in contempt; an adversary to be scorned. And I must confess, there was a time in my life that I did consort with the enemy. I lived in Foxboro for five or six years back in the early to mid-eighties. Hey, I’m not proud of it, but these things happen! I was a stranger in a strange land.

Now those of you who didn’t grow up in these parts; those of you who aren’t ‘townies’, may not understand why this is such a big deal. I mean, after all, folks move every day. No big deal, right? Oh, how wrong you are, ignorant one!

Don’t take offense! Ignorance isn’t a bad thing. It’s merely a lack of knowledge – a lack of understanding, that’s all. So, allow me to educate you on this whole, Foxboro vs. Mansfield thing; to give you a little snippet of history.

Mansfield and Foxboro have been football rivals since 1925, but played their first Turkey Day game in 1947. Mansfield was by far the dominant team at that time. In 1946, Foxboro stole coach John Certuse, a Mansfield native, away from Mansfield and won their first game in the series the same year, followed by their first Thanksgiving Day win in 1948. So you see, this is irrefutable evidence, proof positive, that people from Foxboro are, in fact, no-good, dirty rotten thieves. You stole our coach!

So, that’s how it all began. This border war has been going on for eighty-six years. I pride myself on being the bigger man, the peacemaker, so I’d like to strike a peace accord - to lay down my arms, right here and now.

Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the towns of Mansfield and Foxboro last for a thousand years, men will say, "This was their finest hour."

Okay, so I stole a little bit of one of Winston Churchill’s speeches and altered it a bit. It worked for him; perhaps it will work for us as well. This fighting and bickering must cease! In the immortal words of another great peacemaker, Rodney King, “Can’t we all just get along?”

Now I live in Easton and, being a Mansfield kid; I’m not a big fan of the OA Tigers either. Val Muscato’s teams were ruthless back in the sixties, although we did beat them my senior year. They were big farm kids. They’d get off the bus at Memorial Park and…….

Never mind - we’ll talk later. I’m pretty sure this is how wars are started.

I had fun. I hope you did too.

Make it a great week!