Yankee Brew News Archive

The Continuing Saga of Mash McCormack, Guerrilla Brewer

Originally Published: 01/96

By: Donald S. Gosselin

The Director was not pleased. He'd been receiving stacks of mail from irate sports fans from across the United States and Canada. The problem - - people were becoming fed up with the lack of real beer at baseball, football and hockey stadiums nationwide. As the head of the Foundation, he felt he had failed in his primary mission, to release North America from the grip of Julius Stalebread III, brewer of the blandest beer on Earth. He shuffled through the letters, all of which he had previously read. One letter had really gotten to him, it came from a Foundation sympathizer in Portland, Maine.

To Whom It May Concern:

I have, for the better portion of my life, been cursed by a baseball team, the name of which is the Boston Red Sox. I have suffered for many of my sixty-odd years, as all Red Sox fans have, with poor teams, bad management, narrow seats and bad food. The cruelest blow came just this past season...

The Director sighed and nodded his head. He too had been a baseball fan for his entire life. "An unyielding passion indeed," the Director thought to himself. "A game of order, with occasional fits of chaos. To a connoisseur, the game itself could never be considered boring." The Director read on.

This season had given me hope -- hope of a World Series team, hope of a new stadium, and yes, hope of finding a "real beer" in the stands for the first time since Dick Williams graced the dugout. You see, we have quite a few real beer breweries around this way. Over sixty, the last time I counted. But you see, those bastards... those bastards simply do not care about old fools like me. ...I have a pair of binoculars that I use to watch the game -- my eyes aren't as good as they used to be. I had just finished a cup of $3.50 sparkling dishwater, some kind of light beer swill called Stalebread Light, when I looked up into that 600 Club with my binoculars...

The Director had heard about this 600 Club. Most people he knew described the glassed-in seating area as an antiseptic fishbowl located behind home plate at Boston's Fenway Park. A stomping ground for rich, Bostonian fatcats. A place where much of the time is spent schmoozing, backslapping and bumkissing, rather than watching the Red Sox. The Director had even heard that they piped in the noise of the crowd into the place.

...I saw a couple of guys in there. They were about my age, both wearing suits that would cost me about a month's pay. They were laughing and joking... And do you know what they were drinking? They each had a bottle of fresh, locally brewed beer in their hands. Real beer too, not that shit they serve to guys like me down in the stands...

The Director was not pleased.

I can take the shitty seats, the blown Series games, even Bucky Dent and Bill Buckner. What I can't take is this double standard. You know, they used to serve Ballantine Ale in there, back when it was a local brew, so good and fresh...

The Director had read enough. He stabbed the button on his intercom. "Vincent, get McCormack in here immediately."

The response took less than a second, "Aye aye, sir."

Malcolm McCormack, "Mash" to those who knew him well, had just begun delivering his class lecture -- the subject, enzymatic activity. Mash had served honorably for over a decade with the US State Department. A few years ago, he had traded in his diplomatic passport for the spectacles and tweed jacket of a college professor. He was fluent in all romance languages, owing to his background as a professional diplomat. Unlike most professional diplomats however, Mash's career spawned many rumors -- never confirmed -- of involvement in covert activity. Mash never spoke about his government career, always finding a new subject to talk about, usually that of real beer. As a tenured professor at the University of Connecticut School of Brewing Technology, brew-speak came easy.

It wasn't always this way though. Mash grew up as Malcolm McCormack in blue collar Hartford, Connecticut, the son of Hugh McCormack, a factory worker, first generation American and World War II combat veteran. Much like Hugh, Mash enjoyed a beer or two. As most young people who came of age in Hartford during the early 1970's, Mash's preferred beverage was Stalebread Beer. To ask for any other product in the local "packie" would be to ask for trouble. One of Mash's friends had once asked for such a beer in the American Legion Hall and was promptly thrown out of the place. Generally speaking, only rich suburbanites had the extra dollar or so commanded by some of the available imports. The decision on what beer to drink was partly economic and partly peer pressure. You drank what your dad drank, and you drank what you could afford. Stalebread was cheap and bland. And to a Hartford kid in the early 70's, that was more than enough.

Hartford lost its grip on Mash shortly before the close of the Vietnam War. As valedictorian of his high school class, he had been offered a full scholarship to attend Yale University in nearby New Haven. Mash thought about the offer for about ten seconds before deciding to accept. It was at New Haven that Mash was exposed to language, for which he had always shown natural ability. In 1976, he was awarded a bachelor of science degree in romance languages with high honors. When Mash strode up unto dais to receive his degree, his parents looked on with pride. He was the first McCormack to have ever received a college degree. Accordingly, the McCormack family had planned a huge celebration back in Hartford that evening. Hugh had splurged and rented a stretch limousine for the ride north to Hartford. A cooler filled with a case of icy Stalebreads had been prepared for the hour ride. Hugh and Mary McCormack climbed into the limo, where they were joined by Mash's younger brothers, Kenny and Phil. Mash took a few minutes to say good-bye to some of his closest friends. As he hugged one of his old girlfriends, he noticed that Nigel Nickerson, one of his language professors, was running up towards the group. Nickerson, an affable gnome of a man, wiped the sweat from his brow with an embroidered handkerchief. He was out of breath. "McCormack," he said, "may I have a moment?"

The two men excused themselves and walked away from the group of celebrants. Nickerson glanced from side to side and lowered his voice. "McCormack, your country needs you," he whispered.

"Needs me for what, I don't understand..."

"Never mind. Just take this slip of paper and follow the instructions. You are to tell no one, not even your family. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir." Mash replied.

Nickerson pulled a small slip of paper out of the embroidered handkerchief. "God speed, Malcolm," he said as he deftly pushed the slip of paper into McCormack's palm and turned away. He was gone in an instant. Mash stuffed the paper into his watch pocket and climbed into the limo for the ride back to Hartford.

A week or so passed before Mash could summons the courage to call the number on the slip of paper. He finally dialed the number, which was listed to a small company in Quantico, Virginia. A woman's voice answered "Professional Associates," which Mash thought odd. After all, what did this have to do with serving his country? He gave his name and was immediately placed on hold. What followed was an unusual series of chirps and squawks that meant nothing to Mash, but in reality was an electronic transfer through an elaborate telephone scrambling system -- the type used by America's most clandestine government agencies. Once the connection was made, the phone began to ring again.

"Who the hell is this?" A gruff voice answered.

Mash was taken aback by the man's lack of manners. "Malcolm McCormack, sir. Professor Nickerson asked me to call this number and..."

"Ah yes, Nickerson," the voice interrupted. A ballsy guy. I worked with him in the French underground." The voice laughed. "He's a goddamn professor now. Shit, he ought to be teaching what he knows best, dynamiting railroad bridges!" The voice roared with laughter.

Part of Mash wanted to hang up, but part of him was intrigued by the grouchy voice. "Nickerson? French Underground? Explosives?" He had heard stories from his father about the French Resistance during World War II. He decided to listen to this grouchy old guy for a few more minutes.

"Listen up McCormack, can you get down to D.C. tomorrow?" the voice asked. Mash swallowed hard. This was for real.

"Yeah, I guess so," he replied.

"That's good, son. I'll have a courier deliver your plane tickets and itinerary to your house by five o'clock tonight."

"Don't you need my address?," Mash asked.

"I know where you live kid," the voice bellowed. "Nickerson told us everything. See you tomorrow -- A bien tot!" The line went dead.

At precisely five o'clock, a well-dressed man knocked on the front door of the McCormack residence. Mash answered and received a manila envelope containing a round trip plane ticket to Dulles Airport, located just outside of Washington D.C.

He didn't sleep well that night.

Next episode: From Hartford Stalebread to Prague Pilsner.