by Leonard Pierce
See, there’s something you need to understand about me; I am not, to appearances, a refined gentleman. I’m a big guy, with a forceful physical presence. Though it’s been a long time since I worked with my hands, my day-to-day uniform is still jeans, a T-shirt, and boots; about the only thing separating me from the guys on the roadgang are steel toe-caps and a couple of weeks in the sun. I’m neither a snob nor a oenophile, is the thing, and when I’m at the ballgame or slapping burgers on the grill, I usually stick to beer.
So it is both surprising and a little embarrassing for me to admit that many a winter’s night finds me by the fire, with my feet up and a glass of port at hand.
Port? Isn’t that stuff reserved for drawing rooms, exclusively for the consumption of elaborately-bewhiskered Victorian swells? Well, no – because port has a dirty little secret…
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