There’s stuff going on. i will not elaborate other than note getting old can take a toll on productivity, something that has been a major drive for me.

So, i’ll just share a few wonderful memories:

The lady, dressed in my Booze Brother’s hat, and the goofy guy recalling a life long ago at a 1987-88 Halloween Party, laying it down.

The incredible Bacall, sister of Bogart who leftt us too soon: our first cats, even before we were married:

Long ago and far away in a little Tennessee town, now overgrown with progress and people, i’m guessing 1949: Daddy and i, mostly Daddy, making a snowman in our backyard. That’s our garage in the background.

Douglas and Daisy Lawrence, family friends that were more like family, visiting from Florida during the WAR.

Sometimes, memories are enough.

i have tried to restrain my disapproval. i have attempted to simply not pay attention to what has happened to the major “sports” and the pollution in sports that i have loved, played, and followed for most of my life.

i wished to refrain from comment. i can’t.

There was a photo shot last night that took me back. It was player sitting on the edge of his team’s dugout, looking out onto the field, a silhouette against the sun setting sky.

i remember sitting on the edge of so many dugouts looking out onto the field of my dreams.

But my dreams did not include technical analyses. As Willie Mays so wisely and eternally described it: “They throw the ball, I hit it. They hit the ball, I catch it.”

And i admire that guy sitting there last night. i think he was a Toronto Blue Jay. It does not matter. He captured the essence of my feelings about baseball: a quiet moment taking in the setting sun out on that field of dreams, watching his opponents taking the field while the opposing pitcher toed the dirt around the pitching mound rubber to get it just right for his liking, a peaceful moment of taking it all in before the beauty of the game reveals itself in action: pitching the ball, hitting the ball, catching the ball, sliding…

…feet first, not that stupid head first silliness Pete Rose made fashionable for which he should continue to be banned from the Hall of Fame, not the arbitrary betting goofiness; i mean yeah, someone should be shot for betting against their own team, but what’s wrong with betting on your team, and betting and money are running amuck, ruining the beauty of the game as much as all of the silly make-money-paying-fans-happy crap by sacrificing the rhythm of the game the way it used to be.

But my thoughts of the beautiful game with that young man sitting there were interrupted with the announcers over analyzing, telling me stats that are essentially useless, but probably essential to this new version of pleasure watching baseball for those who didn’t worship the game like i did. As their diarrhea of the mouth filled the room, i kept thinking “where is there some quiet to enjoy watching the game while these goof balls apparently wanting to impress us (or themselves or somebody who pays them) go on and on. They sound like my buddies and i watching a game sharing our analyses…and our analyses were likely better than the idiocy to which i was listening…okay, okay, i know i a bit overboard here.

Then there are the fans, a horrible name for the bunch of folks i see in every stadium, all sports. They aren’t there, paying absurd prices for a ticket, to watch the game. Hell, they can’t. There 40,000+ screaming, spitting profanities at the umps, the other team, waving towels that obscure sight lines, throwing crap at opposing fans and players on the field.

The primary reason the Padres manager, Mike Schildt maintains he retired was the stress, including the death threats for him and his family. Those threats are common for many players, managers, and umps. Have we lost all sanity?

We turned off the television. Watching playoff baseball isn’t fun anymore. It’s hectic nonsense breeding a fanaticism that is not earned, fabricated by the money makers.

And yeh, i’m whining about what used to be and doesn’t exist anymore. The game back when i was growing up was corrupt, manipulated for money by those who controlled the game. i am not that naive.

But i was young and didn’t know. And i believed those guys they call professionals played for the beauty of the game, and i tried to emulate those players: Nellie Fox, Don Hoak, Stan Musial, Roberto Clemente, Willie and Mickey, on and on…

But airtime bullshit had not invaded the field of dreams back then. Yeh, Dizzy and Pee Wee were funny and team announcers were homers, but they let you enjoy the game.

i will check the scores for the rest of the playoffs and the World Series, but am not likely to watch a great deal.

And i wonder if that guy they caught on camera sitting on the top steps of the dugout, his back resting against the hand rail, grasped the beauty of the moment, hoping he wasn’t worrying about if his agent could get him a substantial raise in his contract.

i do not know
what lies awaiting
around that corner
over that hill
on the other side of that bridge;

i do not know
who is beyond those corners, hills, bridges
waiting for me;

but

after a youth of not knowing
even if i thought i knew
therefore fearing the unknown
often resulted in anger and hate
until i grew older
learning fearing the unknown
the folks i do not know
is folly;

so

i do not fear what is and who are
out there
around the corner
over the hill
on the other side of the bridge;

i am only sad for those who fear the unknown
leading to anger, hate
while i venture forth
out there around the corner
over the hill
on the other side of the bridge
with the joy of discovery
of what is out there
i do not fear what is and who are
out there
around the corner
over the hill
on the other side of the bridge.

.

If i were a good boy today, i would have spent my day filling out about 438 feedback forms requested from every imaginable type of organization. i even have one from a medical group that arrived via snail mail, including the free mailing for the enclosed envelope.

The dentist, the audiologist, the dermatologist, the optician, the vehicle maintenance shop, the vet, and several hundred more i cannot recall all wanted me to rate them from heavenly to awful.

With each one, i remembered the 45 reminders i had an appointment and should show up a half-hour early, so they could be sure i wouldn’t wait too long…or something like that.

i kept thinking of “Raiders of the Lost Ark” with its final scene when the custodian in the huge government warehouse is towing the well-packed ark into the rows and rows of government top secret crates.

i think all of my feedback forms would end up in that warehouse.

Then i consider rating them all at the bottom of the scale and berating them for sending me so much…er, crap. But i realize that would bring about and unending number of texts, emails, and phone calls to assuage their displeasure. Not worth it.

So, i turned to my never-ending project of organizing Maureen’s and my photos, somewhere in the range of four million.

Then, out of a shelf in my bookshelf/credenza falls a unique bit of my history. It is the only sports action photo that exists of me: Heights vs. Carson Newman freshman team, October 1960, tie game 6-6,. This was the third quarter. Number 30 is me. i, along with the guy behind the ball carrier (unidentified) and number 82, Greg Hill, made a gang tackle on the sideline.

Ordinarily, that photo would be here. But my app running my website, Go Daddy, does not like my scanner. Or my scanner doesn’t like my website. Or either one or both do not like this technilogically challenged old man. So i’m posting the photo along with this post on Facebook.

Regardless, it was a nice day rather than filling out feedback forms.