At Large

Photo above courtesy of istockphoto.com contributor Nadya Ustyuzhantseva.

“I said who put all those things in your head”
“She Said She Said” – The Beatles

“Cosmic activity in the career loathsome activities area of your chart will bring challenges and opportunities in equal measure today. You may be overwhelmed with choices,” speculated my horoscope this morning. Couldn’t have said it better myself. The top two most regularly experienced loathsome activities in my existence are packing groceries at the store checkout line and folding clothes – the former is generally avoidable, while the latter is generally not. Both happened today.

The go-to foraging spot

Okay, I may not be the most industrious being extant, but I can promise you without hesitation that I’m nowhere near the most indolent either, not all the time, anyway. I will add that the store in which I religiously shop for sustenance seems to hire sufficient workforce to assist in handling this chore, a condition that certainly factored mightily into the decision to make it my go-to foraging spot. On occasion the bagger even adopts a cheerful mien, although I have doubts that’s for my benefit.

In the store checkout line, a serious complication arises with the grocery bagging situation when the person running the register, or the beeper, or the whatever-it-is that’s going on there, has not had anyone come to the rescue and they happen to be stuck alone with my piles of bags and groceries. My strategy in this case? Make a production of hoisting the big, heavy stuff such as milk and turkeys and such into the cart myself, while doing my best to not succumb to the look similar to the one the dogs produce when they have convinced themselves I’ve hosed them out of some tasty treat.

The boo-boo debacle

Prior to taking leave of my domicile today, I incurred a boo-boo while sticking my hand where it didn’t belong, only to discover that adhesive bandages were in short supply. Onto my shopping list, then, went a note to pick up a box of those babies while on my foraging trip. All was going well until I rounded the corner of the “first aid” aisle and found myself confronted with innumerable – the counting ceased after seven or eight – types of bandages seemingly designed for different kinds of owwies. Waterproof, non-stick, flexible, heavy duty, not-so-heavy duty, better healing, for sensitive skin, tough, clear, for Tuesdays, or Fridays, or maybe those big weekend boo-boos … Jiminy Crickets! Skip it. I’ll take my chances on never needing another one ever.

The hostility with laundry

At least I’ve never experienced a nasty cut folding clothes, which happens to be the only good thing about that operation. What’s up with the hostility I feel when faced with this activity, which, truly, isn’t one hundred percent necessary for my survival? Haven’t the foggiest idea. But I do know that if faced with the option of leaving a finished load in the dryer for an extra day or three, then giving it a short burst on extra low to revive things prior to taking a shot at what I consider folding, or taking the stuff out directly and getting to it, well, you gotta know which one I’m going with, given the opportunity, every single time.

Okay, I tell myself, this is not a death sentence. Cue up a few tunes with some life to them and get to it. On second thought, this may be the only time of the day when someone isn’t attempting to sell me something, so that’s a plus. Ultimately, push does come to shove, and when it comes time for another washer load to get shoveled into the dryer, things do come to a head regarding the disposition of the dryer load I’ve been nursing along. But wait! Is it stuff, such as towels, that can dawdle in a chair for a bit while I work myself up to addressing their frivolous desires? Or is it the more diva-like shirts, something that would reflect on me as an indifferent sort as I wander about town clad in a shirt that appears to have been donned following a fight with a rhinoceros?

I’ve made inquiries to the on-premises canines to pitch in with the folding. Pleaded. Wheedled. Cajoled. They’re no dummies. These pooches, who learned this from HAL 2000, I’m sure, get that “I’m-afraid-I-can’t-do-that, Jesse” look on their faces, as they indicate their lack of opposable thumbs. Of course they do – folding doesn’t involve food, sleep, or a jaunt in the car.

A gig folder?

On the other hand, if I were really on top of all this, I would take advantage of this stupendous offer you can’t seem to escape these days and fork out a few bucks to hire a gig folder. For the most part, the message is this: “Your paycheck! Two days early with direct deposit at First & Third Magnanimous Bank! Woohoo!

Yesssssireee, I am about to be rich. Filthy rich, even, and not a moment too soon. Golly gee, isn’t that simply wonderful of the folks down at ol’ Magnanimous? I can barely stand it. That’s what the seemingly self-satisfied actors in the commercials seem to be portraying, that as soon as this great new program gets going they’ll rolling in it – after a couple months of this, I’ll be fabulously well-heeled, lighting the cigars I don’t smoke anymore and really never did with C-notes.

But wait a minute. The smug, I’m-about-to-be-rich regular folks in the TV ads could use a little help with this one, so let’s help them. It won’t take long. Let’s say you’d love to take advantage of this ever-so-thoughtful offer from your favorite financial institution. Sign me up! Okay, that was easy. Ordinarily, the paycheck finds its way into my account on the 15th and 30th of each month. When the 13th arrived, sure enough, there it was. Oh, happy day! They’ll be dancing in the streets tonight … uh, what? You mean, next time I won’t get it on the 11th? Then the 9th? Oh.

Meanwhile, are you any less behind than you were before all this? And no one’s gotten anywhere in particular.

The Mets and the misty veil

What my daily horoscope failed to disclose, and which it could start doing if it truly had any particular desire to help me navigate this life thing, was that news arrived that yet another of my childhood heroes had passed through the misty veil. 2024 has been an ugly year for keeping the living members of the 1969 New York Mets World Championship-winning squad alive. Shortstop Bud Harrelson, pitcher Jim McAndrew, catcher Jerry Grote, and most recently, first baseman Ed Kranepool, gone. And with that, more major actors in my baseball-drenched childhood take their leave.

While we’re at it, the aforementioned foursome joined a formidable group of the ’69 squad that predeceased them: Gil Hodges, Joe Pignatano, Rube Walker, Eddie Yost, Yogi Berra, Tommie Agee, Don Cardwell, Tug McGraw, Cal Koonce, Donn Clendenon, Tom Seaver, Ed Charles, Al Jackson, Kevin Collins, Danny Frisella, and Les Rohr. I’m delighted to report that, among others, Cleon Jones, Wayne Garrett, Ron Swoboda, and Rod Gaspar live.

This is where Mets fans have it all over fans of the Bronx Bombers. The Yankees are a corporation expected to produce, year after year, fabulous dividends, and when that fails to materialize, what outcome could there be other than disappointment? The Mets, on the other hand, aren’t expected to do anything. Ever. Consequently, when a magical moment arrives, and it doesn’t need to be the team’s 800th championship or whatever when oftentimes a good week or even a few good days will do, Mets fans seize upon these things and celebrate with the abandon of a tipsy five-year-old at holiday time.

Flashback to 1969

We also know how to memorialize the, shall we say, ridiculous. June 22, 1969, a brilliant, sunshiny day in New York City worthy of the day after summer solstice. Far down the right field line, in the upper deck, yours truly, mom and dad, settled in for a Sunday doubleheader – and souvenir sunburns on the left sides of our faces, owing to the seating arrangements – between the Cardinals and the Mets, an era when Sunday doubleheaders were not the least bit unusual and games did not take a week to play. Daylight might well have still been in force when our family unit arrived back at our Columbia County domicile that day, my grubby little mitts securing the scorecard in which duly recorded were Mets’ right fielder Ron Swoboda’s five consecutive strikeouts (this at a time when strikeouts were deemed unacceptable, not reason for celebration on some sports network’s game clips) incurred through the work of Cardinals’ hurler Steve Carlton’s left arm.

That would have been the end of that if not, 25 years later, I’d find myself semi-covering/semi-enjoying a celebrity fundraising event with members of the ’69 team, standing adjacent to the 11th tee of Colonie Country Club with nobody around but my buddy and myself, when up in a golf cart wheels none other than Swoboda and fellow ’69 outfielder Rod Gaspar. They greeted us, we greeted them. Naturally, thinking that we all might share in this magical 1969 historical moment, I couldn’t let this one go. Aware that Swoboda was of a predominantly cheery nature, presumably reducing my chances of getting myself killed, I started in with the prerecorded-in-my-head spiel.

“I’m sure you’ve heard this a hundred times,” said I, “but my parents and I were there on June 22, 1969, when you …” By now, I notice Gaspar standing there, the thought bubble above his head saying, “He’s not really going there, is he?” But by now, Swoboda is himself grinning, then mumbling something akin to, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Next subject!

Watch your six.