Son of a...

I've been informed recently that I don't write much anymore.  The reason for this, of course, is that I don't really have anything to write.  Most of what disturbs me is political and there are numerous political authors who are far more eloquent than I am.  Most of what amuses me is ridiculous and much of this ridiculous amusement has probably already arrived in your inbox at one time or another, through various unnamed sources.  So I don't find much blogworthiness in the remaining humdrum world that I inhabit.

Alas, I find myself encountered with a conundrum.  I could simply blow off the people who have noted my lack of blog posts.  Aside from the ten or fifteen cents that I get each month from you folks, this blog is an uncompensated venture.  But then, on another level, it does give me a chance to get things off my chest from time to time and I get a kick out of the occasional feedback that I receive.  What to do?  What to do?

I concluded, as I've previously concluded, that I'll write when I have something to say and I'll keep to myself when there's nothing to say.  Simple enough, right?  Sure, except that there's apparently hardly ever anything to say.

I was informed not too long ago that I should go back to how this blog began and just start writing a few words about the daily grind, trying to make it as interesting as possible.  Hogwash, I say.  I used to go from coast to coast and border to border.  The daily grind, as it were, tended to write its own stories.  Now every day seems exactly like yesterday and tomorrow looks to be more of the same.  But I don't know.  I figured I might as well give it a shot once in a while.

So, here's a day in the life.  Enjoy.

I got out of bed yesterday afternoon.  You'll note that I said afternoon and not morning.  The previous night's workout had been a real motherfucker and I was in no state to sleep when I got back home.  It took until 8am or so to wind down.  So I slept for a while and then got out of bed in the afternoon.  Then I had a few things to do.  I had dirty laundry, of course.  So that needed to be washed.  And I had a paycheck to deposit.  And I had some mail to send.  And I needed to burp the air out of my car's cooling system (long story).  And I needed to help a buddy with some computer issues.  And I needed to help another buddy with some financial issues.

After all of the tedium had been handled, however, I would get the payoff.  A friend of mine had a pair of tickets to last night's Tigers game.  Beautiful weather in Detroit, Scherzer on the mound, the last-place Royals in town, what could go wrong?  Perfect day for a ballgame.

Then the friend who had provided the tickets ran into a minor scheduling issue.  No worries though.  I happen to have a retired buddy whose parents are now both dead, so I was pretty sure he could join me at the game.  I was right about that part.  He had nothing going on.  Off we go then...

After an early dinner at Mexican Village, we decided to head over to the ballpark and catch batting practice.  Apparently my recollection of my youth has been distorted, because I distinctly remember getting into Tiger Stadium at 5pm for batting practice.  The gates at Comerica Park were locked at 5pm, so we started walking around the stadium.  After passing the gate that would be closest to our seats, we found a shaded area beneath some trees and settled in to wait for the ballpark to open.  They would probably open at 5:30pm, we thought.

We stood and chatted about various topics for a while.  At 5:25pm, I suggested that we might start walking toward the next stadium gate - the one behind home plate.  By the time we got there, I surmised, it would be about time for the stadium to open.  Good idea, thought my buddy.  And away we were.  Err...

Son of a...!

I am still facing some lingering effects of a back injury that I sustained nearly a year ago.  I don't have the intense pain in my leg anymore and my back does okay for the most part, but the numbness that eventually settled into my right foot has never gone away.  I taught myself to walk without a limp and basically just ignore the fact that I usually can't feel my right foot.  I say 'usually' because, well, there are a few times that I feel it.  Like when I step on the edge of a curb and my ankle rolls over.  Yeah, I sure as hell felt that one.

Numerous bad experiences with that ankle have left me with a peculiar skill.  When my foot starts to roll over, I tend to react instantly - before the ligaments have a chance to get stretched too far or torn.  I can accept whatever consequences befall me afterward, but I immediately get all of my weight off that leg, to the best of my ability.  This is all done without thinking.  It's a conditioned response, or whatever.

What befell me in last night's case wasn't very pleasant.  I threw my leg up in the air as soon as my ankle started to roll.  Since I had already stepped on the side of the curb and lost my balance before throwing my leg in the air, I took a pretty wicked tumble afterward.  I have no idea exactly how I fell.  I just know that I fell hard.  Reverand Dan described it as 'awkward.'  I think he was pretty scared for me, but I assured him that I'll be okay.  Hopefully I wasn't lying.

The palms of both my hands are scraped and bruised.  My right wrist is a lovely shade of purple.  My right ankle is swollen and painful, but at least its components have remained intact.  My shins have some scrapes and bruises, but nothing too major.  Last but certainly not least, we get to my left thigh.  Holy fuck, does my left thigh ever hurt.  Somewhere in the process of falling, I must have twisted that leg or something.  Perhaps it's just bruised and it will feel better in a couple of days, but it feels suspiciously like a pulled muscle.  Just what I need.

One of the stadium workers saw me fall and then struggle back to my feet, so he pulled up in his golf cart and offered to give us a ride to the First Aid station.  That was rather kind of him.  I didn't think I would need any medical treatment, but a few Advils would probably help the cause.  Then he couldn't get anyone to open the gate and let him into the stadium, so he drove us out by the center field entrance and dropped us off.  "Just go in right there and hang a right.  First Aid is right down that way."  Hey, thanks for nothing, sport.  When I fell, I was in the general vicinity of where my seats were located.  By the time this guy helped me, I was all the way on the other end of the stadium.

We made the long walk over to the first base line and settled into our seats.  I had decided, after the golf cart fiasco, that cold beer would probably do more for my pain than Advil would.  I was not disappointed in this regard.  Prior to last night's game, I had actually stopped buying beer at the ballpark.  Obviously stadium concessions are bound to be overpriced, but at this point I think they've gone too far.  $8.50 for a pint is, as ole Walter Sobchak would say, over the line.  Better to hit a restaurant or bar after the game and knock back a few, I reckon.  Last night, however, I needed the medicinal effects.

I wasn't in too much pain as I sat and watched the debacle unfolding on the field before me (a 9-5 Kansas City victory).  When I got up to use the restroom, however, oy.  That was rough.  I could mitigate some of the pain in my ankle and thigh by taking each step very slowly and deliberately.  As I walked back to my seat with a full beer in my hand, it occurred to me that my tortured gait was probably making me look incredibly drunk.  I can only imagine what some of the other spectators must have thought.  Oh well.  No harm, no foul.

I dropped the reverand off at his house and then came back home to assess the damage to my body.  (As noted above - hands, wrist, ankle, shins, thigh.)  "Tomorrow morning's gonna be a rough one," I thought as I turned out the light and went to bed.

I woke a little while ago.

Son of a...