Wow, it is truly hard to believe that I have gone all week without blogging. It is now Friday morning. I am sitting in anticipation at the breakfast bar at my son’s house in Riverside, California where I have been since Tuesday night. My mom is cooking up a typical “heart attack breakfast” for the grandchildren. I, of course, am making the supreme sacrifice as I share in the bounty to save my children from experiencing the full brunt of this culinary onslaught. My body is conditioned to such meals since they were part and parcel of my childhood. It is no wonder that I still retain the physiological evidence and girth.
Nonetheless, here I am waiting for my mom to finish making her home-made tortillas, beans from scratch with special seasonings and fresh cheese, breakfast links (Worthington), and some sort of savory and spicy breakfast stew with a cacophony of ingredients that may possibly violate some health laws in more than one state of the union. There is even some homemade salsa to pour generously on whatever you choose to pile on your breakfast plate if in fact your mouth is not already sufficiently on fire. Penny and I were commenting earlier today that we were going to make today a recovery day from the Thanksgiving Day feast of yesterday.
In all honesty, I did not eat that much yesterday. I am still in my yearly recovery day for other reasons altogether. We call it Family Thanksgiving Day—I call it physical abuse! It began Wednesday night at the softball field. It was the Annual Family Softball Game. I was assigned third base (obviously because of my rocket arm). Of course, I was assigned third base on the “geezers” team, who having not forgotten last year when we won the game against the “whipper-snappers” on our last at bat, chose to challenge them again this year. The results were not the same at all.
A combination of poor hitting, lousy fielding, and questionable base-running, weak pitching, and let us not forget old-age, combined to a score of 25 to 2. We dived, we hobbled, and we jumped—all relative terms, of course. The result was a forgone conclusion after the first inning. My body was already beginning to feel the yearly angst of over-indulgence in the physical arena. But this was just the beginning….
The Annual Family Rook Tournament followed. It went into the wee hours of the morning. My team, consisting of my life-long friend George and me, were eliminated in the semi-finals. I went home to what my mind envisioned at the time as a good night’s rest. My body had other ideas. I spent the night trying to find a position that would not interrupt my aching muscles trying to find an excuse to wake up in knot.
The next morning I was awoken by my son who nonchalantly reminded me of our 7:30 a.m. appointment at the Eagle Glen Golf Course for the Annual Family Thanksgiving Golf Tournament. There were eighty people present for this exercise in futility. It is probably not a good idea to play golf on the morning after you have played third base for the losing team of a game that ended 25 to 2! But this, of course, is not an option. I got up and dutifully got dressed and piled the three golf bags into the trunk of my Prius. Let me just say—it was a long day. On a good day (which are fewer and fewer nowadays), when I actually get a chance to play (which is rarely), I have been known to shoot a golf score in the low 80’s. That is a respectable score. Yesterday, due to combination of age, pain, lack of practice, and mainly lack of skill, I broke the three digits before the round was over. I did have some remarkable shots, mind you. They were probably three in total. These were more than obliterated by my dozens of attempts to make my body move in ways it was not prepared to move. My back muscles were already atrophied—now they were breaking out into spasms. The golf balls flew in various directions not intended when my mind envisioned and I mentally crafted the shots. Nonetheless I gutted it out. But the day was not over.
The Annual Family Thanksgiving Feast came next. Over one hundred people were in attendance for this part of the festivities. I saw people I had not seen since—well last year at the same event in the park. Little kids were just a little less so this year. Old people were a little older. We waited as long as we could but the natives were getting restless. The welcome was given and special acknowledgments were made of new-comers to the event. Prayer was offered and the line was formed. I served my mom her plate and ran some errands. By the time I was done, I had to scarf my food down quickly because it was time for the Annual Family Soccer Game (or as we call it—Mexico versus Bolivia).
As the elder statesman in the game I was assigned goal-keeper for the Team Mexico. It ought not to be inferred that the reason I was assigned goalie is due to the fact that I can no longer run with the young bucks (although this might also be true). It is mainly because I have been serving in this role for many years due to my unexplained willing need set aside any thought of self-preservation in my desire to keep a goal from scoring. I have many memories of feet and knees and other body parts colliding with me in an unforgettable moment of pain and exhilaration. So there I was again at my post, still seething from last year’s loss to the Bolivian Team. This year the score was 2 to 1 in favor of Mexico with 30 seconds left. I could almost literally taste the victory. I was already imagining the celebration and gloating at the expense of the opposing side of family members who would be deflated and crushed by their defeat at the hands of an obviously superior force and expert goal-keeping. Then it happened—a last second thrust by the foe; a pinball-like series of deflections; a weak shot on goal that I moved to cover—then the awful sight of a slight, albeit accidental glance on the head of a Bolivian team member’s head a mere 10 feet from goal—enough to keep it out of my reach and into the very receptive embrace of the net behind me.
I have erased the scenes ensuing this unfortunate turn of events. I am sitting here at the breakfast counter at my son’s house….only 365 days before next Thanksgiving Family Day 2012.
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