Mediocre Fred's Mediocre Blog (Ret.)

Happy Holidays

Today's Musical Selection: "White Christmas" by the Drifters

I'm headed out of town for a few days. I'll be spending Christmas with my family up in Pennsylvania. Sorry about yesterday's non-post... my connection's acting up again. I haven't forgotten about our new contributor, even if most of you have; I haven't been able to arrange an interview with him this week between one thing and another, but I promise I'll set something up with him next week. You're going to love him, I promise.

Since I'm leaving early tomorrow, I'm going to have to make this short. I did, however, want to share with you a little anecdote. Last Sunday, thanks to a series of circumstances that I still don't fully comprehend, I found myself giving an interview for an article for my old high-school yearbook. So there I was sitting in Starbucks chatting amicably with a young woman from the yearbook staff. We were discussing the world as it was when I was in high school in the mid-'90s. I made passing reference to the government shutdown as a major issue of the day, and she said, "Boy, I should have paid more attention in history class."

Suddenly, almost as if by instinct, I felt my arthritis flaring up. My temples began to go gray. I was, suddenly, Old. With one sentence, and without meaning to, this perfectly pleasant young woman had made me into a geezer.

When did I get Old? I absolutely fail to recall this happening. I knew ours was a youth-worshipping culture, but I never expected to be over the hill at 25. I mentioned this story to Papa Shaft, and he tried to put a positive spin on it: "Well, in athlete's terms, you're just hitting your prime!" A nice thought, with only two minor difficulties. First, I'm not an athlete. Second, if this is my priome, I'm really in trouble. I'm a journeyman! They've found the hole in my swing. I won't last long at this level.

Everyone has that moment when they first discover that they are Old, and this was mine. For some people, it's the first time they hear themselves called "sir" or "ma'am," but that never had any effect on me, because I was raised to believe that was an appropriate term of respect, and not an insult, as many people in our society seem to think. But when my high school years, which really don't seem that far gone, are suddenly fodder for the history books... well, hell, son, time to hang 'em up and start shopping for Geritol and Depends.

The funny part of it is, I was never really young, even when I was little. I was reading Consumer Reports in elementary school. When all the other kids were into pop music, I was into WMAL, the local news-talk station, and NPR. Later, when I started getting into music, it was '60s and '70s stuff, and later big bands and swing. I've always been naturally middle-aged. I never thought there was any particular value or advantage in being young. At least not until this young woman turned me into my father.

I'd like to invite my readers to share their epiphanies, the moment when they realized they were Old. (Assuming that it has happened already.) I'd like to think I'm not the only senior citizen out there.

I also wanted to address a couple comments I received on the baseball post from Monday. First, loyal reader Tripp is impressed by the depth of my devotion:

Wow, Fred, baseball means a lot to you! Be a little careful though, because professional sports can be harsh.

Baseball surely does mean a lot to me. For evidence, you can call any of my ex-girlfriends, all of whom were driven varying degrees of crazy by my obsession. (At least one of them enjoyed singing the "Six Months Out of Every Year" song from Damn Yankees, which I suppose might have been a hint.) There really aren't words to adequately describe my depression when it seemed like the deal had been blown all to hell. I actually compared the MLB-DC standoff to the Cuban Missile Crisis. I thought things about Linda Cropp that really aren't nice to think about anyone, especially during the holidays. If the deal fell through, I was fully prepared to abandon the big-league game and start my own 8-team circuit called the FMLB, operated on a baseball simulator I own, with daily results to be posted on this blog. (And I would have done it, too. I've done similar things before.) It was not nice of the city and the league to toy with my emotions like that.

Believe me, though, I'm well aware of how the game can break your heart. My heart has been broken by it countless times over the years. But sometimes, you're willing to take that risk. There's a Billy Joel song that fits the occasion:

Who knows how much further we'll go on?
Maybe I'll be sorry when you're gone
I'll take my chances
I forgot how nice romance is
I haven't been there for the longest time

Never has it felt so good to have a home team to grouse about.

Also, friend BallWonk wanted to add a few toasts to my list:

On the subject, I'd like to give a shout out to my good friends Little Pink (Washington's own), Jon Langford, Sally Timms, Jolie Holland, Dwight Yoakam, and Merle Haggard for seeing me through the last week. Couldn't have made it without them. Also, the fine craftsmen and -women behind Makers Mark bourbon, also without whom that ledge might have been a-callin'. A little drink I like to call a Sherman's March kept me going - bourbon, the juice of a fresh squeezed lime, rocks, and Coke. And finally to John Landis and Dan Aykroyd for making "The Blues Brothers," the first-time watching of which really turned things around for me Sunday night.

Well said, BallWonk. And incidentally, welcome to the cult of "The Blues Brothers." It's a masterpiece of American cinema. You have a standing invitation to come to my house and see the uncut DVD version, which contains a "making of" video that's actually worth watching. I'll also have to try that Sherman's March sometime... sounds like a great painkiller, and undoubtedly safer than Aleve.

I also wanted to add a toast of my own, one that I inexplicably forgot last time.

- To Shirley Povich, the greatest baseball writer in Washington history, and one of the greatest of all time. He kept the flame going all those years, even when no one else believed. He refused to even consider the Orioles as an alternative. Sadly, Shirley passed away in 1998, having lived a full life, but too soon to see the restoration. His name adorns the stadium of the Bethesda Big Train, a local college-league team. He died not knowing if that was as close as Washington would ever come to having the game back. I know he's up there in heaven now, smiling and telling everyone, "Look at that! Things are finally back to normal." My first toast at RFK, and my first toast at the new park, will be to you, Shirley. Rest in peace.

And with that, I take my leave. See you next week, at a time to be determined. Maybe Monday, maybe not. Anyhow, Happy Holidays! Send me egg nog if you have it. Adieu!

Posted by Fred at December 23, 2004 09:38 PM