Just Say No…

There are only a few things that I would consider inevitable. The sun will rise in the east and set in the west. The Tampa Bay Rays will have a losing season guaranteeing them yet another top 10 pick in the amateur draft. And I will get sick right after the holidays. For as long as I can remember, right after New Years I have come down with a cold. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do to try and break this cycle, it always seems to happen. I remember when my daughter Whitney was born I was so sick that the doctor and the nurses thought they were going to need a gurney for me in the delivery room. In a last moment decision they just propped me in a corner and put a gown and mask on me. A few days after Whitney’s birth; I was diagnosed with walking pneumonia. I am not sure how I got that since I was definitely not doing any walking at that time and I’d never even met pneumonia. All I knew about pneumonia was that my grandmother planted them around her house every spring. They had the prettiest pinks and purple blooms on them during the summer. Well anyways, it is January 5 and I am once again sick.


In years past I usually just go to the pharmacy and walk up and down the aisles grabbing a box of this and a box of that and a case of Kleenex. But after the Mitchell report came out I have been a little leery of what medications I put in my body. The last thing I want is to show up in Jose Canseco’s next book as the fan that was on steroids. Honestly Mr. Usher, I thought it was Halls Mentholyptus I was rubbing on my chest. No sir, I cannot explain how I can cheer for 16 innings without losing my voice when last year I was only good for 7 innings before becoming hoarse. Yes, I realize that at my age my scorekeeping skills should be diminishing and no; I cannot understand how I have outlasted 4 pencils, 2 pens, and an eraser. I could just see it, 5 years after I attended my last baseball game when the writers begin to deliberate whether I warrant consideration in the Diamondbacks fan hall of fame; it will come out that some training was shooting vitamin B-12 into my buttocks but the syringe actually contained some sort of miracle hormone that would make me heal faster to return to the stadium. I’ll forever have to live under this cloud of suspicion not knowing whether my cheers were a legitimate love of the game or some sort of chemistry experiment that allowed me super natural abilities to root, root, root for the home team. As I walked down the aisle of the drug store an employee must have saw the worried look on my face and asked if he could help. I gratefully acknowledged that I indeed did need some help and asked what types of cold medications they had that would not adversely show up as a banned substance if I were drug tested as a Major League Baseball fan. You would have thought that I had sneezed on the guy the way he covered his face and ran away. It was as if he had never been asked that question before. I swear, sometimes I just don’t get people.


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