Monday, December 24, 2007

The News

Because it was in the fifties yesterday and hit 60 last night, most of the snow melted and I had the sidewalks back when I went running this morning. The moon was full, so it was like running in subdued daylight at 5:45 in the AM time. I wasn't the only one who could see better. The neighborhood paperboys, who all drive their late-1990s minivans with the inside dome light on and Latino hit radio spilling out of their open windows, had good aim today. I was struck on the right thigh by a Wall Street Journal. A New York Times clipped me on my aching right wrist. And a couple Star Ledgers nailed me in the head (but not at the same time). I tell you, these guys must all be pitchers for their Morris County Paperboy softball teams. All they need is some offense and they they'll go all the way. At least they should on paper.

We had our Christmas party Saturday night. If you think an off season party at a big league player's house is filled with other players and their trophy wives and the famous front office personnel, you lose a turn. Unless there is a big team event, like the January caravan to help promote season ticket sales, you don't see baseball players gather together between November 1 and February 14. Half the team lives in other countries and half is spread all around this one. The last thing any of them would want to do is come to my house on a Saturday night and listen to my father talk about the difference between beer from Brooklyn and beer from Wisconsin.

Julia and Grace seemed to have a nice time. They had some friends come over for the shindig. If you think their friends always want to come over to our house so they could get a glimpse of the famous rich dude who pays for the home's heating bill, you lose another turn. By now, and especially after a year of inactivity, I'm not the big time celebrity who can impress people by walking into a room and breathing. Vanessa likes to impress upon me that, as soon as I retire for good, we won't raise as much money as we do now for our foundation. My voice will still work but will be, in effect, silenced as soon as I take that last journey from the pitcher's mound to the locker room. I have my personal services contract and will be a broadcaster soon afterward, but ask my dad (please don't). You can't raise much awareness of issues important to you, like Autism or Lyme Disease, if you're going on and on about the origins of the phrase "can of corn" for the fifth time in three months. You become boring. To Julia and Grace, I have been boring for many years. To their friends, I am now.

We had some help at the party. Three chefs, a four-person crew to clean up. Vanessa's new best friend Connie made six pies and forced most attendees to sample bits of each one. I got out of it by explaining my new diet won't allow me to eat desserts. Of course, Connie saw me eating a handful of Vanessa's Christmas cookies about ten minutes after I'd rejected her. We pretended not to see each other, but the experience stunted my appetite and I returned the uneaten portion of my Russian Teacake to the garbage can where I'd found it. Connie left soon thereafter, saying she wanted to be around when her husband came home. He's a surgeon in the City and works lots of late nights. I think he pulls down around a million a year. There's one guy who deserves that kind of salary.

Vanessa wanted to go to church Sunday, since it was Christmas Sunday, so we attended the 9:00 service in Chatham at the Methodist church. I hadn't been to church since the previous Christmas, but since we're not Catholic, I didn't feel guilty about it. I passed the time during the sermon thinking about what kind of X-Box games Vanessa was going to get me for Christmas. Which led me to think about how Felipe Castro is on the cover of next season's Big League Batter 2008 game. Which led me to say a quiet prayer that they find his mother by today so they can all have a nice Christmas together. I know that's got to be one scared and worried family.

Andy, my personal trainer, flew home to New Orleans on Friday and won't be back up until Thursday, so I'm working out on my own for almost a week. In the meantime, I will be paying a visit on Wednesday with our new team psychiatrist, Dr. Henry Pachtins. Just a little check up from the neck up. I don't expect much since I already blame all of the bad things that have ever happened to me on my father.

Speaking of which, "Red" Scott says the paperboys are after me because I never give them a Christmas tip. I asked how much he tips his paperboy. He said nothing. He reads all of his news on the Internet. Not a bad idea, but just my luck, I'd be running one morning and get clipped on the thigh by a Dell laptop, hurled out of a window by an angry paperboy, now unemployed because of the drop in paper sales.

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