An apology to baseball player Marv ThroneberryPublished 10:42am Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Echoes from the
Loafers’ Club Meeting
“Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Sid?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s good. I don’t have an Uncle Sid.”
Driving by the Bruces
I have two wonderful neighbors–both named Bruce–who live across the road from each other. Whenever I pass their driveways, thoughts occur to me, such as: nothing messes up an apology more than an excuse.
1. If you are one in a million, there are 6,964 just like you.
2. When it comes to lemons, a rind is a terrible thing to taste.
3. The hardest thing about learning how to ice skate is the ice.
A movie called “Moneyball,” based on a book of the same name, is about the Oakland Athletics baseball team and its general manager Billy Beane (played by Brad Pitt). It presents Beane’s analytical approach to assembling a competitive baseball team without spending gobs of money.
I did that when I was a lad. I spent a nickel at Sibilrud’s and received five Topp’s baseball cards in a packet with a piece of bubblegum. I didn’t like the bubblegum and gum has to be bad for a kid not to like it. I grabbed the packet and rushed outside. I hoped a card would feature the likeness of Stan Musial, Mickey Mantle, Duke Snider, Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Al Kaline, Roberto Clemente or Harmon Killebrew. I freed the cards individually.
“Got him. Got him. Got him. Need him. Got him,” I said to no one and everyone.
No Musial, Mantle, Snider, Aaron, Mays, Kaline, Clemente, or Killebrew. Instead, I found the images of Marvelous Marv Throneberry, Wally Post, Jerry Zimmerman, and Elmer Valo.
I traded doubles with friends, but everyone had Throneberry, Post, Zimmerman, and Valo.
Some cards went into games. A boy flipped a card into the air. Another boy did the same. If the cards matched, the second boy owned both. If they didn’t match, the first boy won both cards.
I used clothespins to attach cards of guys like Marv Throneberry to my bicycle so that the spokes hit them and made cool sounds. It was a motor to a good imagination. It wasn’t good for the cards, but it was Moneyball.
I owe Marvelous Marv Throneberry an apology.
I was sitting in the car, waiting for my wife to exit a store. When it comes to shopping, I help by waiting in the car.
A car parked near me and a couple got out. The woman spit onto the ground as they walked to the store.
I wouldn’t have thought much about it had it been the man who spit. I thought women were above that.
Men spit because they are men. It’s one thing that most of us are good at. It’s exercise. I’ve watched wrestlers spit in an attempt to lose weight. I watch baseball players spit out chewing tobacco for distance and accuracy. Major League Baseball causes flooding. Motorcyclists spit out bugs.
I’d considered spitting gender-based. Now that I know it isn’t, I’m giving a niece a spittoon for Christmas.
It’s a man’s world
Not long after I witnessed the spitting lass, I heard a woman say, “It’s a man’s world.”
A study showed that 82% of the people hit by lightning in the US are men. The world doesn’t know that men are in charge. If it were a man’s world, houses would have urinals, all towels could be used, and there would be only one shade of white paint.
State Farm Insurance estimates 2.3 million collisions between deer and vehicles occurred in the U.S. during a two-year period (2008-2010). That’s 21.1 percent more than 5 years earlier, while the number of miles driven increased 2 percent. Such collisions are more likely during the last three months of the year and in the early evening. The chance of a West Virginia driver striking a deer over the next 12 months is 1 in 42. Iowa is second with the likelihood of a car hitting a deer being 1 in 67. Michigan (1 in 70) is third. Following in order are South Dakota (1 in 76), Montana (1 in 82), Pennsylvania, North Dakota, Wisconsin, Arkansas, and Minnesota (1 in 99). Drivers in Hawaii are least likely to hit a deer (1 in 13,011).
Talking to the Holstein
I was talking to the Holstein the other day. The Holstein is a retired milk cow, so she has time to talk. I told the Holstein that my conscience works overtime.
The Holstein chewed her cud thoughtfully and said, “A clear conscience is a sign of a bad memory.”
Kind words bring pleasant dreams.