Quotes of the week | Robesonian
Thursday morning is usually when I write this column, but it’s always handy if when I start I have a topic. I didn’t do it this Thursday, which any regular reader understands is not a rare occurrence.
I started to think about my yesterday, which was Wednesday, also known as Hump Day. Now, I don’t know if retirees have bump days or if in my case it was just another Wednesday, but whatever I name it it sucks. So I’ll share The Suck to see if I feel better.
The day started badly when I got up at 5:30 am. Nothing bad happened at 5:30 am except I had to get up to get ready for work. I know retirees are supposed to enjoy getting up at the first light, but I remain a night owl, often not visiting until midnight or soon after. For 22 years as the editor of this newspaper, I got up at 6 a.m. to release The Robesonian when it was delivered in the early afternoon, and I hated it that much last time. that the first and all the times in between. I did it for you.
One of my first jobs at work is getting the golf carts out for the golfers. Coming out the first of what should have been 32 carts, I apparently stirred a hornet’s nest – and I’m using the phrase literally, not figuratively. Evidence of the sting is still visible on my left wrist as of this writing, but for the most part I’m fine.
There were about 10 of them, swarming around the barn door, creating what was essentially a glove. I thought about using a Raid box which was handy, but instead opted for a nonviolent approach in the hopes that the hornets would be reasonable and that relaxation could be achieved. It is useful to know that a hornet, unlike our friend the bee, does not die from its sting, so in theory at least 10 of them had an infinite number of stings. They were not going to run out of ammunition.
So I continued to pull out the wagons, making sure I had enough momentum to rush through the gauntlet at high speed. I didn’t get stung anymore, but there were close calls. I made golfers aware of my heroism. A couple even pretended to be worried.
The work day itself went off without incident except that The Suck continued with a Bad Back Day, which had a new ally to make me miserable, a sore left Achilles tendon. I dragged my foot half hunched over with back pain. If I was a millennial I would have asked for a few weeks of R&R but I’m from a different generation, not the biggest, but not the worst either. I would also have been late for work.
In addition to The Suck, I was preoccupied all day – and even now – with worrying about a best friend battling a horrible disease, and my thoughts on how I might give him some comfort. If you know me a little, you probably know who I’m talking about, so a prayer would be appreciated. My Sucking Day, I assure you, would not be a fraction of what he goes through each day and has for 13 years, doing it bravely and without complaint. It provides me with good doses of inspiration and perspective.
With the work day over at 1 p.m., I took a nap, because without it I turn into a cranky old man. Then the races were ticked off, and I even decided to hit some golf balls, seeing what I could do in my decrepit state. It wasn’t great, but a little golf, even bad golf, gets better every day.
After pulling a few weeds from the garden, feeding three cats including the wild bite, I settled into the recliner, cold beer nearby, making dinner, and tried my last hope of transforming the day of sucking in a day of lightness. Better than sucking.
The Atlanta Braves were playing the Philadelphia Phillies, and I watched them as they chased their fourth straight win, which would put them on the positive side of .500 for the first time this year, and tried to reduce the lead by the East division of the NL. New York Mets.
The Braves came in late in the ninth leading 1-0 with their closest, Will Smith, who finished 11 for 11 in attempts to save, bringing the heat.
With two delays and a runner first, I texted a bunch of other Braves fans that Atlanta was trying to do “25 and oh” by leading the ninth inning. I was reprimanded for potentially messing up the Braves, but argued that I was using reverse mojo.
Then Luke Williams, a Philadelphia native of Philadelphia who entered the game with zero hits this year, got his third hit of the game, a 377-foot home run, making him the hero of his hometown and me the guy who bewitched the Braves. My cell phone says my text was 10:01 p.m., and my investment of two hours and 31 minutes – at my age, every second counts – had not been rewarded.
It was a storybook ending my day of sucking. And while I’m not feeling any better about my Suck Day, I got off to a good start on Thursday because this column is over.