RMJ 31 March 17

MONDAY, MARCH 17 ● off day in Kissimmee

I was a pitiful soul last night. Up every 15 minutes, my body entreating me to do something it could not help me do.

In the morning, I called the golf course and canceled. Then I lay back down and got two hours of uninterrupted sleep.

I decided to get a haircut and go to the ballpark to watch El Sid and Darryl Kile throw on the side, and Shane Reynolds pitch in a minor-league game.

Naturally, the hair salon was closed. I checked with Labossiere when I arrived at the ballpark, and he called Dr. Link. He happened to be working nearby, so I went in for a prostate plunge and urine sample.

The plunge was easier than the piss.

He checked things out and said, “The good news is that the medicine is working on the infection, and the prostate seems fine. The bad news is that you may have an obstruction. The only way to tell is to go in there. I’ll get you some medicine to stop the burning, and I’ll set you up with a urologist.”

Just what I wanted to hear on my one day off.

Still, I found it possible to enjoy the workout; all three pitchers looked good. If we can keep Sid healthy and D.K. in some kind of reasonable groove, we have a chance to do well.

 

I couldn’t eat last night, and I was famished. I wolfed down two bowls of cereal, an apple, and a banana, and I felt much better.

As it turned out, Vern was free to play golf afterward, and we hooked up with Matt Galante and a mutual friend at the course. The play was slow, as usual in a resort destination. Seems like we’re about the only out-of-towners working in the area. Everyone else is playing golf.

I wish they’d go fishing.

The Perfessor was busting the ball pretty good. Though he is normally among the peaceful members of the planet, he did manage to hit into the group ahead of us twice. The second time, he rolled one up onto the green from the tee box on a par-four. How could anyone complain about that? It was a career shot: more than 300 yards.

Earlier, Matt hit a drive that struck a Sand Hill Crane flush in the feathers. The big bird released a stream of juices that made me envious.

“Hey, Matty,” I said, “how ’bout hitting me in the side with one of those drives?”

The Perfessor could not resist the temptation to lecture at this point:

“A bird like that has only one hole,” he said. “The pee and the poop come out together.”

“Yeah, you really knocked the shit out of that one, Matty,” I said. “By the way, did you know that the Sand Hill Crane is an endangered species? The Sierra Club is going to come down hard on you when they hear about this.”

A couple of us were smoking cigars as we played. If the stogie industry thinks these are boom times, wait ’til Garagiola gets finished with his tour; everyone will have a humidor and a clip. And they will display their Cigar Aficionado magazines right next to their Wine Spectators.         

 

Had a nice dinner out tonight. Reading deeper into Beach Music now. Getting to the part about the Holocaust. Listening to Dixit Dominus as I write, and I’m praying for His help in the morning.