The Every Other Daily Corona: 6 Seats Away

My old man indoctrinated strangers in a civil, albeit it odd, fashion back in the early eighties when a few of his thirteen children were still in school. You could say he was a man ahead of his time, as he seemed to encourage people to socially distance from him on a routine basis.  He was a suit wearing, neatly combed executive at a radiology clinic in Spokane by day, and well…..a bum in the neighborhood on weekends.  Some of my siblings hated it, but I actually enjoyed it.  One of my brothers didn’t care for it at all.  Our old man would attend baseball games, wearing a mangy sweater with cigarette burns, talking to my brother about his last at bat in between innings.  It was usually encouraging and his analysis was often times spot on.  Dad had the credentials after being drafted to play professional baseball before fighting in the Korean War.  When my brother would return to the dugout, one of his teammates would ask him what that hobo was saying to him.  My brother was ashamed to admit that it was his father.

Taking his six foot rule a bit further with strangers was a bit embarrassing for the rest of us and our mother.  On a short weekend vacation to Seattle, he would find a hotel with an indoor swimming pool and hot tub.  While four of the thirteen children were horsing around in the pool, he wished to use the hot tub.  Once, their was a group of young couples probably in their mid twenties monopolizing the tub when dad was trying to find a place to sit.  There just wasn’t enough room, so he stuck his foot in the water and tried to make small talk with one of the couples.  “I’ve heard one of the easiest ways contract this H.I.V. Virus is sharing a hot tub with others who may have the virus.  Isn’t that the damndest thing you ever heard?”  Three seconds later, he had the tub to himself.  My sister, Maggie, who became a registered nurse and is on the front lines to this day was thoroughly embarrassed by his behavior even at the age of thirteen.  “Dad, that’s a bunch B.S.” Good old Rodney Gannon would just chuckle.

During the aerobics era, we’d often have people in our neighborhood walking the streets to get exercise.  If they lived more than one house away, our old man didn’t know any of them.  He’d be outside smoking a cigarette, and stop them in mid stride just to offer them a cigarette.  I’ve never seen such sinister looks from people.  I thought it was hilarious.  “Well I NEVER!” would be the usual response from some old bag trying to exercise on our street.  You’d never see them twice.  Our dad’s shit eating grin was delightful.  Out of his office on the North Side of Spokane, he made the Valley his own little world by, in very civil ways, pestering those who didn’t know him all for his own amusement.  He took his job so seriously, I think it was his way of winding down, and lightening the world up a bit.  My friends, who knew him well loved it.  While tossing a baseball or football around in the front yard with my friends, they would stop the action and nudge one another and say, “Hey watch.  Mr. Gannon is going to say something funny to this person walking down the street.”  It never failed.  It brought belly laughs for them.  I’d just smile and shake my head.  I guess he was amusing those who knew him as well.

Rodney wouldn’t go to movies much because of the crowds.  We’d sometimes convince him to go to one we knew he’d enjoy.  Raiders of the Lost Ark was playing at a local theater and it was packed, thus difficult to find many open seats together.  You could have referred to it as social distancing from our father at the theater.  I was sitting next to Maggie when she nudged me and had me look up to where the old man was seated.  He’d always buy two supersized barrels of popcorn, one for him and one for others to share, even if they didn’t know him.  Normally, if it wasn’t a packed theater, the people sitting next to him would whisper, “Let’s get the Hell away from this weirdo.”  With no other seats available, they couldn’t move six seats down, so they’d humor him and take the popcorn and pass it on down the line.  That didn’t bother us.  Watching him eat the popcorn was borderline embarrassing.  Anyone who didn’t know him would be convinced it was his last meal.  One handful or front loader at a time, he would shove three quarters of it in his mouth leaving the other quarter in his or someone else’s lap.  That was during the previews.  When the previews were over,  the popcorn was gone, and not wanting to leave his seat, he’d offer a complete stranger twenty bucks to go get two more buckets, one for him and his girlfriend and one for himself.  He’d also tell them to keep the change hoping they’d just leave with his twenty spot and walk to the nearest Chinese restaurant for a decent meal.  They’d return with the popcorn and, by the end of the movie, they even seemed to enjoy his rascally behavior.  With butter soaked hands, they’d even bid our old man adieu by shaking hands with him.  “That was one Hell of a movie.”  And he, was a helluva man.

The Daily Corona: Dodger Blues

While going to the store today, I walked across a person wearing a Los Angeles Dodger cap.  It wasn’t a mask.  It was a baseball hat.  Out of the blue, I said, “Go Dodgers!”

She said, “I wish….will baseball season ever start?”

It was a quick six foot walk by, but I wanted to stop her and tell her something about baseball.  It hasn’t began, but it will never end.

Joy

Peanuts, hotdogs, baseball and beer.  Oh, and friends appreciating the same, in fact, encouraging you to embrace the wonderful things in life.

Recently speaking to one of the terrific and closest friends in my life, (amongst others…I’m very blessed) and considering the Corona pandemic, I was worried about his health.  He’s almost one hundred and thirteen years old.  Rather than giving a Yankee dime about his age, or a virus, his focus was on baseball.

I wish everyone in this wild world could hear his passionate voice.  “What the Hell about opening Day!?!”  He didn’t have to remind me of it, Opening Day has been delayed over health concerns.  He watches baseball, coached it, and allowed me to enter his home when we could either watch or listen to any game on TV or the radio.  Those were magnificent days.  We’d laugh at the announcers, make fun of foolish fans, speak of players’ salaries and then retreat to our home field: Indian Stadium in Spokane, Washington.  One dollar hotdogs and beer.  Best dogs ever.  I guess you could wonder if we were the best dogs in the stadium. I’m tired of wondering.  On those glorious evenings, amidst the lights in a balmy seventy degree city, we found joy.  I still can’t thank him enough.

The games?  It didn’t matter to me who was winning.  Believe me, I HATE losing, and I LOVE winning.  Anyone telling you differently is selling something.  This fellow made me recognize how we can love something, and for three hours, forget about everything else.

Marshall St. John, my friend, encouraged me to enjoy the very, very difficult and wonderful sport of baseball.  Opening day will be missed, but our games will not be forgotten.

Three generations of St. Johns

 

The Right In?

Screen Shot 2020-03-06 at 8.18.49 PMAlthough these are delicate subjects, I may still approach them with poor taste.  Voting during this time is absolutely necessary, and is not difficult.  Providing a “Write In” candidate on the ballot isn’t difficult either, particularly as an alternative to our current President.  Witnessing someone enter “Corona Virus” as a Write In entry for the Republican candidate was interesting. I shouldn’t have been looking at her ballot, but she highlighted it with stars as well as a skull and crossbones.  If I knew her, I would have suggested a Mr. Yuck sticker.  One could discern she, literally, wished this virus to defeat the POTUS.  It didn’t make me laugh, but it did make me think.

I can’t sit at this computer and pretend I know much about politics like I know baseball and people in general.  Sometimes, I’ll humor those who attempt to engage me with banter about politics.  If we agree, the conversation may last a few minutes.  If we don’t, I diffuse the subject within seconds unless I feel, even if I disagree, they may have a valid point.  I must then proceed to enlighten them with a fart….not literally, but in a manner where the conversation can either continue with something a little more light hearted, or end with the slam of the phone.  Actually, we can’t even do that anymore because of cell phones.  They are far too precious, and, more importantly, expensive.  (I miss those land lines. ) Think about it.  If some disgusting cave dweller decides to fart in mid-sentence, you must change the subject, unless the conversation is about flatulence.

For no more than five minutes, I’ll listen to a politician on TV drone on in front of strange mobs chanting their names, and I wonder if they are just following those surrounding them or actually listening.  I may watch for seven minutes, but I can only listen for five.  This is when the viewer should have the right to dub in a fart to change the subject, or else I’m changing the channel.

People have the right to love or hate our President.  It’s an essential part of our Constitutional Rights.  It’s America.  However, it’s not always what makes America good or “Great” again.  The current POTUS is clearly a good politician, but in this case, he’s more of a good magician.  He convinces good people to believe in things that make even my dastardly eyes roll and generate “what the F are you talking about” looks.  This POTUS is a great magician, but he is not, and let me be clear, he is not a good man. In fact, I just think he’s abjectly evil.  That’s just my opinion, and a little over the top to some, but I have the right to my opinion. I’ve witnessed him turn friends into enemies and brothers and sisters who once unconditionally loved one another question that love.  What’s good or great about that?

After doing something stupid, which I commonly do, I will remind my wife that I am a good man, I’m just not a very good wizard.  She laughs and agrees.  I’m also extremely good at apologizing, because I’ve had to do it frequently over the course of my 47 year career as a human.  Can you imagine the POTUS apologizing for anything?  No.  That’s flat out shameful.

Contrition is a valuable commodity.  Embrace it.  (Let’s not even start talking about humility….HA!) Admit when you’re wrong and repent when you are wrong again.  I don’t think that’s in the Constitution, but it should be.  It usually garners some form of respect, for which I have none of for the POTUS.

“Fart proudly.”  That’s a direct quote from Benjamin Franklin.

 

Phone calls and Chocolate

Will you go with me?   Those were the five most romantic words many would hear, write or say when growing up in Smokane, Washington.  What did it mean?  Well, when in the 5th grade, I guess it meant you had exclusive rights to senseless and meaningless conversations with this person when school was over for the day.  Ninety nine percent of the couples acted like they didn’t even like each other.  I guess that was solid foreshadowing for marriage.

Stuck in traffic, on her way back from her new job as a weight calibrator for Big 5 Sporting Goods, my wife and I were talking on the phone.  Yes, she was hands free.  Since it was her first day on the job, we were going to celebrate that night.  So, I did something I never did when we were friends in junior high.  I asked her to go with me.  Of course, she asked where I wanted to go, so I had to remind her of our childhood days when people would ask others to go with one another, meaning go steady with one another.  Initially, she said she’d have to think about it, but when I told her I was cooking one of her favorite dishes, creamy parmesan chicken, she said yes.  It then came to her attention that I never asked her to go with me when we were in the 8th grade.  One, I just thought it was stupid, and two, our phone at home was only used for my guy friends and my father when he’d come home from work.  That line would remain free because he was the first called when the business he worked for had a break in.  Their security system, Sonitrol, would call dad before they would call the police.  Anyone on our phone phone would soon hang up before he entered the door.  We even used teamwork to keep the old man happy.  I would be close to the door where I could still see the ballgame and picture window at the same time when he’d arrive.  Tom would be in the upstairs kitchen guzzling milk from the carton, and Greg would be on the phone in the kitchen talking to either a girlfriend or guy pal.  Upon arrival, I’d shout to Tom, “The old man’s home!”, and Tom would give the hand signal to Greg who would quickly hang up so we could give the old man a proper greeting.  So, any chance I’d have to talk to Britt, who had her own phone in her room, would have to be at school.  It presented a minor, yet significant challenge to our relationship.

Even though in the eighth grade we weren’t, legally,  a couple, everyone knew we were steady.  It wasn’t until she broke up with me that same year that I finally found out we were actually a couple.  That took a whole new wheel off our wagon, and it would become a different story altogether…a story I will bore you with on a different day.

On the long commute home, Britt asked me if I ever went with someone before her.  Sadly, my answer was yes.  In the 5th grade, I befriended a girl during recess.  Although it was innocent, we still had to hide our innocence from the recess Nazis.  You know, the old stay at home motherly bags abusing their power because they wore paper mach’e badges.  No swearing.  (now referring to Cool Hand Luke) That’s a night in the box.  No fighting.  That’s a night in the box.  No spitting.  That’s a night in the box.  No kissing.  That’s a night in the box.  No winking.  That’s a night in the box.  Oh boy, did they love having that power.  I was once sent to the principal’s office for spitting while playing baseball during recess.  Thank the Lord we had a reasonably smart principal or warden.  When I admitted guilt regarding the crime I committed, he quickly rolled his eyes and told me to get back to the ball field and only spit when they aren’t watching you hit home runs.  We both laughed and I knew he had larger issues to deal with as did I with this girl.

This friend of mine, Shelby, was very nice, smart and also funny.  Three terrific qualities.  I think she felt the same about me.  However, she was a bit more mature than me.  I thought we could have fun hanging out on recess, but only as friends.  Not so fast.  During reading class, while I had finished my school work early, I was busy reading one of the classics……..Mad Magazine, when I was handed a note looking like it had come from the office containing a chocolate bar.  The note also contained a message reading, “Will you go with me?  Signed by Shelby.  I wanted to answer no to the question, but I also wanted to eat that bar of chocolate more than one of my mother’s delightful rice crispy treats.  Therefore, how could I feel good about myself by answering no? So, ignorantly, I answered yes and gobbled up that delicious treat like a crow on a peanut.  I guess I had a girlfriend. (Looking back in intelligent retrospect, I should have answered no, ate the chocolate and went to confession admitting my guilt and saying ten Hail Marys.  Sin forgiven.  Isn’t Catholicism sensational?)

Shelby had her own phone and now wished to call my home.  When a girl calls a boy at our house, sirens blare and brotherly and sisterly vultures swarm your presence.  Nothing but awkwardness.  She did call twice. The first was during dinner, so I had a legitimate excuse to end the call quickly.  The second one was a little more interesting.  I answered the phone, wishing it wasn’t her, with a not so suave, “Hello”.   It was Shelby,  and the first sentence she uttered was, “I heard you broke up with me.”  Now, that day, being very uncomfortable “going with” someone,  I had mentioned to a guy friend I was probably going to break up with Shelby.  Evidently, this person I confided in gave her the grave news before I could.  So, when confronted on the phone by Shelby, meekly, I said, “Yeah.  Is that ok?.  Thankfully, she was cool about it.  No tears, no screaming, just a simple, “Ok.  See you tomorrow.”  It was that easy.  (Why can’t divorces be this easy?)

We remained only friends even through high school and I was even invited to her wedding years later.  Just like in the Hunchback of Notre Dame, when the townspeople were leery of the relationship the Hunchback had with the gypsy girl, Quasimodo, said with an uneasy and defensive tone, “Twas the gypsy girl, she gave me water.”,  I could, properly, during that 5th grade relationship with Shelby,  say, “Twas the gypsy girl, she gave me chocolate.”

Over and out.

How to Reason Without Baseball Season

My wife finally believes me.

Make no mistake, I have told lies.  This is no lie, but much like most lies, this admission of guilt is a bit embarrassing.

Unlike a special blanket, I slept with a plastic helmet with the La Dodger logo.   I dreamed of being in the World Series those nights at the ridiculous age of 6.  My family made fun of me.  They still do, but they also knew they couldn’t have pried that helmet off me with a ball peen hammer, pick axe, and a wrecking ball.

As a catholic, I’d go to confession with very little to talk about at the age of six.  When I confessed to the Father regarding sleeping with a helmet on, he told me, “That’s not a sin.  It’s just kind of  goofy.”

After my wife spoke with my sisters and brothers, they confirmed it properly.

Now, she just thinks it was pretty cute.

Nobody sleeps with a helmet…..except me.

I wore that helmet until the start of the next season.  That may be stretching it.

No Horse

Soccer is terrific if you love it.  Football is great if you can take it.  Basketball is wonderful if you can endure it.  Baseball is magnificent if you can believe it.  Other than baseball, I can’t say I love or even like all of the major sports.  However, I embrace them.

Watching the Major League Baseball Playoffs tonight, I didn’t have a horse in the race.  I didn’t care who won and I only knew of a select few of these elite players participating.  In the 8th inning, I may have been alone in our house, but there was seating room only during that 8th inning when The Washington Nationals were in pursuit of defeating the Milwaukee Brewers.  The city of D.C. blew up with joy rather than uncertainty.  You don’t have to have a horse in the race to enjoy life…..and sports, can provide that joy.

Chicken Lenny and the Shadow

Chickens don’t run around because they are afraid.  They run to avoid conflict and danger, but when summoned to provide assistance, chickens will always be willing to provide a fist, or a beak.

My friend, and my brother’s best friend, Michael Linerud aka, Chicken Lenny, was no chicken even in the Spring.  In our neighborhood, where we played baseball, tackle football, sans the pads, and even boxed in a basement full of harmless blood, Chicken Lenny ran like a chicken, but could cluck like a truck.  I never saw fear in his eyes, but, rather a gleaming spectrum of recognition and intelligence regarding his surroundings.  It was nice knowing he was on our side.

Growing up as the shadow amongst six older brothers, I would often look to Chicken Lenny for that soft, yet tough touch.  Many of my older brothers’ friends would pick on me.  They’d call me names such as tow head, reject, gimpy, lumpy, little bastard, and even muffin top.  While my brothers would laugh, knowing I could handle it, Mike, sometimes, would step in front of those wisecrackers, and say, “Hey, we are four years older than him.”  He would then provide the age old wonderful statement any hero would add at the age of 12, “Pick on someone you own size, namely me.”  My brothers would always have my back, but Chicken Lenny was the guy they could defer to if they had others to deal with when bartering candy on Halloween.  Never a fist was thrown, and I was safe.

Years later, when the others were entering high school, some of us were left behind in the neighborhood mob.  After elementary school would dismiss us, many of my older friends were attending high school and preoccupied with athletics or detention.  Therefore, I would decide to roam the neighborhood on my bicycle.  It was like tossing corn to some of the chickens in our valley.  I was fair game.

Never being a participant of idolatry, I did ,however, have heroes.  One of my heroes showed up one day to provide assistance when I was in trouble.  Chicken Lenny had broken his hand, and fortunately for me, he had taken the day off of school for a doctor’s appointment.  He lived close by, and was taking a walk in the street when he found me being picked on by someone twice my size and twice my age.  I was willing to fight, but my chances in Vegas ruled me a billion to one underdog.  Just like heaven sends us Angels, Chicken Lenny was mine that day.  He diffused the situation immediately with his clear sense of anger witnessing a young friend being picked upon.   The fear in the bully was obvious,  and not a person was harmed.  Chicken Lenny even walked me home that day.  No one followed.  Chicken Lenny and his Shadow were both safe.  I’ll never forget it.

I wish I’d have written this before his demise.  That’s the damnedest of it all.

 

Turn on the Lights

Light poles weren’t easy to come around in Spokane, Washington in the ninety seventies.  They weren’t even easy to hide behind on a night when lights were required.

My late brother, Steve, although mostly revered for his wrestling talents, was also just as talented on the baseball diamond.  Too young to witness him playing, I can only recount some of his past through friends’ voices and my siblings’ memories.

While being recruited by college baseball coaches, Steve forbid our father from coming to any of his games.  Our father was not one who said anything during the game.  He would, however, discuss your batting average after the game.

Steve believed if our father was at the game, his batting average would drop dramatically.  Since he believed it, Steve was correct. He didn’t perform well when our father was watching.  Therefore, Steve asked dad to stop coming to all of his games.  Dad loved baseball and didn’t respect his son’s wishes.

One evening, after going to confession, my father thought it would’t be a terrible sin to show up to his games if he used camouflage.  It was the light pole which almost provided it.

Steve was playing centerfield, and our father was hiding behind the light pole directly behind him.  Steve sniffed him out and called him out.  “Dad! I know you’re hiding behind the pole!”

Dad found somewhere else to hide, Steve quit playing baseball after high school, and went on to win a National Collegiate Wrestling Championship .

Dad knew nothing about wrestling, but I know he was proud.

 

 

Pious at the Plate

Secretly, I was a pretty decent baseball player until I learned only being successful three times out of ten would get you in Baseball’s Hall of Fame.  I was hitting five hundred in my my math classes, and hitting .400 on the baseball field. My father didn’t give a damn about my batting average compared to my math scores.  Five hundred in math equals an F.  Four hundred on the diamond provides an A.

Recognizing slumps in baseball, your batting average may drop by fifty to a hundred percentage points quite drastically.  While in a slump, I resorted to prayer.

Growing up in the Catholic church, I always prayed for others, but I have to confess, while kneeling in that pew, I tossed in a little extras for me.  Those never worked.

Dealing with two strikes with runners on base is tough for anyone, but with God on your side, going to church every weekend, including standing on each Holiday, should that make a difference in my favor?  I wish you could hear my laughter.  It does not.

Stepping out of the batter’s box with two strikes on me, I did the sign of the cross in front of the umpire.  He called time out and asked me, “Did you just do the sign of the Cross?”

As though I was confessing my sins, I responded, “Yes.”

He then said, “Son, Even God can’t help you in this game.”

I laughed and ended up getting a base hit. However, he was right.  I was praying for a home run..