The Master Quips

Look, I know the old saw about going to the well too often. Yesterday's blog was filler, something I put together in the wee hours of Wednesday because I had to leave on a business trip at 2:30 AM and needed to get a few new words out into the ether. A blogger is supposed to blog every day, even just a sentence or two.

Here's today's bit of filler.

Many of us are familiar with Alfred Hitchcock Presents; I mentioned watching it just yesterday in fact. Hitch lead in and offered exit messages on each show's episode. Once he mentioned having sympathy with a character having wardrobe troubles. "I myself was once arrested for indecent exposure. It was when I removed my mask at a Halloween gala."

Some days I just shine in another's light.

With a Hitch

April 17. Another day, another dollar. So they say.

The Tigers are doing all right. 10-7, with good pitching. Could stand to score a few more runs though.

Alfred Hitchcock is on the telly. I call it that because Hitch was English and that's their slang for television.

The Twilight Zone just had an episode where two people, a man and a woman, both astronauts, were stranded on a distant planet. He was named Adam, she Eve. I suppose it was clever at the time.

In a couple of days it'll be April 19. If my math is right.

You know, stream of consciousness isn't so easy as it seems.

Because I Want To

I rarely have trouble with Canada customs. Whenever I head over, it's almost universally a rubber stamp. Show my identification, answer a couple perfunctory questions, and they let me on my way. 

But yesterday heading to Windsor for an end of season curling dinner, wow. I had to draw a deep breath to keep my cool. 

After derisively commenting on the size of my newer older van, the 1996 Chevy conversion van which I bought off my brother-in-law, the little snot in the booth asked with no small amount of disdain, "Why aren't you driving a regular car?"

I tell you, and I mean this quite seriously, I was instantly enraged. It was a burning, deep anger right to the core of my being. What? Did I miss the memo that Marty can't drive his van to Canada? Has Parliament passed a law that henceforth and in perpetuity Charles Martin Cosgriff shalt ne'er again pilot the motor car of his choice into these Canadian Dominions? 

What's it to you what I drive, ya little punk? Different country or not, I don't have to justify this to you. I wanted to smack that sneer right off his face. I wanted to yell, "Because I %$@!!&! want to drive my van!" That's why I don't drive a regular car, whatever the hell you mean by that.

Instead I took a deep, deep breath and answered, trying not to grit my teeth, "I just like driving my van."

That's crap, folks. Just crap.

Technology Spoiler

I watch my share of golf, and as with many other things I've noticed how innovation has crept into the coverage of the sport. What I like most are the arcing trails which typically appear on the TV screen indicating where a shot is headed. 

Imagine my confusion then when the technical wizards don't do it. Here's guy a teeing off: immediately after striking the ball there's a glorious arc showing just where it's going, with the highest point and the ball speed all right on the screen. Then on the very next shot, they don't do it.

Don't tease, folks. Every time or no time, please. I wouldn't mind it even on the putts.

Zeke and the Masters

I don't watch golf very often. But I always watch the Masters. Although I do find that I like the game more and more as I grow older, there's a part of me which still doesn't really see the allure. Hitting a small ball hundreds of yards into a cup maybe twice the size of that ball just doesn't seem a very entertaining way to spend an afternoon. Still, I find that golf and I have a history. Lately that's been played out through 'swing and sweeps', combined golf and curling tournaments. They're great fun, especially if, as a curler (as I am) it gets you two more curling games per season. I do look forward to them.

But more than that. My father's youngest brother, my Uncle John, who we sometimes called Zeke, liked to golf. He always bet something or other with a coworker on the outcome of the Masters. He and his boss would pick five guys alternately, and who had the winner won a sleeve of balls. I'm not sure who won most often. But I know my uncle was always proud of his picks.

I golfed with him many times years ago, when he was young and I was younger. We'd go out for nine holes after work many a summer's day. Those evenings were always good fun. If I could relive just one...we would joke and laugh, and simply enjoy the quiet and the game.

He was a lefty. That was fairly rare in golf at the time. His swing seemed unusual even to me, but for a duffer he was okay. I scored my only birdie to this date while golfing with him. The Eighth hole at Dearborn Hills, a 170 yard par 3, a Thursday night in an August which escapes my memory. I made the green off the tee with a four iron, and hit a 25 foot putt which ran hard left to right right into the cup. I made him sign the scorecard to attest that I had birdied. He remarked, "No one will believe us, because I'm family." It was lightly drizzling as he signed the card under the glare of my car's headlight after that round. I still see him doing it. Why do such things stay in our memories? But when he died, the first thing I did was dig up the scorecard and the ball that I birdied with.

When he had decided he was through with golf he gave me his left handed clubs. Several times I played rounds with them. If you have any idea how poorly I golf, you would realize that it hardly mattered from which side of the tee I would address the ball. Might as well play lefty.

I kept those clubs for years. Then I bought a better-than-mine set of used right handed clubs (used better than I ever will), and decided to sell Uncle John's clubs at a yard sale. Who needs two sets of clubs, especially opposite sided ones, right? A young left handed guy came by, practice swung a few of them, decided that he wanted to golf enough so that he ought to have his own clubs, and made his purchase.

I watched him walk away, dragging Uncle John's clubs behind on the cart which went with the deal. I felt a pang of remorse as the man disappeared with his new found treasure.

I sincerely hope that he has golfed well with them. And I wish I still had those clubs.

Rico

Way back when, when neighborhood children played actual games on actual outdoor fields, there was this preteen who was an absolute vacuum cleaner on the baseball diamond. We called him Rico, after Rico Petrocelli, a known Boston Red Sox third baseman at the time. Our Rico could snap up any ground ball and track down any pop fly hit anywhere near his station. He impressed us almost every pickup game.

It turns out his name is Ray, and he works as a counter man at an industrial supply store where I occasionally make needed purchases. I'd dealt with him there for the last few years, until he realized who Cosgriff was and made the connection. Now I call him Rico when I see him.

He hasn't played ball in years. Of course, neither have I. Yet I remember thinking back in the day that he surely had a future in the game. "Nah, that was just kids having fun," he modestly explains it away. 

However that may be, it is cool to have a childhood connection in your life again. We had a lot of fun on the sandlots. Small world.

Neighborhood Savior

There is a fellow in the neighborhood, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who really seems to want to be the inspiration for all Woodbridge. Cloyce seems particularly concerned with criminal activity, although he chimes in on the Woodbridge Facebook page on any and all problems (real or imagined) in the area. What can be done? Can we write a letter to someone? What are the details? Have you called the police? How about updates? You should write out a short report of your own so as not to forget details, and share it on the community page. And, perhaps most tellingly, why haven't I heard?

He reminds me of the naive but eager teenager is the old movies: "We can make things work if we all pull together!" Yet Cloyce comes across more as the guy at the edge of the crowd, leaping and pleading with everyone to let him in. You know, the water boy quarterback wannabe generally ignored by the rest of the football team.

I suppose his heart's in the right place. And, yes, we should be vigilant in watching out for the folks in our community. Yet he comes off as more annoying than helpful. It's made worse by the fact that he seems to have all the answers. As a neighborhood friend of mine remarked, "Cloyce ain't gonna be happy until he earns his Junior G-Man badge."

He'll never get it the way he's going.