This was going to be mostly about Venezuela, the Donroe Doctrine, Greenland, ICE and why I miss college football from back in the day. Another eclectic day at the scribe office.
But life intervenes. Stuff happens.
Spoiler alert. I am no longer “No-Vid.” I was blindsided and bed-ridden before Christmas and well into a crappy new year. I’ll spare you the details. No soiler alert needed.
It took me into a weird place of escapism and mortality intimations. It happens when there’s a lot more behind you than ahead. So COVID senior citizenry during the Trump era can feel like constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Anxiety and depression can be a given. Peter Finch’s “Mad as hell” rant in “Network” always looming.
There were days when I would close my eyes, and it looked like an ophthalmologist’s field test. Other times it felt like being locked in a Jackson Pollock gallery.
But the dreams were largely nostalgic, flashbacks to youthful inflection points. Two in particular:
^When the O’Neill family of Philadelphia moved from plebian Kensington to the Archie Bunker-row house ambiance of Mayfair, I was about 8 years old. All the neighborhood guys—prospective buddies—were 2 to 3 years older. Enough to look down on the new little kid on the block. But my dad and nearby uncle engaged me a lot in baseball and football, and I could hold my own with the older guys. My mom also helped in this regard. She called me in each weekday evening at 5:00—“Joseph, dinner’s ready.” It was actually code because that’s when Howdy Doody came on, and I didn’t want the older guys to know I was still watching it.
Then one day my mother broke the code. “Joseph, Howdy Doody’s on.” Game on. I got even better at touch football and stickball.
^When I was a sophomore at La Salle High School, I was on what was to become an undefeated, Hall of Fame football team and city champion. I was on the kickoff receiving team, so I would definitely be playing in the season-opener against Bishop Neuman in South Philly. My father, a city bus driver was as pumped as I was. Then he was told he had to fill in for a driver who had called in sick and would have to take over his route and miss my debut.
He did a work-around. He drove the route in the late morning until there were no more passengers. Then he got out and put up the “Charter” sign in front and headed straight to the football field in time for the opening kickoff. I returned it and broke my collarbone in the process. And dad was there. To cheer and then to console.
A final thought on this intense fortnight: epiphanies happen. Life shouldn’t be an assignment. It’s an experience. Live. Love. Laugh. Learn. And even leave a legacy. Otherwise, it’s an ironic ruse.