“In New York, when you were on the Mets.”
Oh, then you never saw me play,” Mays replied.
I often feel the same way about my Seattle friends. You think you know me, but you’ve never really seen me in my prime. I moved here in my early thirties, prematurely aged by a baby daughter who defied modern medicine by never sleeping. She cried fitfully through the night and then awoke at 4 am, trying to figure out which of her two parents would break first under the psychological pressure. Like Shackleton making his way across the frozen Arctic wasteland, my existence had shrunk to mere survival. And, like the “Say Hey Kid” my physical skills had greatly diminished since my prime.
As a teenager, I was one of a very small number of high school boys with enough gumption to streak, a social phenomenon then very much in vogue.
I’ve always maintained that if I sported the same trim physique as I did back then, I would still be inhibition-free. My abdomen resembled an ironing board, providing a straight drop down from my sternum to the naughty regions. I seized each new day with a sense of adventure. Life was fun and exciting.
Today I am nudgy, cranky and easily irritated. My physical frame has battled Father Time and Newton’s concept of gravity and suffered a resounding defeat along the way. I diligently monitor my fiber intake. No one else in my family takes this responsibility seriously. Would it kill someone to check if we needed a new bottle of prune juice before heading to the grocery store?
No, the folks who know me from Seattle have never seen me play.