Without sounding to morbid, I’ve written a sequel to the “Concrete Shoes’ poem from the other day. (See Post #1292). There’s obviously still a lot of frustration in once again finding relative comfort when I pound the pavement every day. Clearly, there’s a lot of wear and tear when your feet meet the street, as mine have after many years of running. I expect it to be challenging, but instead it continues to be uncomfortable. It also occurred to me that I was relating it to a Mafia-like burial known as putting the victim in concrete shoes, cement shoes, or a Chicago overcoat. In a way, I guess I’m a glutton for punishment but it’s not in me to simply stop. Consequently, I’m changing my analogy from shoes to slippers, hoping that I can soon “slip” out of this “heavy” funk.
Concrete Slippers
I feel my body,
Just might crack.
If you wound up,
And took a whack.
I’m like a statue,
Stuck in place.
I’m lucky to move,
Let alone race.
Flexibility,
I already lack.
Laboring as if there’s,
A piano on my back.
Feet like bricks,
Muscles tight.
Something’s wrong,
I’m far from right.
Is it old age?
Or medication?
My concrete feet,
Need a vacation.
I run like molasses,
My springs are shot.
Calves and thighs,
Have gone to pot.
Energy low,
Little drive.
I’m moving forward,
But may never arrive.
I’ve tried new shoes,
A heating pad.
Should I respond,
To a Low-T ad?
Caffeine or Energy drinks,
Might give me a boost?
But I’d rather sit back,
On my retirement roost.
Yet, every day,
I beat the street.
With cement slippers,
On my feet.
Copyright 2010 johnstonwrites.com
I thought about my days playing media league slow-pitch softball and the speed at which I could run the bases. I was once a track team sprinter who dreaded having to run more than 100 yards. I prided myself on a quick start, but would fade badly after about 60 yards, yielding to those who finished strong. It was disappointing when the 60-yard dash was eliminated from inter-school competition, so I tried to switch to the 60-yard hurtles. I just didn’t have the spring in my legs or the form to effectively compete. Vertical leap was never one of my strong-points. I avoided the mile run like the plague, let alone 5,000 meters, and it wasn’t until my late 20’s that I tried my hand at distance running. The primary motivation was to run a marathon, and I accomplished it at a respectable 8-minute mile pace. Training for it was much harder than doing it, so after the second time it was been-there-done-that. At 68 years of age, my current average mile time has deteriorated to an embarrassing twelve minutes. I try to pick up the speed but anymore it feels like I’m wearing a Chicago overcoat and concrete shoes, along with a virus-proof cement mask.
I’ve only been out of bed for an hour and a half, and have already scrubbed my hands seven times. It’s a sign of both the times and living downtown. Going up and down the stairs of an apartment building, you tend to worry about the common touched areas like railings, doors, and walls. Between the dog and my daily run, I’ve already tackled the three flights four times. Even though it’s only been a month now since the Coronavirus began to affect my life, it seems like years of germaphobia and isolation have painfully passed. When will this nightmare end?
Typically, Sundays are my favorite day to run. There is less traffic on the streets and I can listen to my favorite radio program, Sunday Brunch, on KINK-FM, one of the stations owned by my former employer. I was worried as I tuned in this morning, concerned that the host, Peggy LaPoint might have been a casualty of recent “temporary” cutbacks. Fortunately, she was still “spinning the tunes,” like Neil Young’s Harvest Moon that brought back memories of his 1972 studio album, Harvest. A friend and I went into the Bloomington, Indiana store that I believe was called Tracks Records on Kirkwood Street, hoping to get one of the first copies. Their delivery truck was not operating for some reason, and the owner sent us to the distribution center in Terre Haute to pick up his supply. Not only did we get our albums hot off the press, plus they were free for our trouble! Those were the “Good Old Days” when music was more valuable than gas, time, or money.
This was the only good thought that came out of this morning’s 5k run. The time span usually consists of ten songs, but with little advertising on the air lately, it’s been more like eleven or twelve. This is the reason for the employee lay-offs. Knowing Peggy, I’m sure she’d do her job for free (or at least a few albums, CD’s, or downloads). From my standpoint, running even when accompanied by good music, has not been easy over the past few weeks. I might have to make some adjustments in my medication. I’m feeling sorry for my aging self when all I have to do is look around at those poor souls who can’t even stand without the aid of a walker or wheelchair. Realistically, I’m fortunate to even be chugging along anymore at age 68. With all due respect, I wrote this silly poem to reflect my current struggles:
Concrete Feet
Growing old,
Has got its cost.
The price I’ve paid,
Some feeling lost.
My toes are numb,
Ankles swollen.
Youthful energy,
Has been stolen.
Not as flexible,
Balance failing.
But tie the laces,
Even when ailing.
Muscles tight,
Stiff and sore.
Even with Advil,
Hard to ignore.
A lot more steps,
With shorter stride.
But the finish line,
Instills great pride.
Pace has slowed,
Endurance waning.
Those once passed,
Are quickly gaining.
I’m no longer,
Considered fast.
Eight-minute miles,
Well in my past.
Yet I go out there,
Every single day.
Can’t let anything,
Get in the way.
Rain or snow,
Dark or light.
And when I’m done,
All seems right.
It’s hard to run,
With heavy feet.
Like they’re stuck,
In set concrete.
Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com
I did feel like an “Old Sport” in my running “Shorts” this morning, dragging a sore left leg and extra weight on top of my concrete-like feet. It was slow going on Day #4129 of “The Streak,” thinking of how much longer I’ll be able to maintain this daily routine. I think this viral threat has aged me both physically and mentally. It’s hard to get going every day in a fight against an enemy we can’t see coming. Some of my favorite past-times have been taken away in the process, including basketball and baseball just for starters. As I mourn the lack of sports in my life, I at least wanted to write about it today!
To think I was on my way to Spring Training and in anticipation of March Madness when this whole pandemic started. The hotel where we were staying would soon empty and the restaurants began to slowly shut-down. We got on a plane to fly back, leary of what was to come in the way of self-quarantine, social distancing, and protective gear. My reality was the fact that all sports stopped when at first play was restricted to just fans. At least, we’d be able to watch on TV, but instead we’re stuck on re-play. Out of habit, I continue to check the ESPN app, but unfortunately there’s little to report.
I did run across Tim Kurkjian’s article about baseball uniform numbers and the greatest players in history to wear each one. It struck me because as a kid I was drawn to #10 when it came time to pick a uniform. It was because of my catching hero Sherm Lollar of the Chicago White Sox. I have his 1955 uniform in my collection, along with lots of cards, pictures, and stories about his career. I would imagine that many other kids made similar decisions in Little League based on their favorites.
#10 in the article was assigned to Chipper Jones of the Atlanta Braves, a top-four Hall of Fame third baseman. He was born as I turned twenty-one. Sherm sadly died five years later. I’m sure there are those that adopted #10 based on Chipper’s popularity. Sherm, I’m sure was far down the list of those wearing the number, since he will probably never inducted into the Cooperstown Club. Chipper’s #10 was ceremoniously retired by the Braves, while infielder Yoan Moncada currently wears it for the White Sox. Sparky Anderson, Dick Howser, Phil Rizzuto, Ron Santo, Tony LaRussa, Tom Kelly, and Michael Young all wore #10 and were honored by their respective teams by not allowing others to ever wear it again. Howser, Kelly, and Young have yet to be inducted nationally.
Kurkjiun reported that the Yankees were the first to put numbers on the back on their jerseys starting in 1929. “The numbers often corresponded to where the player hit the batting order, which is how Babe Ruth ended up with No. 3 and Lou Gehrig No. 4.” Other Yankees secured their place in numbers history with Derek Jeter #2, Joe DiMaggio #5, Mickey Mantle #7, Sherm’s rival Yogi Berra #8, Alex Rodriguez #13, Whitey Ford #16, and Roy Campanella #39. Many of my childhood baseball peers fought over Mickey and Yogi’s numbers, while #10 was usually always available.
Some kids wanted to be #1 like Ozzie Smith or #6 Stan Musial, particularly if they were Cardinals’ fans. #17 Dizzy Dean and the Gaslight Gang was slightly before my time. If you were a Reds’ fan, Barry Larkin #11 or controversial Pete Rose #14 were probably your top uniform choices. Ted Williams wore #9 while Red Sox traitor to the Yankees Johnny Damon #18, Tony Gwynn claims #20, Roberto Clemente #21,Clayton Kershaw #22, “Say Hey” Willie Mays #24, Barry Bonds #25, Wade Boggs #26, and Mike Trout #27. They are each Hall-of-Famers on Kurkjian’s list. With the current trends in free-agency, it’s more challenging for a player to retain the same number throughout their career, particularly if it’s retired by the team they join. Big bucks have also been rumored to change hands during team transitions since the number is part of a player’s brand.
In the higher ranges of uniform numbers, everyone wears No. 42 on Jackie Robinson Day. Hank Aaron wore #44 on his back, Nolan Ryan #30, Greg Maddux #31, and Sandy Kolfax #32. If you were into base-running speed you might crave the number 35 of Ricky Henderson fame. Orel Hershiser owns #55, the highest number on this particular list. Other pitchers like Goose Gossage chose #54, Don Drysdale #53, CC Sabathia #52, Randy Johnson #51, J.R. Richard #50, Hoyt Wilhelm #49, Tom Glavine #47, Lee Smith #46, Bob Gibson #45, Dennis Eckersley #43, Bartolo Colon #40, Curt Schilling #38, spit-baller Gaylord Perry #36, and Tom Seaver #41.
I’ve been skipping around quite a bit on the ESPN list with preference given to some of my more familiar favorites. For the record, these are all great players, with just a few yet to gain Hall-of-Fame status. The best defensive second-baseman in his opinion was #12 Roberto Alomar, Carlos Beltran tops those wearing #15, followed by #20 Mike Schmidt, #23 Ryne Sandberg of the Cubs, Bert Blyleven #28, Rod Carew #29, Eddie Murray #33, Big Papi, David Ortiz #34, Keith Hernandez #37, and last but not least Torii Hunter #48. At this stage, too many uniform numbers have already been claimed forever, so modern day players will have to start at #56 to make a lasting numerical impression. Who will be the first to wear #100 or #1000? Manny Ramiriez and Aaron Judge have already claimed #99, while Yasiel Puig wears #66. It’s a number game – what’s lucky for you?
“Popsicle Toes” was a song by Michael Franks. My wife and I saw him do it in concert years ago. Long after, I was diagnosed with Neuropathy, a numbness in my toes associated with nerve damage. Let’s just say it – old age! Even at this stage, it’s not painful or even debilitating, but certainly annoying. It feels like there’s very little circulation in my toes and the lack of feeling affects my balance. I continue to run every morning, but it’s often like I’m dragging my feet along for the ride. I should feel lucky that it’s the only thing slowing me down at age 68. I wiggle my toes, hoping the blood flow will return, like being out in the cold too long. I remember, for example, that frozen feeling after hours of ice skating. You’d rub them once you got to a warm spot, slowly restoring the circulation. Well, my “Popsicle Toes’ never seem to thaw anymore!
Some people claim that the lyrics of “Popsicle Toes,” refer to a foot fetish. However, there are lots of silly songs about toes. There’s “Bubble Toes,” “Open Toes,” “Tip Toes,” and “Cold Toes on a cold floor,” to name just a few that have nothing to do with sucking on appendages. Jimmy Buffett famously wrote “I got my toes in the water and ass in the sand, Not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand…” Toes have definitely gotten a lot of attention by musicians and perverts. The ten of them had my attention in an entirely different way this morning as I slowly plodded along the sidewalks of Portland.
After some 5500 grueling steps, I became curious about the origin of the Popsicle, of all things. Here’s what I found according to Wikipedia, this lazy writer’s main source of important research:
In 1905 in Oakland, California, 11-year-old Francis William “Frank” Epperson was mixing a powdered flavoring for soft drinks with water. He accidentally left it on the back porch overnight, with a stirring stick still in it. That night, the temperature dropped below freezing, and the next morning, Epperson discovered the drink had frozen to the stick, inspiring the idea of a fruit-flavored ‘Popsicle’.
In 1922, he introduced the creation at a fireman’s ball, where according to reports it was “a sensation”. In 1923, Epperson began selling the frozen pops to the public at Neptune Beach, an amusement park in Alameda, California. By 1924 Epperson had received a patent for his “frozen confectionery” which he called “the Epsicle ice pop”. He renamed it to Popsicle, allegedly at the insistence of his children. Popsicles were originally sold in fruity flavors and marketed as a “frozen drink on a stick.”
This was indeed a lucky kid who invented the Popsicle. After all, you would think that this would happen at the North Pole rather than sunny California. What are the odds of freezing toes on the beach? Other kids are trying to make a few bucks on the street corners selling lemonade and this young entrepreneur makes a fortune because of a cold night. I have to give him credit for capitalizing on this idea – maybe he got some help from his parents? It also makes me think of a flashy couple that I met on the Indy Car racing circuit. They drove matching Lamborghini automobiles because they had just sold their Otter Pop creation to Pillsbury, an idea they obviously stole from Epsicle. There’s a lesson here! For each of us, life has its lucky moments…take advantage of them.
It’s funny what comes to mind when you’re running, and trying to distract your mind from focusing on the heaviness of each step. I felt like my feet had just come out of the freezer, and I was maneuvering on huge blocks of ice. It was even relatively warm this morning for Portland. “Popsicle Toes” should have been the last thing on my mind, as I belted out the finish of the Jimmy Buffett “Toes” tune:
“….Life is good today, life is good today!”
