Labor of Love for the Game

My father did not bury bodies for the mob. It only looked that way, every spring and summer, based on the contents of the trunk of his sedan.

Shovels. Pick. Soil rake. Gloves. Pull-over galoshes. A thick, crusty layer of dried mud everywhere.

The only DNA a forensics team would recover, though, would be from dad's sweat, blood and popped blisters.

These tools were not of his accounting trade. They were the ones that helped keep me and my teammates playing on the poorly draining baseball infields of my youth.

I don't carry these implements today, even though the minivan I drive could house half a Home Depot. This is because we have a storage shed full of tools and more at our Little League field. My fellow baseball parents and I used them often all this usually cold then usually rainy then usually hot season.

I Ran. I Didn’t Die.

Why is the woman on the left coming at me with a camera?

a) She’s excited to see a “hot” dad in the flesh.

b) That’s not a camera. It’s a small oxygen tank and she’s offering me a hit.

c) She wants to know what detergent I used to get my safety-green colored shirt so much brighter than hers.

The Thrill of Victimhood, The Agony of Dehydration

My Love had an air of curiosity in her tone when she said this over the weekend:

“The neighbors said they saw you out running this morning. They said you looked … ‘very intense.’”

“Yep, I saw them,” I said, digging through the mini-fridge for hoppy re-hydration. “And that’s how I look when I ‘m concentrating on not dying.”

I sensed her glare without turning around.

“OK. Concentrating on not dying more than usual,” I clarified. “No one wants to be found a victim while wearing Day-Glo green sneakers and sweaty jogging shorts without underwear.”

+ + +

I run on Sunday to put an end to Juvenile Myositis. I’m about $3,000 shy of my $15,000 goal.

Give online today at http://tinyurl.com/CureOurMegan or send a check to:

Cure JM Foundation
Attn: 2013 Chicago Fundraiser
836 Lynwood Drive
Encinitas, CA 92024

Don’t make me sweat and risk cardiac arrest in vain.

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$20 Worth of Stories in the Naked City

New Yorkers truly are honest, generous and unselfish. Even more so when you bribe them to be that way.

This lesson came after my day had started, hung over and early, at the train station where my wife dropped me off and I vowed never again to overindulge until the next time. As I stepped aboard Metro-North, the first raindrops splattered the platform like eggs hitting Ol' Man Crotchky's porch on Mischief Night.

We arrived with a leisurely 39 minutes and a mere five subway stops to go from my national syndicated talk show debut. Katie Couric, America's Perkiest Journalist, would soon be grilling me and a panel of other at-home dads about our being guests at our children's tea parties rather than captains of industry like, you know, our wives.

I walked unhurriedly through the over-caffeinated, under-deodorized crowd in Grand Central Terminal to join the queue for subway tickets.

Plenty-a' time, I heard my satisfied, suburban inner voice say.