Covid

The plan was to finish my 1947 APBA baseball replay during the Thanksgiving break. For only the second time in more than 20 years, I had both Thursday and Friday off since I’ve been out of news reporting. Couple that with the two-day weekend and I had a four-day slot open to wrap up the season.

Instead, I was knocked down by two different infections that even the iconic red and white APBA dice couldn’t conquer.

The season was only about 20 games of being finished. The St. Louis Cardinals had easily won the National League, fueled by MVP Stan Musial who batted .348 with 32 home runs and 149 RBIs. He also had a 19-game hitting streak during the season. The American League was much tighter and with only two days remaining, New York, Boston and Detroit were all capable of winning the pennant.

But on the weekend before Thanksgiving, I began feeling sluggish. I was getting weak and - this is way too much information but bear with me – I was having a hard time taking a leak. I say this because I had this issue once before in 2016 and I had a hint it was returning. It was a bacterial infection of the kidney, bladder and prostate. Lovely, being of this age. The infection caused swelling of that entire pee line and going to the bathroom was an exercise in torture. Think of trying to water your yard while your car is parked on the hose. It felt like my bladder was having dry heaves. My doctor diagnosed it as prostitis, which is Latin for “Holy, s***, I can’t piss.”

Medicine quickly corrected it, but I still felt bad. My temperature began spiking and on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, it climbed to 101.7 degrees. I missed another day of work and then went back to the doctor. Meanwhile, the APBA games were suspended for a bit. I was able to roll a game every so often when the fog of the fever cleared. I did have a classic, too. Bob Feller threw a 13-inning no-hitter against Detroit, winning 2-1 and knocking the Tigers out of the race. The Yankees then killed the Philadelphia As, 15-1, and Boston was stunned by the hapless Washington Senators, 9-4, and the Yanks were in the Series. Despite sickness, some sense of the games had to go on.

I returned to the doctor the Wednesday after Thanksgiving. I had just started a small cough, alerting the physician who jammed a Covid test up my nose so far and into my brain I can’t recall 1984 anymore. Two days later: positive. I, along with millions of other have this awful virus now. It pisses me off, too. (As much as can be pissed due to the prostitis.)  I don’t go anywhere but work and to the store if I have to and I wear the mask when I go. Still, Covid-19 is everywhere. Of the 20 people or so who work on the third floor of the courthouse annex where I work, at least eight have now tested positive. It’s inevitable that this disease will continue to spread; northeast Arkansas, where I live, is a hotbed. Maybe it’s because this is a college town. Maybe it’s because our city leaders are afraid to shut down things because they don’t want to lose tax revenues. Maybe it’s because of the culture of adaptation. I went into a tire store the other day to repair a tire. My mask had a broken ear thing and I asked the proprietor if he had an extra.

“Don’t need one,” he gruffed. “They do more harm than good.”

I looked on the wall for his medical degree and his high standing with the Centers for Disease Control. All I saw was a plaque that he could rotate tires well.

The good news is that Holly has tested negative despite fluttering over me in care during the worst. The health department thinks I may have had a minor bout of  Covid and my contagious period is over now. Let’s hope so. In a year of insanity and despair, some good news is greatly welcomed.

Enough politics. I’m quarantined now. I feel a lot better and I’ll finish the 1947 Series soon. I also used this time off to do all the prep work for my next replay: 1965. I write out team schedules and write pages to keep up with home runs, win-loss records and saves. I’m always debating about creating a full stat program, but generally opt out and just enjoy watching the games roll. And I’m chomping to play 1965, too, which was given to be as a gift by an APBA brethren. Each new season is an adventure, a voyage to learn about the season in depth. I was alive during 1965; the players are memories of my childhood. Henry Aaron, Harmon Killebrew, Sandy Koufax, Frank Robinson. They’re all there, waiting to provide hours of enjoyment in the hobby that has stayed with us for decades.