APBA Cat

Last April, one of the stray cats who would come to our house each evening for the bowl of food we’d leave out slinked into the garage in very apparent distress.

He was having difficulty breathing and was listless. Because my wife and I like animals much better than humans, we put the cat, who was too weak to refuse, into the cat carrier and took him to the veterinarian.

After inspecting him, the vet said the cat had heartworms and his lung capacity was very limited. It was a bad diagnosis. When he was asked him how long the cat had, the veterinarian said we should make him comfortable. He only had about a month to live, he said.

--

My wife named him Elvis because he’d saunter into our backyard at nightfall, stop for whatever food we left out for him, get his pettings from us and then stroll out of the back and go to wherever he’d go to next. You could almost hear him going, “Thank you. Thank you very much,” after he ate his food.

Sometimes, he’d miss a day and we were worried he was either hit by a car or injured in some cat fight. But he’d return a day later and seemed okay. Once, during a rare Arkansas snow storm, we left our garage door opened a crack so he could ride out the cold weather. We placed an electric pet heating pad on the floor and stuffed a nylon cat cube with blankets and pillows. He failed to show up then and for at least a week we didn’t see him.

Elvis finally returned, but he had lost a lot of weight; we hoped he got out of the storm in some shelter in either someone else's garage or at least in a warm, safe place.

And once, when he was staying in our garage, another cat attacked him and cut open his leg. I chased off the cat, but Elvis was hurt. We kept him the garage again to recuperate.

But then last April was the worst. The veterinarian gave us some medication and wished us good luck. We fully expected Elvis wouldn’t make it through the spring.

Now, a year later, Elvis is still with us and doing much better. He plays with the three other cats we have. Two are feral cats. Skitty, a silver and grey cat named because she is so skittish around us, and Spooky, a black and brown kitten who showed up here on Halloween, have moved in.  We also have Squeaky, a black cat who we got in June 2019 after my wife’s mother passed away.

I think we relate with the ferals. They may be down on their luck with no family. They need help and love and we're just the ones to do that.

Elvis is a success story for us. He is a good, friendly cat who loves his pampered indoor life now and likes routines. At night, Holly and will take him and Squeaky out into the yard, each on leashes, so they can smell the smells and get a feel of the outside life. I know we look like the neighborhood crazy people walking cats around on leashes, but they enjoy it.

When I roll my APBA games in what Holly calls the “baseball room,” Elvis jumps onto a chair behind mine, curls up and then goes to sleep.

And today, Elvis achieved another title. He officially became an APBA Cat. While I rolled the June 18, 1972, replay game between San Diego and Pittsburgh, Elvis stepped onto the window sill by the APBA game desk and then jumped onto the playing field.

The game was delayed on account of cat. He got down eventually and I had to rearrange the players’ cards and make sure he didn’t knock the dice away.  Years ago when I was single, I had a cat who would jump onto the table and steal the dice. Her name was May and I lost her in January 2015. If you go my Goodreads page, you’ll see my profile photo is of her looking at an APBA card of Milt May.

So, Elvis is now deemed an APBA cat. I’m sure many of the APBA players know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve seen picture of players posting their cat delays on the APBA Facebook page and they make me smile.

A year ago, we weren’t sure if Elvis would be with us much longer. Today, a year after that prognosis, Elvis is fine. He runs with the other cats, has a hearty appetite and jumps. And, he is now an APBA Cat as well.

Happy Birthday, Mom: A Mother's APBA Influence

Today, April 23, would have been my mother’s birthday and as I roll the games in my 1972 ABPA baseball replay, I have her to thank for getting me into this game.

She passed away in early 1998 of sudden heart failure, although I guess any heart failure is sudden and not prolonged when you think about it.

I came late in my mother’s life. She was 45 years old when I was born and she called me a “Miracle Baby.” I think that was a polite 1960s term for “whoops.” And I read that after a mother reaches 40 years in age, the chances for mental deficiencies in a baby’s life increased dramatically. I think I am living proof of that.

So, with that all in mind, here are two stories of a mother’s impact in a game hobby that I’ve been playing for nearly half a century now.

The first is how I got into the APBA realm in the first place. I had done other games, like most sports fans, dabbling with the simpler games. In 1975, I got a Sherco II baseball game that provided a formula for figuring out players’ game ratings based on their stats. It was a decent game for me at the age of 15, but I tired of the simplistic way it set up fielding and wind effects.

I needed something more challenging and by the age of 17, I set my goal on the APBA football game. My father was a huge supporter of that idea. I had the electric football game, along with the electric baseball game, and the constant clicking noise of the electric switch and the “whirring” of the motor probably drove my folks crazy after a while. I think my dad loved the idea of a quiet, peaceful game for a change.

So, with my dad’s blessing, my mom okayed that purchase since she was the family comptroller of moneys and on Christmas Day of  1977 they pulled from under the Christmas tree the heavy box that contained the football game.  The following year, they bought me the 1976-77 APBA basketball game and away I went, stepping into the APBA journey that I’ve been on since.

Had my mother, who saw the effects of the Great Depression on her parents, said we had to save money and could not afford the game, who knows what I would have done. A life of crime? I was, after all, destined for a career in journalism.

The second story comes when I was an adult. I was enrolled in a PhD program in English at Texas Tech University in 1991. It wasn’t that I necessarily wanted that degree, but instead the girl I was seeing at the time was accepted there and I had to follow her.

It was doomed from the start. In addition to really hating my classes – the only time I really understood what was going on was when a grad assistant and I drank a huge pitcher of beer for lunch before going blitzed to an English literature critical analysis class – the girl I was enamored with burned out on me. She found another guy and dumped me. In Lubbock, for cryin’ out loud.

I opted to drop out of school. I called my mom and told her of the failure. And I asked her to order the 1990-91 APBA basketball season for me. I think she realized the heartache I was feeling and didn’t ask questions about it.

She didn’t press, but instead said I could come home.

The game would be there for me when I returned home, she said. Maybe she knew the peace that comes with the APBA games – even the plodding, never-ending basketball contests. I wrapped up life in Lubbock over two weeks, dropping my teaching load, fighting with financial aid and packing my stuff. I also began writing out team schedules for that basketball season and that gave me hope. I was leaving a girl I thought I had a connection with, but I was shedding the constant studying of early American literature, theory of composition and that damn analysis class for more APBA games.

I left for home between Games 2 and 3 of the 1991 World Series so I wouldn’t miss my team, the Minnesota Twins beating the Atlanta Braves. I pulled out of Lubbock at about 5:30 a.m.; the girl stood in the parking to see me off—more probably to ensure I was finally gone.

I made it home in north central Arkansas late that afternoon. There, on the kitchen table by the entry, was the package with the red APBA logo easily seen. I was home.

Obviously, there are so many more things a mother does for one’s life. But if not for her, I’d not be rolling games these past 46 years and thinking ahead, always thinking ahead, of the next replay.

So, what would have been her birthday, thanks, Mom. Maybe you’re watching me roll all these games over the years. And if you’ve got any pull with the big guy up there, maybe you could put in a good word for my Twins in this 1972 replay I’m on.