This Former Met Pitcher Is Seriously Conflicted

10/26/2015

Photo courtesy of Bill Wakefield

Bill Wakefield grew up in Kansas City.
Loves his home town,
The old A's, the "new" Royals.
Pitched for the Mets in 1964.
Had a nice season, first year of Shea.

//www.baseball-reference.com/players/w/wakefbi01.shtml

Wore No. 43 before R.A. Dickey did.
Lives in the Bay Area. Roots for Stanford, his alma mater.
Says he will be in KC for the seventh game of the World Series.

Ed Martin

10/26/2015 10:10:11 pm

I am conflicted, too, GV, we are in the kingdom of Tonga, and will soon cross the international date line, again, so it will be Wednesday when it is Tuesday there. Should I read the Wed. Paper and tell you the Mets',score before Tues night? Is it ethical? Have I been drinking to much fermented coconut juice? Go Mets and Go GV

George Vecsey

10/27/2015 07:55:23 am

Ed, I am sure you have had too much fermented coconut juice, but I would suggest you follow the games via the Internet at a Starbucks.
Not sure about international datelines. I once got a Super Bowl result while on a runway in India. Seems very far away. Enjoy. GV

http://www.stilusessaywriting.com/ link

11/20/2015 07:20:12 am

HA ha. I'm sorry I'm not so much in baseball, but the first comment just made me laugh. Stop drinking fermented coconut juice!)) And come on, it's the era of internet.

Comments are closed.

QUOTES
More and More, I Talk to the Dead--Margaret Renkl

NASHVILLE — After my mother died so suddenly — laughing at a rerun of “JAG” at 10 p.m., dying of a hemorrhagic stroke by dawn — I dreamed about her night after night. In every dream she was willfully, outrageously alive, unaware of the grief her death had caused. In every dream relief poured through me like a flash flood. Oh, thank God!
Then I would wake into keening grief all over again.
Years earlier, when my father learned he had advanced esophageal cancer, his doctor told him he had perhaps six months to live. He lived far longer than that, though I never thought of it as “living” once I learned how little time he really had. For six months my father was dying, and then he kept dying for two years more. I was still working and raising a family, but running beneath the thin soil of my own life was a river of death. My father’s dying governed my days.
After he died, I wept and kept weeping, but I rarely dreamed about my father the way I would dream about my mother nearly a decade later. Even in the midst of calamitous grief, I understood the difference: My father’s long illness had given me time to work death into the daily patterns of my life. My mother’s sudden death had obliterated any illusion that daily patterns are trustworthy.
Years have passed now, and it’s the ordinariness of grief itself that governs my days. The very air around me thrums with absence. I grieve the beloved high-school teacher I lost the summer after graduation and the beloved college professor who was my friend for more than two decades. I grieve the father I lost nearly 20 years ago and the father-in-law I lost during the pandemic. I grieve the great-grandmother who died my junior year of college and the grandmother who lived until I was deep into my 40s.
Some of those I grieve are people I didn’t even know. How can John Prine be gone? I hear his haunting last song, “I Remember Everything,” and I still can’t quite believe that John Prine is gone.
-----
https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/30/opinion/death-grief-memory.html
Jan. 30, 2023

This Former Met Pitcher Is Seriously Conflicted

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