I miss the game.
Yesterday when I got home, late as usual, I had a FedEx package from the Seraperos de Saltillo Baseball Club. It was their usual annual invitation to the Juegos de Veteranos, the old-timers' game, taking place, as it always does, on the last weekend in May.
Inside the envelope were the usual xeroxed sheets of arrangements. Hotels, nearby restaurants, recommended flights and a calendar of events.
This year, I even got a personal note from Francisco Escondido, the Seraperos' new manager looking forward to meeting me.
"Dear Jorge,
"We would very much like to ee you on the weekend of May 26-May 28th, for the erapero ' annual Juego de Veterano . Plea e re pond a oon a po ible.
" incerely your ,
Franci co"
First thing I noticed, of course, was that the typewriter in the front office was still missing its "s" key. But that was ok. Nevertheless, though I have made the sojourn down south for the last three years, this year I cannot go. While the festivities always coincide with my wife's birthday, this is a big one for my better half, and I know it's a matter of my health to do something special for the her.
There was a return envelope and reply card and I checked all the requisite boxes telling the club, that with great remorse, I could not attend.
"You should go," my wife beseeched once she saw what I was doing. "My birthday's on a Friday. You can take the early flight to Monterrey and still make the game on Saturday."
"No," I said, reminding her that we had booked a place that week on Cape Cod. "Besides, my shoulder is worse this year. I couldn't make the throw from third to first if I sent the ball airmail."
My wife who knows me better than I know myself, corrected me. "No, your dumb pride will force you to make the throw, and in the process, you'll ruin your shoulder permanently."
I smiled. No one ever said she wasn't perspicacious.
"But that's ok," she continued somewhat cruelly, "you revel in your pain."
Though I had a thousand and one comebacks for my wife's barb, I wisely let it drop.
I ran the envelope down to the doorman where FedEx will whisk it back to Saltillo.
And that's it for this year. No ball for me.
Inside the envelope were the usual xeroxed sheets of arrangements. Hotels, nearby restaurants, recommended flights and a calendar of events.
This year, I even got a personal note from Francisco Escondido, the Seraperos' new manager looking forward to meeting me.
"Dear Jorge,
"We would very much like to ee you on the weekend of May 26-May 28th, for the erapero ' annual Juego de Veterano . Plea e re pond a oon a po ible.
" incerely your ,
Franci co"
First thing I noticed, of course, was that the typewriter in the front office was still missing its "s" key. But that was ok. Nevertheless, though I have made the sojourn down south for the last three years, this year I cannot go. While the festivities always coincide with my wife's birthday, this is a big one for my better half, and I know it's a matter of my health to do something special for the her.
There was a return envelope and reply card and I checked all the requisite boxes telling the club, that with great remorse, I could not attend.
"You should go," my wife beseeched once she saw what I was doing. "My birthday's on a Friday. You can take the early flight to Monterrey and still make the game on Saturday."
"No," I said, reminding her that we had booked a place that week on Cape Cod. "Besides, my shoulder is worse this year. I couldn't make the throw from third to first if I sent the ball airmail."
My wife who knows me better than I know myself, corrected me. "No, your dumb pride will force you to make the throw, and in the process, you'll ruin your shoulder permanently."
I smiled. No one ever said she wasn't perspicacious.
"But that's ok," she continued somewhat cruelly, "you revel in your pain."
Though I had a thousand and one comebacks for my wife's barb, I wisely let it drop.
I ran the envelope down to the doorman where FedEx will whisk it back to Saltillo.
And that's it for this year. No ball for me.
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