Me and Roger

Before I came to The Last Roundup (where I live), I played a lot of golf. As you might expect, I was damn good at it. But that's another story, which won't get told someday.

My wife and I were playing in the early 1980's in Scottsdale, Arizoner. As we were leaving the 8th hole a ball comes skittering across the green and stopped right next to my cart. On the ball is printed: "Roger Maris". Roger is the guy what busted Babe Ruth's home run record, hitting 61 in 1961 (and got a lot of hate mail for his feat).

On the 9th hole my wife and I were held up by a foursome in front of us, so that gave time for Roger and his playing partner to join us on the tee. I am not much of a hero worshipper (except when it comes to me), so I said to Roger, "I hear you're a beer distributor." I guess he noticed me looking at his belly, 'cause he sucked it right up before admitting that fact.

So the four of us played the rest of the 18 holes. At the end, Roger said he wanted to thank me and my wife for not talking about baseball. He said he seldom gets a chance to work on his golf game because people wanna jaw at him about 61 home runs and being named Most Valuable Player and all that.

"So," he said, "if you want my autograph, it's okay to ask."

I said, "I was more thinkin' you probably want mine."

"Why would that be, Mr. Snake?"

"Well, according to the scorecards, I whipped your ass in golf. Don't that make me your hero?"

+ + + + + + + +

I got a links partner (as in Internet links, not golf links) named Raehan, who is listed as, believe it or not, Raehan, in my Geriatric Ward, yonder at left. She is another one of my buddies, of which I got plenty.

She said in comments to my historical mumblings that I should include some stuff from my newspaper days. I am pleased to abrogate (I bet you thought I didn't know any big words). So here is No.

12. As City Editor of the Capital Journal in Salem, Oregon, I get one of the first newspapers off the press when it starts at about 1:15 p.m. On one page there are two pictures. One shows a mass murderer, the second shows a respected businessman. The pictures are switched. Ol' Hoss, true to newspaper tradition, runs downstairs and yells "Stop the press!" While we fix the glitch, 1,100 newspapers that were printed before I stop the press are consigned to recycling. I never got to stop the press because we had a late-breaking big story. I would have liked to, though. I can be quite the drama queen.