Sunday, May 12, 2013

How Dodger Shirts Can Save Your Live

I was on the final leg of my four mile Saturday walk.  Made it down to the Grab and Rob but got sucked in for breakfast at the nearby Los Barrachos, a wonderful Mexican joint along the way home on this hot Visalia Morning.

The proprietor convinced me that a Cerveza Roja would be the perfect companion for my Torta Asada.  Whatever, I still wasn't fully awake.

I pulled out the newspaper I'd purchased from the the G and R and chuckled out loud about the Sacramento woman who had slugged a deputy just so she could have her ass hauled back to jail and dry up from her addiction. Whatever works.  Other patrons politely ignored my inappropriate laughter...

But now I was almost home, the Cerveza Roja just about burned off, and I saw a byclicist roaring toward me and screaming at the top of his lungs.  Couldn't make out his words yet but I took inventory and tried to assume the "Horse" stance, facing  your opponent laterally, front foot forward, back boot perpendicular as an anchor, hands half way uncommitted until you see the source of the threat.

At seventy five yards out I could hear the word "Dodgers", and realized that I was walking through a predominantly "Red" neighborhood still wearing the Bluish T-shirt from last night's surprise birthday party:  "Los Angeles" near the neckline, "LA" underneath, with bats crisscrossing like a skull and cross bones.  The guy coming at me looked young, crazed a little like that weird relief pitcher for the Giants, Sergio Romo.  I sensed this could end badly.

Especially since my right knee, the one I had used preemptively in the past to bust other peoples' knees and walk away unscathed, had recently suffered two torn ligaments which still hadn't been adjusted by surgery.

My left leg had little comparative kicking power and my left fist was going to be busy just trying to protect my recently broken rib.  All anyone would have to do is brush me in either of those areas, and I would be a screaming crying mess.

And then he was on me, still yelling at the top of his lungs: "Dodgers are just getting ready...they're going to take the pennant and you, my man, have made a great fashion choice!"

And he swished by me.  He must have been 50 yards away before I pointed toward him and yelled back,  "Yeah, you got that right.!"

I was barely 11:00 am.  I decided to go home, wash off my sweat, and watch a Dodger game if for no other reasons than loyalty--and gratitude.