My day to write on the blog. I’m sitting at a table behind the front window of Starbuck’s monitoring the parking lot. I’m waiting for my friend Madison, the Mad Mutt, to arrive. We’ve a lot in common, as we are both orthopedic surgeons who aren’t practicing surgery anymore.
He calls these brunches cock ‘n’ bull sessions as in “we’ll have a little of the cock ‘n’ bull, and a venti.” Most of the time, we venti plenty, two old bone-bending curmudgeons who think they understand how the world works, even, as the ground shifts under our feet.
I guess, a former Marine Police Investigator isn’t going to call our meetings a hen party, but that is basically what they are. When we aren’t venting, we gossip, but with a manly attitude. No Latté’s, we go for Cappuccino’s no added sugar, and chocolate croissants warmed in the microwave. Crumb cake gets powdered sugar on your Tommy Bahamas shirts, or your front-pleated chinos, never know when you’ll need a little extra tummy room. They have to be dry-cleaned, not a good idea to soil them. The BWC agents at home call the white powder trace evidence.
We be men. Picture both of us flexing our Pecs while growling, ”Grrr.” The belly bounces, when old guys flex their pecs. Doesn’t happen when you are young and fit. Women straight from the gym in Reeboks, leggings and sports bras stare, wonder, and then move away. The baristas giggle. They think were flirting. To us flirting has one monogamous target, our in-house BWC agent. It works for me.
We talk about the kids. He has one, a female lawyer, Pam who is divorced and practicing law in Shrewsbury. That’s New Jersey for all of you who are geographically challenged.
I have two daughters neither of whom has taken the first step toward divorce, since they are both single, and never married. But they’re young and there’s time, hopefully for marriage without divorce. Marriage is sort of like playing golf, the fewer tries the better your score. Mulligans are frowned upon and costly.
Mutt is divorced and making a second attempt with fiancée Tink. It’ll work this time, since they’ve known each other for over eight years. She started out as his x-ray tech. For the last four or five years, she has lived in his shore home as a dollar-a-month tenant, because her crazy former boyfriend arsoned her Metuchen house to the ground. They slept in separate bedrooms until two years ago when The Fatal Blow happened. But now, even Pam accepts they are good for each other, making a family with her and Jayson. And that leads us to today.
Anyway, I watched a 735 BMW drive up with Pam behind the wheel. Tink was in the back seat with Jayson, playing a silly car game that had Jay throwing himself. Mutt gave Pam a real kiss, and got out. It was good to see the love. It wasn’t always that way, since Pam’s return to the shore. Misunderstanding fostered by ten years of non-communication, but that’s over.
Tink then exited the back door, and she and Mutt rehearsed a kissing scene from “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” Bradjolina had nothing over my two friends. Get a room.
He was only getting coffee for god’s sake, and Starbuck’s has never been fatal. The man's been through Vietnam as an MPI and has survived gunshot wounds from the Mob. He's only going to drink coffee til you guys get back.
Tink got in the front seat, and they drove off, while Pam and Tink chatted away as if they were having the cock ‘n’ bull while Mutt was going to a serious commitment like rehab.
It’s a sunny Sunday and I figured Great Adventure. Mutt corrected me. “Right direction, wrong target, the Outlets.”
Jayson had begged to sit at Starbuck’s with us, but the rules for cock ‘n’ bull are no one under 18 allowed even with a grandparent. So he gets to play model for Tink and Pam.
Accessorizing, the female term for putting frilly things a young man against his will to humiliate him. Jay, so young yet so wise, saw what was coming. He was powerless to stop it.
Mutt thanked me for the saving him by creating a valid excuse to escape. He’d pay the bills and not participate in the shopping effort. Men are more into try-outs than try-ons.
I suggested we needed to take Jay to a ball game and teach him macho things. Mutt’s answer was “They can’t even walk in and out of the dugout without hurting themselves. They get hurt during rehab for heaven’s sake. They’re not men, they’re an infirmary waiting to happen, hospital ward fodder in a uniform.”
Mutt is a fan of the Mets as I am. We have the insight of Board Certified Orthopedic Surgeons. Hell, in the past, I even met and spoke with some of the ones taking care of the Mets. The injuries this year create one of several conclusions.
One, the people talking to the media are lyin’ rats. When they say it is a small injury involving the ankle, it is probably broken in three places, and dislocated. For what purpose? Got me. With the way sports teams in the Metropolitan area reveal injuries, this could be the true problem for fans. Delusional expectations feed by false information. OR …
Two, the doctors don’t know what they are doing or are influenced by the team management to take a shot at a quick fix. Anyone who knows anything about histology and hematology knows that injecting damaged blood products into a healing area increases inflammation by adding fibrous precursors, causing more scarring. This prolongs healing, and makes it more painful, period. The scar needs to be stretched everyday for up to nine months. It is the immutable law of nature’s healing. It is not suspended because this player is a New York Mutt. Now they say Jose may need surgery. What are they doing? That’s rhetorical.
I think the timing on the Delgado surgery speaks for itself. A-Rod had similar surgery, and he’s back fighting for a pennant. The Mutts {Mets new name} – with all due respect to my physician colleague – timed it so they could pay a salary for a player who will miss at least 80% of the season and will become a free agent this winter. And thanks to Bernie M. there isn’t enough money left to re-sign him.
Anyone out there want to get paid millions while rehabbing in Florida and occasionally sitting on the bench of a major league team, joking around with your teammates. You could do worse. Then when things get really stressful, you could take time off and visit your family and newborn daughter in the Caribbean. Is that a sympathetic tear I see in your eye? Is it for Mutt and me or the injured players who are suffering so?
Then next year that player can negotiate a contract that will make a team pay him a million or two just to peek and see if he regained any of his past prowess. He makes money whether he has recovered fully or not.
Mutt ranted about how even the New York Nomads were having a better year, and four of them were indicted for throwing baseball games. You can read about that in the future, when he has finished writing that book. It doesn't have a title yet. It may not even be a complete outline, but it's there in his head, waiting.
Arthur Frank, our friend from the FBI, is a Phillies fan. Boyo, we can’t invite him to the cock ‘n’ bull sessions until it’s NFL time. His winter team is the Eagles. Then we can talk about hiring a felon for the backfield. Maybe Art worked on his clearance?
“Who let the dogs out?” Oh my bad. I don’t think they will play that song in Philly this year.
At least, we have ammo for the cock ‘n’ bulls this winter, when Art hangs with us, or takes Mutt to the range in Sea Girt for target practice.
Till then we’ll just have to stand the pain.
Lew P.
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