Mr. October

Dear Baseball Fans,

The boys of summer have once again issued in the fall season where there is not much that plummets faster than the dying leaves, changing temperatures, and pennant race leads. No longer are heard many of the sounds of summer--gone is the Pavlovian response to the familiar bell ring of the Jack & Jill truck; no longer necessary is the 7am Saturday morning mowing of the lawn to beat the heat; nor can be heard the shrieking of neighborhood kids being dunked while roughhousing at the seemingly never-ending pool party next door. Equally as elusive during this season is voice of my home town commentator or sports radio anchor informing the general public, "The Phillies' next game will be this coming...!" But this October will be unlike those of the previous decade and a half. No, there will be no Jack & Jill ice cream treats, no pool parties, nor any early morning mowing of lawns; but the Phillies will be donning the "what-used-to-be-pinstripes(when they were last in this position)," at least a few more times. This October they will take to the field having earned a spot in postseason play despite having earlier in the year become the losingest franchise in major US sports history(Congratulations!). I can once again "root, root, root for the home team" when for the last 14 years it has just been "a shame." That puts a 108-stitch smile on my face. Now, as exciting as this news may be, I try not to let it pervade the other facets of my life. So enough about baseball.

Work has gone well lately as have my athletic escapades. I had a packed weekend having three games in three nights, but it was back to the office as usual on Monday. I took the mound with a new lineup of responsibilities at the school having recently been designated as a relief administrative assistant in addition to managing my responsibilities as part of the substitute teaching rotation. My work load has nearly doubled in a single day. Talk about the ultimate utility guy. Although I was not a fanatic about this move, I wanted to do what I could to be a team player. I am predominantly working with the minors at this point, but I have dreams in this field of making to the big leagues. With growth projections already in play and construction plans on deck, the prospects look good; and I am sure that if we build, it will come.

Monday, October 1st, was opening day in this new position after being called up the week before. I entered my new arena taking a seat under the lights on the bench which was actually an exercise ball(great core workout so long as I can avoid falling off and receiving a concussion by the surrounding "beige monster"). Up first...establishing and order. After beginning a series of tasks, my day seemed to be in full swing. I checked the the "365 Days of Humor" calendar and noticed that it had apparently not been cycled by Friday's closer. Being the ace substitute and "the natural" replacement that I am for the admin assistant who intentionally walked earlier last week, I thought I would end the 3-day delay rather than postpone it until a later time. I turned the calendar to October 1st and continued to work belting out emails and fielding calls as any all-star admin assistant would do. After stretching early in the 3rd, I began to shift my game plan for the day when I caught a sign in my right field of vision. It was the calendar joke of the day which simply stated the following:

Definition

Athlete: A dignified bunch of muscles, unable to do dishes or mow the lawn.

Unsure of who to turn two, I baulked at first before filing a grievance with management. It was an unexpected curve that came from deep in left field. Sometimes you just have to take a pitch. Once you know what kind of heat they are throwing, you can step back up to the plate and get some good wood on the next one and put them in a squeeze. There is no sense in retiring and crying over foul play. Besides, "there is no crying in baseball," or admin assistantdom(e) for that matter. When you are swinging for the fences you can not allow bush league comments such as this to force you out of the batters box. You need to crowd the plate and let them know who is calling the pitches. You have to play hardball.

I have every reason to believe that this was intentional, but I feel that, having covered my bases, it is safe for me to express my concerns. There is always the possibility that I will be thrown out, but that is a gamble that I am willing to accept in order to acquire the pennants of the writers of such an underhanded comment. It is not about the multi-million dh contract, or the fame, not even the "Ballpark Hotdogs" that we have for lunch each week on the grounds. I am not in this to steal the spotlight. I simply desire the respect and appreciation of both the major and minor players in this game. They might have dropped the ball having missed the signs to this point, but they will soon understand why they call me "Mr. October" Let's play ball!

"Mr. October"