Time to say, ‘Let’s play ball!’

Scott DeSmit

A few things ...

n If I was a baseball player, I would have been on the 10-day disabled list.

Ooops. I meant the 10-day injured list. I still call it the DL, even though Major League Baseball changed it three years ago for fear that the DL offended, well, disabled people.

Anyway, I’m back, although I am on rehab assignment in the minors for another week or so.

Here’s what happened: I’m coaching youth baseball and on this night I was at the plate hitting grounders and fly balls.

My catcher was Big G, who really isn’t big at all except when he runs his mouth, as he does constantly. Love this kid. I call him Yogi.

He tosses me the ball and I toss it up and hit a pop fly to center and immediately scream out in pain.

“What’s wrong, coach,” Yogi says, looking up at me with much concern. “You pop something?”

I did. The pain shot through my entire body. Somewhere in my right arm something was not right.

I kept hitting for another 15 minutes or so, eyes watering and my brain hoping that I can “walk it off” and miraculously heal thyself.

Apparently that doesn’t work anymore. Within a day my right arm in areas above and below the elbow were deep purple with bruise. I could not throw or swing or barely lift a fork to my face.

I took eight days off from work.

It was during that time that I also rearranged my lower back to the point I could barely walk.

“I’m never getting old,” my 12-year-old daughter Jenna said to me as she watched me hobble around the house.

n I did, however, avoid a bout with COVID. Jenna tested positive last week and me, being in constant close proximity to her since we live in the same small house, feared the worst.

I went through six COVID tests and just as many bottles of vodka and orange juice to ward off the evil virus.

It worked. I didn’t get it.

n Speaking of COVID, if you recall it was on March 1, 2020 that the state banned all plastic carryout bags from stores.

A wonderful idea that for the most part has left our landscape a bit more beautiful. No more garbage bag trees and fences dotted with white plastic bags.

You may also recall that on March 3, 2020, just two days later, New York had its first official COVID case. That led to vaccines and boosters and billions of at-home COVID test kits.

Oh. And masks.

Now I see all manners of masks in parking lots and attached to fences. Billions of plastic-filled test kits in the landfills.

Earth can’t get a break.

n I have the privilege of grocery shopping and on this day I was in Brockport.

Inflation, THEY say, is hovering at around 8 percent.

That is a complete -*-&-&-*- lie.

The same orange juice that I have bought for years went up 47 percent. Bread 27 percent. Milk between 30 and 50 percent. Eggs 175 percent. I could not find coffee creamer or boneless chicken breast. Onion, potatoes, peppers and all matters of staples have doubled and tripled in cost.

Eight percent inflation? I will take that any day of the week.

Does anyone else feel the sense of impending doom? Or, at least, the urge to begin pilfering?

n After shelling out more than $100 for a quarter full shopping cart, it was decided that I should take a trip to the nearby liquor store.

I grabbed two bottles of vodka and a bottle of triple sec and noticed the prices as I approached the counter.

They were the same price as five years ago. Maybe 10 years ago.

Funny how that is. I wondered aloud to the cashier why booze prizes have remained stable and she smiled and didn’t say anything.

At least I have something cheap to pour into my glass of expensive orange juice.

Scott DeSmit is a general assignment reporter for The Daily News. He can be reached at desmitmail@yahoo.com.

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