The Old Coot, once a boy of summer. Published 6/26/2024

 The Old Coot was one of the “boys of summer.”

By Merlin Lessler

 It’s that time of year again; time for the “Boys of Summer.” That’s what they called it back when I was a kid in 1954. It was the last year I was eligible to play Little League. Eleven years old and soon to be too old to qualify. Three of us from the neighborhood “gang” decided to try out. And, to our surprise, made the team: Woody Walls, Waren Brooks and myself. The biggest thrill was getting the uniform making us official players on the Elk’s Little League team. We were a scraggly bunch of South Side, Binghamton kids. We grew up playing ball at the “Flats,” a wide-open playing field between Vestal Avenue and the Susquehanna River, adjacent to the temporary, Veteran’s housing complex. It’s now part of the Mac Arthur Elementary school grounds. There is one veteran’s house still standing, now used as the bath house for the city pool. But, back then it was home for my cousins: Rosemary, Rita and Jerry Collins. Billy and Pat Collins came into my world later on.

 Little League started in June, when school let out. Games were played in the afternoon on weekdays. It was a kid’s pastime, of little interest to parents for the most part. The coaches were usually the only adults at a game, except when we played the really good teams. Sertoma, for example, led by Doug Johnson. He not only could blast the ball out of the park, he was the most feared pitcher in the league. Little League was a wonderful pastime. It profitably occupied us for an entire summer, but someone came along when I wasn’t looking and changed it. And, it bugs me a little.

 First, they changed the time frame. It’s no longer a summer pastime. The season kicks off in May, sometimes with traces of snow clinging to the grass in the outfield. The games are played in the evening or on the weekend, to accommodate parent’s work schedules. “Mom and Dad” feel compelled to be there, to nurture the egos of this generation. The stands are full and the kids play to the gallery. I feel sorry for them. We only had to answer to our coach and our teammates. Players today have to please the crowd, half of which is cheering them on; the other half, not so much. The game is played in multi-field complexes, equipped with refreshment stands, public address systems, batting cages, fences painted with colorful corporate logos and manicured playing surfaces. We were lucky if the hastily thrown up snow fence reached all the way around the field.

 Kids today wear batting gloves, batting helmets, base running helmets and rubber-cleated shoes. They sit on covered benches, a chilled sports drink at their side. We wore old sneakers and shared a catcher’s mitt with the other team. Sometimes, we had a soda after the game, provided we could scrounge up enough deposit bottles on the trip from the ball field to the neighborhood grocery store. You no longer hear the “crack of the bat. Its’ been replaced with the “ping” of an expensive aluminum ball-hitting mechanism. We started the season with four new wooden bats, all of which were eventually cracked from hitting the ball on the label, and held together with friction tape. The new ball that was budgeted for each game often ended up wrapped in tape as well, its cover having been blasted off by a peewee slugger in the third inning. Little League was for the kids; now the adults have taken it over. Too bad! Or is it? You decide.

Old Coot calls for a penalty flag. Article #1085 -Published June 19, 2024

 The Old Coot calls for a foul.

By merlin lessler

 When an infraction is committed in a football game, the ref throws a yellow flag. When the coach thinks the ref made a bad call, he throws a red flag, asking for a review. In soccer it’s not a flag, but a yellow card for “excessive” fouling of another player. Do it again and a red card comes out and the player goes out. In basketball, the ref blows a whistle. We need to employ these techniques in non-sporting events. Gatherings of families and friends. When the bickering starts to heat up, the ref throws a yellow flag, halts the conversation before it gets out of control.

 This would be especially productive at a Thanksgiving gathering, where red and blue political people are thrown together. When the bickering starts, the host or hostess should present a yellow card, blow a whistle or throw a yellow flag, to stop the escalation. And, introduce a more friendly topic of discussion. If one of the bickering pair starts up again, they get shown a red card and put in exile at the children’s table in the next room.  

 This process would also come in handy when a group of married couples get together and the “Bickersons” start to pick apart each other’s statements. (She) - “Billy Jones ran through my flower bed.” (He) – “No, it wasn’t; it was the Watson kid!” (She) – “IT WAS BILLY JONES!!!” one more back & forth and the ref blows the whistle. Everybody laughs, and the temperature of the bickering couple cools down. Besides, nobody cares if it was Billy or the Watson kid. Just tell the group what happened to the flower garden.

 If you witnessed a table of old coots under these rules, you’d hear a lot of whistles and see a lot of red and yellow flags thrown about. But the bickering with them isn’t between participants; it’s self-bickering, an old coot stuck on a name that he can’t retrieve from the fog in his brain. He gets angry at himself, and yells, “What was it. Darn; it’s right on the tip of my tongue, blah blah!”  Flags, whistles and cards would make the world a better place. Especially the one I live in.

The Old Coot knows why, Article #1084 published June 12, 2024

 The Old Coot knows why.

By Merlin Lessler

 Why is there no cure for the common cold? That miserable, life sucking ailment that lays you low once a year, or so, if you’re lucky. More often, if you are around or have little kids that bring the “gift” home from nursery, or regular school. This is the age-old question, for which the medical science industry stays mute.

 For the answer – all you have to do is take a stroll down the cold medicine aisle in any drug store. It’s a long lane, well packed with pricey, cold remedies. Day pills, night pills, pills to make you cough, pills to stop you from coughing, throat soothers, sinus ache relievers, and an endless list of promised relief. Why would any industry seek to cure what brings in so much cash from the shoppers of this aisle of voodoo.

 So, we cough, we hack, we drip, we ache and we buy the promise of relief that lines the aisle. The most extensive assortment in the store. Here is where I shift into “the good old days.” You are forewarned of the journey that will follow. But, back then, mom got out the Vicks, rubbed it on our chest and neck, brought out the cough syrup (that did, by the way, contain a narcotic) and sent us off to school. The cold virus burned its way through the classroom, eventually the whole building, and then sputtered out. Teachers weren’t immune, but rarely became infected. Probably because they stayed away from us at their desk or the blackboard at the front of the room, a good ten feet from the first row of hackers and sneezers.

 I have to stop here. I’m headed to the drug store to the “aisle” of gloom. You’ve probably figured out; I have a cold. And worse, I passed it along to my wife.    

 Comments? – Complaints?  Send to mlessler7@gmail.com 

The Old Coot is bottle opener challenged. Article # 1083 (published 06/05/2024)

 The Old Coot is a second-rate opener.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was struggling to get the cap off a plastic water bottle the other day. You’d think it would be a simple task. All you have to do is, grip the bottle and twist off the cap. But, it’s not so easy, because plastic bottle material is so thin, that when you grasp it, it squishes in half and looks like an hourglass. If you’re an old coot, it’s hard to get a firm grip on the tiny cap. You squeeze harder and harder on the bottle and twist as hard as you can on the cap. So hard, that the hidden vein in your forehead makes an appearance, as if to ask, “What’s going on?” When the cap finally breaks loose, the water erupts from the bottle, like Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park.

 That’s why I get my water from the tap. I miss the good old beverage container days. When the bottle was made of glass and topped with a metal, fluted, cork lined cap. Sure, you needed a can opener (church key) to open it, but they came free with a beverage purchase. Or, you could use the built-in opener in coke machine, which were located all over the place. Most of the time we didn’t need any of that stuff; the jack-knives we carried in our pockets had a bottle opener blade.  

 Some of the caps had a surprise under the cork lining, if you had the patience and took the time to scrape it off. You might find a dollar sign, entitling you to a free soda. Or an ace, king, queen, jack or ten card. When you collected a royal flush, you won a special prize. Most often, you found a message that said, “You will be thirsty again in one hour.” Those cork lined, metal fluted caps, were in use from 1892 until 1960. You would think I’d have gotten over it by now, and I would have, if I didn’t get a shower every time I opened a cheap, thin, plastic water bottle.

 Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com