Worse than a cock-a-doodle

If that loud-mouth red head keeps it up I am going to have to toss something at him. Bill has ruined him and all the rest by tossing out breakfast at dawn. Today, when I can sleep in, that cardinal is on the telephone wire screaming like an infant hungry for his two o'clock feeding. I swear he's worse than a rooster. And by the way, what is it with all the chicken coops around town? One of my blog buddies calls her feathered darlings her "frhens."

I crashed the gates! I'm ready to do it again.

1982 World Series
This is what happened twenty-nine years ago. Thirty-eight years ago today my baby boy was born. He can verify this and so can my daughter.

Happy Birthday to my wonderful son, Jason.
By Linda O’Connell

The announcer’s voice gunned across the airwaves
like a hot rod peeling out on gravel.
Nearly fifty-four thousand fans “going crazy” as Jack Buck thundered
play by play, the seventh game of the’82 World Series.
Home runs ricocheted down my spine, coursed through my veins as I bled Cardinal red.

Although my ex was Bruce Sutter’s and Keith-damned-good-looking-Hernandez’s auto mechanic, he said he couldn’t get us a ticket, had to work that night.
Right! During the seventh inning stretch, I raced
the kids to my ’65 Mustang and we sped to Busch Stadium.

Bellowing cheers rocked downtown, thundered to an apex,
reverberated off century old brick buildings,
shook my car windows; drew me like a rip current towards the epicenter
of sound, lights, frenetic on-field activity.

I tugged my two kids three blocks, running
on wobbly legs through thick night air
permeated with popcorn, peanuts and Cracker Jacks,
gasping for breath, hungry for a taste of excitement.

We arrived at the twelve foot fence, and stopped.
A gated community. Padlocked.
The fans in stands, a tsunami of red,
swayed like an aftershock.

When Ozzie doubled and Sutter replaced Andujar
I had to see! We ran around the perimeter to get a better view,
and when I saw what I saw, I knew
prison bars could be no worse.

We took off towards the teenagers scaling the chain link.
When they shook the gate loose,
I snatched my son's and daughter’s hands and crashed
through too. A dozen guards came running.

I dashed into the nearest ladies room.
My nine year old son’s mouth moved maniacally
when I shoved him into a stall.
Cheers rocked the walls; his protests fell on deaf ears.

He still boasts about being front and center
at the ’82 World Series when his old mom
nonchalantly pulled him out of the ladies john
and ran like a slugger down to the good seats.
We got caught
up in the moment
and have reveled
in that kick ass Cards vs. Brewers game for twenty-nine years.

TONIGHT'S THE NIGHT WE'RE GOING TO MAKE IT HAPPEN AGAIN