…Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone…
Robert Frost, Birches (1929)
From my private stash of baseball cards: Topps, Donruss, Fleer, Bowman ’85 – ’93, mostly.
Dedicated to the institution of uncledom, wherever it may dwell.
His name is Bob Walk. He threw right handed, pitched a lot in Pennsylvania, and would likely tell you he kept his fingernails so long for grip and feel; but, like a true mandarin, this was a conspicuous sign that the pitcher need not use his hands…but could levitate a screwball using his pinneal gland alone.
A classic Dwayne, circa 1996. From the Welsh for “Uncle,” alternately Old Brythonic “to step on muskrats as opposed to hunt them with stone corrals and pikes (v.t.); a scoundrel; a coward (coll.)”
Meet the net…shirts…greet the net…shirts…step right up and…
Such neatly manicured obsolescence. Also, bifocals, man, put in your bifocals.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day from this carnivorous Uncle with whom no civil discussion has been possible since 1988.
His neck is built like a gazebo of muscle. His eyesight, poor.
“The Call of the Uncle.”
Any Game of Uncles is not without its carnival-time – as the raucous cries of the fish vendors gave rise to “Billingsgate” as a synonym for profanity or offensive language, The Bandit embodies the “World Upside-Down” of Bakhtin and Rabelais.
GET BACK TO BASE, MOOKIE! IT’S THE GAME OF UNCLES!
The Game of Uncles was played among hirsute men of midwestern stock, on a field of multi-billion dollar space age typographies. Perhaps this uncle is reminiscing about taking to the field in shorts.
19 days left.
(Featured image courtesy of baseballbabble.com)