In 2020, I wrote 19 posts.
The most read was The Stages of Pandemic Grief. We can see that the numbers have fallen off in the last two months; our team of analysts have yet to discover the reasons for this. I once remarked that shit happens - for a reason. My wife corrected me. Shit happens, she said, and then we search for reasons. Sometimes there is no reason, sometimes the answer is that there is no answer. Choices are only chance, luck, fate, a lottery ticket forgotten in the jacket you are buried in.
One thing for certain, we are stuck on shuffle, the random elements are ruling the roost. Someone left a cake out in the rain. We don't think that we can take it, but we find out that indeed we can take it. We have no choice but to take it and pretend we like it.
Men don't need reasons to make lists up. It is programmed in the suicidal genes, the X chromosome. When I was a young boy, I made up all kinds of lists. I made up lists of all the countries in the world. I wrote these down on graph paper, the forerunner of the spreadsheet.
I wrote the names of all the capitals, and then all the leaders from A-Z. Then I would stage wars with these countries, rolling a pair of dice to determine the fate of Trinidad or French Congo. Perhaps these dice games were not so far off from the way the real leaders played out their games of chance.
I progressed from graph paper to Strat-O-Matic Baseball. Every team, every player, and every season new cards arrived. Nerds like me would replay entire seasons, compiling our own stats in the Strat -O-Matic world.
My favourite team was the San Francisco Giants, with Willie Mays, Bobby Bonds ( father of disputed Home Run King*- Barry Bonds), Juan Marichal, Willie McCovey, Chris Speier, Tito Fuentes and so many more. Even the lousy players had their own cards.
Kansas City Royals had a guy named Freddie Patek. Now all you Royals fans, don't assume I am calling Freddie a lousy player. Nothing can be further from the truth. The numbers don't lie.
I have no idea why my brain dredged old Freddie up. Perhaps nostalgia for guys named Freddie. My dad was named Freddie. I had a teen friend named Fred, who moved away to Louisiana. In those days, when friends moved away, you wrote them letters. Now I don't even remember his last name, and yet I remember Freddie Patek.