A Baseball Story

 Tonight Gary and I are pretty excited to be seeing Eric on the drums with his band, Dr. Dog, opening for the Lumineers at Citizens Bank Park, which seats around 42,000 people and is where the Phillies baseball team plays. So of course the universe conspired to make this kind of a baseball story.

To further preface this, I am still torturing Gary and making him do Swedish Death Cleaning. 

We’re still not getting anywhere but I remain hopeful.

Anyway, it’s been yielding some interesting blasts from the past. Yesterday was particularly fun.

Gary: “Look what I found. Remember this?” 

Me: “Oh my god. That must be from what, thirty years ago?”

Gary: “Yeah, almost. 1997.”

Me: “Wait, why am I in this pic?”

Gary: “I was the manager, you were my coach.”

Me:”I was a coach? Why don’t I remember that?”

Gary, laughing. “You’re blocking it out.  I managed the team but you distributed snacks and kept me from losing my mind when half the team hit puberty overnight.”

Me: “Oh, yeah, how could I forget. Hahaha it was like they all went insane and became pod people. Is that why there’s only seven girls in this picture? I know we had at least twice that many on the team.”

Gary: “You got that right.  Photo day was like a bad teen movie. I think the girl who was supposed to bring the makeup didn’t show up because she had cramps or something and no one wanted their pics taken without lipstick except the young ones who were still tomboys. They all ran away from the photographer and we didn’t think it was wise to chase after them,” he laughed.

Me: “Ha! Too funny. So that’s why there’s only seven girls. I was afraid you were going to say we ate the others. Holy moly this was around ten years before I became a vegetarian. I told you a meat free diet was a great idea.”  

Gary smiled, he still eats chicken 2-3 times a week but hey, he used to be a daily, voracious red meat eater and obviously knows he’s reaped the benefits of a diet heavy in vegetables and grains.

Anyway, Julie was one of the no makeup girls so there’s her adorable self in the photo. Gary, who was clearly insane, also coached Eric’s team that year and here’s a pic from that, which he also unearthed yesterday. 

Can I tell you how much Eric hated baseball? He used to hide his uniform before the games, thinking he wouldn’t have to play. 

We only signed him up because his teacher called us in for a conference.

“Eric doesn’t play with the other kids at recess. He stands by himself in the schoolyard and reads,” she said.

I tried hard not to grin and shout THAT’S MY BOY!

Gary, the voice of reason, asked, “Do you have any suggestions?”

“I think you should register him for Little League baseball,” the teacher replied. “Being on a team will provide Eric with all kinds of valuable skills.”

So that’s when we signed up a very reluctant Eric, already happily a drummer, for baseball.

“Music is my life. I hate sports,” he told us with dramatic flair.

Over thirty years later, I *think* he may have finally forgiven us.*

*See photo of Eric from this summer, where he participated in a celebrity softball game at the Newport Folk Festival with these guys:

Captain: Kevin Morby

Pitcher: Bill "Spaceman" Lee

Catcher: Robert Sanchez

Players:

Nathaniel Rateliff

Margo Price

Tyler Ballgame

Evangeline

Danny Clinch

Matthew Logan Vasquez

Alex Amen

Mavis Staples

Evan St. Martin

Howe Pearson (Deslondes)

Sam Doores (Deslondes)

JJ Tourville (Deslondes)

Riley Downing (Deslondes)

Dan Cutler (Deslondes)

Peter Anspach

Jake Cochran

Oh, one final memory. In our Little League organization, the parents elected to make sure every kid got a trophy at the end of the season, even if it was only for participation. Julie won the MVP trophy after almost being thrown out of the championship game when she stepped off the pitcher’s mound, turned, and furiously scowled at her infielders for booting an easy defensive play. After being warned about sportsmanship by the umpire, she went on to angrily slam in the winning run in the next inning. Hence MVP.

Speaking of good sportsmanship, that’s the trophy Eric won in 1997.

In a complete full circle moment, it’s the exact award Eric just won at the celebrity softball game in Newport this summer.

Some things never change.

And in another full circle moment, here’s a pic of Julie from Wednesday night. She still plays softball and her team just won and is in the playoffs.

I just love synchronicity.

Can’t wait to see my boy playing at the stadium tonight.

Thanks for reading and I hope I just provided you with some escape from our current hellscape. Writing this did for me. 

Onward!

😂😂😂

 I freely admit I’m losing it lately, as one does when they feel their entire existence is being threatened by an authoritarian government, but what happened this week was a good one even for me.

It all began when Eric called to say Hi. He filled us in on all kinds of great stuff happening in his life, including a new puppy Mo, picture below, joining his other pup, Herbie, so now we have three granddogs, anyway, he mentioned he was so busy, he literally had only one day off until Thanksgiving.

I mean, he’s playing with Dr. Dog at Citizens Bank Park on Friday, September 19 opening for the Lumineers (can’t wait!); he had to learn twenty songs for Americana Fest in Nashville where he’s playing drums for both Amanda Shires and Tift Merritt; he’s on tour this fall across the country with Kevin Morby, and he’s even headed to New York on September 22 to perform at a Rosh Hashanah festival he does every year at Brooklyn Bowl. 

Whew! But good on him, he’s earning a living as a full-time musician.

A day later, Eric texted me again. I read it fast, while I was in the middle of doing something around the house. Guess what? Margo Price asked him to play drums at the Kimmel Center on Tuesday, September 16, his only day off.

I immediately texted back. 

“What? Oh wow! I would definitely want to see that! Dad won’t, but I would absolutely want to!”

I turned to Gary:  “Omg, Eric’s playing the Kimmel Center next week with Margo Price! I know she’s not your thing so I told Eric I would go. Oh, damn!”

Gary: “What?”

Me: “I wish I didn’t give all my clothes away when I retired. I don’t think I can wear jeans or sweatpants to the Kimmel Center. Maybe I should buy something new, this has come up before where I have nothing nice in my wardrobe anymore.”

The Kimmel Center is a beautiful venue downtown where the Philadelphia Orchestra plays. It’s where you get very dressed up to see the Nutcracker ballet during the holidays. 

Gary: “I still don’t understand why you gave all of your clothes away.”

Me: “Welp, one of us had to, you still have stuff you wore in high school.”

But I did go a little too far. I forgot I might have to go to funerals and parties and such, though my rather sound reasoning at the time was I don’t want to go anywhere that requires fancy clothes and now that I am old and retired, I don’t have to.

What can I say? It was during the pandemic. I was crazed.

Anyway, Gary and I made faces at each other and laughed. 

But we both knew I spoke the truth about his, cough, excess of tshirts.

So to make a long story short, for a couple of days, I not only worried nonstop about what to wear, but what to eat.

Me: “What restaurant should I take Eric to before the show?”

Gary:  “Why are you asking me this question? That’s your department.”

Me: “I just want your opinion. That meal I had last month at Grandma’s on Walnut Street with Julie was so insanely good I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. But it’s Thai food and kind of heavy, which I know Eric doesn’t like right before playing a show. So I’m thinking Barbuzzo, which is Mediterranean and he can get an interesting salad and maybe split something light with me.”

Gary:  ”So go to Barbuzzo.”

Me: “But Grandma’s is sooooo good…”

Can you tell I don’t get out much these days?

Anyway, because yeah, I’m trying to avoid the real world at all costs (and for the most part failing) I became slightly obsessed with both my Kimmel Center outfit and dinner, studying menus at every restaurant near the Kimmel.

There are around two hundred of them.

As far as my outfit, I found a pair of skinny black jeans from like twenty years ago I held on to for who knows what reason but hey hey I can still squeeze into them, and I have a white gauzy blouse I forgot all about—hahaha I bought it last summer when the same exact problem arose.

Why did I give all my clothes away again?

As far as dinner, now that I researched menus for three days without even talking to Eric, (I decided on Barbuzzo after all) I wondered if I should make reservations and for what time. So I went to the Kimmel Center website to see what time the show began.

What’s this? There’s nothing scheduled?

I clicked over to Margo Price’s website and hit the link for “Tour” and whoa, Margo’s a very busy lady but how can this be, she wasn’t anywhere on tour even remotely close to Philadelphia on September 16.

So I texted Eric.

“Margo Price isn’t even on the Kimmel calendar next week. Is this a private event?”

Eric: “Nah.”

Me: “And it’s not listed anywhere? It’s a week away. How do they sell tickets?”

Eric: “It happens all the time, Mom.”

Me, incredulous: “Really?”

Eric didn’t answer, and now I was totally perplexed. I thought about the busy schedule he had, combined with Margo’s. Unless they were both cloning themselves, there was no way they’re in Philadelphia on Tuesday.

So I decided to scroll up and check Eric’s original text. Did I get the date wrong?

Eric’s text from last week: “On my one day off I got asked to do Kimmel with Margo Price lol”

Wait, what?

Do Kimmel?

As in Jimmy Kimmel, the late night television show filmed in Los Angeles? Not the Kimmel Center in Philadelphia?

I texted Eric to confirm.

Yep.

Oy, Robin. Like I said, this was a good one, even for me. How did I screw up so royally?

The mind boggles.

So for those still reading:

ERIC IS GOING TO BE ON THE JIMMY KIMMEL SHOW ON TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 2025 PLAYING DRUMS FOR MARGO PRICE!

https://abc.com/news/9254ba7e-9d07-4841-8eaa-8cbb0276db9a/category/154926

And I will be on the sofa with Gary, watching in sweatpants.

Assuming I can stay up past 9:30.

It’s the headline today

It’s the headline today

https://www.msn.com/en-us/health/wellness/former-school-of-rock-students-say-they-were-harmed-but-paul-green-kept-teaching-until-long-buried-allegations-came-to-light/ar-AA1KcKxQ

The Goiter

 So, I am going to go against my self-imposed policy of keeping my health updates private and tell you about my latest.

I hate to do this, but this post will be the first my kids know, too. 

Let me preface this to say I really don’t like going to the doctor.  I worry in advance weeks before I have to see him. And ever since I learned I have a wonky heart, my pre-appointment anxiety is on steroids.

My fear/distrust of doctors actually began in the seventies when I was a young girl and my mother’s fatal brain tumor was misdiagnosed for an entire year, first as migraines and then perimenopause, followed by the false assurances of her recovery via brutal chemotherapy and radiation, both of which completely destroyed the quality of her remaining year with us.

I realized doctors weren’t gods and they not only couldn’t always save us, sometimes they made it worse.

And then through some wacky twist of fate, I ended up as a medical malpractice paralegal and you don’t even want to know the things I saw.

“Just shoot me if I get sick,” I instructed my husband.

But then, you know, I want to hang around after all so I force myself to see the doctor and cardiologist twice a year and I not only watch my diet, I have been walking a couple of miles a day so that when I go for my visits, no one will tell me I have to lose weight, etc. and I will pass my exams with flying colors.

And I gotta admit, both of my doctors are great with nice bedside manners so I know anything bad is all in my head and I shouldn’t be such a baby but oh well, I’m too old to change.

So I’m gearing up for my impending visit, terrified as usual, when I start having these strange symptoms.

Let me interject again.

I promised Gary…no, I swore on my life to Gary, that I would never Google anything medical again.

Let’s just say there have been incidents with Robin Slick and Google where illness and disease are concerned with many unnecessary fears stoked and many unnecessary curse words uttered.

Anyway, I started having these crazy symptoms which were so ridiculous I probably wouldn’t have Googled them anyway, promise to Gary or not.

Like, I swore I had a piece of glass in my knee. So much so that I got out of bed in the middle of the night to get a flashlight. I climbed back in, forgetting about my situation and put all my weight on my bad knee, which of course made me yelp and wake Gary.

Correction, I woke him when I shined the flashlight in his face instead of my leg.

“What now?” Gary rolled over, squinting.

“I think I have glass in my knee.”

Gary sighed. “How. How did you get glass in your knee in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t know but it really hurts.”

“Go back to sleep, you lunatic.”

I know I can be a hypochondriac but how could I be imagining this?

I decided to diagnose myself with a hairline fracture somewhere and started getting into bed ass first so I never had to put any pressure on my knee.

Until I forgot and this time, it felt like I was pierced by a dagger of glass, sending white hot sparks of pain up through my thigh.

I made Gary get out the flashlight AND the magnifying glass.

“I don’t see anything, Rob. I bet it’s arthritis. Maybe you should ask your doctor.”

I shook my head vehemently. “Why? So he can send me to more specialists and pump me up with more prescriptions?   Nah, I’m good. This is probably my crazy imagination.”

“Probably,” he agreed.

I do not have a good reputation regarding medical complaints. Did I mention I am a hypochondriac terrified of doctors?

Gary pulled the covers up over his head. “Do other husbands get woken in the middle of the night like this or am I the only lucky one?”

Hey, dude. With creative, artsy people you might get insanity but there are big perks, too.

Just give me a minute to think of them.

This is probably a good time to share a childhood memory with you. Unlike normal people, my memories are not about beach vacations or other fun family outings. What can I say, I was a weird little kid. Anyway, my mom used to shop at a local store where the cashier was a woman who had a huge…and I mean gigantically huge…growth on her neck.

“Mom, mom, what is that?” asked a horrified, seven year old me. 

I couldn’t stop staring at it, it was like a second head was growing out of her throat.

She scared the living crap out of me.

“Shhh, stop, you’re embarrassing me,” whispered my mother. “That poor woman has a goiter.”

“A what? A goiter? What’s a goiter? Do they just grow out of some people? Can it happen to me?” I asked horrified, clutching my neck.

My mother tried not to laugh, I am sure, but I remember she tried to assuage my fears in between politically incorrect chuckles by telling me that the poor woman had a thyroid condition. Meanwhile, I am wondering why she thought this was funny when I was so terrified and literally couldn’t get it out of my twisted little head.

Seriously, mom. What if I grew a goiter?

Oh my god!

Can I tell you I worried about getting a goiter right up until puberty?

Yeah. Really.

Anyway, back to the present and the imaginary glass in my knee.  I decided I didn’t need to tell the doctor because the only time I felt pain was if I kneeled on my knee. I would simply go ass first into bed for eternity.

No problem.

Until a couple of nights later, when I woke up in the middle of the night, gasping in pain.

“What? What?” Gary turned on his nightstand lamp, looking worried, pissed, and half asleep.

“My toe! My big toe! It feels like it’s on fire!”

Gary sat up and stared at me.

“Your big toe, huh. Your big freaking toe. You realize you’re insane, Robin, right?”

I struggled to get out of bed.

“I probably have blood poisoning from the glass embedded in my knee,” I moaned.

Now I had his attention.

“That’s it. You’re going to the doctor!”

I had to agree. If nothing else, maybe he could recommend a good psychiatrist.

So, I went. And with what was probably a bright red face, I told him my bizarre symptoms.

“It feels like there’s glass in my knee and my big toe is throbbing so badly I feel like I need orthopedic shoes or something,” I said sheepishly.

The doctor looked at me sympathetically.

“Actually, these are classic symptoms. I will do bloodwork, of course, but I can give you my diagnosis right now.”

“So I’m not crazy?”

Actually, why was I worried about that? The doctor looked concerned and was making a lot of notes.

What the hell was wrong with me?

And then he said the words I dreaded my entire life.

I went white and clutched my neck. The room started spinning and I felt myself drenched in sweat.

“Robin! Are you okay? Listen…it’s not that serious, we can likely attack it with diet and exercise…why are you holding your throat?”

My mouth was completely parched, I could barely speak.

“Goiter,” I gasped. “You said I had a goiter.” My eyes filled with tears, I was about to get hysterical.

“Goiter? Who said anything about a goiter? I said you have gout. It’s a form of arthritis, and in your case, probably caused by your medication. It usually occurs in people who eat a lot of red meat but I know that excluded you…hey, are you okay?”

I was still shaking. I couldn’t believe I thought I had a goiter…it was like every horrible nightmare I had as a kid coming true, starting with my mother’s death.

What a piece of work I am.

Anyway, after the initial horror came profound embarrassment, followed by my doctor and I having belly laughs.

“Don’t ever change, you freak,” said Gary, gasping for air laughing when I told him what happened.

No worries there, bro. If it hasn’t happened yet, it ain’t happening.

So now I can add gout to my old lady resume.  But hey, knowing what else can get me (I’m looking at you, goiter), I’ll take it.

And that’s my update.

Thank you for your attention to this matter! RJS