EXIT ZERO
February 8, 2018
Page 29
The Old Fogey
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Ah, those good old Cape May days... by Jackson D’Catur
rganized sports are not my thing. I say this as my faithful manservant, Kitchener, tries for the thousandth time to explain the rules of American football, or “football” as he insists on calling it. I had watched it for many years, and taken part at a high level (Cape May’s Saltwater Taffies were unbeatable in their day) without having much idea what it was about. I had assumed it was a well-mannered blend of dancing and brawling, and applied myself in the same manner I used to when things got out of hand at the Mug in the old days. Imagine my surprise when I realized there was a scoring system! We love to play soccer in the grounds of the D’Catur Mansion, though less than we like, as Young Albert ate the map showing the location of the landmines I buried in an effort to deter mormons and trick-or-treaters. Also, the 40lb leather ball I insist we use, tends to render unconscious anyone rash enough to attempt a header: this is why so many of our older residents appear to have no necks, and addled wits. Well, partly, anyways: our prox-
imity to Wildwood and its shallow gene pool has done us no favors, either. Cricket I am passingly fond of: we used to, after coming back from the war, use live hand grenades, the adrenaline-chasing young fools that we were, but soon we ran out of players. Baseball we were game for, too: I was a fan of those uniforms and the hand signals and such like: I have the same fascination for baseball and its ornate traditions as I have for the Catholic church and those strange fellows who ride around in little cars
wearing fezes upon their heads. Golf, I am actively opposed to. I regard it as the occupation of morons and presidents. That’s not to say the motor skills are not useful in real life: many’s a night I have stood atop the widow’s walk on the mansion, on a small square of turf, with a driver and a stack of balls, picking off stray shoebies at a distance of well over 300 yards. There’s something infinitely satisfying about the noise of the club hitting the ball, watching the arc for long seconds, then seeing a tiny figure leap in the air and fall prone with a tiny thwock sound carrying to one’s ears on the evening breeze. Usually, I send Young Albert to retrieve the balls and any wallets he can pry from the unconscious figure with his little dog teeth. Darts, now that is truly the sport of kings. We used to have a dartboard in The Brown Room, and all sorts of interesting people would settle minor disputes with those tiny lethal throwing arrows. At least until Ernie Hemingway decided to dip his in an Amazonian nerve toxin. But we don’t speak of that.
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