Subliminal Lesson

A friend gave me four infield box-seat tickets for the Miami /Cardinals' afternoon game this past Thursday. The plan was to meet grandson, Caleb and his friend Nick at the Musial statue between 12:15 and 12:30. The two-hour drive from Decatur after early must-do errands had me  bookin-it at about 78mph. Pinched for time, I had no alternative but to park in a nearby stadium garage for the ridiculous cost of $30.

As I walked towards 'The Man,' thoughts about an incident of days-gone-by flashed through my mind. The year was 1952. My father and I were arriving at Sportsman's Park to watch batting practice and infield practice before the Cardinals' game. (That's correct, there was a time the gates opened early so fans, especially young fans, could watch their favorites in clinic-demonstration skills' display. No longer is that baseball-extra offered due to added cost having stadium workers to report earlier. Never mind the fact that ownership doesn't blink an eye charging $6.00 for a Coke.)

 Dad often parked on the street or at some nearby resident's yard where the charge might be $2.00. On this day, Dad spotted a small vacant lot and parked next o three other cars already parked. As we exited the car a good size young man in his early twenties approached the car and spoke. He explained that he did NOT own the vacant lot but since he lived adjacent to it he would keep an eye on our car so it won't get damaged while we were at the game. He said it would cost $2.00 for his service.

I knew instantly what was about to happen. My father was not a person who looked for trouble. He  was a very personable guy who generally liked people. Actually, I'm convinced that had that young man said he was in need of a couple of bucks, my dad would have given him the money. But there  was no way in hell that the old man was going to be bullied or intimidated. This was a man who grew up in a tough engironment and soldiered under General Patton in France during WWII. He did not arrive at this point in his journey to be a 'shakedown victim.' Looking point blank into the young man's eyes, my father spoke, "Let me tell you something boy. I'm not giving you one penny to watch my car. But when I come back, I'm going to checkout this car and if I find one scratch on it, I'm going to give you an ass whippin you'll not soon forget." He then turned and walked towards the stadium. Periodically during the ball game, I whispered a prayer, "Please Dear God, let there be no damages to our car." When we returned to the parked car, Dad made a once around assessment and said, "Looks okay, get in the car...no other mention on the drive home...only baseball talk.
(Touch)
Don't Mess with the Man