COVID’S CURVE BALL *

Soon after the Moderna Inoculation made its Sunshine State debut, my bride, a computer whiz, informed me that she had slotted us for our shots. Speechless, I momentarily sat, my jaw suspended in disbelief. I thanked God and my bride repeatedly.

Three days later, under a peek-a-boo rising sun, we sat on an automobile line and moved at snail’s pace toward our meeting with our anti viral injections. As we waited at the site, an energetic volunteer, smiling ear-to-ear, collected our required documents. Drips of sweat slid down my septuagenarian face. In a staccato voice, I asked, “You’re not poking my butt?” After smothering her giggle with an elbow, the registrar reassuringly answered, “Of course not, relax!”

Several minutes later, as we rolled toward the Moderna Inoculation batter’s box, it appeared obvious that the injection would be launched thru my driver’s side window. I sat under a psychological siege of angst and felt victimized by a flood-tide of aggressive and unwelcome sweat. Suddenly, the nurse stopped our vehicle on my wife’s side and stepped into her stance. Through my chattering rhythm-free teeth, I blurted, “You’re not piercing my pitching arm?”

The boss nurse sighed and behind her patient understanding eyes said, “I see that you’re 78. And, you’re still worry about your throwing arm?” Placing my right hand over my Yankee mask, I leaned toward my bride’s side window. I whispered, “Did you see Dr. Fauci throw out the first ball in the Nationals’ game?”

Behind a slim smile, she whispered,” Yes, is that a problem?” 

“Honestly, I don’t want to throw a ball like Sissy-pitch Fauci, “I replied immediately.  Unable to control her spontaneous smile, she reacted to my whisper. “I’ve noticed your use of your right hand. Your left arm is on the driver’s side window. Your curve ball is safe.”  

“Doc, it’s more than just my curveball,” I whispered.

“I understand sir. I’ve played that game on countless dirt fields. Go home and pitch your heart out. You’ll not need Tommy John surgery. You’ll be fine.”

Driving away to our fifteen-minute waiting sight before permission to leave was granted, I straightened and squinted into my rear-view mirror. I noticed our brilliant and vivacious nurse hopping like a Jack in the Box.  A form of hysterical laughter, I presumed.