South Philly Review

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I have always gotten into trouble with my wife during the month of October. I don’t blame her. I’m just stating a fact. It all started when we were courting in 1963.

October had always been World Series time for me. It didn’t matter that the local team hadn’t been to the series since 1950; I was a Dodgers fan anyway. Don’t ask why. It’s a complicated story. I’m still not sure of all the facts. I am a Phillies fan today and have received absolution from all of my friends for my previous transgressions. I never missed watching or listening to a World Series game no matter who participated, let alone when the Dodgers played.

Anyway, the Dodgers were playing the Yankees in the ’63 series. In those days, it was news if the Dodgers didn’t meet the Yanks in the series. My wife-to-be was blissfully unaware of my unhealthy obsession with baseball and the Dodgers. She was scheduled to be in a bridal party on Oct. 5 — coincidentally the date of Game 3 of the World Series. I was invited to the wedding. She mentioned that she would be sitting at the head table and not with me. I replied matter-of-factly not to worry about it because I couldn’t stay more than a half-hour because the Dodgers were playing the Yankees that afternoon. The only question in my mind was why a guy who professed to be a baseball fan would be getting married on the opening day of the World Series.

Unknown to me, two events unfolded behind the scenes. My wife-to-be mentioned to her mother that I had casually stated I would not be staying at the reception because of a baseball game on TV. My mother-in-law was not exactly a fan of America’s pastime so she figured I was kidding. Her daughter was comforted by the fact that I apparently had a great sense of humor. Meanwhile, a quite different conversation was going on in our home between my mother and father. They made a small wager. My father bet that since a young, attractive woman had incredibly agreed to marry me, I would no longer continue my streak of never having missed a World Series game. My mother, the cynic of the two, bet that girl or no girl, I would come home from the wedding reception in time to watch the game.

Needless to say, my mother won. At precisely a half hour before the first pitch, I went over to my wife-to-be and remarked that I was leaving to go home and watch the ballgame. For the only time in her life, she became speechless. I burst through the front door of our home right before Don Drysdale unfurled his first sidearm curve ball. “Strike one,” the ump said. “I won the bet,” my mother said.

We have now been married for 47 years and counting. Let the record show that Drysdale and the Dodgers defeated Jim Bouton and the Yankees 1-0 in that fateful game of the ’63 World Series. I didn’t miss a pitch, but I have paid a mighty price for that youthful indiscretion over the years. My wife and I do not mention Oct. 5, ’63 anymore. But Octobers remain a time of high alert in our marriage.

October will be here soon. My personal calendar is a jumble of baseball playoff games that now involve the Phillies. The playoffs have expanded over the years to three rounds of games. If that were all, it would be tough enough for my wife to coordinate with me on social obligations, but it is even worse. I have been involved to some degree or other with broadcasts involving Eagles games since ’83, so all of the football Sundays and Mondays are checked off on the calendar. In addition, I am a Temple football fan, so the team’s schedule is also marked on the calendar. It should be noted that I also mark our calendar with things like “haircut,” “bank,” and “quarterly estimated tax due.”

Things got dicey recently because there are a number of family birthdays that all occur in October. In trying to schedule these social obligations, my wife checked our cluttered calendar and screamed. She wanted to know how anyone could decipher this mess. Maybe we need the Rosetta Stone, I offered. It is such times that I really wished my wife had a keener sense of humor.

She asked me for a suggestion on how we can solve this October mess. My feeling is we should go to an 11-month calendar. Why are we bound to the Julian calendar. What the hell did Caesar ever do for us? He had his calendar; I have mine. His calendar has been in effect since 45 B.C. I ask isn’t it time for a change?

Where’s the Tea Party when I need it? Their members don’t want the federal government telling them what to do. Well, I don’t want the Romans dictating to me after all of these years. I plan to run for office on the proposition that each individual should devise his or her own calendar. That’s true freedom. Is it wrong for me to take October for my very own? My wife has the other 11 months of the year (minus March Madness and opening day of the baseball season, and maybe Wednesday nights when I watch “Breaking Bad”).

If Caesar had used an 11-month calendar and done away with March, maybe he would have avoided the “lean and hungry look” of Cassius. SPR

Contact the South Philly Review at editor@southphillyreview.com.