This is something I wrote a few years ago. Our branch manager liked organizing games for the staff. She claims these were not “team building” exercises, but, I don’t know, if it walks like a duck . . . well, anyway, in this one, she gave us a list of parameters and we were to create something arty or crafty. Then we’d all guess who did what, with the most correct guesses winning a lovely prize. Sounds like a “getting to know your co-workers better” thing, doesn’t it? My creation was this story, Mick and Me, and I liked it, so I kept it and now (with a few tweaks), I’m sharing it with the world.
(A note about profanity, or lack thereof. The original story was written for a work thing, and it has been my experience that profanity is frowned upon in the workplace, despite what you see on HBO. So, where the story called for profanity, I wrote “colorful expletive”. Now, in this forum, I can use whatever verbiage I choose. I decided not to use the saltier language because I did not feel comfortable putting nasty words in Mickey Mantle’s mouth, although I have absolutely no doubt that he knew all the words and used them regularly. Also, the euphemisms give the story a certain innocence that I find appealing. Okay, so here it is.)
“What’s wrong, Dear? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just had the strangest dream. It seemed so real.”
“What was it about?”
“I had to pick up Mickey Mantle at the airport.”
“The old ballplayer?”
“Yeah, and he had a small yellow rose in the lapel of his sport-jacket.”
“Didn’t he die some time ago?”
“Yeah. So anyway---“
“Were you a big fan of his?”
“No---listen do want to hear this or not?”
“Sorry. Please continue.”
“Okay, so Mick and I get into this old ’59 Cadillac, and I’m driving out toward the end of Speedway Boulevard, and I have like a death grip on the steering wheel, and he says, in that Oklahoma twang of his, ‘Pardnuh, you don’t have to grip the wheel so danged hard. We’re only doin’ 20.’”
“So, then what?”
“So, then, in the dream I’m thinking, ‘Geez I got ol’ number 7 in the car here. What are we going to talk about?’”
“Ol’ number 7?”
“That was Mick’s number. Okay, in the dream I don’t know what to say to the guy, so I go, ‘Well, Mick, read any good books lately?’ And he says, ‘Not lately, pardnuh. Been dead for 20 some years, you know.’”
“Oops.”
“Yeah. So I say to him, ‘Well, uh, I mean before you died.’ So he says, ‘Well bud, as I recall, All the Presidents Men was pretty good. Then I say, ‘Yeah, I liked it, too. Did you ever read The Art of the Deal?’ And he says, ‘Pardnuh, that was the worst piece of (colorful expletive) ever. I met that guy some time ago. What a (colorful expletive) (colorful expletive)!’”
“Wow. Then what?”
“Well, then I asked him, ‘So, why’d you come here, Mick?’ He says, ‘I just wanted to see some of them giant cactus things with the arms.’ I say, ‘Well, Mick, you’ve come to the right place. You’re talking about saguaros. They are about the most awesome thing in this part of the world. Let’s park at this school up ahead here and---‘. He cuts me off to ask, ‘They got swings up at this here school, pardnuh?’”
“Swings?”
“Yeah. So, I tell him, ‘Yeah they got the nicest swings I’ve ever seen.’ And he says to me with a wink, ‘You never saw me in my prime, did ya, boy? Me swingin’ a bat was a beautiful thing.’ I winked back at him and said, ‘Nope. You got me there, Mick.’ Then I say, ‘Hey, Mick, you know, back when this was a high school, I was President of the Student Council for a time, but when I promised to firebomb the principal’s house in a Richard Nixon costume, the school board gave me the boot.’ He says, ‘Shouldn’t oughta done that, bud.’”
“What did you say to that?”
“I said, ‘Yeah.’ Then Mickey said to me, ‘Why is it so (colorful expletive) hot around here, pard?’ I said, ‘Summertime, Mick. The best part of the year. The hotter the better. My favorite season. What season do you like best, Mick?’ He gives me kind of a sideways glance, leans back, and says, ‘Baseball season, pardnuh. Baseball season.’”
“Then what?”
“Then I woke up.”
