In 2008, things seemed to be going smoothly. I was doing well with my business, I had settled in my new home, and I was keeping busy. Then I embarked on what was initially something great but it would lead to something terrible. Surely the worst fork so far and maybe the worst ever.

    I have to go back in time first. Actually way, way back to start, back when I was playing stickball on the streets of Brooklyn. I grew up playing nearly every day in the summer when I was going to STA in the 60s. I was also playing Little League baseball and was pretty good. Since this is my “Jock” fork, I guess I’m going to be bragging some here.

    When I was 15, I was a left-handed pitcher with a decent curveball, and not many kids my age could handle it. I had a pretty good record and even pitched a no-hitter, striking out 14 batters in a seven inning game. I don’t know if I still have it in my possession, but I distinctly remember a picture of myself and another young ballplayer standing side by side holding trophies. I assume his was also for having thrown a no-hitter. I still have the ball too, dated and signed by my coach and teammates, somewhere in this house.

    A couple of years later, there was a bar on 4th Avenue, between 10th and 11th Streets, The Wagon Wheel. They played in a softball league in Red Hook, Brooklyn, and they were looking for players. I and two of my former baseball teammates became their kind of “ringers,” even though we were too young to drink. At times we would decide among ourselves who would play left, right, or centerfield each inning. It was a lot of fun and I had some good times there.

    One year they had a home run contest. It was a double field, and they separated us, with right-handers on one field and us lefties on the other. The real draw was the right-handers, where there were some big boomers. There were a couple of teams from the Sanitation Department, and these guys were big, muscular bruisers. So most of the people were on that side watching them and hardly anybody was on our side.

    The deal was, you got five hits and the best out of five over the fence of the lefties and the best of five of the righties then would have a playoff. Well, I don’t know if I was hot or lucky, but I hit three of five over the fence and won the lefties side. So we then all went over to the other side where the “Big Boys” were still competing. They asked who won on our side. All 5'9", 150 pounds of me stood forward and said "I did." They were a bit astonished, but the competition continued. It's here where I felt perhaps I was a little cheated.

    The right-hander who won then stepped up and got his second five chances. He was still warm and hit another three out of five. So, at that point, we all had to go back to the other side and I had to get back in there and hit again. I wound up hitting only one out and one against the fence, so he won. Still, I was a finalist and had made a minor name for myself in the league.

    OK, fast forward to 1979. My ex-brother-in-law, who was 20 at the time, had started playing in a stickball league in Brooklyn and asked me if I wanted to play. I hadn’t played stickball in many years, but I figured it wouldn’t be hard to pick it up again. In addition, I had just turned 29, was playing softball regularly, in pretty good shape and, arguably, in my athletic prime. Confidently, I went to where his stickball team practiced.

    It was adjacent to a cemetery and had a fence that went up one side and then curved around in the outfield. The other team members were standing out by where the fence curved around to catch balls as you stood up to hit. I looked out to the fence and it was a decent shot, but I was cocky. I figured I used to be able to hit a stickball that far, so why not now? I told my ex-brother-in-law that if he gave me 10 swings, I would guarantee that I'd hit one out. My Babe Ruth moment, I guess.

    They gave me a bat and a ball and I strode up to the sewer that designated home plate. Again, I don’t know if I was good or lucky, but my first swing was a fly ball that sailed over the fence. I then pulled a Reggie Jackson, dropping the bat like a “drop the mic” moment and swaggered away. Meanwhile, in my mind I was kind of wiping the sweat from my brow, thinking “Whew, glad I didn’t have to drag that out”. Needless to say, I was accepted on the team and had a few truly fun years.

    I was one of the oldest players in the league, and there would soon be an encore kind of thing. Meanwhile, my ex-brother-in-law (I wish I had a simpler way to describe him), who was nine years my junior, had another friend on the stickball team who was also his age. The three of us got to be very close. I considered my ex-bro (how does that work?) to be like the kid brother I never had.

    I wound up feeling the same way about his friend (not ever wanting to get in the way of his real older brother, may he RIP). I even got him (and ex-bro) to join the softball team I was on and got him to work with us in the ESB.

    We were real close during this time. We even flew to California together to visit his family in Vallejo, a city in Northern CA, and then drove down to the SF area to visit my two cousins again. We had a sad story associated with our visit, unfortunately.

    His family had a small room, separated from the main house. There was a bed where my friend slept and I was in a sleeping bag on the floor. Early one morning, his cousin came in to wake us. What I thought I heard him say was that my father had died. I just kind of sank into the sleeping bag and started thinking about having to go back, the funeral, etc. It was then that I was corrected, and it was my friend’s father who had passed away. So my initial reaction was relief, but then it was sadness for my friend.

    Unfortunately, we don't keep in touch as much as I wish we could. He continued to work for the telephone management software business and eventually moved to Pennsylvania, where the company who had bought the business was located. He has gone on to get married, have kids and, seemingly, a wonderful life. More power to you, dude!

    In the late 70s and early 80s, I was playing softball on the fields just off the Belt Parkway near the Verrazano Bridge. It was a trip to sometimes be there early in the morning when there was fog, and the bridge just melted into nowhere. It was sometimes also a trip just getting there.

    We played early morning games on the weekends. At the time, I was somewhat heavily into "partying" mode, along with another close friend, who was best man at my wedding and also on the same team as I was. We would sometimes stay out a little too late the night before. I remember more than once the two of us rushing to the fields early Sunday morning, trying to find a parking space, running down the steps from the street to the fields, only to face the glare of our manager. And since I usually batted leadoff, if we were at bat first, it was, sit down, throw on your spikes, grab a bat and get up there and hit!

    I hadn’t been in the league long, but I was chosen to participate in the All-Star Game. I wasn’t well known among the other teams. So, even though I was an outfielder on my team, they put me in as a substitute catcher. I would have shoulder issues later in my life, but, at this time, I still had a pretty strong arm. After taking some warm ups from the pitcher, it was customary to throw the ball down to second base. I took this as an opportunity, and I threw a bullet right over the base. I forget if it was the second baseman or the shortstop but, after catching it, he looked back at me in surprise like he definitely wasn’t expecting that. Meanwhile, I later came up to bat in a clutch situation. I got a hit, drove in the tying run and was voted co-MVP. So I then made a minor name for myself in this league as well.

    I came to San Diego in 1987 and was looking for an opportunity to play. I kind of put it out there at my place of work that I was interested in playing ball, and a co-worker was a roommate with someone who had a team. It was short-lived but I played with him for a while. I remained friendly with him and we are friendly to this day. He lives in Carlsbad, which is over 25 miles away, so we don't see each other very often, but we still stay in touch. We have done a lot together, playing tennis, skiing, golf, and just going out "double date" style. And now, that my tennis, skiing, golf and softball days are over, he is my closest personal friend. I worked on his website and still occasionally make some minor changes, so what little work I do now has lately mostly been for him.

    I also got interested in a game specific to Southern California, called Over The Line (OTL). To those who might not know about it, a short description: It is similar to softball, but played on sand. The field is drawn out with rope and there are three players on a team. The object of the game is to hit the ball so it touches the ground after passing over a line drawn in the sand with rope. There is more to it, but that is close enough.

    There is lots of diving around in the sand, and I was always leaving my feet when playing. I used to wear knee braces and wrist and elbow pads when I played racquetball, because I was always bouncing off the walls or diving for balls. And when we played softball on grass by the Belt Parkway, I caught my share of balls diving for them. So this OTL was for me. I played a few years, won a couple of trophies, and had a lot of fun. Then I wound up playing intramural softball on my second job. It was slow pitching, but we couldn’t find anyone who could hit the plate. So I volunteered to do it. It would come in handy later on.

    1999 comes around. I am watching my local news station, and I see some people bouncing what looked like our old Spaldings from my youth and hitting them with a stick! I was instantly interested. It seems that there are stickball teams right here in San Diego. They play a tournament in Little Italy every year around Labor Day. And every other year, teams come here to play from New York, Florida, even Puerto Rico. Sign me up! Which is what I did when I went to check it out. There was a booth with a guy who would eventually become a good friend and essential in this particular fork (which I am finally getting close to. Yeah, I know, this is taking a while).

    I went to try out for the team he was on, which was one of the premier teams in San Diego. They would usually send one or two teams back East, on alternate years when teams didn't come here. When they went to play on the East Coast, a smaller tournament was held here. But when the teams headed West, they brought along their fans, and it was bedlam on the streets of Little Italy. It was my kind of bedlam, though, as they brought their accents with them; it felt like being back home as a kid playing on 11th Street.

    I forgot to mention it, but I grew up playing mostly on 11th street between 3rd and 4th Avenues. Then I joined the league, which played mostly on 11th between 6th and 7th (near the home of my "other" kid brother), so it was just up the block a bit. The founder of the league here in San Diego grew up in the Bronx, so that is where the tournament is played back there. I wound up initially playing on their “B” team here.

    Then, when a bunch of young kids decided to start a team here in San Diego, I was sent to be with them to add a little experience to the team. So again I was one of the old-timers on the team. The father of two of the young guys was also playing. We played together for a few years and again it was a lot of fun. Although these guys played for keeps, let me tell you.

    I was now nearing 60, and things were starting to break down. I guess the wear and tear of the way I played was getting to me, too. I also had some issues with my left eye and wound up having two major surgeries on that eye in 2007 and 2008, with a cataract surgery in between.

    It started getting to be difficult to follow the little bouncing ball and, eventually, I gave it up and became a spectator. Something I wasn’t thrilled with, but I knew I would be a mediocre player at best, and I didn’t like that. Enter my aforementioned friend from the stickball booth. He was still playing stickball but, when he turned 55, he got involved in a Senior Softball league for 55 and over. I was now 58 and he asked if I wanted to check it out. What do you think I said?

    So now, after an agonizingly long time of bragging about my achievements, admittedly minor by most comparisons, but major memories to me, we are back to the beginning of this fork.

    I signed up for the Senior League, and now, all of a sudden, instead of being the old guy, I was the new kid on the block. I have always been told I looked young for my age, so many of the players would jokingly ask to see my driver’s license. I also have always had good “legs” and quickly got a reputation as someone with “wheels”, as is the term that is often used.

    Since some of the players in this league were in their 60s and even 70s, a runner was allowed if you got on base. So I became a designated runner a lot. I mentioned that I had pitched in the past and was given an opportunity to try it out.

    In slow pitch, it is pretty easy to hit the ball. There were some rules so that games didn’t become "slugfests". With two strikes, if you hit a foul ball you were out. There was a five run limit per inning. There is also a short right field fence (good for me, as a lefty), but each team was only allowed one home run over the fence per inning and then, after that, if you hit one out, it would be a foul ball. Later, they even added a rule where you started with one ball and one strike. So, if you let a strike go by, you now had two strikes on you and you either had to hit it fair or you would be out.

    There is a plate on the ground and, as long as you hit it, the pitch is called a strike. You have a 12 foot limit on how high you could pitch, but the good pitchers could get near that height and have the ball come down at a difficult angle to hit.

    Somehow I got good at it. I could even put some spin on it and make it curve a little. My 15 year old curve ball was resurrected!

    There were 4 seasons, with playoffs and a championship at the end of each. Then everybody’s name was thrown into a pool and the managers took turns drafting players. This made things more equal, and also allowed people to get to know everybody in the league. I wound up being in demand because, not only could I hit and run, I could always come in and pitch in a pinch.

    I generally played the outfield, although I had also played some 1st base in baseball and I was a pretty good infielder too. In any event, I was having a ball. Since I had quit my job in 2005 and was working out of my house, these guys also became my social circle. Things were going great.

    Of course, if you remember the beginning of this fork (it has been a while, huh?), things were about to change.

    In April 2014, I got an extra base hit and was rounding second when I missed the base. I tried to stop myself and go back to tag it when my feet got tangled. I stumbled, fell, and hit my head. Hard. On my right forehead, by my temple. And then I went down in a heap. I never lost consciousness, but I felt like I got hit by a lightning bolt. I knew I was hurt, so I just stayed down on the ground. Players from both teams surrounded me and slowly got me to my feet and walked me to the bench. I had a huge abrasion on my forehead. My coach helped cleanse the wound and I lay down on the bench. After a while, I went to the stands outside the field and lay down. My head was spinning.

    One of the spouses of a teammate offered to drive me home, but that would have meant my car would have been stuck by the fields and I didn’t want that. I probably shouldn’t have, but I waited a while until the fog lifted and then drove myself home. I had called my Sig Other, so she met me at the house. We then drove to Urgent Care, where they did a head CT and determined that I had a mild concussion.

    We went home, but I wound up having vertigo for a few months and stopped playing for a while. I saw several doctors, physical therapists and finally, had something called the Epley Maneuver done by an ENT doctor, to whom I am eternally grateful. She lay me down, twisted my head from one side to the other, brought me back up to a sitting position, and, seemingly magically, the vertigo was gone. It was amazing!

    Meanwhile, I couldn’t wait to get back on the field. Little did I know what the field had in store for me. We are now, finally (really) getting to where this story actually becomes a fork.

    June 16, 2015, is a date I will never forget. My life was forever changed.

    It actually started a day earlier. I had been playing in two leagues. One played games two out of the three days Monday, Wednesday and Friday each week. The other league played on Tuesdays. I had stopped playing Tuesdays because three games a week was a bit too much, especially after the concussion. On that Monday, June 15th, the coach of the Tuesday team was going to be a little short on players, so he called me and asked me if I would help out and play the next day since my name was still on the roster. I liked him (sadly he has since passed away), so I said yes.

    Tuesday came and I was out in right field. Someone hit a sinking line drive that was curling away from me down the foul line. Had it dropped, it would have been a hit, but I thought I could get it. Being left-handed, my glove was on my right hand, so I had to reach across my body to catch it. It landed in my glove, but my momentum was sending me towards the foul area and then a fence. I thought I could tuck and roll, so I brought my right arm in but I couldn’t get to roll. I landed hard, and slammed my right arm into the right side of my body, right where I had broken ribs from my car accident in 1993. I got up and threw the ball back in to the field but I was in a lot of pain. I continued to play and even had to reach out to my right side later on to catch another ball. I had made two good plays but, when I went up to bat and swung, the pain was horrible and I had to stop. I went to Urgent Care and this time I broke three ribs. Sadly, that is really only the beginning of the story.

    Obviously I didn’t play for a while, and I pretty much just stayed home and took it easy. On July 2, I was sitting at my computer doing some work. Suddenly, I had this pain shoot down my left leg from my hip to my ankle. I’m talking excruciating! I had to stop what I was doing and it was back to Urgent Care. Thankfully it was my left leg because there would have been no way I could drive had it been my right.

    They did an emergency MRI and found that I had herniated my lumbar disk at the L4-L5 juncture. I was told I needed surgery. I looked at the doctors available and chose the Director of Neuro Surgery, since I figured it was best to get someone like that. Turned out not to be so, but we will get to that in a little bit.

    Meanwhile, the earliest date I could get was July 28, so I had to deal with the pain for 26 days. They gave me a shot before I went home and then a prescription for Dilaudid, which is pretty much legal heroin. For almost four weeks, I had to take this major opiate. I have to admit, though, it does stop the pain. I had been dealing with neck pain from disk degeneration in my cervical area for years (probably due to the two automobile accidents I had experienced earlier in my life). But during this time, my neck never felt better. I was a walking zombie, but not in much pain.

    I went to the hospital on the 28th and the surgery was performed. Post-op, they were feeding me more Dilaudid intravenously. When I went home after two days, they put me on Percocet and Valium. I was feeling no pain, but I was also getting hooked. And not in a good way, like with skiing, computers, gardening, etc. earlier in my life. The entire month of August, I was in a fog from the drugs. My Sig O and I went back and spoke with the doctor. I told him that I was afraid of becoming addicted to the opiates. He said that people like me who express concerns like that are not prone to get hooked. And I believed him. My mistake.

    I went home and continued on the meds. Though I wasn’t in a lot of pain, I was almost always in a daze. There was also another side effect, namely constipation. Not to get too gross here, but my stool felt like a brick. I had to squeeze so hard I was straining my stomach muscles. My life was not very fun. And then, it took a turn for the worse!

    Somewhere around the middle of September, I suddenly was not able to stomach any food. I mean ANY. I could barely force down a banana, a little bowl of rice, and some fluids. I lost 16 pounds in less than three weeks. I could afford to have lost a few pounds, but I assure you I do NOT recommend this kind of diet. I was now getting pains around my abdomen. I was feeling certain one of my organs was just going to shut down. I thought I was going to die. So I said I had to just stop.

    I tried doing it gradually, but it must have been too fast. I started to have night sweats, I couldn’t sleep, and I spent most of the time just lying in bed with the TV on in the background. Twice, I had to wake up my Sig Other in the middle of the night and go to Urgent Care because I felt like I was going to die. When I went there, they would inject Ativan in me to calm me down. Now, when I watch medical programs on TV and see the ER docs “pushing five of Ativan,” I know how that works. Not fun.

    I distinctly remember September 30th, sitting in a recliner in my patio, barely conscious, with my right hand hanging down over the armrest, rubbing my baby Lucky by my side and reconciling myself to the fact that maybe it was going to be my last day on earth. I was wondering if I was going to make it to 2016. Maybe I am overdramatizing it, but it was horrible. It took about a month of what I guess I would call going through withdrawal. I hope to never, ever have to go through that again.

    Obviously I didn’t die, but my life has not been the same since. I had issues with the L5-S1 disk before this in the mid-90s and had a series of epidurals back then. Those had helped a lot and, although I would always have to take some Ibuprofen whenever I went to play softball, and was sore afterwards, I could deal with it. When this surgeon was in there doing his thing with L4-L5, he noted that there were problems at L5-S1, but since that was not what we were there for, he left it alone.

    So now, 3-4 months after surgery, I was still in a lot of pain and could not even just walk a short distance without hurting. I'm a member of the San Diego Zoo and the Fleet Space Theater in Balboa Park. I used to walk around the zoo, or go see an IMAX movie and then walk around the park, but not anymore. I could just about make it through a grocery store "run" or a browse through Target before I had to rest. And it is the same to this day, some 4-5 years later.

    I have seen many doctors. Some want to operate, some say I should wait. I have been told there was a 55% chance I would get better, but a 45% chance I could get worse. I don’t like those odds. I have since gained back the weight I lost and then some, I have lost some muscle tone because of my inactivity, and have become pretty much a hermit. As I am writing this, we are dealing with the pandemic. In reality, my life hasn’t changed much, except for the fact that I can’t even do my grocery store runs or Target browses anymore. I rely on Amazon a lot more than I would like to.

    Getting back to this fork here, in 2008, I thought I was embarking on a new, exciting chapter in my life. I would be like those other guys on the softball field, playing into my 60s and 70s. I was so appreciative of my “booth” friend, thanking him for stickball and softball and being able to enjoy many of my senior years. I was looking forward to the future.

    Then that line drive came along. I have had many people say to me, “Jim, do you think maybe you should have let that ball drop?” I think about it a lot, what fork I may have gone down had I let it.

    But that’s not the way I played. Being involved with athletics, I spent a lot of time around people who were “larger” than me. I guess I was always trying to compensate for my lack of height.

    Note: As you obviously know, this has been an extremely long chapter. It does encompass a long period of my life, but it also involves something that was extremely important to me, namely being physically active and then losing that ability. I always used to say, somewhat jokingly, but also seriously, “I work with my brain, I play with my body.” One by one, the things I have loved to do, skiing, tennis, racquetball, baseball, stickball, golf, softball, they have all been taken away from me. Some were gradual, happening over a period of time. The last one, though, happened abruptly. Which, unfortunately, is a foreshadowing of the next fork.