Not that I am a big St. Louis Cardinals fan, as the Chicago Cubs (please quit laughing) is my team of choice, and the heyday of Musial as a tremendous and classy baseball standout took place way before I was even born. My dad, however, has always been a huge Cardinals fan, and for that reason, he named me after Musial, his favorite all-time baseball player. And just like Musial, I have pretty much been branded with the moniker of "Stan the Man" pretty much my entire life. I have been perfectly fine with this, knowing full well that a person could be stuck for a lifetime with far worse nicknames, such as "No Neck," "Stinky," "Stumpy" or even "Crater Face." So take life's little gifts or blessings when you can get them.
While dad named me Stanley out of affection and admiration for Musial, always known for being even a far better person than he was a baseball hero, I certainly hope he didn't name me for Musial with any type of pretense or expectation that this would dictate any type of future involving athletic greatness for his only son. If so, those hopes surely crashed and burned early. Like many of the other members of my family, I was born with no significant or unique athletic skills to speak of at all.
Even from an early age, my coordination level ranged anywhere from Chevy Chase in the various Vacation movies to Jerry Lewis, and I always ran like someone who not only had a piano on his back, but also the piano bench as well. Yes, I was always the one who was picked last when it came to making up a team for football, basketball, dodgeball or whatever sport was being played in gym class on a particular day. It is a wonder that I am not somewhere in a fetal position even now or having to undergo intense therapy sessions for the numerous "adventures" I encountered during those glorious days of P.E. back in my high school. Let's just say it was not pretty.
So while my old man did not get much of an athlete for a son, I guess I was able to redeem myself by eventually gaining an addiction to watching sports and following certain athletes, even to the point that I found myself wanting to make a career of writing about sports. I have done this for nearly 20 years or so. I think I have also become a pretty-good sports watching buddy to him, especially when it comes to our favorite pasttime, Alabama football. This is a good thing, as although I have marveled and been awestruck at the athletic prowess and physical attributes of standouts such as Bo Jackson, Cornelius Bennett, Trent Richardson and Derrick Thomas over the years, I have struggled at many times to even keep my body in fairly suitable working condition.
Just in the few months that preceded this recent cold/rain spell in Alabama, I had found myself in pretty good shape due to being able to walk everyday. This helped me to get down to the lowest weight that I had been in several years, and it was also helping me to combat the effects of a daytime job that sometimes leaves me walking and feeling like I am 87-years-old and in dire need of the nearest cane or walker. Of course when it turns cold and the weather changes often, like it always tends to do in our state, I invariably get sick two or three times. I have been struggling with various colds and that has sapped me of a lot of energy and it has basically killed my daily walking routine for the past month. That has translated into me putting a few too many pounds back on, and if things don't change soon, it will require the use of actual cranes to transport me from place to place.
This little predicament takes me back a couple of years when I was working as the lead reporter for a now-defunct newspaper in St. Clair County. I had ballooned up to my heaviest weight ever and I was having to cover this Block Party in Pell City, and if my memory serves me right, I believe the temperature that night was right at 121 degrees, plus or minus a few degrees. Being the overall genius I am, I arrived for my beat that night wearing this heavy shirt bearing the logo of our paper and blue jeans. I think you know where this is going. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I tend to sweat pretty easily, and it did not take long before I began to sweat actual buckets (I hired a few lackeys to carry those buckets around) as I began to march around, taking pictures and documenting all of the dandy activities occurring at this event.
As my layer of sweat grew even thicker (there are actual pictures of this on the Internet somewhere), I not only began to scare young children and small animals, but also grown folks, who no doubt wondered when, not if, my passing out or massive heart attack would occur. I lived to tell about that night, but that is not the end of the story regarding that particular fateful weekend back in my old hometown.
I guess, out of total shame and embarrassment regarding my sweatfest at that Block Party, the next morning I headed to the local walking track, determined that I was going to start my mission to get in much better shape and quit scaring children and grown folks. I found myself wanting to bellow to them all, "I am not an animal."
Perhaps I overdid it a bit as instead of starting gradually and increasing my load as time went on, I did over an hour of walking on that hot morning, sweating up another small lake as I lumbered around that small little track.
Later that day, as I was kicking back at my apartment perhaps enjoying some Chex Mix and an episode of "Seinfeld," out of nowhere came a huge cramp that totally sent me into third-degree agony whenever I tried to move my right leg and it totally crippled any movement of that leg for about two hours. I had no doubt that the massive amounts of perspiration that had left my body during the preceding hours at the party and the track had finally caught up to me. I was paying for it hard at that point.
Of course, there is no escaping when nature calls, so despite the still-intense pain of this cramp, I somehow had to get up and answer that call. I could not put any weight on my leg so I basically crawled over to my door where there was a steel rod device that I always put under my door knob to help keep creepy and bad people out. I used the rod device to help prop me up and I used that device as a crutch to get me to my necessary destination.
Laying there on the floor and crawling like a hobo to get to my door, all kind of crazy thoughts went through my head, but the main message was that I could not continue to live this way, and my weight was no doubt slowly but surely killing me.
I guess my own lack of athletic skills, and the overall difficulties I have had over the years in just achieving and maintaining decent physical shape have only made me appreciate the amazing feats and the physical prowess of so many great athletes even more.
It has also made me a lot less patient and sympathetic for great athletes who fail to fully utilize their abilities, and they waste or blow their enormous opportunities in some form or fashion.
Like everyone, I have had those moments where I have longed to have the body of a LeBron James or Bo Jackson, the skills of a Michael Jordan or the riches and fame of a Derek Jeter or Alex Rodriguez.
I guess through that blessing, and with the love and passion that I have for the sports that I follow and cover so intensely, I was able to, at least in a small way, fulfill the destiny of being named after the one and only, "Stan the Man."
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