I haven’t chalked all week.
Not out of respect for Holy Week and Passover, but because I’ve been sicker than a dog.
Sick enough to take Wednesday off. That alone should’ve told you something was wrong.
I went to the Doc in the Box to figure out what was dragging my big cheeks down. They rammed the swabs up my nose, disappeared, and came back fifteen minutes later. No strep and no China Flu.
So now they want more tests.
Fine, I trust this guy. This is the same drive-thru doctor who diagnosed Fritz with appendicitis. The man is batting a thousand in my book.
They take a picture of my lungs. Then instead of violating my nostrils again, they go straight for the mouth. If I had anything in my stomach, that guy would have worn it.
They come back again with more good news, it isn't pneumonia.
But now… I forgot to tell you that it was April Fool's Day.
The young doctor who skipped the razor and tied his man bun up in a net tells me I have RSV.
Now here is where I almost caught an attempted murder charge.
“Mr. Shepley, RSV is very common in people your age and can be serious for seniors.”
Look… I’ll admit it. It took effort to get out of the car. My chest was tight and my breathing wasn’t great. Yeah, I had the hunchback shuffle going and I could have used a cane. Sure, my scrotum was swinging halfway down my hip-hop thighs.
But how in the hell did I get lumped in with the King’s Court pinochle club over at Christ the King? Are they going to put me on the short bus with the wheelchair lift and drive me over to Little Sisters of the Poor retirement home?
I get up before everyone except the guy milking the cow.
I do fat cheek yoga.
I swing kettlebells.
I stand at my trading desk all day every day.
I chase 10,000 steps daily like it owes me money.
And this guy is telling me RSV is common for us kids born in the sixties?
Hey Class of '84!
Watch out for Respiratory Syncytial Virus!
It is common with old people like us!
That is kick one to the throat this week. Kick two comes today, Good Friday.
I’m heading to Sox Park for the home opener on a major Holy day in the Catholic Church.
Now let’s review the rules. Roman Catholics, 18 to 59: One full meal. Two smaller ones. No snacking. And if you are over 14, NO meat. Day of penance. Reflect on the Passion.
I copied that straight from my 1976 altar boy manual.
So now I’ve got a question....
How am I supposed to cheer for my beloved White Sox while my Savior is getting the snot kicked out of Him?
And more importantly…
Does His Father really think my faith is strong enough to withstand the smell of grilled onions floating through the Comiskey Park concourse?
Because I’ll tell you right now, that is a heavy lift. Not as heavy as a cross and crown of thorns, but it will test my faith.
Pope Leo never got back to me. Father Bobby from the Southside never returned my messages.
No dispensation.
No blessing for the sausage trifecta.
No clearance for nine Old Styles.
So let’s be honest... Who is really suffering here?
The skinny Jewish kid on Golgotha…
or the heavyset Catlick kid in Bridgeport?
What I have learned during my break from the Morning Chalkboard is this: I am a senior citizen with questionable lungs…
and an even more questionable level of discipline and faith.
At least if I end up in Hell, the heat will clear out my chest. And who knows, I might finally lose the fifty pounds.
Wish me luck, Chalkheads.
Because even though I still feel like ass…
I am still heading to the Southside to find a little gusto and astonishment anyway.
