Butchblog

I was recently chatting with a buddy of mine at the local YMCA, where I go to work out. He’s an old guy, like me. And quickly the conversation turned to things we did when we were kids. First, we talked about collecting baseball cards, which we both had done, as did most of the men of our era. The cards came wrapped in a pack of  5 cards along with a square of stale bubble gum, the powdery taste of which I still fondly remember. It was always exciting to find out which players’ cards you would get. Of course, I always hoped to get the cards of the Philadelphia Phillies players, my home team. Robin Roberts and Richie Ashburn were my two favorites. Once you got the cards, you could then trade with your friends or you could flip them against a wall to see who could get their card closest. The winner got to keep the other guys’ cards. An early intro to gambling.

            Then my gym buddy and I moved on to talking about our childhoods in general – at least what we could still recall. “What I remember most,” I said, “was staying outside all day when we didn’t have school. I’d leave after breakfast and meet up with my friends, and often not come back home till dinner time. And, you know, my parents never worried about me or my brother at all. At least they never said anything about it. I guess they were glad to have us out of their hair.”

            “Same here,” my friend said. “Those were different times. Nowadays, parents have to know what their kids are doing every minute. You know, they call them helicopter parents.”

            “Things have definitely changed. I guess it’s just not safe in a lot of places for kids to be out on their own.”

            “And all these kids have their own phones now. And have to check in with their parents every five minutes.”

            “Or the parents freak out.”

            “And you know, they’d rather do tickity-tock on the damn phones, or whatever it is they do, than actually be out in the sun playing baseball.”

            “Or stick ball.”

            “I loved stick ball.”

            The conversation went on like that for a while, volleying between the imagined carefree, days of our youth, and what we saw as the failings of this new generation. We had a lot of material to work with. But then we caught ourselves.

            My friend laughed. “Damn, we’re just a couple of grumpy old men.” He mockingly shook his fist. “You kids get off of my lawn.”

            “Guess we’re just jealous,” I said. “Wishing we were still young, still full of piss and vinegar.” I stopped to consider. “You know, to be honest, I use my phone as much as these kids do. Always on it for one thing or another.”

            “Me too. What are you gonna do. It’s a new world.”

            “Well, we still have our memories,” I said.

            “Yeah, for now, anyway,” he replied.

            “But we’re still surviving,” I shouted as I walked over to the weight bench.