By Scott Sullivan
Editor
The Wendigo
A pickleball brawl broke out on Spruce Creek Country Club courts Feb. 8 in Port Orange, Fla. Seems Tony Sapienza, 63 and wife Julianne, 51 and a rival senior couple fought over rules, Tony hammered plaintiff in the head with his paddle, punched him to the court, then some 20 pickleball peers piled on to restrain defendant and/or to get their own licks in. The Missus didn’t miss; even she chipped in with a backhand.
Cops broke up the melee, cuffed Tony and charged him with two counts of felony battery, her one.
These are annals of aging. I may be 71 now, but still no one challenges nor even dares looking crosswise at me. Bam. Victims lie sprawled, helpless, whimpering for mercy. In my fantasy.
Prufrock’s the name. A.J. Prufrock. Half-deserted streets are my beat.
So far I’ve heard mermaids singing each to each, measured out my life in coffee spoons, feared to eat a peach …
My pent-up passion pays off on the pickleball court, thock-thocking balls at an ever-growing, soon-deafening crescendo. Warring neighbor pairs pause, dim their hearing aids and watch in awe at the carnage. At this age we all have earned it in our dreams.
Moving to Montana a man, 25, drove into the Granite County Courthouse not to apply for a dental floss farm permit but pay an open-container fine, apparently not too penitent. Sheriff Rico Barkwell saw he had too many hairs of the dog, asked how many before setting out for the hall of justice and he said two more or less, plus two bowls of pot. A breath check confirmed his BAC was three times the legal limit. Rico shook him down again for an open container in his car.
The sheriff slapped two aggravated DUI counts, another open container and hauled him to the klink while posting “Stupidity is not an excuse!” on his Facebook page. Nor is distracted driving but that’s different.
Back in Florida Feb. 11, Dean Young broke into a parked landscaping van in Hialeah planning to steal tools but encountered problems; he had locked himself inside and could not get out. Young started beating on the walls and screaming, “Help me! I’m inside!” prompting landscapers — more than one bemused he had walked into that — to call cops but not unlock him as machetes were in there too.
Speaking of youth is wasted on the young, when the famous Lover’s Arch rock formation in Melendugno, Italy collapsed into the Adriatic on Valentine’s Day, many swooned though they could see it coming. Strong storm surges and heavy rain off the sea had primed and weakened the landmark rock already in preface to its V.D. fall. But still …
“It is a devastating blow to the heart,” Melendugno Mayor Maurizio Cisternino told The Guardian. “Nature has been overturned.” Who would not like to have that power?
I know, Nazgul, the 2-year-old Czechoslovakian wolfdog who broke out of his pen in nearby Lago Di Tesero to join women’s Olympic nordic skiers cross the finish during the spring qualifying round, caught on camera naturally.
The dog’s owner told NPR Nazgul, “just wanted to follow us. He always looks for people.”
Snoop Dog, 54, is another who holds that power. At the Cronox, a nearby gastropub in Livigno, the rapper and honorary team USA coach downed a cheeseburger, wings, nuggets and fries between rounds, but when it was tab time, his card was declined. Fear not.
Sofia Valmadre, the Cronox owner’s daughter, said he could take the food free, which Snoop did, swapping it instead for five tickets to the men’s snowboard halfpipe finals.
In these troubled times, the way the world is yadda-yadda, no wonder Old Man Tony flipped. Suddenly passion grips us, we gulp peaches randomly, grasp a pickleball paddle, swing at anything. Don’t it feel good. At last it’s spring.
Better yet, Snoop might take Rico Barkwell, Nazgul, Sofia and me to celebrate my birthday to the half-pipe finals at Livigno Snow Park, Cronox leftovers in three greasy bags, on him.
Alas, it was too late to book a flight from the Granite City Jail, Hialeah or my other muttering retreats. Plus he must have missed me on his speed dial.
Perhaps I’ll turn into my grandpa, wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled and spin campfire yarns on Facebook about the Wendigo who confronted me coon hunting near Witches’ Meadow.
A Wendigo, as most know, is a malevolent, supernatural, cannibalistic being haunting folklore of Algonquian-speaking peoples (Ojibwe, Cree, Innu) in these parts, a gaunt, skeletal spirit that possesses humans, symbolizing greed, starvation, an insatiable craving for human flesh and extreme winter. Good thing that’s gone for now.
Only when I vent will the mermaids sing.
