Archive for July, 2013

Sports Editor’s Playbook, July 19, 2013

Friday, July 19th, 2013
Patrick Newell

Just a short blog entry today as I head off to Virginia for a vacation. By my records, it’s my first week off in 54 weeks, so the design of the sports pages will rest in the capable hands of our editor, Brian Golden. Unlike our previous editor who admittedly eschewed most things sports related, Brian is indeed a sports fan – when he can actually spare a second or two. If you any urgent sports news, give Brian a shout next week.

I remember clear as a bell holding my son Elijah moments after he was born. He had what looked like a misshapen head, and he was a little yellow (jaundice, the doctor said). Well, that eight-pound, four-ounce newborn is now 18 years old, a high school graduate, and was sworn into the U.S. Air Force. (See Twitpic link below) Thursday afternoon in Syracuse. He is currently waiting for his job to book, then he will take off to San Antonio for basic training. I listened to people tell me how fast kids grow up, and didn’t pay much mind to it. Now I know.

Photo here of Elijah:

Follow me on Twitter @evesunpat

“My trip to the hospital” or “Kevin goes on an adventure”

Friday, July 12th, 2013
Kevin Doonan

Last weekend I was being real cool goofing around in some shallow creek when I slammed my shins into a protruding rock submerged beneath the the murky water. Now my left leg fared fairly well, but my right shin was demolished. I had a gash from about here to China.
It didn’t really hurt – really I promise it didn’t … not in the least –, however I was mighty concerned about it getting infected. I guess I have just watched too many documentaries about the Civil War or something like that. Still I told myself I didn’t need to get it checked out, that I would be fine with enough hydrogen peroxide. Subsequently I did not consult any sort of medical authority, instead I relied on my innate manly sense to do what is right – meaning absolutely nothing.
And things were peachy … for a time. I made sure to pour ample amounts of over the counter disinfectants and smear my wound with liberal amounts of Bacitracin. Lo and behold, with me tender nursing it began to scab up nicely. My short attention span started to get the best of me though and my enthusiasm for dumping bucket loads of hydrogen peroxide on my leg began to wane.
A couple of days later after going for a run I noticed that my ankle was looking a little odd. On a slightly closer inspection I realized it had swollen to almost twice its normal seize. Putting pressure on the upper portion of my Tibialis anterior it came to my attention that it too was swollen and after a few more pokes it also dawned on me that I had lost feeling in it.
So I got an ice pack.
The next day I went into work. Joking around with the intern I mentioned my horrific war wound and felt complied to show it off to in an effort to illustrate my epic tale. She starting cracking up and suggested I get it looked at. I brushed her off comment, making sure to strike a heroic pose before walking away. But when I got back to my cubical I checked it out again for myself. Things had really changed and for the better. Not only was my ankle swollen but a halo of enflamed scarlet flesh now encircled the gash which spontaneously began to ache in a disconcerting manner while I examined it. Now I was starting to get a tad bit concerned, though still not enough to actually do anything about it. After all I know I’ve read some place that if the immune system isn’t challenged frequently enough it starts to weaken.
I let a few more days pass without taking action, all the while the intern gleefully informing me the delight she was going to take when it came time to tell me she told me so. She also pointedly made sure I understood the time for her to tell me “I told you so” would be right after the amputation.
It all finally got to me.
So I headed over to the ole’ UHS Memorial walk-in clinic – not the ER mind you, panic hadn’t completely robbed me of my pride … yet – to get a fix on the situation with my now throbbing shin. Surprisingly, not long thereafter a doctor was examining my discolored leg. I winced as he pressed all around the red ring of deathly looking skin and braced myself for the inevitable words, “we’re going to have to take it.” Instead though he said, “see how it’s not oozing or there is any pus? That means there is no infection.”
I asked to prescript me some antibiotics anyway.
“If it will make you feel better,” he shrugged.
It did. I may not have needed them but some how leaving with that prescription made me feel as though going to the hospital had been the right thing to do.

Macker weekend and… ice cream wars?

Friday, July 12th, 2013
Shawn Magrath

It’s Gus Macker time in Norwich again, which for the killjoys out there only means East Main Street will be inconveniently blocked off for the weekend. But for the rest of us, I’d like to think Macker weekend is a welcomed event every year. A tournament that promotes health, sportsmanship, community, and brings a boost to the local economy… Who could complain about something like that?

On a separate and unfortunate (but still oddly funny) note, every so often I come across a news story that makes me think, “There’s no way that can be true.” Yesterday, that news story was led with the headline, “Mr. Ding-A-Ling driver put on ice after DWI arrest while driving ice cream truck.”

The story, posted by CNY Central, reads that the driver of a Mr. Ding-A-Ling ice cream truck in Fulton County swerved in front of an oncoming sheriff’s patrol car around 12:10 a.m. Saturday morning – while driving his ice cream truck – and ran the car off the road. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing funny about drunk driving, even if the offender does wear a red and white striped button down shirt and paper hat, and cruises to the jammin’ tune of “Do Your Ears Hang Low.” But the incident also comes only months after the driver of the truck was involved in a public confrontation with two drivers of a “Sno Cone Joe” ice cream truck. According to the story, police said the two Sno Cone Joe operates allegedly harassed and stalked the Mr. Ding-A-Ling man, yelling “this is my town.”

Alright, now it’s somehow funny. I never imagined that the world of ice cream distribution operated like a drug cartel, with turf wars, threats, and I’m sure the occasional brick thrown through a window. Picture “The Godfather” but with ice cream truck drivers; and instead of a horse head, it’s the megaphone from the top of the the ice cream truck that’s tucked in the bed sheets… Suddenly, the world seems like a much more dangerous place.