HIT WITH A PICKLE

While smoking my pipe last night I overheard a bit of the conversation of four very nice young men about a sport. "That's probably where people hit each other's balls with a pickle till one of them faints." Pickle ball. I'm imagining this catching on. It sounds like a great spectator sport, especially if silly costumes are obligatory.

Competitive golf stopped being interesting when the players no longer wore theatrical freak get-ups. Strolling after a dimpled little ball is much more interesting when the players have brightly hued plus-fours, loud argyle socks, really ugly sweaters, and oversized working mans caps or tam o'shanters in vile colours. Golf has become too serious.

Earlier, I had happily recognized a gentleman I had not seen in several weeks in my own neighborhood. He is not anywhere close to compos mentis, and I had wondered if something unfortunate had happened to him. Very likely he's played too much pickleball in his life.
He's mind probably never was what it used to be.

I had worried about him.

He's ethnically Chinese, but he speaks -- in so far as he actually says anything at all -- native English. I always wish him a good evening when we pass each other. Sometimes he's more alert and upbeat, but his sentences trail off after the third word. I've heard him muttering to himself in Cantonese, but it makes as little sense as when he expresses himself whenever we've met on the street. He's taken care of, which is clear from his clothing.
But he's not capable of taking care of himself.
Also, gets lost easily.

He must live in my neighborhood, but I've seen him over in Chinatown many times. That might be where he grew up. He often circles the same blocks all day.
When he's out and about.


When I returned from the weekly visit to low places I encountered him again walking down the street, looking baffled and pensive, out of it. Third time in one day. Greeted him each time. As one would do. Recognition means salutation. Glad to see he's still okay.


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