Seven

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Whenever I see a number displayed I automatically associate it with a professional athlete.

Wilt is 13.

Reggie is 44.

Guidry is 49.

Mariano and Jackie Robinson are 42.

Jeter is 2.

And of course, Mickey Mantle is 7.

George Costanza was going to name his son 7. 

I mentioned it when Jake was in line to be named, but Kathy said:

“That’s worse than Clifford.”

Got in the car yesterday morning and saw Mantle flashing back at me.

The outside temperature was just 7.

Yet, I was glad to be out of the house and figured that heading north would allow me to visit a couple of sites.

The prognosis was for more snow, but not until later in the day.

Of course, I looked at the 7 and then at the huge pile of snow in front of my car.

Grabbed the shovel and got the blood moving. Stray thought being:

“I don’t want to end up face down in a pile of snow when it’s Mantle degrees outside.”

The day was going smoothly. Blue skies above. Not bad as the wind was quiet.

And what seemed like seconds later, I was in a storm.

Ten minutes later, I was in a slide as I exited the thruway - the ramp sending me into a spiral,

“Don’t hit your brake!” My Dad’s voice in my mind.

I kept my foot off the brake and steered my way out.

A hundred yards in front of me there was a vehicle upside down in the median.

“He hit the brake,” I thought.

I caught a glimpse of the temperature:

12

Jim Kelly or Joe Namath.

So

Much 

Fun.

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