Chip Shots: The Midwest Is Stuck With Me
February 17, 2023 at 10:40 p.m.
Chip Shots: The Midwest Is Stuck With Me
By Chip Davenport-
My grandpa died at age 58, my mom (69), Grandma (74) weren’t very old when they passed away either. My aunt Barb missed her 60th birthday within a week. My dad, obviously unrelated but his early expiration exacerbated my morbid outlook, died a swift death from cancer at age 56.
My uncle’s longevity gives me hope because I estimate my life expectancy between the ages of 70 to 75 because I’m pretty healthy aside, and I’ve taken control of my diabetes. Much like Uncle Hal, I don’t smoke.
Uncle Hal was a body builder until he moved toward powerlifting in his 40s, so he exercised much more than I currently do in my middle age. He was bench pressing 400 lbs. into his late 70s, in fact. A geriatric with 21-inch biceps was quite a sight, folks.
The fact I drink much less than he did is likely a generational thing; he of the silent generation and I born in the last year of the baby boom/Generation Jones cusp. I think this will buy me a few years among those in the maternal side of my family who expired among the younger extremum.
So, as Carl Spackler, the gopher-obsessed greens keeper in Caddy Shack (the greatest golf movie ever) would say, “I got that goin’ for me… which is nice.”
Each successful trip he makes around the sun moves me closer to optimism of a decent life beyond age 75. I’d like to enjoy a few post-retirement years beyond 70. I also plan to keep PA announcing on my plate unless I lose my marbles.
If you can only handle so much of me now, imagine what handling me would be like if every day was like a Saturday for me.
You’ll eventually find out because the Midwest is stuck with me.
I’m surprised when people look at me in a funny way when I say I’ll retire at age 70, but I don’t lift anything at work heavier than a banker’s box, nor half the weight of office furniture that needs a new spot. Why should I retire earlier?
I don’t want to move to Florida, and I can’t afford Palm Springs, California on a fixed income and other measly investments. As water goes, it’s either feast or famine west of the Great Plains anyway.
Fresh water seems to be increasingly precious, so the Great Lakes area suits me fine.
The Midwest is stuck with me unless I lose my marbles, until I die, or unless I do something stupid between now and then.
I complain about winter weather more each year, but I’m reminded at just the right times of the year winter here beats hurricanes, alligators, scorpions, panthers, bears, and big roaches.
If I’m here, announcing ballgames, there will be a nice mix of young and old people in the stadium/gym crowds instead of walking around a Florida mega-retirement community like the nationally known Villages among a bunch of my contemporaries in the Geritol set, a daily reminder of my imminent mortality.
Spending time among scholastic sports participants, their coaches and managers, their fans, their friends, and their families among all ages helps me forget what grim figure will eventually tap my shoulder.
I couldn’t imagine waking up without a sporting event to work during the scholastic sports year, so the Midwest is stuck with me.
Who scours Florida and California retirement villages for able and willing scholastic PA announcers anyway?
I’ll share something that rarely falls favorably my way.
Thursday, March 16, I have two medical procedures conveniently carving out a four-day weekend for me. Nothing bad, just a little pain, and doctor’s orders. The icing on the cake is those days coincide with March Madness’s “Round of 64.”
This is not the type of favorable coincidence I’m accustomed to experiencing.
Perhaps I should prepare a column while I’m hopped up on goofballs instead of sending it to Connor McCann proactively, prior to pre-op that week.
The painkillers will send my in and out of sleep with varied interest among televised games from noon until midnight each of those days. Fine with me if I only catch tranches instead of seeing the games from start to finish.
Most of the Round of 64 games aren’t watchable, and college basketball’s product pales in comparison to the NBA (hey, this IS an opinion column after all). Any excitement from bracket-busting upsets consequently implode my pre-filled bracket anyway. My seating options will be more limited than usual.
Perfect timing, I’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Saturday morning, and thereafter. I’ll be behind the mic once again in less than a dozen days thereafter.
The Midwest is stuck with me.
My grandpa died at age 58, my mom (69), Grandma (74) weren’t very old when they passed away either. My aunt Barb missed her 60th birthday within a week. My dad, obviously unrelated but his early expiration exacerbated my morbid outlook, died a swift death from cancer at age 56.
My uncle’s longevity gives me hope because I estimate my life expectancy between the ages of 70 to 75 because I’m pretty healthy aside, and I’ve taken control of my diabetes. Much like Uncle Hal, I don’t smoke.
Uncle Hal was a body builder until he moved toward powerlifting in his 40s, so he exercised much more than I currently do in my middle age. He was bench pressing 400 lbs. into his late 70s, in fact. A geriatric with 21-inch biceps was quite a sight, folks.
The fact I drink much less than he did is likely a generational thing; he of the silent generation and I born in the last year of the baby boom/Generation Jones cusp. I think this will buy me a few years among those in the maternal side of my family who expired among the younger extremum.
So, as Carl Spackler, the gopher-obsessed greens keeper in Caddy Shack (the greatest golf movie ever) would say, “I got that goin’ for me… which is nice.”
Each successful trip he makes around the sun moves me closer to optimism of a decent life beyond age 75. I’d like to enjoy a few post-retirement years beyond 70. I also plan to keep PA announcing on my plate unless I lose my marbles.
If you can only handle so much of me now, imagine what handling me would be like if every day was like a Saturday for me.
You’ll eventually find out because the Midwest is stuck with me.
I’m surprised when people look at me in a funny way when I say I’ll retire at age 70, but I don’t lift anything at work heavier than a banker’s box, nor half the weight of office furniture that needs a new spot. Why should I retire earlier?
I don’t want to move to Florida, and I can’t afford Palm Springs, California on a fixed income and other measly investments. As water goes, it’s either feast or famine west of the Great Plains anyway.
Fresh water seems to be increasingly precious, so the Great Lakes area suits me fine.
The Midwest is stuck with me unless I lose my marbles, until I die, or unless I do something stupid between now and then.
I complain about winter weather more each year, but I’m reminded at just the right times of the year winter here beats hurricanes, alligators, scorpions, panthers, bears, and big roaches.
If I’m here, announcing ballgames, there will be a nice mix of young and old people in the stadium/gym crowds instead of walking around a Florida mega-retirement community like the nationally known Villages among a bunch of my contemporaries in the Geritol set, a daily reminder of my imminent mortality.
Spending time among scholastic sports participants, their coaches and managers, their fans, their friends, and their families among all ages helps me forget what grim figure will eventually tap my shoulder.
I couldn’t imagine waking up without a sporting event to work during the scholastic sports year, so the Midwest is stuck with me.
Who scours Florida and California retirement villages for able and willing scholastic PA announcers anyway?
I’ll share something that rarely falls favorably my way.
Thursday, March 16, I have two medical procedures conveniently carving out a four-day weekend for me. Nothing bad, just a little pain, and doctor’s orders. The icing on the cake is those days coincide with March Madness’s “Round of 64.”
This is not the type of favorable coincidence I’m accustomed to experiencing.
Perhaps I should prepare a column while I’m hopped up on goofballs instead of sending it to Connor McCann proactively, prior to pre-op that week.
The painkillers will send my in and out of sleep with varied interest among televised games from noon until midnight each of those days. Fine with me if I only catch tranches instead of seeing the games from start to finish.
Most of the Round of 64 games aren’t watchable, and college basketball’s product pales in comparison to the NBA (hey, this IS an opinion column after all). Any excitement from bracket-busting upsets consequently implode my pre-filled bracket anyway. My seating options will be more limited than usual.
Perfect timing, I’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Saturday morning, and thereafter. I’ll be behind the mic once again in less than a dozen days thereafter.
The Midwest is stuck with me.
Have a news tip? Email [email protected] or Call/Text 360-922-3092