Bad postcard of the week: Sweden needs a tutorial on glorious bad postcards

Qwert needs to know more about boring postcards.

As we've mentioned before, I’m a member of a worldwide community called Postcrossing that sends postcards back and forth. This is fun.

We all have a profile page where we tell a little about ourselves and tell other Postcrossers what kind of postcards we like to receive.

Naturally, my profile mentions a fondness for really boring postcards. Some people like to accommodate and have sent some wonderfully boring cards. Others are a little confused.

Yesterday I received a fantastically boring card from a Postcrosser named Qwert. His note on the back gets right to the point.

Qwert writes: “I do not know what cards are boring to you. There are no cards boring to everyone. Regards. Qwert.”

Qwert, my new friend, I would love to explain what makes a boring postcard.

But first, a little about Qwert, who also goes by Kjell and lives in Southern Sweden. Dude is a veteran Postcrosser, sending 3,520 postcards in four years. By comparison, I’ve sent about 200 in two years, clearly a rank amateur.

He’s also, might I say, a little standoffish. He certainly has a lot of rules, according to his profile. He’s studying postal automation and Swedish postal history.

Aside from thinking the Russian post office runs a little too slow compared to the mail system in Finland, he notes:

“PLEACE, I beg you, NO MORE city views or buildings, churches etc. DO NOT send cards or envelopes and not bigger than C6. (10x15 cm)(4 X 6 inches)

“Just send a Beer mats, just put stamp and address on it, or a WHITE BLANK card/paper max. 15x10 cm. 

Pleace, NOT in envelope, (Beer mats, Bierdeckel, bocks, maty piwo, posavasos, підставки під пивні кухлі, подставки под пивные кружки). If this is too difficult to find, just cut out a postcard-sized piece of cardboard food packaging and use/send that as a postcard to me. I also like "cards" sent via Internet by Touchnote or similar services. 

“I like all the stamps located ON the card not broken stamps half sitting on the card. I have got too many of those. I also like franking with "Meter stamps" automatically made by any kind of machines. I DO like cards with 3D stamps. (f.ex. Finland - Canada) The postal side of the card is the one I like the best.”

Since Qwert is studying postal history, I welcome the opportunity to tell him – and anyone else – the glories of bad postcards.

The 1960s and 1970s are considered the golden era of bad postcards. So if you’ve got something from that era, you’re a step ahead.

There are naturally several categories. Let’s break them down.

Ghost town: This would be a building; usually a bland government building made blander by a complete lack of people, cars, pets, squirrels or anything else that might imply life. 

Long-distance dedication: This would be a photo taken from very, very far away so that any detail of the subject is difficult to ascertain. As we are fond of saying, Casey Kasem has offered long-distance dedications on behalf of people who were closer than the photographer and the subject of this card. RIP, Casey. We’ll miss you. 

Bad photos: Sometimes we have no indication that a skilled photographer took the photo depicted on the card. A card can be made gloriously bad by the subject matter, or the action being wildly off-center, or with people posing in unusual ways. You look at a bad photo postcard and say, “What the heck is going on here?” And, in the best cards, something is going astray and the photographer either didn't catch it or just didn't care.

Little Harry is ready to give them hell!

My favorite bad photo postcard – and possibly the best bad postcard of all time – includes Little Harry and his family reverently gazing upon the plaque honoring the Trumanfamily in a Missouri shopping center. Actually, Mom and Dad are reverent, Lil Harry is about to hurl.

Roads: These are awesome, especially when the roads are empty. I have an entire flip book ofOhio Turnpike cards, complete with overpasses and rest stops. Many of the poorly cropped cards include the same car, which I can only assume belongs to the photographer. I get that interstates were once wild and crazy and new. But even then, an overpass couldn't have been worth writing home about.

Pet caskets: These are typically advertising products and are very dull. But the best one of all was found in the old Booth Newspapers Lansing Bureau and depicts pet casketsfrom the Upper Peninsula. This is so awesome, that the entire genre bears the name. As an aside, I spoke to the folks who work at the pet casket place and they are very nice. I learned a lot. Now you can, too.

Speaking of pets: Postcards showing us animals doing things they are not supposed to be doing is always considered a great bad postcard, be they brainy poodles or water-skiing dogs or musical monkeys.

Perfy: Perfy is the patron saint of bad postcards and a bad ass. He’s the mascot for New Jersey’s tourism bureau – talk about a tough assignment – and no one has any idea about what Perfy is supposed to be. I love Perfy, and have found several cards showing him in various places around New Jersey. So anything with a bad mascot doing unusual things – or being unusual – falls into the Perfy genre. Corky gives Perfy a run for his money.

Perfy!

Mis-named photos: This is easy. The postcard tells us one thing, and the photo is, well, open to interpretation. My favorites are a collection called “Michigan ThumbScenery,” and show us things like the guard rail on the Blue Water Bridge. We've also uncovered several cards announced to be the Mackinac Bridge, and showing instead the tollbooths to the Mackinac Bridge, with no bridge in sight.

There are probably several more, but you get the idea.

So let’s review Qwert’s offering:

We get a ghost town view of a hotel – or something – that’s poorly cropped, cutting off one part of the building. It’s pretty far away, and we can’t tell if this is the back or front of the building. We do see what appears to be a putt-putt golf course – with no one playing, of course – and some mystery vegetation.

And Qwert, my friend, you might not know what a boring postcard is, but you nailed it.

Here's a link to bad postcard columns from the MLive days.

Bad postcard of the week: The secret lives of French poodles

Do you trust this poodle?

I’ve spent a great deal of time at institutions of higher education recently, which had me thinking about intelligence a great deal, and the process of gaining knowledge.

Little did we know we could determine smarts not by the diplomas I’ve seen handed out in the last couple months, but my checking out skull shape?

I learned this from this week’s bad postcard.

The front reads, “I’m ready, let’s go!” and shows a dog in a wicker basket.

On the back: “Although known for many years as the national dog of France, the Poodle is really of German origin, whose troops carried the first specimens of the breed into France. Scientists have found that the general foundation of the head and skull exhibit every indication of extraordinary intelligence.”

OK, that’s a lot of information for the back of a postcard, especially one firmly in the silly pet photos category.  Canine head and skull formation just doesn’t come up a lot. 

Which takes us to the photo on the front. 

If Fluffy the poodle is such a brainiac, why did she let someone tie that ridiculous bow in her hair? And why did she allow herself to get stuffed in a basket, like a bag of croissants?

Maybe these poodles are willing to withstand such humiliation because they are thinking about a greater good – for the Germans.

The back doesn’t say during which war this cross-border poodle smuggling took place.  We can’t even  be sure there was any fighting going on. Did German soldiers simply infiltrate and unleash poodles among the unsuspecting French populace? What is their true mission? Are the poodles passing French secrets back to the Germans through an elaborate canine spy network? 

No wonder Fluffy is so ready to go. She’s got to meet Hans at the clandestine meeting spot and relay what she knows: “Woof. They’re planning to surrender! Woof.”

Now we know. Never turn your back on your poodle.

David Wright and the inner-secrets of gnomes

There’s a story sweeping the Internet about a Tennessee woman who accidentally dropped her garden gnome, discovering inside a hidden, detailed mystery figure.

She’s speculating that it’s a female form of some kind, perhaps an angel. You can read all about it – and even see a video – here.

The injured gnome, named Pete, now has his own Facebook page. 

He’s also lonely, as the women confessed to smashing all of her other gnomes to see if there was anything inside. There wasn't.

We here at Mets Guy do not endorse gnome carnage of any kind. 

Wanton destruction of gnomes on the off-chance that they harbor some inner- secrets is just wrong. Borrow an MRI machine.

We do know a thing or two about the inner-workings of gnomes.

We have under our roof, the Gnome of Victory and Celebration, who travels the country posing with landmarks, spreading joy and standing as the embodiment of  Mets victories and other good things.

As you also remember, the Gnome faced temporary dismembermentat the hands of a rogue jackalope at Wall Drug in South Dakota. Thanks to Uncle Jeff, Zack and the impressive inventory of Wall Drug, the gnome was reunited with his pieces in time for our visit to Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse.

He’s had two accidental dismemberments since -- first, after measuring the accumulated snow in the driveway, and, more recently, while bouncing around the car trunk.

Today we obtained a safe trunk travel system, decreasing the odds of future breakage. But inspired by this Tennessee revelation, I decided to take a peek inside the Gnome of Victory and Celebration prior to repairs as the hot glue gun was warming up.

I expected nothing, of course. No startling images popped out in the previous separations. But we were so focused on despair and repair at the time that we never really took a close look. We also know that the battle-scarred Gnome of Victory of Celebration is a very special lawn ornament.

Is there hidden meaning to the two protrusions?

The first inspected part revealed what appear to be two distinctive protrusions of sorts, perhaps representing the Mets’ two world championships. Or, they could represent the Mets’ two World Series defeats. We decided not to look too closely for meaning and hope for better in the other part.

At first, there didn't appear to be anything. But slowly it emerged. A nose, a heroic if not troubled brow, cheeks – the unmistakable likeness of David Wright!

Seriously, take a closer look:

The unmistakable likeness of David Wright.

There he is, the Mets’ captain, right inside the Gnome of Victory and Celebration. Perhaps he serves as the gnome’s inner-voice, a conscience guiding him to embrace all the joys of Mets fandom and not dwelling on the sad times that seem to come and go.

We seem to be in one of those extended challenging times right now. Matt Harvey is on the shelf – and apparently in denial about his needed recovery time. We don’t seem to be scoring any runs. The bullpen seems allergic to saves.

But David Wright knows that good times are not far away. 

Our young pitchers seem to be as good as advertised. Curtis Granderson, shaking off the Yankee taint, is starting to mash the ball. Wilmer Flores has not injured any fans sitting behind first base with errant throws. And we have three players on the roster with little d’s to start their last names – Travis d’Arnaud, Jacob deGrom and Matt den Dekker, which has to be good for something.

David Wright could have fled as a free agent last year, but he chose to stay a Met. He knows that soon there will be victory and triumph.

And, like the Gnome of Victory and Celebration, we need to listen to our inner David Wright, calling for patience, not panic.

The glee of my newfound serenity was interrupted by the aroma of melting glue, and we quickly reassembled the Gnome of Victory. Like all Mets fans, he’s been roughed and has looked better.

Maybe, like the Gnome of Victory and Celebration, there's a little David Wright in all of us.

Bad postcard of the week: Disgraced Fifi and talented Twiggy

Poor Fifi. This is not a happy dog.

Today’s topic is disgraced animals.

Exhibit 1 is Fifi, the shamed dog in this week’s bad postcard.

The back reads: “Fifi, MARINELAND OF FLORIDA’S canine mascot, enjoys a ride around a porpoise-powered surfboard. Marine is located 18 miles south of St. Augustine on scenic A1A.”

Well, we learned that a porpoise is involved. That means there are two disgraced animals here.

It’s bad enough that Fifi is thrown on a board that isn’t really a surfboard and dragged around a pool for the amusement of Floridians and tourists by a sea-mammal that had the good sense to stay out of the frame.

No, the problem here is the tutu. Dog’s don’t wear them. Actually, only a rather limited population of humans wears them because it’s just a tough look to pull off. Fifi can’t do it. She’s probably hoping the matching accessory will draw attention from the tutu, but it’s just not working.

About the best thing we can do here is look away and hope a compassionate porpoise tows Fifi into the orca tank where she can be put out of here misery is one bite, maybe two.

Now, let’s talk about an animal with a similar skill who circles the pool with dignity intact. I’m talking about Twiggy, thewater-skiing squirrel.

I've seen Twiggy. He appeared at the Grand Rapids Boat Show years ago. I spoke to his trainers, who are nice people.

Chuck and Lou Ann Best – also from Florida – found an orphaned squirrel after a hurricane and raised him as a family pet. The friendly squirrel used to ride around on their shoulders, even in the pool.

According to Twiggly lore, Chuck constructed a little water ski platform and hooked it up to a remote controlled boat, and Twiggy soon learned how to hitch a ride.

A video of these squirrelly adventures made it to a television show, and next thing we know Twiggy and several squirrels with similar skills are bringing smiles to boat show attendees across the country.  

I got to meet Mrs. Best and see Twiggy in action. It was very cool.

You ask about the difference between disgraced Fifi and talented Twiggy? Twiggy doesn't wear a tutu. He wears a cool little life vest.

Smart animals know that safety comes before style.

Bad postcard of the week: Albion, Sigma Chi and fraternity shenanigans

Albion shows its billboard, not its town.

Albion, Michigan might be a lovely place. I've not had the pleasure of visiting yet.

But it’s generally a bad sign when the postcard telling the world about your town is a photo of the billboard telling the world about your town, rather than actual scenes from the town.

The back reads: “Albion was first settled about 1825. It is located in the center of the State at the heart of Southern Michigan’s industrial belt. Albion is a residential, educational, retail, agricultural and industrial community. It is the home of Albion College which is recognized as one of the outstanding small, four-year, Christian liberal arts colleges in the nation.”

Albion is between Jackson and Battle Creek along the I-94 corridor. The billboard itself is perplexing. We see “Oil fields, industry, home of Albion College.” But wafting in the clouds is “’The Old Rugged Cross’ and ‘Sweetheart of Sigma Chi’ composed here.’”

OK, now I’m hooked. This might get me in trouble, but churches and fraternities don’t always go hand in hand and this town inspired songs about both.

Let’s investigate.

The often-accurate Wikipedia tells us that technically, only the first verse of “The Old Rugged Cross” was written in Albion. Add an asterisk to the billboard, please, or add “Part of…” before the song title.

Wikipedia tells us that Methodist evangelist George Bennard wrote the first verse of "The Old Rugged Cross" in Albion in the fall of 1912 “as a response to ridicule which he received at a revival meeting.”

So the scoreboard shows Bennard 1, Hecklers 0, since the completed song went on to be a standard that is still sung by choirs today. He wins!

“Sweetheart of Sigma Chi” is more complicated.

Again, Wikipedia tells us that the tune is one of the most beloved and popular college fraternity songs. Written in 1911 by students Byron D. Stokes and F. Dudleigh Vernor, the tune became a favorite of ballroom orchestras and was used in two movie musicals.

Hold on, because here’s where things get hinky.

“When asked about the song's inspiration, Stokes replied, ‘The “Sweetheart” is the symbol for the spiritual ingredient in brotherhood. It was the Sigma Chi Fraternity itself that inspired the song. I wrote the words not long after my initiation, and the magic of our Ritual with its poetic overtones and undertones was, I suppose, the source of my inspiration’.”

So, if I’m reading this correctly, the sweetheart is not a girl, but a bunch of guys and he was inspired the magic of their rituals.

I went to the University of Missouri in the 1980s, not Albion in the 1910s. But the frat rituals I saw seemed to involve beer, paddles, beer, public humiliation, beer and wearing sweatpants with Greek letters sewn across the butt. 

Yes, I proudly lived in the dorms where our rituals involved playing “Purple Rain” and finding any excuse to visit the girls’ floors above us. I did introduce many Midwesterners to Twisted Sister. There may have been public humiliation associated with all of that, too, but we didn't sing about it.

I know you’re curious, so here are the lyrics:

When the world goes wrong, as it's bound to do

And you've broken Dan Cupid's bow

And you long for the girl you used to love

the maid of the long ago

Wait. Dan Cupid? Who the heck is that? Cupid has a first name? Does his business card say “Daniel Cupid, archer/matchmaker?” But I digress.

Why light your pipe, bid sorrow avaunt,

Blow the smoke from your alter of dreams

And wreathe the face of your dream-girl there

The love that is just what it seems.

Not that I ever indulged in this but, the pipe-smoking in college frats of the 1980's was probably different, though dreams were no doubt altered.

The girl of my dreams is the sweetest girl

Of all the girls I know

Each sweet co-ed, like a rainbow trail

Fades in the after glow

“Each sweet co-ed like a rainbow trail?” I went to a frat party once. There was a lot of drinking. I didn't see any rainbow trails, but I did see Technicolor yawns.

The blue of her eyes and the gold of her hair

Are a blend of the western sky

Albion is west of Detroit, but I'm not sure I'd ever refer to it as being in the west.

And the moonlight beams

On the girl of my dreams

She's the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi.

The girl of my dreams is the sweetest girl

Of all the girls I know

Our sweet romance

Like a timeless dance

Dwells in my heart and soul

The love in her eyes and the warmth of her smile

Endure as the years go by

And the moon still beams

On the girl of my dreams

Like a bright shining star in the sky

My sweetheart of Sigma Chi.

Well, um, OK. Keep in mind, this is all about rituals and brotherhood. I still like Purple Rain better.

Bad postcard of the week: The mystery of the disappearing Wawa goose

It's a really, really big goose.

Today we have a sad tale, which we shall call “Mysterious Demise of a Landmark.”

I’m talking about the apparently late, great Wawa Goose.

This week’s bad postcard takes us to the northern shore of Lake Superior and the little town of Wawa. Wawa means “Wild Goose” in Ojibway . I know you were wondering.

I must say that I was intrigued by the title, “The View From Wawa’s Famous Goose.” I’m not sure I’d climb especially high to get a look at the Canadian version of an interstate, especially if I’ve been riding for hours on said road.

Do Canadians call their interstates “interprovinces?” We’ll have to look up that one.

Anyway, the view really isn’t that spectacular, so the goose must be the attraction. Let’s read the back:

“High on a hillside at Wawa, Ontario, the huge, 30 foot WAWA GOOSE, built of steel on a concrete base, stands as a monument to the completion of that section of the Trans-Canadian Highway No. 17. In the view at the left, the highway, known as the Lake Superior Circle Route, is seen winding through the valley below.”

Now, I’m the kind of roadtripper who will stop at just about anything, especially if I have the Gnome of Victory and Celebration along to pose.

So on the off chance that I am in Wawa, I would likely pull over to check out a 30-foot steel goose, especially if it is one of the three weeks of the year when it is not snowing there.

Plus, seeing a Canada goose in Canada is kind of cool.

 

The goose might be gone, but it looks like there are plenty of other things to do in Wawa.

And, check out the glowing review left on tripadviser.com: “Bigger than Life: Really a stunning statue. It really is a majestic bird. The sculpture/artist captured a unique pose of this avian beauty. There were several other variations of this statue throughout key locations in Wawa. Each unique by the pose captured.”

Now I’d point out that a “bigger than life” goose could actually be not all that big. A bigger-than-life goose could conceivably fit in the trunk of my Civic. But this one does appear to be really, really big.

Sadly, I might not ever know – and not because my travels don’t often take me to northern Canada.

I saw the link to the Wawa goose cam and pounced. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same. This is why the Internet is an amazing thing.

The goose is … gone. OK, here’s our mystery. What the heck happened to the goose?

There are different versions.

The goosecam site reads:

“Wondering how the goose flew this coop...?  A little bird told us that the structural engineers say that our Goose is cooked!  It’s been laying golden tourism eggs for Wawa for years but now Wawa is on a wild goose chase for $500,000 needed to re-feather our town. Let’s flock together and fly over to www.thewawagoose.com.  Put a feather in your cap - make a $50 contribution towards towards a new HONKER!”

Keep in mind, that’s probably $500,000 Canadian dollars, which means it’s probably like $700,000 American dollars.

Then, the always accurate Wikipedia tells us “The Wawa Goose has been temporarily removed for refurbishment after heavy flooding damaged the sculpture in late 2012.”

Flooding?  The sculpture is 30-feet tall and up on a hill that provides views of the interstate-like road. That would be a flood of Noah-like proportions!

Then, the official Wawa goose fund-raising site tells us another story:

“:Unfortunately, our old Goose has announced that he will be retiring by this Fall. Even though he will be missed, he ‘s told us that he is tired and his weary knees can’t handle the long standing periods any longer, not to mention our really cold winters! So it’s official, he needs a replacement to take over his important job and we need your help to make this happen!”

They…think…it…talks.

So it looks like we will never know.

We did learn that this is actually the second goose. The first was made of plaster and chicken wire and lasted three years before the Canadian winters did him in. He now resides in the safety of a downtown general store.

Bad postcard of the week: Newsflash -- water is wet!

Hey, Eunice, what does that water feel like?

How does the water feel?

Wet.

I remember when we were kids and went to an ice show at Nassau Coliseum. The way out was along the ice rink. The normally tall hockey rink boards weren't there. You could reach over and touch the ice, which is exactly what every kid did.

An usher, in that classic usher voice that indicated both authority and disdain, said something like, “Keep moving, and don’t touch the ice.”

And I remember someone’s mom or grandma telling the usher, “They just want to touch the ice. Let’s them touch the ice.”

Sensing victory over the usher, I quickly did reach down and touch the ice, along with every other kid within earshot.

It was cold.

It’s not like we were strangers to ice on Long Island. It just needed to be touched. It’s like when the waitress tells you to be careful that the plate is hot. It’s a small rebellion.

I recalled that moment when I saw this week’s bad postcard.

It looks like one person reached over to see if the water was wet, and everyone else on the boat needed to follow suit.

Perhaps the back reveals more: “FLORIDA’S SILVER SPRINGS. Home of World Famous Glass Bottom Boats. Hand Feeding Fish.”

Silver Springs is two things. First, it’s a Fleetwood Mac song that I have a love-hate relationship with. It’s a beautiful song. The studio version was left off “Rumors” for length and demoted to the B-side of the “Go Your Own Way” single.

The live version is even better, and was included on the 1997 reunion, “The Dance.”

It’s great, with one big problem. There’s the line “You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.”

That should be, “the woman WHO loves you,” of course. I know Stevie is full of angst, but that’s a huge grammatical error. How come no one ever pointed that out?

Anyway, it’s distracting as I listen to an otherwise beautiful song.

Silver Springs also is also one of Florida’s first tourist sites and another reason why Florida tourism history is divided in pre-Disney and post-Disney eras.

Silver Springs is famous for crystal clear water, though it appears kind of muddy in out postcard. And people could ride in boats like “Chief Osceola” and look through the glass bottom boats and see what is below.

Apparently the boats also were trailed by hungry fish. I suppose that’s fun – in a pre-Disney sort of way. Not exactly Space Mountain.

Now if you want to hand-feed gators in the Everglades, that would be a thrill ride.

Bad postcard of the week: Guys like to stay in risky motels

Occasionally my work offers the opportunity to stay in some really nice hotels  – like last year’s overnight visit to the Essex House overlooking Central Park.

And, when I go places with my baseball buddies, we tend to stay in the cheapest places possible.

We are guys. We would rather spend our money on food at the ballpark. And we are not adverse to a limited amount of risk and adventure.

I thought about one of our riskiest stays when I saw this week’s bad postcard. We’re headed to Kansas and the 50 Motel, which boasts of cable TV and electric heat.

Actually, there’s more. The back reads: “50-Motel, West Highway 50-Emporia, Kansas, Phone DI 2-7587 – Joe and Jo Ann Lapping, Emporia’s finest motel units, featuring individually controlled flameless electric conditioning. T.V., phones, sound proof, American Express, free coffee. Conveniently located ½ mile east of Kansas Turnpike entrance on Highway 50.

I’m not sure what featuring individually controlled flameless electric conditioning is. But I’m glad they didn't boast about big, fluffy pillows. Or, about snazzy décor, unless you like cinder blocks and paneling.

Still, it’s nicer than a place we stayed in once.

We were headed from Cleveland to Detroit for one of our glorious executive games. The four of us opted to spend the night in Maumee, which is just outside of Toledo and the then-home of the Mud Hens.

Being guys on a baseball road trip and our stop unexpected, we opted for the cheapest place possible.

Now, my version of the cheapest place possible actually means the cheapest Hampton Inn or similar chain with a breakfast bar that includes a waffle maker. And splitting a room four ways makes that somewhat reasonable. Plus, you get waffles in the morning.

My companions disagreed. For one thing, we’d need two rooms. And another, they had lower standards.

Gulp.

We ended up in a chain famous for being inexpensive.

We walked into the office area and discovered the clerk sitting behind the kind of thick bulletproof glass you see in gas stations in dangerous neighborhoods. I've never seen something like that in a Red Roof Inn, much less the Essex House.

“Our car is safe here?” I asked my buddy. What I really meant was, “Are we safe here?”

I know I slept with one eye open, possibly both of them. Every voice or footstep in the corridor brought fear and a reminder that there would be no waffles – should we survive the night.

We did survive, of course. But I walked out into the corridor in the morning and there on the white wall appeared to be a splash of red liquid that wasn't there the day before.

Now, it could have been paint, or ink, or nail polish or something like that.  But I don’t think so. 

I was never so glad to check out.

So while the long-gone 50 Motel had flat pillows, I see no blood or chalk outlines or police tape. We stayed in worse.

We must embrace opportunities to shine like Sid Fernandez in the Big 5-0

I’m not freaking out about 50.

Seriously.

I think the only people who should be depressed about aging are those sad souls who have not experienced amazing things and have not been surrounded by people who love them.

With those two things in mind, I recognize that I have been blessed far beyond what I deserve.

If I were a baseball team, we’d be wearing a sweet patch with golden numbers.  Making it this far in reasonably good shape is reason to celebrate.

So in keeping with tradition, we are declaring this the Sid Fernandez birthday.

Fernandez, of course, wore number 50 to salute his native land of Hawaii.

By the way, this tradition is going to get more challenging as we move into numerical territory frequented largely by coaches and players who start spring training in the major league camp but don't necessarily finish there.

But El Sid is a worthy representative of our arrival at the mid-century mark.

He was a little chunky, and a little inconsistent. He could be frustrating. I can relate. 

But when Sid had everything working, he was pretty special.

When the Mets needed him most, Sid came through. 

The Mets came out a little flat in the deciding Game Seven of the 1986 World Series after the magical comeback of Game Six.

Down 3-0 in the fourth, Ron Darling allowed another runner. The game -- and the championship -- seemed to be slipping away.

Davey Johnson pushed Sid from the rotation to the bullpen during the Series because he feared the Red Sox would tee off on the lefty in cozy Fenway Park. That had to hurt.

But with the Series on the line in Game Seven and fellow Hawaiian Darling in trouble, Davey called for Sid. 

He rose to the moment, stopping the bleeding and shutting the door. He was masterful. And the Mets’ bats finally caught fire and roared back to win the game and the Series.

There are times in life when we are counted out and feel passed over. And there are moments when we are given our chances to shine.  As my friend Jeff said, we are given opportunities to excel. 

So our goal for year 50 is to embrace those moments, like Sid.