On July 17, I wrote you a poem.
I hadn’t written poetry since, oh, since Junior High. It wasn’t very good poetry, but the words rhymed, so I’m not sure why you expected anything better out of me. The words rhymed. It was a poem.
On July 17, I wrote you a poem and six hours later I was sick.
Sick, for real, with a 101 fever and chills and visions of this finally being the end and well, I had a good run. (I occasionally overreact in cases of high fever. High fever panic commences for me at about 98.9.)
On April 5, 1925, Babe Ruth collapsed with a fever, infection, and an abscess in his gut. But, not before hitting two home runs in a spring training game. He’d been running a temp through spring training and didn’t rejoin the Yankees for eight weeks.
I am here today, recovered after 16 days with an obnoxious summer virus, to tell you five truths about illness.
One. Babe Ruth clearly was much tougher than me.