"Batter Up!"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I don’t like to brag about my athletic prowess, mainly because I don’t have any, but I must say that I was a pretty good baseball player in my day. Unfortunately, that day was June 4, 1965, when I got a double in a Little League game. It was the highlight of an otherwise unremarkable career.

I never did realize my dream of making it to the big leagues and becoming the all-time home run champion. And now I know why: I didn’t wear jasmine-scented wristbands.

They’re better than steroids because they’re safe, they’re legal and they don’t have to be injected into your butt. And they were developed by my favorite mad scientist, Dr. Alan Hirsch, the founder and neurological director of the Smell & Taste Treatment and Research Foundation in Chicago.

In his latest study, “The Effects of Aroma of Jasmine on Major League Baseball Players,” Hirsch worked with the Chicago White Sox before a game last August. Six players in a batting cage alternated sniffing regular cotton wristbands and those that smelled of jasmine.

“They were independently assessed regarding the mechanics of their swings, including trajectory, ball flight, bat speed and bat swing zone,” Hirsch said in the study. “Compared to the no-odor trials, jasmine significantly improved all batting parameters.”

Seeing this as a chance to restart my baseball career, I called Hirsch to discuss strategy. But first I wanted to know why this Cubs fan chose to study his team’s cross-town rivals.

“I’m not sure anything would work with the Cubs,” said Hirsch, noting that they haven’t won the World Series since 1908. “At least the White Sox have potential.”

He’s right: The Sox are enjoying the sweet smell of success; the Cubs stink.

As for the study, Hirsch found that the scent of jasmine is relaxing, which helps calm players and improve hand-eye coordination.

“I didn’t think they should come to bat wearing scented masks, so we used the wristbands,” said Hirsch, adding that he doesn’t believe the bands have been used in games. “I suppose a team could have jasmine air fresheners in the dugout. And I can see a player with the sniffles being put on the disabled list.”

“I’ve been on the disabled list since Little League,” I said. “Do you think a jasmine wristband could help me make it to the majors?”

“Maybe with the Cubs,” said Hirsch, who mailed me a scented wristband.

Immediately after receiving it, I called Winner’s Edge Sports Training, an indoor facility in Huntington Station, N.Y., and scheduled a session in the batting cage with instructor Chad Ross.

“Most of our students are 8 or 9 years old, so you definitely are the oldest one we’ve ever had,” said Ross, 27, who has been playing baseball since he was 4. He was a hitting scout at Farmingdale State College and plays in an adult recreational league.

At first, Ross had me hit baseballs off a tee. Some of them went as far as three feet. Then he worked on my stance and the mechanics of my swing. After that, he pitched beach balls to me. I actually hit some.

Finally, the real test: Batting practice with baseballs tossed by Ross.

I put on a regular cotton wristband and sniffed it. Then I got in my stance and waited for the first pitch. I missed it. I missed two more, fouled one off and hit one past Ross.

“You were one for five,” he said.

Next, I put on my jasmine-scented wristband and sniffed it before each of Ross’ five pitches. I clobbered all of them.

“That’s incredible!” Ross exclaimed. “Those things really work.”

“They helped me feel more comfortable at the plate,” I explained.

“I could see that because you had a more natural swing than you did before,” said Ross, adding that the jasmine scent is very relaxing. “I might use one of those wristbands myself. Then we could both make it to the majors.”

“If,” I said, “you don’t mind playing for the Cubs.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"Blowing Hot and Cold"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Most people who work in modern office buildings are convinced there is no such thing as climate control. I believe otherwise. Here’s why: When it’s 92 degrees outside, it’s 52 inside. Add them up and divide by two and that’s how you get an average temperature of 72 degrees.

Still, I have told my wife that I don’t have to change my seasonal wardrobe -- put winter clothes away in the spring and take out summer ones, put summer clothes away in the fall and take out winter ones -- because you never know what the temperature is going to be in the office.

Instead, I suggest that you take a suitcase to work every day so you can change clothes if it’s either too hot or too cold.

To warm up to the subject, I recently spoke with a cool guy, Steve Zimmerman, director of engineering services in the building where I work.

“We do get our fair share of complaints about the temperature,” said Steve, who was wearing a long-sleeve shirt and a tie (and, of course, pants) even though it was a hot day.

“Actually, I think it’s pretty comfortable in here today,” I said, dressed in a sweatshirt (it was “casual Friday,” even if Steve wasn’t observing it) with a T-shirt underneath and a pair of jeans. I had also brought a windbreaker in case the wind in the office broke the record for the low temperature on that date. (Office conditions are not monitored by the National Weather Service, but they should be.)

Regulating the temperature in the building, which is half a million square feet, is “a big challenge,” Steve said, adding: “We have three air compressors on the roof. And we have chillers in the basement. They have a series of pipes that blow air over the coils. There’s a lot of wear and tear on the equipment. We try to keep it comfortable, but you can’t please everybody. Some people say they’re too hot; others say they’re freezing. It’s a constant battle.”

It’s also a battle at home, said Steve, who doesn’t have central air-conditioning.

“I recently put air conditioners in the windows,” he said.

“I put one in the bedroom because it gets too hot up there,” I said.

“My wife is always hot,” said Steve. “She’ll open the window in February. I’ll have five blankets on and she’ll be on top of the sheet.”

“Have you told her that you shouldn’t have to change your seasonal wardrobe?” I asked.

“If I had the space I would,” said Steve, adding that he boxes his clothes for the appropriate season.

“But you’re wearing a shirt and tie today,” I noted.

“I have to dress professionally no matter what the temperature is,” Steve explained.

In the summer, the temperature in the office can be so cold that the place feels like a meat locker.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “we can hang sides of beef in here and use them as punching bags, like Sylvester Stallone did in the first ‘Rocky’ movie. It would be a good way to keep in shape.”

“It might also make somebody want to punch you,” Steve said.

“Good point,” I replied.

In the winter, the temperature in the office can be so hot that the place feels like a sauna.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “we can make it like a real sauna on casual Fridays and wear towels.”

“If yours fell off, you might not have a job anymore,” Steve said.

“Another good point,” I replied.

I gained new respect for Steve and all the other people who, through broiling heat and bone-chilling cold, try to keep the temperature comfortable in office buildings across the land.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to pack a suitcase for work.

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"You'll Die Laughing"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I am wanted -- dead or alive. And it’s not the cops who are looking for me, though they probably have good reason. The guy who wants me -- in my present condition, if you can call this living, and then after I have gone to the hereafter -- is a funeral director.

I became uncomfortably aware that my business was desired when I started getting brochures in the mail from Moloney Family Funeral Homes Inc., which has half a dozen locations on Long Island, N.Y., where I live (for the time being, anyway).

“We guarantee you will be satisfied,” it said in one of the brochures.

My immediate reaction was: “How will I know I’m satisfied if I’m not here?”

To find out, I went to the Moloney funeral home in Port Jefferson Station and spoke with co-owner Peter Moloney, whose grandfather James Moloney founded the business in 1935.

“Have you been talking with my doctor?” I asked Peter. “If so, I want a second opinion.”

“No,” he said. “But we do market research. You must be on our mailing list because you’re over 50.”

“Baby boomers are living longer these days,” I noted, adding that I’m 58. “You may have to wait a long time to get business from me.”

“That’s OK,” replied Peter, who’s 47. “But the older we get, the more we have these occurrences. I always kid my doctor friends. I say, ‘I bury your mistakes.’ One doctor didn’t like that. His wife had to come between us. Sometimes people are too serious. You have to be able to laugh at yourself a little.”

That goes for Peter, who is often the butt of jokes when he addresses senior groups. He told me, “I’ve been introduced by the president of the club, who will say, ‘Guess who we have with us today. A funeral director!’ And the members will go, ‘Oh, come on!’ I’ll say, ‘You really don’t like me, do you?’ And they’ll say, ‘No, we don’t like you.’ It goes with the territory. But we always end up having some laughs.”

The laughs began when Peter and his seven siblings were young and lived above one of the funeral homes. Their father, Dan Moloney, who had taken over the business, would tell the kids not to make noise while a wake was going on.

“He’d tell us to stop running around,” Peter remembered. “After calling hours, we’d go downstairs. My father would say, ‘Who’s touching the hands?’ He was talking about the deceased. Of course, we would deny it.”

When Dan Moloney died, in 2001, Peter recalled, “We had a Jesse James carriage drawn by two white horses and paraded him all over Ronkonkoma. He once told me, ‘Spend as much as you can on my funeral. And get a third limo for all my girlfriends.’ He was a character.”

Peter, a chip off the old block, said he told his wife, “I want my funeral at 4 in the morning so I can inconvenience everybody one last time.”

He doesn’t think he’ll have a horse-drawn carriage, but a customer could order one. “We’ve had motorcycle funerals,” Peter said. “We’ve also had slot machines at the funeral home at the request of people who liked to gamble. One guy who loved to buy ice cream for his grandchildren wanted an ice cream truck. We had it in the parking lot so everyone could have ice cream.”

“Here’s my wish,” I said. “I’d like an open casket, but I want my feet showing so everybody could say how good I looked.”

“OK,” said Peter, who recalled the “cantankerous little old lady” who was insulted when she received a brochure in the mail. “I told her, ‘If you use Moloney’s, you’ll make it to heaven a little faster.’ She laughed like hell and made an appointment.” 

When I told Peter I plan to be buried in my hometown of Stamford, Conn., he said, “We’ll ship you up there.” But, he added, not in a horse-drawn carriage.

“You’d get a ticket on the Long Island Expressway,” Peter said.

I smiled and replied, “Over my dead body.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"The Waiting Game"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As a motorist who has been driving (people crazy) for four decades, I am used to sitting in traffic for hours at a time. But I didn’t think I would have to sit for part of two days when I went to renew my registration at the DMV, which stands for Department of Mass Vexation.

My adventure began on a Friday morning, when I drove to the DMV in Port Jefferson Station, N.Y., and found that, because of budget cuts, the place was closed. Instead of looking on the door for the office hours, which would have indicated the place was closed the next day, too, I went back the next day and found that -- surprise! -- the place was closed.

My keen deductive powers convinced me not to show up Sunday. So I went back Monday morning and beheld a scene that was something out of a Cecil B. DeMille epic.

“I’m sorry,” said the nice woman at the front counter, where I was given number F-130, “but we’ve had a lot of layoffs and two people called in sick today. You’re looking at a two-hour wait.”

I sat down with about 100 other poor souls in the hope that her estimate was wrong. After 20 minutes, I decided it was -- the wait would be at least three hours. I left and came back even earlier the next morning.

Everyone from the previous day must have had the same idea because they were back, too. I went to the front counter and took a number. It was F-120.

“I think I know what the F stands for,” I told the nice woman.

She smiled and said, “Good luck.”

I sat down next to a guy who said, “I’ve been here for three days.”

“Your family must be worried,” I replied. “Did you bring a sleeping bag?”

“I should have,” he said. “I showed up Thursday morning and the line was out the door. I waited a while and gave up. The place was closed Friday.”

“I know,” I said.

“I came back yesterday and the woman at the counter said it would be a two-hour wait,” he continued. “I stuck around for about 20 minutes and left.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“So here I am for a third day,” said the guy, who had number C-411.

A disembodied voice announced, “Now serving A-004 at window No. 4.”

“We’ll be here forever,” I said.

A little while later, the voice announced, “Now serving C-411 at window No. 3.”

“That’s me!” the guy exclaimed. People around us applauded. I high-fived him. “It’s like winning the lottery,” he said as he scampered up to the window.

I sat from here to eternity, watching people text, surf the Web on their laptops, read books or look at the overhead TV, which featured the Motor Vehicle Network. Programming included a game called “Can You Guess the Celebrities?” and a commercial for a law firm that specializes in personal injury cases resulting from motor vehicle accidents.

Finally, I heard the disembodied voice say, “Now serving F-120 at window No. 8.”

“Yes!” I exulted as other customers congratulated me. I stepped up to the window and was greeted by a pleasant woman named Dotty. I told her that I had been to the DMV recently to get my license renewed and that I was in and out in no time. “Everything was very smooth and everyone was very nice,” I said. “The DMV gets a bad rap.”

“We do,” Dotty acknowledged. “But we’ve been extremely busy lately because we are short-staffed. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

“Just a couple of days,” I replied.

“That’ll be $196.50,” Dotty said. “Make out the check to DMV.”

“How do you spell that?” I asked.

Dotty smiled. “Now you don’t have to do this again for two years,” she noted.

I nodded and said, “I can wait.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"The Height of Folly"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

How much wood could a woodpecker peck if a woodpecker could peck wood?

Only a birdbrain would ask that question. So it should come as no surprise that it has been on my mind. It also should come as no surprise that my mind is in the gutter. This explains why, despite a paralyzing fear of heights, I recently had to climb up to the roof of our two-story Colonial, not just to reattach the gutter, but to battle a demented woodpecker whose mind -- and bill -- must have been in there, too.

The problem began when my wife, Sue, and I were rudely awakened at 6 o’clock one morning by what sounded like machine-gun fire hitting the house.

“Whoever is shooting at us is a bad aim,” I said drowsily.

“No one’s trying to kill us,” Sue replied. “That’s a woodpecker.”

Sure enough, we suddenly had a fine feathered friend that came back at the same time every day to serve as an avian alarm clock. Then we noticed that part of the gutter on the corner of the roof had come loose.

“It can’t be,” I said to myself, because Sue had already gotten up. “A woodpecker couldn’t have done that.”

There was only one way to find out: Send Sue up there.

“There’s another way to find out,” she said firmly.

So I got the extension ladder from the garage and, armed with a power drill and a set of gutter screws, started a climb that would have given a mountain goat nosebleeds. I don’t like to be any higher off the ground than the top of my head. Unfortunately, the top of my head would have to reach the top of the house.

Complicating matters was a weeping cherry tree that partially impeded my long ascent.

“If I fall,” I told Sue, “I’ll be a weeping Jerry.”

Life has its ups and downs. So did this project, during which I went up and down the ladder about half a dozen times, frequently getting entangled in the cherry tree’s branches. I registered my displeasure in language that can’t be repeated here.

“Hon,” said Sue, who was watching this pathetic scene from the safety of terra firma, “you’re talking to a tree.”

Pretty soon I was talking to the power drill and the gutter screws, expressing similar sentiments because, like all inanimate objects, with which I have been waging a lifelong losing war, they wouldn’t cooperate. Finally, I got a hammer and banged a new screw into the aluminum gutter, its vinyl backing and the wood on the face of the house. For good measure, did the same with the loose screws (in the gutter, not my head).

While I was up there, I noticed some holes in the wood. I put 2 and 2 together and came up with 22. “The woodpecker!” I thought. “Maybe now he’ll go away.”

I figured he wouldn’t peck the aluminum gutter or the vinyl siding on the house, but just to make sure, I looked up “woodpecker deterrent” on Google and was directed to the website of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Under “general woodpecker deterrents,” there were tips for getting rid of the birds by tactile, visual and sound means. Among them were aluminum foil strips, windsocks, handheld windmills, plastic owls and an electronic distress call system.

“Instead of windsocks, maybe I can use my own dirty socks,” I suggested to Sue.

“That would poison the woodpecker,” she said. “Then you’d have to deal with the animal-rights folks.”

I wasn’t about to climb back up to the roof and hold a windmill in my hand. And I didn’t want to nail a plastic owl to the shingles. I suppose I could have recorded myself doing a Woody Woodpecker imitation, but one of the neighbors might have called the cops.

So I put some aluminum foil strips up there. So far, the woodpecker hasn’t come back. Still, I wonder: How much aluminum could a woodpecker peck if a woodpecker could peck aluminum?

Only a birdbrain would ask that question, too.

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"The Dirt on Lawn Care"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Spring has sprung, and a young man’s thoughts turn to love. Unfortunately, a middle-age man’s thoughts turn to yard work, which he doesn’t love. That’s especially true in my case. The situation is so bad that I would put a “Keep Off the Grass” sign on my front lawn, but there isn’t much grass to keep off.

So I went to a nearby Home Depot store to take a lawn-maintenance class.

The teachers were Frank, a lawn-care specialist, and Anita, a gardening specialist. The students were Susan, a new homeowner, and yours truly, an old homeowner who isn’t a specialist in anything, especially lawn care or gardening.

The two most important things I learned in the class were: (a) have your kids do your yard work or (b) hire a professional to do it.

Since (a) my kids are out of the house and wouldn’t do yard work anyway and (b) I can’t afford to hire a professional (some, including my kids, might say I’m too cheap), I have to do it myself.

“My lawn looks like it was manicured with a flamethrower,” I told Frank.

“Did you spread fertilizer?” he asked.

“I’ve been spreading fertilizer for years,” I replied. “And not just on my lawn.”

Fertilizer is very important for grass. So -- surprise! -- is grass seed.

“Water also is very important,” Frank said.

“I prefer beer,” I told him.

“I can see why you’re here,” he commented.

I’m glad I was because I found out that what I had already done -- drop seed and then, a few days later, spread fertilizer -- was, according to Frank, “totally wrong.” He said, “You should do one or the other.”

Anita agreed, adding: “Use a thatcher.”

“You mean Margaret Thatcher?” I asked. “I don’t think she’d come all the way over from England to help me take care of my lawn.”

After hearing this, Susan, my classmate, must have felt like a genius, though she admitted, “I just bought my house and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I bought my house 14 years ago and I still have no idea what I’m doing.”

But Susan and I got a good education from Frank and Anita, who talked about various kinds of grass seed, fertilizer and soil. They also went over subjects such as weed and fungus control and showed us how to use tools such as spreaders and rakes.

“An iron rake is very effective,” Anita said.

“I should use one to comb my hair,” I remarked.

“You need a special kind with teeth,” she noted.

“Will I have to bring it to the dentist?” I asked.

“No,” Anita replied. “But you will have to bring it outside and use it to go over bare patches and mossy areas of your lawn.” That, she added, will help grass seed take root instead of just sitting on top of the hard ground. Same goes for fertilizer, which should be spread in the spring, summer and fall. The period in autumn just before the leaves drop is best for seeding, she said.

“Who does your lawn?” I asked.

“A lawn guy,” Anita admitted. “But I seeded it first. My husband helps. My kids used to help -- I have a boy and a girl -- but they’re in college now.”

Frank said, “I have two teenage boys, but I do the lawn myself. It looks good.”

I was so inspired by these two specialists, who said I graduated second in my class, that I am taking their advice: I will seed and fertilize at the proper times, water regularly and set my lawnmower higher so the grass -- or what there is of it so far -- won’t be too short.

In the meantime, I am going to put another sign on my lawn: “Keep Off the Dirt.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"Jerry Duty"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

It was an offer I couldn’t refuse: Report to jury duty for a mob trial or wake up next to a horse’s head. My wife, Sue, who wakes up every morning next to the other end of a horse, said it would be safer to do my civic duty than to end up on trial myself.

So I drove to the United States District Court in Brooklyn, N.Y., to see if I would be selected to sit on the jury for the trial of two alleged mobsters who were charged with murder, robbery, extortion and -- perhaps the most serious offense -- having silly nicknames.

I was one of about 225 prospective jurors in a pool of more than 400. I don’t know what happened to the others (maybe they’re in the witness protection program), but our group had to sit around so long that we could have watched three episodes of “Law & Order.”

Finally, we were led from the juror waiting area to a long hallway where we were told to break into double file. Then we had to step up to a table at which two jury administrators gave us juror numbers (mine was 390) and told each of us to take a pencil, which we would later use to fill out a questionnaire.

“If I keep the pencil, will I get nabbed for stealing?” I asked one of the administrators.

“It’s the property of the federal government,” she replied, pleasantly but firmly. “You have to return it on your way out.”

My grand larceny case would have to wait because I was on my way into a courtroom so large, it could have hosted a Hollywood premiere.

“Am I going to see a movie?” I asked deputy court clerk Melissa Burke, who ushered me into the second row.

“No,” she said, “but you will be entertained.”

Burke turned out to be so entertaining that she should be in Hollywood.

“Welcome to U.S. District Court,” she said. “We’re very happy to see you.”

Burke instructed us to stand and raise our right hands so we could be sworn in.

“This is a criminal trial,” she continued. “It could last 10 weeks. You will be reimbursed for your travel expenses. Make sure you get parking and bridge receipts. Don’t worry about figuring out mileage. We’ll do that. We’re the feds. We know where you live.”

When someone asked if the trial would be held on weekends, Burke replied, “No. The judge has a life. I have a life. We won’t sequester you. We’re not here to put you up in a hotel. Don’t think we’re going to give you the keys to a suite at the Marriott. You have to go back home to your spouses whether you like it or not.”

A woman raised her hand and said, “I’m pregnant.”

“Congratulations,” said Burke. “You can put that down under hardship.”

“I might try that excuse myself,” I said to the person sitting next to me. Then I raised my hand and asked, “How come you don’t have your own talk show?”

Burke smiled and said, “People have asked me that, but it’s not my passion. I want to be a lawyer.”

A guy in the back muttered, “My condolences.”

Before each of us filled out a 43-page questionnaire, Burke said those of us who were called back would have to report the following week.

“Don’t tell your boss that you have to report for the rest of this week and then go to Atlantic City or Las Vegas,” she warned. “Your employers will be calling us. We will tell them the truth.”

After filling out the questionnaire, I returned my pencil to the jury administrator and went straight home. I was called back but wasn’t selected to sit on the jury.

“Thank you for serving,” Burke told me.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Here’s my verdict: Get an agent. And if you’re ever an attorney on ‘Law & Order,’ I want to be one of the jurors.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima