The Real McCoy

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Hall of Fame baseball writer Hal McCoy is in his 36th year of covering the Cincinnati Reds, the longest tenure for any active writer covering one team. Counting spring training and postseason games, McCoy has covered more than 7,000 major-league baseball games, written close to 18,000 baseball stories and eaten enough hot dogs to give Babe Ruth indigestion.

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April 2009

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Home > Blogs > The Real McCoy | Cincinnati Reds baseball news > Archives > 2009 > April > 10 > Entry

If I’m bored, I’m going to bore you, too

By Hal McCoy | Friday, April 10, 2009, 05:10 AM

I’m not a hypochondriac. I’m not a hypochondriac. I’m REALLY not a hypochondriac.

In 37 years of covering the Cincinnati Reds, I’ve missed one road trip to which I was assigned and that was two years ago when I fell in Times Square in New York. I proudly saved a $3.65 cup of Starbuck’s Vente Non-Fat Latte in my left hand and even more proudly saved $50 worth just-purchased Montecristro White Label Churchills in my right hand.

It only cost the insurance company $28,000 to repair the torn meniscus in my left knee. And I missed a trip to Washington and Pittsburgh.

That’s it. Thirty-seven years.

But now it’s 2009 and I’ve missed two of the first three games of the season and I’ll miss tonight’s game, too. And I’m still not sure why.

On Wednesday, believing I might have a urinary tract infection or a kidney infection or a bladder infection, I visited a urologist. All I found out was that Dr. Miller once hit a home run off Mike Schmidt in a Little League game. High fastball, I think he said. And with where he had his hands at the time, I congratulated him profusely and screamed, “I believe it, I believe it!”

Nothing was urologically in disrepair, but they took blood (I’ve donated blood eight times in three days and qualify as a pin cushion for Aunt Matilda’s quilting party).

They sent the bloodwork to a G.P. and made an appointment for me for at 1 o’clock Thursday. When I called Thursday morning to confirm the appointment, the doctor said he was looking at my bloodwork and I should get to emergency immediately.

I called my wife, Nadine, at school, and she fled her classroom in mid-lecture, racing down the halls of Our Lady of the Rosary shouting, “I gotta go. I gotta go right now.” And out the door she fled.

Meanwhile, Thursday was the best I’ve felt in three weeks — until the doctor said my white cell count was way too high and to get to emergency. As I waited on the Englewood Paramedics, believing I had about 6 1/2 hours to live, I said my last goodbye to my dog, Barkley, who walked to his dish to eat breakfast.

The paramedics arrived quickly, but because I looked healthy and walked to the ambulance under my own power, they didn’t turn on the siren. What a disappointment.

On my way, my sports editor, Brian Kollars, called on my cellphone and asked how I was doing. I told him, “I feel great, but I’m on my way to the hospital in an ambulance.” He, too, was disappointed that the siren wasn’t on.

When I got to emergency and they wheeled me into a room, some guy in hospital attire walked into my room and with a sly grin said, “Mr. McCoy, may I have your autograph before you die?” Hospital humor. Ya gotta love it. I signed it Hal McCorpse and I don’t think he noticed.

I was there six hours and we now know 84 things that I DON’T have. They even have this test where they take a very long Q-Tip and stick it painfully up your nostrils to check if you have the flu. Negative. But it isn’t fun having chopsticks stuck up your nose.

A very personable female doctor who cursed like a sailor — you gotta love that — gave me one of those, uh, prostate tests where they stick a finger where no finger should go. Negative. But I was saying, “Negative, negative,” before she proceeded.

And, of course, Thursday was one of the few games the Reds didn’t televise, so I got to watch things about the real world — like Jerry Springer and Judge you-fill-in-the-name because there are so many.

So they think — they’re not sure, of course — I might have a viral infection. They put me on strong antibiotics so I feel very good right now. But I’ve slept so much the last few days that I was in bed from 11 p.m. to 5 a.m. and wasn’t close to grabbing a wink. So it’s after 5 and here I am telling you more than you want to know about my experiences the past two days.

I have one more doctor’s appointment today, but I know one thing: I’ll be at my seat in Great American Ball Park on Saturday if the Englewood Paramedics have to deliver me — and the driver volunteered. So starting Saturday, I’ll actually have some baseball to write about.

Meanwhile, some advice. Don’t urinate just before going to the urologist. They always want a urine sample and if you can’t come through (no, I couldn’t) they make you sit in an exam room for about two hours as punishment and every 15 minutes a nurse embarrasses you by saying, “Still can’t go, Mr. McCoy?” I don’t think I’ve gone two hours my whole life without having to go, but dammit, she intimidated me.

OK, enough, enough. Can you tell I’m bored?

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