The Keith Hernandez Philosophy of Moving

I can connect practically every one of the events in my life to a "Seinfeld"episode.  Savannah developed her love of the black & white cookie because of the show.  The Mosimans giggle whenever we buy a marble rye.  During an evening horse and buggy ride in Saint Augustine, we immediately re-named our equine companion "Rusty."  Our vocabulary is sprinkled with Seinfeld-isms...I don't want to be a pirate...the seas were angry that day, my friends...not that there's anything wrong with that...I can't spare a square.... When asked several weeks ago to help move a friend, I immediately flashed back to the episode where Jerry spawns the "bro-mance" craze with his new friendship with Mets first baseman Keith Hernandez.  Jerry's crush was crushed when Keith asked for help moving and Jerry, disgusted, complained it was too much, too soon.  Asking a friend to move was the equivalent of "going all the way" or in baseball lingo, scoring a homerun.  Apparently Jerry was only comfortable with the bunt to first! (I'm trying to impress the sport nuts out there who knew that it was challenging to bunt off of Hernandez).  So, with the moving date quickly  approaching, I wrestled with my level of commitment to this friend.  How much do I value Amy White, famed school librarian and choreographer?  Apparently a lot.  To somewhat stifle my whining and complaining, Savannah promised to buy me a caramel hot cocoa and an egg-a-muffin.  Amy met us at her door with such gratitude and appreciation that I almost felt ashamed for about breaking up with her.

Colleagues and co-movers, Kelly and Amanda soon joined us along with Kelly's smiling-at-everybody-but-me baby, Jack.  Sporting matching red Boston Whale Watch sweatshirts, Kelly and I sprang into action, lugging heavy couches through the door.  Well, my role was actually more supervisory in nature but the couch did get out under Kel's superhuman steam.  Several times, she was spotted carrying Jack and two boxes while checking her messages and sipping a Pepsi.  Kel's a powerhouse.  My skills are more subtle and specialized.  Mr. White, wrestling with unimportant items such as removing door hinges and backing up the moving van, didn't care too much about Amy's decorative lantern star hanging high from a curtain rod.  Fortunately, this activity fell right in my skill-set.  After coordinating the effort, "Do you jump up at 3 or at go?" "Okay...1...2...3...wait...what did we agree on?"  Okay...1...2...3...sorry...let's try that again," I found myself standing full-length, squashed against the window, wrestling that stupid star down, while neighbors walked by outside, gawking as though I were on display at a freak museum.

Several truckloads later, we were at the new house.  Amy wanted everything placed in the basement, so I positioned myself at the bottom of the five stairs in the dark  narrow passage.  Graceful and coordinated, I quickly fell backwards within the first five minutes.  I shook it off and was back in position only to crack my head on the duct work attached to the low basement ceiling.  Apparently I was the only one sustaining any injuries in this game but, as I was the most valuable player, I stuck it out.  The second time I toppled down the stairs, I took the pencil sharpener attached to the wall with me.  Bang!  There's the heating duct again!  The third time...I was pushed.  Like Kramer and Newman's spitting indictment against Keith Hernandez, I can provide a blow-by-blow of the incident along with motive (she's jealous of me).  Kelly didn't even apologize...just shoved past me and laughed.

Four hours later, Amy and her husband were successfully moved into their lovely new home.  Four hours later, I was sporting several bumps on my head and bruises on my butt.  Four hours later, I had consumed my fill of hot pizza, Buffalo wings, and scintillating conversation.  "Moooo-oooo," said Amy's dad a retired military general, as he crouched by Jack squeezing a rubber farm animal and making the baby giggle.  Four hours later, Jack and I were ready for our nap.  We took our commemorative group photo in front of the house and then departed, my friendship with Amy safely rounding second base and sprinting toward third.  Personally, I think the friendship "homerun" would have to involve organ donation.  Our friends on "Seinfeld" had some serious quandaries with the emotional well-being of those around them on a medical level.  George's fiancee is killed from licking wedding invitation glue adhesive, the Bubbleboy's plastic dome is stabbed and depressurized and rather than donating blood, Kramer hoards it.  If Amy White needs me to donate some blood, I plan to step up to the plate without hesitation.