My dad is the only person I know who told a priest to go to hell. Years later after I was born, he shared, “Vera, the priest said the devil was inside of me, so I told him if that was the case, than the devil is inside this church.” Ralphie discloses while reaching into the left pocket of his Capri shorts. His beige cutoffs are worn over his morning sweatpants, “And I said this in front your mother and your conservative Catholic grandmother.”

He takes out a plastic bottle of Popov vodka, untwists the red cap and continues, “Vera, it’s ok for people to grow long hair because Jesus never had a crew cut or Mohawk. His hair is down in every picture.” Ralphie, who hasn’t shaved in a few months and wears a wrinkle floppy hat he got complimentary for attending the Padres home opener game, swigs the liquid from the pint, yells at the bitter taste, and places the economical pick-me-upper back in his pocket.

One time, I bought him a bottle of Smirnoff as a payment for watching my dog while I was at work. Without taking the container out of the brown bag, he drank a mouthful, made a sour face, and asked why I bought him the “good” brand.

“So the priest didn’t like your hippie comment about Jesus,” I reassure.

“No.” Ralphie replies, wiping his mouth with his dominate hand. “Have you ever heard a snake talk?” Without waiting for my answer, “They hiss; they bite; they slither, but they don’t talk. Paaaleaseee!” He spits, exaggerating the intended polite word. Around his neck, the blue and gold Mardi Gras beads tangle with his San Diego Charger lanyard, which has no keys attached on the hook.

Ralphie continues with another rhetorical question, “Aren’t apples supposed to be healthy? Doctors require us to eat them every day!” He shouts this, pounding his wooden cane repeatedly on the hallow floor in order to formulate his point.

“The priest was upset because you questioned the Holy Bible.”

“Not quite,” Ralphie jams his hand on his hip and dramatically leans, taking pressure off his right leg.

“So tell me Ralph,” I’ve been calling my dad by his first name since I was able to fit in a crib, “why did you tell the priest to go to hell?”

“Because,” he slobbers in a sassy tone, “I did the sign of the cross with my left hand, not my right hand. I tried to explain I do everything with my left hand. I write with my left; I kick with my left; I throw a blow with my left.” He punches the air still holding his cane. “The Catholic church threw guilt down my throat because I’m not right handed. It’s not like I was going to change the prayer. It’s not like I was going to say and he sits at the left hand of God.” This coming from the same man who receives communion wearing a yamaka. They sell them two for five dollars at the corner store. Ralphie believes this is a worthy bargain.

“Look at all the left handed presidents: Obama, Clinton, Ford, Bush.” He pauses to lick his chops. “Not the one with the fun bar hopping twins,” he flaps his Daffy Duck lips, “but his old man.”

Ralphie raises his arm, tilts his head back, and drips the last of the distilled liquor on his tongue, “All my sins are forgiven.”

Roughly, 10% of the population is left handed, a very small portion one would agree. In baseball, every major league team has at least one left handed pitcher. If not, that deprived team is at a great disadvantage. If you are serious about forming a dominant team to take on the casinos, it’s going to take some serious soul searching finding interested and discipline advantage players who are left handed. Not only must they understand the game of craps, but they must demonstrate skill, influencing the dice and nature of the game. However, southpaws add tremendous depth to any team, making the team a true threat to the casino. They will stand SR1 and SR2, giving the team benefits on both sides of the stickman. Skilled left handers are out there (i.e. the wonderful Timmer and the notorious Nick @ Nite). It will require time, and patience to find them, and as Ralphie shows us, left handed people are a very rare and unique breed.

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