Tricolon (tri-co-lon): Three parallel elements of the same length occurring together in a series.
“I loved, I lost, I cried.” I read this on a piece of paper copied by a guy named Al who ran a dice game in his basement down the street. The saying was framed and hung on the bathroom wall. He told me it was a direct quote from Yogi Berra, the great Yankees catcher. He said he heard it first-hand in the Yankees’ locker room where his Uncle Sal had had gotten him a pass. Sal was a “goodfella” that pretty much did whatever he wanted, but he specialized in hijacking trucks in North Jersey. Anyway, Yogi was sitting by his locker with his head hanging down, mumbling, and quietly crying. That’s when he said it: “I loved. I lost. I cried.” Casey Stendhal told him to “Shut the hell up” or he was going to replace him with a kindergartner. Yogi kept crying anyway. There was a puddle on home plate from all the tears he shed during the game. After the game, my friend asked Yogi who this woman was who stole his heart and made him cry. Yogi threw his catcher’s mask at my friend and yelled “Mind your own business you little punk!”
My friend’s story got me wondering: “Who was the girl who made Yogi cry?” I figured if she was good enough to make Yogi cry, she was good enough for me! I spent my weekends in New York trying to track her down. I asked Micky, and Whitey, and Hank if they ever saw Yogi with a girl. Whitey had! Her name was Candy and she was a bartender at “Manhattan Mike’s Bar and Grill” on 42nd Street near The Port Authority Bus Terminal.
I walked into Mike’s and there she was behind the bar. She was a goddess. I was instantly smitten. I think she liked me too. After a couple shots of cheap whiskey, I asked her about Yogi. She blushed. She said he was a maniac who took his work home with him. I asked her what that meant. She took a deep breath and told me: “He couldn’t do anything without squatting. His car was specially equipped so he could squat and drive. When we went out to eat, he squatted on his chair at the table. But the worst was sex. I won’t go into detail, but I should’ve been called Yogi too. That’s when I left him. I just couldn’t endure all the squatting.” “I can’t squat,” I said. Candy’s eyes brightened. It was like I won the Take Five draw on a Sunday night! This was going somewhere I wanted to go. And it did, and Yogi found out. He stalked into Mike’s and squatted by my table. He said: “If I catch you pitching curve balls about Candy, I’ll make sure you’re hung up between First and Home Plate for life!” Candy was right. Baseball was everything to Yogi. I admired him, and still do. I promised to treat Candy well and Yogi and I never saw each other again. About two months later, though, Candy ran off with Mike, the owner of Manhattan Mike’s. I didn’t cry.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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