Wallaby Wednesday: How ‘Flu-In-U-Enza’ is such a relatable episode

Haven’t we all had a moment mirroring Rocko’s ill-timed illness in Season 1’s “Flu-In-U-Enza” storyline? It is hard to imagine not, although I crave confirmation, and thus invite you to share your experience in the comment thread.

All I know is that Joe Murray, along with his cast and crew, for all of the times and ways they overshot their network’s intended demographic, created one simple, appreciable plot for kids who hate being sick when it is most inconvenient. In addition, they demonstrated that one need not outgrow the desire to stay healthy for that which one looks forward to.

With that in mind, this week’s Wallaby Wednesday functions as an open thank-you note to Murray and company.

On this day in 1997, a wave of anticipated events was poised to start rolling in for this author. Our third-grade class would spend its Thursday lunch period savoring a hard-earned Pizza Hut party after collectively reading the requisite number of books. Friday marked our last day of school before a weeklong spring break.

For me, that respite would largely involve following the first round of the American Hockey League playoffs. My beloved Providence Bruins were to face the favored archrival Worcester IceCats in a best-of-five series.

Despite their underdog status, the P-Bruins had stolen a statement-making victory from the Worcester Centrum two weeks earlier before clinching their playoff berth. An upset was perfectly plausible.

Most importantly, though, the first of two possible home games in the series was on the first Saturday of my spring break, and my father had obtained two tickets. We were coming on 51 weeks since attending the overtime loss that ended Providence’s previous playoff run against the Springfield Falcons. Now we would get a firsthand glimpse at the team’s bid to improve upon that shortcoming.

Like Rocko first told Spunky of the WWWWF match before a Nickelodeon audience in the fall of 1993, “The long wait was worth it.” Unlike the pair of Carlos Alazraqui characters, the Daniels might not have had the best seats in the house. But we were to sit in the lower bowl, which was a bargain by all accounts.

But amidst the long weekend’s appetizer that was our Pizza Hut-catered lunch, a bout of nausea robbed me of my appetite. I mustered a few bites, but otherwise subsisted on Sprite before determinedly taking to the soccer field for recess. Assuming my favorite position before the net, I was so out of sorts I accidentally kicked in an own goal.

As it happened, I was coming down with strep throat. School was out of the question for Friday, which hardly felt like a big loss to my eight-year-old self. But the next night’s journey to the Providence Civic Center was in question.

Naturally, and thankfully, there were no questionable treatments or prescriptions from the doctor. Just a brief gagging episode following a throat swab. And because I ate so little at the pizza party, I was spared any undigested upchuck, let alone the sentient kind that comes to nurse one back to life.

 

That aside, I told everyone who had the power to help me what Rocko told his vomit. I had to get better in time for the game I was itching to see the next night.

A recent sequence of similar events gave me hope. The preceding August, my one-off release of nonanthromorphic spew threatened our family’s outing to Boston the next day. Fortunately, thanks to my lack of subsequent symptoms, we went forward with my third lifetime trip to Fenway Park for a Red Sox game.

This was different in that this illness felt more legitimate. It was not a simple case of motion-, careless eating- or summer heat-induced retching. The longer the host of symptoms lingered, the more the unacceptable specter of Saturday night at home lurked.

Granted, I had been blessed to attend more P-Bruins games than usual in the 1996-97 regular season. In previous years, I averaged two outings, but had already made four this season.

Nonetheless, I would only have so many opportunities to see the Civic Center during the playoffs. Besides that, there was a chance I would be relocating that summer.

That scenario would come to fruition, as was confirmed no later than the following week. This twist made the 1997 tournament my last chance to catch the team I had grown up on for the foreseeable future.

I never rested with more determination than I did that whole Friday and Saturday morning. My only stimulation came Friday night, as I loyally listened to the radio broadcast of Game 1 from Worcester. The IceCats erased an early 2-0 deficit to salvage a 5-4 squeaker, further indicating this would be anyone’s series.

Like a player that time of year, I was determined to convince the powers that be I was game-ready, even if I was not really 100 percent. And unlike Rocko, I did not wake up Saturday morning on the heels of a miracle cure. I suppose that was the only downside to the absence of vomit in this story.

Come what may, hours ahead of the Civic Center doors opening, I was cleared to go back out in public. As a pivotal plus, no other household members caught my bug, freeing the ticketholders from any dilemma.

Although, if any pickle had presented itself, I would like to think I would have let the Heffer in my life take our seats. Yes, it was the minor leagues, but I was a devout Rhode Islander, and this was our state’s pro team. Tickets to one of their playoff games, especially ones as close to the ice as ours, were too great a commodity to leave unused.

With that said, I was glad those stubs stayed in the hands of their intended users, right through the turnstiles. Fate had been a little kinder to me and my family than it had to Rocko and Spunky.

It did not even matter that Game 2 ended in another 5-4 Providence loss. As always, but especially that night, just being there was enough of a win for me.

Before and since, I have had other moments where less-than-perfect health threatened to keep me from important events and commitments. But those have been exceedingly rare compared to the succession of near-misses with the Red Sox and P-Bruins circa 1996-97.

All things considered, the mid-April 1997 strike of strep throat on the eve of the AHL playoffs remains the quintessence. Long after I have left my old locale and ceased to be much of a hockey enthusiast, it keeps coming to mind every time I see the original episode. It lives on as my personal “Flu-In-U-Enza” saga.

What’s yours?