Power outage led me to perfect refuge: A library

F ull disclosure: I've never been mistaken for the toughest cookie on the sheet pan. I prefer "low threshold for inconvenience." Others go right to "soft." One wiseapple calls me "Pork Chop" and "Princess," which, you know, doesn't exactly get the testosterone pumping. My longtime friend Jim O'Neill once said, "Mikey, roughing it for you is no mint on the pillow at the Marriott."

My tombstone may read, "Here lies Pork Chop. He was softer than cream cheese, but reasonably happy."

And so you can imagine Pork Chop's angst Saturday waking up to no power, the residual effect of Friday's storm. Eversource (or is it Neversource?) wasn't walking through that door. Chilly in the house, couldn't make coffee, phone needed to be charged and I'm pretty much feeling like yelling curse words out the back door louder than Marlon Brando yelled "STELLA" in A Streetcar Named Desire.

But then ... get this: It turned into kind of a fun day after all.

After a week of being around rampant loudness — helping stream the ECC basketball tournament live was an absolute hoot, but at headache level decibels in the gym — I found

myself Saturday at ... wait for it ... the library. Sweet, sweet library. I do believe everything happens for a reason. The power outage was the Universe's way of advising me to stop whining, step back and revel in some solitude. I mean, a day without power? Think of what those poor people in Puerto Rico must have endured without power for days and weeks after Hurricane Maria. Let it go, Princess.

So it was off to the library. The library. No phones ringing. These printed works of fiction and nonfiction on sheets of paper bound together within covers. I believe they are called "books." Magazines. Newspapers, including the award-winning Day of New London. People sitting and thinking and reading.

Who knew? And why don't we do more of this?

I was having dinner with a friend the other night who enjoys starting random conversations with strangers. Turns out the guy next to us was a commercial fisherman. Rick. Fascinating guy. My friend suddenly asks, "so, Rick, why don't people go to libraries anymore?"

Rick says, "Nobody has time." Sad but true.

It's time we made time. Or at least it's time I do. Because it struck me Saturday the burgeoning marriage between sports (everyday life, too) and noise. The "X" the other night at Waterford High for the ECC title game had a rattle and hum unlike any other gym I'd ever heard around here. We had a hard time hearing each other in our headsets at the broadcast table. Professional arenas rarely allow any hint of quiet, what with the carnival barker on public address and the music that sounds like a defective jackhammer.

Or heaven forbid sports radio. One dope yelling louder at another, neither of whom are likely to be returning champions on Jeopardy. Gloryoski. Try the green can, people. You know. Decaf.

We equate noise with efficacy. The success of the event comes in direct proportion to the loudness of the crowd. That's not being judgmental, either. It's fact. But it gets old.

So if for no other reason than balance, the library is the perfect elixir. I mean, there's a jigsaw puzzle here. Remember those? Some people come and go, insert a piece here and there. Some sit and ponder. Brought me back to my childhood with my aunt Angie who would sit in her living room for hours with these 1,000-piece monstrosities. Could you imagine people doing that now while checking their phones every 10 seconds or flipping over the table in frustration?

I spent the afternoon with Mitch Albom and "Have A Little Faith." With Mark Manson and "The Subtle Art Of Not Giving A (Hoot)." I took a crack at the New Yorker a little later, but that's above my SAT scores.

At one point Saturday, as I watched people read and think, I heard something: nothing. Soothing silence. And I thought that perhaps I'd call Neversource and ask them to work a little slower. This was kind of fun. This is the opinion of Day sports columnist Mike DiMauro