Over half a century ago, I was a student at a junior college in Illinois about 40 miles outside of Chicago. I played on the school’s baseball team. During the course of the baseball season, I developed painful sores in my mouth. I could eat only ice cream and drink milk. It also seemed impossible for me to sleep during a two-week period.
I lost a lot of weight, and it affected my playing. In one game I hit the ball and headed to first base but was easily tagged out. The coach of the team said it wasn’t like me to loaf and walk to first base. I replied that I was running as hard as I could, and I explained to him the condition in my mouth. When he saw it he was shocked and wanted me to report to the school doctors. I asked if it would be OK if I went to see our family dentist instead.
I made a dental appointment on Thursday, as I recall. This dentist had served in the United States Army during World War II, in the European Theater. He took one look inside my mouth and said, “You’ve got trench mouth.” He gave me a prescription for penicillin and asked me to come back early Monday morning. I took the prescription and left his office and headed for the drugstore.
