Classic Tune of the Week 14

I'm cheating a little bit here in that this week's classic song is really a television series theme song. However, I felt it was an appropriate choice in that it celebrates my new nickname at school. Enjoy.



My best...

A Blast From The Past

I unearthed some old photos of my high school basketball days and thought I would post them here for laughs. It is a nostalgic look back at a time when shorts were short, socks were high, and hair was big. I am #44 in all the photos.

By the way, the giant guy in the bottom photo is Tito Horford. Tito played in the NBA for a couple of years before playing several more seasons overseas. Tito is best known, however, as the father of Al Horford. Al Horford won two national championships at Florida and is now playing for the Atlanta Hawks.

Red Belly Day

School started up again this past week. I watched with amusement as the 7th and 8th graders wandered into the building on the first day. It is as quiet as they will be all year. They were just one big bleary- eyed hoard. The 6th graders, on the other hand, came in with a different sort of look on their faces. The look was a mix of confusion and fear. They really don’t have much to be worried about. They have their own hallway and don’t mix with the older kids much at all. However, you can’t convince them that they have nothing to worry about. You see, they’ve heard “stories” about what sometimes happens to 6th graders in middle school. I can relate to their fear as I, myself, as a 5th grader getting ready to make the jump to junior high once feared the dreaded “red belly day”.

All 5th grade boys lived in fear of the red belly. The story was that 8th graders from the junior high across the street would get together two or three times a year and venture over to the elementary school to administer the standard initiation for all soon to be 6th grade boys. That initiation was the much dreaded red belly. According to the legend, the older boys would grab a helpless little elementary kid and hold him down. One of them would then lift the little kid’s shirt up and slap him on the stomach repeatedly thus creating the “red belly”. This may sound ridiculous now but let me tell you there wasn’t a 5th grader in school who wasn’t terrified of the thought of receiving a red belly. Hazing was still very much alive back in the late 1970s and early 1980s so it seemed plausible to us.

Several times during the year the rumor would be whispered that it was red belly day and we had better all watch out. It didn’t matter that nobody actually knew anyone who had received a red belly (we assumed nobody had survived) as the mere mention of this being “the day” would send scores of 5th grade boys into a panic. All the proof we needed that this was a real phenomenon was the fact that our elementary school let out 15 minutes earlier than the junior high. The reason for this, it was surmised, was to give us a head start on the blood-thirsty belly busting 8th graders. Lingerers who failed to take advantage of this head start risked being pounded. I’m willing to bet that nobody hated red belly day more than the school nurse. Without fail, 5th grade boys would become “ill” en masse and need to go home early. I wonder if that nurse ever knew what was really behind these miniature epidemics? Red belly day was also the day we all decided to run, not walk, home from school. We weren’t scared, of course, we just needed some extra exercise.

Needless to say, I never received a red belly nor did any of my friends. Of course, once I reached junior high safely I perpetuated the legend of the red belly by telling my younger brothers what was waiting for them on an, as yet, undecided date. I know my friends did the same with their little brothers. To the best of my knowledge, the legend lives on to this very day in my hometown.

As far as I know, the legend of the red belly was confined to my little corner of Southeast Texas. However, every now and then I will catch a glimpse of a 6th grade boy running down the street away from our campus for all he’s worth and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, he isn’t running for “extra exercise” but because of his fear of having his mid-section beaten on like a bongo drum.

As the 6th graders came into school this week I tried my best not to chuckle at their stuttering voices and big as saucers eyes. After all, I understand their fear. Even now, once or twice a year I will have a dream where I am running down Helena Avenue away from a pack of torch bearing pitchfork wielding 8th graders who want nothing more than to slap my belly until it turns fire engine red. Rational? Maybe not, but what if there is a list of the "one's that got away" out there somewhere? That is why,even now, I always sit with my back to the wall when we go out to eat. After all, those 8th graders are relentless.

My best…

Whiffle Ball Wars

As a P.E. teacher/coach, one of the activities I most look forward to during the school year is the annual whiffle ball unit. My enthusiasm stems partially from a life long love of the game of baseball. However, the main reason I love the whiffle ball unit is that it takes me back to the summers of my youth when my two brothers, our friend Erik, and I would wage many a whiffle ball war in our front yard. I played organized baseball as a kid, of course. I went from Pee Wee League, to Little League, to Babe Ruth League ball. While I was successful and enjoyed my time in these leagues, I don’t think I ever enjoyed the game more than when the four of us got together and battled with that plastic bat and ball in the yard.

We didn’t start out playing whiffle ball. We had played ball using real bats and a tennis ball in a vacant lot down the block from our house. It was really a great set up until some greedy contractor had the nerve to build a house on that lot. I still remember the morning we walked down to play and saw that foundation work had begun. This is still a sensitive topic in my family. Whenever it is mentioned, if you look closely at my brother Greg, you can see tears welling up in his eyes. Poor Erik wore black for weeks he was so upset. It is rumored that he toyed with a voodoo doll that looked a lot like the contractor responsible but to no avail. Each of us still makes it a point to spit in that yard whenever we are in the old neighborhood.

Fortunately, we discovered whiffle ball. A whiffle ball is a baseball sized plastic ball that has a lot of holes in it. It looks just like those practice golf balls only bigger. The great thing about it is it won’t fly too far making it ideal for smaller areas like a gym or our front yard. We couldn’t really play true baseball as there were only two people per team but we adapted our rules and came up with a true hybrid game. Balls that were fair and hit the ground were ruled singles, balls that landed fair and rolled across the driveway were doubles, balls that landed fair and then rolled into the street and along the curb were triples, and balls that cleared the driveway on the fly were homers. Any ball caught in the air was an out. A batter could also be put out by tagging him with the ball, or hitting him with a thrown ball, before he reached base. We enjoyed this violent aspect of the game immensely. We also had to employ the ever popular “ghost runner” quite a bit.

My brother Steve was the best pitcher. He didn’t throw hard but could make that whiffle ball dance and dart like you couldn’t believe. He would not only strike you out but embarrass you as well. I remember once taking a mighty swing at what must have been a screwball. It looked like a strike until it broke sharply into my body. You haven’t been humiliated until you strike out swinging at a ball that ends up hitting you in the crotch. That, my friends, is pain on several different levels.

We took these games very seriously. We would keep stats and standings and the losers would endure a lot of trash talking. We even wore those plastic MLB batting helmet replicas. It was probably cute for a while but it got a little embarrassing as we entered late junior high and early high school. We would keep a sharp eye out for anyone coming down the street that we knew (especially girls). If we saw anyone coming we would “take a break” and get out of sight until the interlopers passed. Despite the potential for social catastrophe that was always present when we donned the plastic helmets and went to battle with the plastic ball and bat we kept it up until I (the oldest) was a junior in high school. Were we nerds? A thousand times yes. Would I love to go back just one more time to get another crack at Steve’s breaking ball? A thousand times yes, again.

I came across two of my old plastic batting helmets in the attic a couple of weeks ago. I will admit to you that I tried them on. I didn’t have a mirror up there but I knew I looked good. For just a moment I was back with the guys waiting for that one fat pitch that I could deposit over the driveway for a homerun. Then my wife called to me from the garage below. I quickly removed the helmet before she saw me wearing it. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed, I just, like in the old days, needed to “take a break”.

My best…

Nineteen Somethin'

I saw Star Wars at least eight times
Had the Pacman pattern memorized
And I’ve seen the stuff they put inside Stretch Armstrong.

I was Roger Staubach in my back yard
Had a shoebox full of baseball cards
And a couple of Evel Knievel scars on my right arm.

From : “Nineteen Somethin” by Mark Wills

I’m a pretty sentimental guy. I’m not one of those pack rat types who never throws anything away because it has some sort of memory attached to it. I am more sentimental when it comes to remembering people and places from the past. I do not spend my time looking back as that is a good way to run into a telephone pole. However, sometimes something will trigger a memory of someone or something from my past. It seems that music and smells trigger my memories like nothing else. The feeling can be so strong that it makes me wonder if time travel, on some level, is really possible. I had such a moment just the other day when the song “Nineteen Somethin’” by Mark Wills came on the car radio. While this is not a song from my youth, the lyrics nail my early childhood as no song before ever has.

I was born in late 1966. As a result, my earliest memories come from the ‘70s. I, and my brothers, did see Star Wars at least eight times. I’m actually thinking it was more like twelve times. I, too, have seen the stuff they put inside Stretch Armstrong. During one memorable battle between Stretch and his evil nemesis Stretch Monster, the “stuff” came leaking out. It was a red gooey liquid that looked like melted strawberry jello. I can personally attest that it is not easy to get out of carpet. This proved to be a negative to my mother. However, it turned into a positive as this forensic evidence allowed for the prosecution and conviction of the much more durable Stretch Monster. He would never threaten society again.

Some of the most enduring memories I have from the ‘70s are of Evel Knievel and his many appearances on ABC’s Wide World of Sports. It is hard to get kids today to understand just how big Evel was back in the day. His motorcycle jumps seem tame compared to many of the X-Game type stunts performed today. However, nobody had seen anything like it in the ‘70s. You also have to remember that this was back before cable television. We were pretty much limited to the three main networks. There was a rumor of a public television station in our area but we couldn’t get it. Much of the programming on the networks left a lot to be desired (a lot like now). So, when Evel was scheduled to make a jump on a Saturday afternoon it would draw Superbowl like ratings. I’ve often wondered how many broken armed little boys showed up in emergency rooms across the country on the afternoons after an Evel Knievel jump.

As a result of Evel’s popularity, a line of toys was created. The toys were a huge success. The heart of the toy line was the Evel Knievel stunt cycle (see pic above). The set consisted of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, an Evel Knievel action figure (remember boys have action figures not dolls), and a base. The way it worked was that the Evel action figure was placed on his motorcycle, which was then placed on the base. The base had a handle, which you turned. This engaged a gear on the base, which, in turn, turned a gear on the toy motorcycle. Once the spinning reached the proper speed the motorcycle would disengage and take off. Sometimes the bike required a bit of a push to get free from the base but the results were always spectacular. Though I was never able to get Evel to replicate the back flip I saw on the commercials, I jumped many a row of shoes. What made it even better was how the tires of the motorcycle were made of real rubber and left great skid marks on the light colored linoleum of our home. Again, mom did not see this as a positive. I have to give mom a lot of credit, however, as she put up with a lot of black marked floors and baseboards in the hall that were permanently scraped free of paint due to Evel’s less than graceful landings. Truly the Evel Knievel stunt cycle was one of the greatest toys of my childhood. I think it was about a year ago that Evel Knievel died. Part of my childhood went with him.

As I mentioned before, I was in my car when Mark Wills began singing “Nineteen Somethin’” the other day. My lovely wife of sixteen years noticed my far away look as the first verses played. She asked me what I was thinking about. I replied simply that I wasn’t thinking. I was remembering.

My best…