THE SEVENTH STREET RAMS

     After school before I was in high school and played “real” football the South Millville boys played a semi “tackle” game almost every day during football season except when we sat together on the splintery bleachers watching the Millville High Thunderbolts loose a call one. The Bacon School elementary school intermural football/baseball field was our “homefield” and only field (which had some grass here and there).   We didn’t wear football pads, so it was a bit like two hand touch with a rugby scrums ended with all of us in a pile.  Piling on was the fun of it…at least I try to convince myself of that.  We played with 5 or 6 on each side and both teams wanted to be the Eagles or Thunderbolts.  The naming was decided by a coin toss which also decided who got the ball first.  Brad the oldest and his brother Bobby were always the “captains” – nobody ever challenged them because their brotherly rivalry was such fun to watch.  The “choose up” came next and this was always the crucial part of each game and it decided before the first play which team would win.   Many times Brad would take a surprising pick of one of the least skilled players just to make the game a challenging.  He was a good sport.  This boyhood ritual was one of the most embarrassing of all our growing up experiences.   Some of the gang were always picked last and being picked last was a lasting stigma that not only affected the game but seemed to stay with during many of them long after they stopped playing games.  Charles (who all of us called Mr. Magoo because he wore eyeglasses with lenses like the bottom of Coke bottles) usually was one a last to be called.  He didn’t wear his glasses during our rough tumble games. And The Wrath of Brad the franchise QB was mighty if someone missed one of his bullet like passes.  I was usually picked in the middle mainly because I was bigger than all the others by at least a foot and 50 pounds –  I wasn’t a first choice because I wasn’t very passionate about brawling in the dirt and Brad was very discriminating in his “draft” selections. 

    Game time started without a whistle.  We didn’t have kick0ffs we had punt-offs because Brad (the pinball wizard, our gang leader because he was the oldest of us) decided that the South Millville flying wedge was much too dangerous without helmets.  Brad made up all the rules.  And sometimes invented some when a play didn’t favor his team. Also, most of the plays both teams called were passes since running was hurtful. Brad was also the “ref” who decided when there was a “first down” – we argued his calls but never got him to change a decision.  We had learned to keep the challenges short because if we pressed too hard, he would literally “take his ball and go home” – game over because he was the only guy in our gang who had a regulation leather Sears and Roebuck’s football that retained air.  We rumbled up and down the stubble until the streetlights blinked on.  Brad’s team won 35 to 7 – he usually. in the spirit of camaraderie, kept the score down to keep us coming back the next day in search of an upset.

    One night about halfway through our ragtag season we notice two guys sitting on their bikes watch us for a long time.  Brad called a very needed timeout and strolled over.  He recognized them immediately.  They were literally from the other side of the tracks living in the “managers” part of town. (Millville neighborhoods reflected the hierarchy of our factories.)  South ward was the blue-collar village; east was the middle management boss-land; the North ward by the lake was the land of the managers.  They had homes with at least two bathrooms.)  Marvin and Craig were brothers only a year apart and their new bikes and trending “school” clothes showed their status.  Brad walked back to our curious group as the two interlopers rode away.  “We just got challenged to a football game this weekend playing the 7^th Street Rams.”  We all knew that we must take on this challenge for the honor of the South Ward -  the gauntlet had been tossed and we had no choice but to accept.   Brad yelled, “Settled down…there’s a catch.  These guys play in uniforms, pads and helmets.  Can all of you come up with this stuff before Saturday?”  That quieted us down.  For most of us this was going to be a real (and costly) problem.  On the plus side Brad informed us that we didn’t need to field 11 players – the Rams weren’t picky on how many there was to beat!  When Brad heard that slur he immediately accepted the invite even thought he did know if we actually be able to field a team..

    I was in luck.  I had gotten some “football” stuff last Christmas – a set of thin plastic shoulder pads and an official Philly Eagles helmet which had “This item is a toy and not suitable a for full contact game use.”  Brad declared our current game over and we convened on his porch across the street wear he began to take inventory.  Seemed that we all had helmets that we never got to use except in our backyards catching passes we threw to ourselves.  As to the rest of the gear – we were stymied.  It was too close to Christmas to ask our parents to buy us equipment that we probably use once – none of us wanted to waste our picks for this year’s Santa lists.  But several days before the “big game” Brad our fearless leader got a brilliant idea.  Across the street from his house was the Bacon school who had 7^th and 8^th intermural football.  And Brad’s mom was president of the PTA.  He got her ask the gym teacher and coach of all four teams if we could borrow some equipment on a weekend when there were no games.  We had our uniforms, albeit they were very well old stuff that was ready for the trash bin.  Our team was not going to be color coordinated but as my grandmother said many times, “Beggars can’t be choosers!”

    We had one practice where Brad assigned us our positions and he also name our team.  We were the SMAC’s (South Millville Athletic Club) Game day arrived and we rode our parks to the north ward park playing field.  Our opponents were dressed just like their namesakes including LA Rams official jersey and the horn designs on their yellow and blue helmets.  They even had cleats. We didn’t look very formidable in our patched jerseys, multicolored helmets and our high top Keds.  Their two brothers were co-captains of their 11 man squad.  Our team was led by brother too.  Someone’s from the Rams’ dad was the referee, He even had a silver whistle.  After he laid out the rules and offered us one of their water buckets - the game began.

    The details of the game have faded away but I remember it was a hard hitting morning that cracked one of my teeth and the most important part – Smac’s 27 - Rams 14!  We never played another organized game after that.  We had met our supreme challenge and moved on to basketball season. 

          The Moral:  Color coordinated outfits don’t win games.

Being a Thunderbolt

An autumn reverie…thinking of my football days long ago...I replay those days again when the leaves start to fall.  And I think how few who haven’t played the game won’t really understand why I still yearn for those days so long ago. For one thing that many who have not played an organized sports don't realize - the easy part is the game, being “in training” is much harder...and then I back in a basement pumping iron…

The last game ended the next week our new season begun for me and my fellow lineman.  We met three times a week to lift weights with our line coach who we Mr. Riley who everyone called Ole Rile even though he wasn’t old.  Matter of fact he was in better shape than all of us because he was a lifelong bodybuilder who had his physic memorialized by several massive trophies.  He was tough and was the only one in gym shorts at practice on frigid days during the end of each season.  He worked us hard all winte in his home “gym” which had literally a thousand pounds of weights and bars and benches.  So for me the football didn’t end just the games were over until the next year.  This conditioning wasn’t required to be on the Thunderbolts - but six of “starters” did it religiously three times a week until late summer when the team started to meet for workouts.

I can still feel the heat when we returned to classes and started our daily practices for 3 and half hours the first afternoon back to school.  I was in the best shape I would be in my life.  I was soaked and exhausted after every session on our grassless field near the old stadium.  On Saturdays we had full contact  scrimmages that were torturous in the heat of “Indian Summer” as my grandmother called every warm day after Labor Day.    The long practices continued for three weeks every day but Sundays until our first game.  Coach was very strict about us going to church.  Many times during the season he would remind us - “We need all the help we can get so go to church!”  The Saturday before our opener we battled for hours while he had an assistant coach keep an eye out for the press so they would not see our newest plays.  Football was a big deal in our little town.  

Each morning on  tired legs I would drag myself to the bus stop and limp from class to class and ask myself, “Is this worth it?”  After the last bell rang and school was done I got angry seeing most of the guys at Millville High could go drink Cherry Cokes at the Hub Lunchette across from the school or go home and watch Bandstand as I trudged to the locker room.  However, our locker room was the most fun of our day joking and pranking - this was the home of the camaraderie of being a member of a team.  The aches, pains and bruises that were added to each day were forgotten for a few moments until one of the coaches would yell, “Come on ladies get your butts out on the field...we haven’t got all day but we’ve got a lot of night left”   The blessed Friday before our first game finally came and that meant a light practice with new pads.  The opponent is long gone from  my memory but wearing my brand new # 52 gameshirt in the halls to class are well remembered. It was a proud moment as many wished us - Go Bolts.  Class ended a period early on those Fridays and everyone, teacher and students, cheered with our cheerleaders in our big auditorium.  The place rocked as our small but mighty (loud) marching band played us onto the stage.  Coach introduced each varsity player which was akin to getting an academy award and a feeling I would rarely repeat for years to come.  

That night Bub, our quarterback, Rob, our best receiver and I, a lowly lineman went to the movies.  We were all nervous and thought that Jerry Lewis antics would calm the butterflies raging in our stomachs – it didn’t.  We had missed the beginning of the movie because of practice, ate popcorn and candy as our dinner and then mutually decided to stay to see the beginning of the film - and that became a big mistake.  Our curfew was 9:30 and we were  “ in training” and had pledged to abide by the rules.  We had to be home and in bed early on the night before a game.  The clock ticked closer to our deadline and I started to sweat.  The questions we all were thinking, could we stay a few more minutes before getting into trouble or even benched the next day?   We all knew we were taking a chance as the coaches would phone our homes to check if we were in bed.  At 9:28 I nervously looked around and Yikes, our head coach was sitting right behind us.  I whispered the pending doom to Bub and he to Rob - Rob started to cry.  We “slunk” down in the seats and didn’t know what else to do…and then Coach got up and walked to the refreshment stand.   We were up and out a side exit in less than two seconds to Bub’s car (he was the only one old enough to get a license the month before this escape).  I just made it in the door when linemen coach Riley called to verify I was keeping the training rules and with a wink my mom said I was in bed asleep already.  She saved me again.  Without a word I crept to bed.  I didn’t sleep a wink that night or any night before a game - but it was the attempt at resting that counted.

We won the next day and I never went to a Friday movie for the rest of the season.  Years later coach Barbose informed me at a class reunion that he knew it was us three stooges sitting in front of him. “I let you sweat for a few minutes then left so you could escape -  it was more important for the team that you did not get benched for missing curfew for a few minutes...and I knew that you would never do it again."  

Playing football was full of lessons that we would not appreciate until later. Lessons that went far beyond playing a game. We were kids learning that rules, hard work, sacrifice (and being on time) would be important to practice throughout our lives – that’s what being a Thunderbolt was all about and for everyone who has ever played the game.

ViRTUALLY - Part 2

After telling my granddaughter about my way of playing games with the TV screen, I dredged up a bunch of “Firsts” that I experienced in TV land when I was a boy and television was new…

After my weekly Saturday morning adventure with Winky Dink I had my Official Drawing Kit that I got for Christmas  at the ready and I exchanged a waxy crayon for a pencil. It was time for my “art lesson”.  I quickly changed channels to watch You Are An Artist with Jon Gnagy and wondered what we would learn to draw this week.  I loved this show more than Howdy Doody or Cartoon Corner!

(Note:  Jon Gnagy is most remembered for being America's original television art instructor, hosting You Are an Artist, which began in 1947 on the NBC network.  It was the longest running show of all “How To’s” in TV history.  As of 1986, over fifteen million of Gnagy's drawing kits had been sold.)

My art kit had some neat stuff - a charcoal pencil, several lead pencils, a big tablet of genuine artist “sketch” paper, a kneaded eraser (which I thought was a “needed” eraser until my first year as a college art major)  and a small gizmo that Mr. Gnagy, called a sketching stomp was used to blend and shade our lines and shapes and “give them form”.  This simple tool made a big difference in the results of my drawings.  I was always excited to see what subject we would draw this week.  The show started. “Hi there artists...let’s draw a sailboat and a lighthouse…it’s called a seascape”  Wow, I thought this was going to be much more fun than last week when we drew a pumpkin and three gourds which I learned was called a still life.  Our teacher had a goatee and looked exactly like all the images I had seen of a real artist.  (I couldn’t wait to grow one of these tailor-made facial decorations -  but I would have to wait ten years - another story I haven’t written yet).  

Mr. Gnagy started every show with a review of his basic technique - “Everything is made up of shapes - a cube, a sphere, a triangle or a cylinder. And begin your drawing with the most important shape.”  This week it was the sailboat’s sail which was a triangle! I followed along step by simple step and at the end of the show I had a rough duplicate of his well praticed drawing - I thought it was very creative rather than a copy.  He closed his lesson with some shots of famous paintings with boats by the great masters and pointed out the shapes they used to achieve their lasting masterpieces. As another episode came to an end he urged us to “keep drawing because you are an artist and art takes practice for us all”.

And as my memory faded I ended it story thinking of a comment from a renowned  American landscape artist that I produced my own TV show with - Pat Whit, The Marsh Painter.  “Dare to be lousy,” she has urged her students of all ages for 70 years.  Indeed, great advice for us all.

VIRTUALLY - Part 1

I was fascinated watching my 4 ½ year old granddaughter Violet playing a game on her personal iPad.  She noticed me trying to see her screen and asked, “Grandpa do you have an iPad?”  I replied with a chuckle, “I wish, but I am not as lucky as you are who have parents who give you very nice presents.”  She thought about this for a moment and then asked, “Did you have games like this when you were growing up?”  And said, “Sort of,” and then she went back to her game.  And I began to think about Winky Dink and You, and me!  My first “interactive” media fun.

Every Saturday morning in 1953 I had a routine.  Breakfast of peanut butter, jelly and milk and then waiting for the new kid’s show to start a program on our 10” Admiral TV to come on.  I was always early so sometimes I would just look at the picture of an Indian Chief in a feather headdress accompanied by an annoying humming sound.  As I waited I wondered  what trouble Winky, the little imp with a squeaky voice, would get into this week and how I would help him out of his weekly jams.  I used to just watch the story but Mom bought me a Winky Dink Magic Kit and I was part of the show.  It had a Magic Window, which sheet of plastic stuff that stuck to the television screen and special crayons (that could be purchased for 50 cents when you used had used them all up). This let me draw pictures on the TV screen without getting into trouble.  

Finally the show started as the music played a theme song I liked to sing and Mr. Barry, Wink’s friend, welcomed us all back for another adventure.  

Wink was a cartoon "kid" noted for his plaid pants and his dog woofer. Winky would arrive on a scene and start a story but needed my help to complete. Last week I drew a bridge to get across cross a river; he always got into some kind of trouble and needed my help to get out of it!  This week before he was looking for Woofer who was lost and I was asked to connect some dots which made a bridge so his puppy could come back home…

And then I was back in the present. I interrupted Violet’s intense concentration on her screen.  “Violet I remember now...want to hear about a great adventure game I played?  When I was young…and TV’s were very new... 

PARKING

Growing up, it seems I was  always waiting for something.  To be old enough to go to school.   Old enough to walk to school.  Old enough to ride a bike to school rain or shine.  But my longest wait of all was for the day I would  finally be 17 and old enough to drive our family car. 

My best friend Bub and I talked about cars and driving since Jr. High.  How cool it would be to pick up dates in a hot rod, with chrome pipes and a loud rumbling muffler.  And  a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror...ah the simple fantasies of youth are not much different from those now for us old guys dreaming about buying a red Corvette for our birthday.  

Cars were a guy thing in high school.  Bub and I were auto lovers but we were not auto shop guys. We were in the college prep track while the industrial arts students were learning skills that they actually could use after graduation.  I still don’t know wha algebra is for.  Today, with personal computers doing most of my thinking I believe knowing less about algebra and more about spark plugs would have been a much used of my time back then in the dark ages.   Just as Bub and I had our acceptable madras outfits in our circle of friends, most shop boys too had standard but more practical outfits.  Tight lack jeans, hard toe work shoes and white tee-shirts with a pack of Luckies rolled up in a sleeve.  They hung by themselves in the  basement inner sanctum of our school and rarely ventured out to participate in anything schoolish, They spent their days dreaming of owning a repair shop and getting under a never ending parade of  hoods and tinkering.

Bub and I were the same age and played the same sports.  We both turned 17 in early November and went together to get our “driver's permits”.  But with football practice and weekend games we didn’t have the time to practice driving until after the season.  The weekend after our Thanksgiving Day game ended sports for us for a while my dad picked up a State driver's manual , "Driving in New Jersey"  20 pages of rules, laws, regulations and the unwritten "rules of the road" that I had to study for the written part of the drivers test.  Several weeks later I took the 50 question test.  To pass one needed to get at least 40 right multiple choice answers  to go on to the next step.   I breezed through it because I had spent more time reading about always staying to the right unless passing  than I did for a math test.  I did get one question wrong.  “Which is color light is on top of a standard traffic signal?”  Now,  I saw traffic lights everyday for years but I couldn’t remember that important factoid - I checked green but the answer was red!  I still remember that mistake because the manual also called the yellow light amber which nobody called it  - I still think amber is more orange than yellow, but that’s an art major for ya.  

A few days after the test I had my one and only driving lesson offered by the school with 3 other students (that made me nervous) and a teacher who had the worst job in the school.  We rode  in a new car (which also made me more nervous) with two brakes and an automatic transmission.  The vehicle was donated to the school by a local car dealer and had a big sign on the back bumper that embarrassingly announced “Caution Student Driver”.  The  teacher nervously smoked the whole time.  I was first to drive and I made my way to a nearby “country” road rolling along at about 12 miles an hour in a 40 MPH zone.  As a farm truck whipped by me, Mr. N.  said, “Maybe you should go a bit faster.”  After about five minutes I went back to the school and the next driver took the wheel.  That was the only instruction I got from the school but I did get out of gym class for a whole morning.

That night I said that I needed to practice with our car a couple of times because it was a “stick”.  So I took a spin with him that weekend.  Our family car was a faded blue Chevy Custom ( not the Bel Air which meant it came with no trim and to my chagrin - no radio either.  It did have air conditioning if you rolled down the windows. It was obviously a used car and every once in a while a souvenir from it's past would roll out from under the front seat.  For the few years it lasted my mom  never had to worry about me speeding because the Chevy’s wheezing  six cylinders labored fiercely to do 50 on a highway.  The upside, I did learn to drive a stick that day - which has literally come in handy from time to time. 

Dad looked nervous too as I bucked out of our driveway. Using a clutch took time to master but I got the hang of it eventually after stalling the car twice..  My first drive down our main street in Millville was a thrill that I had waited so long to do.  As I drove I imagined I was  “cruising for chicks” on a Friday night.  I was quickly shocked out of my reverie when dad yelled, “RED LIGHT...ya always got to pay attention.”  And he was right.  After driving around for an hour it was time to park which was the most feared maneuver for most new drivers.  Dad suggested we go to the high school’s  stadium parking lot.  It was big and empty.  Dad put two large peach baskets with yardstick markers in them about 15 feet apart.  The first time I tried parking was shaky but to my surprise, the second time I parked like a pro.  We repeated it several more times until dad said, “Let's go home, you know how to drive”.

The following weekday dad took the morning off and came with me as I  to the driver test facility.  I signed in, showed my permit and passing grade to an inspector in a uniform  much like a State Trooper.  He was very imposing and “official”.  He got in the passenger's seat and described what was next.  I was really wishing I had taken a few more practice drives - but the Christmas break was coming and I wanted to drive my current girlfriend to the Holly Ball Holiday Dance.  So here I was with palms sweating so much that I wiped them on my pants because  they made the steering wheel slippery.  And off we went driving first around the improvised test track which had a stop light and a cross street with stop signs.  I remember to look right then left and to the right again - just like it said in the manual.  Next, I made a  dramatic  “K-turn” I went on to  the end of the track to face the final test of this semi-ordeal (that my mother BTW did 3 times over the years, passed but never applied for a license and never drove our car).

The inspector directed me to a parallel park between two large cones with red flags waving.  As my upper lip started to sweat, I parked gracfully without hitting any imaginary auto, thankful that we owned a small two door Chevy instead of the giant Buick tank that Bub would have to wedge between the markers.  The inspector said, “Nice job son, pull over there and I will prepare a  temporary license. Today you'll pay the fee at the office and your official licence will be mailed to you.”  I was jubilant.  So excited that I forgot where I was, gunned the Chevy and drove right over one of the markers.  The inspector snapped, “Hey you just bashed into a car if this was really on a street.  New Year’s Eve is coming soon, the most dangerous driving time of the year - after that accident  I  can’t give you a license today. Come back in a month and you can try again,  you will only have to park and not take the whole test - so practice getting out of a space as well as getting in  one!” 

I was mortified.  I blew my driver's test. I could not believe how stupid I was. My dad was surprised. Bub laughed (his you know what off) when we talked later  And worst of all, he told everyone in school which caused me to be the subject of great amusement until our holiday vacation.

And the most unkindest cut of all - Bub passed and drove me to the big dance Moral:  Never celebrate a win until you’ve left your space.

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PLAY BALL

Baseball was on hold for awhile because of a virus...my weekends were strange without a game of any kind on TV...But it's back and watching a full stadium last night I thought about how I loved baseball as a kid – I still do and watching the first games of the new season with heart full of hope that for my team, the Phillies – this will be their year…and my mind drifts back to my first game of organized baseball.

 “Your grandfather was a good player,” I can hear my grandmother Ethel saying that over and over as we would watch the black and white flicker on our Motorola TV as the Phillies waged a battle against the Brooklyn Dodgers – the bums.  And I made up my mind right there and then I was going to be good too – but how?  The big kids in the neighborhood never let me actually play with them on the gavel and stony field with the rag-tag chicken wire backstop at the end of third street.  But I played in my mind a lot though.  And I actually wanted to be a first baseman, a position that most kids never wanted to be, but I thought was the best as I could touch the ball at least a couple times each inning.

I could not wait to be old enough to play on a Little League team and especially get a real uniform - anything with a uniform always was a wish for every kid in my circle of pals...The wait seems unending.

   But the day came like all things we wait for – I saw a small article in the Millville Daily Republican – “ATTENTION SEVEN YEAR OLDS - LITTLE LEAGUE TRYOUTS THURSDAY NIGHT... Report to the High School field, 5:30 PM!  Yikes this was it – a try out.  Unlike today, all kids had to “make the team” – today everyone makes the team, everyone plays, everyone wins…and I sincerely believe this is detrimental to learning about life..that’s not how it was nor should be today, but that's another story.  The real beauty of trying to plays sports is that one learns that it takes hard work to succeed in a game, in life.  Today we teach our kids many different lessons – that everyone can be   “good” at everything.   But we never teach them how ...That’s the shame of it  – but I digress…back to my memory.

     All week before the tryout, after school, I tossed a tennis ball against the garage door and fielded wicked grounders.  Bang, toss, bang toss – hour after hour I practiced.  (But I was really afraid about trying out... I had never fielded a real baseball or batted one either.  I asked my grandfather - pop to play catch with me two nights in a row. We did until it got too dark to see the ball and he showed me how to hold the bat.   “Choke up, choke up”, he would said…you’ll hit more if you choke up! And most of all don't try to kill it!” This was Good advice I would soon learn.

     I was nervous all day Thursday secretly hoping it would rain on the weekend and give me a week more to practice.  But the sun was shining Saturday as I prepared to face one of the best challenges of my young life. I dressed like a matador – donning my jeans and white tee-shirt with the hope that I would come home wearing a shirt with a message that advertised a sponsor's logo. Pop drove me to the field.  

     There were many kids there from all over town and to my dismay none from my South Millville pals that I knew.  South Millville boys weren’t usually into anything that seemed too organized.  We played a pickup game 7 days a week with the big kids choosing sides and making the rules.

     I signed in and was told to join a group according to the positions we wanted to play.  There were lots who wanted to be pitchers and shortstops; just a couple joined me at first base.  We were told to stand in a line by the “coach” (somebody's dad I guessed) . He started by winging a pretty hard grounder at each of us.  I stood in the short until it was my turn – yikes the ball game a lot faster than off the garage wall.  I awkwardly dove for it and missed it.  The coach frowned.  “Here son...Take another one,” he yelled.  “Oh no!”- this one went through my legs and rolled away.  “NEXT,” he yelled.

    This was not going well.   Next we got a chance to hit and I started to sweat.  I had never really hit a hardball from anyone except pop - who I suspected tossed me easy ones to make me feel good.  An older kid who was already on a team pitched to us and my turn came much too soon.  I did my version of "Casey at the Bat'' which I had learned from watching TV.  I took a couple of practice swings and then with the bat at the ready the kid threw the pitch - Bam – the first one smacked the catcher’s glove – I didn’t even see.  Bam – another one whizzed by.  The coach yelled, “Come on kid just take a couple of swings – you can do it!”  The pitcher went into a Dizzy Dean wind up and threw a wild one high and outside – I lunged for it clear across the plate and landed in a pile outer of the batter’s box.  As I got up another of the coaches put his arm on my shoulder and urged me to walk with him to the side of the diamond.  He said, “Never played before huh?”  I said, “Not really sir…as tears started to roll down my cheeks.  He continued, “Now don’t worry, no need to cry – you're a big kid and I am going to pick you for the a Farm Team and we are going to learn to hit and field and by next year you will be a started for in the big kid's league – how’s that"?  I chirped, “Gee that would be great, but do I get a uniform”/  He smiled and said, "Not this year – but you will get a nice green tee shirt with a number on the back and a new green hat".  

   That was a start I thought as the tears stopped. And ironically, that summer I played on Chubb's Insurance a bit of an embarrassing team name for me to wear around as I was a bit "chubby"... this got a lot of laughs from my South Millville boys...But I put up with it and I learned the game. 

   The next summer I was picked to play for a regular Little League team - the Millville National Bank and I have to say -  hit a bunch of tape measure home runs that are still mentioned when I see old friend at reunions and our conversations turn to talk about sports and the good old days..."I'll never forget that homer you hit to center field...it went a mile Cal...It went a mile..." 

     My summer in the farm league made me a difference,,,made learn the basics with led to beging a much better player - I earned my hot and warm wool uniform the next year.  And learned some lessons about life which stayed with me far beyond those summer games of long ago...

     And I got to play first base.

STARS & STRIPES FOREVER!

        As I do every year I watched my old friend Jean Shepherd’s the Great 4th of July & Other Disasters and as always, I smile, get a bit misty-eyed when he closes with “…and the holidays when we were young are the sweetest of all…”

    And then...I am immediately on High Street in Millville on a hot summer’s July 4th morning with the temperature already at 96 – this was going to be a scorcher, according to my grandmother, the weather vane of the family. Already I could feel the sweat running down my back – no this wasn’t perspiration…It was sweat! And no wonder my Official Cub Scout uniform was made for camping in Siberia. Blue wool gaberdine my grandmother the seamstress reported. It was made to withstand the elements on a fall hike and roughhouse games like “steal the bacon.” It wasn’t good for July. Plus, it was dark blue, and I literally could feel the sun rays burning my shoulders through my shirt.

    However, the heat was far outweighed by the anticipation that had been building for weeks – I was not going to watch the big 4th of July parade this year - I was going to be IN the parade.

    Our pack had been practicing marching for months (all of us except Carl could march in unison).  As we waited for the Millville High band to strike it up I marveled at the many merit badges the older Boy Scouts had sewn to their uniforms. I wanted so much to pass all the tests of craftsmanship, stamina and cleanliness that it would take to earn them myself. At this point I only had one - the Webelo’s badge that heralded that I was now a Bear Cub – the first of the three levels of Cubing – to earn this I had mastered the Cub Scout pledge, motto, song, mission and knew the location of the Sears where all of the needs of scouting were sold. Mom had just bought me the Official BSA Birdhouse Kit and after the glue dried I would earn my first badge – for “carpentry“ or maybe it was “wild life knowledge”? (I would learn years later that Sears & Roebuck’s and BSA had formed a partnership that had produced one of the most brilliant merchandising schemes ever – selling millions of uniforms that could only be bought at – Sears!)

    Scout Leader, Mr. Jones cued our bugler to sound revelry or charge – I couldn’t remember which but I had heard it many times at the Saturday matinee. After he got our attention he addressed the “troops”. “Gentleman I am very please to see you’ve come to attention and at this time I want to select the scouts who will have the great honor of carrying our flags.” He had brought 3 flags in long cases.  He singled out our one Eagle scout to carry the Troop Flag, a Second-Class Scout to carry the State banner which looked like a picture of a snake and a farmer? Then to my surprise he called on me, a lowly Cub Scout, to carry the American Flag. Our proudest banner topped with hundreds of steamers that memorialized participation at the Annual Regional Camper-Ree.

    I was honored – but later my mom reminded me that he picked me because I was the just the biggest kid and Old Glory had to be the tallest flag. As I went to pick up my flag, Scoutmaster Jones said quietly, “Sorry Cal but I could only find two flag belts (leather-like holsters worn around the neck which made the flagpole easy to carry) you will have to make do.” “Yikes”, I said to myself, as he handed me the huge pole. And as I struggle to get to my spot in line he added, “And whatever you do, don’t let the flag touch the ground!”  I lined up with the other two bearers and noticed that they had light aluminum flag poles – mine seemed to be made of oak and was thicker than the end of a baseball bat. And no holder! “Yikes…”, I repeated adding the only swear word I knew.  A whistle sounded, and the high school band slowly revived up Stars and Stripes Forever (which first few bars would make me sweat from that day on) And off we went with Scout Master Jones barking a brisk cadence – Left-right-left-right…left, left…left, right, left right.

    My flag immediately started whipping wildly in the hot wind. It was marching me down the street. I needed to do something quick to get it under control – so I stuffed the end of the flag pole into one of my pants pocket which became my flag holder. This was ingenious I thought as the pressure let up on my arms – but then I realized that the weight of the flag just might make my pants fall to my knees or worse. Mortified - I bravely tried to keep up with the other two guys.  I could hear people on the sidewalks begin laughing as I marched sideways, one hand on the pole and the other on my Official Cub Scout Military-Style Web Belt with its imitation brass buckle. The sweat was now a river steaming down my back as I tried to keep in step - these older guys were proudly strutting away as I stumbled and fumbled with a load that was getting heavier by the step.

    The sun beat down and I was roasting. My Keds sticking to the pavement. The band blared on and the end of High Street looked miles away. I started to believe that I may actually carry the “star and stripes” forever.  But eventually it was over. I had made the half mile walk without fainting or letting the flag drag – and only a few hundred folks laughed at me. The only lucky part of the whole mess was that not many of my friends saw my flag fiasco – they were probably home in the shade getting ready for the roasted wieners that they were going to consume that day.

    As for me, I went straight home and went to bed; exhausted. I didn’t wake up until afternoon to devour my blackened hot dogs from the charcoal embers.  That day I learned an important lesson. Everyone who ever got to carry Old Glory from 1776 to 1956 had all taken on a very heavy burden – even a new Cub Scout like me.

DOWN ON THE FARM

The sound of a  bat meeting a ball…and my Phillies are edging toward last place...then I think of being a softball  “ringer” for the 4th Methodist church!

I played in the Church Softball League in Millville every summer that I was in high school.  It started right after school let out and ran to late July.  And it was a fierce competitive fast pitch game.  Of course the Presbyterians assumed they would win every game.  But the Methodists tried each year to change and we did most of the time.  But there was a catch – one had to go to Sunday for at least a month before the season to qualify for a team.  And so each year in May all of the south Millville boys would reluctantly attend Sunday school for the required time.  And the pastor, who led the older boy’s class, went along with this because I am sure he secretly wanted to beat the Presby’s and perhaps even the Baptist too.  

And so we sang “What a Friend…and Brighten the Corner'' and listened to Bible stories told with flannel board illustrations - but we were thinking of softball and who had this year to  play what positions.  Another requirement, we all had to buy a bilious lime green and yellow team t-shirt @ $2.95 that was supplied by Jim’s Sport Spot (at cost as his donations) with 4th Methodist  emblazoned on the front.  I used my old green baseball cap and saved $5.00.  Today the kid’s outfits would cost two hundred dollars and be produced by Ralph Lauren (not at cost!). 

We certainly lived in a simpler time - where performance on the field trumped your outfit.

We were ringers all in the best/worst sense of the concept.  But it gets worse.  We all also played simultaneously on a second team in a “slow-pitch” league under a different name, which was against the rules.  And sometimes two games the same day.  To accomplish this feat we all had other pseudonyms for our box scores in the Millville Daily Republican – our play on the diamond was big news in our sleepy summer town.  My name was Nivlac = clever huh?  Charles P,  the wearer of soda bottle bottom glasses, was Magoo.  It worked.  We were never caught for this serious violation of sportsmanship ( akin to deflating a football or corking a bat in today’s wide world of sport.  To save time,  we had one team name printed on the outside and the other on inside out of our shirts -  flip 'em and we became Shone’s Body Shop  – which made life easier especially when we had to race to the second game after chalking another easy victory.  And I must say we were good.  The 1960 season was the best we ever played - out record: 10 and 1 and 9 and 0 ( the one loss was a forfeiture when the first game went into extra innings and we never made it to the second game)!  

About half way into the  season Reverend G. spoke to  our captain Brad on the way out of church and reported  that our team was invited to play an “exhibition game” against the Inmate All-Stars of the Leesburg State Prison Farm - Farmers.  He thought it would be, “Good Fun and a very Christain thing to do”  We of course immediately agreed -  a game is a game and his game had to be more exciting than the Sunday Scholars contests which we easily won twice a week.  These were men who had plenty of time to practice andv of course at the prison because all of their games were home games!

And so we carpooled (which meant half the  team squeezed into Brad’s family car) and we made our way to The Farm as it was euphemistically called by most locals.  We were admitted at the gate after being frisked (I assumed for hacksaw blades), but later I would learn that there were no bars to see here, the inmates good behavior got them assigned here to farm rather than make license plates.

We all were nervous.  Not only was the opposing team older by decades but they also had cheerleaders with pom-poms and there were at least 200 feisty fans (all dressed alike!) in the stands surrounding the whole field.  Of course we had no visitors routing for us – but the guys gave each of us polite claps when we went to the plate.

The two umpires were prison guards and we hoped they weren’t in the clink for fraud.  The visiting team batted first.  Magoo got a walk which was greeted with a burst of catcalls and other comments not suitable for print here.  This was intimidating as we had never played before more than two or three fans in the stands.  I batted clean up and reluctantly walked to the plate after our next two hitters whiffed on 6 identical 128 mile per hour fast balls.  I dug into the batter's box and then the catcher said, “Son I wouldn't try to get a hit if I were you, he murdered his mother to get in here.”  The ump smiled.  Psychological warfare is fair I guess.  

Out on the mound Dizzy Smith’s stare burned into my brain.  He had a unique triple dipping swirling wind up.  Bam - strike one.  Bam another strike into the glove.  I didn't even see the ball leave his hand.  Two pitches later I was out at first base after a weak dribbler.  And so it went – oh how we the sanctimonious church mighty fell that night.  The princes of the Church League got drubbed 33 to 1 ( we all knew that the run on a walk was  just so we would come back again)

After the game we were escorted into the immense prison kitchen where we were treated to the largest chocolate chip cookies I had ever seen.  And to fresh cold milk from the farm dairy.  The coach of the Farmers, assured us that their win was a fluke.  They would take it easy on us if we would promise to come back – we hemmed and hawed.  He sweetened the pot – he offered us a dinner next time of grilled steaks and fresh corn on the cob from the field.  We could not say no to this incentive and did return for two more games that summer.  We got to know these guys well and all were gentlemen and lovers of the game, albeit a tad rough around the edges.  We ended up winning one game because it rained in the fifth inning.  To a man, they were all good sports.  And appreciative that we kids would take time to play against them.   I became a firm believer that the system was working for their renewal.

I learned that Dizzy had another 10 years and was indeed jailed for manslaughter and I was glad I didn’t get too many hits off of him. Some of the others would rejoin society sooner as their crimes were minor ones.  We went back again until we “graduated” from our Sunday School class.   Each year some of our opponent’s faces changed.  I hoped they became model citizens, their farm team days were over. 

I never really found out if this was true - but I know one thing for certain - the cookies were outstanding.

THE LAST DAY

Each Kid Year is marked with waiting and hoping…of course the First day of School starts with the sands running through the hourglass.  Next comes the first important event – the first day off from arithmetic and spelling ! Columbus Day.  Good ole Chris – if he had fallen off the edge of the world we wouldn’t  have had a day to play.  (Editor's Note: In Calvin’s day they celebrated holidays on the days they happened also President Lincoln was not merged with all the other dead Presidents).  Next was the mysterious State Education Association (a union in disguise),  two day vacation when our teachers got together to supposely learn the newest student torture methods, select new ponderous textbooks about South America and wars and longer words for us to learn to spell.  (Later in life I attended many of this meetings and found they mostly centered around cocktail parties with free shrimp supplied by book publishers)  

Next was Turkey Day.  I got in big trouble because of this holiday when I was in fourth grade on Parents Visitation Day.  My Grandmother sat in for Mom who was working at the glass factory.  During a lesson about the first Thanksgiving, for some unknown reason, I raised my hand when Miss R (the terror of Bacon school for her reputation “very strict”,  asked if we had any questions.  I said, “I really am confused because I really don’t think the Pilgrims had much to be thankful... a lot of them died…they were living in shacks with no bathrooms…and all they had to eat was corn.”  There was a gasp from the many parents in the back of the room – a bigger reaction came from Miss R  who just stood agape for a long moment and then I realized she was not pleased.  She said, “Well that certainly is a different point of view.”  The audience of parents giggled. This set her off.  She barked angrily, “Calvin you have totally missed the whole point of this lesson!”   I wasn’t really sure why as it made perfect sense to me.   After the parents left she invited me to her desk where she basically told me to keep my bizarre ideas to myself for the rest of my life.   The biggie, Christmas Vacation was coming next in just a couple of endless weeks of waiting.  We spent a lot of time drawing Christmas cards for our family, stringing popcorn for the class tree and making endless red and green construction paper chains that festooned our classroom.

And so, my 4th grade year passed holiday by holiday as we all grew and learned in spite of ourselves.  By March, I knew that Bolivia exports tin.  By Easter break, I was spelling every word correctly on those hated narrow spelling test papers.  I  had read most of Evangeline.  And, I could recite the Gettysburg address from memory.   Our class was becoming learned scholars as Miss R constantly reminded us.  I personally would rather play first base for the Phillies.  (Editor’s  Note: Calvin never achieved either of these goals.)  

And then the trees bloomed and the classroom windows were pushed up as summer vacation crept up on us.  The big one.  Weeks and weeks and weeks of fun loomed around the corner…swimming in Union Lake…baseball till dusk...staying up late.  This is what we worked so “hard” for all year.  To get it over.  And the final day came.  We turned in our books as Miss R. recorded their condition on the inside of the very worn covers.  Mine were all listed as “Good” (even though one was 22 years old) and I was very relieved that my grocery bag covers had done their job through snow, sleet and the dropping the big reading book in a large puddle.  Mother would not have to reimburse the Bacon School Board for any books with the dreaded broken spine or torn out pages this year.  The clock we all were watching made another loud click and the buzzer buzzed.  We bid Miss R goodbye and raced out the door.  Our kid's year was complete.  Yelps and hoots echoed through the hall.  We literally ran to begin our fun filled adventures in the warm summer sun.  It would take about a week and a half for this glee to turn to abject boredom for us all.  Plus, it rained a lot that summer.  By the end of June I started to yearn for fifth grade to come as quickly as possible.  

Moral: Expectation, for the most part, exceeds

reality.  The imagined usually tops being. Even

for a fourth grader!

 

IT WAS MAGIC

For a Father’s Day gift my kids took me to see David Blaine Live, the TV magician and it was more astounding and somewhat terrifying seeing this performer in person…on the drive home I thought about my early days as a kid-magician…and I was watching another magician is on the Ed Sullivan Show. I love them. And not like most of my friends who always yelled, “It’s in your other hand”, or something like that!  I just loved to pretend it was real magic – much more fun than looking behind the curtain and seeing that the Wizard of Oz was just an old guy. 

For me, my very brief career started at the great toy store on the Ocean City Boardwalk when I discovered far in its recesses a small magic counter where the owner (the worst comb-over ever) would demonstrate the trick – if you bought it.  I think he liked performing more than selling toys.  On our many summer trips there I didn’t buy typical shore souvenirs, I started to fill an old suitcase with my magical “apparatus” as it was called in the trade.  My first effect (a term used by us pros rather than trick) was the Vase & Ball.  I practiced making the small ball disappear, right before one’s eyes, in front of my mom’s big mirror until she said, “go outside and play Calvin, it’s beautiful out.”  She was always concerned that I would waste a summer day – warning that I would wish for one in the dreary winter of Bacon School.

One night at the dinner table my delight, my dad told me he learned that there was a former professional magician who worked at his plant and he would sponsor me to become a member of the International Brotherhood of Magicians organization which had a new chapter starting up in Millville and take me to his next conclave of “real” magi in Philadelphia to meet some of the pros

Several Saturdays after, I traveled with Mr. M to a city hotel as his guest at the Philadelphia IBM chapter’s annual meeting.  All the way there he regaled me with tales of his magical adventures of years ago when his hobby became a high paying part time endeavor.  The morning was spent touring a room filled dealers of professional magic showing their wares – not the boardwalk kid stuff but “real” pro magic.  I could believer I was seeing how many of the “tricks” worked that I had seen on TV.  The afternoon session ended the convention with a stage show by members from all over performing their newest tricks (which I learned that day was called an “effect”) – I was absolutely mesmerized (also a new word I learned that day).

After a great show, as I had brought all my life’s savings, I bought a real stage effect – The Square Circle which was a large metal tube decorated with Chinese characters that was inside a box, both pieces were shown to be empty and then after saying ABRA-CA-DABRA of course – they overflowed with whatever the magician wanted to appear from them,  flowers, silks, even a live rabbit. This effect was $15 which was a fortune to me and the most I ever spent on anything.   I brought home catalogs from all the magic suppliers and poured over them for days.   And from that day on, I spent my birthday, good grades rewards, Christmas cash and lawn mowing income on “real magic.”

After months of practice with Al who lent me a bunch of his stuff, I considered myself ready to go pro.  And so did Al.  He gave me one of his usual  “gigs” –  I was booked as the entertainment for the Millville Cub Scout Blue & Gold Dinner – and was getting paid!  One half hour for $20 bucks!   I practiced my act with Al and he coached me on my “patter” (the running commentary of mostly corny jokes). They were more than they seemed as they were actually to create  “mis-direction” - the essence of all magic was having the audience listen rather than pay attention to the magician's secret manipulations they were doing while they chatted.

The night arrived.  I was a mess of nerves.  A church dining hall was filled with blue uniforms.  And right after a sort of grey “roast beef” dinner, which my butterflies would not let me eat, Cub Master Jones introduced the evening’s entertainment – ME!   “ISZARD THE WIZARD”!!

I entered wearing a borrowed tux (which was much too big) courtesy of Al.  I bowed and began my act with shaking knees and a croak of hello.   My first effect was a very easy one, Vanishing Milk. I carefully poured half of a pitcher into a newspaper cone and then unfurled it with a big flourish and the liquid had turned into Confetti.  I got a smattering of applause, mainly courtesy of the parents.  Next, The Chinese Linking Rings…then The Cut and Restored Rope.  And as each trick “worked '' I became less nervous.  I was getting applause rather heckled by the few unbelievers in every crowd.  I even got a couple of “ah’s”.

Soon it was almost over and to my surprise I hadn’t fumbled once.  After thanking the scouts for their kind attention and taking a very hammy bow it was time for my big finish – The Square Circle, my first investment in my career and it was to be a surprise encore.  

With Mom’s advance funding I had loaded the canister with 100's Hershey's Kisses (my mom’s idea) and out of nowhere I was going to deliver a treat for the Cubs.  I showed the “empty” containers and then with a great flourish and then candy poured out and cascaded over my red magic table.  But to my unanticipated surprise before the first candy hit the floor the Scouts went totally wild.  Every kid rushed the stage.  Instead of a treat, I had created a riot of screaming kids, tripping, trampling, falling over their buddies – all trying to get a piece of candy as if they were made of gold. I was surrounded by grabbing, shouting, crying, fighting beasts whose  parents tried vainly to calm.  Scoutmaster Jones finally blew his whistle three times and the battle was over as quickly as it started.

      I made a fast exit off the stage avoiding the bruised, scraped and chocolate smeared Cubs who were being led out of the hall.  My debut was over.  As I packed my case the scout master returned and all he said was, “Here’s your pay…I hope you weren’t injured!”  My mom escorted me to our car, fearing I might be attacked for more candy.  She only said one thing on the way home, “Maybe we should change that ending next time?”  “Yeah,” I whispered.  I did many shows after that night – but never another Scout Dinner like this one and I learned something that lasted me a lifetime never make candy appear again.

Moral, no matter how small the value, getting something free can turn normal humans into predators more fierce than lions.