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.