Part 2, and probable last part to a book (ie, at least an autobiography book.) Sex, ie romance, Crime and thriller, Religious and self help, Childrens and Fantasy/Sci Fi sell.... self centered crap normally doesn't. That said, the below is a story, yes, about me, but moreso, hopefully about self deprecation, bits of ugly and hopefully a little humor tossed in.
Me, growing up. Where were we?
Oh yeah. The Wall. I was 8. The countless hours of my plastic bowl (my 'glove' before I ever owned a glove), tennis ball, throwing off The Wall, retreiving grounders, pop-ups, line drives. I was gonna be somebody. Here's how the transition of that went:
"We probably should buy him a glove, he seems to really like that."....
Countless, I'm talking 7 days a week, six, eight, sometimes ten hours a day, games of whiffle ball in front yard.
Little League. Yum. Aside from loving the game, everything about it, I even fell in love with the sister of one of my teammates, if you can be in love at age 9.. HA. Actually kinda sorta held my own from 9 thru 15 or so, then.
(Taking a brief respite from Ken Burn's Tragic Victor Baseball Story, it will skip over Elementary school, so here's a quick recap on that.):
Fell in love a second time. Chased her allover the playground. Why I picked the fastest girl in the class, beyond me, but I never caught her.
Did the Twist in the Dodge Ball Circle. We lost our recess over that.
Got beat by Stanley Savage in the 600 yard dash, in spite of him forgetting his tennis shoes and running in his stocking feet.
The climbing rope to the ceillng. I can't believe I actually made it to the top. Looking back, I can't believe we actually had it.
Loved my PE teacher Rod White, he took a bunch of us to Municipal Auditorium for the NAIA Indoor track Championship. Will never forget that, stuff like that just can't happen nowadays and that is sad.
Behaved, mostly, in class, so me (and several others) got to leave class to help Roger Hines (who we also loved) put up folding chairs.
There, that's Elementary School in a nutshell. Back to Ken Burns Putrid Victor Baseball Story.
No high school baseball team. So, American Legion. I think I'd just learned to cuss. And, after striking out once, returning to the dugout, I said "THE HELL WAS THAT?". A curve ball Vic. Oh, thanks. Thus, the end to a not so illustrious baseball career. You can take Salem out of the Country, but, you can't take the plastic glove love outta the kid.
So., while the curve ball ended my dream to one day "Be somebody" I did play some sort of the game for 7 decades. (The last 5, slow pitch). Two wives. Countless teammates.
A beer or 43,748.. fun, aches, broken bones, 'strawberries', and quoting that Bill Medley guy "Now I've, had, the time of my life."
My prowess in football was equally putrid, or worse, but there's a baby story to tell. Eighth grade. Forty or fifty of us, heck I don't remember, clad only in our undies, lined up with pre-pandemic spacing, ha, one doctor, a physical that lasted oh, maybe 47 seconds or so. "Cough please... again... Next"...
None of us had ever played. It was before Pop Warner was even born I think. We all had to stare at our other buddies to see how to put the damn shoulder pads on. We were assigned what position we would be. Shortly into it, there was an incident where I figured out I wouldn't be a bone-crushing, leading tackling, maniac, but rather a probable arm-tackling, softy.
I was deemed 'running back' with 12 or so others. We were lined up to take turns getting a handoff from the quarterback. When it came time for my turn, Ricky Elliot punched me in the gut and said "It's my turn." A bone-crushing, leading tackling, maniac woulda grabbed him by the throat, thrown him down, yada... but, the probable arm-tackling softy said "OK." I guess I had an OK season. We, collectively, were nothing to write home about.
HIGH SCHOOL. Actually, a week or so before High School, announcements came for us to get our physicals, Frosh football was to begin.
Victor, I CANNOT believe you are going to tell this story. Well, Wilfred Brimley, Believe It, I am. There ain't a lot that embarrasses me, and besides, there's kinda a point to it.
This year, there was no line up, quick oil change and lube kinda physical. One must make appointment, go to regular ole regular Doctor to get a physical. This is the I CANNOT believe part. "Victor, you have a slightly enlarged testicle, I'm afraid I can't pass you."
Disappointment. He feared, me getting hit, might not allow me to be a father some day. "Doc, howabout Cross Country? Can I run Cross Country." No contact in that, permission granted.
So, i ran Cross Country. It was my second choice, but kinda like grade school when I couldn't catch that one chick, I opted for one a tad slower, hehe. I actually kinda sorta did ok, in fact.... Band Camp.. I once couldn't wait to get home to tell mom and dad "HEY! I TOOK 52ND PLACE!".... Crickets.. Dead silence. Dad maybe quit watching TV for a sec, mom mighta put her paper down too... "Well that's nice Victor." Eh, I was OK. In that meet, there were over 200 runners, so I really didn't do too bad. Then,
I went to the very first Freshman football game. Halftime. One of the father's of one of the players said "Victor, why aren't you out there." Well, I might talk about an enlarged testi in a blog when I'm almost 70 yrs old, but at age 14 I wasn't gonna answer infronta a hunnerd or so parents, classmates "Because one of my balls is bigger and the Doc thinks I could maybe never have a family."... but I didn't say that. I said "Oh, I guess I just decided to run cross country."... To which he replied "What are you? Chicken?" I immediately ran to my doctor and asked for pills for depression. No. Wait. That was 25 years later. But, I was depressed.
This was not the first, or last time I would hear "Chicken" from this man. I would see this man in the summer at a baseball game at the City Park, he would put his thumbs under his armpits, flap his arms, make the "BLLLLOCHHK BLLLLOCHHK BLLLLOCHHK" sound that a Chicken makes, and follow with "Chicken." I wanted to strike out, punch him, holler, tell someone one, but, i never did.
Trip to Doc as a sophomore, once again to try to play football. "Sorry." Junior year, "Victor, I'm sorry, I can't pass you." Sadly, the chicken comments went on my sophomore and junior year too. Forgive me Father, to this day I hate that man.
Sooooooooooooooooooo. With the permission of my folks, I went to a different Doctor the summer before my Senior year. HA! Passed! Yessiree i was to play High School football!
So much damn time had passed I still had to watch my buddies to see where/how to put everything on, hip, knee, shoulder pads.
I was no big thrill, but I did start. Played safety. Actually had an interception and I remember getting crushed, my ribs hurt for what musta been seven years, or three weeks, forget which.
Then. Fifth game of the season, I landed wrong. I knew right away something was wrong. No, not the testi. My wrist. My wrist hurt like hell. (Hey, I was a Senior, I could cuss). So, I went to the sideline. Coach held my arm, looked down. Then, he'd lookup, watch a play. Then, he'd look down at my arm, then, he'd lookup and watch a play. To doctor, yes, wrist broken. But I, me and Al Bundy, had played High School football.
Most stories have good endings. Happy to report, this one did too. So, insteada being there for the BANG POW SWEAT PRACTICE RUNNING UP THE HILL AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN... I, clad in my sympathy receiving cast, sat amidst fitty or so cuties in the Pep Club for the remainder of the season. I was, having a ball, so to speak.
Life is all about silver linings.
By Henry Nagurski Gibson
My personal testi-ment,
Love, Victurd
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