Cruel and Very Unusual

“O’Neal “Snooks” Williams, convicted of killing

                  storekeeper Lee Bradley, was electrocuted in the

                  state’s portable electric chair at the Lee County

                  Jail in Tupelo.”

                            - Clarion-Ledger, June 26, 1943       

I recently came across the above newspaper item which caused me to imagine a letter which it might have prompted years later.

---

 AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UNITED STATES ATTORNEY GENERAL FROM A CONCERNED (SENIOR) CITIZEN:

Dear General:

         Criminals today are not afraid of authority because they know, if caught, their punishment will not be swift and sure. About the only thing they fear is a little overcrowding, not unlike what I experienced growing up with three brothers in a two bedroom house.

         I remember the time when lawbreakers were tried and punished the same month they were caught. Not only that, sentences were carried out on the spot so that examples were made in the communities where the crimes occurred. A public flogging or hanging served notice that those townspeople would not tolerate stealing and killing, and potential perpetrators ought to think twice.

         General, the Bible says “an eye for an eye,” and these days society is not plucking its share. In order to take our towns back, we must fight fire with fire, and I suggest there is no better way than to bring back the portable electric chair.

         As my wife used to say when we were young, “Nothing can cause a feeling of safety and security like the arrival of the electric chair.” It was truly a sight to behold as it roared into town on a flat-bed truck with the restraining straps flapping in the breeze. We knew someone was about to receive his just deserts.

         I realize you may be thinking, “What about the excesses and inappropriate behavior in connection with the local executions?”

         And yes there were some. We all admit that the arrival of the chair prior to the end of some trials could have improperly influenced juries, and permitting people to have their pictures taken sitting in the chair was probably a mistake. Maybe even the sale of the little replicas which became so popular (particularly the ones that plugged in and gave a small shock when a finger was inserted in the seat) could have been out of line. And certainly offensive were references to the chair as the “portable toaster.”

         But, Sir, compare those honest mistakes with what we have today. The system has become so inefficient that there is a really annoying logjam on death row. And when someone finally is executed it has taken so long and is so far from the scene of the crime that the satisfaction and deterrent factors are virtually lost. The message from our communities should be loud and clear – “before you take someone’s life, remember the chair is only a phone call away.”

         I know certain format changes are necessary, and most of us would be agreeable to moving the event indoors. It wasn’t practical to stage it on the back of the truck, what with relatives and friends of the condemned always hiding the extension cord or unplugging it at the last minute. Although unable to witness the executions, the communities could continue to feel involved by gathering in brightly lit rooms and watching the dimming effect of the power surge.

         I do think, however, it’s important to retain the tradition of allowing a relative of the victim to throw the switch while the others yell something appropriate like, “This one’s for you, Bobby” or “Take that, you buzzard.”

         Finally, Judge, I would suggest that knowing an electric chair can be on the scene quickly is not only a deterrent to hardened criminals but can also be a huge influence on the young. I suspect many a child was brought under control with the threat – “if you kids don’t straighten up, I’m going to have your father bring the electric chair home tonight.”

Let’s bring back the chair and stop the killing.

Yours in the good fight,

A fellow American

The Joy Of Paperwork

 When I was in graduate school, because of the escalating Vietnam War, married men who had previously been exempt were beginning to be drafted. A friend I had made in school, whowas in the Medical Service Corps, told me that it was a branch of the Army that gave direct commissions to MBA graduates. He said that the small amount of basic training was easy and then I would work in hospital administration.

I followed his advice and upon graduation my wife and I headed to Fort Sam Houston for training; however, one of the first things I learned when I arrived was that in a combat situation I might be called on to assist the doctor with medical procedures such as tracheotomies, transfusions and broken bone settings.

That evening when I told my wife the alarming news she calmly instructed me to settle down and stop trembling. “First of all,” she said, there is a good chance you won’t even go to Vietnam, but even if you do, you likely won’t be in the situation of having to do those procedures.”

I said, “You know, you’re exactly right. I guess I overreacted.”

Then she said, (I thought unnecessarily) “that’s a whole different subject we won’t go into now.”

So I was okay until they announced two weeks later that at the end of our eight weeks of training some of us would be selected to stay an additional four weeks for work in the animal lab performing the procedures that had been discussed. That afternoon I rushed back to our apartment and told my wife, “I know you think I tend to overreact, but here’s what they announced today.”

She said, “Actually, for once your reaction is totally appropriate. You would never make it. As weak as your stomach is, you would be in a coma the whole time.”

I said, “Well, if I’m selected, I’ll just have to tell them I can’t do it.”

She said, “Then they will probably put you in the infantry, which would also be terrible because you know how you hate getting dirty.”

The day for announcing the selections arrived and I was not included. The breath of air I exhaled was so loud that half of the people in the room turned to see what had happened. That night back at the apartment we celebrated as if the war had ended.

A few weeks later we were waiting for news as to where I would be assigned when I received a call from my Medical Service Corps friend. He said he was now working in the office in Washington where assignments were made and wanted to confirm that Germany was still my first choice. I excitedly told him it was and added how much I valued our friendship and that he had been my favorite classmate and some other flattering stuff I can’t remember.

I’ll never forget how happy I was when I arrived at the post in Germany and was shown to my office with the desk where I would be doing paperwork far from the area where medical procedures were taking place.

Soon my wife and I were making new friends and planning trips across Europe. Life was good – then, I got a call telling me how it could be better. A guy stationed in Berlin who had played college football about the same time as I had got in touch to tell me about a great opportunity that was available to me. He said the Berlin army post was in a military football league and the coach could get me transferred there to play for them. He said that other than practice and games there was a lot of time off and quite a few perks. I told him I would think about it. Here’s what I thought:

1.    Playing football is a lot like the infantry – you get real tired and real dirty.

2.    Unless you’re playing touch there is a lot of contact that can cause pain and injury.

3.    The job I presently had required no conditioning unless you counted playing golf three times a week.

My wife was also quick to tell me how happy she was where we were and remind me that I was even skinnier and weaker than when I had last played.

So we stayed put and what I had first thought was an interruption in my life turned out to be three of the best years of my life. And to think it could easily have been war in Vietnam or football in Berlin. 

A Walk In the Park

Over the years I’ve occasionally been asked which was my worst football game. The question itself is annoying enough but what’s really disturbing is when the questioner, before I can respond, begins to make suggestions. I mean sure I had a little rough luck in several games but I never considered there were enough bad ones for a lengthy debate. The way I recovered from such conversations was to ask my mother what she thought of the performances in question. After pretending to give it some thought, her reply was always along the line of “I don’t see how they could have gone any better, and by the way, is someone suggesting otherwise?”

The truth is there was one clear winner for worst but thankfully almost no one witnessed it. Eight years after I had finished playing football I was living in New York City and a guy named Mark who I had known in school invited me to join his team for a game of touch football in Central Park. At first I declined explaining that I had not moved faster than a walk in the last decade and was enjoying that speed a lot. He countered that it was just a friendly, relaxed outing and no one took it seriously.

Finally I said okay,  which I suppose gave Mark the confidence to suggest that since the games were played on Monday, the pro players’ day off, some of my former Longhorn teammates, now with the New York Jets,  might get a kick out of attending our game. When I realized he was serious I said, “They are nice guys and good friends but I don’t think it’s likely they would be interested in using their day of rest to watch me play touch football.” (When I mentioned this to the guys years later they assured me that my assessment had been correct but wished I had asked anyway so that they could have had an excuse to laugh their asses off.)

By the time I arrived at the Park on game day the other team had learned that I had been a college player on a national championship team. They suggested that it was unfair to bring in a “ringer” and therefore they should be given points; however,  they settled down when they were told I hadn’t exercised in ten years and seemed further calmed when they got a closer look at me (instead of my normal playing weight of 170 I was then at 145).

As we began warming up, I started throwing a few passes but seemed unable to throw a spiral. One of my new teammates walked over to me and said in a friendly but challenging tone, “You were a quarterback, right?” I quickly told him that obviously it had been awhile and besides my real strength had been on defense.

When it was time to start the game, because of my “ringer” status, the other team was given the ball first and I was assigned to play defensive left halfback. In college I had played safety which put me in position to watch everything develop and since I was the only one to play beyond high school it seemed foolish for me to watch just one man when I could be helpful all over. My thinking was reinforced when I saw that the man I was assigned to cover was the chubbiest one on the field.

The game began with our opponents completing a few short passes but my guy was hardly moving; I assumed he must be either bored or tired. I began to concentrate on the quarterback, preparing to move in whichever direction he was looking. Suddenly the place he was looking was over my head, and out of the corner of my eye I saw gargantuan boy flying down the field past me. I didn’t have time to recover and he caught a perfect 40- yard pass, on the dead run, for a touchdown.

While the other team was wildly celebrating and congratulating tubby, my team was busy interrogating me as to what went wrong;

         “How did he get so open?”

         “I thought we agreed to concentrate on our assigned man.”

         “Didn’t you say defense was your specialty?”

         “It seems impossible that you could have lost all your speed.”

         I said,  “He took me by surprise. Look at him, who could have imagined?”

But they just walked away. For the rest of the game I looked only at the speedy heavyweight and gave him plenty of room. They didn’t score again but neither did we, so we lost 6-0.

When I got home after the game my wife said,  “Rough day huh?”

         “How did you know?”

         “Mark’s wife just called.”

         “That was thoughtful of her.”

         “Did the fellow actually weigh 250?”

         “I don’t know.”

         “You used to be so fast.”

         “I remember.”

         “Well, you’ll do better next time.”

But there was not to be another time. Mark and I would see each other occasionally, but he never mentioned and I never asked if they still had their games in the park. It took me a while to recover from that performance, but I took some consolation from the fact that at least Mother hadn’t seen it.

Shoot, Dammit!

When I was about fifteen years old my brother, who was four years younger, said to me one day, “It hurts Dad’s feelings that you don’t go hunting with us.”

         I said, “He knows I don’t enjoy it, I’m no good at it and with all the sports practices and games I barely have any time for my girlfriend.”

         He shrugged and said, “Well, I’m just telling you.”

         I couldn’t believe my dad was still mentioning me in the same breath with hunting because with the exception of my first hunt I knew that I had been a huge disappointment. I was ten when he took me on the first day of dove season. I was able to shoot some birds that day because they were so numerous I could have probably killed more with a long stick than I did firing two boxes of shells, but he was pleased. He didn’t notice my anxiety when it came time for me to join in the cleaning process. I was not made to remove the insides but assigned to pull off the feathers which was gross since it meant holding the headless birds. I guessed that the heads had been removed to assure that none of the birds was playing possum.

         Even though that first time had not been much fun I agreed to go again later in the season. Dad told me that he was placing me in the best spot but after an hour had passed without seeing a bird I quit looking. A little while later he startled me when he was suddenly standing there asking why I hadn’t taken a shot at the bird that had just flown over. When he noticed I had obviously been reading a comic book, he said it was time to go home.

         A few days later he came into my room and asked me why I didn’t like to hunt.

         I said, “I guess it’s because I’m a terrible shot, and maybe that’s because I try to shoot left handed.”

         Then he said, trying not to raise his voice, “but you are left handed.” Your brother who is right handed but shoots left because of copying you rarely misses and he’s six.”

         “Well, then I don’t know.”

         He started to leave but stopped and said, “Maybe you need a target that’s not moving.”

         So he took me deer hunting. We went to a hunting lease that he was part of and because it was so large we hunted from his pickup which was much better than sitting in one spot for hours. The second day he spotted a buck some distance away and told me to get ready. He lined up the scope of his rifle, which we were sharing, on the deer and told me to fire. I had never seen my dad more excited than he was when the deer went down. We hauled the deer back to the camp and before he started the full cleaning process he told me it was tradition for the successful hunter to have some blood rubbed on his face. I gathered from his reaction that my retching was not usually part of the tradition.

         That would turn out to be my last family hunt for many years. I got busier with practices and games and frankly I think my dad and brother finally decided the hunts were more fun without me.

         There was no pressure to shoot until a business associate invited my partner and me to his ranch which was considered an outstanding quail hunting location. In order for hunters to sharpen their skills there was a skeet range which I was urged to visit along with the other hunters. I protested that it had been years since I had fired a shotgun. They told me not to worry, that it would come back to me. I tried to tell them that there was nothing to come back, but after more insisting I gave in and joined my partner and our host on the range. They shot, then loaned me a gun and told me it was my turn.

         It would have been challenging for me to hit one of the clay pigeons if it had been on the ground, but they came out flying in all directions and I missed about ten. They told me to just take a deep breath and relax but when I missed the next ten I could see they were losing patience.

         As they finished shooting and prepared to start the hunt, I told them I thought I would just stay at the house and maybe read or something. My host responded, “well if you’re sure that’s what you want” and my partner added, I thought rather too quickly, “not a bad idea.”

         The years passed and my brother hunted a lot, my dad very little and of course me none. Then one day brother said, “Dad wants to go on a quail hunt I’ve told him about and you should join us.”

         “Why?”

         He said, “Because it’s Christmas and the right thing for you to do. Besides it’s easy hunting – the quail are pen raised and placed in the field so all you have to do is walk through and shoot when they fly.”

         I said, “If you’ll recall, bro, the shooting is the part that gives me trouble.”

         He said, “Dad and I will do most of the shooting – you’ll be along mainly for the companionship.”

         Shoot they did. Quail, which sometimes had to be encouraged to leave the ground, were being shot right and left. Finally my dad and brother noticed I had not been shooting and insisted I walk ahead of them and take a shot. Two birds immediately flew up right in front of me. They began shouting “shoot, shoot, dammit,” but I was having trouble finding the safety on the borrowed shotgun and their screaming wasn’t helpful. By the time I finally found it and got off a shot the birds were out of sight.

         I could see my brother and father shaking their heads, not in anger but in frustration because they had wanted me to have success. The main thing for all of us had been a chance to spend time together, but my father who had a great sense of humor could not let the opportunity pass.

         He said, “Son, you know it occurs to me that since those birds are raised in pens maybe if we gave the people a little extra they would let you shoot a couple before they’re released.”

POSTSCRIPT:

Based on what’s been said so far I can see how I might be considered by bandits as a “soft target,” someone who would not know how to use a gun much less own one. Well that would be a dangerous assumption because of a defensive plan I have been considering. I’m thinking of acquiring an AK47 with a high capacity magazine. The fact that I am a poor shot would then make little difference because I would in effect be firing a machine gun at an intruder. Admittedly, it’s possible that I might demolish a large part of my home if action were required but on the other hand my lunatic reputation would likely keep us safe thereafter.

All Or Nothing

         A question I’m being asked often these days, in light of the movement to compensate some college athletes, is if I feel exploited by not being allowed to receive endorsement money when I played football. I’m told that even though the money years ago was not nearly as large as today still relatively speaking it was substantial. It’s been suggested, particularly since I was a business student, that I should have gone to Coach Royal and pointed out the unfairness. Because I was not in the habit of telling Coach Royal how I thought things should be done, you cannot imagine the size of the knot the mere thought of such a conversation puts in my stomach.

         Fifty years ago most high school football players were thinking what a thrill it would be to have the chance to play college ball and their parents were thinking how wonderful it would be for their child to be able to get a college education. Now both groups are dreaming about the money that might be rolling in later from pro ball. Certainly some high school players in the past were offered illegal compensation, but I don’t think it was widespread. As a matter of fact I know for certain it didn’t include everyone. (I imagined asking for something extra and being told I was wanted but not that badly).

         The rules being proposed would allow players (in all sports) to make money off of their name, image and likeness, something currently prohibited by the NCAA. To try and insure they are paid fairly, the athletes are allowed to employ an agent, which they should probably do while still in high school to help evaluate potential endorsements before making a college decision. Coaches on the other hand should probably have businessmen accompany them on recruiting visits to point out some likely opportunities and how they would compare favorably to what others might be mentioning.

         It has been stressed that the potential payments will not be made by the schools causing many people to argue that the highest profile payers are the only ones likely to benefit from the change. If the schools and coaches are realizing huge financial rewards off the backs of the ones performing, shouldn’t all of the performers share in the ever increasing wealth? A number of people have suggested a more fair system would be simply giving every player an allowance or stipend. Another idea, advocated by a few observers which I personally would not have been in favor of, would permit payments based on performance. I would have been afraid that because my performances tended to be uneven there could have been weeks when I was deemed to actually owe money and might have ended the season with the school having a stack of my IOUs.

         If it is finally decided that payment can only be in the form of endorsements, I would advise all the quarterbacks out there to devise a plan which makes it possible for you to share any money you might receive with your blockers, just in case those guys might feel they are contributing to your success.

Almost Grown

SCENE:  Medium size Midwestern town, fall day, 1995. The kitchen/den in the home of Sally and Bob and their children Jessica and Billy.

(Morning: Sally and Bob)

Sally:  So, how was your dinner with Andy last night?

Bob:   Good.

Sally:  What is Martha doing these days?

Bob:   Uh, doing fine.

Sally:  I see. How about the three children?

Bob:   Is that a trick question?

Sally:  No.

Bob:   They’re getting along really well.

Sally:  You didn’t ask about Martha and the kids, did you?

Bob:   Well, he acted like everything was okay.

Sally:  What did you talk about all  night?

Bob:   Lots of stuff. Oh, for one thing, you know those contests some pro basketball teams have where you attempt to make a basket from the opposite end of the court? Well, last month Andy got selected to try it, and, get this, he hit the rim. We’re talking inches away from a cool ten thousand bucks.

Sally:  Wow.

Bob:   Yeah, and the great thing is that someone got it on tape for him so he’s going to send it to us.

Sally:  Boy, I guess we just can’t hope to get any luckier than that.

Sally: (cont’d): Did you tell him about me and the children?

Bob:   Uh, uh, sure.

Sally:  What?

Bob:   Let’s see, that the kids are really growing and you’re about 5’7”, 120.

Sally:  Tom, how can you be with an old friend you haven’t seen in years and not talk about your families?

Bob:   Guys are not comfortable prying into each other’s lives.

Sally:  Inquiring about the wife and kids is not exactly probing the depth of his soul.

Bob:   But suppose something is wrong, like his wife is very ill or a child is on drugs? Then you’ve just upset him unnecessarily.

Sally:  If you recall, that keep-it-to-yourself attitude kept you from finding out about Sam’s trouble with Doris.

Bob:   Yeah, I guess you’re right.

Sally:  And not that it’s anyone’s business, but it’s 115, not 120.

(Daughter JESSICA enters.)

Bob:   Jessica, what time is the open house at your school tonight?

Jessica: It’s not really necessary that you go, Dad.

Bob:   Are you kidding, and miss having all those teachers tell me what a genius my daughter is?

Jessica: But I’m afraid you’ll just get bored and start humming “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and doing your Mick Jagger dance.

Bob:   Oh, come on. I barely move my head when I do that.

Jessica: Mom! Make him promise.

Sally:  He’ll behave.

Bob:   I suppose whistling the Woody Woodpecker song is out too, huh?

Jessica:  Couldn’t we just leave him at home?

Sally:  He’s just teasing you.

Jessica:  Oh, yeah, what about the time my dance teacher bragged on me, and Dad started spinning around like James Brown and singing “I Feel Good”?   

Bob:   You think a little mumbling and swaying is bad, let me tell you what real embarrassment is.

Jessica:  I’ve got to go to school.

Bob:   I’ll never forget, it was the first home game of the season.

Jessica:  Dad! Basketball story?

Bob:   I’ll be brief.

Jessica:  Oh, brother.

 Bob:  In those days the officials were local men so everyone knew them. Early in the game one of the guys made several calls that my mother disagreed with and she began loudly criticizing him.

Jessica:  She was yelling?

Bob:   Yeah. Well, finally he had all he could take, so he just stopped the game, took off his whistle, handed it to Mother and said, “Gracie, since you seem to have a better view than I do, why don’t you just call the game?

Jessica:  Not really?

Bob:   Really. By then the guys on the other team were asking, “who’s the crazy lady?” and my guys are laughing and pointing at me.

Jessica:  Man!

Bob:   And just as things were settling down, what do you think is the worst thing that could have happened next?

Jessica:  Oh, no, she didn’t wave to you?

Bob:   And called my name.

Jessica:  Daddy, you poor thing.

Bob:   So, you see?

Jessica:  Wow. I guess you’ve never done anything that bad---well, except maybe the Tarzan yell when I won my swim race. 

(Son BILLY enters)

Billy:   Dad, you think a guy has to play basketball to prove himself?

Bob:   I’ve never said that. Basketball just happened to be helpful to me in finding out more about myself. There are certainly other activities that serve the same purpose – maybe football or baseball.

Billy:   I was really hoping to learn more about myself without having to wear an athletic supporter.

Bob:   I don’t know, son. I think playing a sport without a jock would just be too dangerous.

Billy:   Oh, forget it.

Bob:   Now what? We’re having this great talk and he just walks out.

Sally:  I think what he means is that he’s interested in things other than sports.

Bob:   You’ve put those crazy ideas in his head, haven’t you?

(Afternoon: Bob and Billy enter and join Sally along with Bob’s old teammates Herman, Marty and Dave and their old coach.)

Bob:   Whew! Good game, Billy.

Billy:   Yeah, sure. Where’s the twenty you owe me?

Herman:    You mean he can beat you now?

Bob:      Of course not. That’s just what he charges to play with me.

Coach:   You want to know what’s wrong with the game today? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. It’s the coaches, they have no fire in their bellies, they don’t discipline, they don’t motivate. In the old days we knew.

Dave:    But, Coach, didn’t you ever feel badly about telling a bunch of 18- year-olds that winning a basketball championship would be the most important thing that ever happened in their lives?

Coach:    You say what it takes, and besides, for Herman it’s turned out to be true.

Herman:    You mean because my wife left me and I don’t have a job?

Coach:     I guess those would be good examples, yeah, but you can’t let a little rough luck get you down. Remember what I used to say about quitters.

Dave:    Let’s see, was it that if you are on a bad team and you quit you get to stop losing?

Marty:    Actually, I think it was quitters get to shower first.

Bob:      What I could never understand, coach, is how you could use all of that obscene language in your pep talks and the close with a prayer.

Coach:    There’s a place for both in the locker room. And, if you recall, I never prayed that we would win.

Bob:        Asking for the other team to pick up food poisoning from their pregame meal seems about the same thing.

 Bob:   You know why I would never play organized ball today?

Herman:   Too short?

Marty:    Too slow?

Coach:    Too old?

Bob:   Cute, but wrong. I could never play in those baggy shorts.

Herman:   Actually, you’re right. They do look really bad.

Sally:    So you guys are saying you think you looked cool in those obscene shortie shorts with your thick socks pulled up to your knees?

Bob:   For your information, plenty of women found those tight shorts very sexy.

Sally:   Are you kidding? What’s sexy about looking like you’ve just been given a wedgie?

Dave:   It’s not just the uniforms, everything’s changed. There’s not as much finesse. With all the slam dunking, there is not going to be a place for the gutty short guy, even though he might have a deadly jump shot like mine.

Marty:   Dave, technically you no longer have a jump shot. By definition to call it a  jump shot you have to leave the ground.

Dave:    Is that so?

Herman:  Yeah, what you’re using now would more accurately be described as a tiptoe shot.

Dave:     Well, at least I’ve never been a ball hog, like some.

Coach:    Boys, boys, stop the bickering. It pleases me that we have always been great friends.

Boys:   Right.

Coach:   Even in high school, when I was your boss, we were very close.

Boys:     Right

Coach:    Remember, I even went with you on your senior trip to Las Vegas?

Boys:     Followed.

Coach:    What’s that?

Marty:    You didn’t go with us, you followed us.

Coach:     Yeah, well, whatever. But it’s a good thing I was there otherwise you couldn’t have gotten in that strip show.

Billy:       The what?

Bob:       You see, Billy, they have this street in La Vegas that they call the Strip and along it there are many shows, so therefore you have what are known as strip shows. You know, such as John Denver.

Billy:       Dad, I’m eleven years old, please don’t treat me like I was nine.

Bob:       Right, son. But the important thing to remember is we had an adult with us at all times.

Billy:      I understand, Dad.

Bob:       Good.

Billy:       So, how old were you guys when you started drinking beer?

Dave:      Pretty old.

Marty:     Very old.

Herman:     Real old.

Bob:      Yeah, we were up there.

Billy:      What? About 16-17?

Bob:      Why?

Billy:      I’m just trying to plan ahead. I’ll get my driver’s license when I’m 15 and begin dating, so I was thinking maybe that would also be a good time to start drinking some beer.

Bob:       And you’ll want to get a nose ring and some tattoos.

Coach:    I really think he should wait till he’s 18 on those, Bob.

Bob:       It seems to me, young man, about as far out as you need to get with your plans right now is who you’re  going to be for Halloween.

Sally:      Besides, Billy there’s no reason to begin drinking beer too soon because you’ll have the rest of your life to sit around and swill it while you talk about the big game with your old high school buddies.

Bob:       Only once a week.

Dave:      Certainly no more than twice.

Herman:       Unless it’s a long weekend.

Billy:         I think I see what you mean, Mom.

Sally:      Right. Sometimes growing up can take a real long time.

Boys will be...All Kinds of Things

         The big tight end strolled unannounced into his coach’s office and flopped down in a chair.

         “Hey, Jeff,” said the coach. “What’s going on?”

         “Coach, I’m homosexual,” announced Jeff.

         “I know,” said the coach.

         “You know? How?”

         “By your lisp.”

         “What? I don’t have a lisp.”

         “I’m just kidding,” said the coach. “I t’s your walk.”

         “Coach, knock it off. I’m serious.”

         Although Coach Harry Dillon had always been a skinny 6’, 150, he had been a pretty good Division II quarterback in his day. The steroids he had taken in an effort to bulk up had done nothing but cause him to lose his hair prematurely so that he now looked older than his forty-two years.

         Harry got up from his chair and walked around to the front of his desk and sat on the edge looking down at Jeff.

         “I’ve got no problem with your being gay,” said Harry.

         “You’re not shocked?” Jeff asked.

         “No. I suspected.”

         “Why?”

         “Just a feeling,” answered Harry.

         “Think anyone else has suspected?”

         “No. It’s hard to spot.”

         “So, you wouldn’t be opposed to my staying on the team?” asked Jeff.

         “No. As long as you don’t smoke.”

         In the twelve years Harry had been head football coach in that small rural town, Jeff was the best athlete he had coached. Of course looking at the school’s dismal record that might not seem to be saying much , but at 6’3”, 220, with good speed, Jeff would have been an outstanding player anywhere.

         “Coach,” Jeff said. “I’m tired of keeping this secret and plan to go public.”

         Harry grinned. “That’s probably not such a good idea. You’re not appealing to a real broad-minded audience, you know.”

         “Well, they let Billy Roy stay on the team even after that thing with the goat.”

         “Those things happen in rural towns. Yours is a city problem.”

         “Will you help?” asked Jeff.

         “I’ll talk to the principal. In the meantime try to act macho.”

         “Would slugging a coach do?”

         The next day, shortly before noon, Harry stopped by the principal’s office. Melvin Hopkins had been the high school principal for 25 years, and his main wish was to make it to retirement before high blood pressure killed his 250-pound body.

         “Hey Melvin. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

         “Very funny, Harry. You know I can’t sleep in the mornings.”

         “Got a minute?” asked Harry. It’s important.”

         “Yeah, but make it quick.”

         “Jeff Malone told me yesterday that he is homosexual. He wants to go public with it and remain on the team.”

         The principal looked at Harry and then back down at his desk.

         “It sounds to me like he’s lost his mind,” said Melvin.

         “He’s serious,” said Harry.

         Melvin was disgusted. “What does he know about serious. He’s obviously a confused kid, probably having girl trouble, and has decided on this tactic rather than suicide. If you’ll pardon this expression, he just needs to get a grip on himself.”

         “It’s not like he’s dating a goat,” said Harry.

         “Don’t start with me, Harry. You know damn well Billy Roy’s deal was simply a misunderstanding having to do with the relationship between a boy and his pet.”

         “Melvin, I really don’t think this is a phase he’s going through.”

         “Oh hell, Harry. Homos are sissies and that son-of-a bitch is the meanest player you’ve got. You know better than I do if our team is gonna be worth a damn, we need him. And he can’t play if he claims to be abnormal.”

         “I’ll talk to him again,” said Harry.

         “Good. Tell him to go buy a copy of Playboy and snap out of it.”

         That afternoon Harry met Jeff back in his office.

         “How did it go?” Jeff asked.

         “Principal says you’re too good of a football player to be gay, so stop it.”

         “Jeff laughed. “That sounds like that ignoramus.”

         “I don’t have to tell you what kind of people you’re dealing with here,” argued Harry. “Most of the folks in this town haven’t come to terms with the mixing of the races so you can take a pretty good guess how they’ll react to boys not being boys.”

         Jeff countered, “If you’ll help me make my case, we might have a chance of talking some sense into even this group. What are they going to say – that I might spoil the clean, wholesome atmosphere at of the dressing room?”

         “Why don’t you just continue to lie low until you can get to a more open-minded environment?” suggested Harry.

         “Damn, Harry, you sound like one of them.”

         “Hold on,” Harry protested.

         “Coach, you obviously don’t have any understanding of what I’m talking about. So just do this: set me up a meeting with the school board and then go hide under the bed.”

         The school board met in a small windowless room, barely large enough for the three members and a handful of others. The others this time were the principal and Jeff. The board president was 70-year-old retired judge who always wore a dark three-piece suit and chewed on an unlit cigar.

         “Melvin, what is the reason for calling this special meeting?” the president asked.

         “Judge, one of our students, Jeff Malone, has asked to address the board on a matter of ut…”

         “We all know Jeff,” the president interrupted. “How you doing, son?”

         “Fine, thanks,” Jeff replied.

         The board president spoke again, “Melvin are we ready to begin?”

         Melvin turned to Jeff, “Are you expecting Harry?”

         “No, I think he’s busy.”

         “Then let’s get going,” said the president. “What have you got on your mind, Jeff?”

         Jeff began, “I’ve always enjoyed playing football and …”

         “You’re not thinking of quitting are you son?” interrupted a board member, who was a small, sickly-looking man of about 60. “You’re our main man.”

         “No,” Jeff said. “as a matter of fact, I’d like very much to continue playing.”

         At that point the door opened and Harry slid inside. He and Jeff made eye contact and formally nodded to each other.

         The president greeted Harry, “Glad you could make it, coach. Hope you haven’t done anything to upset our star player,” he laughed.

         Then he said to Jeff, “Go ahead, son.”

         “I have been aware of what I’m about to tell you for quite a while, and I’m tired of keeping it a secret,” Jeff said. “It has to do with my sexuality.”

         The small board member spoke again. “Look, I’m as strongly anti-abortion as anyone, but we all know there are special situations that everybody understands. There’s no way you can concentrate on your football and be a new father at the same time.”

         “On the contrary,” countered Jeff. “I don’t ever expect to get a girl pregnant. I’m homosexual.”

         Everyone in the room except Harry gasped, including Melvin.

         The other board member, a burly red-headed man in overalls named Willie, shouted, “God A’mighty, boy. You’re no sissy.”

         “Right. I’m gay.”

         “We just found out,” Melvin replied.

         “Well, the town won’t stand for it, “bellowed the president. “Either forget this foolishness or get off the team.”

         Jeff looked at Harry then spoke to the board. “But I’m the same guy I was last season, and I’ll still make the same number of tackles.”

         “Not if I can help it.” said Willie. “Coach, what kind of team are you running?”

         “Except for Jeff we’re very mediocre,” Harry answered.

         Willie continued, “My boy is on that team, and I don’t want him to have to worry every time he bends over to pick up the soap.”

         “I’m certain gay men would not find him any more attractive than women seem to,” Harry said.

         “At least he’s not queer,” yelled Willie.

         Harry shot back, “other than not being homosexual he is.”

         Finally the president pounded the table. “That’s enough talk. Jeff’s apparently made his decision, now we have to make ours.”

         Harry got up and walked toward the board’s table. He caught Jeff’s eye and smiled. “He didn’t choose to be homosexual any more than you could choose to be,” Harry said, speaking slowly. “It’s biological and occurs in about ten percent of the population.”

         The frail-looking member challenged Harry, “How do you happen to be such an authority?”

         “Because I’m also gay,” Harry answered.

         Big, red-headed Willie jumped to his feet hollering, “What in the hell is going on here? Is my boy the only person in the entire football program that’s not a homo?”

         “It doesn’t appear that Billy Roy is,” laughed Jeff.

         “I’ve got a feeling you guys are going to want to replace me,” Harry said, “but you ought to seriously consider letting Jeff remain on the team. Not only is it the fair thing to do, but it would give you a shot at winning a few games.”

         The president ended the meeting by announcing, “We’ll go into Executive Session now.”

         Harry was cleaning out his desk the next day when Jeff stopped by.

         “Hey, Jeff,” Harry greeted him. “I guess we’re pretty much the talk of the town.”

         “I appreciate what you did yesterday,” Jeff said.

         “Well, I was ready to get out of here, anyway,” said Harry. “Are you going to stay around and finish next year?”

         “Hope so,” said Jeff. “I figure it would be kinda fun being gay and the toughest guy in school. What about you?”

         “I’m shootin’ for settling in a town where no one goes by a double name.”

         “With your new reputation, maybe you could coach a girls’ team,” said Jeff.

         Harry walked over to shake his hand.

         “You know I was just thinking. I’ll bet everybody sure wishes that big old uncoordinated boy of Willie’s had been the gay one.”

Give Me A Break

“Damn, ole timer, you okay?” asked my friend Mike as I was struggling to work my way up from a hard backward fall. It was the last night of some overdue visiting with him and some other old friends and we had partied at a pace more appropriate to our younger days. The next day after loading the car and saying goodbye I drove home hardly noticing my back but by early evening there was excruciating pain and I knew from experience I had cracked a rib.

The next morning I went in for an xray which confirmed the crack but also revealed a spot on the lung that needed further examination. At this point my brother, I suppose in an attempt to lighten the mood, said, “thank goodness for your advancing clumsiness.”

Through additional tests the spot was revealed to in fact be cancer. As I was just learning the news, I walked out of a test and as I walked past an old guy in a wheelchair he said, “Do you have diabetes?”

I said, “No, why do you ask?”

He said, “Because you don’t have any hair on your shins. That can be a sure sign.”

“They’ve been like this for forty-five years so I think I’m probably okay.” I whispered.

As I walked away he yelled, “I’m warning you, you better get it checked, anyway.”

The cancer was shown to be confined to the lower lobe on the right side which could be removed and leave me in good health (or put another way able to walk as far as a guy my age needed to).

When my wife, daughter and I went to meet the surgeon to discuss timing and so forth for the surgery we were shown to a waiting room. Almost immediately after arriving there I needed to use the rest room and left in search of one. I went up and down the halls with no luck and decided it must be on the outside of the floor. As I was looking for the exit I passed a nurse practitioner’s office. She spotted me and asked in a friendly tone if I needed assistance. That is when I made my first mistake. I said, “I’m looking for the way out.”

I could see the expression on her face quickly change from happy to puzzled to concerned. I tried to recover and act normal so I said, “I am actually looking for the restroom.”

She went back to a sweet smile and said, “I can help you with that,” and took me by the hand and led me to the men’s room. While I was in there I thought, “this is terrible. She probably thinks I’ve come off the psych ward and am just wandering around aimlessly.”

To my horror, when I exited she was waiting for me. She said, “now let’s see if we can’t find out where you belong; which doctor are you seeing?”

I started to say, “You’re not going to believe this” and then I realized that she was way past that point, so I said, “I can’t remember his name, but I recall his wife is from the town I live in.”

Being the amazing woman that she is, she was able to keep her composure and suggest, “why don’t we go about this a different way?”

“Do you have family with you?”

“Yes, my wife and daughter.”

“Good, we’ll just look in a few of the rooms and see if you spot them.”

After about three tries we found the room and when my new friend saw my family’s recognition she said, “I’ll bet you know this fellow.”

She then left without once rolling her eyes, and I told the family I would explain later.

The surgery went very well the next week so the expectation was that I would spend two or three days in the hospital and head home. They told me the first night would be spent in the post-op holding area and then move to a regular room. The night in the holding area was noisy so I was looking forward to getting my own room and was therefore pleased when I was picked up early the next morning. After six hours of waiting in limbo with no room assignment, I stopped a nurse in hopes of getting an update. He said, “It shouldn’t be much longer now – I just heard they’ve about got the ant situation under control.” I looked at my wife and said, “This is going to make a good night’s sleep more difficult.”

She said, “Yeah, you’re going to probably want to stay on that morphine button no matter how you feel.”

I did that plus every time someone walked into my room I asked, “Ant thing still okay?”

When I could finally relax about the ants my only remaining problem was with the catheter. Using it was more painful than it should have been so a urologist was called in who said it was a scar tissue problem that would require a small procedure to correct. Now, since we were dealing with an area where even a small procedure can be a large threat, I was very anxious.

The urologist arrived in my room with a bag of tools and four nurses. I wondered why he would bring that many assistants until he began working and I realized that two of the helpers were there to hold me in place. (A word of advice: if you’re ever captured and told you will be tortured unless you give up your information and you hear the word ream, immediately spill your guts.)

I left the hospital two days later feeling well but still wearing the catheter. The urologist told me to use it for three more days and then come back and he would remove it. Because I lived in a town that was an hour and a half away, I asked him if someone there could remove it. When he said that it would be better if he was the one who took it out, I had the sick feeling there could be a lot more hell left to pay.

When I returned to the hospital several days later, the doctor greeted me and said he would be with me shortly. A few minutes later a female nurse came in and told me to get on the examining table.  I kept looking at the door expecting the doctor to walk in at any moment but soon realized the nurse herself was going to perform the removal.

I was puzzled and wondered if on the one hand her doing it might mean it was not going to be as bad as I feared or on the other hand maybe he was unexpectedly tied up and she was just going to give it her best try. She told me to pull down my pants and as I did so I placed one hand in the area about to be affected, I suppose to give myself some support. As she began, without thinking I moved my other hand down to the area. A few seconds later, to my relieved surprise she said she was finished. While I was sitting there in relief and joy she said something I didn’t understand. I said, “what?”

She repeated, “You can turn loose of my hand now.”

In girding myself I had trapped her non-working hand between mine.

“Oh, of course, I’m so sorry.”

Then she said, “You can pull up your pants now.”

I thought, “Oh, my God, I have got to get out of this trance and get ahead of her on what I am supposed to be doing.” So, to show her I was not addled and also had a cute sense of humor, I said,  “That was good work – what do I owe you?”

Without looking at me she gathered her instruments and got up to leave; however, at the door she turned and said, “FYI, your t- shirt’s on backward.”

Tapped Out

         When I was very young I decided that what I wanted to do with my life was become a dancer. Even though I didn’t know how to dance yet I knew that I wanted to do something which would allow me to wear my tap shoes every day.

         It was during World War II and while my father was overseas  my mother and I were living with my grandmother.  I think it was her idea for me to take dance lessons as a way of working off some of my rambunctious energy. Once enrolled, I wore my tap shoes from morning till bedtime, even on days when I didn’t have dance class. This wonderful new life lasted for several months until one day my mother told me I would have to drop out because when she had written my dad to tell him what I was doing he had written back that he would rather I stopped. (I learned later that he had actually used some bad words in his letter and wanted to know, by the way, what had happened to the closet full of balls he had left for me to play with).  For me the most devastating part of the dictum was I would have to give up my tap shoes, since they were rented from the dance teacher.

         My father was more open to my next dancing opportunity because he considered it more manly. Several friends and I were invited to be a part of a square dancing group that would perform at various functions in our small town, mainly parades. We would dance on a truck trailer as the parade moved through town, simultaneously trying to keep time to the music while not falling into the crowd. I couldn’t help noticing there seemed to be more laughing than applauding but I continued performing until my other friends convinced me I was making a fool of myself.

         But then when I reached sixth grade Mrs. Monday and rock and roll came into my life, and I discovered that dancing could be a lot of fun even without tap shoes. She taught us a few steps and I became so obsessed that I talked one of the girls into bringing her record player to school so that we could dance during the noon hour. Even though some of the younger kids would stare through the window and snicker at us, we were having a great time until the principal, ironically Mrs. Monday’s husband, told us it was inappropriate.

         As I got a little older I began to notice that there were a number of dancers on TV and some were tap dancing. I wondered: might it be possible to fulfill my childhood dream of wearing tap shoes every day and make a living doing it? I decided to ask my mother if she would approach Dad about my giving up a sport or two so that I would have time for dance lessons. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she said, “the only thing that would accomplish would be to get us both killed.”

         Then she told me she thought it was time for me to move on. I decided she was right so for the remainder of my junior high and high school years I concentrated on sports. When I received a scholarship to play college football, I thought my dad took too much of the credit for having suggested I not let dance lessons get in the way.

         I continued to enjoy dancing during my college years and would mention to friends that when I was younger I had fantasized about making it a career. I knew I was probably mentioning it too often when they began to respond by telling me that every time the word ‘dance’ was mentioned I would repeat the story.

         About the time I was finishing college I had the opportunity to meet and visit with a woman who had had an outstanding dancing career in New York City. Just making conversation I said, “I’ll bet your workout schedule was as rigorous as our football training.”

         She smiled and said, “Well it was every day, all day long, beginning when I was nine years old.”

         “That’s definitely very rigorous,” I said.

          “Yes, and the sad thing is that after all of those years of hard work the majority became discouraged and gave up,” she added.

         “Did you do some tap dancing?” I asked.

         “Mainly ballet, but some tap,” she said.

         “So you obviously owned a pair of tap shoes.”

         “Of course. Why, were you a tap dancer?”

         “No, but I sometimes thought I would like to be, however the way you’ve described the path, I don’t think I would have made it.”

         In a kind voice she said, “probably not.”

Points of Contact

         It was time for another reunion with old Army friends and I was really looking forward to it. When I excitedly mentioned the upcoming trip to an acquaintance he said, “I guess you get together and tell those same old war stories.”

         I said, “Actually we were in Germany the whole time.”

         He said, “Wow, I’ll bet that was scary.”

         As usual we were going to gather at Gordie and Kay’s house in Utah. Not only is it a beautiful place and location, but they know how to entertain, plan, organize, cook and other stuff I have always intended to try.

         In the Army we had played a lot of golf together and had continued to play at the reunions, but lately my weak game was becoming much weaker so I told them that despite recent lung surgery I thought I would do some light hiking instead. I have to admit I was disappointed at how accepting they were of the news.

         Gordie said he would plan an easy hike for me to take alone the next day while they played golf. He went over the map of the hike carefully but maybe because I kept asking the same questions he didn’t seem confident in letting me go alone. I assured him I would be fine, but on the way down the next day I missed the turn home and ended up lost. I spotted a workman, showed him Gordie’s address and asked if he could point me in the right direction. He said that he was about to leave and it was on his way so he would just drop me off. As I was getting out of the truck Gordie came running from the house yelling, “Dammit, I knew it, I just knew it. Well never again alone.”

         When he described the next hike Carol, wife of one of the other guys, thought it sounded so good she would like to go. She obviously had not planned ahead to hike because the only shoes she had to wear were designed to be worn just around the house. Gordie said the hiking would be a little more challenging but would be worth it because in addition to the normal spectacular scenery there were hieroglyphics.

         When we got to the park we discovered that the entrance had been closed to traffic so we would have to hike in. The trail was not steep, just sand and weeds, but we were required to go through two barbed wire fences. The wire was strung so tightly that two people were really needed to hold it apart for the third person. They held it for me but embarrassingly I discovered that I didn’t have the strength to help pull it apart. I tried a few times but they finally just had to work themselves through, made even more difficult for Carol who for some reason had decided to bring her purse. I don’t know if it had anything to do with my inability to help, but as we walked toward the second fence they would occasionally put me in the lead, then veer off behind me and holler, “where are you going?” I wouldn’t have thought much about it except after each time they did it they appeared to be giggling.

         After “we” made it through the second fence and I got a glimpse of the hiking area I was feeling what I can only describe as worried sick. My concern was compounded by the absence of other hikers. There were no paths, just large rocks to be climbed up and over. I was made even further uneasy when Gordie said there would be some places where we would be required to use three points of contact, meaning we would need to use a hand to assist our movement. (As it turned out, I seemed to be in continuous four point situations.)

         As we were leaving the first hieroglyphics location on the way to the second, I spotted what I was sure was an old cabin at the top of a hill. I pointed and said, “Carol, look. Do you see that cabin at the top of that hill?”

         She looked for a few seconds and said “Yeah, I think I do.”

         Then I said, “Gordie, look up there at the old cabin.”

         He said, “I don’t see anything.”

         “Move over this way.” I told him.

         “No, still nothing.”

         And then I realized from the look on his face what he was thinking: “I knew that they had lost their strength, now they’re losing their minds.”

         When we were resting after looking at the second hieroglyphic and Gordie was telling us that the third one was the best and I was wondering if I even had the strength to make it back out, I said to Carol, “If you make it back tell my wife I put up a good fight.”

         She said, “How about pretty good?”

         I said, “Damn, Carol it’s nothing to laugh about. I only have one lung.”

         “Oh, please, can you be more dramatic. You’re just missing a small part of one lung.”

         I was about to tell her she had turned into a hard woman when I spotted through the trees what I desperately hoped was not a mirage. It appeared to be a large modern house under construction on a ridge adjoining the hiking area.

Gordie and Carol followed me as I started stumbling toward it. When we got close to the house I saw one of the construction crew and yelled, “If we give you $50 will you take us to our car?” He hollered something back which I could not understand so I told Carol, “If he is countering my offer, tell him okay.”

         Carol said, “He says it’s quitting time so he’ll be happy to give us a ride down for no money.” Then as I dropped to my knees behind her, she asked, “Are you crying?”

         I said, “Of course not, just a little dust in my eye.”

         The fellow giving us the ride was a really nice young guy and I don’t think he meant it the way it came out when he said, “I don’t see many old people hiking out there. It’s really rugged, right?”

         I started to explain to him that normally I would have done much better but that I hadn’t been well, however Carol was asking him a question so I just let it go.

         When we got back to Gordie’s house the others wanted to know how it went. As I said “good,” I noticed Carol and Gordie gazing at each other, but Gordie just said, “it was challenging.”

         My wife then asked me if I got tired and I said, “a little.” Carol and Gordie still said nothing, but I noticed that they looked at each other longer. Then my wife noticed some blood on my shirt and asked what happened. I said we had to climb through some barbed wire fences and I got nicked lifting the wire. This time Gordie and Carol not only stared at each other, they made chuckling sounds.

         The next day as we were preparing to leave I thanked Gordie for the hikes and told him that maybe we could do it again someday.

         He said probably so if I recovered physically and mentally from the lung thing and Carol got some other shoes and a smaller purse.

Westward Ho! (A Diary)

April 30:

          Many well-wishers gathered to bid our wagon train a safe journey. A few of the boys could not resist some last minute mischief, such as urging young Harkins to “write soon,” knowing of course the boy has never had time for school and thinks pencils are nose cleaners. To make matters worse, he had one in his nose at the time.

         Everyone was in good spirits as we were pulling away with the exception of old Mr. Pierce who forgot to hitch up his horses and was jerked from the seat of his wagon and dragged out ahead of us. He maintained a good grip, however, and was able to rein in the team fairly quickly.

May 7:

         Our first week out was relatively uneventful. The really only troubling development was the Morrisons’ discovery that in their haste to get away they left behind their youngest child. On the bright side, the child is resourceful for his age and the parents believe him to be aware of a distant cousin living nearby who will probably take him in until arrangements can be made.

June 7:

         I suppose it’s not surprising that some in our group are not adapting well to the experience. Probably the worst case led to Milo Jenkins’ losing a kicking contest with one of the mules. Milo survived but did take a severe blow to the head causing him to claim the mule to be his new best friend and insist that they now take all of their meals together.

June 10:

         Tension began to mount as we got closer to the first stretch of Indian Territory. We were at first relieved to hear that this tribe, known as the Susuckees, does not take scalps, but our relief was short-lived when we learned they are major collectors of eyeballs.

June 25:

         Two weeks have passed peacefully as we’ve moved through Indian lands, and the outlook is somewhat optimistic based on a report yesterday from an old buffalo hunter who is allowed into the Susuckee camp to trade. The hunter says we owe our present good fortune to the chaos among the Indians brought about by the chief’s experimentation with war paint. It seems the chief was applying paint prior to a planned attack when he decided to apply it to his lips and above his eyes. Apparently, not only was he taken with the new look, but many of the other braves found him more attractive than their squaws and numerous fights erupted over whose turn it was to dance with him.

July 3:

         As we prepared for our July 4th celebration it was discovered that our food supply was low. At first, Tompkins, who has gained fifteen pounds on the trip, was accused of stealing, but his emaciated wife and child proclaimed his innocence and he was released. It turns out Otis Harrell has been sneaking  food out at night and leaving it for the coyotes, which he says is to repay them for all the food they provided while raising him. Later as he was being reprimanded he began snarling and became so uncontrollable that he was tied to a wagon wheel to prevent someone from being injured. Unfortunately, we were several hours into the next day’s journey before it was discovered that he was still strapped to the wheel. When freed he did seem calmer although now thinks he’s a tumbleweed.

July 15:

         The weather has been hard on us. It seems we are either broiled by the sun or drenched by thunderstorms. Yesterday’s storm was so violent with such severe thunder and lightning that it caused a stampede. With so much disorder it was impossible to prevent the panic; however, within about four hours after the storm ended all of the women had been rounded up and miraculously none were injured although several were heavily lathered from the run.

         High winds regularly buffet us and have blown away many of our possessions including the Alfords’ cat. Several days ago the pet did catch up with us, but seems to have acquired a permanent twitch and will not eat unless Mrs. Alford first tastes the food.

August 2:

         From out of nowhere it seemed, the Susuckees attacked us yesterday. As we scrambled for our guns our wagon master yelled, “Circle the wagons and shoot long before you see the whites of their eyes.”

         Then someone else screamed, “Kill the savages!” which resulted in our guide, Kino ‘the savage’ Hopkins becoming the first casualty. That unfortunate mistake probably saved us as the Indians became quite confused and picking up on our lead began firing at each other. To our advantage they were mostly excellent marksmen and wounded many of themselves before they wised up. As they retreated our women couldn’t help but admire their stylish use of war paint.

August 25:

         The strain of our long journey was beginning to tell. Last night there was near rebellion as several in the group accused our leader of incompetence, claiming that we must be lost because we had passed the same point three times in the last four days. It turned out he does not take criticism well and ended the discussion by making one of the critics dance around the camp by firing numerous shots at his feet. The reaction led many of the others to express how much they had enjoyed the opportunity to see some of the sights more than once.

September 28:

         Our arduous trek is finally at an end. Most of the group remained upbeat even after we discovered the land was mostly unsuitable for farming. They seemed to just accept it as a risk of buying land through the mail. Furthermore, it is speculated that heavy dynamiting may yet make some of the acreage tillable.

         The optimism was diminished two weeks later when a wagon train passed by headed back east and the people could be heard muttering  “Godforsaken,” “end of the earth” and “hell hole.”

Viewing Habits

A few years after the end of my football career I was serving in the Army, stationed in Germany. American football on TV was limited to one three-week-old game each Saturday, while back in the U.S. the number of college and professional games available on TV each week was increasing rapidly. When we returned home, starved for football I said goodbye to my wife and two children and began watching ten or twelve games a week. Several years into this schedule, I decided to alter my game watching pace for a couple of reasons: one, I was actually tiring of so much football and two, I was curious as to what my family did in the fall.

Not only were there more games they were lasting longer. My new plan was to drop pro ball entirely and choose a few college games which I would record and watch later at a rapid pace. The new system was working very well when my wife said that since the children were older and I was watching fewer games maybe she would join me.

When we sat down to watch the next game, she looked at her watch and said, “I thought the game started at 2.”

“It did,” I said.

“Well, it’s now 3.”

“I recorded it.”

“Why would we not watch it live?”

I said, “Because for various reasons, such as celebrations after every play, the games are becoming interminable.”

She said, “That’s ridiculous. The games may be lasting longer but it’s not because of celebrations. The players are just showing their enthusiasm and besides you once wanted to try it yourself.”

I corrected her, “I did not suggest celebrating. I had seen a player on TV urging the crowd to cheer by waving his arms and I simply thought it seemed like a good way to get everyone more involved.”

“But the coaches didn’t agree?”

“Well, I mentioned the idea only to Coach Ellington.”

“And?”

As I recall he said something along the lines of, “As your friend, who recruited you, let me just say that I’m pretty sure you will catch more hell than you can imagine if you suggest this to anyone else.”

Next she asked me why I had the sound muted and I told her it was because in my opinion there was too much chatter from the announcers.

She said, “I think it adds to the experience to be able to hear the comments.”

I said, “Okay, since I don’t hear well I’ll put the volume on low and you can hear everything that’s said including the hour and a half of commercials.”

I think she mumbled, “You don’t have to be snippy.”

The experience was now under her control and she was really getting into it.

“Wow, did you see that?” she yelled.

I said, “Yeah, he made three yards.”

“I’m talking about the left tackle’s block. If you had the volume louder, you would have known that.”

“I only watch the ball,” I told her.

She said, “You played quarterback and safety, surely you had to watch more than just the ball.”

I said, “Not really. As quarterback I handed the ball off or threw it, and as safety I went wherever the ball was going.”

Becoming frustrated, she argued, “Okay, but you said you were required to watch and analyze film when you were in college.”

“That’s actually the problem. I got really tired having to watch so much during the week and then to top it off I had to look at more on Friday nights before games at the hotel with Coach Royal while everybody else was watching the Flintstones.”

“The what?”

“It was a very funny program. Surely you must have seen it.”

Shaking her head she sighed and asked if I knew what an enigma was. When I said I didn’t, she told me to look it up because I was one.

We had finally settled into a routine that was somewhat acceptable to both of us when we received the news my nephew, who had just completed his college football career, was joining a professional team. I told her we would obviously now have to go back to watching a few pro games when his team was on TV. She said watching a couple of games wouldn’t be proper support: that we needed to get the NFL TV package so we could see every one of his games. When I informed her that I had friends who subscribed to the package and reported it cost a fortune, she said, “We’re not doing it to watch just anyone, it’s our nephew and besides how many years can he last?” (The answer was 13. To follow his career on TV cost me about what I made in my year of pro ball.)

When we went back to just college ball we did it with a new viewing arrangement: each with our own TV in different rooms. The problem with the plan was that I had the game recorded so was watching an hour behind her and even with the doors closed and my failing hearing her outbursts pretty well gave away the ending.

Sounds Like Fun

         I remember the first time I heard the term “bone crushing,” to describe what happens when a proper tackle or block is executed in football. I couldn’t help but be concerned because I assumed if there were bones being crushed in the sport I was participating in there was always the possibility they could be mine.

         As a very young kid playing football in the backyard I never worried about injuries. Everyone expected bruises and bloody noses, and I was even okay having the breath knocked out of me occasionally after I realized that not being able to breathe didn’t mean I was dead or dying.

         My nonchalant attitude toward injuries began to change when I attended summer camp as a ten year old. Most of the counselors were college football players and most of those had false front teeth. Because our Pee Wee team helmets didn’t include face masks and since I had hoped to have all of my own teeth past the age of twenty, I began using the hand I wasn’t carrying the ball with to protect my mouth. At the conclusion of my third practice our coach, who was an easy going man, asked me why I was holding my hand over my mouth most of the time. When I told him he said, “That’s somewhat understandable, however, it’s going to be very difficult for you to be an effective player without using both of your arms.”

I took my hand down and it was to be many nerve-wracking years before I was provided a helmet with a face mask.

         Of course the face is not the only part of the body that needs protection, but it’s impossible to place padding over every square inch. This was brought home to me when as a ninth grader I received what would be the scariest injury of my career. Late in a game I was hit so hard in the back I couldn’t continue to play. On the way home my parents asked me if I was okay and I told them my back was sore but would probably be fine.

         When we arrived at our house the first thing I did was go to the bathroom, but as I began to urinate I saw a solid red stream of blood leaving my body. Just before fainting I let out a loud scream which brought Mother and Daddy rushing to the bathroom. Seeing me lying motionless with blood all over the floor, they at first thought I had fallen and been knocked unconscious, but on further inspection realized what had happened and likely gagged and felt faint themselves. They helped me to the car and on the way to the hospital I remember thinking that at worst I was about to die or at best would never play football again; however, the doctor said I had sustained a minor kidney injury and would be able to play again in three weeks.

         The only lingering effect of the injury was that for the rest of the year whenever I was about to be tackled I instinctively turned toward the opponent to protect my back. Because of the teeth thing that was not my normal reaction and in fact was the opposite of what I had been doing. Thankfully, the next year I was provided with kidney pads and finally a face mask so that I could act more like a normal player.

         My other high school injury was not serious but did cause me more mental pain than physical. I broke a small bone in my hand in an out-of-town preseason scrimmage so not many people witnessed it, but everyone was curious as to how it happened. Surely, with a cast on my right hand there must be an interesting story to go along with it, they assumed.

          “Did it involve a terrible collision or a massive pile up?” They wanted to know.

         At first I was evasive, but finally when a group of classmates continued to press for an explanation, one of my teammates blurted out, “He just fell on it.”

         Confused, they asked, “You mean no one else was involved?”

         “Well, I was being chased and then I must have tripped on something,” I tried to explain.

         But they wouldn’t let it go, “So you actually stumbled and broke your own hand. Wow, man, how embarrassing. That’ll be a tough one to live down.”

         In college, I had two memorable injuries: a bad ankle sprain which kept me sidelined for several weeks and an eye problem which lasted only a short time but caused extreme stress. While playing defensive safety I was involved in a gang tackle which resulted in my getting a finger poked sharply into one eye, but causing loss of sight in both eyes. At that point, although Coach Royal had a strict rule that only he could call a timeout, it did cross my mind that temporary blindness might warrant an exception. Instead, I told the other defensive backs about my condition and that it shouldn’t last long but in the meantime if the other team ran a pass play they should scream “pass”. Of course on the next play I heard “pass, pass” but the only thing I could think to do was yell back, “Where, where?” No one heard me but fortunately the pass was incomplete. Then, right before the next play my vision returned but not in time to tell the guys who yelled again. After the play I told them I had regained my eyesight so they could stop screaming. The biggest and meanest of the two glared at me and said, “This is ridiculous. If you’ve just been clowning around, I’m gonna kick your butt.”

         Finally, there is one injury that is rarely discussed yet is experienced by virtually every athlete in all sports at every level. It is not long lasting but is very painful and also embarrassing. It involves a blow to either or both of the oval glands located in the scrotum and can occur even if the player is wearing the protective strap named after racehorse riders. It is very difficult for the injured player to avoid grabbing the affected area even in the presence of 75,000 people. When his teammates realize what has happened one will rush over and begin pushing his legs back and forth into his body. It is then that everyone except the very young girls and the very old maids understands what has happened and in unison let out a somewhat half-groan, half-titter.

Hoot. A character study.

Soon after I moved to Dallas in the early seventies I was introduced to Bill Hooton at a party. After the person who introduced us walked away, Bill said, “I hear you played for Texas in the early sixties.”

“Yeah.”

“Funny, I was at SMU at the time but don’t remember the name. Were you a starter?”

“Yes.”

“Were your teams any good?”

“One year we won the National Championship.”

My good friend Bill Hooton

“Well, I’ll be,” he said.

Later I said to someone I knew, “What’s with this guy Hooton?”

He said, “Oh, he’s a character. Always joking and clowning around.”

When I ran into Bill later that evening he started again, “It’s weird, I usually remember the top teams and players, but you just don’t ring a bell.”

I said, “Probably the reason you don’t remember is because when I was in school we never played SMU because they forfeited every year.”

He looked at me, puzzled for a second, then let out a big laugh and said, “You’re my kinda guy.”

I lived in Dallas for two years and we saw each other two or three times a week. We enjoyed each other’s company because we had similar senses of humor and interests.

After I moved away from Dallas, we stayed in close touch and traveled together with our wives. One of our favorite destinations was New Orleans. On our first trip there Bill’s wife Margaret said, “I know that he is extremely popular and it might be difficult to get in, but I would love to see Pete Fountain.”

We went to the club where Fountain was playing that night and since I knew how important it was to Margaret I told the guy at the door that it was not just necessary that we get in but that we get one of the best tables. Because the club was small, I knew that I needed to be aggressive so I showed the guy the large tip he was about to receive. (Hooton also saw the amount.) He then led us into the small room where we saw Pete and his audience of one couple. We were seated almost on the little stage with Fountain who appeared puzzled as to why my three companions were laughing as if he were performing a comedy act rather than playing the clarinet.

Hooton couldn’t resist. He leaned over and whispered, “Hey, moneybags, if you had given the guy at the door a little more, he would have probably kicked this other couple out and we could have had it totally to ourselves.”

I said, “I did that for your wife so you should reimburse me for part of it.”

He said, “You’re nuts. It was a boneheaded play. All you had to do was look around the corner, see that there was no crowd and put the tip back in your pocket.”

Later, as we were walking back to the hotel Bill suddenly stopped and said, “All right, here’s how you can recover some of that money you just pissed away. You see those boys ahead of us? They’re betting each other as to who can jump up and touch that sign.”

“So?”

“I can do it, but they won’t believe it. So bet each one two dollars and you can pick up a quick eight bucks.”

I said, “You’re quite a bit heavier than when you were the high jump champ.”

“I can’t jump six feet anymore, but I can still get up there,” he replied.

The boys looked at him and quickly said, “You’ve got a bet.”

Hoot backed off, trotted toward the sign and did no more than raise his arm as he ran under it.

I said, “That was pitiful you never even got off the ground.”

“I don’t know what happened. I must have tried to go off on the wrong foot,” he explained.

“Yeah, well you owe your hysterical audience eight bucks.”

On another trip to New Orleans, the two of us stumbled into a club late one night where the entertainment was a one man band. It was fascinating to watch as he had about four or five instruments going at the same time. We both thought he sounded great and not only bought his record but Bill decided to invite him to come to Dallas and perform at an upcoming event he was in charge of.

A few days after we had returned home, Bill called sounding flustered.

He said, “You’re not going to believe this but my copy of that guy’s record is warped.”

I had just finished listening to it, so I had to tell him, “No, it’s not. Unfortunately, that’s the way he sounds.”

Bill said, “How could we have been so wrong?”

I said, “Well it was late and we had been ….”

“Well, I damn sure can’t bring him here. I’d be laughed out of town.”

“Just don’t follow up with him.” I suggested.

“But, I think I may have given him my name and phone number,” he said.

A couple of weeks later I asked Hoot if he had heard from the guy.

“Yeah.”

“Was he disappointed?”

“Of course.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That my company was transferring me to Europe.”

On our second trip to San Francisco Bill said to the three of us, “We’re getting a limo. No cable cars and taxis this time.”

After we had been with our driver Remo, for an hour, he and Hoot had become such good friends that he said he had a surprise for us. He drove us to his house where he switched us from the limo to his 1968 Cadillac convertible.

He said, “This is what I drive ‘The Duke’ around in when he’s in town. That’s John Wayne you know.”

Bill said, “Yeah I know.” Pointing to me he said, “This is also Duke.”

“Well, I’ll be damn, then he’ll have to be ‘Little Duke’.”

I told Bill I didn’t want to be called “Little Duke!”

He said, “It’s cute. You’ll get used to it.”

The second night we were there a friend of Bill’s invited us to join him for dinner at what he said was his favorite restaurant for dinner. When we arrived at the restaurant, to our shock, Bill invited Remo to accompany us. Remo strongly declined and the three of us nodded in agreement, but Hoot would have it no other way.

After Hoot’s friend and his wife warmly greeted the four of us, he gave a confused look at the driver.

Bill quickly explained that this was our driver and good friend, Remo, who was doing a marvelous job of showing us around. His friend looked pale as Hooton insisted “we can always squeeze in one more.” After dinner, while the women went to the powder room and Remo went for the car, Bill’s friend, I suppose wondering if Bill had ever used a limo, explained that the drivers were not normally included in the meal, nor did they expect to be. He added rather forcefully, “It’s his job.”

Bill’s friend’s tutorial had no effect on his relationship with Remo. He continued to join us for every meal. The bro-mance only ended when, on our trip to the Napa Valley, Remo got lost and the car broke down and he didn’t have a solution for either.

Hoot and I had always done some business together over the years, but in 2000 we began to do a lot. One of the things we did early on was invest in Boone Pickens’ commodity hedge fund. We had both known Boone for a number of years and when we heard of the success he was having with his fund, we hastened to renew the relationship.

Even though we were short the typical minimum investment in the fund we persisted until finally one day Boone called his right-hand man, Ron, in and said, “These two guys wish they had a couple of million to invest in the fund but they actually have only a fraction of that. Would it screw everything up to let them in?”

Ron took a look at our sad, pleading faces and said, “I think we can figure something out.”

It was the most profitable whining we ever did and would also lead to a lot of fun times. We stopped by his office regularly, often to just hang out. Finally one day Boone asked, “What is it exactly that you guys do?”

Without hesitating, Hoot said, “We’re a very small ‘think tank’.”

After he was able to stop laughing, Boone said, “I don’t know about ‘think’ but small would seem to fit.”

We eventually began spending time with Boone outside of the office, accompanying him to his two favorite destinations – his ranch and games at Oklahoma State. One year we were invited to a surprise birthday party for him in California. Bill said, “We need to get him a gift.” I said, “Rather than get him something he won’t use, why don’t we just go congratulate him and pat him on the back?”

He said, “No, no, let me think about it.” He came back later and said, “I’ve got it. We’ll tell him we’re taking him out to eat at the restaurant of his choice every month for a year.”

I said, “Hoot, the present shouldn’t be something he will dread.”

Pouting some, he shot back, “Okay, since you don’t think he likes our company as much as I do, we’ll go the other way: we’ll promise to visit the office no more than twice a month.”

I said, “Hooton I think you’re finally on to something he’ll truly appreciate.”

One of our last get-togethers prior to Bill’s untimely death was at the golf course. Bill was an excellent golfer and we had played golf together a number of times but they were always social gatherings with friends with very little attention to golf.

While we were having lunch at his club one day, he looked out at the golf course and said, “With a little work there’s no reason in the world why you couldn’t be a decent golfer. Let’s go hit some balls.”

We went to the practice range where I hit balls for about thirty minutes until he told me to stop. Then he shook his head and said, “I was wrong, there are many reasons why this won’t work.”

Life’s a lot duller these days.

The Sign

Several years ago I received word that my old home town, Athens, Texas, was planning to put my name on the field house at the football stadium.  I had played football there in the late fifties when we had some successful teams.

         At their invitation I went back for a dedication ceremony at the first game of the following season.  Prior to the start of the game the Athens coach unveiled the sign with my name on it at the field house and presented me with a plaque from the Booster Club. (I later proudly displayed the plaque on my office wall until someone pointed out that “Booster” had been misspelled.) The coach made a nice speech, I said a few words and the crowd responded with a respectful round of applause.

         After the presentation I was asked to give the Athens team a pep talk in what was now the Duke Carlisle Field House. I emphasized to the boys how important it was to have pep and they appeared very motivated.

         In the years following the unveiling I took many people to see the Duke Carlisle Field House sign. Because I live in Mississippi that was not an easy thing to do, but I often traveled to Dallas and would tell whoever was riding with me that it would not be much out of the way to just “swing by” Athens. Obviously, that ruse would work only once, but I was able to round up a surprising number of passengers. In addition, when I was in Dallas I would tell friends there that I had heard there was an outstanding new restaurant in Athens that we should “run down” and try. Even after people quit riding with me I would tell everyone I ran into that if they were ever in that part of the state they would be foolish not to go by and take a look at it.

         Then a couple of years ago I got word that a new field house was being built. I was anxious to see how the sign would fit in with the new structure so I talked (actually paid) my brother to go with me to take a look. We were surprised to discover that the field house was almost totally glass. I told my brother that it might be difficult to combine the Duke Carlisle wooden sign with all of that glass so they would probably have to display it off to the side. He looked skeptical as if he might be thinking that the sign would look goofy propped up next to that beautiful glass building.

         Sure enough, I began to hear from my classmates living in Athens that the sign had disappeared. Finally, I heard from my friend, Jimmy Kittles, that he had cornered one of the school board members and asked if the sign would be going back up. Jimmy said the board member had nervously walked away, but yelled over his shoulder that “maybe something could be done.” However having once been the County Attorney Jimmy quickly arrived at a verdict of unlikely.

         I was pretty disappointed, but received little sympathy from my loved ones. My brother said, “Damn, you’ve taken everyone you know to see it and told hundreds others about it. I’d say you’ve gotten your money’s worth.”

         My wife was somewhat gentler; she said, “It was a very nice honor and ten years was a long time to get to enjoy it.”

         I told her, “You’re right, but it seems a shame for it to just be thrown away. Maybe, I could…..”

         She said, “Don’t even think about it.”

Me and Athens High School head coach Jim Wommack after the dedication ceremony. Such a great memory for me. Go Hornets!