THE LUNCHONETTE

Taking a drive and I see a banner on the side of the road – …“Luncheonette”…can’t help but  think of that word…something with an “Ette’ tacked to it refers either to the size of the mea,,,the place...or the size of the check…the latter more likely…Oh the idle mind is such a devil’s playground…and then I’m hungry for a burger from George & Mary’s. Luncheonette.

In every kid-life there is a luncheonette – or a local diner (a “greasy spoon”) as Grandmother Ethel would say…usually small in size and menu but big in the kid-life…

George and Mary’s…was our hangout…right across from the Bacon Jr. High a (named after a long-gone educator but a just a joke for many of its students who made on king sounds whenever anyone mention it.  And we were permitted, as trusted 8^th graders, a privilege the lowly lower grades didn’t have… to go there for lunch rather than to endure the dietitian delights served daily in the school’s basement cafeteria…which BTW no matter what it was always smelled like cheese!

But G&M served anything that could be fried…long before the Golden Arches popped up all over the world…the menu…great kid cuisine designed to taste good…not to reduce sodium intake…lower calories or fight global warming.

My regime changes daily…sometime a burger dripping with goodness other days I craved a cheese steak drowned in fried onions…my best buddy Bub preferred “subs” – which he devoured every day…I however with a more sophisticated appetite did not particularly enjoy ich meat swimming in vinegar and oil…I found that this seemed to overpower the continental flavors of the Italian lunchmeat,  .  (Why is it that almost everything in life that tastes good is now considered bad for you…and now kids must subsist on a baked burger without meat…I feel sorry for them … but I digress)

Each lunch the place was wall to wall with hungry kids JUKE Box who only had 20 minutes to eat and make it back to classes before the late bell tolled.  But George, the owner, wrapped in his white apron and presided over the chaos with great skills taking orders and shouting them out…even though Mary was only standing a few feet away…(this routine I observed was to xxx that everything was “cooked to order” as they say in the trade…actually, Mary started cooking burgers two hours before our lunch period or half of us would have gone back to school hungry.

The lunch battle was played out Monday through Friday – 180 school year battles of the burger and shakes.  But on Friday and Saturday nights the placed changed dramatically from a food joint to a “gambling den” for in the rear of the store was a magnificent flashing, dinging pinball machine – presided over by Brad the grandson of George and the all-time South Millville pinball shark!  His was always the high score and initials that was announced to the regulars on the machine backboard – this was a feature of most of these very expensive and exotic machine.  And there was always glowing pictures of a theme of the machine which always featured a buxom women smiling suggestively at player.

When Brad played none of our gang was permitted to talk…or we would get a withering stare from the perpetual champion of the game.  He was a master at flipping the flippers at the perfect moment to control where his ball would go and he never “titled” the machine like must of us…this the frustrating mechanism that immediately shut the game down if the player was trying to force a ball into one of the dingers or big score hole in the deck which cause the machine to come alive with music and ringing bells.  For two nickels two could play against each other – the challenger providing the coins and Brad playing free forever…he rarely had to fork up 5 cents as he never lost in our collective memory.  Sometimes however, he did buy his opponent a cherry coke as a token – his was a benevolent master.  (And he always paid George his grandpa for all his drinks but never was charged by Mary…his grandmother. George was known for to be thrifty and that’s why I always wanted his wife Mary to dip my ice cream cones)

I never came close to beating Bradley…I contended that the machine was designed for right handed flippers and I was lefthanded for everything.  Brad just smiled when I said this every time I lost.  But then one Friday night…

With 5 pals as my witness I tied Brad’s score for the first time…he was shocked and demanded a re-match.  And so a South Millville legend began…

Brad’s brother was on the payphone telling the rest our gang to hurry over as history might be made tonight.  Brad bought me a coke…he always waited between games because he said it gave the tilt device a chance to cool down.  Brad made a surprising move – he said, “Let’s put some money on this…and winner takes all - he put a dollar on the counter (big money in those days).  I in of their own. 

Brad went first an scored big.  I followed and after the first ball I was down by 5000 points – a miniscule difference in the high scoring system of pinball. By the end of the 4^th ball we were tied at 38,000 points each – everyone in the place was now gathered around the machine, Mary even had unplugged the Jukebox during a song even George was watching…he too felt that this could be a monumental night for his luncheonette…for is family.

I sent my last ball up the shut and played it a long time as sweat poured down my face…Brad as usual just patiently and coolly waited his turn…he was confident in his long practiced skills.  Finally my last chance dropped into the depths of the machine and my score posted – 56,757.

Brad ball began its’ journey with dings and bells galore.  He was playing the machine like a virtuoso plays a Stradivarius…and then it happened as he finesse his ball against a bumper – the machine stopped TILT the sign blared – he stood looking at the machine transfixed in shock.  He overplayed the game and lost to the dreaded default sensor not to me –  Brad left without saying a word. 

 This night would go down in our kid-lore as the night Brad tilted…not the night Cal beat the master – but for me it was a win and I would take it and his buck too.

THE GAME

College football on TV,  a Saturday in autumn with a crystal blue sky and the panoply of color in a stadium that is “striped”.  Ah yes, a scene that would rival the Roman circus and make a gladiator weep I think…and then I am getting ready for a big contest in 1957…

Orange and blue scarf – check

Thunderbolt hat – check

Shakers – check

Confetti – Check
Noise Maker – Check

I have dressed like a matador donning a “suit of lights” and check myself in mom’s big mirror - I am ready for thee game. 

Saturdays in the fall meant Thunderbolt football for practically our whole town.  So many came out that we needed “reserved” seats - my dad bought three at the drugstore early in summer -  so we would get “a good spot” he said.  And we did.  Our's were on the 40 yard line near the top of the bleachers.

My dad would tell mom each year, as we climbed the wooden stands, “Margaret, Vineland got a real concrete stadium out of the WPA, the best thing about the depression…but Millville no way, too poor to do that…"  Dad hailed from Vineland and could not help rubbing it in. 

So here we sat with great anticipation on splintery boards with a strong wind blowing up our backsides.  Waiting for our young "gladiators" to enter the arena.   

Today was Bridgeton, the first in the county Championship Series - this was big.  But the next game was the biggest game of all – arch rival Vineland on Turkey Day – the long awaited contest that earned bragging rights for a year.

The Thunderbolts,  just 29 players on the squad after a tough season was playing much bigger teams in this series.  To a great cheer our boys ran onto the field and started their warm up. Then became very quiet as the Bulldogs took the whole field.  All 102 players jogged around the entire perimeter of Wheaton Field chanting and dancing to a rhythmic drum beat – a dramatic entrance designed to intimidate – and it did make our small guys look even smaller.  

Bridgeton had dressed every male they could muster, from 6^th grade up, for the game.  They were messing with our team's heads right at the start.

However by half time – the scoreboard read – Millville 24 – Bridgeton 7.  We were not to be daunted by this team’s show of force.  We had very tough blue collar kids.

The halftime “show” began as our band – even smaller than our team marched on the field to perform their weekly salute to something or other after a week of tough practice.

Mister Smerski the “band teacher” looked like a “prussian general" in his well-worn white uniform with the orange and blue trim as he strode onto the field followed by his music makers.

His ensemble was heavy in brass - 4 trumpets and 2 trombones, followed by 2 snare drums, a bass drum, and a triangle player – that was it!  

One couldn't help noticing that only one of the marchers was actually “in step” with their leader.  The others seems to be marching to the sound of their own drummer, as they say - "but they try hard," as my mom said each week.

Mr. Smerski, had always dreamed of leading the Philadelphia Symphony but this didn't happen and he had to settled  waving a white baton before a bunch of higher schoolers after he graduated from an academy of music – accordion players rarely make it to the big time and he had to settle like many of us who dream dreams that can't come true.  

His current state made him a stern task master as he barked out marching orders and not react to the sour notes that escaped from several of trumpets.  (By the way, playing a brass instrument in a brisk fall wind is not an easy task since a strong gust can sometime cause the instrument to play the player instead.) hazzard.

This week the band formed a blob on the 50 yardline that was supposed to look like a turkey for their salute to Thanksgiving. 

"Maestro Smear's" as his student called him behind his back, and musical minions all donned homemade paper Indian war bonnets.  (And yes we use that word, not Native Americans in these not so politically correct days)  

Two of the cheerleaders pranced on the field, one wearing a big black hat and the other a long gray dress – apparently their vision of our “Puritan ancestors”.  The band broke into the only Thanksgiving song they could muster:  Over the river through the woods...da da da...My mother gaily sang along with the band. 

The reverberating sounds fades and the “band” marched off.  This signaled the time for me to get a couple of  which I lovingly called the PTA snack bar hot dogs.  A football game would not be complete without one of these mighty burp masters swimming in yellow mustard and a dab of bright green relish that always looked “dyed” to me.

They were 50 cents each.  

The first one I inserted into my mouth like a sword swallower.  Gone.  The second I would make last for at least a minute, taking time to savor the delicate flavors that were wrapped in a rubbery bun that had been on the cold counter for a few hours.

I made it back as the second half began – mother asked, “How was the hotdog?  and Did you get a chance to go to the restroom?”  

For some reason my mom was always concerned with my bodily functions. She seemed constantly worried that if I forgot to “go” something awful would happen.  And so I had learned to always say "yes" to her queries – whether I did go or had not gone. 

The game played on.  

We won 45 to 7 - As the last whistle blew the last bits of confetti was tossed and the stands emptied with happy fans chatting about the next game and the odds that this year would be “our year”.  And I went home with red cheeks – “wind burn” my mom called it.

Our gladiators had lived to fight another day and for today all was right with my world.

THE LAST GAME

     Watching football with my son I tend to comment a bit too much and watch too little – I chat about how I played rather than about the game we watch – I know this interferes with his intense concentration on “his” college team. The conversation usually goes, “…Jon we were taught to tackle, not hold on every play…there’s pass interference on every play…face mask, what’s a face mask?  I had a single bar and that I had to buy myself when I chipped my front tooth…”  “Yes dad,” is his usual reply.

    Then I’m back in the MHS locker-room getting ready for my last high school football game.  It’s Thanksgiving morning and time for one of the oldest high school rivalries in the nation – the annual Vineland vs. Millville game for the county championship.  This last game was the big game of the season each year no matter what the records were for either opponents.  And the outcome would be discussed at Jim’s Lunch all year until next November. And much had happened until this day for me, for the team.  A day that we all had been waiting years for had come.

     Most of the game of football is never seen by the spectators – it takes place in grueling practices that seem will never end.  Matter of fact, the game is the easy part of the sport.  And our coach “Coach Barb” as we called him was famous – John Barbose was his name and he is credited with inventing the “dealing defense” which was a series of “stunts” designed to fool the opposing team as they played against a myriad of looks and players moving in and out of their usual positions. 

      When we lost on Saturday, we all dreaded Monday.  It would not be a day off watching films.  It would be hours of hitting and then more hitting after that.  Coach had a couple of spotlights (this was before high school has regular night games) attached to the press box at the top of the home bleachers.  They provided just enough light so that we could practice well into the early dark of late fall and for him and his coaches to see every mistake as we scrimmaged – the varsity against the scrubs who were constantly trying to take our starting status away from us.  The hitting was intense and a matter of fact I got a broken nose from one of my competitors during a “live” scrimmage.  The blood flowed freely and soaked my shirt front.  My line coach Ole’Rile noticed it and cheerfully reported, “Iszard has the lineman’s badge of courage…way to go Cal!”  I cannot repeat what I thought at that moment.

      This prologue of pain ended for me on our fourth game of the season.  This was a big game and were told that there were several big college scouts in the stands watching both undefeated teams battle.  We kicked off to undefeated Haddonfield a much bigger richer school with a much bigger team dressed all in black.  The ball went to their star player on the run and he flew straight up the middle of the field as I ran full tilt directly at him – I hit him with a textbook tackle and he fumbled the ball, but Haddonfield recovered.  On the first play from scrimmage he ran a dive play  and I was there to meet him – another crunching tackle ensued and he fumbled a second time.  I saw the ball right beside me and I stretched out my arm to snag it just as a big pile of linemen scrambled for the ball.  I was pushed in one direction and my right arm was twisted in the opposite direction.  As the dust cleared, I realized that I had a dislocated shoulder; it was bent at a very unnatural angle.  I spent the rest of Saturday in a strange hospital and my football days seemed at an end after miles of wind-sprints, thousands of push ups, hours of grueling practices and sprains – all over in one play.  After waking from the operating room, I found my arm totally immobilized and pined to my chest with yards of elastic.  On the ride home in an ambulance that coach B had sent from home – I was depressed because the emergency room surgeon had informed me that my playing days were over; that it would be weeks of therapy to get the use of my arm back. I thought how this could have been worse - and the football spirits that I was left handed and I promised myself that my senior year wasn’t going end like this.

     After “recuperating” for just one day I surprised everyone by going to school Monday morning as usual. 

I got a lot of attention in the halls and that afternoon, I went to the locker room and “dressed” for practice.  I put on my jersey over my trussed-up wing and no pads.  This took awhile and the locker room was empty - I took a deep breath and joined my team for calisthenics that began each practice.  For the rest of the season I didn't miss a practice as I ran to stay in shape.  I learned the new plays watching from the sideline.  I used to hate practice now I longed to get into the mix again.

      After sitting on the bench for the next 4 games with the team it was our bye week before the big Turkey Day game and I paid a visit to our coaches office.  “Coach B, I’ve want to play just one more play in the Vineland game,” I whimpered and then broke down in embarrassing tears.  Coach B’s eyes filled up too.  And he said,"I’ll try to work something out with the Principal but I need to talk to the team physician about this before I can do anything".  

Several days later he sent for me and handed me a $275.00 shoulder brace and said, “I got permission from everyone that you could play but just on offense (in those days using our hands was a penalty); your be our starting right tackle.”

     I thank him; I cried again and so did he.

     I must admit that I was scared and not sure I could make needed blocks with my arm encased in a very heavy brace, but I was determined to try.  A week later after trying some hitting in practice I ran out for our first play in the game and to my surprise Rob our captain pointed to the stands behind me and I saw people standing and cheering for me.  The first play I took a big hit from a giant tackle but I made my block and we gained a first down – the rest of the game is a hazy memory. 

      To my surprise Coach let me play every down on offense.  I just wanted to taste this last game and I got it all to savor for years to come.  I remember just one other play when I felt very vulnerable when one of Bub’s passes was intercepted and my automatic reaction was to run to tackle the running player.  As I sped down the field, I remembered right before my impact with the runner that I only had one arm.  We slammed together, and he went down as I saw small stars for a moment.  

     But I had made my last hurrah. We didn’t win that day; 6 – 6 tie.  But I felt like a winner.  I had played my best and would have a great memory of that day. I could have Aunt Mary's turkey and ravioli in peace.

      Months later in June, as is the custom, I had my new yearbook autographed by many friends and teachers.  

Coach B wrote, "Good luck, Cal Iszard the bravest man I have ever coached.” 

MY BIG CHANCE

My son and I watched the Super Bowl this year long distance.  We live 20 miles apart and when not together we watch games and text some banter back and forth.  

His sports knowledge is uncanny - he knows the stats, details and even the mascots of most college and pro teams, in most sports – as for me I know what  game is on and that’s about the most detail I want to get into.  Usually I will make an observation that is 189 degrees off the mark according to him and the TV commentators.

Watching another boring Bowl we chatted mainly about trivialities along with the announcers who were digging deep into their files trying to keep the audience interest going…and I drift off to my own sporting days…

My kid friends devoured the daily sports page with an intensity that I saved for a good book.  They knew Willie May’s lifetime batting average in the minors no less.  I knew of Willie.  David, my close pal, could spout the entire lineup of his beloved LA Dodgers team.  My favorite team was the one currently on our new 21 inch Motorola. 

I don't think I had a "normal" boy-kid mind.

Never did get into sports news – mostly spending hours absorbing and discussing our boy's games played by men seemed so irrelevant to me.  

There were so many obscure facts reported during a game: “Third baseman Willy Jones has played in the rain at least 234 times in his career,” Byrum Somm reports during a Phillies game – ho hum.  Wilt the Stilt’s shoe size is 17 double wide.   Eagles great lineman Joe Bednarik’s number of consecutive tackles were...just like Joe's hard hits, the stats were forever coming – and forever boring, to me that is.  

I had many more significant subjects to think about – like why didn’t folks recognize that Clark Kent was never around when Superman nabbed another villain.  Or that most of the songs on the radio made no sense.

But don't get me wrong, I played most sports offered in school – I just care about how I played them not how other people played.

Baseball!  The best game ever for me.  Like no other game it had a mystical appeal - the true and first "mind game" long before the term was coined.

Football? A game for the beast living in most of us and I played because I was big and expected to do so.

I was pretty good in all sports except tennis? It took much too long. And I was a really lousy basketball player – mainly because as a chub I hated running. I took Satchel Page advice, one should only run when it's absolutely necessary.

In many games played I had only one "defining moment" in basketball.  That one sport's moment when  all the planets aligned - the moment when chance puts one in the coveted, oft desired position to win a game!

I played for the Bacon Junior High School Red team. 

We had four teams playing after school – the Red, Blue, Green and Purple teams.  Our clever team names were derived from the color of the  t-shirts we were loaned at sign-up.  Most guys traded for their favorite number - if one had a favorite, as for me I took what was tossed to me and let the barter go to the real sports fans.  

And we had cheerleaders with clever cheers too like: “Go Red Go”!

At the end of our 6 game season Mr. Scargle, gym teacher and coach of all the Jr. High teams - boys and girls picked an All-Star team to represent Bacon in a tournament - one game against the Millville High School Freshman at the Mecca of hometown sports, Millville High. 

To my great surprise I was picked.  
I think mainly because I was taller than every kid in the school.  

Little did we all know that the actual purpose of this annual contest was to give the high school coaches a look at next year’s crop of potential players.  If we had of known this our nerves would have been shot along with our skills – playing the bigger kids was tension enough.

At our first and only practice together Coach tossed us our all All-star game shirts – Brown and Yellow, our fairly dull school colors.  These were “real” basketball uniform shirts, not just colored t-shirts.  We were all impressed with this step up.

We quickly pulled them over our heads – mine reeked of ancient sweat.  I immediately wondered how many games it had weathered without being washed.  

I guess the school didn’t want them to wear out.

The night of the big game I took my usual place for basketball – the bench.  And frankly hoped I wouldn’t get in the game and embarrass myself with a dumb pass or air ball. 

Jump Ball! And the contest began.   And to my surprise at the half it was very close – the freshman only led us by 5 points.  So far I had sat doing my pretend play-by-play radio announcing and was very pleased that I had been overlooked when coach sent in fresh blood.  

The second half was fast, furious and rough – a brand of ball we juniors highers had never played before.

After we had played three 8 minute quarters the score was 25-29 in the Freshmen's favor.  We were close and had not been embarrassed – but I tended to think that the frosh were taking it easy on us and confident that they could put us away in the 4^th when they needed to turn up their play.

The last quarter quickly ran it course and with just a minute to go to everyone’s surprize – especially our opponents the score was tied.  

Then it happened.  

Our best player was tumbled on a lay up and twisted his ankle.  He hobbled to the bench.  Coach scanned the three bench warmers pondering just who to send in for the last minute - that couldn't do too much damage.  

I tried to be invisible, trying not to make eye-contact. Then a drama unfolded.  Coach bellowed, “Iszard get in the game.”  I intelligently reacted – “Huh?”  Unstuck my butt from the bench and entered the fray – it was hard to believe I was in the game – I told myself, "Cal, run up and down a couple of times and don’t mess up".

The clock ticked.   The Frosh were quickly fouled and  made only one shot and led by one.  

I sprinted to my place to the right of the basket.  (In my day there was no 3-second rules. We could stand anywhere we wanted)  I hoped my teammates would not notice me.  15 seconds were left on the clock as we brought the ball down the court. The Frosh played a full court press for the first time.

And then it happened.  David passed me the ball! 
I look at it as if it were a foreign object.  

Fate had put me ina  position to win this game and I didn’t even have to dribble – just turn and make an easy shot.  I had read about these great moments  – the game slowed down in my head.  The noise of the crowd faded.  I moved in slow motion with total concentration on my target - the orange rimmed basket grew into a gigantic target.  A frosh dove toward me – but I put the shot up before he could foul me. The crowd was silent. The flight of the ball took forever to the backboard and bounced to the basket.  This could be the first time the Junior High won the All-Star game - ever.

The ball rolled on the rim.  Then around the rim a second time as both teams and a gym full of parents held their collective breath.  It started to traverse a third time.  It seemed to refuse to drop in the net.   

And then it stopped. It died and sank to the floor not through the basket.  The air horn blasted and the game was over – we had lost it by one point.

And in that few seconds I had lost my moment of fame.  Lost because fate had the ball fall to the right instead of left.  I lost being carried around the court by my team members.  I lost getting my picture in the daily paper holding the tarnished trophy.  The standings would be recorded for posterity - High School 23 straight wins to Bacon's zero.  Another stat for the ages.

Looking back this was truly a great lesson.  

In a brief roll of a ball I saw that in "real life" there were very few story-book endings accompanied by the roar of the crowd and a triumphant music track.

And that the coveted stats of sports - many times were just a listing of how blind chance had made some heroes and others losers for a sport eternity.  

I never played an organized basketball game again.  Chance made my decision to stick to baseball.

Thunderbolt Camp

When ever Labor Day rolls around my thoughts wander back to Camp Hollybrook and my days of sweat and toil in the waning summer summer - and then I am back at football camp.

In my day the team could "voluntarily" get together for conditioning - but not with the coaches until September 1.  This year it would have been a real horror as Labor Day was the latest it can be - which meant 7 full days at football camp, 7 days of heat, hurt and exhaustion - oh yeah, and fun I would trade a bunch or two to do all over again.

All summer the Coombs Dairy calendar in the kitchen clicked off the days until today.  We had been getting together at the high school field to run and then run again since right after the 4th.  The week before camp began a white car would cruise by near the field and our captain would jog by - and after that we would have a bunch of new plays on a legal pad to practice.  But I would never testify that it was our head coach bending the rules just a bit.

We ran the plays and ran them, until it got dark.

The day came and with my father's old army surplus duffle bag I waited for the yellow school bus.  We rode in silence like prisoners going to the prison farm south of Millville - we all knew that camp meant two a day hours of workouts on the steaming Hollybrook weed and rock laden field  = 7 days.

We arrived and the varsity stowed there socks and jocks at the "Lodge", a long building which doubled as classroom, dormitory and training table.  The scrubs marched out to the open air cabins in the woods.  We took our seats - lineman with lineman, backs with backs and the kickers trying to decide just where they should sit.

After a few minutes the coaches arrived for our first "chalk talk" - Riley made us laugh and talked about how we were going to beat Vineland this year. Zingler was a new teacher/coach and he talked about how he heard about Vineland all his life.  And then "Barb" (Barbose) the winning-est head coach in Millville's history stood and his cold stare bored into each of us - I immediately got goose bumps.  As a senior I had heard this speech 2 summers in a row and I knew what was coming and that it would still get to me..

He began after a long dramatic pause, "Gentleman we've got our work cut out for us...we got to work hard as there is little time to prepare for our first game...you should be proud and honored to be be a Thunderbolt...to be invited to football camp...nobody has made this team, every job is available...listen to your coaches...

The speech rang the open rafters of the lodge.  I wanted to run outside and hit a halfback.

Barb closed by saying how lucky we were to have this great place to practice and we should keep it spotless...clean...and leave it as we found it - Now get on your full gear -  we are going to see who is in shape AND HIT A BIT.

Our uniforms and pads were waiting, we dressed and filed out.  Barb led the way.  As he stepped through the screen door he squashed a jelly doughnut that sprayed its red sticky stuff all over his shoes and hit Riley in the back.  Yikes, this is not going to end well I immediately thought.

Coach erupted - (expletives omitted by editor) Hit the trees and start running until the (expletive) idiot who dropped this crap confesses to being the (expletive) slob - we are not slobs we are Thunderbolts. GET RUNNIN!"  We started laps around the perimeter among the cacti and sticker laiden field that was shimmered with heat waves.  It was about a quarter of mile for each lap.

One lap...two...ten...NO BODY FESSED UP...but Eddy, a senior halfback's face was grim... and white as a sheet.  20 laps...25 laps...still no confession was offered.  The class me  started to grumble.  "(Expletive, expletive) ...He'll make us run till we drop - somebody has got to take the the blame and punishment!

Now there was one giant freshman named John with us at camp.  A raw, but tall end cruit that Barb had invited - a rare invite for sure.  Our captain ran up along side of him as he lumbered around the sweltering field - "John, you tossed the bun, go tell him now!"  "BUT...but...ah", he whined.  "Do it or we will kill you," and there was a chorus of curses from the panting joggers all around him.

On the next lap he did it.  He did it.

Barb shout, "STOP RUNNING YOU BUMS! What do you think I'm stupid...I know you forced him to take the rap.  OK, I made my point about respecting this place and being sportsman, not slobs,,, gentlemen - let's get busy.  Backs with me.  Lineman over to the sled with Rile."

And so it was over and we went to work for two hour in the blaze.  The freshman made the team and immediately was accepted as one of our mates no matter that he was a frosh or how many catches he would make.  And as for Eddy, he didn't say much for two days.

Guilt is sometimes harder to bear than a hundred laps in the sun.

THE ZIT

     Looking through the hundreds of photos I found in every cranny from my mom's house which was just sold. (She had 28 photo albums of mainly the same shots over again - as the years flowed by.  Me by the Christmas Tree. Me building a snowman.  Me going back to school...me a life in Kodachrome.)
     And then I saw it - the most embarrassing photo of my whole life (even worse than that New Year's Eve party in '76 when "streaking" was in fashion) My 7th grade R.M. Bacon traditional school picture, and 8x10 in faded sepia.
     Each year every kid would bring home an announcement that heralded the big day when all would dress up and look their best.   And each year my mom bought the "deluxe package deal": An 8x10; 2 5x7's; a class shot and the 20 wallet size close up of my face.  Preparations for this torture began a Saturday before when I was required to get a haircut and mom started to plan my wardrobe for the ordeal of smiling on command before the massive camera of the always grumpy photographer (he obviously had dreamed of shooting gallery-hanging art prints - but was relegated to a life of shooting fidgeting kids who all seemed to have wooden faces.)
    Photo day mom made sure my Sunday School shirt was pressed.  My dad helpped me tie a tie because even though I had had dozens of tie tying lessons I still ended up with the wide end shorter than the narrow one.  Each year I was glad I wasn't a parochial school kid who did this ever day.
      And then it happened!
     As I was brushing my teeth I looked in the mirror - Oh no...! A giant, red and beaming pimple had appeared overnight on my forehead front and center.  I never had had a pimple even though my teenage hormones were moaning all over my body.  A blemish, the dreaded malady that struck some of my friends and now me.  Would there be more?  How could I literally face anyone in my class.  I would hear the comment, "What's that on your face?" (Giggle - misery loves company).  Being thirteen was hard enough without this.  As every kid my age, we thought the world was constantly noticing us = judging how we fit in the tribal dance of growing up.
      I came to the kitchen table for my mandatory breakfast.  My mother insisted I eat eggs in a daily changing variety of form.  Just the thought of a runny yolk now makes me gag.  As I sat she asked, "What that on your forehead...oh no not on picture day!"  She was a master of turn on my self-conscious valve.  I immediately thought I could feel the thing throbbing like a pulse.  She continued, "Now don't pick at it...you'll just make it worse!"  I could fathom how it could get any worse but I knew that digging at it would just make glow more.  
      As I force fed myself the heated chicken embryo she left and came back with her some of her make up.  "Now sit still I'll fix it."
After the procedure she gave the compact with the mirror.  She fixed it alright - now instead of a red blemish it looked like I had a wad of brown dirt on my forehead.  Next, I tried to work up a good excuse for staying home.  I generated a good cough but before I could say I didn't feel well mom barked - "You can't miss today, it's picture day...if you are absent you will ruin my memory of your 7th grade year."  So I gave up my fake cold and got my books together for the walk to school.  
      As I did every day I met a series of other students that one by one made our way the 10 blocks to our school. (In those days kids actually walked places, even in the wind and rain and especially without fear of being kidnapped or worse.)  I walked with my baseball cap pulled down as far as I could over the bump, so far that I could only see the feet of Warren walking in front of me.  I trusted that he looked both ways when we crossed the streets on our photo-day pilgrimage. 
      All morning we all waited to be called for our visit to the nurse's room now turned into the photographer's studio for the day complete with background drape taped to the walk and two very large ligts focused on a tall stool.  We waited outside in a line in the hall with Mrs. R. reminding us to be quiet; it's a mandate that school hallways must be quiet while students cram their craniums.
One at a time my classmates entered the room, mostly all with a look of trepidation - they all knew that they had to produce a smile that their mother's would deem appropriate for a young scholar.  Mother's awaited the school picture with anticipation much like they felt dreaded delivery of the report card every quarter of the term. 
     My turn came.  I sat and Mr. PhotoMan fixed my tie, turned me a bit on the stool and then said, "Oh my that's a big one on your forehead...let me change the light some, so it doesn't cast such a big shadow".  And then for the next few minutes he moved me, the stool, the camera up and down.  And said that he did the best he could all things considered.  "Don't worry," he said, "Your Mother will look it anyway."  He crouched behind his camera and said smile...Smile...SMILE  I tried but my mouth would do it. Finally, he said that this will have to do.  "I have 200 other kids to shoot today. And click and complete mortification ended.
     But it wasn't over. because for the next 20 years every time mom took a picture of me - graduation, marriage, holiday visits she would say, "Nice picture  - and you don't have a zit on you face."

SOMETIMES...

Sometimes it’s a song I hear –

“Memories light the corners of my mind
Misty water-colored memories of the way we were

Scattered pictures of the smiles we left behind
Smiles we gave to one another for the way we were

Can it be that it was all so simple then
Or has time rewritten every line…”

Millville Memories flow "like rivers in my mind"

...and for no reason at all…Like this memory of a day at Lake Nummy floats into my mind – I guess because it's summer again?

I feel its dark cold “cedar water” which always tinted my bathing suit orange and mom saying, “Don’t worry it won’t hurt you, it washes out!  And I wondered if she meant my trunks or out of me? 

This “lake” wasn’t really a lake – it was a spring fed pond of freezing water…all summer long and the best place to be when it was near hundred degrees in our house without air conditioning.  Central air?  Only in Sears and the movies, when it was working.

Then this stream of consciousness jumps to another summer long ago…

I’m riding my bike around the block pretending I am a Vineland Speedway stock-car driver…I’m Lou Mood in my baby blue ‘47 Ford…good old number lazy 8 on the car door sideways!…all re-painted and de-dented after a crash on the first turn last weekend.  

I’m, of course, in the lead but being hotly pursued by the infamous “Sliding Lou” Taznatti in his ominous black and red ’49 Chevy…but I’m holding the lead on our newly oiled road through the woods.  Replaying last Friday’s race.

Many Fridays we all would go to the Vineland track and sit for the 4 heats and then the big final…and I would wave the checked flag from the souvenir shop as the winner crossed the line.  The roar of these “soaped up” cars without mufflers rattled us in the stands…and each week on the way home we would stop at the drive-in for a black cow ice cream sodas.  I feel the sweet fizz…

And then another memory of a hot evening at the Legion Marti-Gra comes on the screen of my mind…the night my grandfather was asked to stop tossing the softballs into the peach baskets…I couldn’t hold any more stuff animals…I hear the Legionnaire beg, “Come on Herb leave some for the other kids…Pop had long arms and just about dropped those balls in the basket…I smell the popped corn…the sweetness of blue or pink cotton candy…hot dogs, a delicacy, better than Beluga caviar for a nine year old!

If we had the chance to do it all again, tell me, would we… You betcha!