The Dentist

“Don’t forget your toothbrush,” was usually my final reminder after “hope you packed enough underwear” whenever I left for a trip to any place that was more than 5 miles from home!  I think of this because my son and his family are taking a weekend away…and then I think of the dentist.

When I became old enough to brush by myself my mother seemed to be obsessed with my teeth.  I started did the standard routine of brushing in the morning and before bed that lasted for the next 70+ years.  She saved all of my “baby teeth” and kept them in the metal file box under her bed that preserved all of her important papers, certificates and paid bills - apparently they were for the Calvin Museum when I became famous. (Fame for me was one of her expectations for my future).  When the last of my “milk-teeth” was snacthed from under my pillow by the tooth fairy her concern increased to preserve my second set of permanent chippers.  She regularly warned me that candy would “rot” my teeth - especially chocolate bars which was a constant kid need for me and my gang. I think this was partly due to the fact that my grandmother put her teeth in a jar of water when she went to bed.  My mother many times reinforced the fact that Nanny had not teeth but she had “her own teeth” and did so until her earthly brushing were done. I was glad she didn't have someone else's teeth.

When most of my second teeth were in place she started taking me to the dentist every six months, another habit I continue as I course through my journey.  And I dreaded this day - the appointment was circled on our kitchen calendar so we wouldn’t forget.

Dr. Abrams was the maven of pain. His office was above the “5 & 10” store on High street - Millville’s downtown.  We always had an appointment on a Saturday afternoon which canceled my weekly double feature at the movies - this made it even more depressing.  I say we because she always attended my tortures and waited for a report on my oral cavity condition.  To get to Dr. A’s office we had to climb a creaking ancient stairway of foot-worn steps which was for me a “dead man walking” occasion akin to the movie that gave me the creeps.  Over the years since I remember the smell - which all medical facilities seem to have - a combination of the aroma of alcohol and waxed floors.  My first sniff made me start to sweat.

Making matters worse Dr. A always greeted us like long lost relatives.  He bubbled over with joy and always remarked - “Marge, Calvin has grown a foot since last time - ho ho ho.  And behind him I could see in his antiseptic dungeon the chair of doom with it’s many gadgets surrounding it. Once I settled into the chair went up down up again and then back the doc began to poke my teeth with a metal hook.  I waited literally with “baired breath” to hear him sigh “Oh My.”  This sent shivers because he found a cavity.  I could her Mom mutter “Oh no…”  And I wondered if she said that because of my condition or she was thinking that my bi-annual visit fee just went “ca-ching”.  Dr inserted a six inch long needle in my gums and in a minute the whole side of my head was numb and drool started running down my chin.  He handed me a tissue and stared the filling that would save me from my grandma’s fate.  He lowered a complicated arm that drove the drill and jammed something in my mouth to keep it open which immediately triggered the gag reflex. (Today’s dentist use a high speed self contained device in my early days this was a mini-version of an oil well drill that was powered by a humming set of pulleys and springs.  And the grinding sound began accompanied by the scent of something on fire…this finally induced a slight need to faint.  What really got me was that he hummed during the whole process with a learning glint in his eye - he enjoyed his work.  He also narrated each step everytime I endured one of his mining expeditions well into my late teens.  When he proudly announced that he was forcing “real silver” into the whole I knew the end was near - and not too soon.  My face would be dumb for another hour or two.  Mom always bought me an ice cream sunday before we went home.  And she always told me that the “slight discomfort” was for my own good.  Looking back I believe now that she was right.

I don’t keep my teeth in a glass when I retire for the night.

Go Fly a Kite

With tuppence for paper and strings

You can have your own set of wings

With your feet on the ground

You're a bird in a flight

With your fist holding tight

To the string of your kite

(Let’s Go Fly a Kite - Mary Poppins 1964) 

On page 39 of the Cub Scout Handbook I saw I could earn not one but two badges - Science Fun and Built.  And the task which look very easy - making a kite.  So after I did my homework one night my grandfather and I made of list of materials according to the images for a “traditional paper kite” as the schematic in the handbook.  (Today’s Cub wouldn’t build anything but would earn a badge in “Drone Piloting” as it soared and captured video that was delivered to his personal personal iPad device)

Materials: 

1. Two light thin dowels - each approximately 36 inches long. (Pop said he would get two pieces cut to size at his work.

2. Two sheets of newspaper - that was easy for me to supply. We got the Daily Republican newspaper 6 days a week.

3. Glue - mom has a bottle of LaPage’s Spreader Mucilage (glue I called it with the red rubber thing that measured out the stuff when you held it upside down.)

4. 200 feet of string and it noted it was available on a spool at my local friendly Cub/Boy Scout Supplies store at Franks’ Men & Boys stoe.  (Seeing this in the plan really got me excited as I imagine my kite soaring about everything on our street.)

In a couple of days we had all the parts and it was building time.  Pop and I meticulously followed the handbook instruction:

1. Draw your kite sail. Lay your paper or bag smoothly on a flat surface (if it is a piece of paper make sure it is folded in half), and mark three dots to form an isosceles triangle. …(wow this was math and science I noted)

2. Cut out the kite sail. ...

3. Build kite structure. ...

4. Tape kite sail to the four ends 

5. Attach your line. ...

6. Make a tail.

7. Go Fly your kit 

We finished and I rushed outside.  “Huston we have a problem”  would have been my appropriate Nasa message.  There was absolutely not even a breeze - let alone a wind which was the key ingredient Pop and I didn’t think about.  As my Grandmother Ethel would say when something went wrong…, “The best laid plans of mice and men…” She never finished this sentence and just let it hang.  The most important part of a kite was in nature’s hand and the element was way out of ours.  Hours waiting turned into forever as there was no wind for the whole weekend.

A couple of days later Pop came in from work and said it’s blowing and it’s time.  Once again, I carried my project to our back yard.  Pop said, “Let out a couple feet of string and run across the lawn and it will start to fly.”  I did it.  The kit flew up to the end of the string about 10 feet above my head and then made a dive at the ground.  I tried again and again as the kite started to look traumatized from it’s short destructive flights.  Pop shouted, “Stop…we forgot the tail!” And he went into his garage. “A tail?” I wondered just what that was.  He returned with a few feet of rags tied together and attached to the bottom point of my kite.  I ran again and felt my kite literally take off and tug at the line. “Let some out slowly,” Pop yelled as I stopped dashing and the kite was flying high.  Higher it soared as I let out the line a little at a time.  When it was really high I discovered that I could “steer” it by pulling the string.  It danced back and forth. I yelled to Pop, “Look at it…this is great…we did it.”  And the instant after I had proudly disclaimed our success, disaster struck.The string ran off the spool, all 200 feet was gone and so was my kite.  Higher an higher it soared like an eagle until it was just a speck in the sky.  I sat on the ground getting ready for a big cry - but pop consoled me with is usual remark when something like this happened.  “Oh well it was fun while it lasted.”  And we both started to laugh hysterically and then we went in for supper. Later that night I wondered how far the west wind carried  my kite flew on its own.  I imagined a kid in Iowa watching it diving toward it dystiny and then seeing that it was a kite made of a paper from Millville, New Jersey…printed a week ago.

PLAY BALL

My grandmother Ethel told me that my grandfather John, who died very young from the effects of the first world war, loved baseball. She remembered he played “first baseman”.   When I heard that I decided I would play that position too  – even though I really didn’t know how.   I knew that baseball was a lot like kick-ball we played on the Wood School playground at recess and of course I saw the Phillies games on TV – but I would learn that was not like playing the game.

I asked my mom for a baseball glove and she thought it was a great idea.  On Saturday the first week in May a week before the Little League tryouts we visited Bob’s Sportscenter.  Mr. Bob was very helpful and advised that I shouldn't buy a big oversized first baseman's mitt.  He said, “As a beginner you don’t know where you may play, so the standard fielder’s mitt is the first glove for any position.  I was disappointed but settled on the Wilson Richie Ashburn model 2000 and Mr. Garton let my mom pay for it a few bucks each week, as it was $23.98, which came to almost half her weekly paycheck.

I practiced for hours throwing a tennis ball against the wall of our house.  Thump, and back came a hot grounder.  I got good at fielding bouncing wall balls – I would learn in a week that this had little to do with a hot grounder coming at you from a good batter.   At the tryout I was nervous when one of the coaches inspected my birth certificate. He said I was the right age but he looked a bit dubious after checking because I was twice as big as any of the other kids on the field.  Tonight, if I made it,  I was going to get my chance to play in a real uniform. 

The first thing we did was field ground balls.  A coach hit them to us on the grass less diamond.  I was very surprised to see how fast a hit traveled across the diamond. It  was nothing close to how I diligently practiced.  I watched how the other kids sort of squatted at the ready and tried it when it was my turn.  The first hit went right between my legs.  The next one took a wild bounce and caught me right on the chin.  I saw stars.  I said to myself, “Please don’t cry…please…please.”.  After I muffed another one, the coach yelled next.  I couldn’t believe I had missed 3 out of 3.  Next we lined up for batting.  I had played catch with my dad and grandfather but I had  never batted!  I watched the kid before me in line as the coach pitched to him.  It didn't look all that hard to do…until I tried to do it.  My turn came.  I took my place next to the rubber plate.  Tugged my hat as I saw the pros do on TV.  The coach threw the ball.  I never saw it.  Matter of fact, I wasn't even watching – I had closed my eyes and hoped I wouldn't get beaned.  The coach shouted, “Hey, son, keep your eye on the ball,” which I guessed ment don't close my eyes.  He tossed another and it was at least five feet outside – I lounged at it.   I hadn’t learned that one had to wait for a good pitch over the plate.  No matter where the ball went I went after it.  In the dirt, behind me – I tried to hit it.   Finally, after a dozen outrageous swats the coach came off the mound and put his arm around me and said quietly, “Kid ya got to wait for a good one.  You don’t have to swing every time.”  Ten pitches later I had hit one foul ball, a dribbler that went toward first base and then died outside the line.  I was mortified.

Two days later the Daily Republican newspaper published the team picks in the sports section.  I didn't make one of the regular teams which had real uniforms.  I was relegated to a “farm team” which was for the kids who needed to learn the game without pressure or getting hurt. I was doomed to play in the league where you just got a tee shirt for a uniform.  And to make matters worse – and very embarrassing to tell the truth.  I was going to be playing for Chubb’s Insurance, a local sponsor. I “chubby” as my mom reminded me many times.  Why couldn’t have played for Champion’s Hardware or the American Legion sponsor.  I knew I was going to be the topic of much never ending kidding on my school’s playground so I pondered whether I would show up for practice the following week.  The Official Little Leaguer's practiced and played on a real field with a fence and manicured grass.  I would play at a gravel lot near Union Lake.  After much angst, I showed up and continued night after night learning the game from a coach who was a former minor league player.  After a few weeks I started to hit the ball.  I discovered to my surprise that I really had “good eye'' as they say after all.  

We started to play other teams in June and I was required to bring my birth certificate to each game to prove that I was not an adult ringer hired by our sponsor to make Chubb’s a winner.   My mom bought me the big bat allowed because the bats that the team provided were much too small for me.  It was a Stan Musial Louisville slugger.  That too was examined each game – because with it I hit 14 homers in our 15 games.  (Farm league pitching was very hittable once you learned to wait for it) .  By mid-season I had my own first baseman’s mitt.   My mother thought I deserved a gift for doing so well.  I batted 425 that season.  

One father informed me after a game that I went 3 for 4 that I had hit the longest homerun ball he ever saw a kid hit!  I had become a ballplayer.  At the end of the season we played the regular Little League All Star team at their field in South Millville.  The first time I would play before bleachers with routing fans.  It was a thrill when at bat the first time I sailed one out to right center that landed in the factory parking lot across the street.  And my love for the game which was kindled that year and it grew to a flame. I went on to play each summer into my college years.  A left handed “power hitter” I was dubbed in one newspaper article.  Many times, after a game I thought of my grandfather and believed he would certainly have been proud of me.  

Moral: Stuff that looks easy, only becomes easy with hard work and practice andcmost important – Always keep your eye on the ball!

THE HAIRCUT

Today for some unknown reason, I ruminated about the question - Are kids today more concerned about how they dress, how they look then when I was a teenager?  The senior citizen in me wants to say, “Yes indeed…what’s this world coming too…girls never wore makeup until they were in high school, if then!”  But the reality is, when I think about it, nothing has changed that much except kids today use influencers on the internet as their models - we used Photoplay magazine and TV commercials between numbers on Bandstand to check if we were keeping up with the “styles”.  And to be honest, in my day when the girls in my school were accused of spending too much time on their hair - the boys did too.  And then I think about the haircut…

…Football season had finally come to an end and I could let my buzz cut (unlike today we players kept our hair short to fit inside our helmets.  Long hair was hot.  But today that doesn’t seem to matter - maybe the helmets are bigger?

I skipped a few weeks of our  bi-weekly haircut trip to the barbershop with my grandfather to let my hair get long enough to make a change.   I had to make a very important decision  - I had to pick a haircut from the big poster on the wall of Mr. Ianello’s shop. (A kid’s haircut was $1.50 and adult’s were $2.50 plus an additional 50 cents if they wanted a shaved neck and hottowel. Today I go every two months and spend $20 bucks for a five minute styling with an electric razor. Our “old country” Italian barber only used scissors and a straight razor.  His one modern device was a small machine that shot out a glob of hot shaving cream.)  I trusted the sign because in bold letters it proclaimed that the bunch of examples were the “Modern” styles.  Pop went first so instead of reading one of the 10 year old Field & Stream magazines from the table-top dog-eared library of men’s waiting room diversions, I pondered the sign imaging which style was right for me.  Ah vanity, vanity - it does view the world through foggy glasses.

I evaluated each choice.  Crew cut & butch - definitely out of the question.  All the “contoured” ones were definitely much too old looking.  The forward combed “boogie” was much like an “auto-shop” guy - I was a “college prep” major.   (Plus, it reminded me a lot of the Bandstand South Philly regulars in their pointy shoes and pegged pants.   tooFinally, I narrowed it down to a flattop or flattop boogie, the only difference was it had sideburns and longer side combacked.  The barber called, “Next” and the moment of truth had arrived.  “Waddilitbee?” Mr. I asked with his thick accent.  I asked, “Do many kids get the flattop boggie?”  “Some,” he responded.  “But I think it is not so good - a real flattop or nothing is better.”  I caved and utter”Flattop”.  And he began by skinning off all the hair on the sides of my head and then to my amazement he waxed my hair straight up and too a wide flat comb-device and put it on the top of my head and clipped the hair to a perfectly flat flattop.  “We guarantee that our flattops are perfect”, he announced.   He then said to my Grandfather, “Herb he needs this wax-stick to make his hair stand up. It ain't gonna do it on it’s own.  It’s a dollar extra but it will last for a long time.”   I said, “Pop I’ve got a buck left from my allowance.”   And he replied with a chuckle, “Keep you money, but don’t say I never gave you anything.”  (Growing up my grandfather loaned me lots of money that I never repaid - wish I could now.)  The barber then gave me a quick lesson in proper waxing and brushed my neck with his ancient badger hair brush.

And sporting my new look I left home and spent much of my evening checking in my new hairdo in every mirror.  The next day my era of waxing began.  And it was as easy as it looked nor was it as much fun as I expected - the wax melted and ran down my forehead in gym class.  By the end of the first week the wax was plastered to my scalp like a hat and even shampoos with my mom’s most expensive stuff only budged a little of it.  After a couple of weeks it started to create flakes that look like a terminal case of dandruff.  And then I got an idea - the forward combed flattop boogie wit da D.A. in the back was going to be my next coiffure experiment.  But that’s another story.

FIRST DATE

Chatted with an old friend today,  a friend I hadn’t communicated with for a long time – but one I  had thought of many times – and  then I was back 50 years standing in the high school cafeteria line…

…As chance would have it, or fate depending on your mood, “she” was in line right next to me.  I had been “eyeing” her for weeks but never had the courage to even say “Hi”… and then I heard myself say, “You’re in History class after me , right?”  (I needed some work on my ice-breaker lines)  She turned and replied, “Huh?"  I just gazed at her.  I wasn’t thinking about what to say; I was thinking she was a real blond with blue eyes that sparkled.    I responded brilliantly, “Hi…ah…I'm Calvin.”  (insert dumb laugh)  “I know who you are, you work in the student store with my best friend.”  I stuttered, “I do?”  My face was hot and I think she was blushing too.  

Now that we had made our way to the grand array of institutional food - it was time to choose.  Kathy picked a salad and an apple.  I wavered between mystery meat goulash and chicken fingers, and settled for chicken, it came with fries.  I also pick up my daily piece of chocolate cream pie.  We paid and started for separate tables of friends,  Kathy turned and said, “You actually eat that?”  (Laughing)  She turned away and our encounter was over.  I sat a few tables away with my best friend.   “How’d it go with the blond sophomore?”  Bub asked when I sat down.   “Ok, I guess…?"  Then we ate in silence as the lunch period was thirty minutes but it took twenty to get the food!

That week I had encounters with Kathy (I had learned a brief profile from her friend Marilyn) as I timed my place in the lunch line with hers.  Once I saw her in the hall at her locker – #214.  But we never spoke more than a few words each day in the MHS gym/café.

And then on the first play of my next football game I dislocated my arm and football came to a jarring halt for me for a month  – but this gave cupid the chance to work his wily ways.  I was “smitten” indeed for the first time.  Monday, after that painful game I got in my place behind Kathy, but this time I wore a sling.  She turned, clucked her tongue and muttered, “Football, why do you guys do this?”  Always quick with the repartee, I said, “Oh I don’t know…?"  We got our food and Kathy said, “Stay right there, I’ll be right back.”  She picked a table and came back and carried my tray and for the first time we ate together.  As our friends looked wondering what was up.  That day we began what was to be a wonderful romance.  A few days later walking her to class I had the courage to ask if she would like to go to the movies (the mandated first date for every high schooler). She surprised me with – “Yes,  but I will have to ask my parents, I don’t know if I will be allowed to go out with a senior?  I'll call you tonight.”  She looked worried.  That made me worry.  I hadn’t anticipated a hurdle  – but I hadn’t dated a “younger woman” either.  Matter of fact, I hadn't really ever “dated” – I danced with, went to parties with, even kissed a few girls – but having a real girlfriend would be a first for me.  That night after I tussled with homework, including a quick reading of the first stanzas of the Evangeline, I sat by the phone.  My mom came by with a knowing smile, “Waiting for her to call?”  “Yup,” I mumbled.  After a few minutes, that seemed like hours, I picked up with only half a ring – it was K and she reported that her parents said OK - but only after they had inquired about me through a MHS teacher friend Miss C, my student store teacher/boss; the most dreaded algebra II teacher of all time.  (Ms. C was a stern, typical older teacher who wore her hair pulled back so tight that she couldn’t blink – but that’s another story.)  K continued, “Miss C said she knew your mom and that you would be a gentleman, unlike the many heathens she taught.”  That endorsement did the trick for Kathy’s dad, a former teacher himself - and we were on our way to the Levoy Friday night show, with one caveat, K had to be home by 10 PM ON THE DOT!

Friday finally arrived.  I waxed my crew cut and splashed on some of my dad’s Old Spice – "You better get a little “action” Rob, our football captain, advised me, “ Your a senior...If you don’t get to ‘first base’ on your first date you are not a man.”  (And I now realized why K’s parents needed to  know my “rap sheet” before allowing their daughter to ride alone in a car with just anybody.)  Speaking of cars, I had to borrow my grandfather’s ancient car because it had an automatic transmission because I still had an immobilized arm with two more weeks to go before the cast was removed.   I carefully drove to K’s door.  Her father opened, looked me up and down, as only a father of a daughter can do – his look gave me the silent treatment I learned to use many times later in life – “violate my daughter and you will pay dearly.” 

The movie is a perfect first date romantic comedy – Greyfriars Bobby.  The perfect setting, perfect musical track, perfect plot.  Perfect.  And the age-old ritual soon began.  A dance as old as life itself – the male of the species mating dance.

It would begin with me trying to hold her hand – but what if she pulled away?  What if she didn’t feel "that way" about me?  I feared the prescribed first step the most and didn’t try a grab even though her hand rested so close between us.  An armrest akin to the great wall of China.  Bobby the cute Cairn continued the cute yapping on the flickering screen.  “I’ve got to do it soon of the movie will be over,” I said to myself – and I decided that I would make thee move when the glowing clock over the side exit door hit 8.  I had 11 minutes to sweat.   At 7:58 I dried my palms on my pants and then I made a major change in tactics – I decided not to go for her hand; I was going for broke.  I would skip the usual first stage and go for stage two - I would put my good arm around her  (even though this was a major breach of dating protocol) – I was going to dare it no matter what the outcome.  At precisely 8:PM I did a countdown in my head and then nonchalantly placed my arm on the back of her seat.  Nothing.  No flinch.  No jerk away in disgust.  She just sat and munched some popcorn.   I inched closer to her shoulder, careful not to actually touch her – not yet it was far too soon for that.  After what seemed like an hour, I lightly touched her shoulder.  To my amazement, Kathy melted against me – she grabbed my hand and pulled my arm down in a wonderful side to side hug.  She turned and looked me in the eye for a long time – and we just smiled.

I had pursued her for almost  a month and now she had finally caught me!

FOR YOUR OWN GOOD

Time, it rolls on and now another year begins. I am very conscious of the ticks of the clock…My granddaughter turned 5 in December and it seems she was just a babe in arms moments ago and as I watch her looking at a video on her own iPad that she got from "Santa" - I thought of a past New Year – one I thought was going to be the greatest ever, but…

And then I am back driving the Millville High Driver’s Training car with two sets of controls – me behind the wheel and the other on the passenger’s side manned by Mr. Neder (who smoked constantly and rumor had it that he volunteered for one of the worst jobs in education just to do so).  He was also  a science teacher and a nervous wreck from near misses by a never ending line of novice drivers. Driver’s Training with MHS high school kids was very stressful occupation.  “Whoa…Wow!”  He applied his brake pedal.  “Hey Cal, you have a heavy foot.  This is 25 miles an hour zone not 40 – watch your speed, I don’t want you to ruin my new car and spotless safety record.”

Because of the nightly football practice, I had to wait weeks past my 17th birthday to take my after-school driver’s training tour of our town’s thoroughfares.  And after several harrowing afternoon’s Mr. Neder declared, “Get some practice in your own car and take the driver’s test – I think you are ready, you are an excellent driver."  The following Sunday my dad and I went out for a long ride.  He seemed nervous too and puffed his pipe like a steam engine.  He directed me to end our practice at a big empty parking lot next to his factory office.  He put out two peach baskets with old broom handles sticking out of a hole in their bottoms.  I proceeded to practice “parallel parking” – the bane of all new drivers (and frankly after decades of driving I am still a lousy parker.)  After a couple dozen passes missing the baskets perfectly Dad said, I was ready and he would take off Monday afternoon early and we could go for the driver’s test.  I had taken the written test a few weeks before, to get my learner’s permit and missed one question – the order of colors on a stop light.  And I still can’t remember the line up, and really can’t fathom why this is an important aspect of safe driving?  Perhaps this was added for the color-blind?

I couldn’t wait for the weekend to pass.  In the study hall I daydreamed about the “great” New Year’s Eve I was going to have.  And also taking a date to the Union Lake bluffs for the winter submarine races was also topping my list of new motoring possibilities.  I drove with Dad to the inspection station in a nearby town.  We waited our turn and then an ominous looking Department of Transportation Officer in full military uniform barked, “NEXT”.   I think I saw a leering smile as I nervously got in our ‘56 Chevy stick shifting mode of conveyance.  The test began on a driving course.  I went over checklist in my mind a list of things the officer could fail me on  shared by my friend  who had already passed this torture test:

Keep both hands on the wheel – Check

Drive a few miles under the speed limit – Check

Don’t run a yellow light on stop light – Check

(And most importantly don’t put your right arm on the back of the seat when making the “K” turn.

I drove the course without a flaw and now as we came to the finish it was time to parallel park between the two ominously waving orange flags.  Mr. Stern Inspector, “Said, good job, now just park and you will be a licensed driver.  And take your time, too many of you guys  rush this part.”  I put my right turn signal on…pulled up past the first flag…checked my mirror… (this was going to be a cinch because the designated parking space was much bigger than the one I practiced on) …I backed the car into the space and I was a foot and a half from the curb – A Perfect Parking.  Thee inspector said, “good job now pull over there and I will fill out the licence paperwork.”  I had done it – with just two driver’s training sessions.  I was going to be a certified driver.  And in my moment of celebration I made a mistake that still haunts me…I pulled out of the spot much too fast and ran over a marker flag!  The inspector abruptly looked up from his clipboard.  “Hey kid you would have bashed a car if there was one in front of you, glad it was only a flag!  SORRY, I can’t let you out on dangerous holiday highways, especially New Year’s Eve.   You’ll have to come back for a re-test in 30 days!”

30 DAYS!!  I blew my driver’s test.  Yea Gods, I will be the laughing stock of the Junior class.  My friends will never let me forget this.  Many of them will be tooling around the whole holiday vacation and I will be relegated to riding my bike or walking.  No sub races.  No cruising down High Street looking for gals (that were usually nowhere to be seen)   My visions of Mister Cool Guy Driver, Sophisticated Man About Town had vanished.   Instead I would be sitting home typing my term paper on “Famous Writers of the 20th Century” which was due the week after vacation.

30 Days!!  But like all disasters this too did pass.  I returned to the inspection station in late January and only had to park rather than take the whole test again.  I pulled up, pulled in, parked perfectly and pulled away.   I had practices for  a bitter month of Sundays with Dad which made my failure even more embarrassing.   Mr. Stern Inspector handed me my paperwork and reminded me - “Sorry I had to flunk you kid – but it was for your own good.”

My own good?   I would hear this phrase many times to come as I travelled down life’s highway.  

THE SEVENTH STREET RAMS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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