ODE TO A WRESTLER

I started reading an online book of poetry for something different to pass the time ( I have seen most of the streaming movies during my time of pandemic isolation)...and then I thought of my own poetry and the wrestler…

I was a different kind of kid than my friends in high school. I went to sleep listening to classical music at 33 ⅓ RPM on my stereo, not rock and roll on a pocket radio under my pillow.  I like to read, paint, draw. I secretly read poetry in study hall while my buddy Bub devoured the sports pages. However, I never shared my taste for “the finer things”, that my mother called "my interests".  I feared my football friends and baseball buddies would razz all year in the halls of MHS.  So, it remained a secret until my junior year when by chance...or fate...or my art muse changed everything the day my English teacher called in sick. 

Covering her class Mr. Jurick; a teacher who was a very scary guy.  I never had him as teacher or coach, but I saw him in the locker room many times.  He was our school’s varsity wrestling coach and he was built as they say.  Wrestling, a sport I tried once in gym class and vowed never tried again - it was really much harder than it looked (and sweaty too)!  I knew that coach Jurick was a champion college All-American wrestler and almost an Olympian. My friend Rodger, one of his middle weight proteges, told me that he wrestled every player at every practice and pinned most of them time and time again. 

I chatted with Bub as we waited for class to begin. Mr. Jurick called our bedlam to order  and said, “Mrs. D. planned to begin a unit on appreciating poetry today...so I’m going to read you some poetry.”  There were giggles until his stern look turned them off like a faucet - “You find that funny…?”  No one replied.

He read from a small book.  And I saw his demeanor change instantly. It turned from hard-nosed jock to something totally different. Words of love...the beauty of a summer breeze...the ideas flowed naturally from him as the class sat in rapt attention.  When the bell rang all seemed surprised that the period was up. No one moved for a moment then everyone applauded. A couple of girls were crying. And I almost did too.

I stayed behind until the room emptied and said, “Coach I love poetry... I want to write about the stuff I feel...but...well...a - he finished my sentence, “But you think your friends will not understand and call you a sissy or worse, right?”  I said, “ yep! He continued, “I’m a serious and fairly tough athlete but that doesn’t mean I can’t be serious about good writing. I appreciate what others have felt about life and I have some things to say too. All I can tell you is if you need to say something, say it... write it...don’t give a damn what others think. Be true to yourself...as Shakespeare once said", and we both laughed.  Before he walked away I asked, “Whose poetry were you reading to us today?  I like to read it. He smiled and said, “Why, mine of course! A copy of my book is in the Millville library.”

From that day forward, I knew it was going to be a writer. That I could be manly and still be mindful.  I began to write instead of read in study hall. I shared some of my poems with my English teacher and said they were good and suggested I submit some I thought best to several high school writing contests. "See what others who don't know you think about them," she said, I was not optimistic but to my surprise that both my submissions were selected to appear in two national poetry anthologies - I was a published poet

After my teacher shared this recognition at a teacher's meeting, the principal put an announcement in our local paper and asked me to read the winners to thw whole school during his daily homeroom announcements on the PA system. My voice echoed throughout the school one morning.. as I read...

Autumn by Calvin Iszard

What is the fall?

Just an encore of summer’s call,

An usher of the cold

When the leaves turn red and gold

‘Tis but a final show

As the summer seems to go,

And with the Autumn moon

Winter comes so very soon.

The trees now not so bright

Tell the tale of a chilly night,

Turning to a crispy brown

A thousand leaves come gliding down.

The wispy smoke of Autumn’s fire

Seems to be Fall’s funeral pyre

As the leaves burn away

So comes the end of Autumn’s stay.

On spring morning - I was now out of the "poetry closet" and not one friend kidded me about it - thanks to a wrestler!

A BOUFFANT TRAGEDY

All week I have been seeing prom pictures on Facebook and thinking wow we didn’t show that much skin on the beach…and then I see a Mother’s Day wish and think of mom and the dress…“Mom they need chaperones for the 8th grade Spring Ball, which is semi-formal,” I yell as she entered the door from work. 

“Oh, really that’s nice,” she replied (the reply she always made when I said something about school).  “Yeah nice, but I want you to be one of them, Please!”  “Oh Calvin I...a...I have nothing to wear,” she peeped.  “Yes, you do,” I retorted. (Her closet was jammed with clothes)

“I have nice dresses, but nothing ‘semi-formal’- I have had nothing like that since you were born!” she countered.

I didn’t press the issue but I didn’t give up either and after many “discussions” about the merits of being a chaperone and how this was a civic duty and how it would help me with my final grades before high school and how much I would appreciate it and how I would be so proud that the kids would see my mom…she relented.  But said we needed to shop on Saturday for a proper dress  – and I had to help – “I know nothing about what’s in style; I haven’t been to a dance in years,” she said.  And as always when she reminisced – she got misty-eyed.

Saturday, we went to the best ladies store in town Prince’s?  Time seems to have erased the sign over the two large windows filled with mannequins in the outfits of the best dressed Millvillvians.  My mother looked and looked.  She tried on at least a dozen while I sat in a very hard chair.  This was not like we men shop.  Try it on…it fits…that was it.  “Do you like this one? she asked with a look of dismay all over her face.  “Yes, if you are going to a funeral,” I replied. (My mother always thought she was ancient and had to dress like a matron.  In fact she was one of the youngest moms of all my friends.

I had had it.  “For once why not get something in style?  The clerk interjected – “We have many of the new bouffant styles Margaret".  But not here.  They are over here in the younger section of the store.”  (Mom always looked in the plus-size section even though she only weighed in at about 115) Note: The clerk told us that one of the most fashionable Bouffant styles of 1958 was the “balloon dress” – a long shirt, narrow at the waist and then wide as it ended four or five inches below the knee.  Mom tried one in a shiny silky pink and it looked great.  “I could never wear this, it's far too too young for me!” she whimpered.  “YES, YOU COULD” – both the clerk and I blurted in unison.  It's the style!"

And after a half hour of pressure and that’s why we came – mom to my surprise (and to her too) said, “ Put this expensive dress on ‘my charge’ – as we left the shop she warned, “If I look silly it is all your fault!”  “You will look great,”  I said and I meant it.  For once mom was going to look her age instead of like my grandmother.

The big night arrived and I had a new plaid sport coat that set mom back a week’s pay.  Grey and blue and very soft - Frank of Frank’s Men & Boys told me it was called vicuna wool.  Mom surprised me with a real gardenia for my lapel – her favorite flower.  Mom took more time than I could ever remember getting ready.  She even put on eye shadow which I had never seen her wear.  And when we were ready my dad drove us to the ball.  We both sat in the back seat and adhe pretended to be our chauffeur and even popped out of the car to open our door and did a bow..

The Bacon School had a gym that doubled as our auditorium and it us was festooned in streamers and balloons, thanks to our PTA.  Mom stayed at the top of the stairs as I looked for my “date” – Billy Bailey, my latest heartthrob. (Her real name was Bertha)

And then it happened.  As my great looking mom got compliments from many of the other parents and teachers on the stairs, their perfect chaperoning perch – a classmate arrived to my mother’s horror.  Mom spotted her and immediately ran up the stairs - her face white as a sheet.  I excused myself right in the middle of a dance and followed.  “Mom are you sick?  What’s wrong?  Why are you so upset?”  “Calvin this is all your fault!”  “Me, what…why...what did I do” ?

“AN EIGHTH GRADER JUST CAME WEARING MY DRESS, THE SAME COLOR, THE VERY SAME DRESS.”   “Well, that’s great, I told you it was the latest style,” I said trying to keep her from crying.  Then mom whispered,  “I can’t embarrass her…she mustn’t see me…some old lady wearing her gown… I have to hide...I have to!” (Later in life I would learn that this was not bazaar – just a law for all females carried  in their genes and the main reason it took them so long to actually pick out a new frock)

Mom waited over an hour  in the dark hallway until the final dance and decided we should walk home.  Our “Cinderella Ball” did not end like a fairy tale....

Over the years this disaster became a family legend and the story grew with each telling. 

My mom never did try wearing another  "stylish" dress again and stuck to her plain dresses, - usually from the “last season sale” rack nor did I ever suggest a dress for her again. Many years later I bought her some outfits for Christmas, that I never saw on her....Oh well...that was mom.

But there was one positive outcome – even though she may have been tempted, she never said to me... “I told you so!”

WOULD YOU CARE TO DANCE?

Tonight was the night.  I had stood around the Y dance for weeks intending to ask her to dance but didn’t make it across the great gauntlet from the boy’s corner to the girls lining the far wall on the green benches.  It had to be the right song.  I waited.  I was sweating through my new Christmas gift, a Robert Hall sport coat.  My shirt was soaked and the giant shoulder pads seemed like deep sea diver weights dragging me down.  I rocked back and forth to the music pretending I was having a good time.

Jim said in my ear, “Well here’s to another Saturday that we will chicken and just stand here all night.” But I was determined to change this once and for all –  I replied, “Not tonight my friend…not tonight!”

I never lost sight of her across the great divide, laughing, dancing, being asked by a different guy for each slow dance; she was the light fantastic – she was popular.  She was dressed in tan...a Very tight tan skirt and a very tan-talizing fuzzy sweater that immediately drew every guy’s attention to her ample “assets” (that every boy my age stared at) – a vision in tan that made my hormones rumble.

Allen the DJ spun one of my favs, a new oldie – Smoke Gets in Your Eyes and with a burst of adrenaline I found myself walking to the gaggle of girls and...her. This time I would not flare off and climb the stairs to the Coke machine.  And then I was there in front of her…

“V. would you like to dance?”  

And she said, “Sure I thought you would never ask!”  Yikes, she actually wanted to dance with me.  I led her out to the center of the floor, praying I would not step on her foot when we danced - I was a lousy dancer.  I could feel the big zit on my forehead start to throb.  We began and I was in rare form as I performed the Nanny-taught box step.  Me moving forward.  She dancing backward. This was the typical high school slow dance, dance watched many times on Bandstand after school.  But rarely attempted by my me and my gang of guys.  Our first time execution was not exactly like Astaire and Ginger would have done – but it was, like most of us except for tennis playing Phil, the best I had to offer.

Wow, holding her close was fantastic – that’s all I can say. My right hand on the small of her beautiful back – I could feel dancing heat radiating through her sweater and I found this very sexy and just as I was heating up myself – the music stopped.  And then she stopped my heart for a few beats – “Hey. how would you like to go to the diner after the dance with me”?  I was frozen.  “What...well?”  “Of course…of course,” I mumbled and staggered back to my pack as she joined her gals in a circle of secret conversation.

The dance ended and I held her coat for her.  She had a tan camel coat, not a jacket like many of her peers.  She reeked of sophistication beyond her years.  We walked a few blocks to the Broad Street Diner – I wanted to hold her hand, but I didn’t dare fearing she would laugh at me.  We trooped along with a bunch of other “dates” and entered Millville’s emporium of late night refreshment – the windows were fogged from the heat against the glass.  We sat in a booth.  I wrote my initials on the pane with my finger as she checked the menu and I mentally checked my finances.  Five bucks was my total bankroll.  But that should be plenty for an evening snack for two.

A gum chewing waitress, who smelled like cigarette smoke,  arrived – “whaddya having”? Not missing a beat my " Miss V. announced, “I’ll take the Blue Plate Special and could you add a some ice cream on apple pie?”  Yea Gods, I screamed in my head.  A dinner?  How much would that cost?  I rapidly scanned the menu and then noticed on the blackboard above the counter, "Dinner special $4.75". I quickly did the math – and then said, “I’ll just take a small Coke and  more ice water please...not very hungry...I guess.”  “Gee I’m starving!” V. added – as I prayed she would not add anything more to her order. Her meal arrived – bean soup, meat loaf, mashed potatoes and string beans, a dinner roll basket, a large coke, rice pudding and the pie she added.  I watched her eat.  (I would learn much about my dates as I grew older by just watching them eat).  And V. was the first person I ever saw eat with both hands simultaneously – she engulfed her “special” - I made my Coke last. The waitress checked on us.  I held my breath hoping V. would want something to take home but she was apparently sated.  I was glad I didn’t put my change in the jukebox.  I was going to need every cent and hopefully no more?

And then it was over.  My first “real” date evaporated faster than V.'s meatloaf. I checked the check while she checked her makeup in a pink pocket mirror.  I left the last of my bank roll as the tip – a dime!  And leaving,  paid the lady with the big hair, who guarded the cash register and the door beside her.  We walked to her house on 2nd street in silence.  Well, I was silent.  She emitted long burbs of satisfaction as my stomach growled.

We arrived at her door – this was it.! My gratuity for underwriting our big dinner date – the expected goodnight, hope to see ya again, kiss.  

I moved in position like a future Russian would do docking at the space station.  Closer and closer our faces came.  I looked deeply into her eyes.  And at that  perfect moment V. growled – “You think I’m going to kiss you…I saw the lousy tip you left that nice waitress Irene…I hate cheapskates…!  

She turned and the door slammed in my face – I stood there for at least a full minute.  Then realized I was freezing, very hungry - and a bit wiser.  

And I walked home.

A SUMMER OF FEAR

This is a trying time...COVID-19, the Coronavirus is a new disease threatening to infect the world.  And I feel like I’m in a really bad "B" movie hiding from crazy zombies roaming my neighborhood...a scary time, and frankly, I feel the constant updates, changes and shared anxiety on social media is making  things worse.  As I try to think of more pleasant things, a  Millville Memory pops up on my mental screen…

It’s summer 1953 and I’m scared to death of catching Infantile Paralysis… which was also called Polio for some reason? I wasn't sure what it was,  but I saw  kids in the movie newsreels locked in “iron lung” machines... long metal tubes...trapped with only their heads sticking out and I knew this polio was very bad.   I knew I would hate not to be able to run and play. This is the first time in my 10 year life that I was really really scared. (Except that one time in the fun house on the Ocean City boardwalk!)

Plus my mom said something every night that increase my fear - “You have got to be careful Calvin...this is very serious…..and since polio is a “summer disease” caused by germs  in our lake there will be no going to the lake this summer...they say you can get it from other kids too who don't wash enough! So I want you to stay around the house and find things to do." Gads, her  command that I would not do the two things I love about summer - playing with my friends...getting cooled off at our local lake on a hot afternoon, was the worst part of this whole mess.

Each day we listened to the evening news on our big Philco radio...and the news didn't help either as the number of kids stricken continued to rise.  I saw a picture of a kid wearing heavy braces on her legs in our Sunday newspaper...Immediately I thought if I get this I won’t ever be able to play baseball again...that will ruin my life. 

During the long, lonely dog days of that late summer I tired to forget but even reading a new comic book didn't help my foreboding dread...I started to have trouble going to asleep at bedtime. 

One evening at supper I asked my mother, "Why do kids have to get this darn disease?"  And she replied, "It's not just  kids.  President Roosevelt caught it, but he didn't let it stop him from being great...Calvin you worry too much."

Then on another night a “Special Bulletin” interrupted my favorite radio show - The Lone Ranger...and with great fanfare our new President Eisenhower announced that a doctor named Salk has invented a vaccine that will save me.  Hooray I'm saved.

After the short announcement I asked mom, “What’s a vaccine?”  She replied it’s a shot of medicine.  I hated shots - but this time I would welcome one if I can go to the lake again before it gets too cold.

But that didn't happen that summer.  I had to wait to get the shot until late that winter.  But my Grandfather had a big surprise for me. He brought me a Sears swimming pool!  It was a 5X10' rubber tub that held about 24 inches of water. It was not the lake - but I spent almost every day, even after school started,  wearing rubber goggles and pretending I was a deep sea diver looking for treasure.  Of course about once a week my mother said, “Don't dive in that thing...you’ll break your neck!”  This was a minor worry compared to Polio I thought but I took her advice and just splashed around in my outdoor bathtub. 

As time passed the threat of polio ended and so did my anxiety leave me,  like my memory of this long ago plague fades now....

Today, I marvel at how things have changed.  How surprised my grandmother would be to get news on demand instantly from around the world - and have the ability to choose what she wanted to see...and to believe!  I ponder this fact for a moment and think getting the news the instant it happens seems to be great progress...or is it? 

I wonder.

A SILVER BADGE

From the first day I was old enough to  walk to school and waited for the student crossing guard to send me across a street, I wanted to be a member of the AAA Safety Patrol!  (To be honest, I wasn’t as interested in the safety of my classmates crossing  quiet Streets of Millville as I was in getting an official patrol boy web belt with a real badge that you got to keep - and 60 years later mine is still in my jewelry box!)  But just wanting did not guarantee getting this honored position.  To be  made a guard one had to be nominated by you teacher because you had displayed “good citizenship” and better than average grades.  (Note:  Patrol “Boys” were appointed at the end of their fourth grade year ( In the 1950s only “boys” because most educators and most parents thought girls were much too fragile to stand outside in the cold until the late bell rang. Thankfully that is not the practice today)

During the last week of my 4th grade year Miss R. asked, “Would anyone like to be considered for this duty.  And only 2 hands shot up and one was mine - safety patrol duty was a big commitment that few wanted to do because you had to get up early every day for the whole school year. With just one competitor, for the last few days of class I was on my best behavior and made sure my mom bought a nice “Thank You” card for Miss R.  Plus, on the last day of school I took one of my grandmother’s prized African Violets in a pot wrapped in tinfoil, a gift which I hope would cement my endorsement to our Principal who made the final decision. 

All that  summer I thought about the badge!  A couple of weeks before school started again, Mom got an official letter from the Millville Board of Education informing her that I had been appointed to the Safety Patrol and that I was to report to the Millville Police Department for training.  I was jubilant - but my mother wasn’t.  She said, “You know you’ll have to get up early every morning...and never be late if you take this job?”  Among many worries, she always worried about my propensity for lateness and the amount of sleep I accrued each night.   I assured her that I was ready and willing to diligently do my duty.  On the appointed evening I reported to the City Hall with a bunch of boys from all of the elementary schools in our city - a couple of dozen new recruits. 

The police chief welcomed us and introduced us to a policeman who stressed that we were about to "embark" on a very serious task.  In other words, no fooling around on duty.   First up we saw a film about speeding cars, distracted drivers and the horribly outcomes of not looking both ways!  A lot of this stuff I already knew as I had walked to school with a brigade of whooping kids since first grade when my grandmother stopped “walking” me to school - she walked with me to make sure I actually stayed there after she left me.  

Next the officer had us stand and practice the way we would stop and cross the students safely.  All posts were displayed on a big map.  And lastly, we were ordered to stand, raise our right hands and take the pledge…

“I  swear to perform my duties faithfully. Strive to prevent accidents, always setting a good example myself. Obey my teachers and officers of my school  patrol. Report dangerous student practices. And strive to earn the respect of fellow students.

Then the moment I had been waiting for, the Officer presented us with a white web belt and badge and I was now a certified Patrol Boy Guard! 

The first day of school I wore it proudly over a new school clothes shirt.  I reported to my“post” a few blocks from my house and the only cross street on the way. My task was to cross  about a dozen sleepy-eyed daily crossers.  Our 6th grade Captain rode by on his bike and told us his Lieutenant would be visiting each post during the coming week to make sure we were doing everything required for safe crossings.  When my first crossers came to my corner I stopped them with a stern and simple  command - STOP! My arms outstretched just like we learned on the film - I had practiced it for a half hour in front of a mirror.   The student stopped immediately because if he didn’t I could report him to the principal and he would face the fate of an unsafe crosser.  Several more students lined up behind him. (BTW he was my competition for the job)

My major task was to be on the lookout for a kid who might bolt and wildly dart across  the street risking life and limb.  I looked both ways and professionally barked, “You may proceed...and have a nice day.”  The group groaned in unison and continued trudging to another day of readin, writin and  etc!.  I was sure they all thought they were much too “big” to have a patrol boy telling them the road was empty for miles.  However, both coming and going my charges obeyed my “directions” and  my worries disappeared because my all my crossers that day, including my cousins, had followed my directions.  And from that day on, all my classmates were respectful and  I was never late, even in the rain and snow.  That year I learned that March wind was indeed my enemy. 

All year I dreamed about being named next year's captain and getting a special blue badge. 

On the last day of school right before recess I was summoned to the Principal's office - this was it, I was going to get the promotion!  Mrs. McC spoke to me in her most serious way that we had heard many times during assemblies. “Mr. Iszard, I drove by your post many times this year and you were always on time and doing your duty.  And so with your teacher's recommendation I am appointed you as our new Captain of the R.M. Bacon School Patrol. 

That day I learned a lesson that I would never forget -  if one comes early and does diligently - you're mostly likely  bound to get a badge. 

FOURTH GRADE FROSTY

  It was the first week of December 1959 and Miss Ruhlander, my 4th grade teacher, and the meanest at the Bacon school according to most of her students asked the class as our day began... “By request of our Principal Mrs. McCorristin every grade  is to contribute to the PTA’s Annual Christmas Assembly. The theme is Christmas Cards... there will be a large gold picture frame on stage and the "card" will be a Christmas scene formed by you and it will come to life and “entertain the audience.”

Does anyone have any talent?  
No hands went up.  “No one can play a carol on the piano?”  Still nothing. “Recite a Christmas poem?”  Again nothing.

And then for some unknown reason... I raised my hand and blurted – “I can be Frosty the Snowman!” Miss R was ecstatic at this great news.  She didn’t even ask how I could be the famous frozen one. And I didn’t know how myself to be honest. What I did know I had about a week to figure this one out.

Nanny, Mom and I put our heads together that night after dinner.  And Nanny said, without hesitation - “I’ll make you a snowman costume!” Just like that Frosty was on the way.  I had a record of the Gene Autry's Frosty the Snowman and that was my contribution.  Mom said, I’ll get the rest of the outfit.  

My grandmother could sew anything.  A shirt from scratch, no problem. Repair a ripped winter coat – a cinch.  But produce a snowman…I was dubious to say the least.

The couple of days passed.  And Nanny hummed away in her room working on a piece of white heavy fabric she just happened to have.  Her Singer hummed..

Mom’s job was critical to the entire performance.  “When they put a top hat on Frosty…he began to dance around…”  Where in this working man’s town would she get a top hat? Mom racked her brain.  During her lunch she walked uptown and tried all of the men’s shops. No dice! And it was too late and much too expensive to order one from Sears & Roebucks – never come in time. 

And then she had an inspiration – She called a good friend and our local funeral director. And he said, “Sure why not, anything for education.”  I couldn’t believe it.

The night before the show I tried on my costume.  White blossoming pants with a drawstring – we filled the legs with newspaper.  I put on a white jacket size triple XXX - that looked like the ones chefs wear.  It had big black button... where did Nanny had sewed them down the front that look like coal?  I 

She leaned borrowed  off her best winter coat.  Mom stuffed me with three pillows.  I looked in the bedroom mirror – good grief I was Frosty! 

Show night arrived.  Mom did my makeup - White Clown makeup, lots of rouge on my cheeks and drew black squares around my eyes and on my nose with an eyebrow pencil.   

Show time.  I had practiced a dance -  it was more like skipping in time to Mr. Autry’s beat.  The lights dimmed and I froze in place behind the big wooden "card" as the curtains rolled back and my scratchy record played.  Timed perfectly to the lyrics ( we had practiced for two days) my classmate – Mary Jane entered the tableau and placed the big black hat on my head.  And, and of course...as the song said, I started to dance around as the audience cheered. This gave some confidence and I started to improvise...with a series of pirouettes and finished with a magnificent high jumping twirl...that would have made Martha Graham proud - I had been inspired by the festive season and clapping from the audience - Then the officer on the record hollered STOP.  I stopped and then did an encore to a big cheer from the crowd. The song ended and I froze again back inside the “card”. The applause was long and loud. My Frosty was the hit of the show...And from that day on, whenever I see a snowman I remember the night when the magic in a mortician's hat made me a star...for a brief moment.

The BIG One

My memories dim as the years past – they seem to blend together into a long mix of events, holidays, tragedies and mainly just the fun times.

But one memory haunts me still – was in either ’56 or was it 55?  It was 55!

 

Millville vs. Vineland on the “Turkey Day Classic”.  And this was a special day – one that will live in infamy as President Roosevelt once said, for every true orange and blue football fan.  Millvile had won 31 straight games – straight that is!  Some close and many by big numbers.  But at the time this was one of the best records in the history of high school football annals.  

The town was in a frenzy for weeks.  And the gods who play with us could not have planned it better for the game that would break the record was against our age old enemy VINELAND.  

The Poultry Clan (gads what a name for a team – I always had visions of men in white sheets, peaked hats and carrying a rooster under each arm.  But that’s another story)  The fans, expecting sure win had collected enough money to buy coach Barbose a beautiful white Olds as a token of their collective gratitude. The Ed Sullivan show in NYC had called to arrange a visit by the team to be in the audience the Sunday after the contest to be recognized by the national audience.  The cheerleaders cut classes for two days to scavenge wood for the bonfire growing on the pitcher’s mound of the school baseball field – higher and higher it climbed above the trees. 

And the night before the big game the team vanished.  

Whisked away to the Cumberland Hotel in Bridgeton – away from the clamoring fans, family and possible harm from the enemy hordes across the border at the Clayville switch.  That night before the game a giant conflagration  turned my face crimson as I dared to get close in to the symbolic bonfire in the chilly air.  The cheers rang out across Wheaton field and as always it just waited for the dawn.

The next day we arrived two hours early for the game.  The crowd was already big and boisterous.  A nervous tingle went through us all.  And then the whistle and it began.  The BIG one had begun.

Millville received the kickoff if memory serves me ( I was only 10 at the time) deep in our own territory.  And on the third play Eddy Goodwin, number 57 a fullback went up the middle and didn’t stop for 60 or so yards.  We scored and the fans went ballistic.  But Millville fans never cheered that day again.  Vineland did the unthinkable.  The chicken pluckers beat the great Thunderbolts. 

And Coach Barbose new car sat on the 50 yard line for over a week until he finally drove it home.  Hi wife made him accept it. 

 And for us, the day is seared in our minds forever – what might, could, would have been - was lost.  But isn’t that the way life really is?  Storybook endings are only in the movies and the gods of sport laugh at our puny ideas and dreams – and a whole town had to just carry on with only the memories of what might have been.