History, On this Day, August 25th, 1975

Today in History,

A Wasted Childhood.

August 25^th, 1975

 

It was the first day of school at Our Holy Redeemer and it was hot. At 7:30 in the morning it had been 75 degrees. Temperatures climbed all morning. and the humidity was hovering between brutal and unbearable.  To most of the student’s humidity was only a word from television and radio. Something old people complained about. But in the middle of an enclosed hallway, in an old building with no air-conditioning, when the atmosphere became so heavy breathing was labored, almost impossible, sweat ran down backs, dripped into burning, bloodshot eyes, clothes clung to damp, uncomfortable flesh, even students knew something had gone bad. 

After 3^rd period there was a small wave of students going in each direction down the wide, tiled hallway. The bricks were shiny with a malevolent, moist warmth, the tile floor had shimmering heat devils floating just inside observable spectrum. It was miserable. 

A basketball rolled insolently through the open gymnasium doors. Its constant, slow rotation seemed to be an affront, a challenge. It was as though it were daring somebody to do something, anything.

Ricky Belhaus did something. He picked up the basketball, his right hand went as far back as he could reach, his left leg raised until it looked as if he might tumble over, and he threw the ball as hard as he could into the gym.

Before he could recoil from the effort, the ball caromed off the stanchion for the practice basketball goal and flew into the kitchen.

There was a terrible crash, loud and liquid. It echoed off the walls of the gym, and disappeared into the curtains on the stage. Maybe it was trying to escape the terrifying scream that followed it almost immediately.

In a fraction of a second the hallway was empty. In less than a minute there was the head cook, standing there, holding a metal ladle, spaghetti sauce splattered across her face, small drops almost like little footprints climbing from her neck to the top of her hairnet. Her shirt was dripping red sauce and her pants were soaked in several spots. Her eyes held a terrible fire, as she looked from side to side. The metal spoon shook with an electric rage. But the hallway was empty, except for her.

Ricky breathed a sigh of relief, as he sat listening to the assigned work expected results of Mr. Harriman’s 4^th period American History class. He looked carefully at the syllabus and thought of how he was off the hook. He drew a lopsided basketball with a smiley face. He smiled back at his creation. He had dodged a bullet this time.

A loud crackle, and a pronounced serpentine hiss, filled the room. Someone was going to make an announcement on the public address system.

“Ricky Belhaus, please report to Principal Mycroft’s office.” Nothing ever stays secret, ever.

A chill ran through Ricky, he shivered, the sweat dried on his forehead, it turned icy cold on his back and arms. The room seemed to darken, and people tried to slide their desks a little farther from Ricky’s.

After 4^th period ended, students filled the halls, patterned, mostly predictable movement, leave one class, stop at your locker and onto the next class. Ricky came stumbling from Principal Mycroft’s office. He was a wrench in the gears of order. An island in the steady flow.

He was bent slightly forward at the waist, his hands clasped on his buttocks, fresh from the board, kept in the corner, to modify behavior.  Tears of anger, shame and pain streamed down his face.

“I hate that fat man.” He said.

Students looked all around, looking for the principal. He was nowhere to be seen. It was safe.

“Me too.”

“So do I.”

“Yeah, he sucks.”

And other whispered agreements rustled silently from the crowd. Then they went as quickly as they could, without looking as if they were trying to hurry. Nobody wanted to be around rebellion.

There were rumors about Principal Mycroft and his ability to be at the worst possible place at the absolute worst time. Throw your gum on the floor, spit on the light-switch, and there was the iron grip of Principal Mycroft, digging into an unsuspecting shoulder, or grabbing a handful of collar, marching an rebel into his office for a little pant seat discipline.

Some believed he had a network of tunnels running from his office to various parts of the school. Deep underground, dark, damp, a smell of decay filled the air. Tiny footsteps from rodents scurrying away to avoid the monstrous drumming footsteps of an angry administrator.

Others felt the only real explanation was there multiple Principals Mycroft. At the very least three, more likely five, or even seven. It was always a prime number. One student claimed it had to be thirteen. He had been caught several times. Once he had been busted executing a flawless plan to skip the afternoon of school. He waited behind the restroom door, and when it was clear he walked twenty feet and out the doors facing Elm Street, where there were no classroom windows. Principal Mycroft stood just west of the door, a silent fury distorting the air surrounding him, it was wavy and made colors hard to interpret.

A student whose parents were from California, was certain Principal Mycroft used astral projection to transport his earthly form to wherever somebody was going to try a small act of independence or rebellion or throw a basketball into a cauldron of spaghetti sauce. It seemed ridiculous but it made more sense than anything. It explained almost everything.

Anyway, on this day in history, Ricky Belhaus learned you were never safe until you graduated, maybe not even then. We had spaghetti with some catsup and a small amount of butter. Bruce Springsteen released his third studio album “Born to Run.” It was the year of the rabbit in the Chinese Zodiac, and people born on that day were Virgos.  

 

 

 

 

 

Fridays Workout, The Best One Yet.

Last night was the end of week (I am not sure, it was either 4 or 5)? at the gym. It was empty, which is nice, in a way. Rows of equipment standing still, watching me, waiting to see which one I would pick, you could hear the "oooh, pick me, pick me."

 
Working out in an empty gym is nice, it makes me feel dedicated, I could hear the theme song from Rocky playing in my head. I wish they would install a "heavy bag," it would make the image complete, a "speed bag" would do nothing to further the dream, unless you count the Marx Brothers Boxing Academy as part of the dream. When done properly a speed bag is art, when not used correctly it is a ridiculous dance, it looks absurd, and I am not even that good.

 
I used a treadmill, and an elliptical machine, and really pushed myself. I got my heartrate higher than any of my previous workouts, and held it longer. I don't care for exercise bikes, the traditional type is distasteful, but the recumbent kind is terrible. It feels silly, and unnatural, and I will only use them when the other machines are used.

 
Actually, my standards have become much broader. In the beginning there had to be a one machine buffer zone, which is still preferred, but not necessary. Last night I started on the elliptical machine, which was, I thought, my favorite, but moved to a treadmill, which now I know, is my favorite. Elliptical machines are good, but it does not seem as natural as a treadmill, picking 'em up and putting 'em down is the original form of transportation, and I am nothing if not a traditionalist.

 
Moving on to the resistance machines. I increased the weight, and pushed as hard as possible. More weight than any precious attempt. It was refreshing, invigorating, fantastic, and terrible. Straining, pushing, and trying to remember to breathe correctly. Inhale, exhale, repeat. Sore muscles, aching and stiffness, it was a glorious feeling walking down the endless staircase and across the miles of barren, salty, grey asphalt to my car. Somehow the soreness made the whole scene a little brighter.


Last night's podcast was "The Character Called the Writer" from Writing Challenges. I would like to tell you about it, but there were a lot of instructions, and a couple of pauses to write them down. Since I was in the middle of an "Arm Blaster", a particularly cruel portion of the workout on an elliptical machine, pulling with your arms until your shoulders and elbows ache, and your ego is bruised because you know it looks preposterous. 

Since I was the only one, it was probably ok. But, I didn't have a chance to write down the instructions. It reminded me of High School. Who had time to take notes while trying to blend in, not be noticed and facing the abject terror that the teacher may actually ask you to answer the question you didn't hear. Who had time?

 

 
    

Pay to play, or pay for play, you decide.

“College athletes should be paid, so many people make money from their efforts.”  That is the common argument, and it is a good one.  Of course, there is also the investment of time, many of them work year round to hone skills, and discipline their bodies for peak performance.  Plus, they bring so much entertainment and joy to so many.  Turn on your television and watch as the drama unfolds, it is spectacle, anyone can see the interest shown by so many.  There are so many good reasons to pay college athletes it is becoming difficult to remember what the opposition is saying.  But, paying college athletes may stop short of equity.

What about the high school stud who can “carry the rock?”  Doesn’t he deserve a little something, something for his troubles?  How about that outside hitter who flies in, bird of prey like to smash that volleyball into the floor so hard it needs inflated.  And that kid averaging 16 points, 7 rebounds and 2 assists on the basketball team, where is his “fatted calf?”  These student athletes train rigorously, lifting and running, sacrificing time and sweat.  Further, their parents often pay for summer leagues, and personal trainers, all in an effort to gain that little bit of an edge, that one small advantage when it counts most.  Don’t they deserve compensation for their time.

Oh, sure, there are laws governing the allocation of government funds spent on education.  But, there are options.  Who hasn’t met the coach willing to sell a little bit of soul for a decent state tournament run.  There are always several coaches for each team, maybe a pool system.  Perhaps that is too mercenary, maybe the cost needs to cast a wider net.

Ask any high school coach or administrator, booster groups and graduates are an excellent source of renewable wealth.  Booster clubs love to be a part of things, and there is nothing that brings more joy to these hard working, God fearing souls than a winning record and a divisional championship.  Ah, to see the smiles on their philanthropistic faces when the trophy is paraded around the Elks lodge for all to see.

Another option, a particularly egalitarian method, would be to donate a portion of the ticket sales and concession stand earnings among the players.  What makes the concession sales alternative so appealing is the opportunity it gives for self expression.  For example, people could choose who they are supporting with each purchase. 

Customer:  “Give me two slices of pizza for # 11, a large Coke for # 24 and some nachos for #3, please.”

Concession Stand Volunteer:  “That will be $7.50, no $8.50 no $7.75.  Oh damn, has anybody seen the calculator?  Let’s call it an even $10.00.”

Not only would the student athlete benefit think of the potential profit for the school district.  Basketball will serve as our example here.  Think for a moment, it is a close game, the home team trails by two, time is running out on the clock, less than 12 seconds left, Number 4 inbounds the ball to number 32, who dribbles to half court, he runs into a double team and jumps up, passing the ball to number 43 in the corner.  Time is counting down, 2 seconds left, and the defense is running out towards number 43 (Jeff, if you are wondering) who squares up and launches a three point shot to win the game at the buzzer.  Think of all of the people mobbing the concession stand to buy popcorn, candy bars, lukewarm hot dogs, bottled water, anything to pay show their gratitude to Jeff, for his steely nerves and game winning heroics.  It will be like Black Friday, right outside the gym.  There is no need to stop there, though.

The world of amateur athletics is silly with coaches who feel like they are one good season from the glory and riches of the pro league, they so richly deserve.  It would be difficult to swing a blind referee’s white cane without hitting a volunteer dreaming of the big time.  Think of the potential, (and it would be relatively inexpensive at that age, a bargain, really) some kid dribbles the soccer ball through your entire U8 team, and the coach walks, very casually over and offers the kids $3.25 to switch teams for the rest of the game.  Does anybody else smell a dynasty?

Of course, there are going to be those who feel that money is too base, corrupting,  too “dirty.”  Truly, though, the money is really only secondary in importance, the real value is the lesson in dealing with success.  Learning to understand the value of talent, and learning to manage complex financial arrangements is the most important thing to teach children.