Belly Laugh: "Don't Take Me Out to the Ballgame: Part One"

As a child, I always wanted to do the things the other neighborhood boys did.  Some played baseball.  Some played soccer.  Others even took to water skiing and football.  One thing always held me back:  I am horribly uncoordinated.  Frankly, I’m just not “wired” for sports. I flinched at baseballs on every pitch; I counted cloud formations when playing soccer and the whole idea of being tackled in football mortified me.  It just didn’t seem like a civil thing to do to another human being.

My first “athletic” experience was baseball.  My Dad, who always felt being involved in sports was a critical duty of a young man, constantly encouraged me to get involved in the local sporting programs.  One summer, Dad thought it would be a great idea to sign me up for a local baseball little league team.  I can remember it vividly, because I told him I had no interest in playing baseball.  He would persist, and inevitably, we would argue.  One day, Dad asked me why I didn’t like baseball. I told him that the boys in my class threw the ball too hard.  He laughed and said, “Well, let’s help you get past that fear!”  I was excited.  My Dad worked very hard when I was young—often-working 12-14 hour shifts, even on weekends.  There weren’t many opportunities to bond through playtime.  This particular day was different! I was going to “play ball” in the backyard with my Dad.  The sun was harsh that day with a slight breeze in the air.  Dad handed me a leather glove and asked me to walk about ten feet away from him.  We were going to play catch!  I was thrilled with anticipation! 

BAAMMM!  Like a bug slamming into a windshield on clear summer day, it happened!  The problem, however, is that I played the role of the“bug” and the ball served as the windshield.  That ball hit me at a ferocious speed.  I could swear my Dad even broke the sound barrier.  The ball slammed directly into my shoulder with a punch that threw me several feet back.  I was numb.  I didn’t even see it coming.  For some reason, I thought my Dad would “play nice” since I was his son.  Apparently, I was wrong.  Why couldn’t he start with a soft pitch?  Could I call a time out? I can remember having tears flow down my face and my Dad telling me, “You’ve got to get used to it—it’s only a ball, it’s not going to hurt you.”  But it DID hurt.  My Mom, watching from the kitchen window yelled at my Father to stop throwing it so hard.  “He’s got to get used to it, Susie!  Trust me; I know what I’m doing!”  I was so relieved my Mom was there to defend me.  But the pitches didn’t stop, and I never caught a single one.  I know my Dad had the best of intentions, but for some reason, I couldn’t understand his methodology. 

The next week, Mom took me to the local park district office.  I asked Mom why we were going to the park district and she explained that we needed to pay for my new uniform.  “Uniform?  For what?”  I asked.  “For your new baseball team—remember, you’re playing Little League this summer!”  I slumped into the back seat and sulked. I thought I had already made it clear that I had no intentions of playing baseball.  If my lackluster weekend “catch” performance didn’t cement the idea, what could?  Mom pulled into the front parking spot and quickly jumped out of the car.  I can remember the dust from the white gravel road still circling the windshield as I patiently awaited Mom’s return.  A man with a red ball cap stood and talked to my Mom for a few minutes, Mom exchanged cash with him, and the ball cap man handed her a plastic bundle, along with a sheet of paper.  When Mom got into the car, she beamed from ear to ear as she handed me my new uniform and schedule of games.  My heart sunk, and my throat seemed tight. I wanted so much to please my Dad.  And I knew this would do it. But I also knew I would be a huge failure in baseball.  My fear had long overtaken my ability to believe in my own potential when it came to sports. 

I took the uniform, opened the bundle as if it were a present on Christmas morning, smiled graciously, and said, “Mom, it’s a really nice uniform, and I’ll wear it.  But I’m not playing baseball.”  Understanding the sincerity in my voice, my Mom promptly returned the uniform and took me for an ice cream cone. That was the end of my baseball career.

Hiccup: When it Comes to Erma, Bullies Need Not Apply

I can still feel the crunch of my face against the cold, hard metal.  The entire row of school lockers would shift forward with my body, firmly pressed against them, and my shoulders would burn in an instant, piercing pain.  Sometimes my hair would be pulled; other times the books I held would be knocked from my hands.  But regardless of the attack, there were always hateful words.  It was seventh grade.  Like the chimes in a grandfather clock, they would show up.  I knew they would come.  Sometimes I would glance down the hall in anticipation; sometimes I would hold my head down, waiting, waiting for the inevitable.  Most of my classmates wouldn't even acknowledge what was happening.  I was a lone soldier in this battle--lacking even the simplest knowledge of defensive strategy.

Then came Erma.  Big, beautiful Erma.  At the age of 13, she seemed at least six feet tall.  With broad shoulders, a silky yet brawny voice, and a smile that easily lit up the solar system, Erma was my beacon of light in the darkness.  Erma and I attended grade school together.  Parsons Elementary was a typical suburban-style school, filled mostly with children from middle to upper middle income levels.  Erma was one of a few black girls who attended Parsons.  She always laughed at my jokes and loved my coveted pencil box, filled with smelly erasers, and freshly sharpened pencils.   I grew to treasure her friendship, and in return, she always stuck up for me.  Even though I knew we came from different neighborhoods, from different sides of the city, there was something that always drew me close to her.  As a child, I knew I didn’t fit the typical mold.  I can remember being different from a very young age.  Maybe that was what drew me to Erma.  She was one of a few minorities in my primarily all-white primary school.  I, on the other hand, was on a road to becoming who God had intended me to be.  I just didn’t know it back then.

With a crash, my head would bang into the vented upper locker.  I could feel my hip pressed against the hard, bulky combination lock.  My books, scattered all about, would end up with torn binding and my weeks’ worth of homework would be spewed on the floor surrounding the hallway.  The books were of particular concern, because I knew I wouldn't be able to explain to my parents why they had been damaged.  “You’re such a faggot!” They would scream. High pitched laughter and intimidating cackles would echo in the hallways.  I was hopeless.  I was alone.  And no one cared.

Then, with the swiftness of a comic book super hero, Erma appeared!  As I attempted to gain my balance and push myself up, the double doors adjacent to my locker would fly open in thunderous climax.  The morning’s sun rays would blind my eyes as I looked in the direction of the doors, feeling the swoosh of air as the doors slammed against the polished ceramic tile walls.  There she would stand-- hands on her hips with eyes piercing my avengers: “YOU DON’T MESS WITH MY PEOPLE!” She would scream.  “IF I HEAR EVEN A PEEP OUT OF YOU, I’M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS!”  Erma was blessed with a natural method of motivation.  And motivate she did!  The bullies would scamper out of the hallway faster than I had the opportunity to fully stand up.  Sometimes one of them would slip and fall on the shiny, waxed floor tiles.  Even then, I had a sense of empathy for them.  Erma’s face would quickly go from harsh to light as she would beam at me, and say, “You let me know if they say or do anything and I’ll take care of them for you.”  Erma would then bend down and pick up each of my wrinkled, foot-imprinted homework assignments, smoothing each one out tenderly, and shoot me a smile that warmed my heart with relief and gratitude. 

Erma never forgot me.  I never forgot her.  From grade school to middle school, I always could count on her to defend and protect me.  I felt strong in the presence of Erma.  Big, beautiful Erma. 

Belly Laugh: 16th Birthday Dreams and the Chicken Car Who Stole Them

 

 

 

 

Yes, this is the famous "Chicken Car" from Decatur, IL. And yes, that is a youthful Brent standing alongside the streamer and balloon adorned "infamous" vehicle. The car was given to me as a "gift" for my 16th birthday. For years my parents promised in prideful tones to buy me this lovely, custom-painted vehicular specimen when I turned 16. Laughter always ensued shortly after their pronouncements. I, too, laughed... nervously-- mostly because I knew my parents could be capable of many things, and mischief of this magnitude was par for the course. Well, that day came. My 16th birthday. No gift. Not even a simple "happy birthday." No cake.  No balloons.  Nothing. Discouraged and bordering on depression, I went out to mow the lawn.  As I mowed, I noticed a peculiar sight. All up and down Adams Drive, neighbors suddenly appeared on their porches in wild anticipation-- as if a parade of sorts would soon be arriving. I, too, watched with great curiosity. Then the horns blew... people scampered to street; wildly waving as a car... THAT car... slowly rumbled down the road. Stunned, frightened, nauseous, I peered over, eyes squinting, to see who was driving that chicken. Yep. It was Mom and Dad. And yep, they pulled right into our driveway. With great excitement, my Dad jumped out, beaming ear-to-ear, and said, "this is your special day, my son, here are the keys to your first car!" "Only the best for my son," he said. I thought I was going to be sick. I said, "You're kidding, right?!?  My sister, Natalie, grabbed the door of that blinged - out - psychedelic former Cadillac and said, "you should be ashamed! Mom and Dad spent good money on this car! I would be proud to drive this to school! Just think, you'll never lose it in the parking lot!" My parents insisted I have photos taken with my "new car."  Please note the pinwheel I'm holding.  Mom handed it to me shortly before the first "click."  She said, "I know how you like shiny things-- here's a pinwheel to celebrate!"  My parents' prank lasted for hours, and they even required me to pick up my friends and cruise down the most popular street in town, Eldorado-- a street literally packed with kids from my high school. The entire neighborhood was in on it, too. And I was completely convinced my parents had really done it this time. Fortunately, they had only rented the car for the day. The joke was on me. I can still remember thinking, in prayerful gratitude, "thank you, Lord, for preventing the inevitable onslaught of teasing, strange looks, and the ultimate loss of friendship" this car would most certainly create. One thing is for sure, my 16th birthday was a memorable one. And I cherish this photo. Thankfully 26 years later, my parents have never changed. I love them, and I especially love them for renting--not buying--this "gem" of modern day transportation. 

Copyright 2014 © Brent Goken  All Rights Reserved.