Losing to Win

 

Growing up we played all sorts of sports, most not organized, but we had teams just the same. Baseball, basketball, football or even bowling, the competition was fierce. More often than not we mimicked our favorite sport's heroes, sometimes even wearing their numbers. We were them, hoping to possess their athleticism, more often then not falling well short. We were dreamers and schemers, plotting a path to win column. We were kids being kids, sometimes making it to the victory circle, other times falling well short. Everyone wanted to be first but we settled for second when things didn't work out. Eventually we'd have our chance, each of us having strengths in one sport activity or the other.

 

Hitting, catching, fielding or pitching gave us options to succeed on our cow pasture baseball diamond. So what if we sucked, we had fun and life went on. If one led the others of our merry little band in home runs over the bared wire fence, then we recognized him as the home run king. On base percentage meet you could hit the ball where one if us wasn't or it took a bad bounce off a cow patty or uneven field. We laughed when bad plays were made and cheered when great ones were made. Strike outs happen just like walks did. We never played to a tie. Someone would win if we played long enough. There were no trophies on MVP awards, only because we couldn't afford them. At the end of the game, we piled in some one's car and headed to the nearest place we could purchase soft drinks, ice-cream or other goodies of choice. Losers and winners celebrated alike.

 

Football was the same. We scored touchdowns, didn't kick any field goals. Shrubbery, trees or other fixed objects marked the out of bounds. Interceptions were acknowledged as loudly as touchdowns. One team eventually won meaning the other one lost. Next time we'd choose sides differently and it might or might not impact the outcome. Who really cared? We were having fun. Don't get me wrong; we all wanted to win and took winning seriously. But once we had and we had razed the losing side, we were over it.

 

Basketball was usually a friendly game of Horse or some other crude animal or thing. Those with trick shots had the advantage. I had an under the leg shot that they heated. I think they eventually banned it. We some times had enough kids to go three on three but most of the time we settled for Horse. We called that person whatever game name we were playing if they lost. Sure, losers hated being tagged with losing game's name but we all eventually lost. The loser always wanted to play one more game. Sometimes we did, sometimes we didn't.

 

Bowling was a fun sport. Stupid stuff always happens on the bowling lanes. People fall, drop balls and even hit pins. Bowling was my game. I was good by kid standards. Did that mean I always won...certainly not. I hated losing but like in any of our other antics, we laughed even when we lost. We controlled our destines. We made the rules, sometimes even following them. There was no fairness. Winners won, Losers lost. The scoreboard never lied. Well we actually had no scoreboard except in bowling. If an inning of baseball scored 25 runs then that was just the way it was until all three outs were made. The other side had three outs too. We played football until finally we just got too tired to play any longer. The one leading at the time won.

 

So where am I going with this you must wonder. Well wonder no longer. I hate what sports have become for the young kids now. It isn't tolerated to be labeled a loser. Everyone is a winner...really? Who made up a stupid rule like that? Outs don't count in baseball. IT'S BASEBALL...OUTS DO COUNT. Since when is it wrong to keep score? Strike outs are part of the game. You get three, not an endless turn at bat until finally you put a ball in play. Football is for hard knocks. You get a bloody nose or knee, it is part of the game. You don't not keep score; that is so terribly wrong. Same goes for basketball. Why would anyone want to run up down the court and then find out at the buzzer that both teams won.

 

Same goes for school classes. If I made an 'F', I either didn't study or gave wrong answers. If you're smart then you should be hailed as being smart. F's don't necessarily make you stupid. Some kids try harder or are smarter than other kids. That just the way things are. Making kids think they are smarter than they really are is not really helping them. Making every kid think they are winners are just setting them up to be big losers in the adult world. There's no even playing field for adults. Screwing up doesn't make you move up. Handouts and entitlements create weak and pathetic adults in the long run. 

 

What's wrong with this world when we don't prepare our children for the real world? The crime is not. I grew up getting whippings by my parents and in sports. I obviously deserved both, either because I did something I wasn't supposed to do or I stunk up the cow pasture in whatever pastime we were playing. That's life. You can't pretty it up by being deceitful to the youngsters by making they seem something they are not. Eventually the truth will catch up with them and in this case, it will not set them free.  

 

Losing builds character. It makes winning feel more special. We all mistakes. We learn from them. But if we never lose or think we make mistakes, we are in for a rude awakening in the real world. Claiming a victory when there isn't one will spell doom for those ill prepared. I am glad I grew up in a time before fairness and even play ruined the world. Bless your hearts, those of you who are now learning otherwise. Blame those who made you believe you never lost at anything. Welcome to the real world.



Excerpt from The Perfect Spook House, now available @ Clock Tower Books in Georgetown or where books are sold on line:

I hung up the phone, relieved to know the Calvary was on the way, even if I had five hours to fend off the onslaught, before he arrived. I returned to the closet. I dragged out the box marked High School Stuff. Apparently I had slipped firmly into the grasp of a nostalgic Sunday afternoon, ready or not.

     I normally don’t spend Sunday afternoons at home alone or even at home at all, if I can find something better to do. Today, the past had a strangle hold on me, so abnormal conditions ran rampant. A sunny October afternoon in my little hometown of Abbeville gave way to brewing storm clouds, the kind that don’t register on the Weather Man’s radar screen.

     I picked through the half dozen high school annuals until I eyed the one that interested me, 1968, my junior year. That year so happened to coincide with the year it happened, the year my life came unraveled. I flipped through the pages, reliving the scenes as if they were just yesterday. They would have been joyous care free times, if not had it been for that day, Thursday, October 31st.

     I had very few signings in the year book. Hardly anyone had wished me luck or told me what a joy I had been to know, except for my very closest friends. Real friends were few and far between, after the incident that night. Most gave me wide berth. I would have probably been a social outcast at a Leper colony. My senior year had so sucked. The class nerds had gotten more attention than me.

     Flipping the pages, I gazed on pictures of happy students walking the hallways, cheering at various sports events, crowned kings and queens, mostly likely to be or do this and that. The photos looked nothing like the year I remembered. I appeared in none of them. My fellow classmates had scorned me, banished me to a desert island, all because of what had happened, and what couldn’t have been prevented. Maybe it could have, if we would have stayed away from that damned old house.

     I would have loved to have seen any one of them do any better, considering the circumstances. I needed a drink. After all, it was past noon. I checked the pantry and spotted a pint of rum, not my preferred drink, but what the hell. I poured an ample amount in a mug, added a couple of ice cubes, some Pepsi and a splattering of lime juice. I was off and running. After a couple of long swigs, all was good, or at least getting better. That catchy 1970’s tune leaped into my head. I began singing while I danced around the room. It just seemed the right thing to do.

She put the lime in the coconut, and drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut, and drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut,
Called the doctor, woke him up, and said,
"Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take,
I say, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?
I say, Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take,
I say, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?"
She put the lime in the coconut, and drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut, and drank them both up

 

Available just in time for Halloween, with my hometown, Abbeville as the backdrop.

 

 

Halloween 1968, two car loads of eleventh graders venture down the winding Cedar Springs Road. An old deserted house screams haunted dares to those in search of spooks and goblins. Do tricks or treats await the young thrill seekers? Spontaneity has never taught a tougher life’s lesson, prompting a tiny southern community to shun their very own.  Ask Payne Lewis, the past can haunt forever. Nineteen years of torment comes to a head and eleven men must face their childhood demons one last time. Nostalgia guarantees no happy endings and sometimes is just better off left alone. There once was the Perfect Spook House…

 

 

‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

Disembark…Where’s Beaufort Pusser when we need him?

Disembarking the ship had its challenges. We couldn’t do it on an empty stomach so we had to hit the Lido deck one last time for breakfast. One had to wean one’s self off of endless grazing gradually. After a healthy and hardy pant’s splitting breakfast, we opted to carry off our luggage. Bad decision, sort of, as it appeared most everyone else had chosen this option. Elevators were a near impossibility to catch. We were assigned the Place Theater as our destination to wait until time to disembark, because we had to be out of our cabins by 8:30. Luckily we caught the elevator going up from deck 6 to 8. Luck ran out when we had to haul our luggage down 6 decks, two flights of stairs each. Clumsy wheeled luggage is suited for stairways filled with impatience luggage carrying people.  Luggage rage was running rampant, a new serial killer in the making. Victims could be easily targeted, no shortage for sure. Somehow we survived. Putting the oceanic adventure behind us, The Griswolds motored to their next destination.

The last two days of our after cruise journey were scheduled for Beaufort, S.C., about a three hour drive from Jacksonville and a stop on our way back to Myrtle Beach. We already had two hotel rooms reserved. None of us had ever stayed in Beaufort so we weren’t exactly sure what to expect. Many movies had been filmed in the area and that was part of their claim to fame. Forrest would say ‘It might be like a ‘box of chocolates.’  Forrest Gump or at least portions of it were supposedly filmed there, as was the Big Chill, The Great Santini, GI Jane, Platoon and Forces of Nature and a few others. We had marked movie locations tour on our to do list. No, Walking Tall was not one of the films but I couldn’t help thinking Sheriff Buford Pusser when the name Beaufort comes up. He was the Sheriff of McNairy County, Tennessee, from 1964 to 1970. That Buford is known for his virtual one-man war on moonshining, prostitution and gambling. It prompted several movies and TV series as he battled the then Dixie Mafia and Stare Line Mob. 

After much of a rain free cruise we were in one monsoon after the next commuting towards Beaufort.  We didn’t have access to Doppler radar and the ability to perform zig-zag maneuvers as had our cruise captain dodging rainstorms, similar to battleships confusing submarines intent on sinking them.  We managed to make it to Beaufort with only one grazing stop.  We didn’t want to suffer withdrawals. We eventually arrived and after unloading the car, freshening up, we ventured out and about to check things out. We ended up in the old downtown section, Mayberry with heat and humidity. Finding a parking spot on the Bay Street, we began feeding coins in the parking meter.  A quarter bought you about six minutes. We started with an hours’ worth, later returning to up the ante when we found a place to dine on the bay front.  Like Nassau, we had completed a several block walk-about and other than the meter feeding and feeding our faces, we did nothing else to boost the quaint little town’s economy.  We rode around afterwards in this and that direction to get the lay of the land.

The next morning we were ready to take our show to the streets and tour some more. Several consignment shops had been targeted; historical ones I’m assuming or maybe these were film locations…NOT. Sister-in-law was not doing well. She made it to several stops before crying uncle and the next stop was Food Lion to purchase meds. They bowed out before noon, opting to settle back in the room. We ventured out and scoped out more of Beaufort, returning in time to see if they were up to some grazing. An addiction is tough to kick. They emerged from their cave long enough to join us before packing it back in a second time. We told them happy hour started at 6. The sister-in-law was still feeling a bit puny, hacking and coughing so neither she nor my brother-in-law joined us for happy hour @ 6 at poolside. Perhaps they thought a bathing suit was required.  It was optional and we had opted out.  I bet if I would have said a buffet was being served…

No one had felt up to doing any tours, neither by van or horse drawn carriage; either too sick or it was just plain too hot and humid. Again, we didn’t do too much to boost the economy on our little pit stop.  Instead of heading back to Myrtle Beach via Charleston, we decided to skirt through Summerville, distance about the same. There we intended to stop for lunch at Perfectly Franks, a dinner we had seen highlighted on Guy Fiei’s Drive-ns, Dinners and Dives.  We arrived @ 1100 Am. The sign on the store said hours begin @ 11:15, an odd time for opening. One couple pushing a stroller was already there waiting. We asked them had they ever eaten there and she said, “Oh my God yes.” We knew then that we wouldn’t be disappointed. Crowds began forming in the next few minutes and they opened up at 11:10. Every Frank on the menu was named after someone or something aka the Frank Sinatra. Aretha Franklin, etc.

I had the Frank Cuda…chili, topped with blue cheese slaw, bacon, crumpled fried onions, and a special mayo, watch out elbows. The Cuda family tradition began in 1910, when Perry’s grandfather, Frank Cuda, Sr., at the age of 15, stowed away on a boat from Italy to America. Later he moved to Pittsburgh, PA. From there, he brought all of his family, eight brothers and sisters and his father, to live with him in America. As the oldest brother, Frank was determined to make his way in his new home by opening a food store and selling hot dogs. With just three stools and a counter, “Cuda’s Hot Dogs” was born. Frank Cuda, Sr. continued to grow his business and soon had four hot dog stores managed exclusively by his family, which included Perry’s father, also named Frank. Today, Perry Cuda is carrying on the tradition and continues to pay tribute to the “Franks”.  Go to http://www.perfectlyfranksonline.com/menus.html#3

We eventually, Lido like belly popping full, made our way back to the grand strand. The in-laws made a swift retreat and headed for Abbeville, a four and half hour driver, having apparently had enough of our company. A vacation is what you make out of it and I like to keep my memorable. Being a little foolish is okay. Enjoying it is priceless. I can’t wait for the next time the Griswold wantebees hit the highway. Maybe next time we’ll too go in search of Wally World.

‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

Day 5: Milk-um Dano  

We’re on the last leg of our journey, a day at sea, skimming our way through the ocean towards Jacksonville. We’re up and at-um at 7:30, ready to milk this cow, our final oceanic adventure before returning to the life of norm. With an all day island adventure behind us, those late night partiers give way to skimpy crowds on the Lido; no lines, no waiting, pile those plates high, eyes always bigger than the bellies. Stan the Man is making he rounds, still meeting and greeting passengers. Sucking up day I suppose; tonight we divvy out the gratuities. Stan has certainly earned his, hands down.  

The pool area on the Lido was a virtual invasion of the towel creations. The fluffy white animals were everywhere and represented almost any animal imaginable. I had never seen these creatures outside our cabin. My best attempt at a towel animal is my depiction of the ‘Blob’, an oddly shaped towel on the bathroom floor. Others don’t appreciate my ingenuity and creative talents so I don’t leave my masterpieces there for long. They are preparing to do an ice carving pool side. A huge block of ice is already positioned there. Guests are supposed to guess what the carver is creating as he chips away. Crowds close in obstructing our view. Fine, I’ll just keep my guess to myself. We leave, just the deck, not the ship. What do they do with the sculpture after it melts?  

We check tonight’s menu…boring…nothing really weird to hold my attention or expectations. I’ll have sushi as my appetizer just to maintain some semblance of weirdness. I do have a reputation to maintain. Tonight’s entertainment includes tow comedians, back to back, the non adult versions of their shows; The Diva Show in the Palace Theater and I’m already having visions of Bill Davis’s Diva paintings. Other than that, we shall eat…eat again and then eat some more. There is a special VIP gala planned before dinner for those previous cruisers, by invitation only. I’m not on the invite list even though I’ve sailed Carnival way too may time. The “Three’ are. My brother-in-law isn’t interested and tells me to take his spit. Chameleon like, I have the ability to mimic almost anyone. I am him and escort the ladies, one on each arm. I become an official VIP for forty minutes. I am one with the elite, the ultimate party crasher. I wow them by dancing with both my escorts simultaneously, a slow dance, a tribute my way as old Frankie would say. Earlier in the casino I played the slots one last time earlier, end up breaking even. High roller status is not a reality or obtainable goal.  

We break bread with our table once last time. Besides us, our table buddies include Robbie, the karaoke singer, Kathy the odd and annoying one who cruise one cruise after the next, Edith the widow and energetic and entertaining octogenarian, and Cynthia, the quiet one from Ohio. I envision a plot once again revolving around these four characters and some devious shenanigans. I even share this with them for a good laugh. We commit to joining Robbie, the Sam’s Club marketing guy, later in the karaoke bar. Oh no, we plan to watch not sing.  We eventually follow up on our promise to watch him belt out a few tunes. He ends up singing a couple of country tunes and then a Commodores’ tune, Brick House. We cease the moment, Edith, my sister-in-law and me, becoming Robbie’s on stage back-up dancers, with his permission of course. It is required that on every cruise, you must make a fool out of yourself at least once.  We completed this task royally. I have the video to confirm it. My brother-in-law filmed the entire set with my camera. Kiss and say goodbye…Pips here we come.  

Tonight has ended. Tomorrow we disembark. All things, good or bad, must come to an end…or not. We plan a two night side trip before arriving Sarueday in Myrtle Beach. Beaufort, S.C. here we come, ready or not.

‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

Day 4: An Hour in Paradise  

We’re here. The island is there. As mentioned previously, I’m the only one who brought a bathing suit. I discover just this morning that it is one that the strings don’t tighten up so well. I have been considering going snorkeling but skinny dipping wasn’t in my plans. Weighed down with water that might just happen if I do, but, snorkeling really isn’t fun without at least one bud along. I’m Bud-less so I decided not to go. No one in my group is going to sunbath on the beach, swim, kayak, walk and/or bicycle the island trails, ride horses or anything like that. We’re just going on the island for the promised BBQ. Go figure, eating is involved, island grazing this time. One has to ponder, does water go all the way around the island. Goodbye Lido Deck…keep the food light on for us.  

We take one of the tenders and soon arrive on our island paradise. For greenhorns, tenders are the boats that take us to the island. We arrive, a beautiful layout I must say, paradise found. We walk to the beach, see it and walk back, and then visit the one souvenir shop. Shade, there must be shade some place so say some in our party, the others I call them. The 11 AM BBQ time arrives. As on the ship, eating is located on what seems like the opposite end of the island. I guess this ensures that the patrons work up an appetite getting from here to there; like we require an excuse for being hungry. Heck on a cruise you eat whether you are hungry or not. It’s an endless buffet. Chickens, real chickens are everywhere on the island; instant BBQ I’m thinking. My beloved is terrified of chickens; anything with feathers to be more precise. She is a near basket case and is ready to be voted off the island. I almost want to pull a Jeff from Survivor and say I’ll go tally the votes; if anyone has the hidden immunity island and would like to play it now…  

BBQ, where’s the BBQ, ribs, chicken, pulled pork…no, we have hamburgers and hotdogs. That’s grilling, not barbequing. Is this some sick joke? Are they no chicken pluckers on this island? As Lost in Space’s Doctor Smith would say. “The shame, the shame of it all...’ We do as we are supposed to and forge on, consume the food provided, and then we catch a tender and head back to the ship. There’s always the Lido deck. I catch a reprieve after reading tonight’s dinner menu…frog leg appetizers…I’m good…two appetizers please. Let’s recant. I’ve had escargot, gator and hippity-hoppers await me. I live for weird food so the others call it. Oh yeah, on the Lido Deck I have already devoured calamari fritters. Add squid to my list.   

We decided we deserved a happy hour before dinner and invite the couples to join us in our cabin. That’s the least we can do since our non-traveling cruise partners (the high rollers) have a bottle of Cherry Rum and a bottle of wine that they want to get rid of. Get ridding of I am good at. We take a nostalgic trip, swapping stories about growing up in L.A. (Lower Abbeville). South Main, Perry and Hunter Streets, Langley Milliken, Greenville Street grammar schools, the mill hill, all the characters we knew and their antics; adult beverages emboldened our tales. I mentally take notes; novels require new characters and wild adventures. This was the best of the cruise so far.  

After dinner, and upon my consumption of six frog legs, we settled in at the Palace Theater. When I say we, I mean half of our original six. Two went back to their cabin and one hauled tail to the casino. The cruise director had assembled several couples on stage for Carnival’s version of the Newly Wed Game. One question stood out above the others as a hoot and I’m glad we weren’t participants. 

Question: When your husband emerges from the shower does he resemble (a) A stretch limousine, (b) A dump truck (c) a VW bug with tiny pink flat tires.  

Tomorrow we are all day at sea; just perfect for non sun bathers. There’s always the Lido deck. How much luggage are you allowed to take off the ship? I feel like I’m lugging around a lot more than I arrived with…