....Oh my...
The 7th Grade was a breath of fresh air, during our country's Bi-Centennial Year of 1976....Wow, I felt like I was signing the Declaration of Independence, myself, it was so cool, learning all the struggles and extreme sacrifices, those courageous patriots, put on the line, to get our nation rolling, on the right track...around 1776
An awesome thing we did for ART CLASS that year was hang all kinds of special patriotic flags, made of construction paper, which hung on a clothesline that hung 4 feet over our heads....Flags for each of the 13 colonies and DON'T TREAD ON ME....just kicked ass....hanging above our heads...looking cooler than anything...Betsy Ross would have been proud...
But then....One of us goofballs, got the devious idea, we could sling-shot paper clips, with rubber bands, thru all the flags, even while class was in session....It was an onslaught as these neat paper flags were decimated with little paper clip puncture holes....across the whole room...
Finally, the sh-t hit the fan, as our mean Assistant Principal, Sister Alyssa came stomping into our room, extremely pissed and was ready to drag us out of the classrooms by our ears....
Why...???....
The Bi-Centennial Flags (1776/1976) we made were pretty darn cool looking...but then they got bullet-riddled, like it was an ouzi sub-machine gun, doing the damage....so all the teacher's were all aghast because open house for the parents was up-coming that weekend...
Who were the culprits....No doubt, Fitz & Slim, Joe Devlin & Jimmy Ade, Chet & Buck & Johnny Murph, Eddie B & Moodo, for sure, maybe more....Well Sister Alyssa started to search thru the desks, across the room, looking for some evidence....
and then she tip-toed, ominously back to Mike Moody's desk, all the way back, in the last row, with a devilish grin, saying, "Can I look inside your desk, Mister Michael Moody...???...."
Moodo turned white as a ghost...because he had the motherload of paperclips and rubber bands sticking out from the inside of his desk....But right before, she was gonna stick her hands into Moodo's desk, she asked ME, Jimmy O'Leary, to look for her, because I think she knew Moodo's white as a ghost, face said it all...
I rummaged my hand thru the barrage of stuff inside of Moodo's desk and declared it clean as a whistle....and Sister Alyssa turned with a sly smirk and walked away....We all knew at that moment, Sister Alyssa was alot cooler than we thought, not taking us down, for the count....
Moodo caught a big break that day...and immediately our flag onslaught was over...
We even made more new, cooler flags, to replace the decimated ones....So everyone was happy!
After school, in the Springtime, you could find us all wander up to the park, later, lagging quarters for dough or playing fast pitch baseball, throwing a heavy rubber ball as hard as you could, at a brick wall, with a hitters' box spray-painted against the field house....
I was no good at fast-pitch....but it was a nice chance to try to heave a ball at Nolan Ryan fast-ball speed...and watch it fly, mostly beaning someone in the head, arm or shoulders...which always brought out lotsa laughter....The older kids like Eddy Epper & Jack McManus & Hop & Case & Coon-Daddy & Bram & The Funk & Gert & Jimmy Walsh, all a year older than us, made us look like complete fools...
Then, us slugs, gave up, and rambled down to the air-conditioned basement of our field house where the cool temps were heavenly and played a card game called KNUCKLES....Knuckles was a blood-sport, with a deck of cards...
All I remember, if you lost at Knuckles, your opponent got to try to make your knuckles, spew out blood, by scathing the deck of cards like a machete, going thru a big melon...
It was ferociously cruel but we loved it, because it was high-comedy and high-brutality all rolled into one...I can remember Neil Krull scraping down Eddie Barkowski's knuckles almost to the bone...in a relentless war of a Knuckles game, that carried high stakes....
When July 4th, 1976....finally did come around...the day was a big-let-down, for me...I was expecting a huge celebration, beyond anything that had been ever seen....but I just remember rolling out of bed, up at the Lake House...My Dad was patiently reading the Tribune on the patio ande my Mom had all kinds of red-white-and-blue stuff up...
I was expecting all-day...all-night fireworks & sparklers & smoke bombs & bottle rockets...
But here I was, sleepy, walking out on our patio about 10AM. Dead Quiet...I looked at my Dad...and I think he was zeroed in on the sports section of the Chicago Tribune, if White Sox pitcher, Britt Burns or Wilbur Wood had pitched a gem...just turning the page after page, of the newspaper, letting out a sigh.
I think that was my first recollection, that the media knew how to get out the HYPE for an event and push it to the MAX beyond my capacity to understand such things...The Bi-Centennial, came and went and a little of that patriotism I had, maybe shoulda' died with it....because I had spent hours and hours, combing over our US History, from 200 years before, and was very proud to be an American, that day...no matter what...big fireworks or no fireworks....
The 4th of July, 2009...is only a few days away....and I hope people do realize this nation was founded on some sound principles that stand even to this day...And those principles are...Every man is created equal and we all share in the endeavors to make this nation, a better place, every which way we can...In my mind...
....and "T.J."...Thomas Jefferson also would want to say....wave your flags high with pride, so everyone can see them, flowing and glowing, standing for our Independence, back on July 4th, 1776.....233 long years ago....and certainly right now...!!!...in the "Land of the FREE" and "Home of the BRAVE"...
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Fishing
Fishing...it's in my blood...Maybe some kinda ancestrial link of some sorts, whatever...It's there.
As a young tyke, digging up worms in the backyard, in Williams Bay, after a rainy night, exctitedly coming across a big juicy nightcrawler...I was convinced that ugly, bloated, veiny worm, was gonna land me a jumbo whopper, of a fish...
I can remember 1970, very clearly, going out to the end of our new pier, in Williams Bay, and hauling in a few sunfish, perch...blue gill...etc...Nothing spectacular, but enough to keep the fires alive, for the next time around...I was only 7 years old...but the whole hobby of fishing was a great deal of fun...and spending endless time, with lost lures & tangled lines, never phased me.
It seemed as I grew older, my strategy would change, going out on our Granny Franny boat, to hidden places around the lake...where vast amounts of fish were considered, there, for the taking...And as I hit my teenage years, my passion for fishing was at a peak...
Sometimes, we'd get caught up, in the tranquil peacefulness of fishing and not see a rapidly appraching storm, bearing down, out on Lake Geneva, ready to unload, a giant shower of rain & thunder & lightining. Suddenly, our weather senses, kicked in...
and there we were, making a mad dash...across the lake, flooring our Granny Franny boat at top speed, to beat the storm back home...It was exhilerating, throwing caution to the wind and bouncing our boat thru monster waves, crashing us, all around, as we sped like demons, back to shore, in the Bay... Me & Joe had that happen to us, more than a couple times...
Sometimes, it was helping my nieces & nephews, gather their steam, off the side of the pier, laughing at them, fishing with their bamboo poles & corn nibblets for bait...I realized fishing was fun, from the very start...for some more than others...
My nephew Mike, a bit of an intense little bugger, actually saw a giant, dazed, Northern Pike, wallowing in the short end of the water...Well, he jumped in the water, and started beating the fish with an oar...until it stopped flopping...
That's not gonna get you any brownie points from Babe Winkleman...but it got the job done...A caught fish is a caught fish...no rule books in fishing...Mike had that sucker mounted even, and we all managed to leave out the technicality of hauling that monster in...
As an older teen, I did some fishing with some buddies, off Lake Michigan, near Adler Planetarium, in Olive Park...(most spectacular view of the lakefront, in the city of Chicago...btw...) and even ventured north around the Banai' Temple off Northwestern University where my brother Joe's friend, Dennis, hauled in a giant Coho Salmon...
Sure, they said the mercury levels were too dangerous to eat a Coho from Lake Michigan but we were drinking Budweiser, which kills all germ & mercury poisons...(it says that in fine print on the side of the can...lol...)....
I'm glowing a bit, still, from eating that Coho, but "danger" is my middle name...When they crack me open on an autopsy table, down the line, they can have a good laugh with what they find inside me...
Even years later, when I moved out to San Diego, in the early 90's, living,in a one room, beach hut, apartment, 25 feet off of Ocean Beach pier...I resumed my passion for fishing,. soaking up the Cali sunshine, having a ball, hauling in baby sharks & some crazy fish called "Wahoo", that had razor sharp teeth...At night, every Friday night, about 9pm, nearby Sea World would have a great fireworks display...
and it was really surreal to be out on the end of Ocean Beach pier, with your pole in the water, people of every nationality, speaking a different language and the colors of the fireworks boldly glistening off the ocean waters...
Here I was, so far from home, with the deep, driving, mesmorizing ocean sounds surrounding me. Everybody had glow sticks, out there, glowing lime/yellow, all over, in the darkness & it was very cool, to soak it all in...considering I was just a land-lubber from the Midwest...
I even joined the San Diego Fishing Club and won a kick-ass, $600 mega-marlin pole, the first night I was there, that looked like something you would have rigged up off your big fishing trolly, off "The Cape of Good Hope"...That was alot of fun, hearing those S.D. fishing guys spin some wild tales of fishing all over the world...Those guys sailed the seven seas, and then some...making my passion for fishing look a bit silly...
a couple years back, I went over to my sister Maureen's place in Delavan, in July, and me & my buddy Jack McManus had a blast, as he hauled in a big Catfish...out of the murky waters of Delavan Lake, which is the best fishing lake around here, now...
It was funny as my nephew, Thomas and his Dad Charlie, insisted we keep the fish... because those ugly Catfish are bad fish...to throw back in...but it was too late...we were celebrating the unexpected whopper, by cracking open some cold suds...and laughing how that was totally mind-blowing...because only a few minutes before, Jack had dropped my fishing pole, to the bottom of the lake, accidentally, somewhat blasted drunk, and we were about to give it up, for the day...
Today, a new summer fishing season lies ahead and I have every intention of getting out there, some day, and see if some of the fish are still biting...and having a good time, recalling the old "fish stories" of the past...The fish always seem to get bigger, every time you tell the stories, but you can't help but lose track of time, which fish got caught when...
Who knows, if I can dig one up, on the Internet, maybe I'll break out the "Old School" fishing hat I wore all over, back in the day, as a youngster...when fishing was so fun for me...and I always felt that the "big one" was waiting for me, on the end of my line...
As a young tyke, digging up worms in the backyard, in Williams Bay, after a rainy night, exctitedly coming across a big juicy nightcrawler...I was convinced that ugly, bloated, veiny worm, was gonna land me a jumbo whopper, of a fish...
I can remember 1970, very clearly, going out to the end of our new pier, in Williams Bay, and hauling in a few sunfish, perch...blue gill...etc...Nothing spectacular, but enough to keep the fires alive, for the next time around...I was only 7 years old...but the whole hobby of fishing was a great deal of fun...and spending endless time, with lost lures & tangled lines, never phased me.
It seemed as I grew older, my strategy would change, going out on our Granny Franny boat, to hidden places around the lake...where vast amounts of fish were considered, there, for the taking...And as I hit my teenage years, my passion for fishing was at a peak...
Sometimes, we'd get caught up, in the tranquil peacefulness of fishing and not see a rapidly appraching storm, bearing down, out on Lake Geneva, ready to unload, a giant shower of rain & thunder & lightining. Suddenly, our weather senses, kicked in...
and there we were, making a mad dash...across the lake, flooring our Granny Franny boat at top speed, to beat the storm back home...It was exhilerating, throwing caution to the wind and bouncing our boat thru monster waves, crashing us, all around, as we sped like demons, back to shore, in the Bay... Me & Joe had that happen to us, more than a couple times...
Sometimes, it was helping my nieces & nephews, gather their steam, off the side of the pier, laughing at them, fishing with their bamboo poles & corn nibblets for bait...I realized fishing was fun, from the very start...for some more than others...
My nephew Mike, a bit of an intense little bugger, actually saw a giant, dazed, Northern Pike, wallowing in the short end of the water...Well, he jumped in the water, and started beating the fish with an oar...until it stopped flopping...
That's not gonna get you any brownie points from Babe Winkleman...but it got the job done...A caught fish is a caught fish...no rule books in fishing...Mike had that sucker mounted even, and we all managed to leave out the technicality of hauling that monster in...
As an older teen, I did some fishing with some buddies, off Lake Michigan, near Adler Planetarium, in Olive Park...(most spectacular view of the lakefront, in the city of Chicago...btw...) and even ventured north around the Banai' Temple off Northwestern University where my brother Joe's friend, Dennis, hauled in a giant Coho Salmon...
Sure, they said the mercury levels were too dangerous to eat a Coho from Lake Michigan but we were drinking Budweiser, which kills all germ & mercury poisons...(it says that in fine print on the side of the can...lol...)....
I'm glowing a bit, still, from eating that Coho, but "danger" is my middle name...When they crack me open on an autopsy table, down the line, they can have a good laugh with what they find inside me...
Even years later, when I moved out to San Diego, in the early 90's, living,in a one room, beach hut, apartment, 25 feet off of Ocean Beach pier...I resumed my passion for fishing,. soaking up the Cali sunshine, having a ball, hauling in baby sharks & some crazy fish called "Wahoo", that had razor sharp teeth...At night, every Friday night, about 9pm, nearby Sea World would have a great fireworks display...
and it was really surreal to be out on the end of Ocean Beach pier, with your pole in the water, people of every nationality, speaking a different language and the colors of the fireworks boldly glistening off the ocean waters...
Here I was, so far from home, with the deep, driving, mesmorizing ocean sounds surrounding me. Everybody had glow sticks, out there, glowing lime/yellow, all over, in the darkness & it was very cool, to soak it all in...considering I was just a land-lubber from the Midwest...
I even joined the San Diego Fishing Club and won a kick-ass, $600 mega-marlin pole, the first night I was there, that looked like something you would have rigged up off your big fishing trolly, off "The Cape of Good Hope"...That was alot of fun, hearing those S.D. fishing guys spin some wild tales of fishing all over the world...Those guys sailed the seven seas, and then some...making my passion for fishing look a bit silly...
a couple years back, I went over to my sister Maureen's place in Delavan, in July, and me & my buddy Jack McManus had a blast, as he hauled in a big Catfish...out of the murky waters of Delavan Lake, which is the best fishing lake around here, now...
It was funny as my nephew, Thomas and his Dad Charlie, insisted we keep the fish... because those ugly Catfish are bad fish...to throw back in...but it was too late...we were celebrating the unexpected whopper, by cracking open some cold suds...and laughing how that was totally mind-blowing...because only a few minutes before, Jack had dropped my fishing pole, to the bottom of the lake, accidentally, somewhat blasted drunk, and we were about to give it up, for the day...
Today, a new summer fishing season lies ahead and I have every intention of getting out there, some day, and see if some of the fish are still biting...and having a good time, recalling the old "fish stories" of the past...The fish always seem to get bigger, every time you tell the stories, but you can't help but lose track of time, which fish got caught when...
Who knows, if I can dig one up, on the Internet, maybe I'll break out the "Old School" fishing hat I wore all over, back in the day, as a youngster...when fishing was so fun for me...and I always felt that the "big one" was waiting for me, on the end of my line...
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Fore...!!!...
Every Spring, the snow melts away and our eyes return to getting outside and tearing things up. Whether it was pounding a basketball on a backyard court, smacking a baseball--up at the park or this next sports venture, all were a dazzling delight, to stretch our legs and bloody our noses.
Of course, we had no public golf course, in our neighborhood, but there was a great private golf course, Beverly Country Club, right across the railroad tracks, 2 blocks away fro me. And surely enough, some kind citizen, used some heavy-duty, wire-cutters to open up a slithery wicked opening, to squeeze our small bodies thru, to make this private course, our golf course, too.
The Beverly Country Club was top-notch in its day. Arnold Palmer had won a PGA Championship there, back in 1961, but nicer courses, popped up, further out in the suburbs, making this little gem, a quiet little retreat, for just a few, lucky ones.
On occasion, I can remember crashing the country club grounds and wreaking havoc there. I remember one time, me and a few friends, were wandering thru it, full-knowing we were tresspassing, and went into the main indoor, country club area and started riding up and down, this special seat, that transported/assisted older people, up and down, a high, winding stair-case. Well, we just about broke the machine, fooling around, when some official from the club, walked up and asked us, what club member had brought us there, that day.
Well, my goofy little buddies, (probably The Howlands-Johnny Hop & some other nuts) were shell-shocked, ready to get the boot, when I looked up on the wall and saw some special award, for the President of the club. Boom. I say, we are the special guests of the esteemed President and we are offended by their inquiry. Well, the official turned beet red, and steered us into the dining area, and gave us huge, free, ice cream sundaes. Stuff like that was priceless, as we inevitably stopped/stumbled by the Men's Room and saw all this guy's cologne & grooming stuff, in front of the big mirror...
I think we all lathered on half the gook they had displayed there, walking out of there, smelling like a perfume factory, with our hair slicked back, thinking that's what all these rich people did, every time, they hit the john. Yes, we were crazy beyond crazy, little rascals, just taking a boring, no-nothing day and making it a James Bond adeventure, boldly entering forbidden territory and making our mark, as silly little monsters.
Back to the golf course. A new set of us pranksters, descended on the hole in the fence, nestled about 10 feet from the railroad tracks. It was 6th Grade for us, the 2 Murphs--Johnny & Mike and Fitz, Slim & Chet and Neil, Marty, Bucky & me...Moodo & Bar...maybe a few others. We all grabbed our family's golf clubs and thought we'd take a run at Arnold Palmer's record, that early April day, when the course was still shut down, because winter was barely, gone.
Sure, there might even had been a few mounds of snow, here and there, in the crisp Spring air, about 40 to 50 degrees, great weather to us, to do anything because we did have Eskimo blood running thru us, able to take the frigid cold, in stride. The course looked stunning to us. A formidable challenge as any could be, as our golfing skills were a bit lax.
Well, put it this way, we all approached hitting the golf ball, like it was hitting a baseball, bashing & thumping and cursing, as our awful swings, did not help our scores. Let's face it, we look like The Three Stooges, out there...An occasional squirrel would run out on the course, and some dufess would drop their clubs and go chase it, like it was gonna be dinner, for that night. Just a rag-tag, bunch of goof balls, with no golfing experience, whatsoever, expecting this golf stuff, to be a piece of cake, once we warmed up a bit.
After awhile, our minds wandered as we realized this golf stuff was baffling. Sure, we told each other, we got par on that hole, maybe a bogie, a double-bogie, if we were slightly honest. But for the most part, all of us were racking up 6 to 12 strokes, each and every hole. Finally, we felt the day had been a success and we'd wrap things up, with one more hole, after wandering around 6 or 7 holes, on the back 9. We came up to a green, located back by the railroad tracks, by our big sledding hill...(Yes, this place was our toboggan run, in winter time, too...)...
Marty & Neil, were getting goofy with their clubs, throwing them at each other, when Marty, actually threw an iron, like a tomahawk, and it spun, around and around, and thunked, into the green, like a dagger, with a big delicious thud. Well, it looked hilarious and after a few seconds, a whole bunch of us, began tossing the golf irons, tomahawk-style, across this entire green, bludgeoning it, absolutely ruining it, for the up-coming year.
I knew this was getting ugly & was gonna be a frightful dilemma to deal with, next time, we crashed the Beverly C.C...but my friends were joyously romping all over the place, laughing & laughing, pulling up their irons, with a huge mound of dirty/muddy/grassy green, stuck to it. Clearly, they had lost their minds.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, 4 or 5 golf carts, come zooming out of nowhere....!!!...
THE CAVALRY WAS COMING...!!!...
Uhhh-oooohhh...!!!...
Let's get outta here...!!!...Where are we...???...
A mad incoherent dash, erupted, amongst us, knowing this was a shockingly wicked development, going down...For we had no clue, where the hell, the fence hole was, to get out, of there...(except for me...)...Half of my friends, started running for 83rd Street, which I knew was a dead end...their arms and legs, flailing, in terror, streaking faster, than their minds could fathom.
Half of us, headed for the fence, along the railroad tracks. But this was not easy, because we had to run into the teeth of these groundskeepers, bearing down at us, on carts, with a tenacious fury. All of us, had this bewildered/terrified look on our faces, as the fence, seemed to have no more holes, anymore.
I kinda knew the fence, like the back of my hand, having been there, quite a bit, as a kid and zeroed in on the seam/hole, to get the hell out of there. Only Bucky, followed me, while most the rest were caught up in the frenzy of being trapped like rats, about to face a rude awakening.
Me and Bucky slid thru the hole and scrambled up to the actual railroad tracks, looking down on the course, as the murderous mayhem, took hold. It was gut-wrenching, standing there, as one by one, alot of my buddies, got the collar, wrestled down and yelled at, like no-good clowns.
It was a hopeless, hopeless situation as my mind pondered the estimated damage to that green. I knew it had to be completely replaced, in less than 2 weeks, for the opening of the golf season. At least $12,000.00, I thought. For me, I knew it was an end to an era, of crashing the Beverly C.C., the club officials would take care of that, I was sure.
But, oddly enough, in the end, the Beverly C.C. people were really decent folks, knowing we were stupid little kids. They kept the golf clubs, among them, my Johnny Murphy's--Dad's new clubs. It's a little foggy, I don't remember, I don't even think they took one dollar from us...but told us...next time they see us, again...our ass is grass...
As time goes by, I think of those wild times, crashing the Beverly C.C. for some fun-time excursions, because it was so close by, like The B, right next to it...All that stuff remains, curiously frozen in my mind. It felt like it had been an endless time because me and the Howland Boys had run amock there, alot and then my TM buddies found the place, a romping good time, too...The endless goofy golfing, the psychotically intense squirrel hunting, snow slededing there, every winter, just somewhere, to get away and do crazy, crazy stuff.
But I get a chuckle, now, as I'll have a PGA golf tournament on TV and an announcer will state something like..."mmm, well, I'm afraid this green is not in the best of shape..." and I'll just wander my mind back, to the tomahawk chop, golf clubs spinning, thudding deliciously into fertile soil, rendering a nice green, into a complete, shredded mess...
Those were the times...and I'm sure, I'll get some further confirmation, on details, cuz' it was a spectacular moment, where all of us, almost peed in our pants, we were so damn shocked. One of the few times, we actually did get caught, for our stupid/mindless ways, that kinda popped up, as little antagonists, bumping into trouble, here & there, every now & then...
(update--Eddie B says him & Moodo, ran the whole damn length of the course, scooting over to busy Western Ave. and flipped a sharp, barb wire fence, losing half his shirt, as the carts came racing down on him & Moodo. We all can still feel our hearts pounding, skipping a beat or two, re-calling this mad, mad, mad mis-adventure...lol...And Slim just told me, the groundskeepers took his sorry ass, the Murphy boys, Fitz and Chet...on the back of the golf carts...all the way...to some little funky office...where they took their home phone numbers and shouted at them, they would be contacting their parents...real soon...hahaha...They never did...)
Of course, we had no public golf course, in our neighborhood, but there was a great private golf course, Beverly Country Club, right across the railroad tracks, 2 blocks away fro me. And surely enough, some kind citizen, used some heavy-duty, wire-cutters to open up a slithery wicked opening, to squeeze our small bodies thru, to make this private course, our golf course, too.
The Beverly Country Club was top-notch in its day. Arnold Palmer had won a PGA Championship there, back in 1961, but nicer courses, popped up, further out in the suburbs, making this little gem, a quiet little retreat, for just a few, lucky ones.
On occasion, I can remember crashing the country club grounds and wreaking havoc there. I remember one time, me and a few friends, were wandering thru it, full-knowing we were tresspassing, and went into the main indoor, country club area and started riding up and down, this special seat, that transported/assisted older people, up and down, a high, winding stair-case. Well, we just about broke the machine, fooling around, when some official from the club, walked up and asked us, what club member had brought us there, that day.
Well, my goofy little buddies, (probably The Howlands-Johnny Hop & some other nuts) were shell-shocked, ready to get the boot, when I looked up on the wall and saw some special award, for the President of the club. Boom. I say, we are the special guests of the esteemed President and we are offended by their inquiry. Well, the official turned beet red, and steered us into the dining area, and gave us huge, free, ice cream sundaes. Stuff like that was priceless, as we inevitably stopped/stumbled by the Men's Room and saw all this guy's cologne & grooming stuff, in front of the big mirror...
I think we all lathered on half the gook they had displayed there, walking out of there, smelling like a perfume factory, with our hair slicked back, thinking that's what all these rich people did, every time, they hit the john. Yes, we were crazy beyond crazy, little rascals, just taking a boring, no-nothing day and making it a James Bond adeventure, boldly entering forbidden territory and making our mark, as silly little monsters.
Back to the golf course. A new set of us pranksters, descended on the hole in the fence, nestled about 10 feet from the railroad tracks. It was 6th Grade for us, the 2 Murphs--Johnny & Mike and Fitz, Slim & Chet and Neil, Marty, Bucky & me...Moodo & Bar...maybe a few others. We all grabbed our family's golf clubs and thought we'd take a run at Arnold Palmer's record, that early April day, when the course was still shut down, because winter was barely, gone.
Sure, there might even had been a few mounds of snow, here and there, in the crisp Spring air, about 40 to 50 degrees, great weather to us, to do anything because we did have Eskimo blood running thru us, able to take the frigid cold, in stride. The course looked stunning to us. A formidable challenge as any could be, as our golfing skills were a bit lax.
Well, put it this way, we all approached hitting the golf ball, like it was hitting a baseball, bashing & thumping and cursing, as our awful swings, did not help our scores. Let's face it, we look like The Three Stooges, out there...An occasional squirrel would run out on the course, and some dufess would drop their clubs and go chase it, like it was gonna be dinner, for that night. Just a rag-tag, bunch of goof balls, with no golfing experience, whatsoever, expecting this golf stuff, to be a piece of cake, once we warmed up a bit.
After awhile, our minds wandered as we realized this golf stuff was baffling. Sure, we told each other, we got par on that hole, maybe a bogie, a double-bogie, if we were slightly honest. But for the most part, all of us were racking up 6 to 12 strokes, each and every hole. Finally, we felt the day had been a success and we'd wrap things up, with one more hole, after wandering around 6 or 7 holes, on the back 9. We came up to a green, located back by the railroad tracks, by our big sledding hill...(Yes, this place was our toboggan run, in winter time, too...)...
Marty & Neil, were getting goofy with their clubs, throwing them at each other, when Marty, actually threw an iron, like a tomahawk, and it spun, around and around, and thunked, into the green, like a dagger, with a big delicious thud. Well, it looked hilarious and after a few seconds, a whole bunch of us, began tossing the golf irons, tomahawk-style, across this entire green, bludgeoning it, absolutely ruining it, for the up-coming year.
I knew this was getting ugly & was gonna be a frightful dilemma to deal with, next time, we crashed the Beverly C.C...but my friends were joyously romping all over the place, laughing & laughing, pulling up their irons, with a huge mound of dirty/muddy/grassy green, stuck to it. Clearly, they had lost their minds.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, 4 or 5 golf carts, come zooming out of nowhere....!!!...
THE CAVALRY WAS COMING...!!!...
Uhhh-oooohhh...!!!...
Let's get outta here...!!!...Where are we...???...
A mad incoherent dash, erupted, amongst us, knowing this was a shockingly wicked development, going down...For we had no clue, where the hell, the fence hole was, to get out, of there...(except for me...)...Half of my friends, started running for 83rd Street, which I knew was a dead end...their arms and legs, flailing, in terror, streaking faster, than their minds could fathom.
Half of us, headed for the fence, along the railroad tracks. But this was not easy, because we had to run into the teeth of these groundskeepers, bearing down at us, on carts, with a tenacious fury. All of us, had this bewildered/terrified look on our faces, as the fence, seemed to have no more holes, anymore.
I kinda knew the fence, like the back of my hand, having been there, quite a bit, as a kid and zeroed in on the seam/hole, to get the hell out of there. Only Bucky, followed me, while most the rest were caught up in the frenzy of being trapped like rats, about to face a rude awakening.
Me and Bucky slid thru the hole and scrambled up to the actual railroad tracks, looking down on the course, as the murderous mayhem, took hold. It was gut-wrenching, standing there, as one by one, alot of my buddies, got the collar, wrestled down and yelled at, like no-good clowns.
It was a hopeless, hopeless situation as my mind pondered the estimated damage to that green. I knew it had to be completely replaced, in less than 2 weeks, for the opening of the golf season. At least $12,000.00, I thought. For me, I knew it was an end to an era, of crashing the Beverly C.C., the club officials would take care of that, I was sure.
But, oddly enough, in the end, the Beverly C.C. people were really decent folks, knowing we were stupid little kids. They kept the golf clubs, among them, my Johnny Murphy's--Dad's new clubs. It's a little foggy, I don't remember, I don't even think they took one dollar from us...but told us...next time they see us, again...our ass is grass...
As time goes by, I think of those wild times, crashing the Beverly C.C. for some fun-time excursions, because it was so close by, like The B, right next to it...All that stuff remains, curiously frozen in my mind. It felt like it had been an endless time because me and the Howland Boys had run amock there, alot and then my TM buddies found the place, a romping good time, too...The endless goofy golfing, the psychotically intense squirrel hunting, snow slededing there, every winter, just somewhere, to get away and do crazy, crazy stuff.
But I get a chuckle, now, as I'll have a PGA golf tournament on TV and an announcer will state something like..."mmm, well, I'm afraid this green is not in the best of shape..." and I'll just wander my mind back, to the tomahawk chop, golf clubs spinning, thudding deliciously into fertile soil, rendering a nice green, into a complete, shredded mess...
Those were the times...and I'm sure, I'll get some further confirmation, on details, cuz' it was a spectacular moment, where all of us, almost peed in our pants, we were so damn shocked. One of the few times, we actually did get caught, for our stupid/mindless ways, that kinda popped up, as little antagonists, bumping into trouble, here & there, every now & then...
(update--Eddie B says him & Moodo, ran the whole damn length of the course, scooting over to busy Western Ave. and flipped a sharp, barb wire fence, losing half his shirt, as the carts came racing down on him & Moodo. We all can still feel our hearts pounding, skipping a beat or two, re-calling this mad, mad, mad mis-adventure...lol...And Slim just told me, the groundskeepers took his sorry ass, the Murphy boys, Fitz and Chet...on the back of the golf carts...all the way...to some little funky office...where they took their home phone numbers and shouted at them, they would be contacting their parents...real soon...hahaha...They never did...)
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Hot Dog Day
Once upon a time...there was a day, like no other...a day dreamed about endlessly...of wondrous feasts, a nice little piece of heaven...erasing the stark reality of blubbery bologna, moldy tuna & sour ham salad sandwiches...
...(keep going)...
...O.K. just add any other wretched, lifeless lunch, we were forced to consume every single school day...too...
For this unique & splendid day...obliterating our senses was...Hot Dog Day...
This delightful day of dogs...relished with mustard...never could come soon enough...for us misbegotten children enslaved to an ordinary droll existence...ready to boom, burst wide open, onto our playground, outdoors, ready to run amock, with a frenzy, towards the line for the ladies dishing out the dogs...
All the girls, all the boys...had that wild look in their eyes, as our teachers led us from our classrooms, towards the doors, that day. Our hearts pounding/racing, our minds ablaze with pure delight...
In our small pockets, our coins & dollars all jumbled together, we never had quite enough cash, to buy the amount of mouth-watering goodies, our minds felt so certain, we could consume that day...
Maybe $2.00 to $3.00...was all our parents would dole out...and we were all just rabid little fools, anyway...."Honestly, look at yourself, your eyes are bigger than your belly", our parents would say, laughing at us...sheepishly, with such a knowing wink...
By the way...the hot dogs weren't that great...
Plain old, run-of-the-mill Oscar Mayer hot dogs, boiled in a big silver kettle...nothing special, seemed like something created by the gods that day...We devoured those doggies, in nothing flat, out there, on the black-top pavement...our playground... Our church & school parking lot, transformed into a sea of blissful children, caught up in the wild moment...
A moment so incredibly rare, a moment we wished we could have, at least once a week, or once a month....Couldn't we have Hot Dog Day....every day...???...
No way...Jose'...!!!...
The school, our Principal...kept our day of deliverance down to one Spring day...usually in early May...until demands made it a two time...holiday...after the ruckus, us kids made, because our passion to celebrate this special event took on a life of its own...
And every year, we grew older & wiser, in our pursuit of perfection. Making the most, of that sumptuous half-hour...planning a mad dash, for any line, that looked thin...Sure, the shortest line, could be anything...The line for a can of Pop...the line for mini bags of Jay's potato chips...the line for ice cream sandwiches...and of course, that killer line for hot dogs...
That Hot Dog line...seemed like it always was 20 kids deep...and our anxiety of wondering if they would run out of hot dogs or maybe, they would be icky cold, by the time we got one, made us twice as anxious to get that damn dog...ASAP...
It's funny, how our passion for Hot Dog Day, dissipated as we grew older. By the time we hit 8th Grade, it seemed almost a farce...us kids jaded by our enormous egos, of thinking it was little kid stuff...We no longer basked in the glow, of piling those hot dogs into our tummies with glee. The fun was done...The moment as boring as any other day...Why...was this so...???...
For once upon a time, our little voices, screamed with madness, when the word got out, when Hot Dog Day, was declared...A hearty rush, of happiness poured forth...brimming with excitement, because there was nothing quite like it...Ohhh, those were happy times...
Sure, I can taste the rubbery dogs, right now. The salty potato chips, the orange pop, the ice cream sandwich which dripped & dripped & dripped all over our school clothes...It didn't matter.
Because rare is the beauty, the sight of children, immensely proud, they had acheived this mark, of excellence. Wolfing it all down, like baby tigers. Mustard on our hands, mustard on our mouths, mustard, mustard...did I mention, plenty of mustard...???....
Of course, we'd give a kings ransom to re-live that moment. It was a timeless treasure. The sun always seemed to beating brightly down that day, and not one kid was ever, ever sick on Hot Dog Day...You cannot deny the sheer silliness of it all.
For it was a day of dogs and a day of laughter. Also, a day of sunshine and a day of sharing. The sharing of pure goodness, from one end of the loud & boisterous playground, to the other...
There...at old Saint Thomas More school....long, long ago...
Yes, if you listen closely, you can hear the echoes of kiddie chaos, in your minds. Our minds enriched, with such gentle thoughts, never lost from our precious memories. Always there, any time, we care to gaze back, back so fondly and so dearly, upon Hot Dog Day...
...good old Hot Dog Day......
(BTW...John "Chet" Feely, set the bar high, by consuming 8 hot dogs, at one time, one Hot Dog Day, back around 1976...While this doesn't seem like much, Chet, had started off his day, with his Mom's, stick-to-your-ribs, Irish breakfast, consisting of a pound of bacon, a dozen eggs, a tub-full of oatmeal & enough French Toast to feed an army. Only kidding Chet, we know, for sure, you would give Kobayashi & Joey Chestnut a run for their money, and then some, at any "Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest", on Coney Island, in NY...anytime...especially, back in your STARVING HUNGRY, don't-throw-that-in-the-garbage...I'll-eat-that, CARE-FREE, YOUTH...)
...(keep going)...
...O.K. just add any other wretched, lifeless lunch, we were forced to consume every single school day...too...
For this unique & splendid day...obliterating our senses was...Hot Dog Day...
This delightful day of dogs...relished with mustard...never could come soon enough...for us misbegotten children enslaved to an ordinary droll existence...ready to boom, burst wide open, onto our playground, outdoors, ready to run amock, with a frenzy, towards the line for the ladies dishing out the dogs...
All the girls, all the boys...had that wild look in their eyes, as our teachers led us from our classrooms, towards the doors, that day. Our hearts pounding/racing, our minds ablaze with pure delight...
In our small pockets, our coins & dollars all jumbled together, we never had quite enough cash, to buy the amount of mouth-watering goodies, our minds felt so certain, we could consume that day...
Maybe $2.00 to $3.00...was all our parents would dole out...and we were all just rabid little fools, anyway...."Honestly, look at yourself, your eyes are bigger than your belly", our parents would say, laughing at us...sheepishly, with such a knowing wink...
By the way...the hot dogs weren't that great...
Plain old, run-of-the-mill Oscar Mayer hot dogs, boiled in a big silver kettle...nothing special, seemed like something created by the gods that day...We devoured those doggies, in nothing flat, out there, on the black-top pavement...our playground... Our church & school parking lot, transformed into a sea of blissful children, caught up in the wild moment...
A moment so incredibly rare, a moment we wished we could have, at least once a week, or once a month....Couldn't we have Hot Dog Day....every day...???...
No way...Jose'...!!!...
The school, our Principal...kept our day of deliverance down to one Spring day...usually in early May...until demands made it a two time...holiday...after the ruckus, us kids made, because our passion to celebrate this special event took on a life of its own...
And every year, we grew older & wiser, in our pursuit of perfection. Making the most, of that sumptuous half-hour...planning a mad dash, for any line, that looked thin...Sure, the shortest line, could be anything...The line for a can of Pop...the line for mini bags of Jay's potato chips...the line for ice cream sandwiches...and of course, that killer line for hot dogs...
That Hot Dog line...seemed like it always was 20 kids deep...and our anxiety of wondering if they would run out of hot dogs or maybe, they would be icky cold, by the time we got one, made us twice as anxious to get that damn dog...ASAP...
It's funny, how our passion for Hot Dog Day, dissipated as we grew older. By the time we hit 8th Grade, it seemed almost a farce...us kids jaded by our enormous egos, of thinking it was little kid stuff...We no longer basked in the glow, of piling those hot dogs into our tummies with glee. The fun was done...The moment as boring as any other day...Why...was this so...???...
For once upon a time, our little voices, screamed with madness, when the word got out, when Hot Dog Day, was declared...A hearty rush, of happiness poured forth...brimming with excitement, because there was nothing quite like it...Ohhh, those were happy times...
Sure, I can taste the rubbery dogs, right now. The salty potato chips, the orange pop, the ice cream sandwich which dripped & dripped & dripped all over our school clothes...It didn't matter.
Because rare is the beauty, the sight of children, immensely proud, they had acheived this mark, of excellence. Wolfing it all down, like baby tigers. Mustard on our hands, mustard on our mouths, mustard, mustard...did I mention, plenty of mustard...???....
Of course, we'd give a kings ransom to re-live that moment. It was a timeless treasure. The sun always seemed to beating brightly down that day, and not one kid was ever, ever sick on Hot Dog Day...You cannot deny the sheer silliness of it all.
For it was a day of dogs and a day of laughter. Also, a day of sunshine and a day of sharing. The sharing of pure goodness, from one end of the loud & boisterous playground, to the other...
There...at old Saint Thomas More school....long, long ago...
Yes, if you listen closely, you can hear the echoes of kiddie chaos, in your minds. Our minds enriched, with such gentle thoughts, never lost from our precious memories. Always there, any time, we care to gaze back, back so fondly and so dearly, upon Hot Dog Day...
...good old Hot Dog Day......
(BTW...John "Chet" Feely, set the bar high, by consuming 8 hot dogs, at one time, one Hot Dog Day, back around 1976...While this doesn't seem like much, Chet, had started off his day, with his Mom's, stick-to-your-ribs, Irish breakfast, consisting of a pound of bacon, a dozen eggs, a tub-full of oatmeal & enough French Toast to feed an army. Only kidding Chet, we know, for sure, you would give Kobayashi & Joey Chestnut a run for their money, and then some, at any "Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest", on Coney Island, in NY...anytime...especially, back in your STARVING HUNGRY, don't-throw-that-in-the-garbage...I'll-eat-that, CARE-FREE, YOUTH...)
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Park
Roaming the streets between 87th & 79th...Kedzie to Western...took alot out of you...as a kid...stumbling about, nothing but sheer stupidity on our sides, back then...
And, there were just endless amounts of games of sports, always in high gear, on any given day...up at the park or on any space of land...where a loud clatter and a scramble of bodies, bounced all around, always on the verge of bloody mayhem...
My good buddy, Johnny Fitzpatrick, kept a whole boatload of baseball gloves and bats, strewn about his dusty garage...ready for action. John lived right off of the park, and I was quite envious of his proximity to all things, park-related...
Of course, my sisters & brothers would remind me, we too, lived right off the park, a block north of Johnny Fitz's, on 84th Place, but our house got too cramped with 8 kids...so we moved about 3 blocks south, after I was born, to 86th Street, in 1963...All my sisters & brothers, were big, PARK KIDS, only 6 houses down, from the park...A kid's paradise, just a heartbeat away...
I can remember, one particular baseball game...up at the park, one Spring, when I was 11 years old, I was the pitcher...I seemed to always be the pitcher for our slow-pitch, lob-league action...Well, this big, gangly kid, named Craig, stepped up to the plate, and slammed one, right back at me...whizzing it over my head, almost scraping my baseball cap...Damn, he could get a shot of power outta that bat...
Next time up, everyone is laughing, daring Craig, to do it again, rip it up the middle, and take my head, clean off, this time...All my friends eyes are wide open, awaiting every pitch...
Crack....!!!...
Not only did Craig, get every single ounce of wood on that pitch, but it was a sizzling, blistering guided missle, headed right for my face....We are talking about only a split second, in time, to react, but I did manage, to throw my glove up, in front of my face, as the ball, slammed hard into my mitt, with a thunderous "Smack!"....making me all ghostly & woozy, sending all the rest of the bunch of kids into hysterics.
There I was, completely white as a ghost, opening my mitt, my hand still stinging, trying to pry the baseball wedged into my mitt, stuck in there, like Crazy Glue...Everyone, is falling down laughing, because the knew damn well, Craig, would be taking aim again, sooner or later, in a couple of innings...
I think, at that point, I decided to call in for the bullpen to take over...when everyone on my team, suddenly realized their noggin' was next...So they decided to quit playing for the day...sending anger & outrage throughout our mangy field of dreams...A field dotted with a smashed beer can for 1st base...somebody's little league cap for 2nd base...a crummy left-handed mitt, for 3rd base...and maybe someone's windbreaker crumbled up for Home Plate.
Let's face it, everyone had a crazy hang-out as a kid...a park or gym or empty lot...anywhere was possible...all you needed was your enthusiasm, and your imagination...Kids need places, where they can cut loose and get goofy...
And it was the same for us...up at Carroll Park...
Every single one of my close friends, will tell you how that park, so green & grassy, is truly a part of them, no matter what...what ever happens to them...Whether it be Fitz or Moodo, Bob, Don, Slim, Joe, Murph, Denny, Bar, Kevin, Neil, Duff, Marty Eck & Marty Rogers, Buckets, Bucky, Jimmy "Lemon" Ade, Mike "Mugs" Mulligan, Mike Powers, and lots, lots more...a hush falls over all of us, as a flood of olden times cascade down from our minds...of that wild, ballyhoo bunch of crazies, every single one of us, tearing it up, with reckless abandon...
We just had a ball...every single, day...sleeting snow, monsoon rains, blistering heat, cold beyond cold, you name it...each definitive moment only intensified our whole being, with that giant park's hold on our memories...past and present...exuding a special charm, we felt so deeply, just a captivating, magical feel to it...that brings forth a smile...with any notion...
It was a quiet oasis, amidst the hustle and bustle, all around...It had lots of trees, baseball diamonds, swings & a sandbox for the kiddies...and a big old football field, in the middle, where some rompin', stompin' dynamite heroics were boundlessly displayed...Just a nice, happy atmosphere, all the way around...It seemed every kid in the neighborhood popped in up there, at some point and all us kids from each grade, had a special park bench, designated for us, to call our own...
And one special guy, headed the Park District, up there at Carroll Park, his name was RICH....This guy Rich, in his late 30's/early 40's, commanded our ultimate respect, because he drew the line in the sand, with all the non-sense, we thought we could get away with...Rich had this striking bald head, and an eagle beak-type nose, a true hearty Croatian, thru & thru...and you did not want the wrath of Rich, headed your way...Ohhhh no...
He'd slap you upside the head, real good, for acting goofy and he had this tin whistle, attached to a skinny leather strap, he twirled around as he walked all about...That leather strap, Rich would lash out, at any moment, at any instigator, would only sting for a moment or two, but it left a deep red welt, that let you know, Rich meant business...
But everyone liked to kidd with Rich anyway, as we got older & older, and punkier & punkier. We always had and always will have the upmost respect for Rich...He was the referee, the umpire, the wrestling instructor, softball league organizer...You name it, Rich had it down cold. He was the best damn Park Instructor anywhere, and we were damn lucky we didn't get our lights punched out, if he heard us swear...
So many memories, of so many kids...The P.I.T.A. kids...(Pain In The Ass)...were 2 years older than us...and they were just a monsterous throng of kids, up at the park, led by Scott Clifford...Alot of my future buddies, a year older than us...Eddy Epper, The Funk, Jack McManus, Coon, Gert, Matt Bailey, Dave Scalise, Wally, Mike Murphy, Jack Cusack, Danny Casey, Dirks, Danny Olsen, Kevin Delaney, Bram and Johnny "Hop" Howland...all were crazy nuts...leaving my bunch of friends, thinking we were woefully inferior...and never, ever gonna be as cool as the older guys...
And all the girls were up there, too...hanging out...They had their jean jackets & smokes & wild hair & they all had endless laughs at all the foolishness, happening everywhere...Those were giddy times, full of bright smiles & silly clumsiness, trying to stay cool, almost too darn cool for our own good.
We all thought, all us girls & boys, thought we made hanging out, an art form, bumming smokes, losing lighters, listening to music on boom boxes, calling each other funny names...just an age of silly innocence...rolling on by...quicker than we could ever realize...
All up at this park...a place of refuge, of sports heroics, of first big kisses, of beers endlessly sprayed open, of lolly-gagging, drop-dead, funny laughter....ohhh the laughter...just priceless high-pitched laughter...from silly kids...growing up way, way too fast...but still having a blast...
Back in the day...Carroll Park inevitably became Hayes Park...an evolution of kids from the 60's, 70's, 80's, 90's...yonder years of wild mischief & mayhem, we truly hold so sparkly dear inside our hearts...to this very fleeting moment...and almost every day....in our passing lives...and beyond...
And, there were just endless amounts of games of sports, always in high gear, on any given day...up at the park or on any space of land...where a loud clatter and a scramble of bodies, bounced all around, always on the verge of bloody mayhem...
My good buddy, Johnny Fitzpatrick, kept a whole boatload of baseball gloves and bats, strewn about his dusty garage...ready for action. John lived right off of the park, and I was quite envious of his proximity to all things, park-related...
Of course, my sisters & brothers would remind me, we too, lived right off the park, a block north of Johnny Fitz's, on 84th Place, but our house got too cramped with 8 kids...so we moved about 3 blocks south, after I was born, to 86th Street, in 1963...All my sisters & brothers, were big, PARK KIDS, only 6 houses down, from the park...A kid's paradise, just a heartbeat away...
I can remember, one particular baseball game...up at the park, one Spring, when I was 11 years old, I was the pitcher...I seemed to always be the pitcher for our slow-pitch, lob-league action...Well, this big, gangly kid, named Craig, stepped up to the plate, and slammed one, right back at me...whizzing it over my head, almost scraping my baseball cap...Damn, he could get a shot of power outta that bat...
Next time up, everyone is laughing, daring Craig, to do it again, rip it up the middle, and take my head, clean off, this time...All my friends eyes are wide open, awaiting every pitch...
Crack....!!!...
Not only did Craig, get every single ounce of wood on that pitch, but it was a sizzling, blistering guided missle, headed right for my face....We are talking about only a split second, in time, to react, but I did manage, to throw my glove up, in front of my face, as the ball, slammed hard into my mitt, with a thunderous "Smack!"....making me all ghostly & woozy, sending all the rest of the bunch of kids into hysterics.
There I was, completely white as a ghost, opening my mitt, my hand still stinging, trying to pry the baseball wedged into my mitt, stuck in there, like Crazy Glue...Everyone, is falling down laughing, because the knew damn well, Craig, would be taking aim again, sooner or later, in a couple of innings...
I think, at that point, I decided to call in for the bullpen to take over...when everyone on my team, suddenly realized their noggin' was next...So they decided to quit playing for the day...sending anger & outrage throughout our mangy field of dreams...A field dotted with a smashed beer can for 1st base...somebody's little league cap for 2nd base...a crummy left-handed mitt, for 3rd base...and maybe someone's windbreaker crumbled up for Home Plate.
Let's face it, everyone had a crazy hang-out as a kid...a park or gym or empty lot...anywhere was possible...all you needed was your enthusiasm, and your imagination...Kids need places, where they can cut loose and get goofy...
And it was the same for us...up at Carroll Park...
Every single one of my close friends, will tell you how that park, so green & grassy, is truly a part of them, no matter what...what ever happens to them...Whether it be Fitz or Moodo, Bob, Don, Slim, Joe, Murph, Denny, Bar, Kevin, Neil, Duff, Marty Eck & Marty Rogers, Buckets, Bucky, Jimmy "Lemon" Ade, Mike "Mugs" Mulligan, Mike Powers, and lots, lots more...a hush falls over all of us, as a flood of olden times cascade down from our minds...of that wild, ballyhoo bunch of crazies, every single one of us, tearing it up, with reckless abandon...
We just had a ball...every single, day...sleeting snow, monsoon rains, blistering heat, cold beyond cold, you name it...each definitive moment only intensified our whole being, with that giant park's hold on our memories...past and present...exuding a special charm, we felt so deeply, just a captivating, magical feel to it...that brings forth a smile...with any notion...
It was a quiet oasis, amidst the hustle and bustle, all around...It had lots of trees, baseball diamonds, swings & a sandbox for the kiddies...and a big old football field, in the middle, where some rompin', stompin' dynamite heroics were boundlessly displayed...Just a nice, happy atmosphere, all the way around...It seemed every kid in the neighborhood popped in up there, at some point and all us kids from each grade, had a special park bench, designated for us, to call our own...
And one special guy, headed the Park District, up there at Carroll Park, his name was RICH....This guy Rich, in his late 30's/early 40's, commanded our ultimate respect, because he drew the line in the sand, with all the non-sense, we thought we could get away with...Rich had this striking bald head, and an eagle beak-type nose, a true hearty Croatian, thru & thru...and you did not want the wrath of Rich, headed your way...Ohhhh no...
He'd slap you upside the head, real good, for acting goofy and he had this tin whistle, attached to a skinny leather strap, he twirled around as he walked all about...That leather strap, Rich would lash out, at any moment, at any instigator, would only sting for a moment or two, but it left a deep red welt, that let you know, Rich meant business...
But everyone liked to kidd with Rich anyway, as we got older & older, and punkier & punkier. We always had and always will have the upmost respect for Rich...He was the referee, the umpire, the wrestling instructor, softball league organizer...You name it, Rich had it down cold. He was the best damn Park Instructor anywhere, and we were damn lucky we didn't get our lights punched out, if he heard us swear...
So many memories, of so many kids...The P.I.T.A. kids...(Pain In The Ass)...were 2 years older than us...and they were just a monsterous throng of kids, up at the park, led by Scott Clifford...Alot of my future buddies, a year older than us...Eddy Epper, The Funk, Jack McManus, Coon, Gert, Matt Bailey, Dave Scalise, Wally, Mike Murphy, Jack Cusack, Danny Casey, Dirks, Danny Olsen, Kevin Delaney, Bram and Johnny "Hop" Howland...all were crazy nuts...leaving my bunch of friends, thinking we were woefully inferior...and never, ever gonna be as cool as the older guys...
And all the girls were up there, too...hanging out...They had their jean jackets & smokes & wild hair & they all had endless laughs at all the foolishness, happening everywhere...Those were giddy times, full of bright smiles & silly clumsiness, trying to stay cool, almost too darn cool for our own good.
We all thought, all us girls & boys, thought we made hanging out, an art form, bumming smokes, losing lighters, listening to music on boom boxes, calling each other funny names...just an age of silly innocence...rolling on by...quicker than we could ever realize...
All up at this park...a place of refuge, of sports heroics, of first big kisses, of beers endlessly sprayed open, of lolly-gagging, drop-dead, funny laughter....ohhh the laughter...just priceless high-pitched laughter...from silly kids...growing up way, way too fast...but still having a blast...
Back in the day...Carroll Park inevitably became Hayes Park...an evolution of kids from the 60's, 70's, 80's, 90's...yonder years of wild mischief & mayhem, we truly hold so sparkly dear inside our hearts...to this very fleeting moment...and almost every day....in our passing lives...and beyond...
Thursday, March 19, 2009
A little "Fight" fable, for you...
...looking back...I was kinda lucky, not to have to mix it up, too often...Fighting...
...After all, I hung out with some bruising maulers, growing up, who could take people down, in one punch...Eddie B was the toughest kid in our hood, hands down...and all the takers, that came on, one-by-one, , to go toe-to-toe...with Ed...got the ass-whipping of their life...Yet, I never, ever seen Eddie B start a fight, but you could surely remember him, finishing it...
...So I had a free ride...carousing the neighborhood...only running into a few bullies, now & then.
...I remember one incident, while I was about 11 years old, where I was playing ball out on ths streets of 84th Place, on Eddie's block...as we ended our play for the day...I started walking, towards Washtenaw Ave. and this little weenie of a brat, jumped out...and started calling me...RETARDED...over & over...No one was around, except this little fiendish kid...
His name was Danny Deacy, a wretched little punk, who was only a bit bigger than me...
I did stand there, puzzled, wondering who this fool, was...as he kept echoing his little buzz word, retarded, to tick me off...I knew I was short & slight of build, with my head, tilted, a bit...but I knew I was not retarded...He was the goofy retard...
Eventually, every time, he said, RETARDED, I punched him hard, in the arm...And that went on, for 5 or 6 times...
Somehow, he switched gears, and said something even more wicked, so I wound up, my fist, and sent him to the ground....It was a lucky, yet powerful shot...and I topped things off, by stomping on his head, for good measure, trying to ooze his brains out...for about a good 3o seconds to a minute...
Finally, the taunts ended...as he was curled up on the ground, like a ball, reeling, as I angrily stormed off...
When I got home, that day, my Mom, tried to stop me, as I walked by her, in the kitchen, as she said, "Somebody's Mom just called...Why did you step on that boy's head...Don't you know any better..."
My quick reply was, "He called me Retarded...and he got what he deserved..."....as I briskly made my way downstairs, to watch cartoons...with a little tear in my eye...but I was never haunted by this, at all...
Fast foreward, from the 5th Grade to my college years...I'm down at a wild sorierity party at the Little Red Schoolhouse...at Illinios State University...always a great time...when my old childhood buddy, Johnny Murph, ambles up and says..."Guess who just walked in the door...Danny Deacy!"
There was a little bit of fear, in Murph's message...but I was not even phased...I barely remembered the kid...Murph then went on and said, Deacy, was now an avid, body-builder, cut like a rock, about 6'4'' tall, 22o pounds...
At that point, my jaw dropped, and I understood Murph's fair warning...I quickly looked around for an escape route...No go...I was stuck in a room of kegger revelry, and there was only one way out...past the ominous brute, Danny Deacy...
Well, it only took Deacy, about a minute to spot me...and started to slowly walk up to me...I was expecting the worse, at that point, a crack to the jaw, at least...but as Deacy, got up close to me, a small smile, emerged on his face...
He said..."You're the kid that kicked my ass, and tried to stomp my head, into the ground!."
I nodded and said "Yes"...and waited for a level punch...to send me flying...
He then laughed and said..."What a little obnoxious creep I was, back then...Sorry about that...I deserved it...You need a beer...???..."...
I kinda laughed and let out a huge sigh of relief...and took the beer, and we chatted for about 10 minutes...I think he said he was studying to go into law enforcement...and loved being down at Illinois State U...It was the coolest...
We laughed a bit more...and I edged my way, out of there, a little wobbly, from what had transpired...out of the wild kegger party...and into the night...
The moral of the story is obvious...That kid you beat the crap out of, as a young lad, may grow up to be the biggest, baddest dude, you could ever imagine...so watch out...
Not many fights for me...but surely, a good lesson...from it all...
...After all, I hung out with some bruising maulers, growing up, who could take people down, in one punch...Eddie B was the toughest kid in our hood, hands down...and all the takers, that came on, one-by-one, , to go toe-to-toe...with Ed...got the ass-whipping of their life...Yet, I never, ever seen Eddie B start a fight, but you could surely remember him, finishing it...
...So I had a free ride...carousing the neighborhood...only running into a few bullies, now & then.
...I remember one incident, while I was about 11 years old, where I was playing ball out on ths streets of 84th Place, on Eddie's block...as we ended our play for the day...I started walking, towards Washtenaw Ave. and this little weenie of a brat, jumped out...and started calling me...RETARDED...over & over...No one was around, except this little fiendish kid...
His name was Danny Deacy, a wretched little punk, who was only a bit bigger than me...
I did stand there, puzzled, wondering who this fool, was...as he kept echoing his little buzz word, retarded, to tick me off...I knew I was short & slight of build, with my head, tilted, a bit...but I knew I was not retarded...He was the goofy retard...
Eventually, every time, he said, RETARDED, I punched him hard, in the arm...And that went on, for 5 or 6 times...
Somehow, he switched gears, and said something even more wicked, so I wound up, my fist, and sent him to the ground....It was a lucky, yet powerful shot...and I topped things off, by stomping on his head, for good measure, trying to ooze his brains out...for about a good 3o seconds to a minute...
Finally, the taunts ended...as he was curled up on the ground, like a ball, reeling, as I angrily stormed off...
When I got home, that day, my Mom, tried to stop me, as I walked by her, in the kitchen, as she said, "Somebody's Mom just called...Why did you step on that boy's head...Don't you know any better..."
My quick reply was, "He called me Retarded...and he got what he deserved..."....as I briskly made my way downstairs, to watch cartoons...with a little tear in my eye...but I was never haunted by this, at all...
Fast foreward, from the 5th Grade to my college years...I'm down at a wild sorierity party at the Little Red Schoolhouse...at Illinios State University...always a great time...when my old childhood buddy, Johnny Murph, ambles up and says..."Guess who just walked in the door...Danny Deacy!"
There was a little bit of fear, in Murph's message...but I was not even phased...I barely remembered the kid...Murph then went on and said, Deacy, was now an avid, body-builder, cut like a rock, about 6'4'' tall, 22o pounds...
At that point, my jaw dropped, and I understood Murph's fair warning...I quickly looked around for an escape route...No go...I was stuck in a room of kegger revelry, and there was only one way out...past the ominous brute, Danny Deacy...
Well, it only took Deacy, about a minute to spot me...and started to slowly walk up to me...I was expecting the worse, at that point, a crack to the jaw, at least...but as Deacy, got up close to me, a small smile, emerged on his face...
He said..."You're the kid that kicked my ass, and tried to stomp my head, into the ground!."
I nodded and said "Yes"...and waited for a level punch...to send me flying...
He then laughed and said..."What a little obnoxious creep I was, back then...Sorry about that...I deserved it...You need a beer...???..."...
I kinda laughed and let out a huge sigh of relief...and took the beer, and we chatted for about 10 minutes...I think he said he was studying to go into law enforcement...and loved being down at Illinois State U...It was the coolest...
We laughed a bit more...and I edged my way, out of there, a little wobbly, from what had transpired...out of the wild kegger party...and into the night...
The moral of the story is obvious...That kid you beat the crap out of, as a young lad, may grow up to be the biggest, baddest dude, you could ever imagine...so watch out...
Not many fights for me...but surely, a good lesson...from it all...
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Happy Saint Patrick's Day
"If you're Irish, come into the parlor, there's a welcome mat for you..."...is part of a very giddy, very silly, Irish song, that I'll hear, every March...as I load up on the Irish music, watch the great parades, chow down on some corned beef & cabbage, and throw down some Guinness, of course, even...
That's just a given, because I get Saint Patrick's Day fever, pretty damn bad...come rain or shine, every single year...and right now, in the merry month of March...I'd like to take you back to some of my grand old memories of Saint Paddy's Day past...surely, that will bring a smile or two.
I'll start off, by going way, way, back...the little rambunxious 4 year old tyke, me, sneaking up to my parents bedroom on 86th Street and jumping up and down, on my parents giant bed...It was my spongy-bungy trampoline, of course, and I truly was lucky, I didn't crack open my head, from my flopping all about...
And while I was up there, I'd pry open my Mom's jewelry box, and there would be a whole slew of Irish buttons, you would stick onto your chest, to wear for Paddy's Day...They were all humorous or clever...and I'd always try to figure out, which one, I'd wear, next Paddy's Day. Of course, KISS ME, I'M IRISH was in there...I'M WITH THE F.B.I-FULL BLOODED IRISH another silly one...SURE N' BGORA...and just a dozen or more, buttons with green shamrocks and leprechauns...There had to be a silly one about GREEN BEER, in there, also...
And every single one of us kids, had to be wearing GREEN, no matter what, on Saint Patrick's Day...and absolutely wearing one of those crazy Irish buttons, displaying them proudly, before we were let out that door, by our Mom...on March 17th, back in the day...yes...
My Mom, of course, decorated our house, to the hilt for this big day...and I'd love to see all those funny, funny cardboard signs, of all the silly looking Leprechauns and such, that my Mom had plastered on the walls, all over the place...back then...
Anybody with the GREEN FEVER got it from my MOM in our house...How could you not, with a name like O'Leary...on the hearty South-Side of Chicago...which seemed 50% Irish back then. And that O'Leary name, brought a smile, to quite a many, because the Chicago Fire of 1871, which decimated the city, was caused by Mrs. O'Leary's cow...unfortunately...the legend tells...
And I swear, every time, we stood at a checkout, anywhere in the city, once someone saw the O'Leary name on my Mom's check, they had to ask..."Are you related to the O'Leary's that had the cow...that started the fire"...and they'd always burst out laughing, because my Mom, always came up with a silly, hilarious answer to the question, every time...She wasn't even an O'Leary, she was a Griffin, thru and thru...but it was an endless phenomenon, she had to deal with, on a daily basis...every day...it seemed...
Back to the festivities of March 17th...The day itself...always seemed a bit chilly and mostly wet...which, of course, reflects the weather of Ireland, to some extent...But it did not matter, I never felt one rain drop, or not one single shiver...as I headed down to the parade, in the heart of Downtown Chicago...as a young lad...with my Tommy More buddies...
We'd take the WESTERN AVE. bus at 79th Street, then inevitably hop on the ARCHER EXPRESS, which ran diagonally, deep down, all the way down, to downtown...We'd all be deliriously happy because every Catholic school on the South-Side always gave us that day off, always, and we made the most of every minute...
As we got off the bus, on State Street...we were in awe of this amazing city, Chicago...Gobs of people, everywhere, the buildings just towered way over, our eye's reach...We kinda had to pinch ourselves, that we had a wild day, planned ahead, waiting for us, as we made our way over to DEARBORN Street...where the parade route would assemble and go down...
But first, we'd scamper like fools, all the way up to LAKE Street, to see them, dye the river GREEN for that day...It was cooler than cool, to see that muddy, dank, dark water, suddenly come to life with a bright, lime green glow, as a quick-jetting fishing boat dumped an enormous amount of an ORANGE POWDER, that mixed into the water, and turned it bright green, instantly...
Then we'd visit each float, there, still waiting, to get into place, to take that magical ride down the parade route, amidst the throngs, of wild, screaming people...It was pure, crazed excitement for us kids, the pandemonium of all of this going down...I can remember running up to the Channel 7 float and saying HI to tv newscasters, Fahey Flynn & Joel Daley, wearing green carnations, smiling from ear to ear...And Channel 2 were giving out GREEN FRISBEES that I kept and cherished for years and years and years...
Just a great adventure of nothing-of-its-kind...fun...Alot of those wild guys, loading onto their floats, were already...3-sheets-to-the-wind...(blind drunk)...and all the ladies had a magical glow, wearing their beautiful costumes and such...There were horses, which was a true oddity for us city kids...and just a whole jamboree of unexpected silliness, that people conjoured up, to bring a hearty laugh, to one and all...
We are talking thousands and thousands of people, massed together, during the day, when tipping a few drinks and loud crazy antics were abound, all over...just purely a given, that day...
As we got older, certainly beer, got thrown into the equation, for us maulers, out of Tommy More...and I'll just throw 2 little fun facts out of the many, that unfolded, that special day...
On one, very cold & chilly, wicked wet & frigid, Paddy's Day, me & my friends stumbled past a big RV sporting a huge BUDWEISER logo, on its side...Well, me and a few of my buddies, Moodo, Slim, Fitz and a few others, talked our way, into this RV...to get a look...of this huge monstrosity. As we looked, about, someone, came up, and started handing us beers, Budweiser, of course, (our favorite) and we settled in, and sat, and watched the whole parade, all warm & cozy, thrusting down, free beers, left and right...
You are probably wondering...How old were we...???...
Probably somewhere between 15-16 years old...Hahaha...That's the Irish for you...Never to young to get the youth of tomorrow, off to a good start...on Saint Paddy's Day...
Another funny Paddy's story....was after the parade was over, one time...we wandered over to the newly erected Sears Tower, (1974)...the tallest building in the world...Well, hell, we had to see what that was all about...So, in we fled, onto the elevators, and up we go....
There, inside the elevators, our eardrums begin to pop, from ascending so rapidly upward, all of us in a dizzy-dizzy spin...feeling as if, we were in a rocket ship, headed for the moon...One of my buddies noticed, the sign that read, it cost $5 to get off at the top floor, Sky Deck and look out, the huge, humoungous, panoramic view of the city...
Well, a bunch of my buddies, had no dough left, so they devised this plan, to get off, one floor early, then sneak up the fire escape, to the top floor...Boom...a bunch get off the elevator some one hundred and some stories up...and go on their wicked way...while us fortunate few, went one floor higher...and got off...and felt so totally perplexed by the sparkling view of the city, from every conceivable angle...It was Playboy Club Day, too...or something, and Hugh Hefner's gorgeous bunnies, were all walking about...and us kids, were pretty much, in awe, of this little goldmine, we stumbled upon.
And we waited and waited for our other buddies, to get up that fire escape and enjoy the view or should I say, views, of everything, and anything, all about...It suddenly dawned on me...Those guys probably got caught, and sent away, when they tried to pull off such a stunt, so us lucky ones were roaring with laughter, from our hilarious viewpoint...after about 10 minutes had past...
And after a great time, sadly, we had to leave the Sky Deck, up on top of the tallest building of the world, SEARS TOWER, and went back down and down, rapidly...back to ground level...looking all about for our other buddies, but they were nowhere to be found...
Then, after about 10 minutes more, all of them come stumbling out of the giant skyscraper, exhausted, panting, swearing at us...See, they did get to the top floor entrance to the Sky Deck, but it was locked...as a matter of fact, every single floor below was locked too...so they had to trek down, an endless amount of stairs, pounding and pounding down, every floor, mad as hell, for this little bit of stupidity...that came up and bit them in the ass...
So, we were just bursting out with laughter, at these unfortunate fools, unloading our little tale of good fortune, while they were still aghast, panting away....almost turning blue, from disbelief...All of us there, still wearing green, some had Irish buttons, some had green hats...all of us, with a few beers stuffed into our winter coats...still...reeling in our wild Paddy's Day story, of going to the top of the world, and then some...in our own mischievous, silly way...
Sure, today, the tradition continues, all of my family goes to the South-Side Irish parade, now, on Western Avenue...and my nephew, Eddie Haggerty and his wonderful wife, Meagan, throw together a spectacular early morning bash, before the parade begins...Just a wild hoot, of all of us, drawn together...all of the Great-Grandkids dressed in super-special Paddy's Day, green outfits...dancing all about...as happy as can be...
Just a great deal of fun and merriment...as the Irish music blasts and the beer & Guinness and Irish Whiskey gets cracked open...as soon as the sun comes up...Lots of great food, my sister, Kathy, whips up...too...The Irish Soda Bread...the scones...the scrambled eggs, the corned beef, cut to hot perfection, ready for action...Load on the tangy mustard...the melting meat...onto that fresh baked, rye bread....and wash it all down with some suds...and you are well on your way to heaven...my friend...
And that South-Side parade, gets bigger and bigger every year...The essence of Irish laughter mixed with the essence of Irish pride...are all abound...for all to enjoy...no matter what nationality, you are...Because Saint Patrick's Day, on the South-Side, and all over Chicago, is for, one and all, an experience, you never, ever, ever forget...
So, now, some of you get a sense of that Irish flavor, that seeps out of my soul and down onto paper. For I am an Irish writer, thru and thru...The Irish wit, the Irish silliness and surely a wry Irish way of putting a slant on things...is predominently featured, in every story of my life, and beyond, that I share...with you...
So HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY...EVERYBODY...I hope it is a great day, a warm day rather than cold...a sunny day rather than downpours...and just a special day, that keeps your minds all a flutter...your hands full of fun...and your hearts soaring with happiness and a joy...you'll always cherish...from year....to year.....to year......
That's just a given, because I get Saint Patrick's Day fever, pretty damn bad...come rain or shine, every single year...and right now, in the merry month of March...I'd like to take you back to some of my grand old memories of Saint Paddy's Day past...surely, that will bring a smile or two.
I'll start off, by going way, way, back...the little rambunxious 4 year old tyke, me, sneaking up to my parents bedroom on 86th Street and jumping up and down, on my parents giant bed...It was my spongy-bungy trampoline, of course, and I truly was lucky, I didn't crack open my head, from my flopping all about...
And while I was up there, I'd pry open my Mom's jewelry box, and there would be a whole slew of Irish buttons, you would stick onto your chest, to wear for Paddy's Day...They were all humorous or clever...and I'd always try to figure out, which one, I'd wear, next Paddy's Day. Of course, KISS ME, I'M IRISH was in there...I'M WITH THE F.B.I-FULL BLOODED IRISH another silly one...SURE N' BGORA...and just a dozen or more, buttons with green shamrocks and leprechauns...There had to be a silly one about GREEN BEER, in there, also...
And every single one of us kids, had to be wearing GREEN, no matter what, on Saint Patrick's Day...and absolutely wearing one of those crazy Irish buttons, displaying them proudly, before we were let out that door, by our Mom...on March 17th, back in the day...yes...
My Mom, of course, decorated our house, to the hilt for this big day...and I'd love to see all those funny, funny cardboard signs, of all the silly looking Leprechauns and such, that my Mom had plastered on the walls, all over the place...back then...
Anybody with the GREEN FEVER got it from my MOM in our house...How could you not, with a name like O'Leary...on the hearty South-Side of Chicago...which seemed 50% Irish back then. And that O'Leary name, brought a smile, to quite a many, because the Chicago Fire of 1871, which decimated the city, was caused by Mrs. O'Leary's cow...unfortunately...the legend tells...
And I swear, every time, we stood at a checkout, anywhere in the city, once someone saw the O'Leary name on my Mom's check, they had to ask..."Are you related to the O'Leary's that had the cow...that started the fire"...and they'd always burst out laughing, because my Mom, always came up with a silly, hilarious answer to the question, every time...She wasn't even an O'Leary, she was a Griffin, thru and thru...but it was an endless phenomenon, she had to deal with, on a daily basis...every day...it seemed...
Back to the festivities of March 17th...The day itself...always seemed a bit chilly and mostly wet...which, of course, reflects the weather of Ireland, to some extent...But it did not matter, I never felt one rain drop, or not one single shiver...as I headed down to the parade, in the heart of Downtown Chicago...as a young lad...with my Tommy More buddies...
We'd take the WESTERN AVE. bus at 79th Street, then inevitably hop on the ARCHER EXPRESS, which ran diagonally, deep down, all the way down, to downtown...We'd all be deliriously happy because every Catholic school on the South-Side always gave us that day off, always, and we made the most of every minute...
As we got off the bus, on State Street...we were in awe of this amazing city, Chicago...Gobs of people, everywhere, the buildings just towered way over, our eye's reach...We kinda had to pinch ourselves, that we had a wild day, planned ahead, waiting for us, as we made our way over to DEARBORN Street...where the parade route would assemble and go down...
But first, we'd scamper like fools, all the way up to LAKE Street, to see them, dye the river GREEN for that day...It was cooler than cool, to see that muddy, dank, dark water, suddenly come to life with a bright, lime green glow, as a quick-jetting fishing boat dumped an enormous amount of an ORANGE POWDER, that mixed into the water, and turned it bright green, instantly...
Then we'd visit each float, there, still waiting, to get into place, to take that magical ride down the parade route, amidst the throngs, of wild, screaming people...It was pure, crazed excitement for us kids, the pandemonium of all of this going down...I can remember running up to the Channel 7 float and saying HI to tv newscasters, Fahey Flynn & Joel Daley, wearing green carnations, smiling from ear to ear...And Channel 2 were giving out GREEN FRISBEES that I kept and cherished for years and years and years...
Just a great adventure of nothing-of-its-kind...fun...Alot of those wild guys, loading onto their floats, were already...3-sheets-to-the-wind...(blind drunk)...and all the ladies had a magical glow, wearing their beautiful costumes and such...There were horses, which was a true oddity for us city kids...and just a whole jamboree of unexpected silliness, that people conjoured up, to bring a hearty laugh, to one and all...
We are talking thousands and thousands of people, massed together, during the day, when tipping a few drinks and loud crazy antics were abound, all over...just purely a given, that day...
As we got older, certainly beer, got thrown into the equation, for us maulers, out of Tommy More...and I'll just throw 2 little fun facts out of the many, that unfolded, that special day...
On one, very cold & chilly, wicked wet & frigid, Paddy's Day, me & my friends stumbled past a big RV sporting a huge BUDWEISER logo, on its side...Well, me and a few of my buddies, Moodo, Slim, Fitz and a few others, talked our way, into this RV...to get a look...of this huge monstrosity. As we looked, about, someone, came up, and started handing us beers, Budweiser, of course, (our favorite) and we settled in, and sat, and watched the whole parade, all warm & cozy, thrusting down, free beers, left and right...
You are probably wondering...How old were we...???...
Probably somewhere between 15-16 years old...Hahaha...That's the Irish for you...Never to young to get the youth of tomorrow, off to a good start...on Saint Paddy's Day...
Another funny Paddy's story....was after the parade was over, one time...we wandered over to the newly erected Sears Tower, (1974)...the tallest building in the world...Well, hell, we had to see what that was all about...So, in we fled, onto the elevators, and up we go....
There, inside the elevators, our eardrums begin to pop, from ascending so rapidly upward, all of us in a dizzy-dizzy spin...feeling as if, we were in a rocket ship, headed for the moon...One of my buddies noticed, the sign that read, it cost $5 to get off at the top floor, Sky Deck and look out, the huge, humoungous, panoramic view of the city...
Well, a bunch of my buddies, had no dough left, so they devised this plan, to get off, one floor early, then sneak up the fire escape, to the top floor...Boom...a bunch get off the elevator some one hundred and some stories up...and go on their wicked way...while us fortunate few, went one floor higher...and got off...and felt so totally perplexed by the sparkling view of the city, from every conceivable angle...It was Playboy Club Day, too...or something, and Hugh Hefner's gorgeous bunnies, were all walking about...and us kids, were pretty much, in awe, of this little goldmine, we stumbled upon.
And we waited and waited for our other buddies, to get up that fire escape and enjoy the view or should I say, views, of everything, and anything, all about...It suddenly dawned on me...Those guys probably got caught, and sent away, when they tried to pull off such a stunt, so us lucky ones were roaring with laughter, from our hilarious viewpoint...after about 10 minutes had past...
And after a great time, sadly, we had to leave the Sky Deck, up on top of the tallest building of the world, SEARS TOWER, and went back down and down, rapidly...back to ground level...looking all about for our other buddies, but they were nowhere to be found...
Then, after about 10 minutes more, all of them come stumbling out of the giant skyscraper, exhausted, panting, swearing at us...See, they did get to the top floor entrance to the Sky Deck, but it was locked...as a matter of fact, every single floor below was locked too...so they had to trek down, an endless amount of stairs, pounding and pounding down, every floor, mad as hell, for this little bit of stupidity...that came up and bit them in the ass...
So, we were just bursting out with laughter, at these unfortunate fools, unloading our little tale of good fortune, while they were still aghast, panting away....almost turning blue, from disbelief...All of us there, still wearing green, some had Irish buttons, some had green hats...all of us, with a few beers stuffed into our winter coats...still...reeling in our wild Paddy's Day story, of going to the top of the world, and then some...in our own mischievous, silly way...
Sure, today, the tradition continues, all of my family goes to the South-Side Irish parade, now, on Western Avenue...and my nephew, Eddie Haggerty and his wonderful wife, Meagan, throw together a spectacular early morning bash, before the parade begins...Just a wild hoot, of all of us, drawn together...all of the Great-Grandkids dressed in super-special Paddy's Day, green outfits...dancing all about...as happy as can be...
Just a great deal of fun and merriment...as the Irish music blasts and the beer & Guinness and Irish Whiskey gets cracked open...as soon as the sun comes up...Lots of great food, my sister, Kathy, whips up...too...The Irish Soda Bread...the scones...the scrambled eggs, the corned beef, cut to hot perfection, ready for action...Load on the tangy mustard...the melting meat...onto that fresh baked, rye bread....and wash it all down with some suds...and you are well on your way to heaven...my friend...
And that South-Side parade, gets bigger and bigger every year...The essence of Irish laughter mixed with the essence of Irish pride...are all abound...for all to enjoy...no matter what nationality, you are...Because Saint Patrick's Day, on the South-Side, and all over Chicago, is for, one and all, an experience, you never, ever, ever forget...
So, now, some of you get a sense of that Irish flavor, that seeps out of my soul and down onto paper. For I am an Irish writer, thru and thru...The Irish wit, the Irish silliness and surely a wry Irish way of putting a slant on things...is predominently featured, in every story of my life, and beyond, that I share...with you...
So HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY...EVERYBODY...I hope it is a great day, a warm day rather than cold...a sunny day rather than downpours...and just a special day, that keeps your minds all a flutter...your hands full of fun...and your hearts soaring with happiness and a joy...you'll always cherish...from year....to year.....to year......
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