Especially in elementary school. I attended the Grimes School, pictured above as more evidence of the decay that has rotted the mental images of my hometown and my childhood.
But, the good news is that there are still memories and friends who can prod you to remember even more. Once again, here's an opening of the Memory Drawer spurred on by a Facebook conversation with some of my friends of years gone by. Another flood of emotions started by two words.
"Gym Class."
I hated it.
Oh, yeah, I said that already.
What kid hates gym class?
This kid. Right here.
Back in my years in grades three through six, it was the one class period that I dreaded each and every day. In our school, the boys and the girls took gym together and none of us looked particularly attractive. The boys had to wear the same color of gym shorts and the standard white T-shirt. I think the girls were able to adapt slightly with a short skirt. Whatever the case, we all looked uniforms in our uniforms. Sort of a combination of Romper Room and a World War II prison camp.
There had been a renewed vigor in America thanks to one youthful President and he wanted all the nation's youth to share in that vitality. Twice a school year, gym class was devoted to completing the President's National Fitness Test, which had been started by the former Senator from Massachusetts. Of course, in retrospect, we all know that President Kennedy was hardly fit himself and was taking regular injections of pain killers. But, back then, it was all about our ability to participate in such odd stunts as the "Shuttle Run."
It involved two blackboard erasers. They would place them at the end of some straight-away. You ran down quickly and picked up one eraser. You ran back and put it down at the starting line. Then you raced back and picked up the other eraser and repeated the run back. The gym teacher would clock you and the time would be an indicator of your physical prowess and perhaps even your ultimate entrance to God's kingdom. For me, the "shuttle run" could only be important if you were looking for a future working in the stock room at your local Staples.
I was a chubby kid and never did well. Perhaps, there are no overweight people in Heaven?
There was other nonsense this test required. Six times running around the school yard. Again, a time was recorded. The gym class wasn't long enough for me to finish.
So, in the process of determining the physical capabilities of America's youth, most of us suffered great blows to our self-esteem. Life giving with one hand and taking with the other.
I'd trod back to class wondering what the hell was wrong with me. And, oh, yeah, let's see John F. Kennedy with his bad back stoop down and pick up some erasers. Alive or dead.
Each day, the specter of gym class hung over my head like an anvil ready to drop at any moment. What new fresh pile of Hell was awaiting me today? There were no sneak previews available. You had no clue what was on today's menu down at the gym. Perhaps a brutal game of dodgeball. There was always one mental patient in your class whose main goal in life was to imprint the word "Spalding" on your left thigh. Maybe the net would be up and you were doomed to some volleyball. As you rotated through the defensive positions, I would pray that the bell would ring before I got to the front line when some lunatic would spike the ball right on my noggin.
And then there was the pinnacle of my dread. On those days every school year when I would walk into the gym and see the supreme horror.
The mats were down. The parallel bars were set up. The rings were hanging from the ceiling.
Shit!
Gymnastics.
An involuntary twitch would go up my right arm, making it immediately go up in the air.
"Can I go to the nurse's office? I have a sore throat, an upset stomach, and maybe even cancer."
If I got a sense ahead of time that gymnastics was scheduled, I'd work overtime to get that coveted medical excuse. I'd perfectly time/fake a sprained ankle or a wrist. Sorry, Mr. Gym Teacher, I'm stuck. No gymnastics for me this year. A tear is rolling down my cheek.
But, usually, gymnastics were waged as a sneak attack. And I was left to somehow manage my hysteria. Whoever that year's gym teacher was, he would outline our stunts as if he was coaching Mary Lou Retton in the 1984 Summer Olympics.
"Okay, you will swing up on the rings and then wind up in the cat's cradle?"
What the fuck are you talking about? I mean, what are you referring to, please, ...um, sir?
There was never any way I was going to perform this feat of magic. At least not sober. And I never had anything strong than milk with Cocoa Marsh in those days.
Self Esteem, here comes another beating.
Now here's the fascinating thing I discovered this week from some of the girls who I shared these ignoble moments with. I drew a complete blank on the names of some of those gym teachers. They, however, did not. Largely because some of them were particularly good looking. I read tales of these guys' wavy hair and they all seemed to drive in convertibles. These idiots did nothing for me, but, as for the girls in my class, their butter was melted.
There was one gym teacher name, however, that did come back to me loud and sadly clear.
Mr. Hicks.
Shudder, shudder....
Sadly, he has passed on. He may have been a wonderful credit to society. To me, the guy was a jerk. A nasty piece of business who apparently had a small cup of espresso as a professional basketball player after playing college hoops. As a result, maybe he was a frustrated guy who took all his unhappiness out on us.
And me. And it came down to a supreme battle over...
...the forward roll.
I've told the saga here before. Next week, I will share it all over again.
Mr. Hicks, it's on!
Dinner last night: Grilled beef sausage.
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