This and That

by John B. Anderson

Chuck was a happy-go-lucky guy. He had a pretty girlfriend, a nice car, and his dad was a state cop. Chuck was a couple of years older than us. Chuck and I shared the same gym class one semester. Right after Christmas, he decided to show the entire gym class the gift that he had received from his girlfriend – a fur-lined jock strap. Chuck modeled the gift for all the class to see, when Mr. Brandstrom came out of his office to see what all the commotion was about. Mr. Brandstrom was not amused. “Get dressed and go to the office, Chuck.”

Later that winter, Dan and I were making our last pass through town on a very cold night. Dan was driving his dad's 4-wheel-drive truck. We passed the Liberty, the Pool Hall, and started up River Street. All of a sudden, a car pulled up along side of us, revving his motor. It was Chuck and he wanted to race. Dan shifted to second and hit the gas, as did Chuck. We were flying up River Street, when I looked around and saw a car gaining on us with its lights off. “Cops!”

Chuck was turning left at the triangle, so we turned right. Chuck hadn't seen the cop car, so when he saw us turn right, he turned right following us. He passed us by Smitty's I.G.A., because, by this time we were driving the speed limit. The cop car sped passed us, and chased Chuck into Central Park. Chuck drove onto the skating rink, did a few “Cats Patooties” and drove his rear end into the far bank of the rink. Chuck's headlights were now shining on the “We Serve and Protect” sign on the side of the police cruiser. “Oh, s**t!”

The cop got out of the car. It was Bruce Neadow. Bruce started walking toward Chuck's car, and fell on his butt on the ice. Chuck was laughing by this time, so he got out of his car and helped Bruce get up.

In the meantime, Dan and I were driving over the piles of snow that the city crews had removed from the city streets. It was good that we had the 4-wheel-drive. We made it over the piles to Lake Street, where we hid for about 20 minutes. We figured that the cop had given us up by that time, so we drove past the Presbyterian Church to US-2. Bruce was waiting for us. He blocked our escape, and gave us, (mostly Dan), a serious tongue lashing.

As most kids are when they are younger, I was somewhat confused about the birds and the bees. That was all cleared up one evening at one of our neighborhood meetings. The meetings were usually attended by Dave, (the eldest), Wayne, (next in line), Bill, sometimes Johnny, Me and John R. Our meeting place was Kelly's corner. We would discuss hot topics like, “How good are those new Creamsickles?” “Dr. Bernier's teaching Kenny how to box,” and the latest cars. Dr. and Mrs. Chauvin drove by with the three boys in the back seat. Wayne said, “Did you hear that Stella was pregnant again?”

Dave replied, “Ole' Doc's been hittin' on Stells.”

Inside my head: “Ole' Doc's been hittin” on Stella.” That seemed reasonable. Lloyd had told us that babies came from pills. His sister, Marcella, had told him that, and that's the truth, because she's a nurse.” I decided to go with, “Ole' Doc's been hittin' on Stella.”

When I was a senior, I assembled an intra-mural basketball team. Bobby and I, along with three or four others, would meet for intra-mural league play three times a week at 6:00 pm. The Manistique City Basketball League met at 7:00. The city league player were the MHS stars of yesteryear. They had put on a little weight since their high school days, so they were a little slower. The players could still shoot well, but they were meaner. The older guys would step on our feet, pull the hair on our legs, and pull down our pants.

After our game, if the older guys were short a player, we would be asked to play. A couple of times I made a mistake and said yes. Now, you have to understand, that the City League play was quite different from most basketball game that I have played. The fans in the old gym were wives and girlfriends of the players. Many of the ladies would bring supper and a six-pack to make the game more fun.

One game in particular would go down in history. Bob was our center, because he was the tallest player that Manistique had seen in a decade. It was a given that Bob would get the initial tip. The plan for this game was that Bob would tip the ball to Fred, (a made up name, and you'll see why in a minute,) and he would drive to the bucket and shoot puppy. Sure enough, Bob smacked the tip to Fred, and Fred started his drive to the bucket. At that precise moment, Fred's manhood, (or should I say MANHOOD?), slipped out of his jock and angled down his leg. The wives and girlfriends screamed. Fred drove to the basket, made the shot, ran through the east door of the locker room, re-adjusted himself, and appeared at the west door of the locker room. He was given a standing ovation.