Don't Tear Down My Statues

Before all of this Controversy of Anything Confederate expands, I want to go on the record. Although to most of the World, I am known as G-Man, Super Hero, my real name is Jim Wright.
I want to make it perfectly clear I am NOT the Liberal Politician from Ft. Worth.  I am in no way related to the former Speaker of the House by blood or marriage.  I have never socialized nor met with the Democrat.  In fact, a distant relative of mine, Wingate Lucas, was opposed by Jim Wright for a seat in Congress. 

I am prepared to take legal action against ESPN if they try to block me from playing Fantasy Football or lead any efforts to remove my trophies just because I share a similar name with a politician of questionable ethics.

Although I was born in Ft. Worth and lived my early life in Tarrant county,  I never knew the man.

More Summer Work

After my first year of college, I had not been able to land a summer job.  I was going to the high school gym in the mornings to work out, play ping pong or some pick up basketball games.  After about a week into the summer, Coach Pappy Drennan approached me asking if I had a job for the summer.  He was the Assistant Head Master and was looking for counselors to work at Camp Stewart.  Camp Stewart was a boys summer camp in the Texas Hill Country near Hunt, TX.  I had to provide my own transportation.  Since my parents weren't willing to let me take one of the family cars, I had to ride the train to San Antonio where I was met by someone to take me to the camp.  I don't recall much about train ride other than it stopped a lot.

Once I was there I received my duties.  I was to be in charge of a cabin of 12-15 boys that were about 12years old.  I had to make sure they got up, made their beds and went to breakfast each morning.  They would then participate in various activities during the day and be back in their cabins for a 9:00pm "lights out" 

During the day I had several activities, one of which was teaching golf.  Within a week, all of the campers under my tutelage were slicing the ball.  I also had to coordinate some other games.  Plus, I was required to be a lifeguard at the swimming hole on the Guadalupe River.  (Note to Parents:  Be careful where you send your kids)  I was not a strong swimmer.  I had to swim out to the life guard float and oversee the kids.  At one point I had to pull  a kid out of the water.  Fortunately, he was hanging on the float and I didn't have to swim to rescue him. 

All of the counselors were near my age and we developed some comraderie.   I got to know the wranglers pretty well.  One of them had an old truck.  None of the other counselors did.  The wranglers were only responsible for tending the horses and leading the trail rides.  They did not have cabin responsibilities and would ride into town at night.  They invited me to go with them and on several occasions I would head to town after my campers were all asleep.  We went to this honky tonk in Ingram called Criders.  It was surrounded by a chicken wire fence with a large gate at the entrance. It had a bandstand on one end, a bar and concession on the other and a concrete dance floor in between.  It was completely open and had a large oak tree in the middle of the dance floor.  The clientele was a mix of ranchers, cowboys, vacationers, families with kids and, in some cases, dogs.  It was at Criders that I learned to do the chicken dance to the Adolph Hofner and the Pearl Wranglers Band and that golden eagles are hated by sheep farmers as they will kill the new born sheep or goats. 

After returning to Texas from Tennessee my friend, Craig Christopher, had purchased a ranch near Hunt and invited me to spend a weekend with him.  He suggested we go into town for a rodeo and some BBQ at a local establishment.  Turns out it was Crider's.  After 20+ years the only thing that had changed was the chicken wire had been replaced by a chain link fence.

Each summer the Camp Stewart boys would be transported to Camp Mystic for a dance at the girls camp.  The counselors were the chaperones.  A lot of the campers were from affluent families.  In my cabin I had a kid whose dad was president of Westinghouse Corp and another boy that was a member of the Houston Fondren family.  At the Camp Mystic dance,  Lucy Johnson and the daughter of Governor Connelly were present.

After being at Camp Stewart for about six weeks, I started getting sick.  I had an extremely sore throat. So bad that I could only eat ice cream.  My whole body ached.  After several trips to the camp infirmary, they finally decided I needed to see the doctor in town.  I had come down with mononucleosis.  They sent me back home on the train.  By the time I got home I had lost 20 lbs.

About a month later I got a check for my services.  Don't remember the amount, but it wasn't much.
The money didn't matter as I developed an appreciation for the beauty of the Texas Hill Country.


Next:  Getting a little more serious about working.

Summer Job

For teenagers in the 60's it was hard to find part time or summer jobs.  There was no fast food restaurants or shopping malls that employed students in mass. When you could find a job to make a little spending money, it was usually for a short duration. 

I was always looking for some work.  The first I remember was cleaning up the little league field after the games when I was 13.  My job was to pick up the trash and put it in the garbage.  I think I made $5 each game.  Unfortunately, I had not developed a very good work ethic at that time and my Mother did most of the work.  I didn't last very long on that job.

I excelled on the next job.  It started in my 8th grade year at MacArthur Jr. High.  Each morning before classes I had to go to the cafeteria before school started and take all of the folding chairs off the tables and set them up for lunch.  After the last lunch period I would go stack them on the tables so the floors could be cleaned and mopped.  I remember working with Bill Coward.  We got the routine down and could get it done in a hurry.  Compensation for this was a free lunch in the cafeteria and either two cartons of milk or two desserts.  I opted for the two milks, except on Friday when it was cherry cobbler day and I got two desserts and bought the second milk.  I think lunch was about thirty cents at that time.  Held that job for two years.

Summer jobs were hard to find as a young teenager.  A couple of summers I got to work for the school district delivering the new text books to the schools.  It was fun and never seemed to be "work". I don't recall the pay, but the total was something short of $100.

It was the summer job I got after my senior year in high school that has the date August 10, 1962 etched in my mind.  I was looking for work when I heard of a construction company that needed a laborer/dump truck driver.  I was told to report for work the following Monday.  I never told them I had never driven a dump truck before nor did I have a commercial license.  I studied the book and passed the test the next day.   The company was building filling stations in the area.  I was to drive the truck when needed and work with the labor crew the rest of the time.  The very first morning I was told to help load debris in the truck and then take it to the dump.  Driving the truck was no problem.  I had been in a dump truck before but only as a passenger.  When I got to the dump, I had no idea how to operate the lift.  I knew it had something to do with the two levers protruding through the floor board.  I begin to try various combinations to get the lift to work.  I was beginning to think I was going to have to unload the junk by hand when I finally figured out how the bed lifted.   When I got back to the job site, the boss wanted to know why it took so long.  

I would go to the sand pit, haul building materials and numerous trips to the dump.  Even had to go to a railroad siding one day with several crew members to transfer asphalt from a rail car to the dump truck.  Southeast Texas summer heat caused the asphalt to stick to the bottom of my tennis shoes, making my feet really hot.  Not easy work for $1.25/hr. 

Once I mastered the dump truck, I looked forward to driving.  The ground work was tough.  Most of my duties centered around preparing foundations for pouring the slab.  One of the crew members was and old man that always grabbed the hand tamp to pack the fill sand.  I noticed he always worked at a very slow rate.  Had to be easy. One day I grabbed the tamp before he did.
Turned out the thing was a lot heavier than I realized.  After about ten minutes I gave it back to the old guy.  It was then I realized his forearms were about twice the size of mine.

Back to August 10th.  We were sent to a previously built station on the Corner of College and Lindbergh to make some repairs.  During that period of time oyster shells were used as road base.  The oysters were put down wet and then rolled to pack them.  When dry, it set up as a solid base and asphalt was used to top it off, making a nice road, drive, etc.  This particular station had an apron constructed in this manner.  Due to the unstable SE Texas gumbo soil and a plethora of 18 wheelers parking on this spot, the approach kept failing.  The construction manager decided that it must all be dug up and replaced with concrete.   Since hauling off the spoils required the dump truck, I was sent with the crew.  The job was fairly simple.  Dig it up and load the truck.

It required the use of a grub hoe, a shovel and lots and lots of muscle.

You simply just busted up the asphalt and oyster shell and shoveled it.  Simply enough you might think.  And, why was August 10th significant?  Well that date is the second highest temperature recorded in Beaumont, 107 degrees.  It was brutal.  I would hammer for awhile, then go to the water cooler.  Bust some more oyster shell and go to the bathroom.  It was during one of those water breaks that I knew I wanted to go to college.

I gained a lot of respect for those guys that were doing it for a living, especially Scatter, the old man on the tamper.

Coming next: Working as a counselor at a summer camp.

Pills Are For Sellin' Not Takin'

My Great-Grandfather, Zachary Taylor Wall and my Grandfather, Clifford Wall were both pharmacists in Grapevine, Texas.  I even have a copy of a prescription that was written by Z. T. Wall in 1879.  The actual drug is difficult to read, but underneath it says with whiskey.  Grapevine was a "dry" town in the 19th Century. 

Growing up under two generations of drug store owners, my Mother (Babe as we affectionately called her)  had plenty of exposure to the business.  I recall a conversation I had with her when she was in her early 80s about her medications.  She told me that she wasn't taking all of them.  When I questioned her about it, she replied that, in her family, pills were for selling, not taking. 

Babe was only 15 when her Mother died during the Great Depression.  Forced to take over the household during difficult economic times, she was very resourceful and remained so her entire life.
I recall meals at home growing up.  It didn't take long to learn that what wasn't eaten during the week was going to show up in the soup on the weekend.

I have been accused of being cheap, tight, chintzy, etc.  A trait that I don't deny.  But, as you can see from the above I came about it honestly. 

Upon moving back to Texas during the 80's, I decided that I needed a new belt to wear with my jeans.  Of course, I needed one with my name on the back.  While shopping at a local store, I noticed a table full of belts.  Apparently they were defects or had been returned.  One caught my eye and it was the size I was looking for.  Only problem, the name on the back was "Greg".  Since the belts were only $2.88 each, I decided it would be fine.  I bought the belt and begin wearing it. At social gatherings people would come up to me and call me Greg.  After a couple of years my niece and nephew gave me a belt for Christmas with "Jim" on the back.  I'd still be wearing the "Greg" belt today if it would fit.

Several years later we moved to the country.  For Christmas, I thought I would get the kids in the real spirit of Christmas.  We would go out in the woods and find a suitable Christmas tree and cut it down.  Since furs and few cedars grow in Southeast Texas, we cut down a small pine and then cut off the top six feet to use as our tree.  I must admit  that it was a bit sparse, but it got decorated anyway. Years later I heard my daughter talking with my friend, Don Webb.  He mentioned the story about the tree and Jennifer said, "Yes, that was the Christmas I learned the meaning of frugal".

This past week I took my wife to the doctor for some discomfort she was experiencing.  He prescribed a couple of medications and three B-12 shots.  I was told that the pharmacy could give her the shots as a courtesy.  We got the medication, sans whiskey, but the pharmacist said they don't give shots.  I was told to go to the Minute Clinic, but I knew they would charge me.  So, being the frugal person I am, I told my wife I would give her the shots.  She asked me if I had ever given a shot before and I told her I had.  After giving her the shot the next day, I confessed that I had given shots before, but they were to the horses. 

Baseball Mothers.

With the start of the 2017 College baseball season less than a week away, I was reflecting back on my baseball playing days.  As a kid I loved baseball.  Read the box scores every morning.  Played in the sandlots and organized ball every chance I got.  Having a Father that loved the game and was excited that I played only fueled my emotion.  Every chance we got he would take me, my brother and whatever neighbor kids we could round up to the sandlot for batting practice.  But that is not the topic of this story. 

Last night while watching the movie, "Sandlot" for the umpteenth time, I recalled the line Small's Mother said to him.  She said she wanted him to go outside, meet other kids, have fun and get into a little trouble.  It got me to thinking of the role the Mothers have in all of the baseball playing boys. 

My Mother didn't throw me or my brother batting practice or hit us grounders.  However, she went to the field and shagged balls as we hit.  I can still see her in the outfield without a glove scooping up ground balls with her skirt.  She was pretty good at it too.  She could whip up a meal in minutes and often had to prepare two or three suppers a day, as we were all on different schedules.  She was a score keeper.  After she passed I found many of those scorecards.  I think she only kept the ones that I did well. 

Later in life as I started coaching my seven and eight year old boys in Little League, I became more aware of the importance of mothers in their baseball son's development.  My first year in coaching I had to draft a team.  Identifying the kids to pick in the early rounds was easy.  The later rounds was tougher.  I recall that first team and my last pick.  I had about ten kids from which to pick.  None had shown any ability at all.  So when it came my turn I selected a little lefty named David Rose.  Why David, you ask?  Well David's Mother, Ginger, had brought him to tryouts.  She was knock down gorgeous. I mean a real beautiful woman.  If her kid couldn't play ball, at least she was nice to look at.  (At this point I will pause and allow female readers to comment on my shallowness and whatever adjectives one would feel necessary to throw at me).

However, the story does not end here.  Ginger was as beautiful inside as she was outside and ended up being my Team Mom.  Byron, her husband, ended up volunteering to be my assistant coach.  We became good friends.  But there is some irony to this story.  We ended up with a pretty good team. David was a real nice kid and tried hard.  We had a pretty good team and made the championship game.  In the last inning of that game we had a one run lead.  The other team had the bases loaded with two outs and their best hitter at the plate.  He hit a line drive to left field and my little lefty with the beautiful Mom made a diving catch to end the game.  What a great draft pick.

The next year I had another pretty good team of eight and nine year olds.  Practices can be a challenge to keep the kids interested and make it fun.  Many of the mothers would bring their kids to practice and wait to take them home. In order to keep it interesting, I told the Moms and kids the next day we were going to have a Mothers vs. kids game.   My second baseman was a kid named Phillip McAbee. A really good player.  He could hit and field. It turned out that one of the mommas was an army brat and had been an All Europe softball player when she was a teenager.   Phillip's Mom was still playing slow pitch softball in Chattanooga.  Needless to say the Mother Team was pretty good.  When Phillip's Mom caught his line drive, putting him out for the second time, he sat down and cried.
I understand Phillip later received a voice scholarship to U of Tennessee.

All the Moms weren't as classy as MY Moms.  I once had to separate two of them from a "Cat Fight" at the Red Bank, TN Dixie League park. 

Two Generation Of Baseball Moms. One is done and the other just starting

Flash forward to the 90's.  By then my kids baseball careers were over and I had become a Lamar University baseball fan.  Sitting in the stands we had the chance to meet a lot of the baseball Moms of the college players.  A handful stand out in my memory.  Bryan Lovelace's Mom and Dad came from California to watch him play.  She would holler at him, "C'mon, Cutie Pie".  A name she must have given him as a toddler and thoroughly embarrassed him as a 21 year old college baseball player.  Everytime he would come to bat she would cover her face and not watch until his at bat was over.

Richard Templeton was a reliever in the mid 90's.  During one particular game when the Cardinals were playing poorly, His Mother got on top of the dugout and started berating the entire team for their poor play.  The Cards came back and won that game.  Mrs. Templeton was credited with the "Save".

As time went on, we began encouraging the Mother's to bring us cookies.  Many obliged.  A couple of Section BB favorites emerged.  Lisa Dziedzic, whose son was invited to the KC Royals spring training camp this year, made all of the games along with about a dozen of her other kids.  She made some outstanding pastries.  Another favorite, Frankie Harrington, also brought some nice treats.  Frankie had two sons, both pitchers that are still in the LU record books.  We got cookies for eight years.  She knew the game and when her boys made mistakes, she didn't cut them any slack. A great fan.

But, the favorite of all time was the Mother of Scotty Diaz.  Scotty didn't pitch many innings in his two years at Lamar, but his parents were always there. They sat behind us in Section BB and she had treats at every game which she enthuastically shared.  It was her desire to see her son pitch more that is still talked about today in Section BB.  Last I heard Scotty had earned his medical degree and is practicing medicine. 

As the new season is about to begin, I am looking forward to cookies from Reid Russell's Mom and the other baseball mothers yet to be named. 

Most of the baseball Mom's don't throw batting practice, play catch,  hit fly balls or call balls and strikes.  But, like my Mother and Ms. Smalls, they are the backbone of a baseball playing kid.  They drive the carpools, wash the uniforms, bandage the scrapes, ice the black eyes.  They root for their kid, worry about an injury, prepare the pregame meals, give up a new dress to have money for a new catcher's mitt, soothe a wounded soul following a hat trick and on occasion mediate with an overbearing Dad.   They spend hours and days in uncomfortable seats when they would need to be doing something else. And, in some cases scoop up grounders with their dress like Ozzie Smith.

Thanks to my Dad I could hit left handed pitchers pretty well, But, thanks to my Mom, I learned to keep score.  That I still do to this day.

Shopping Ain't For Sissies

Due to circumstances beyond by control, I did all of the Christmas shopping this year.  I would usually buy a couple of gifts and watch while everyone else tried to decide what to buy grandkids, how much money to spend and where to go.  This year it was my turn.

I had not been in the mall for nearly ten years.  That streak was to end in 2016.  I had no idea how many stores were in there.  Not to mention how big that structure is once you get inside.  Not only are there a bunch of stores, but there are booths all down the middle.  People tending these business are like the hawkers at the county fair.  They are aggressive and insist you look, listen or taste their product. 

And the people, they were everywhere.  There were some in a hurry.  Some in large groups. Some just sitting there waiting for someone to finish shopping or just there for the entertainment. Some that looked like they got kicked off Duck Dynasty.  Some wearing less clothes than they should. Some in good moods and some not so good. 

The traffic was horrendous.  Vehicles parked everywhere.  I found a reasonable spot at the end of the mall and went in the store entrance where I expected what I was looking for.  Turns out they didn't have it and suggested another store.  No luck there either, By the time I had exhausted all of my leads I was at the other end of the mall.  I must have walked two miles.  Now it was time to find my way back.  I got to the store I had entered and exited to the parking lot.

Now, the real trouble begins.  I forgot where I parked my car.  I looked where I thought it was but no luck.  I was pushing the alarm button on my key chain but no alarm could be heard.  I finally realized that probably wasn't the entrance I came in.  So I walked outside the building and lo and behold there was another entrance.   Finally I found my truck and went home.  I was exhausted.

Shopping ain't for sissies.  Next year I'm gonna learn how to do that on-line shopping thing.

Do Overs

All my young life I always considered myself a pretty good athlete.  I knew I wasn't the best in most of the events I competed, but knew I was competitive and better than most.  When I think back when I competed in baseball, football, basketball, track, motorcycle racing, racquetball and running, it is not the "Hero Moments" that come to mind.  It is those events when the outcome was something less than desirable.  Now that I am old, I am comfortable with sharing some of those disappointing and sometimes embarrassing moments in those sports.

Baseball:
When I was 10 I made the Little League baseball team.  The 12 year olds on the team were big and good.  I was scared of them.  I was happy that I got to wear a uniform and my own hat with a big "O" on it for our team, the Oilers, to school.  Late in the season, my coach, Mr. Bob Kinnear, told me he wanted me to start in centerfield.  I told him I had a sore arm and didn't want to play.  I had six at bats for the season.  Five strike outs and hit into a double play. 

Having gained confidence in my ability and playing regularly, I came to bat in a teenage league with a runner on third.  My coach gave me the suicide squeeze bunt signal with a runner on third.  I squared around to bunt and when the pitcher threw the ball I panicked and took the pitch.  The runner was easily tagged out at home.

Later, in high school I made the varsity team as a sophomore and started at first base.  Being the only underclass man on the team, I was the only object of the hazing.  After walking home after practice and finding out they had put analgesic balm in my underwear, I learned to check them and go commando if necessary.

My junior year I was playing first base when we had a road game against Orange Stark.  There home field was poorly lighted and fly balls looked like half moons when they were in the air.  As fate would have it a high fly pop-up was hit in my direction.  After running around trying to get under it, I missed the ball and it hit behind me.  The next day my Dad told me I needed to get a hard hat if I was going to play first base.

Football

My junior year I had played offensive and defensive end.  My senior year I played only offense.  In the last game of the season we were playing Beaumont High in the final game.  They were not that good and we were handling them quite easily.  With less than two minutes to play in the game we were leading 28-13 and they were backed up to their own two yard line.  I talked the coach into letting me go in on defense.  BHS was running a wing T offense.  The wing back was lined up on my side.  My job was to hit the opposing end, check WB and cover the flat on a pass.  At the snap I felt the wingback start to drift to the flat.  Instantly I sensed a screen pass to him and positioned myself perfectly to defend the play.  The quarterback dropped back, faked a pass downfield and turned and threw it directly to me.  All I had to do was catch the ball and fall down for a touchdown.  The pass went right through my hands.  The WB caught it and ran 98 yards for a TD.

Basketball

My sophomore year in high school, the varsity basketball team won the state championship. They  were big with several players going 6'7" and two more at 6'4".  The next year I was moved up to the varsity.  I had played post in Junior high and on the JV team.  But hadn't grown beyond my 5'11" but still playing post position.  Since all of the "tall" seniors had graduated, we were rather small.  Our two tallest players were 6'2".  One was pretty good and the other was big and strong.  I was riding the pine most of the time.    Coach Jimmy Anders liked me to sit next to him on the bench.  Probably because I would agree with him. We had these warm up jerseys that had a zipper part way down the front.  One game wasn't going too well and Coach Anders got mad at one of our post players.  He jumped up and said, "Wright get in there for Etheridge!".  I stood up and was trying to unzip the warmup, Coach started pulling it over my head and telling me to hurry.  I finally gave up with the zipper and he dang near ripped my ears off.   Although we were defending State Champions, we didn't have a very good year.

Track and Road Racing

Speed I did not have and had no intention of running track.  The junior high track coach convinced me I could be a hurdler.  We had some other good hurdlers but he wanted depth.  We won the junior high championship without my help.  I thought that would be the end of my track career, but Coach Martin convinced me to run junior Olympics in the summer as it would help me in football.  We had a meet in Houston.  About 8 or 9 of us drove over in his station wagon.  We were running late and had to change on the run.  I got there just I time for my heat.  It turned out there were only two of us in the last heat.  The winner went to the finals.  The loser went home.  The guy looked beatable.  The gun went off and I'm ahead at the first hurdle.  My opponent hit the hurdle but kept going.  When it was all over he had hit every hurdle and lost his shoe.  AND, still beat me.

Later in my adult life I started running to improve my endurance for off road motorcycle racing.  Unable to shake the competitive spirit from within, I had started entering 10K road races.  I was usually in the middle of the pack of my age group. Since the results were published in the Sunday Chattanooga paper,  I competed against people I didn't even know who they were, but showed up in the paper.   One race was scheduled in Athens, Tennessee.  They had a two mile race before the 10K. I decided to go "trophy hunting" and run the 2 miler since most of the better runners just ran the longer race.  There were several guys that looked like they may be in my age group.  I started out pushing the pace much faster than I normally ran.  As I entered the final stretch with perhaps a quarter of a mile to go, one guy thought to be in my age group was ahead of me.  I was gaining on him, but I was really suffering.  As I got closer I noticed a handful of my Chattanooga friends that were going to run the 10K standing near the finish line.  My thoughts were they would cheer for me and it would be just enough motivation to pass the guy in front.  As we got close to the finish line they started cheering.  Only problem it was for the other guy.  I didn't catch him.

Racquetball

When I moved to Chattanooga I was working shifts.  I had joined the local YMCA and liked playing racquetball.  It was hard to get a court at night and I started going to the court in the mornings.  I played some older guys that weren't too good.  One time I was there looking for a match and a woman asked me if I wanted to play.  Not having anyone else to play I said sure, figuring I would beat her easily.  After she took off her warm ups, I couldn't help but notice she had legs that would make Earl Campbell proud and biceps I envied.   She beat me like a drum.  While reading the Sunday paper a month later, I noticed a full page feature on a female Georgia State water ski champion.  Yep, it was her.  It was then I realized she was the one that found the "huckleberry".

Off Road motorcycling

While competing in a motorcycle enduro in Anderson, SC, I was doing quite well.  I was positioned to finish high, perhaps win.  With less than ten miles left in the 80 mile event, I was riding up and down hills on a power line right of way.  The hills had erosion ridges that, if hit correctly, made it easy to jump down the hill.  I had passed a Honda at the top of one such hill and just sticking those jumps.

As I hit the front end of a hump I noticed there were two.  The second one would normally been easy to clear while airborne.  I must have panicked before my rear wheel left the ground and I cut throttle, causing the front end of my bike to take a nose dive and flip me over the handle bars.  It must have pretty spectacular as the guy I had passed earlier stopped and asked if I was OK.  While gasping for air I said yes.  He started back up the hill.  In the meantime I started my bike and continued.  At the bottom of the hill I managed to submerge my bike in a small stream filling the cylinder with water.

After pulling it out with an aching rib, I noticed an ambulance coming down the right of way.  I met them, they put a band aid on my nose and I continued on.  Needless to say this was not a trophy run.

Now in my seventies, I'm still competitive, but at a much slower, calmer pace. Now it's just a lot easier to look back at previous failures.

I'm sure that I could come up with some more favorable athletic moments.  But it's always the "Do Overs" that come to mind first.