"Fly" 16"x20" oil painting by Steve Alpert
Boys are like a pack of wild dogs. They can be ruthlessly cruel. The pack runs on instinct with the leader being the boy often with the loudest mouth and the gumption to be the most outrageous. They always know who is who among them. The smartest, the funniest. Who has the best throwing arm, the most accurate, and who is the best climber. At any moment the pack is capable of turning on the weakest boy and casting him out, berating him when he screws up. You suck! They all know who is the best fielder — he plays shortstop — who is the best hitter — bats fourth. The worst athlete is consistently embarrassed by getting picked last in a choose-up game — he plays right field or not at all. YOU SUCK! And the pack does not like outsiders. You’re either in or out. It was known I was the fastest. Always. I could run like a jackrabbit from a standing start. Outrun all of them across the field, from here to there, anytime, anywhere. Baseball, football, basketball, soccer. Years later in high school I turned that into a fine varsity sprinting career. But that’s another story for another time.
The first time I was noticed by anyone outside my immediate family was a late summer afternoon when I was seven years old at Camp Nokomis, Mahopac, New York. I was fortunate enough to be sent to summer camp for eight weeks, starting when I was six. Good to be away parents who aren’t getting along. My wife was appalled when I first told her I was shipped off to camp at that early age for eight whole weeks. The youngest campers, ten little tykes in Bunk #1 were always known as the ice cream kids. Had to make our own beds and have inspection every day.
Tryouts for swim team. A hot sun-drenched afternoon in July. Walked barefoot along the warm green grass to the pool. A scrawny, quiet kid, I waited my turn, which was last. All the other kids made their audition swim and returned to their cabins. Only the two swim team counselors and me. I was a confident swimmer; my mother made sure I could swim on my own by the time I was five. I had no fear of the water. The swim team coach told me to swim across the pool as fast as I could. I dove in and skimmed along the surface like a gull taking off. Nods of approval. I stood dripping wet, chest heaving in oxygen debt, my skinny self draped in a huge white towel. The guy counselor walked with me back to the cabins. He said, “You got good potential.” Wow. I got good potential. I have no idea what that means, I had never heard it before, but it sounds real good. I like the sound of it, potential. Sounds strong. I got good potential. Yeah, that’s cool. Good potential. I roll it over and over in my mind for days and weeks to come. I got good potential.
Good for a boy to be noticed for something. My father rarely took much notice of me, he was always busy, and my mother, she was warm and loving but of course you expect your mother to be that way. Summer camp was a great boost for me. I was one of the better athletes, and that was social currency among boys. To get noticed by the older boys, if that happened, you were really cool. It let me know that I could make it in the world on my own, somehow, a great gift for a young kid.
This was the late 1950’s, the world was still very much post-war America. We were kids from New York, Brooklyn, and the burbs. All was right with the world. As soon as you read those words, the you-know-what is about to hit the fan. It did.
My father lost his business and one summer after camp was over, I was taken to our new small apartment, across town. What? Where we going? Oh, well, we’ve moved, I was told simply. Whaddya mean we moved? It was shocking. All of a sudden all my pals in the neighborhood, my best friend Rich across the street, the huge woods that was our playground, Indian Rocks, The Moth Path, my beloved Roosevelt Elementary School — gone! Traded all that in for a crummy apartment on the other side of town. Dang! My father was a cigar and pipe smoker, but in this period he smoked cigarettes, I knew things were raw. He was scrambling.
I was the new boy in sixth grade. Not a terrible thing, really. But, memorable for that year were two things. The first was the incredible terror of the Cuban Missile Crisis. I was a newshound even then and read the paper, watched TV news and listened to my transistor radio under the pillow every night. One of those dark and memorable days I had to stay after class for arithmetic – oh man, not again – and when Miss Galloway was surrounded by other kids at her desk in the back, I scooted out — just in case the bombs dropped, no way was I gonna get nuked waiting to do friggin’ fractions. If I’m gonna fry, it’s gonna be at home. That whole week I kept looking out the window waiting for the flash of the bomb. We were only fifteen miles from Manhattan, a prime target, for sure. Dang!
The second thing – There was the group of jocks that I wanted to join. They were a tight knit pack who wasn’t letting a new boy in so easy. I could run faster and out-jump any of them, and they knew it, but I was still the outlier. My athleticism was always my currency and I wanted in bad but had to wait it out at the pleasure of the pack.
They all had blue ski jackets. How could I be one of them without a blue ski jacket? I begged my mother for a blue ski jacket. She wouldn’t go for it, money was tight. My paper route earnings didn’t make a dent. Each day went by agonizingly slow with these guys hazing me was a pain in my butt. They let me play with them, though, but even though I was one of the better athletes, I was always chosen last. Just to make sure I knew my place as outsider. As we went en masse to the deli for soda after the daily after school workout I was allowed to walk behind them, but not too close. Dirty looks and snickering directed at me tested me to see how bad I wanted it. It was brutal. Finally, I wore my mother down, went to Alexander’s. I hunted the racks. There were blue ski jackets all over the place, I had to pick just the right one. This one here. I slipped into it. Good fit. Nice blue color. Smooth to the touch. This should work. A brand new blue ski jacket! I’m in now, Baby!!! Oh yeah! They next day I was so excited, I wore that thing proudly on the short walk to school. Nobody said anything. You know what happens next…
At the 3:15 bell the boys gather in the courtyard to work up the game of the day. I stood fidgeting outside of the circle. They ignore me, like always, but I hang in there at the periphery. It was M, the meanest of them, and the ringleader because of his wise-ass manner. M had the best jump shot, was always the high scorer at b-ball. M could really dish it out and be in your face. He did it to everybody, keeping everybody off balance. That’s how he kept his power. If M passed you the ball and you miss the shot, YOU SUCK! All the boys sucked up to M, but they all got their turn at being ridiculed by M. They were relieved when M went after the other guy, and they all sided with M.
So we’re standing around outside, there I am with the blue ski jacket, just like all of them. M looked at me directly, for the first time and pointed, calling attention to the fact that I now had a blue jacket. He laughed right at me, and the boys started laughing, too. All their jackets had a pleated pattern on the front and back. A detail I obviously missed. The back of my jacket was plain, no pattern or stitching. M called me, “Plainback!” and all the guys yelling and laughing, “Plainback! Plainback! My name became, “Plainback.” I laugh as I write this but I guarantee you I wasn’t laughing then. I was mortified. Reduced to three inches tall. Hey Mom, do you think we could exchange this jacket for another with something on the back? That would not be happening.
Winter became spring, and jackets were shed. Plainback was a name that disappeared with the cold weather. I was accepted into the pack, by pure persistence on my part, and well, I could out-run, jump and rebound any one of them. I was in, I had an identity. I was no longer chosen last when we chose sides. We became the core of a rec league basketball team that went undefeated in the regular season two years running. Our coach was former NY Knick, Dick Surhoff, father of future all-star baseball star, BJ Surhoff. Coach Surhoff ran us into the ground every practice, and we ran all our opponents into the ground. The pack of boys became the Jets, and yup, we got satin jackets that said, JETS on the back. The color? Blue, of course.
Summer camp was coming. Life was sweet again. All was right with the world, still with the good potential in my back pocket. I didn’t know what was coming next, but as soon as camp was over, the you-know-what was about to hit the fan, again. A rock ‘em sock ‘em trial by fire. Football.
