DODGE BALL: A METAPHOR FOR THIS CRAZY LIFE

Don't regret the past, always move forward and make the best with what you have. The 1990 two-star movie, "MR. DESTINY," is a poor regurgitation of, "IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE." JAMES BELUSHI'S PERFORMANCE IS A HOME RUN, IN THIS OTHERWISE LACKLUSTER FILM.

The plot revolves around the tendency to fantasize about changing a key moment in one's life. In the movie, a mid-level businessman has hit a series of ruts that spark a mid-life crisis. He wanders into a gin mill and receives omniscience from the bartender, (Mr. Destiny). The moment Belushi's character wants Mr. Destiny to change is when he struck out in a big high school baseball game.

Mr. Destiny shows him how his life would have been impacted by being a hero. In the typical substance over form formula, he sees the price tag of superficiality that comes with that kind of success. He soon realizes that what he has actually achieved despite being that game's goat, is too precious to fritter away.

I recently lost a chance to act as Mr. Destiny, but in reverse.

Way back when, I attended (and graduated) from the Herman Schreiber Elementary School (P.S. 279), in my native Canarsie, Brooklyn, New York.

HARD TO BELIEVE BUT TRUE, THIS IS ONLY PICTURE OF MY OLD SCHOOL ON THE INTERNET.

In June 1966, the biggest highlight of being at P.S. 279, for me, was our sixth grade dodge ball tournament. The build-up began in third grade when the "After School Center" allowed us to participate in dodge ball with the older kids.

DODGE BALL IS A PLAYER ELIMINATION GAME. THE BASIC IDEA IS TO ELIMINATE THE OPPOSITION BY HITTING THEM WITH A THROWN BALL... WITHOUT THEM CATCHING IT. THE THROWER IS ELIMINATED IF HIS TOSS IS CAUGHT ON THE FLY. A TEAM LOSES WHEN ITS LAST PLAYER IS ELIMINATED. THE MOST COMMON FORMATS ARE: BEST 2 OUT 3, 3 OF 5 OR 4 OF 7 GAMES. MY SCHOOL USED A VOLLEY BALL BUT A RED BOUNCY BALL LIKE THE ONE ABOVE SEEMS TO BE THE UNIVERSAL BALL OF CHOICE.

In fourth grade, we were indoctrinated into the year-end class versus class dodge ball tournament. The lower grades had their own lesser following. But the allure of the sixth grade tourney, specifically the finals, was stronger than the "Sock-Hops," making it the social event of the year.

My sixth grade class did not make it the finals. The perennial favorites, the "juvie" class did, (some people called them Juvenile Delinquents or JD's). A juvie class was always comprised of dopey kids, budding criminals, serial truants, promiscuous girls and other social outcasts.

The juvie class had the least students but a disproportionally high amount of star athletes. This particular squad had a "*greaser" named Don Ruff. On the rare occasion that this early pubescent in thick sideburns came to school, he wore motorcycle boots and carried a rolled-up copy of the "DAILY RACING FORM" in his back pocket, (don't laugh, at least it proved he could read...something).

ARTHUR HERBERT "THE FONZ" FONZARELLI WAS ORIGINALLY CAST AS A NE'ER DO WELL GREASER, (*IN CANARSIE THESE STREET TOUGHS WERE CALLED HITTERS). A NOVICE SOCIOPATH, DON RUFF WAS THE ESSENCE OF A HITTER AND WAS KNOWN IN OUR DODGE BALL CIRCLES AS A HEADHUNTER. Another Juvie notable was Fremont "Don't Call Me Fremont" Allen. Allen had been left back twice, so at fourteen, he was more matured and stronger than his twelve-year old peers. When motivated, he was considered the second hardest thrower in the school.

Allen's big off the field claim to fame was lighting a cigarette during recess. When others (including me) declared him the coolest kid in school for smoking a cigarette he squinted and said, "Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, this ain't no cigarette." Not a cigarette? It would be two years before I knew what he was talking about. The other team in the finals were the nerdy geniuses. This class featured a far greater number of students but only a handful of decent athletes. The majority of the team flinched a lot, considered themselves risk-takers because they collected spores and spirochetes and took great joy in using slide rulers for non-school related reasons. They nearly all wore black horn-rimmed glasses, many were clearly dis-coordinated and a few used minor physical defects to be excused from participating in Phys-Ed and mainstream sports. Minutes before this epic best-of-three clash was about to begin, it was obvious that half the Nerds threw like girls. Their underdog position was further proven by the fear in their collective body language... particularly the kid with a hare lip, the two that walked with limps and another who tried to beg-out because of his unsubstantiated asthma. It was funny to me, how these "soldiers" found it comfortable to nervously hide behind their braver teammates.

The scuttlebutt in the crowd included some optimists clinging to the concept that the Nerds had strength in numbers. But overwhelmingly, the Juvies were anointed the championship before the blood-bath started.

Mr. Kraft, the jovial school administrator in charge of the tournament was looking at the clock as he whispered to my teacher, "Are the ambulances here yet?" Seconds later, at exactly 4:00PM, he blew his whistle to signal start of the game. The Juvies' teacher interrupted. She asked for a delay because Joseph "Slick" Harvey the best athlete in the school hadn't shown up. Kraft cited that everyone knew when the game was going to start and that it was completely fair to deny her request. I still thought the Nerds had no chance even with the Juvies best out of the lineup. But the Nerds seized the opportunity and in a close game, won the opener. Shortly after the second game started, the Juvie's superstar showed up. An argument ensued concerning whether or not additional players could be injected into a started a game. Mr. Kraft cited some official P.S. 279 dodge ball rule and refused to let Harvey in until the beginning of the next game. The mere presence of their star on the sidelines infused the Juvies with tremendous vigor. Thanks mainly to Don Ruff and Fremont Allen, they took out the Nerds quickly with a precision-like bombardment that included; facials, head shots and other painful eliminations.

It seemed anti-climatic when Joseph "Slick" Harvey led his legion onto the court for the last game. The Nerds lost any iota of bravado had they gained after the first game and cowered in their ultra-unstylish black, high-top Keds sneakers.

Harvey, a tall lefty Adonis was the hardest thrower in the school by far. He opened the deciding game by taking out the Nerd's captain with a perfectly aimed sizzler off his lower shin. When the crowd's outburst simmered down, a skank from the audience yelled, "I love you Joe-Weeeee." The superstar blushed and briefly turned to acknowledge his amorous fan. Simultaneously, the next Nerd's throw caromed off Don Ruff's hip and nipped the unwitting Harvey softly on the ankle. This crucial turn of events left the whole gym in disbelief. Then they went berserk as Mr. Kraft informed both players, including the whining Joe Harvey, to get off the court. Fremont Allen was frustrated by his team's crushing misfortune. To single-handedly tip the scales back in the Juvie's favor, he picked up the ball and over zealously ran towards the center red line. His adrenalin was really pumping as drilled the Nerds second in command, right between the eyes. At the same time that the pulverized player went down, Mr. Kraft blew his whistle and declared that Allen stepped on the line. This infraction eliminated Allen and disqualified his lethal throw. The jousting match stopped for a couple of minutes until the injured player assured Mr. Kraft that he was okay. Then the game of attrition continued as both teams were further thinned out. Five minutes later, the Nerds had two players left; their resurrected second in command and Eugene Schrute, a tall, gawky, bow-legged limper that was so socially inept even the other Nerds hated him. The Juvies had only one player left, a despicable bully named Dean Cheatham. Despite being fat, this former run-away was powerful and an excellent athlete. His appearance made him look even tougher because he was permanently scarred by a deep laceration under his right eye that hadn't been properly treated. The tension of the finals faded as a long series of near misses prolonged the status quo of the festivities. Many of the spectators had already gone home as we neared the 5 o'clock, "After School Center" curfew. The Nerds number-two man was making all the throws and apparently his arm got tired. Because his next try was no missile and lacked its usual accuracy. Dean Cheatham did not play this one safe by jack-knifing out of the way. Instead he took on the brunt of this belly-shot with confidence and held on to eliminate the Nerds last hope, (on paper). An unlikely knight in shining armor, Eugene Schrute knealt to pick up the ball for the Nerds. It was the first time he had touched it in all three games. With an awkward limping gait, he sort of ran towards the red line and with two hands, pushed an arching lollipop throw. Cheatham scurried to get under this "can of corn" as his mates thundered in their anticipated victory. To show-off and put an emphatic end to game, Cheatham unnecessarily jumped. He snatched the volleyball out of the air with his right hand and slapped it into his left like a power-forward in basketball. But the ball slipped during this simple transfer and fell harmlessly to the parquet floor.

Cheatham walked off in shame and Schrute was given the rock star treatment. Twenty years later, I moved from Las Vegas to the Atlantic City area. I wound up meeting Schrute's older brother. I found out that he and Eugene were both casino workers. I got along with the brother pretty well except his wife was highly annoying. She was so hard to be around that it was worth it to avoid him if it meant not being exposed to her. The only loss was, I wanted to ask Eugene through his brother if he remembered being the sixth grade dodge ball hero and whether that ten minutes of fame had a positive influence on his life. Many years went by. Then I had another chance to ask Eugene when I found out that he worked in the same casino as a close friend of mine. I told my buddy my idea. He said that Eugene, "Had some screws loose." He then explained that Schrute was a jerk to the customers. Management was afraid to give him the ax because they didn't want to risk a potential law suit by firing someone with legitimate psychological problems. So they sabotaged his schedule and gave him the simplest job every day, in the hope that he would quit out of boredom. Eugene's wackiness made him so antagonistic that during breaks, the only time the staff didn't ignore him was when they sang the 60's novelty song, "THEY'RE COMING TO TAKE ME AWAY." Schrute became a hermit and nobody...including my friend wanted to talk to him under ANY circumstance. So my big question was never asked. This failed opportunity to interview Schrute festered in me for all these years...until this past December. That's when I found out, he committed suicide! Chances are, Eugene's untimely death had nothing to do with with dodge ball...but perhaps in some small way it did, causing him to spend the rest of his future in futility, trying to recapture that spirit?

EDELBLUM MYSTERY THEATER: ROXY'S TWENTY-MINUTE FREAK-OUTS.

Earlier this week, we mourned the death of lovable Bertl, a loyal MGTP reader's, eleven-year old, 140-pound, rottweiler. I still call the behemoth lovable even after he slobbered on me several times...and let's not forgot when he played statue...while standing on my family jewels. Talk about your immovable objects. The two lessons I learned about being around Bertl; keep plenty of paper towels close by and avoid sitting on the floor.

It's hard to be glib when talking about pet health issues, especially death. But in the case of most dogs, it's more difficult because they instinctively become family members. Obviously, I hope my dog Roxy lives forever because my bond with her is strong...and even stronger with the rest of my family.

Before Roxy matured, I thought all a dog was, was an insane, barking and crapping machine. To her credit, she mellowed to the point of now being a slightly less insane, barking and crapping machine. And somewhere along the way, she stopped being a mere animal and became our child.

DECEMBER 2005 WHEN PUPPY ROXY WAS JUST OUR DOG. THAT'S BEFORE SHE EARNED THE NICKNAMES, MUTTZILLA AND WEASELINA...AND EARNED HER CURRENT HONORARIUM; DAUGHTER.

My little Muttzilla is now six. She and I are on the same wave length and through a series of bark, yips and yelps...she speaks to me as clearly as if she spoke English. I remember when she told me that Timmy fell down old lady Campbell's well. In a panic I said, "I better call 9-1-1, Timmy Johnson is in trouble." Then my dog barked, "NO! Not Timmy Johnson, Timmy Jackson!" And I of course said, "Oh, tough break," and went back to my Sudoku puzzle.

You don't have to be Einstein to interpret the difference between Roxy's bark for a hated dog passing our house or Maddie, her BFF corgi from up the street. I can tell from her reaction when she doesn't recognize a car parking in front of the house or when my wife Sue is pulling up. I also know the difference between her maniacal, ballistic bark when Ned, the creepy mailman approaches the house as compared to a Fed-Ex or UPS deliveryman, (she dislikes Ned so bad that she hardly reacts to his substitutes).

REGARDLESS OF THE SEASON, THE WILDS OF OUR BACKYARD IS ROXY'S FAVORITE DOMAIN.

It took a long time for our pup to outgrow chasing small woodland creatures and toothless neighbors. So when she's out back patrolling winter's frozen tundra or our springtime lush greenery, I can still tell whether she's chasing bushy tailed rodents or if something more bizarre is back there. Like her piercing siren yelp that signaled she was about to catch a poor gopher.

HEY I'M NOT PERFECT, ASIDE FROM THE CREEPY MAILMAN, I THOUGHT ROXY'S BIGGEST PROBLEM WAS WITH THE LOW-CLASS LOUTS ON OUR STREET. THAT'S WHY I WAS SHOCKED AFTER SHE FLUNKED OBEDIENCE SCHOOL, THAT SHE LEARNED TO READ ON HER OWN. THAT'S WHEN I FOUND THIS BOOK UNDER HER BED AND REALIZED SHE DOESN'T HATE LOW-LIFES, SHE LOVES 'EM.

In the fall, we had a kitchen cabinet refacing estimate done. When the representative arrived, our watchdog identified the newcomer with her generic intruder bark. Usually she calms down a few seconds after the guest is welcomed in. Not this time. There was something about this foreigner she did not like. While he stroked her head and patted her side, she uncharacteristically growled and snapped at him. He said some odd things that included nailing her exact weight as well as guessing that our mutt was part beagle. I swear on a stack of bibles at the exact time I said, "Yes, she's part beagle." He licked his lips and dreamily said, "Beagles are sweet." Roxy was still trying to take a nip out him as I gave him the bum's rush, out!

This past December, Roxy caught my attention with a unique, continuous bark. We don't have a doggie-door, so when she has to do her business, she lets out a single, medium-level bark. Like "Old Faithful" these barks come a minute apart until someone opens the door for her. On this occasion, she made a machine-like, bark per second. The tone lacked ferociousness and even had a suggestion of fear in it. I was certain she wasn't being the intimidator...she was scared. Like any dutiful father, I dropped what I was doing. It was about twenty degrees that afternoon so my vantage point from inside our Florida room allowed me to see the whole yard.

I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The backyard was as still and peaceful as this Currier and Ives print.

CURRIER & IVES PRODUCED PRINTS OF FAMOUS PAINTINGS FROM 1834-1907. I ALWAYS PREFERRED THEIR PASTORAL SCENES.

In front of our shed about a hundred-fifty feet away, Roxy was pacing and running in little circles...a nervous wreck. Her hackles were up, she couldn't be still and never varied from her steady cadence barking. Nonetheless, I saw no reason for her terror. I slid open the door, called her in and called her a knucklehead. She didn't respond. I even did my secret whistle that brings her 95% of the time. This would be one of those 5% moments. To no avail, I even stooped to offering her a treat.

I was about to conclude that my dog was hallucinating or under a Svengali-like trance from our tooth deprived, anti-Christ neighbor "Boob the Bowman" when she finally looked up!

Behind our fence, in our around-the-corner neighbor's yard was a barren oak tree. Halfway up was a huge unorganized clump of straw and branches. An elementary deduction, it was a bird's nest. Then the most threatening red hawk arose from it and flapped its wings.

I'M NOT AN ALARMIST BUT I IMAGINED THIS KILLER CARRYING OFF MY FIFTY POUND PUPPY IN ITS TALONS.

My shouts were frantic but my furry canine genius stayed in harm's way. Then the bird swooped out of the tree and made a bee-line right at me. The majesty of this beast commanded my awe...and I was safe inside. The looming predator remained focused on me until it flew over the house and looped back to its perch.

The situation got weirder, a few seconds later. From out of nowhere, a gazillion crows blackened the sky. They circled overhead, while caw, caw cawing a deafening and menacing din. Then as if guided by a GPS, they strafed the nest. When the dive-bombing was over, this Hitchcockian scene got eerier as the birds landed on branches and surrounded the hawk. While the crows postured in an attempt to regain their lost territory, Roxy seized the opportunity. With her tail hanging low, my Weaselina ambled back into the house.

In appreciation of my warning, she made me this Christmas present.

ROXY'S GIFT TO ME, HANGS IN OUR YARD NOW AND SARCASTICALLY ADDRESSES MY CHILDHOOD FEAR OF THE, "WIZARD OF OZ."

It's great that I have the ability to communicate so well with my dog. But what troubles me is her inability to express her a rare condition that messes her up. I can only characterize it as: a panic attack. Over the last three year, maybe ten times, Roxy has experienced twenty-minute seizure-like fits. The logical cause would be a sudden loud noise. But she is not unsettled by thunder, a dropped dinner plate or random smoke alarms. Even when we take her to the groomer for a manicure and a bath, she cries the whole way there. She then thrashes around, jaws-a-snappin' while the staff retrains her. But that drama vanishes as soon as she's done.

We limit Muttzilla's intake of table goodies. When she is rewarded that way, we are certain to avoid sickening and potentially lethal foods like chocolate and onions. She's even smart enough to self-regulate drinking sources by recognizing bad batches of toilet water. And for you male chauvinists in the audience, her irritability has nothing to do with periodic discomfort or doggie PMS, she's been spayed!

When these sieges occur, I try every trick in the book to distract her like; putting her on my lap and soothing her, giving her a favorite snack or a walk in the neighborhood. Nothing works. It's sad to watch this odd behavior. While she shivers, sits, stands, walks in circles, hides in odd places like under the computer desk or in the bath tub, a parent can only watch in fear that she might hyperventilate, vomit, become incontinent...or worse.

It's easy to forget these episodes because within a short time, the symptoms vanish for several months. This past May, I made a point to bring her malady up during her yearly well-visit to the veterinarian.

I like our vet. I look forward to our meetings because he is such a cool guy that I wish we were friends. Plus his love and commitment to animals and appreciation for their owners, makes for a tremendous bedside manner.

I have complete confidence in his doctoring abilities but you might notice, I don't use his name. The reason is, he professionally listed more ailment possibilities but we discounted them all. Then he, (let's call him Dr. Bombay), said, "Roxy doesn't have the classic symptoms of epilepsy but if you like I could run some tests...but I think they'd be fruitless." He was done speculating but it seemed he was holding off one last idea. I said, "Is there something else?" "Well," he said, "most folks don't like hearing this..." My wife Sue and I simultaneously said, "What?" "We all know about people like Michael Vick," he started. We nodded. "And judging from Roxy's chart, we don't know if she was raised in a puppy mill...?" I said, "So." "Well there's no indication that she is suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome from surviving anything like that..." Sue said, "Then what are you saying?" Dr. Bombay said, "Do you believe in the supernatural?" I couldn't believe my ears. I tried not to laugh and said, "Heh?" And with a straight face he said, "Maybe your dog is possessed!"

Roxy had one of these incidents again last night. It happened when the house was quiet. I wish my girl could really talk and tell me what's disturbing her because I'd love to have a solution for her tortured soul. Think about it, she wasn't under any duress, she had been fed and enjoyed a lengthy walk an hour before. Nothing overtly negative was going on. So I turn it over to my sophisticated readership to solve this riddle...I look forward to your astute comments and we'll see which one of you tops Dr. Bombay's diabolical diagnosis.

I'LL SHOOT YOU RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES IF YOU DON'T LIKE KFC.

Through the miracle of the Internet, I recently tracked down a former best friend. Our cyberspace revival meeting took a disappointing turn when he made it clear that he wasn't interested in reminiscing or communicating in any way. Afterwards, I remembered that he had some personal problems in the mid-70's, so I didn't pry. That means, we'll have to stroll down Memory Lane without STEVENC.

According to his screen name, he now prefers to be called Duke. But to me, he'll always be "STEVENC," or for a short time as, "CAP'N CRUNCH." He'll be STEVENC because in elementary school, teachers differentiated us by adding our last initial to our first name. When we got older and played hockey, his nickname sarcastically changed to Cap'n Crunch because he was a husky, six foot-three...pussy-cat.

THE INSPIRATION FOR STEVENC 'S NICKNAME CAME FROM GILLES "CAP'N CRUNCH" MAROTTE. IN THE TWILIGHT OF HIS CAREER, MAROTTE PLAYED THREE MEDIOCRE SEASONS WITH THE NHL's NEW YORK RANGERS. BY THAT TIME, THE ELEMENT OF HIS GAME THAT HAD REALLY DETERIORATED WAS HIS TOUGHNESS.DOUG "DUNG" JARRETT ALSO PLAYED WITH THE RANGERS. IN HIS BRIEF STAY IN NEW YORK, HE PLAYED MISERABLY. I PREFERRED CALLING STEVENC, "DUNG" AFTER JARRETT BUT THE "CRUNCH" MONIKER STUCK BECAUSE IT FLOWED BETTER WITH THIS LAST NAME.

Beginning in fourth grade, I went to STEVENC's house after school on most Fridays. It was the only weekday that I didn't have Hebrew school so I became a once a week fixture. Most of the time, we'd play sports games like, "STRAT-O-MATIC," or "CHALLENGE THE YANKEES." But our go-to activity was the hockey game that used metal rods to move the skaters.

AFTER 45 YEARS OF TWEAKING, THESE GAMES ARE BASICALLY THE SAME .

In STEVENC's foyer, before we went upstairs, I'd set my binder on the bookcase next to the steps and drape my coat over the banister. One time his behemoth dad came home and read MY report card...and thought it was STEVENC's. It said things like, "Steven talks too much and distracts other students," "Steven needs work on fractions," "Steven's assignments are frequently incomplete," and I saved best for last, "I'm not Steven's grandmother, I don't have to listen to his bad jokes!"

*Mr. C's cannonading baritone voice rattled the foundation and sent a cascade of plaster showers down from the rafters as he summoned his son. In no time, STEVENC was getting the crap kicked out of him until he finally squeaked, "That's STEVEN 'E's' report card.!"

*PLEASE NOTE - When MY parents read that same report card, they were thrilled by my improvement.

In the Cap'n Crunch-era, STEVENC took on many odd jobs. One morning he answered a cryptic newspaper ad and was hired over the phone to be "an assistant private investigator." Without any private-eye training or meeting a company representative or knowing the business's location, he was immediately given his first assignment. The case involved driving to East Flatbush and staking-out the home of a shapely blond. Nothing happened all afternoon and into the early evening. In that time, he logged hourly reports and was prepared to phone-in any movements.

Just after dark, she finally came out. He was entranced by the bounce in her ponytail as he followed her on foot to the corner grocery. She bought a pack of Virginia Slims and an Almond Joy candy bar, before returning home. At midnight, a Marathon cab pulled-up and honked.  She came out wearing a short red skirt and a low cut purple cardigan. She got in. The rookie detective followed the taxi to the other side of Brooklyn. At a dilapidated apartment house in Red Hook, she got out.

STEVENC found a pay phone on the opposite corner and called in. Then he waited. Three hours later, a local car service stopped in front. A man appeared from a darkened alley and approached the taxi. He gave the driver some money. When the cab drove away, the man leaned against the building, hidden in a shadowy alcove. Seconds later, the object of the investigation came out the door. Her skirt was creased and her hair was a disorderly frazzle. She was fastening a button on her sweater when the man came up from behind and accosted her. He knocked her down, beat her and left the poor girl in a pool of blood.

My friend hustled to the phone and dialed up this boss. There was no answer. He panicked when people came out to help the victim, so he left. STEVENC tried calling several more times that night but there was no answer. The next day, there was no answer again. On the following day, a phone company message came on saying that the number was disconnected.

Throughout college, STEVENC hooked me up with several jobs too. The three biggest ones were; delivering for a liquor store, valet parking at a catering hall and a food server in a bingo hall.

The bingo hall, (Crescent Bingo), was located near the Queens border, in the City Line section of Brooklyn. On a Sunday morning when my car was in the shop, my dad drove me there for my first day. When we passed Franklin K. Lane High School, I knew we were lost.

LANE HAD THE REPUTATION FOR BEING THE TOUGHEST SCHOOL IN THE CITY. TO ADD TO ITS NEGATIVE MYSTIQUE, IT WAS PERCHED ON A HILL AND LOOKED LIKE A PRISON. PLUS, AROUND BACK, IT WAS ADJACENT TO A CEMETERY. I GOOGLED THEIR FAMOUS ATTENDEES AND THE ONLY ONE I EVER HEARD OF WAS JOHN "THE TEFLON DON" GOTTI...AND HE WAS A DROP-OUT.

We found our way through the rough neighborhood and arrived on time. Against my better judgement, dad came in with me. In the cheerful public area, we were greeted by the perky manager/chef. This obese giant named Ambrose was bald and a little older than me. After a brief discussion about my job description, he assured my dad that his nineteen year-old would be safe and vowed to drive me home. When dad left, I was led into the storage room behind the concession stand.

I saw why they required newbies to work Sundays as my jaw dropped. Safe? I was surrounded by death...I never saw anything so disgusting...it was like being beamed-down into Nagasaki after the atomic blast. To my dismay, management "drops" a bug-bomb there every Saturday night. In the aftermath, every surface seemed spray painted with dead cockroaches.  I was low-man on the Crescent Bingo totem pole so I cursed STEVENC in my mind as Ambrose handed a broom and a snow shovel and was told to clean them up.

In a perfect storm that combined a rush of bile and an intense wave of nausea, I barely avoided losing my breakfast. I guess its human nature to mature quickly when there is a paycheck involved because I didn't get sick even when I noticed food cartons gnawed through by mice, various sized rodent droppings and rat traps that were big enough to snap my forearm.

Ambrose turned out to be a great ally. He once confided in me...in tears..."I'm number five." I said, "Heh?" When he stopped sobbing he whimpered, "My Aggie, (his hyper-skinny wife), loves me fifth best." I said, "No..." He interrupted and cried, "She loves her mother, father, our daughter Jilly and Arbuckle better than me." It was comical to watch this mountain man be so emotional. I did a good job to mask a snicker before making the mistake of asking, "Who's Arbuckle?" "Arbuckle is her parent's dog...now I ask you, what kind of friggin' name is that for a Chihuahua?"

STEVENC had warned me about a fellow waiter named Curtis. He was Crescent Bingo's resident nemesis. Curtis...who hated being called Curtis...was the owner's cocky, nerdy nephew. I was never a fighter but if I could have figured out how to deck this four-eyed weasel without losing my job, (about $25.00 clear, for four hours, twice a week), I would have. To make matters worse, I decided to not repair my car. So until I bought a new one, Curtis was my ride.

Being a waiter in a bingo hall meant, I walked up and down the aisles during the games and solicited refreshments. We were paid a meager wage and relied on tips. One of the biggest tippers, was a regular named Hortie. This beauty was thirty-ish, sloppy fat and had a goiter. Her unique look was accented by wearing the same hot-pink, "Get out of my way...I'm going to bingo," tee-shirt during every session. And to complete the picture through a chipped tooth smile, she flirted with Ambrose every chance she got.

A GOITER IS AN ENLARGEMENT OF THE THYROID GLAND THAT RESULTS IN A SWOLLEN NECK. IT IS GENERALLY CAUSED BY AN IODINE DEFICIENCY.

Hortie's favorite snack at Crescent Bingo was a sliced knish with a cut-up hot dog inside, topped with melted cheese. She wanted Ambrose to come up with a catchy name for this concoction and list it as "Hortie's Favorite," on the menu placard.

When Ambrose was on the outs with Aggie, he decided to pursue Hortie. He took this adulterous opportunity seriously but lacked the imagination or the cleverness to pull it off without looking like he was hard-up. He envisioned an after-hours rendezvous with Hortie.  He thought he could lure her into the storage room by confidentially telling her the name he came up with for Hortie's Favorite.  The situation became more complicated because he wanted a clear conscious and needed her to make the first move.  In the mean time, he presented his problem to Curtis and I.  While filling our orders, he asked us to come up with a cool name for her favorite dish.

I was passing a squeezable, plastic mustard container between my hands while I waited for a hot dog. While I struggled for a solution suddenly Curtis spouted, "CHEESE-NISH-DOG!" I said, "That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard." That's when I got the idea to call it, "a KFC," (Knish, Frankfurter and Cheese).
IN 1930, KFC WAS FOUNDED BY HARLAN "COLONEL" SANDERS IN NORTH CORBIN KENTUCKY. THE FIRST FRANCHISE WAS OPENED IN SOUTH SALT LAKE CITY UTAH, IN 1952.

Curtis had a geeky, milquetoast personality outside work. But inside, he wasn't used to being challenged. His aunt owned the place so he strutted around like an unaccountable, invincible rooster. He didn't like my response to his suggestion and like a true moron he loudly whined, "No! Your idea is stupid because people will think we sell fried chicken." His volume distracted some of the closer bingo players. So I whispered, "Curtis, you're a dick." I'm not sure what got him so pissed-off...being called Curtis or a dick! But he displayed his anger by taking my customer's hot dog out of the bun. He held it by the end, wagged it in my face and yelled, "This is YOUR dick!"

I was skeeved that he touched my customer's food. I grabbed the mustard squeezer, aimed it at his face and demanded, "Drop it Curtis! Or else." Instead of dropping it, he dropped the F-Bomb. I fired my weapon. Like the mark of Zorro, the downward, yellow, zig-zag streak started at his forehead, ran across his glasses and down to his chin. He wiped his face and tried to smear it on me. When I backed away, Ambrose came around and pushed him to the wash room.

Curtis had a jaundiced look on his face during the quiet ride home.

The next day, I told STEVENC what happened and he said, "When you call for your next schedule, don't mention anything. Don't worry, they know he's a schmuck." I never called...and they never called me.

I would have loved to rehash these old stories with STEVENC and see how the last 35 years have treated him. But alas, he wasn't interested. Maybe he's still sore after all these years about being called, "Dung." It could have been worse, I could have likened his hockey abilities after another crappy Ranger, Carol Vadnais.
THE NAME CAROL WOULD HAVE FIT NICELY WITH STEVENC's LAST NAME. BUT MR. VADNAIS PLAYED WELL ENOUGH IN NEW YORK TO BE VOTED #52 ON THE RANGERS ALL-TIME TOP 100 PLAYERS POLL...EVEN IF IN 1973, HE WAS DETAINED BY POLICE FOR RESEMBLING A BANK ROBBERY SUSPECT.

The bottom line is, I'm still curious about the origin of STEVENC's current screen name, "Duke." I may not understand it but I respect his privacy.

I can only wonder what changed him back in the 70's and why we went separate ways, three years before I moved to Vegas. If I had to guess, I'd say author, Dr. Wayne Dyer.STEVENC WAS HEAVILY INFLUENCED BY DYER'S SELF-HELP BOOK, "PULLING YOUR OWN STRINGS."

I never read it but it seemed that STEVENC's interpretation was; as an adult, you are responsible for your actions so you can do whatever you want. The result was, the Cap'n took that advice to the extreme and got crunched by some bad decisions. He stubbornly clung to them...even when the normalcy of his life was slipping away...and he probably never recovered.

STEVEN KNIEVEL

Yes, I've had my share of brushes with death. Just three weeks ago, I discussed ten of my legitimate, near-death experiences in my blog called, "TRENT DILFER SAVED MY LIFE." Then I fed-off my readership's doubting feedback with, "WHAT WOULD LARRY DAVID DO?" In that column, I wrote how I imperiled someone else's life.

Your doubt in the frequency of my near-lethal escapades probably stems from my previous addiction to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

IN 1974, I SATISFIED A DATE'S DARE BY RIDING DISNEYWORLD'S ULTRA-JUVENILE, "MR. TOAD'S WILD RIDE," FIVE STRAIGHT TIMES. THE RIDE DESPITE BEING IN THE DARK, WAS SO DULL, IT WAS REMOVED FROM THE PARK, IN 1997.

The other variable that might have you doubting my inner dare-devil, is my current appearance. It's true that I'm a bald, pudgy, family man with a pronounced conservative nature, but I assure you that while none of those close calls were especially recent, they are nonetheless true. I even left out another doozy because it really wasn't non-life threatening. But I guarantee you, it certainly would have permanently crippled me.

It happened when I was sixteen. Through my connection with chef Patrick Clark, DRJ and I got hired as a kitchen-utility workers at a summer camp in 1971. This $65.00/week, plus room and board job was in a tiny Connecticut town. More importantly, it would be my first taste of being away from home.

My parents volunteered to drive Patrick, DRJ and I up. Their motives were a combination of generosity, hospitality and covert nosiness. They got mixed signals because in describing my job interview in the West 80's overlooking Central Park, I sent up a red flag by mentioning that my meeting was conducted by an elderly couple with German accents. Somehow my folks were uncomfortable with the interviewers proximity to Manhattan's Yorkville section. Mom and dad's paranoia wasn't helped because the Charles Manson case was in the news on a regular basis too. So they weren't going to let me go up to the camp until they saw with their own eyes that the German American Bund wasn't making a comeback and that there weren't any hippie brain-washing cultists running the show.

At home, tensions ran high as the my departure date neared. My family's over protectiveness sparked a high frequency of petty arguments. These bouts intensified right up to the morning of my big get-away.

Before packing the station wagon, I recall dad projecting how to fit mom, three large boys and an undetermined amount of luggage in. That's when I threw a monkey-wrench into the mix and pissed my folks off...by wheeling out my bicycle. MY BIKE WAS LIKE THIS ONE BUT IT WAS GOLD WITH A BLACK SEAT. RIGHT UP TO THE DAY BEFORE I GOT MY DRIVER LICENSE, IT WAS MY NUMBER-ONE MODE OF TRANSPORTATION. I EVEN RODE IT REGULARLY THROUGH HEAVY BROOKLYN TRAFFIC, TO SEE A GIRLFRIEND 90 BLOCKS AWAY.

Dad didn't care about the bike. His only concern was fitting in everyone else's stuff. Mom saw my bike as a pain in the ass. She tried to come off as practical by asserting that there would be no place to ride the damned thing. When I didn't back down, she countered with a volley of sarcasm and threats. I remained calm but her sarcasm morphed into a guilt-trip and her threats were upgraded to ultimatums. I fought back and bellowed, "It'd be like separating a cowboy from his horse." I must have been quite adamant because my rare victory earned me the privilege, during the ninety-minute ride, of having a suitcase jammed between my cramped legs and the knowledge that my selfishness left the bike blocking dad's rear view vision.

Our travels took us through the tiny hamlet of New Milford. From town we connected to a winding two-lane road on an upgrade.

IN A SHORT TIME, WE FOUND A SIGN WITH THE CAMP'S NAME WITH AN ARROW POINTING UP AND TO THE RIGHT.

Our journey would be over in a mile and a half. IN THE HEART OF LITCHFIELD COUNTY, LOVER'S LEAP STATE PARK, ALONG ROUTE 67, IN BEAUTIFUL NEW MILFORD.

The unpaved cut-off was up a steep incline. Into the forest, we bumped and bounced on this rut-filled country lane. The first thing I noticed was an isolated rural mailbox with the name E. H. Johnson on it. Next, camouflaged by the trees, I could barely make-out Johnson's log cabin. It disappeared quickly because it was built on a different, downward slope as we continued to rise. Beyond Johnson's place, a shear cliff, "protected" by three parallel strands of rusty barbed wire ran along the left side. On the right, a jagged mountain wall hugged the narrow byway. Soon we approached a sharp curve and were surprised by the sudden appearance of another car going down. My dad was cursing under his breath as he and the other driver maneuvered to safely squeeze past each other.

When we reached our destination, mom and dad found no Nazis or devil worshippers and were satisfied that their baby wasn't in peril. They helped me settle in and lingered until I gave them the stink-eye.

My first two weeks of camp went well but mom turned out to be right, I didn't need the bike. Well, not until I missed a car ride to town on my day off. That's when I got the genius idea to ride my bike into New Milford...it was all downhill. Once in town, I projected that I would find my friends and they would give me and the bike a lift back up.

My ride through the property was on a mostly flat surface. But beyond the front gate, the road slanted down. That's where I blasted off from. In a short time, I had enough momentum that I didn't need to peddle. I was involuntarily gathering speed and was digging the rush. At the same time, the solid earthen road gave way to a series of small pock-marks and some serious pot-holes. Then the dirt on the ground was replaced by a continuous supply of rocks and slippery gravel...all the way to the sharp turn that had annoyed my father.

I had to apply a lot of weight on the brake in order to make the one tough turn. When I succeeded, the next stretch of trail remained straight for a long time. I could feel my hair in my eyes as I sped along the mountain wall. On a couple of occasions, I went into a slight skid. One time, I swerved towards the barbed wire and shear drop beyond it. So to right myself, I put all my weight on the brake. My idea worked but I sensed that the bike's frame was bending under me. Even though I righted my ship, I was going so fast that I was afraid to let up on the brake.

The road began to twist at the same time steepness became less acute. When I saw Johnson's cabin in the distance, I slowed down enough to let up on the brake. When I regained complete control, I spiraled through the woods until I came to another straight, steep section that led to the paved highway.

When I came to a stop, I was so exhilarated that kismet led me back up to camp for a re-ride. ON THE LONG WALK BACK UP, I RECALLED HOW AFTER EACH ROLLER-COASTER RIDE, THE CONEY ISLAND CYCLONE HANDLERS WOULD WHISPER A CUT-RATE FOR A RE-RIDE. THEIR AIM WAS TO SAVE YOU MONEY BY SCREWING THE BOSS AND POCKETING THE MONEY. YOU MIGHT THINK THAT SUCH PETTY 1971 HIJINX DOESN'T HAPPEN ANYMORE BUT IN 2003, (THE LAST TIME I WAS THERE), THEY WERE STILL DOING IT.

1971 was in the pre-Evel Knievel-era...nobody wore bicycle helmets. So when I turned the bike around at the summit, my only protection were shorts, a tee-shirt and sneakers. I took a deep breath and like a schmuck, decided to enhance my rush by NOT crushing down on the brake so much. After all, I didn't want to risk breaking my bike.

WITH YOUTH COMES A FALSE SENSE OF INVINCIBILITY. I KNOW THAT'S TRUE BECAUSE I REALLY CHOSE TO AVOID DAMAGING THE BIKE AND NEVER CONSIDERED THE POSSIBILITY OF INJURING MYSELF.

When I blasted off the second time, I was more relaxed. It even crossed my mind to skip going to town and ride the mountain all day. I decided to peddle a little longer and in no time I was speeding. I delayed using the brake and when I did, I didn't use the same pressure. When the smooth dirt was replaced by pebbles and depressions, I saw the one sharp turn up ahead. Before I could slam on the brake, I hit the edge of a large stone. Just before the blind turn, my back tire began to fishtail. I was drifting towards the barbed wire. I knew I had lost control when I couldn't avoid a deep crater. BAM! I flew over the handlebars and splattered to the ground, face first.

I was okay but in a lot of pain. I assessed my abrasions, bruises and scrapes before staggering to my feet. In a daze, I dropped back down to one knee when I realized that my nose was bleeding. It was at that precise second that a red Ford Econoline Van stormed around the sharp bend, slammed on his brakes and screeched to a stop...with his grill just a few feet from my face.YEAH, YEAH, THE INTERNET DOESN'T HAVE EVERYTHING. SO DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME TELLING ME THAT THIS IS A 1976 ECONOLINE...AND I ALSO REALIZE IT AIN'T RED EITHER! I JUST WANTED TO GIVE YOU AN IDEA OF WHAT I WAS UP AGAINST...OR IN MY CASE...NEARLY UP AGAINST.

I limped over to the administration office. The octogenarian camp owner with the German accent recognized that I was suffering from a low degree of shock and accompanied me to the infirmary. The nurse determined that I was to be transported to a doctor in town. Ironically, while I spaced-out waiting to be taken, my parents showed up for a surprise visit. Spooky how moms always know. I survived my cuts, a broken nose and tons of embarrassment but I never heard the end of mom's, "I told you so," scorn.

Obviously if Disney's Mr. Toad ever went on MY ride, he'd see why his should never have been called wild. And who knows, back in '71, this chubby, hair challenged, non-risk taker might have inspired the Snake River Canyon jump or the very concept of Extreme Sports.