What a difference a year makes.
2008. Kate leaves Clinton with her friends for a week in Edisto Island and the beach. Her last paper behind her, she is awaiting a week at the beach, a happy return to Clinton with her friends, and a graduation weekend with family and friends.
The only problem: a little quirk in the plan. Which leaves us all wondering where it will end. It leads us to hearings, attempts to seek a resolution which makes sense, and faces which are sympathetic or seeking to avoid our eyes.
One year later. Kate is in Charleston with her friends. Watching baseball. Eating seafood. Celebrating her possibilities. Later this morning, she will hop in her car and drive back to Clinton, where we will meet her and join in the celebration of this accomplishment in her life. Graduation from college.
So, later today, we drive up to Clinton, check in to a motel, dress for baccalaurete, and enjoy the moments before she leaves us for Paris or Berlin or Munich or wherever.
It is all possibilities.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Party favor
I forgot something important. I was driving my red Plymouth Sport Fury convertible northerly on the Blue Ridge Parkway. The lodge and lake at the Peaks of Otter were in full view. I was happy.
Then one of my tires blew out and the car came to rest along the parkway. I got out of the car and hunkered down to inspect the tire. As I did this, I heard a ripping sound as my suit pants ripped from the beltline to the bottom of the placket.
I jumped up. Fortunately, there was no traffic at this time of day on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Fortunately, there was a pair of jeans in the back of my convertible. I grabbed the jeans and dove down into the woods along the parkway, removed my torn suit pants and replaced them with my jeans.
I suppose that I should mention that as I got close to graduation, I stopped laundering my clothes. At the end, I ran out of underwear and just stopped wearing them. So when I removed my ripped suit pants and replaced them with the jeans, there was no underwear at the time.
I clambered up from the woods floor to the parkway and walked down the parkway to the nearest pay phone. You know the rest of the story, sort of. With the exception of this.
The next day, Dad and Frank and I drove down into some tiny little mountain town to pick up my repaired car. That day, Frank and I drove back home to Dunwoody. A day or two later, I secured summer employment as a morning room service waiter at the Terrace Garden Inn on Lennox Road. A day or so later, as I started my employment, I received an unpleasant party favor from my adventures on the Blue Ridge Parkway: a case of poison ivy in a spot on my body upon which I had never received before.
Damn difficult to scratch while delivering someone's breakfast.
Then one of my tires blew out and the car came to rest along the parkway. I got out of the car and hunkered down to inspect the tire. As I did this, I heard a ripping sound as my suit pants ripped from the beltline to the bottom of the placket.
I jumped up. Fortunately, there was no traffic at this time of day on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Fortunately, there was a pair of jeans in the back of my convertible. I grabbed the jeans and dove down into the woods along the parkway, removed my torn suit pants and replaced them with my jeans.
I suppose that I should mention that as I got close to graduation, I stopped laundering my clothes. At the end, I ran out of underwear and just stopped wearing them. So when I removed my ripped suit pants and replaced them with the jeans, there was no underwear at the time.
I clambered up from the woods floor to the parkway and walked down the parkway to the nearest pay phone. You know the rest of the story, sort of. With the exception of this.
The next day, Dad and Frank and I drove down into some tiny little mountain town to pick up my repaired car. That day, Frank and I drove back home to Dunwoody. A day or two later, I secured summer employment as a morning room service waiter at the Terrace Garden Inn on Lennox Road. A day or so later, as I started my employment, I received an unpleasant party favor from my adventures on the Blue Ridge Parkway: a case of poison ivy in a spot on my body upon which I had never received before.
Damn difficult to scratch while delivering someone's breakfast.
Graduations: past and present
The rain is coming through the region again. This afternoon I was sitting in my office when a rain front came through and put my computer out. I sat in the office and read a book for awhile until the rain stopped. A few moments ago Cindy and I got in my car and drove off from church just as the rain began again. Now we are home sipping tea, watching television together.
Kate is in Charleston. With Ali. She spent the day at the beach and got burned a bit. I hope she is having shrimp and grits tonight. The meal for any meal.
Friday, we drive to Clinton for Baccaleureate and Graduation on Saturday. On Sunday we celebrate Mother's Day in the Upstate, Greenville.
I have to play a part on Saturday. Baby blue seersucker, bowtie, cigar. Celebrating the baby graduating from college. Maybe Tex will even make an appearance. The whole family, short dad. We will miss him.
When I graduated from W&L, I threw all of my stuff in the back of the convertible and drove down to the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Peaks of Otter. Within sight of the lodge, I had a blowout on one of my tires. I looked at it. My spare was covered up with half of my stuff in the trunk. I was wearing my suit pants. I hunkered down to look at the tire. My pants ripped from stem to stern.
Fortunately, no one was around. I found a pair of jeans in the back seat and walked down into the woods to take off my suit pants and replace them with my jeans.
I climbed back up on the road level and walked down to the nearest pay phone. I called the lodge, trying to get my parents' room. I was told that there were no telephones in the rooms. They promised that they would send a forest ranger down to look after the car. I walked the rest of the way to get to my parents' room.
Dad drove me back to the car. The world's largest forest ranger was standing by the car. We tried to get the lugs off the wheel. No luck. He took the largest tire tool out of his car and tried to remove a lug. No luck. He took his huge booted foot above and slammed it on the tool. The tool spun crazily and the lug came off in the end of the tool.
We looked at him. He looked at us. He said he would send a tow truck up to pick up the car. I got my toiletries and clothes for the night and the ride tomorrow. Dad drove me back to the Peaks of Otter.
That night we had a great meal in the huge dining room overlooking the lake. Toward the end of the evening I noticed Kenny's parents at the hostess's stand. I walked over as Mrs. Smith walked over to the window to look at the lake. I said, "Hello, Mr. Smith."
Mr. Smith stared at me like a stranger. Unlike the person who had been freinds and teammates with his son. Unlike the person who had roomed with his son for our senior year. Unlike the person with whom he had shared a week around graduation.
Fortunately, Mrs. Smith turned around and noticed me. We said hello and then shared a few moments before my family left and the Smiths were seated.
The next day we had pictures taken with Grandmommie and Dee Dee, both taking turns wearing my straw cowboy hat.
One more. I remember that Homer stayed over for graduation. We shared a ride in my car. Homer was a good guy. Now he is a divorce lawyer in Jacksonville. I had a girlfriend at the graduation ceremony. Robin Fischer. She had red hair and blue eyes. Before the graduation ceremony, my grandmother sat down beside Robin and asked her if she was Robin. That red hair was a real easy clue, but we are still amazed that my grandmother sat right next to her at the ceremony. Later, we all shared a meal at the Holiday Inn.
This is a big moment. I hope Kate enjoys these few days.
Kate is in Charleston. With Ali. She spent the day at the beach and got burned a bit. I hope she is having shrimp and grits tonight. The meal for any meal.
Friday, we drive to Clinton for Baccaleureate and Graduation on Saturday. On Sunday we celebrate Mother's Day in the Upstate, Greenville.
I have to play a part on Saturday. Baby blue seersucker, bowtie, cigar. Celebrating the baby graduating from college. Maybe Tex will even make an appearance. The whole family, short dad. We will miss him.
When I graduated from W&L, I threw all of my stuff in the back of the convertible and drove down to the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Peaks of Otter. Within sight of the lodge, I had a blowout on one of my tires. I looked at it. My spare was covered up with half of my stuff in the trunk. I was wearing my suit pants. I hunkered down to look at the tire. My pants ripped from stem to stern.
Fortunately, no one was around. I found a pair of jeans in the back seat and walked down into the woods to take off my suit pants and replace them with my jeans.
I climbed back up on the road level and walked down to the nearest pay phone. I called the lodge, trying to get my parents' room. I was told that there were no telephones in the rooms. They promised that they would send a forest ranger down to look after the car. I walked the rest of the way to get to my parents' room.
Dad drove me back to the car. The world's largest forest ranger was standing by the car. We tried to get the lugs off the wheel. No luck. He took the largest tire tool out of his car and tried to remove a lug. No luck. He took his huge booted foot above and slammed it on the tool. The tool spun crazily and the lug came off in the end of the tool.
We looked at him. He looked at us. He said he would send a tow truck up to pick up the car. I got my toiletries and clothes for the night and the ride tomorrow. Dad drove me back to the Peaks of Otter.
That night we had a great meal in the huge dining room overlooking the lake. Toward the end of the evening I noticed Kenny's parents at the hostess's stand. I walked over as Mrs. Smith walked over to the window to look at the lake. I said, "Hello, Mr. Smith."
Mr. Smith stared at me like a stranger. Unlike the person who had been freinds and teammates with his son. Unlike the person who had roomed with his son for our senior year. Unlike the person with whom he had shared a week around graduation.
Fortunately, Mrs. Smith turned around and noticed me. We said hello and then shared a few moments before my family left and the Smiths were seated.
The next day we had pictures taken with Grandmommie and Dee Dee, both taking turns wearing my straw cowboy hat.
One more. I remember that Homer stayed over for graduation. We shared a ride in my car. Homer was a good guy. Now he is a divorce lawyer in Jacksonville. I had a girlfriend at the graduation ceremony. Robin Fischer. She had red hair and blue eyes. Before the graduation ceremony, my grandmother sat down beside Robin and asked her if she was Robin. That red hair was a real easy clue, but we are still amazed that my grandmother sat right next to her at the ceremony. Later, we all shared a meal at the Holiday Inn.
This is a big moment. I hope Kate enjoys these few days.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Circles
It got up to 82 this afternoon. When I got to the Walton County Courthouse, it was really delightful. Probably in the 70's. Blue skies. Fleecy clouds. A number of carrion-eaters on the plaza in front of the doors to the courthouse. Waiting for a cheap meal.
They should know. There are no cheap meals. And very little opportunity to purchase. I don't know why they stand and wait. I think most of them are rookies in this game. They seem so. I performed a foreclosure sale on the steps of the Muscogee County courthouse in Columbus. When I got to the steps, a man in a sport coat and khaki pants met me and asked me if I was the man who was selling a particular property. I was. So we started the play. After reading my part and announcing the bid price, he offered a higher bid, by a dollar.
No one else was there. The property was knocked off to the gentleman in the blue blazer. He walked away and came back in his car, endorsing the back of cashier checks sufficient to get me the money needed to complete the sale. This was the action of someone who knew what he wanted and knew how to get it.
Not like the normal guys hanging around the courthouse steps, a pad, pen and copy of the local newspaper in hand. The normal guys are nervous, full of questions. They don't exhude confidence and knowledge.
There are people who know what they want. But they are very few and far between.
That is why I think that there is money in properties purchased on the courthouse steps. But most of the money is made earlier or later. Either by purchasing property for a discount from the borrower or buying it at a discount from the realtors after the foreclosure.
The crows continue to circle. We live in perilous times.
They should know. There are no cheap meals. And very little opportunity to purchase. I don't know why they stand and wait. I think most of them are rookies in this game. They seem so. I performed a foreclosure sale on the steps of the Muscogee County courthouse in Columbus. When I got to the steps, a man in a sport coat and khaki pants met me and asked me if I was the man who was selling a particular property. I was. So we started the play. After reading my part and announcing the bid price, he offered a higher bid, by a dollar.
No one else was there. The property was knocked off to the gentleman in the blue blazer. He walked away and came back in his car, endorsing the back of cashier checks sufficient to get me the money needed to complete the sale. This was the action of someone who knew what he wanted and knew how to get it.
Not like the normal guys hanging around the courthouse steps, a pad, pen and copy of the local newspaper in hand. The normal guys are nervous, full of questions. They don't exhude confidence and knowledge.
There are people who know what they want. But they are very few and far between.
That is why I think that there is money in properties purchased on the courthouse steps. But most of the money is made earlier or later. Either by purchasing property for a discount from the borrower or buying it at a discount from the realtors after the foreclosure.
The crows continue to circle. We live in perilous times.
Lonely suicide by a stream in North Georgia
I got to travel to Blairsville this afternoon. I really enjoy the drive to Blairsville. You start in a valley at the intersection of two roads. At the crux of the intersection is a little building which housed a cafe last year. Now the cafe is vacant and for sale. Across the street is a campground. On any given weekend, you will find a ton of motorcycles. Coming from Dahlonega, you take a left at the intersection. Almost immediately, you start climbing into the mountains. You don't quit climbing until you arrive at the Union County Courthouse.
In the interior of the courthouse are a number of photographs. Several of the photographs involve the poet Herbert Byron Reece, who was born and raised in the hollows along a stream in southern Union County. He is the American version of William Wordsworth. I was looking at the pictures this afternoon and read a poem about fiddlers. It was delightful.
After dispossessing this particular hillbilly family, I drove back down U.S. 19 toward Dahlonega. I stopped at the Logan Turnpike Mill and bought four bags of stone ground grits. The best in Georgia. Later, I drove past the homeplace of Herbert Byron Reece and tried to see what he saw.
But not too closely. He committed suicide in his loneliness. Someone who was born in such natural loveliness. Raised in a hard scrabble life, until his family died. Leaving him alone.
He tried to fly like a red tailed hawk. He taught in colleges and universities in Georgia and California. But he always returned. You look at the pictures. He has sad, sad eyes. His poems are not so sad. But his eyes are.
The little house on the side of the road is lonely beside the little stream. No one lives there. The house is surrounded by security fencing. A sign for a contracter is attached to the fence. I have never seen anyone working there or stopping to see the house.
It doesn't look much different from the picture of Reese in front of his door before he ended his life. Just the addition of the security fence, the contractor's sign and the historical marker.
I stopped one time and read the marker. I like to read markers. They tell a story. And leave you with questions. In the case of Herbert Byron Reese, there are many questions.
A good topic for foreclosure day.
In the interior of the courthouse are a number of photographs. Several of the photographs involve the poet Herbert Byron Reece, who was born and raised in the hollows along a stream in southern Union County. He is the American version of William Wordsworth. I was looking at the pictures this afternoon and read a poem about fiddlers. It was delightful.
After dispossessing this particular hillbilly family, I drove back down U.S. 19 toward Dahlonega. I stopped at the Logan Turnpike Mill and bought four bags of stone ground grits. The best in Georgia. Later, I drove past the homeplace of Herbert Byron Reece and tried to see what he saw.
But not too closely. He committed suicide in his loneliness. Someone who was born in such natural loveliness. Raised in a hard scrabble life, until his family died. Leaving him alone.
He tried to fly like a red tailed hawk. He taught in colleges and universities in Georgia and California. But he always returned. You look at the pictures. He has sad, sad eyes. His poems are not so sad. But his eyes are.
The little house on the side of the road is lonely beside the little stream. No one lives there. The house is surrounded by security fencing. A sign for a contracter is attached to the fence. I have never seen anyone working there or stopping to see the house.
It doesn't look much different from the picture of Reese in front of his door before he ended his life. Just the addition of the security fence, the contractor's sign and the historical marker.
I stopped one time and read the marker. I like to read markers. They tell a story. And leave you with questions. In the case of Herbert Byron Reese, there are many questions.
A good topic for foreclosure day.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Graduation Week
It seems as if it will rain, off and on, for the next few days. Perhaps it will lead us through the next days, making everything green for the weekend in the upstate of South Carolina. It will be interesting to be back in Clinton.
I was thinking about this next weekend earlier today. This could be the last weekend trip to Clinton. I don't know why we would be going back. Unless, I suppose, someone else decides to attend Presbyterian College. There really isn't anything in Clinton or Laurens County which would draw me or Cindy back.
I remember when I was in college and it was so pretty driving up through northeast Georgia toward Virginia. The pines were thick and beautiful and green. You would drive over Lake Hartwell and see all the boats anchored at the marina there on the Georgia side of the lake. There wasn't much development on Lake Hartwell that you could see from the bridge crossing the lake. The country around the area was pretty too, on up to Greenville.
North of Greenville, however, the terrain changed. There were a lot of industrial areas and rough looking intersections and truck stops and such. The terrain didn't change much until you made it into North Carolina around Gastonia. When you made it up to Charlotte and took I-77 up toward Wytheville, Virginia, the area was mountainous and beautiful.
When Cindy and Kate and I first visited the area around Greenville, I noticed that there had been an awful lot of work on trying to beautify the area. Downtown Greenville has been renovated nicely over the years and there are a number of pretty areas in the older parts of downtown. Despite the fact that the main roads into town have been in states of disarray ever since we first drove into Greenville when we were looking for Furman, and remain so to this day, downtown is quite lovely.
I look forward to Saturday and the graduation ceremony and some time to enjoy Kate's friends and our family up there. I hope its sunny and warm.
I was thinking about this next weekend earlier today. This could be the last weekend trip to Clinton. I don't know why we would be going back. Unless, I suppose, someone else decides to attend Presbyterian College. There really isn't anything in Clinton or Laurens County which would draw me or Cindy back.
I remember when I was in college and it was so pretty driving up through northeast Georgia toward Virginia. The pines were thick and beautiful and green. You would drive over Lake Hartwell and see all the boats anchored at the marina there on the Georgia side of the lake. There wasn't much development on Lake Hartwell that you could see from the bridge crossing the lake. The country around the area was pretty too, on up to Greenville.
North of Greenville, however, the terrain changed. There were a lot of industrial areas and rough looking intersections and truck stops and such. The terrain didn't change much until you made it into North Carolina around Gastonia. When you made it up to Charlotte and took I-77 up toward Wytheville, Virginia, the area was mountainous and beautiful.
When Cindy and Kate and I first visited the area around Greenville, I noticed that there had been an awful lot of work on trying to beautify the area. Downtown Greenville has been renovated nicely over the years and there are a number of pretty areas in the older parts of downtown. Despite the fact that the main roads into town have been in states of disarray ever since we first drove into Greenville when we were looking for Furman, and remain so to this day, downtown is quite lovely.
I look forward to Saturday and the graduation ceremony and some time to enjoy Kate's friends and our family up there. I hope its sunny and warm.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Odd allegiances
When you are a boy, your allegiances and dislikes are created by the simplest occurances. For instance, my first big sports hero was Mickey Mantle. I think that hero was shared by a ton of boys all over the country, not just in parts of New York. But when I was growing up, I didn't live anywhere particularly close to a major sports team. When I was old enough to be aware of professional sports, we lived in Indianapolis. Indianapolis is right square in the center of the state of Indiana. Chicago is to the northwest. Cincinnati is to the southeast. Cleveland is to the northeast and St. Louis is to the southwest. Even most of the major colleges are spread out away from Indianapolis: Purdue, Indiana, Notre Dame. Only Butler and IUPU are in the general area.
As I got older, I remember sending off for a baseball book which included a part on hitting by Pete Rose and a part on pitching by Denny McClain. Both were big stars in professional baseball, although perhaps not the biggest stars. However, due to that book, I became a Detroit Tigers fan. It didn't hurt when Denny McClain pitched 31 victories in 1968, helping the Tigers win the 1968 World Series against the Cardinals. Later, when I played little league baseball, my original number was #6. One of the best outfielders in baseball at the time was Al Kaline, #6. That was an easy one.
In basketball, one of the best college basketball programs was the University of Kentucky. That was also easy, given my birthplace. During that same time, the best professional basketball team was the Boston Celtics. Their best player was Bill Russell, #6. Boston was always playing the Los Angeles Lakers in the championship, so I have always disliked the Lakers. Later, I briefly swapped allegiances to the New York Knicks, whose point guard was a cool dude from Atlanta named Walt Frazier, #10. I also liked Dick Barnett, who used to kick his heels up when he took a jump shot.
When I was a child, the best professional football team were the Green Bay Packers. I used to love them. They always played the Rams, the Browns and the Cowboys. Early on, I didn't like those teams. Later, the Dallas Cowboys drafted a running back/receiver from Georgia Tech named Craig Baynham. Suddenly, the Cowboys became the family team. I loved all of the linebackers: Leroy Jordan, Craig Howley, D. D. Lewis, etc. My love for the Cowboys lasted until 1981, when they eliminated the Falcons from contention for a Super Bowl slot, one I still contend should have been owned by the Falcons. I haven't much liked the Cowboys since then.
The Falcons were in the western division of the NFL, and so I disliked the Rams and the Forty Niners. The Braves were also in the west, so I hated the Reds, the Dodgers, the Giants and the Padres. The first professional baseball game I ever saw was between the Braves and the Reds. The Reds won and I hated them ever thereafter. Later the local radio station in Hopkinsville changed their alliance from the St. Louis Cardinals to the Cincinnati Reds. More reason to hate the Reds. Don't get me on Pete Rose.
When I played little league football, I was 27, 54, 60, 25, and 66. In high school, I was 48, 66 and 65. In college, I was 47 and 95. Most of my numbers in football have been multiples of 3. The number 6 has predominated. The number 5 has appeared often as well.
Being a Braves fan was difficult for many years, until 1991, when they finally went to the World Series. With the exception of 1969 and the early 80's when the Braves put some good teams on the field at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium, cheering for the Braves was a hard thing to do. They often had good players, but rarely had good teams. Its hard to imagine a team who had Hank Aaron, Eddie Mathews, Phil Neikro, Ralph Garr, Dusty Baker, Davy Johnson, Darrell Evans, Gene Garber, Bob Horner, Gary Matthews, Dale Murphy, Brett Butler, Steve Bedrosian, Orlando Cepeda over the years couldn't put winning numbers on the board more than they did.
A lot of times, my allegiances in sports depended on the numbers I wore:
#6 Al Kaline Detroit Tigers
#6 Bill Russell Boston Celtics
#10 Walt Frazier New York Knicks
#60 Tommy Nobis Atlanta Falcons
#54 Chuck Howley Dallas Cowboys
#66 Gene Hickerson Cleveland Browns
I still like all of those teams. The Mets of 1969 eliminated the Braves in their first appearance in the post-season and then eliminated the Orioles in the World Series. I have cultivated a good, healthy hatred of the accursed Mets ever since. Some things never change.
The first high school game I ever lost at Dunwoody High School was against the Tucker b-team.
I wanted to beat them so badly that I recovered a fumble, caught an interception and made thirteen unassisted tackles. The following week, I was the only captain to go out for the coin toss before the game. Two years later, we held Tucker's offense to three first downs and 7 points, after a fumble inside our ten yard line, in a 13-0 loss. Afterward, the coach at Tucker told the local newspaper that the game was not as close as the score indicated.
"Mom, what team do I hate the most of any team?"
"Tucker."
Kate and Cindy, in unison, "Tucker sucks."
Somethings should never change.
As I got older, I remember sending off for a baseball book which included a part on hitting by Pete Rose and a part on pitching by Denny McClain. Both were big stars in professional baseball, although perhaps not the biggest stars. However, due to that book, I became a Detroit Tigers fan. It didn't hurt when Denny McClain pitched 31 victories in 1968, helping the Tigers win the 1968 World Series against the Cardinals. Later, when I played little league baseball, my original number was #6. One of the best outfielders in baseball at the time was Al Kaline, #6. That was an easy one.
In basketball, one of the best college basketball programs was the University of Kentucky. That was also easy, given my birthplace. During that same time, the best professional basketball team was the Boston Celtics. Their best player was Bill Russell, #6. Boston was always playing the Los Angeles Lakers in the championship, so I have always disliked the Lakers. Later, I briefly swapped allegiances to the New York Knicks, whose point guard was a cool dude from Atlanta named Walt Frazier, #10. I also liked Dick Barnett, who used to kick his heels up when he took a jump shot.
When I was a child, the best professional football team were the Green Bay Packers. I used to love them. They always played the Rams, the Browns and the Cowboys. Early on, I didn't like those teams. Later, the Dallas Cowboys drafted a running back/receiver from Georgia Tech named Craig Baynham. Suddenly, the Cowboys became the family team. I loved all of the linebackers: Leroy Jordan, Craig Howley, D. D. Lewis, etc. My love for the Cowboys lasted until 1981, when they eliminated the Falcons from contention for a Super Bowl slot, one I still contend should have been owned by the Falcons. I haven't much liked the Cowboys since then.
The Falcons were in the western division of the NFL, and so I disliked the Rams and the Forty Niners. The Braves were also in the west, so I hated the Reds, the Dodgers, the Giants and the Padres. The first professional baseball game I ever saw was between the Braves and the Reds. The Reds won and I hated them ever thereafter. Later the local radio station in Hopkinsville changed their alliance from the St. Louis Cardinals to the Cincinnati Reds. More reason to hate the Reds. Don't get me on Pete Rose.
When I played little league football, I was 27, 54, 60, 25, and 66. In high school, I was 48, 66 and 65. In college, I was 47 and 95. Most of my numbers in football have been multiples of 3. The number 6 has predominated. The number 5 has appeared often as well.
Being a Braves fan was difficult for many years, until 1991, when they finally went to the World Series. With the exception of 1969 and the early 80's when the Braves put some good teams on the field at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium, cheering for the Braves was a hard thing to do. They often had good players, but rarely had good teams. Its hard to imagine a team who had Hank Aaron, Eddie Mathews, Phil Neikro, Ralph Garr, Dusty Baker, Davy Johnson, Darrell Evans, Gene Garber, Bob Horner, Gary Matthews, Dale Murphy, Brett Butler, Steve Bedrosian, Orlando Cepeda over the years couldn't put winning numbers on the board more than they did.
A lot of times, my allegiances in sports depended on the numbers I wore:
#6 Al Kaline Detroit Tigers
#6 Bill Russell Boston Celtics
#10 Walt Frazier New York Knicks
#60 Tommy Nobis Atlanta Falcons
#54 Chuck Howley Dallas Cowboys
#66 Gene Hickerson Cleveland Browns
I still like all of those teams. The Mets of 1969 eliminated the Braves in their first appearance in the post-season and then eliminated the Orioles in the World Series. I have cultivated a good, healthy hatred of the accursed Mets ever since. Some things never change.
The first high school game I ever lost at Dunwoody High School was against the Tucker b-team.
I wanted to beat them so badly that I recovered a fumble, caught an interception and made thirteen unassisted tackles. The following week, I was the only captain to go out for the coin toss before the game. Two years later, we held Tucker's offense to three first downs and 7 points, after a fumble inside our ten yard line, in a 13-0 loss. Afterward, the coach at Tucker told the local newspaper that the game was not as close as the score indicated.
"Mom, what team do I hate the most of any team?"
"Tucker."
Kate and Cindy, in unison, "Tucker sucks."
Somethings should never change.
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