Prologue
Trainer Larry Pilotti dispensed more detailed instructions. I told jockey Luis Jurado just one thing: “Stay out of trouble and you win.”
Cosmic Song (aka Ruby) broke from the gate well, was reserved in fourth place down the backstretch along the rail, moved into contention despite being four wide in the turn, took a slight lead at the eighth pole and pulled away to win by two lengths.
This victory, our second in a row since Sharon started praying, poses some questions. First, how much currency does Sharon have with God? Second, what do we have to do to keep Sharon from getting pissed off?
When I was five years old, I used to pray for the Red Sox. Mostly, it didn’t work. My father told me it was possible more people were praying for the Yankees. Or that God didn’t care. One thing seems certain, though. Praying seems to work better when your horse is the favorite.
America’s Dumbest State
Carl Hiaasen says it’s between Florida and California for the title of Dumbest State in the Union. Much as I usually agree with Carl, this is really no contest. We win easy. While California is gradually edging back towards sanity as the election approaches, Florida is down to the wire on its gubernatorial election. Despite the endorsement of practically every newspaper in the state, Alex Sink is no better than even with clown crook Rick Scott. Quoting Hiaasen, “At every appearance, Scott grandly pledges to single-handedly slash property taxes, create 700,000 new jobs and shrink state government. And right after that, he’ll climb into a great big balloon and fly Dorothy and Toto back to Kansas.”
Our state legislature in Florida, largely Republican, is easily worst in the nation. Every year, the sane population of Florida—a thinning minority—cringes in its basements during the two-month legislative session, thanking God they’re not in Tallahassee any longer. I cannot conceive of any political body more bought and paid for by the corporate world than this bunch. So we win, Carl. It’s not even close.
Down on the Farm II
We forgot to include a few things in last week’s column on dependable farm help. Like, for instance, how helpful it is to have a reliable Farm Dog. Now there are some who dispute the idea of dogs on farms. An old Florida breeder named Betty Lavery was famous for disallowing dogs on her place under any circumstances. Her feeling was that dogs can spook horses or even chase and nip at newborns, occasionally run a horse through a fence, etc. Betty was right about all of this. But sometimes a Farm Dog comes in handy.
Not too far from our farm in Orange Lake, there was a combination liquor store/bar, which enjoyed a large clientele, mostly of rednecks, unemployed derelicts and other assorted no-account goobers. One evening, two of these characters stumbled down our road toward Kim’s trailer, hooting and hollering at Kim to come out and play. Kim did not suffer fools well. She arrived at her door, shotgun in hand, and fired off a few blasts in their general direction. Then, as they fell all over themselves retreating down the road, Kim released her bouncy pair of Dobermans. Maybe the visitors could play with them. I wish I could have been there. So what happened, Kim?
“Wall, I’m not really sure, it was a little dark,” she said. “But when they got back, they had a little blood in their mouths. I don’t think it was theirs. Yeah, and some stuff that looked like shirtsleeves, coulda been.”
With all due respect to Mrs. Lavery, I like the idea of a reliable Farm Dog on my place. We have one now, a Rottweiler named China. We have to bring her in at night or there will be a slaughter of little creatures around the yard in the morning, an unfortunate sidebar to her Farm Dog value. On the other hand, dubious visitors cower in their vehicles when they pull into our place for nefarious purposes. So far, she hasn’t come home with any blood in her mouth. People blood. Or shirtsleeves.
Other Agricultural Pursuits
Sometimes, people who have forty-acre horse farms grow crops on their farms. Many people grow their own hay for the horses or have modest vegetable gardens. Sometimes, on very rare occasions, of course, they even grow marijuana.
One day, while checking out a sinkhole, I happened upon the Evil Weed. Knowing the stuff doesn’t just grow wild, I approached farm caretaker Danny Levine.
“Nobody will see it,” he protested. “It’s down in the sinkhole."
“Well, Danny—I saw it. What if one of these double-secret DEA helicopters that can spot the exact color of marijuana flies by? Who do they arrest? Not you—me!”
I really wasn’t worried that this might happen. I wasn’t even worried about a couple of well-disguised plants. I just didn’t want Danny getting carried away and growing an ocean of weed, the better to get rich with. When you operate a place like the Subterranean Circus, people are watching. And back in those days, everybody might be a narc. I even wrote a song about it.
Narcs (by Bill)
There was lots of primo smoking bud
In the good old hippie days.
It was never hard to find it,
Even straight folks had their ways.
Everybody had a prime source,
We had our Biker Blue.
One week he’d sell us a bag,
Next week we’d sell him two.
(Chorus)
We knew Wayland was a narc,
We suspected Melrose Lou.
We’da liked to trust our brother, Gus,
Which we really couldn’t do.
There was Reefer Jim, Micanopy Slim
And the next-door neighbor crew;
We thought all of them were narcs
And they thought that we were, too!
You had outstanding choices
In the good old hippie days.
Columbians sent high-class gold,
Jamaican Red brought praise.
Our Gainesville Green was bountiful
And the price was always true.
The Mexican was not as nice,
But it certainly would do.
(Chorus)
But there always was a danger
In these fine, illegal deals.
Sometimes the guy on the other side
Had a secret to conceal.
You always had to watch your step
And know who to call for bail;
If you slipped a bit, if you lost your wits,
They’d toss your ass in jail.
(Final Chorus)
We knew Wayland was a narc,
We suspected Melrose Lou.
We’da liked to trust our brother, Gus,
Which we really couldn’t do.
There was Reefer Jim, Micanopy Slim
And the next-door neighbor crew;
We thought all of them were narcs
And they thought that we were, too!
……we were right about ol’ Wayland, of course…..(trailing off)
Coach Killeen
Fortunately for all us Gators, it’s almost basketball season. Which always brings to mind memories of the St. Anne’s Blue Eagles, a bunch of fifth-grade (and lower) orphans I coached when I was in high school. Ah, what a humanitarian Bill is, you say. Not exactly.
If there was one subject I excelled in during high school (aside from English), it was Latin. Never got less than an A. In second year Latin, which involved Translation of Caesar, my Marist Brother teacher at Central Catholic High School in Lawrence, Mass., was Brother Godfrey. Brother Godfrey was an easy 6-6, with a deep baritone voice and an extensive vocabulary, probably the most powerful person at school, next to the principal. It would be a gross understatement to say he was intimidating. Brother Godfrey administered the Grammar League, a Saturday basketball extravaganza for the Catholic grade schools in the area, of which there must have been thirty, each having three or four teams, usually one for each grade, sixth through eighth. The teams would play three simultaneous games width-wise on the large Central court, gaining invaluable experience. Then they would all go on to Central and beat everybody’s brains out. Central’s varsity basketball team was 27-1 in my junior year and the one loss was in overtime.
Brother Godfrey asked me to stay after class one day. Uh oh.
“Mr. Killeen,” he said, “I have a little problem with one of my grammar league teams.”
“Yes, Brother?”
“We don’t have a coach for the Saint Anne’s orphanage team. If we don’t find a coach, the orphans won’t be able to play.”
“I’m not sure I’d be any kind of great coach, Brother Godfrey….”
“Yes, but, you see, we don’t need great coaches. We just need coaches that will teach the boys to play together, get them all over here on Saturdays, keep a scoresheet, etc. Anybody who gets all A’s in Translation of Caesar can do it.”
Anyone who wants to keep getting A’s, I reckoned. So, reluctantly, I agreed.
The orphanage was a long way from the high school and a long way from my house and almost nobody had cars then. I sure didn’t. So I rode my bicycle over to St. Anne’s five days a week and taught orphans to play basketball. After a few weeks, my friend Jim Cahill joined me as an assistant. Some days, Jim even got to use his father’s car.
Eventually, the season started. Our kids, all fifth-graders and below, had to play in a league of sixth-graders. This was not conducive to winning. We had some talented players, but only a couple who could shoot the ball as high as the basket. This would obviously require some brilliant strategy. So we requisitioned Jim Cahill’s brother, Jack (or Jason, as we called him), to become an “orphan”. Jason was a good bit bigger than the other kids and he made us competitive. We won three of the first four games he played. The orphans were getting excited about their new-found success. But wouldn’t you know it—just when things were moving along swell, some unsportsmanlike rat squealed on us. Brother Godfrey called me in.
“Mr. Killeen,” he said, pacing, hands locked behind his back. “I have received a report that you may have used an ineligible player in two of your wins, which you will have to forfeit. And no more use of that player, understand?”
Wait, what did he say? Two wins? Nobody complained about the third? We get to keep a win?
“Well, Brother Godfrey, it’s kind of tough playing bigger kids every week. My guys get a little discouraged.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Killeen. But I have good news for you. Your boys will be playing at halftime of a Boston Celtics game at the Garden next month. They offered us ten minutes for a game.” WHAT!?! Are you kidding? Only later did I find out they had paired us up with the Essex County Training School, an eighth-grade team of thugs from the local reform school. They would probably beat us 30-0. How much fun is that?
We showed up, though. And played in front of 13,000 screaming fans, every one of which was rooting for the little guys to hang with the big goons. And hang with them, we did. Our smallest player, a tiny little guy named ‘Whitey’, for his unlikely mop of white—not blond—hair, was the star. Whitey set the fashion standard for the eventual baggy basketball shorts in an era when men’s shorts were short. His went almost to the floor and were tied at the waist by twine. Nonetheless, he constantly stole the ball from the bigger kids, a pesky gnat, impeding progress and messing up their game. The crowd roared (in encouragement and hysterics) as Whitey would steal the ball and race the other way down court, only to fire the ball up too short of the basket. With eight of the ten minutes in the game gone, the score stood at 0-0. I would like to report a miraculous Frank Merriwell finish, but alas, ‘twas not to be. The reform school kids eventually put in a couple of baskets and beat us 4-0, but we were proud and they were embarrassed. And the orphans had an experience they would never forget.
“Because of you, Mr. Killeen,” said Brother Godfrey, the teacher who never gave me less than an A in Translation of Caesar.
Old College Magazine Joke (from 1965):
A rushee was greeted at the door of the fraternity house by the president, who welcomed him enthusiastically, not noticing the guest was gazing down, self-consciously, at his muddy shoes.
“Come in, my boy, come in!” beamed the fraternity man.
“Uh, I’d better not,” whispered the guest. “My feet are dirty.”
“So’s ours!” laughed the president, “But we keep our shoes on and nobody knows the difference!”
That’s all, folks.
