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Boomer Tales
Casey Jones H
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Contents Needling
1
Whose Temper
5
The Queen of Swat
8
The Perfect Christmas Memory
12
The Kingman Elementary Seven
17
Mammary Gland Miracle
29
Frankenchicken
35
Turtlemania
44
Hoss’s Hustle
54
De-wimpification
60
Feeshin’ for Class
69
Trippin’ Boomer Style
81
Boomer Bros’ Retirement Woes
97
Debt
108
A Plastic Poem
115
Tribute Pieces
117
The Worst Golf in the World
120
The Queen of Swat In my opinion, 1961 was the year that major league baseball blew up. It was two guys, Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle, of the New York Yankees, and their chase of Babe Ruth’s home run record that turned the Boomers into a bunch of sports nuts. But this story isn’t about two guys swatting a baseball out of ball parks across America, it’s about a woman. It’s about a first-grade teacher with a whiffle ball bat, who set her own record during the fall of 1961 in the basement boys’ bathroom of Kingman Elementary School. A record that would never be equaled again in the history of swatting. Her name was Martha Matson. She was taller than Maris and Mantle. She stood six-foot-three with long, sinewy, muscular arms hanging from a set of very broad shoulders that together were able to deliver massive amounts of power due to the physics of levers, speed, and force. To say that she had red hair would be an understatement. To say that the rouge on her cheeks looked like two red stoplights would be somewhat accurate. But to say on this particular day in the fall of 1961 that her height, her hair, her face, and her rage all together were like a California redwood in a forest fire would be spot-on. Somehow, someway on this particular day at Kingman Elementary, a gigantic mistake was made. A mistake, that had it been recorded for scientific purposes would have proven beyond a shadowof-a-doubt that man did, in fact, evolve from some lower form of animal, and that this animal possessed the most uncouth and beastly past imaginable. It happened because two classrooms of first graders were released to go to the restroom at the same time. When I walked into the restroom that morning, the place was packed with somewhere in the neighborhood of forty first grade boys. The four tall urinals (they were side-by-side and went from the floor to about four feet up the side of the wall) were all occupied and had lines three to five boys deep. So, I looked for a toilet on the opposite side of the room, just around the corner and to the left of the entrance, which was also the only exit. There were about ten toilets, all of which were in your typical bathroom stall, minus the door. 8
I took the one farthest from the door. I liked the toilets better. The urinals were too big and tall, and the urge for the guy behind you to push you in was always too much for him to resist. I had just started making bubbles and trying to pop the really big ones when much, much, more than “all HELL broke loose.” Of the four kids at the urinals, two of them were my classmates, standing sideby-side. Bill glanced down at Joe, who happened to be uncircumcised, and remarked, “What’s wrong with your wiener? It looks funny.” Now kids can say cruel things to each other, and they can also say stupid things. I thought it was cruel, but it also made me curious. Even though I had my back to them, I wanted to see the funny looking wiener, so I turned my head just in time to see why it was also a stupid thing to say. Joe said, “It might look funny, but see how good it works,” and he executed a perfect 90-degree pivot and began to spray Bill’s leg like it was on fire. Of course, Bill had to defend himself, so he did a 90, and before you know it, some other kid in line behind Joe got hit with some collateral damage, and in a split-second, kids who had no business pulling their pants to their knees and peeing on each other started pulling their pants to their knees and peeing on each other. It was much, much more than total pandemonium, and needless to say, the noise was much, much more than deafening. My head was twisting back-and-forth to catch all the action. Over one shoulder, I saw little Tommy Lancaster in the middle of the room with his blue jeans and whitey-tighties around his knees, one hand pointing his wiener at a 45-degree angle, the other hand waving wildly over his head, mouth open laughing insanely, and his body rotating like a possessed lawn sprinkler, spraying everything within five feet. Over my other shoulder, I saw the insanity of what looked like a game of pee tag. In one corner of the room two boys were in what appeared to be a sword fight with their urine. Bob, the nearly blind boy in our class, was peeing on what he thought was a classmate but was only the trash can. And, in the far corner was Jack, the mentally handicapped boy in our class, simply peeing on his shoe.
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I probably would have joined in, but my tank was just emptying. I was getting ready to zip up when Mrs. Matson came stomping into the bathroom, all on fire with a black whiffle ball bat in her right hand. What happened next could be described as carnage, but it was much, much more than that. I heard her roar, “WHAT IS GOING ON?” But then there were only grunts and mutterings from her as she reached out with her giant left hand, grabbed boy-after-boy by his arm or the back of his neck, lifted him off the floor, swatted him with the whiffle ball bat, and threw him towards the bathroom doorway. Pants were flying up. Boys were frantic with frenzy–screaming, crying, running, scrambling, and trying to find an escape. Myself, I was peering out and around my stall and watching Mrs. Matson. She was standing about five feet inside the doorway. She was doing everything in her power to keep boys from passing her. She’d stop one trying to get past her side by sticking her leg out while she continued grabbing and swatting. For a moment I was frozen with terror. I saw no means of escape. But just as I was about to join the whirling and swirling frenzy of the soon-to-be swatted, an idea came to me. Mrs. Matson was moving ever-so-slowly, inching into more of the restroom, and all I had to do was simply crawl on my belly underneath the stalls to the one closest to the door and snake out behind her, being careful not to get hit by one of the flying-swatted. I took a deep breath and belly-crawled like a soldier, sneaking back from behind the enemy’s line to safety. I got to the stall directly behind her, and from my vantage point with the back of my head actually touching the toilet, I was able to observe her technique. She’d grab a kid, jerk him into the air, quickly line him up with the door, draw back her whiffle ball bat, and execute a perfect swing: a short step, a twist of the hips, and boom! Up-up-and-out of there! In the hallway, once I had slithered out and around the corner of the last stall, I saw a pile of first grade boys pulling and zipping up their pants, all tangled up and squirming like a can of worms.
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I stood up, kind of dusted myself off, straightened up my clothes, and tried to walk coolly back to my class. I passed a second grader who asked me, “Did you hear?” I said, “Hear what?” “Maris broke Ruth’s home run record today with sixty-one, and Mantle ended up with fifty-four.” After what I’d just seen, what I’d just witnessed, and what I’d just lived through, just two sarcastic words came to mind, “Big deal!” ********** And, readers, I’m really sorry, because by now I’m sure–if you’re not a Boomer–you’re about to scream, “Oh, the humanity!” Or you’re thinking, “My God, those poor Boomers…sob, sob…cry, cry…I never knew!” So, I’ve decided that we all need a little break. We’ll get to the last story about “corporal carnage” after we enjoy the warmth of a holiday memory. I’m sure you’ve all got one of those–probably a little different than this one–but still, nonetheless….
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