My apologies for the lack of posts the last two weeks... lets face it, there have been a lot more important things to pay attention to in the real world. That being said, I am SURE that you all are waiting BREATHLESSLY for the next story in the life of Darren and Rob. This post will be a "make fun of Darren" one... I promise I'll even it out going forward.
When I was young, I was always the smallest kid. My nickname in school was Shorty. In 2nd grade I would come home and cry. By the time I got to High School when people tried to drop some other name on me, I would defiantly make them stick to my given nickname. That being said, being shorter came with negatives; yes, I was always last picked for anything athletic. That being said again, I really didn't deserve to be picked any higher. Bluntly, I sucked at sports. I tried, and I had fun, but it never really worked out. Except for one time senior year when we finally played floor hockey (which I had been begging every P.E. teacher for us to play). The first day, of course, I was picked last. Then I scored four goals in five minutes, including one from behind the net.
The next day I was a captain. Yeah... serious gratification.
Little did they know I had actually played in some floor hockey leagues when I was younger. Heh... suck it, losers. In later years Greg and I set up plywood boards around our basement and we played 1-on-1 floor hockey. It was brutal because the area was about 18' long, so standing in front of a slap shot was sure to cause incredible pain. We would do tournaments with his friends. I would always be the Soviet team, just to piss everyone off. Like the Soviets, I would dominate, especially on faceoffs where I could flick the ball to the right, let it kiss off the side plywood, draw my stick back and get a wrist shot into the net before the other guy could move. I was also pretty fearless and would stand and take the shots ricocheting off my shins. (We had a rule - no balls over the knee! We weren't stupid...)
Anyway... right after that I started to kind of blossom with sports. No, I was never a sportsball god, but I always brought some pluckiness to whatever I was in. In college it took me a while to find the right guys, but we played pickup football and I dominated as a receiver and defensive back, to the point where they asked me to jump into their flag football league. Lost in the semi-finals to a frat team that had plays they called in a hurry up offense. I started playing 16" softball, which flowed into 12" softball, where I had this ability to hit to all fields; one year I hit over .650 (yeah, I was the stat geek, of course). I was kind of speedy for a little guy, at least I got up to my max (whatever that was) in a step or two. I also played for many years in a floor hockey league in Hoffman Estates, at a place behind the 7-11 on Hassell Rd. GREAT time, great guys. They sucked when they asked me to play and the first 4 games we didn't score a point; all shutouts. I remember when I finally got our first goal in a scramble in front of the net, you'd think we won the championship. Over the next few years we added a couple solid players and won the season standings a couple times. Always had a great wrist shot with excellent aim, but no slapshot whatsoever. I always led the team in two stats: penalty minutes and puking in the garbage can. But nobody could win faceoffs like me, and nobody could kill a penalty single handed (I was great at trapping a guys stick against the boards so he couldn't move). Man, it was a blast on those teams.
Now on the flip side of the coin, you had Darren. For all his great attributes, physical activities weren't his strength (until he started running like Forrest Gump in his late '40's). When he worked for HP they had a softball team which he asked me to ringer for. D always hit last and caught. But he had fun! He never water-skied, skipped the parasailing thing I did in Key West, not a dancer... really, not a fan of athletics at all. The only way Darren could beat me in basement floor hockey was when he'd take off his shirt and throw his sweat soaked body into me. I would flinch away, completely grossed out, while he fired a shot into the goal. It was his only move, but an effective one.
In the mid 80's (as I mentioned in past posts...) we had a TON of fun. Part of that was working at Telecheck. We had a blast with all our co-workers, and one of the activities we started with in late '85 (during the Bears heyday) was some weekend football. It started off as Sales vs. Service (our department) with some other departments sprinkled in. The first game was lighthearted, touch, girls and guys, beers in a cooler, etc... in the field behind Darren and Terri's apartment. Somehow I ended up kind of dominating the game and Service won, and then we went and drank at Frankie's II. A great day all around.
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| Telecheck folk behind Darren's apartment, in probably my only sports glory picture ever. |
Sales didn't take it well, and those guys wanted it to be a bit more serious. So we went at it again. This time, tackle, only a couple girls, much more physical. I brought my brother Greg, and he REALLY dominated; they couldn't tackle him. Which was good, because Sales had a guy WE couldn't tackle. I don't remember his name after 35 years, but he his nickname was "Fridge", just like William Perry on the Bears. One guess why...
Yeah... he was big. Not Original Fridge big, but definitely bigger than the rest of us.
Oh... wait... almost forgot THIS story. As I mentioned, we played in the field behind Darren's apartment. We're playing, and Terri (and her best friend Annie) comes home from a shopping trip to a leather shop (Annie was into horses). They step out of the car, reach into a bag and pull out a full sized leather whip. Darren sees it, runs over, throws himself spread eagle face down on the ground and Terri proceeds to pretend to whip him. The whole Telecheck crowd stares at him, mouths agape, and almost as one turn to look at me like he was my responsibility. I could hear their thoughts in my mind; "He's YOUR friend". Sigh..
Anyway, I digress....
So we're in the middle of the game. I'm playing defensive back, Darren is kind of linebacker'ish. On the snap, I run with a guy deep, but hear something behind me. Turning around, I see that they dumped the ball short to our Telecheck Fridge. The only guy between him and 7 points?
Darren.
Fridge turns up field. Darren runs at him, but having ZERO football experience he comes in high. Fridge cradles the ball and leans into Darren with a full head of steam. Imagine a locomotive running over a baby carriage left carelessly on the tracks. Fridge plows Darren without any lessening of momentum. Darren's body straightens up, and with his left arm extended completely over his head he is turned 180 and crashes to the ground like a tree trunk cut down with a huge chain saw in one fell swoop. A slow gasping groan escaped his lips as he fell, the Fridge running free for another touchdown. If we are ever together, feel free to ask me, I can perfectly imitate the pain rising out his throat and forcing it's way into the open air.
Its amazing how certain memories can be so incredibly vivid; the collision, the extended arm and pirouette, the sound he made as he crumpled. (and yes, even the words "Whip me! Whip me!" earlier in the afternoon). It is all indelibly inked in the recesses of my mind.
My reaction? "Well, I just lost my best friend". Then I turned up field to receive the kick.
I think he laid there for about 30 seconds. I also think that was the last time he ever played pickup football...
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