FLASHBACK BLUES - I drifted into the point position of the flying wedge as Temple received the kickoff to open the game against the Merchant Marine Academy in Kings Point, N.Y., back in 1965. The coaches told us to beware, that the Mariners could play, and the place was rocking like the Army-Navy game, but no self-respecting soot-covered Philly boy who ever placed unspent bullets on the trolley tracks could get up off respect for a Merchant Marine. We didn’t even know what that meant other than something to do with boats. The running back caught the ball and yelled “go” and as I turned to get upfield I saw and heard a 6-foot-3, 225-pound screaming crazy white dude who was locked into my helmet. I instinctively ducked and burrowed but he drove the top of his helmet into the back of my neck, lifting me off the ground and driving me back 5 yards. I saw that play over and over in film sessions as some blockheaded coach from the Pennsylvania coal region screamed, “Where you gone at, Frederick?” “I’m going to remedial English class, that’s where I’m gone at, Coach.”
TEXTING AND TWEETING - The high-tech digital world of the hand-held device has produced a shorthand language of codes and words minus vowels and a bevy of impatient/outpatient sports fans who can’t wait for the game to come to them like a Grotto’s delivery truck. I’m the sportswriter guy and the only way to cover a game and capture its essence is to be there from beginning to the end, to watch every pitch or ball booted, but sometimes I look around and think, “If this is so interesting, how come only 25 people are in the stands?” It’s changing out there as media types flock to professional press conferences but no one wants to cover the local tee ball tournament or Pop Warner, Atlantic Lacrosse, Henlopen Soccer or travel ball age group tournaments at Sports at the Beach. There are young guns out there with journalism/communication degrees but none of them are beating down my door for the opportunity to cover baseball, girls soccer or the 10-year-old minor league All-Star tournament.
GOOD FRIDAY - My memories of Good Friday growing up was having industrial-strength pillow fights with my gigantic brother as we Catholic boys were on bedroom lockdown from 12 to 3; that was followed by an invitation buck-buck tournament at the end of the block which often degenerated into a game of bumper cars minus the cars. Now here in Lewes on Good Friday grown men fly pink pig kites and other whirly-twirly colorful things and I was never any good at that, so I sometimes watch but mostly I miss those row house days where AA meetings for adults happened on my porch with the members surrounding a washtub of iced-down Schmidt’s beer.
That seems like Lite years from now.
SNIPPETS - The Cape boys lacrosse team plays the Peddie School at 4 p.m., Tuesday, April 6. Former Cape lacrosse coach Jeff “Moose” Mohr played football at Peddie, and his head coach Bill Creedon had been the quarterback on my high school team, was later headmaster at the Severn School and has a building on campus named after him.
Creedon’s brother Tom is the principal at Pennridge High School and his assistant is Ray Ott, Cape coach Tom Ott’s brother. I’d say small world but there are no small people in this story.
I would like to see a fitness book about people who reclaimed their lives and got super fit, focused and motivated only to lapse back and become fatter and more lethargic than ever. “Orbs have their own internal gravity field,” Grandmom Rose said. “Take your cousin, Janet the Planet, remember when she lost weight and looked like a plow horse with an eating disorder?” I’m going in search of a big ol’ coconut cream egg. This planet is steady wobbling.
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Sports Editor Emeritus
Email Fredman at fredman@capegazette.com
