Bring on the Revolution - 2011

Last week I went out to eat with my nephews and their parents at a Mexican restaurant on Okochobee Boulevard in West Palm Beach. The conversation gravitated to sports; baseball for Trey, golf for Reese, and basketball for their father and me. Their mother was happy to be left in peace. After dinner we stepped into a warm Florida night. There was no one in the parking lot.

Looking at the colorful mural on the wall, I said, “Mexico 1968.”

“What about it?” AK’s slender and ever-beautiful wife responded with interest. We were more friends than before. I was good to her kids and nothing earns trust from a mother faster than treating their spawn well. My clan was far away in Thailand.

“Summer Olympics was held in Mexico City.”

“More like the Autumn Olympics. For some reason they were in October.”

“Summer or fall didn’t matter after Bob Beamon set a world record in the high jump at the altitude of 6000 feet. Rightfully never an asterisk for that jump." My individual best had been in my senior year. 1970. 19'6".

“He broke the previous record by a foot and a half.” AK joined in the telling. He was my age. 1968 was our youth.

“The world was on fire. Only the week before hundreds of students had been shot by the Mexican army and the streets of America were on fire after the assassination of Martin Luther King.”

“Could we talk about something else?” AK and I went back over thirty years to 1973. He was no born-again conservative, but the right-wing Storm Front had their headquarter meetings not far from here, White people in Florida tend to be whiter than most whites elsewhere in the USA and my talk was incendiary to white people, but the parking lot was empty.

“Let him talk.” AK’s blonde wife taught music at a private school. The curriculum was restrained by religion. She appreciated my loose tongue. ”

“Other places were in revolt too. Viet-Nam, Paris, Prague.”

I sang the first stanza of the Rolling Stones’ STREET FIGHTING MAN.

“Everywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy, cause summer’s here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy.”

AK rolled his eyes. He was more into R&B than rock, having played in the Authentics, a Boston funk band, to pay for his tuition at Berkeley School of Music. On our cross-country trip in 1974 AK had taught me how to play the kazoo.

"No one at the Olympics protested the death of hundreds of Mexican students. The army was in the streets. The olympic committee banned any protests by the athletes. The best runner in the world was Tommie Smith, 220 and 440 champion. A black man."

“From California.” AK was a sports nut too. Knicks versus my Celtics. We had played countless one-on-ones on the playgrounds of Boston and New York. He dominated the first twenty years. I outlasted his knees during the 90s, although now neither of us were in good shape.

“Tommie Smith set a world record in the 220.

“Time 19.83 seconds.” AK was showing off sports knowledge to his sons.

My best time in the 440 was 54.8 seconds. About thirty yrds behind Tommie Smit's best.

"At the medal ceremony Tommie Smith and John Carlos, the bronze winner, lifted their fists during THE STAR-SPANGLED banner to protest the mistreatment of blacks in America.”

My best friend in school is black.” Reese was named after the Dodgers' Pee Wee Reese.

“And what he say in class the other day.” AK was a Brooklyn boy at heart.

“That his father had been killed in Iraq. His father was a soldier.” Reese was eleven. Old enough to understand that death meant death. His younger brother believed in Santa Claus. I wished that I did too.

“Probably a good man as was the silver-medal winner from Australia.”

“Peter Norman wore an American “civil rights” badge as support to them on the podium.” AK remembered the incident better than me. “The Olympic Committee banned Smith and Carlos from the Village and Norman was dropped from the 1972 team.”

“The good are always good at the moment of their best.”

I explained the myth of the rights of man. My nephews were fast studies and loyal nephews. We were two miles from The Breakers Hotel. I told them a story that I had heard three years ago.

“The beachfront hotel had been a world-class destination for over a century. The railroad tycoon Henry Flagler completed construction on his resort for the rich in 1896. That night Flagler held a BBQ for the laborers on the golf course. While they feasted on ribs and chicken, Flagler ordered his goons to burn out the workers’ bungalows, thus insuring that no poor people will ever live on the barrier island.”

‘Is that a true story?” My oldest nephew asked his father. We had been friends for almost forty years. The West Palm Beach school teacher shrugged with suspicion.

“True as far as I know.” My source had lived in Palm Beach since her childhood, but was no historian. “But that wasn’t right either. That’s why we protest against the evil in man.”

“Your uncle tells a good story.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Interesting if true. That’s you.”

My nephews and I posed before the Mexican mural with raised fists. Their mother took the photo. We said good night. It had been great to see AK and his family. The last time had been in the summer of 2008. Things were better now.

Later that night I went online to find out the truth about the Breakers.

It wasn’t there.

Then again the truth is yet to be told.

Bring on the revolution.

The youth is with us and we are coming for your children.

METHUSALAH'S MAD DASH by Peter Nolan Smith

Last year I read that senior athletes competed against each other in a variety of track and field events. I had to ask myself, "Could I beat a 90 year-old in the 100-meter dash?"

The current record by a 95 year-old was 22 seconds.

In Brooklyn I talked my friend AP into officiating my race against age. He had a stop watch and we walked over to the local track and paced out 100 meters.

"You know that you have a thirty-year advantage on 90 year-olds." AP was younger than me by ten years, but he had refused my challenge to a race. He had a bad knee.

"I have to start somewhere."

I leaned forward in a racing crouch imitating Tommie Smith, who was my favorite runner in the 60s. He won a gold medal for the 400 meters at the Mexico City Olympics in 1968. This race was infamous for his black power salute on the medal podium. The sprinter had to be about in his late 60s, but I was racing a clock and not my hero.

AP shouted at the end of the track.

"Ready, set, go."

I dashed from the starting line. My legs felt like they belonged to another person. They wouldn't go any faster.

I counted the seconds. 50 yards in 8 seconds. 75 in 15. 100 in 20.

I cross the finish and AP checked the watch.

"21 seconds."

"Damn, I did it." I had beaten the best of the 90 year-olds.

Next stop was against the 80 year-olds and for this contest I will train like a motherfucker, because some of those old geezers cheat with steroids. I will use none and no asterisks will mar my bio or race record, for I'm as pure as the wind-driven slush.

Which is pretty good for a 60 year-old man.

TWICE THE MAN by Peter Nolan Smith

My good friend Marge had lived a long life. The Maine native had served as the athletic director at several all-women's colleges in New England. Her basketball teams had played big teams. She had been a great coach and refused to act her age.

The nonagenarian exercised daily and ate healthy foods. Marge abstained from alcohol, although she liked a cold beer on a hot summer day on Watchic Pond.

Back in 1927 my grandfather had built a log hunting cabin on the opposite shore from Marge's farm. My family had been friends with Marge for over sixty years. My father had learned ping-pong from the kindly physical educator. While he had a slight edge over me in the game, my losing streak to Marge challenged the Red Sox's inability to win a World Series.

Marge's gravity-less drop shots, wicked spin serves, and power slams befuddled, confounded, and frustrated me for decades. Each summer I crossed the lake to tell Marge of my travels around the world and sip her homemade lemonade on her porch, after which we would play our annual game of ping-pong.

On Labor Day 1999 my niece and I canoed to Marge's landing. Kat asked, "Think you might win this year, Uncle Bubba?"

My niece loved my nickname.

"How'd your dad do?"

"Marge annihilated him."

"That's good to know." I pulled the canoe onto the grass and walked with Kat to Marge's house. It dated back to the 1700s and the barn was even older.

Marge was happy to see us and I recounted my overland journey through Laos.

"Wish I could travel, but the body isn't willing." Marge rocked in her chair. She had a good view of Maine Route 117.

"You look in good shape to me." Our conversation were a ritual leading to this moment.

"Maybe this will be the year that you beat me in ping-pong."

"I have to get lucky once."

"Luck has nothing to do with winning."

"Skill and practice." The two words were her mantra for success in sports.

"I only play you." Once a year for forty years.

"Then get ready for your whipping." Marge budged out of the chair with a groan. Arthritis was having its way her body.

"Aint no fun getting old and then getting older."

"Better than the alternatives."

"You're right about that. Young lady, help me straighten up.

Kat offered her arm.

"Sure you're up for this?" I was on the wrong side of forty, but felt in good shape.

"Ha." She scoffed at my question and hobbled over to the barn, mocking me to Kat. "Like he even has a chance."

Her two horses neighed a hello and she gave them each an apple. They were loyal fans and stomped their hooves, as Marge handed me a worn paddle. Hers was even older.

"I'll even let you serve first."

"Thanks." I wasn't about to play nice.

Marge returned my serve with a blistering forestroke. She won the three games without breaking a sweat. The horses cheered her victory and returning to the porch Marge said, "Kat, go get us a beer. Winning makes me thirsty."

Upon my return to the camp my father asked, "Any luck this year?"

"Luck has nothing to do with it."

"Skill and practice," chorused my father, uncle, and brother-in-law.

Our combined losing streaks totaled almost two hundred years.

"Maybe next year." My brother-in-law poured me a glass of wine.

"And maybe the Red Sox will win the World Series."

"Some things never change in New England."

The new century came in much the same as the last. I worked the fall at the diamond exchange, traveled the Orient throughout the winter, and came up to Watchic Pond in May to put in the dock at the camp. The lake was cold and the mosquitoes buzzed for blood. My uncle Russ watched our efforts, as my father drank white wine. He liked Chardonnay.

"Have you seen Marge?"

"I did last week." Kat was getting big. Next year she would be a teenager. "She had a stroke this winter. She can speak fine, but she can't do what she used to do."

"Ping-pong?"

"She's in no condition to play ping-pong." My father was a few years younger than Marge. He believed in fair play.

"Okay, okay, I'll just go over for a visit."

"I'll go with you, Uncle Bubba." Kat like getting out of the house.

After adjusting the level of the dock, I dragged the canoe from under the camp. The Old Town slid into the lake like a knife. Kat and I strapped on life preservers, since the warden was ticketing people for every penalty in the book.

"Do you think you'll ever be old as Marge?" Kat asked from the prow. She stroked the paddle with ease and we straight-lined toward Marge's place.

"Our family got legs in our lives." Great-grandaunt Bert lived to 103. "Nothing wrong with getting old as long as you can move."

"Marge isn't moving so good." Kat sniffed back a tear.

"Marge ain't going anywhere."

"I hope so." Kat had known Marge all her life. "I hope you aren't too."

"I'm going nowhere today." I never felt old at Watchic Pond.

I pulled the canoe out of the lake and we walked across the tidy lawn.

Marge sat on the porch. She looked the same, but a nurse stood by her and a walker was in the corner. After an introduction to her helper, Marge smiled and said distinctly, "Hello, young man, where have you been?"

"New York, LA, Thailand, Paris, and Watchic Pond."

"As you can see, I've been stuck here."

"You look good." It was the truth.

"But you didn't come over here to shoot the breeze."

"Yes, I did."

"You're a bad liar. You came over to see, if you can beat me in ping-pong."

"Am I that transparent?"

"You're easier to read than a comic book."

"The doctor doesn't want you exerting yourself." Her nurse didn't like this idea.

"What's the worst that can happen? I die? I'm 92. If I go beating him, it's a good day."

"Maybe you shouldn't play." Kat was concerned for Marge.

"We'll play one game to fifteen." It was a generous concession and the nurse assisted the old Physical Ed teacher to the barn.

"Marge___."

"No backing out now, unless you want to forfeit."

"I'm game." I followed her close in case she tripped, but Marge made the barn without any trouble.

The horses were happy to see their mistress. She fed them apples. I got the newer paddle. Marge stood at her end and picked up ball.

"I will serve first."

"Some things do change."

"But not this."

She aced me with a top heavy serve and took an early lead 4-1. I evened the score with my service. Marge was slower, but crafty as ever. Balls curved in the air, they spun like tops, and she lobbed sliders onto the table's edge. The horses clomped on the floor. Kat and the nurse cheered her play. I tried not to take advantage of her disability and stayed still same as her. We reached the end of the game 14-14.

My serve.

"Uncle Bubba." Kat was pleading for me to throw the game.

"I don't want any charity. Bring on your best, Bubba."

I swatted my serve to her backhand. Marge flicked the ball to my right. I lofted it high into the rafters and the ball landed on the table. Marge's paddle snapped at it and a white blur zipped my way. I slapped at it, but the ball soared off to the left.

"15-14. I win." Marge put down her paddle a happy woman. "Some things never change. Kat, get us three beers."

"And one for me." Kat was twelve.

"Long as you don't tell your mother you can have half of mine."

Marge needed no help on the walk back to her house. We went for a swim after the beers and Marge said, "I'm going to live forever."

Kat and I canoed back to the camp.

Halfway across the lake she stopped paddling and asked, "Uncle Bubba, you didn't let Marge win?"

"I wish I could say that."

"But you didn't move."

"And neither did Marge."

"But she didn't seem to have any trouble once she won."

"You noticed that too."

"Yes." Kat shrugged and I said, "Winning is good medicine."

Back at the camp my father laughed at my defeat.

"You'll never beat her."

"And neither will you."

"Some things never change."

And that's why I love Watchic Pond, because the things that don't change are the things that matter.

1968 Olympic Moment

In 1968 I ran the 440 and 220 for my high school. My best times of 54 seconds and 28 seconds weren't even close to my hero Tommie Smith and I dreamed that one day I might get below 50 seconds in the 440 and 26 in the 220. Tommie Smith ran a blistering 200 meter race in Mexico City to break the world record with a time of 19.83 seconds. Australia's Peter Norman came in second with the USA's John Carlos winning the bronze. At the medal ceremony the three medal winners stood on the podium. At the first bars of the national anthem Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised gloved fists to protest the treatment of blacks in America and Peter Norman wore an Olympic Project for Human Rights badges to criticize White Australia. The trio left the stadium to boos and Tommie Smith said afterward, "If I win, I am American, not a black American. But if I did something bad, then they would say I am a Negro. We are black and we are proud of being black. Black America will understand what we did tonight." Tommie Smith is my hero to this day and that moment sticks in my mind as strongly as the Tank man in Beijing. Smith and Carlos were casket bearers at Norman's funeral. There were three that day and one day we will be free. The painting is by Tristam of Paris' Steaming Musselemn. He is my hero too.

METHUSALAH'S MAD DASH by Peter Nolan Smith

My good friend Marge lived a long life. The nonagenarian attributed her good health to a rigid exercise regime and abstemious diet as well as her many decades of physical prowess as the athletic director for several all-women's collages in New England.

Even into her late-80s Marge's ping-pong game was unbeatable. Gravityless drop shots, wicked spin serves, and a power slam guaranteed her a winning streak against me that spanned decades and I thought I would never beat her, but at the age of 91 Madge suffered a stroke. Not so severe as to damage her thought process, yet she had lost a little off her game and I stopped over her house on Watchic Pond to challenged my friend one last time.

The game was to 15.

And I beat her by one.

My niece considered my gloating over Marge 'bush', then again my niece has never beaten me. Only problem is that I'm well over the half-century club and today I read off senior athletes are still competing against each other in a variety of track and field events. I had to ask myself, "Could I beat a 90 year-old in the 100 meter dash?"

Current record by a 95 year-old was 22 seconds .

Back in Brooklyn I went to the local track and paced out 100 meters. My friend AP had a stop watch. I talked him into officiating my race against time.

"You know that you have a thirty year advantage on 90 year-olds." AP was younger than me by ten years. He had refused my every challenge for a race.

"I have to start somewhere." The previous week I had beaten his eight year-old daughter in Fort Greene Park by ten yards. This was a much more serious enterprise.

I leaned forward in a racing crouch imitating Tommie Smith, who was my favorite runner in the 60s. He won a gold medal for the 400 meters at the Mexico City Olympics in 1968. This race was infamous for his black power salute on the medal podium. The sprinter had to be about in his late 60s, but I was racing a clock and not my hero.

I called out to AP at the end of the track.

"Ready, set, go."

I dashed from the starting line with the finish in sight even without my glasses.

I counted the seconds. 50 yards in 8 seconds. 75 in 15. 100 in 20.

My friend checked the watch.

"21 seconds."

I hadn't beaten the best of the 90 year-olds and I was elated with my victory.

Next stop is against the 80 year-olds and for this contest I will train like a motherfucker, because some of those old geezers are cheating with steroids. I will use none, because I'm pure as the wind-driven slush. No asterisks will mar my bio or race record. At least not unless I lose and then it's every man for himself.