The Summer of My Discontent! by Bob Kaufman

Stan Ghidossi's Wood Pile 2019

My friend, Stan Ghidossi, posted this picture on Facebook, November 16, 2019. Reading his post took my mind back to “The Summer of My Discontent!”

I remember vividly the summer, probably 1964 or '65, when Dad ordered a truckload of logs delivered to the vacant lot across the gully from our house. It was my task to turn the logs into firewood for the coming winter, load the finished product into the bed of Dad's '56 Chevy pickup, and transport the load to the woodpile in our front yard. These were not Lincoln Logs. At the big end, some were about four feet in diameter, certainly longer than the 36" guide bar of Dad's biggest chainsaw. Like slicing a carrot, I cut those logs into pieces short enough to fit our fireplace. No summer before nor since have I been so intimately acquainted with a chainsaw as I was then. Perhaps a close second was a few years earlier, 1958 I think, when lightning struck and destroyed the big tree on the corner of Plumas and Pine Streets...but that's another story.

Dad Sawing the Tree
Destroyed by Lightning

(Oh heck! Why not?)

When that lightning bolt jolted into my life, shattering parts of that ill-fated tree and cutting a spiral rift from top to bottom, I was at the street corner by the telephone office, just a short diagonal city block away, returning from a trek to Leonard's Market, toting groceries in a paper bag that felt like it could not hold intact for one more block's walk in the deluge. I think I may have sought shelter from the rain, pausing momentarily under the veranda at the entrance to the office. You know how a paper grocery bag silently rips apart when it gets wet, especially when it is full of bottled or canned goods? Well...how that wet paper bag didn't disintegrate, scattering the groceries all over the phone office parking lot and shattering the bottles, when I jumped, is a mystery. I do not remember having to break into my piggy bank for funds to replace the groceries, so it is possible that Marge had double-bagged them to ensure a successful delivery.

Mom Helped

When the time came to make firewood from that tree, I was too young to be trusted with running the chainsaw, so my duties were confined to gathering, loading, and unloading the log disks, and splitting them into fuel. There must be a mountain-dweller’s name for those log disks, but I’ve lived in the desert now for nearly a half century, so if there is one, it has floated away from my mental archive like the smoke from all those logs I made into firewood and burned in the old fireplace.

Both summers of my discontent I found myself wishing that Dad would buy one of those gas-powered log-splitters to make my life easier, something he did, finally, after I had migrated to the desert but too late for me to get any pleasure from running it. Actually, it is good that he didn’t buy that work saver. If he had, I would have remained a Casper Milquetoast, never having completed the physical training I needed to become the football superstar I was that fall! Nevertheless, those pre-log-splitter summers were my opportunity to learn that I NEVER wanted to make my living using a sledgehammer and wedges!

(Truthfully, by Thanksgiving that year, I had also learned I wasn't going to earn a living on the gridiron either.)

Dad Posing, I Think

Despite the difficulty of such hard labor, it is strange how the memory of the sights, sounds, and smells of making firewood in that vacant, sagebrush-covered lot, are pleasant to me, so many years agone. Pining for the aroma of sawdust and fresh-cut chips of Douglas fir ejected amidst the smoke exhaust of the chain saw; the wood pitch that stuck to everything attracting dirt and turning black; the clink of the sledgehammer hitting the wedge; the crackling of the wood fibers ripping apart as the log splits; the soft scent of the sagebrush, dampened by a gentle rain the night before; all make me wish, for a moment at least, to return to the mountains!

Perhaps again, in June, I shall return, roll up my sleeves and pant legs, and wade in Gold Lake one more time.

Dear Bugs, where were you during The Summer of My Discontent?

Firewood Was a Basic Necessity!

A Walk in the Park With Puppy, January 30, 2010 by Bob Kaufman

There is beauty all around when you have a puppy!

Puppy lived with us for 5,265 days – Mother’s Day, May 15, 2005 to today, October 14, 2019. This is just a glimpse back at one of those days:

Spock, Killer, Puppy in His Younger Days

Puppy and I went for a walk just before sunset today, January 30, 2010. It has been a week since the
big rain. We had a tiny bit this week, but not much really. The ground is already dry in most places, but you can see where the water had been standing. Home plate at the park still had some puddles of water but they'll probably be playing games there in a week or two. A couple of trees were blown over by the wind. Workers have cleared the fallen trees from the sidewalk but haven't removed the debris yet. It's amazing how much the ground dries up in just a week. Ours and several other houses lost some shingles in the wind. Ours is not as bad as some, but still about 20 or so need to be replaced, but I've been compensated for the extra work of repairing the roof.

The pile of mulberry leaves that had accumulated at the foot of the tree has gone with the wind. The air was a little chilly, but still nice - mid 60's I'd guess. I had to wear a long-sleeved shirt. The park was buzzing with people. There were at least three groups celebrating birthdays or some other special event. In the basin there was a large group throwing footballs and such. They had tables set up I think with food but I'm not sure. I wondered who they were.

Around the back there was a birthday party for sure. The party-goers had those big pans like you see in a cafeteria to keep food warm. I don't know what they were eating, but it smelled good. The kids were playing in one of those inflatable playrooms. I wished I was a kid again. We didn't have things like that in the 50's. We had to use our imagination more. The playground was full of parents and children on swings and other equipment. As we passed the playground a woman was taking her small daughter to the bathroom. The girl asked, "Does your dog bite?" I thought about Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther when I said "No"...as she began to pet him. Luckily, he just sniffed her feet.

I saw at least 30 airplanes overhead as we walked. I sighed every time. Some were making contrails, others were lower. They were heading in every direction.

Randall, our neighbor, was walking south by the pool wearing his safari hat while we were heading east. I saw him, he saw us. But puppy was too busy sniffing the ground and peeing on bushes to notice. Good thing because he would have barked up a storm. Twice tonight he was on the arm of the couch facing the door barking constantly. There was nothing outside, I opened the door so he could see. Then I realized that a book of Arizona Parks was sitting on the end table. Randall brought it by this morning for me to look at. I don't know why Puppy has it in for Randall, but he does. Every time we pass his house, Puppy runs to the end of the leash barking like crazy and then chokes himself and has to cough to clear his throat. He settles down after we pass by.

In the park there was a father and four boys playing football. The father was the QB. Two boys went out for a pass and two others were defending. The father threw a long pass which was caught by one of boys and then raised both hands pointing to the sky signaling a touchdown and victory! He looked just like Brett Favre (I bet this dad knows how to pronounce his own name, but that’s another story). Another group of adults and children were playing a bean bag toss game near the ramada. They cheered when someone apparently made a really good shot.

When we got back to the house, our shadows were on the neighbor's house. This only happens for a week or so about a month on either side of Dec 21 when the sun is in the right position in the southern sky near sunset. Puppy saw the shadows, ran toward the house and barked at them. By the time I got my camera, the sun had dropped partly below the houses to the west and I couldn't see puppy's shadow any more so I had to pick him up.

Puppy's Last Walk in the Park, October 16, 2019 by Bob Kaufman

Puppy and I went for a walk today, October 16, 2019. This was unlike the hundreds of other walks we took around Arrowhead Park in the past. Puppy went home two days ago.

Puppy's Doggy Tags

Today, I felt drawn to the idea to carry his dog tags around the long route we once walked at a brisk pace, but which we had to abandon several years ago because of his advancing age, declining energy, and quivering legs. Gradually we had cut back - first eliminating the circuit around the baseball fields, then the loop around the retention basin until all that he could bear was to walk around the pool and playground, and just barely so. Still, four days ago, our last Saturday morning walk, took longer than those early walks around the entire park.

Watch Out For That Drain!

Missing today were the plastic grocery bags I would carry to pick up puppy surprises he usually left in the dirt under a large cottonwood tree just past the northwest corner of the fenced-off Arrowhead Pool. Gone was my concern as we passed the gutter with openings that drain runoff water into the retention basin. Those drains were quite large enough to swallow even an overweight Long-haired Chihuahua. Also missing was the tinkling of his tags as they would do when he jumped the curb, or when he trotted along, constantly pulling at the leash, but more recently, just waddled along our trail…and, of course, missing was the incessant barking as we passed Randall’s house, which we did twice on every walk. I don’t think Randall knows yet it is safe to visit us again.

It has been twenty-three days since the big rain – the full measure of the summer monsoon on West Tyson Street that was confined to thirty minutes on September 23 between 5:00 and 5:30 a.m. I heard this was the fifth worst monsoon on record. Prior to 2008, the beginning of the Arizona Monsoon was determined to be when the average dew point temperature was 55 degrees or higher for three consecutive days. But then some important people determined that it would begin on June 15 and end on September 30. Too bad they cannot predict the weather as well as they seem to think they can control it simply with an edict. Actually...that isn't fair. They have become much better at forecasting than the stereotype given them in times past.

Arrowhead Meadows Water Retention Basin
And the Lower Trail

The pathways around the park were dry today. The trees and grass looked healthy, but somehow the color was not as vivid as I remember from past walks. The park looked tidier than a month or two ago. Branches from several decaying cottonwood trees had fallen to the ground in the summer winds, but recently, workers have been busy cleaning up and it looked good.

The pile of mulberry leaves in our front yard is just a memory. We lost that tree five years ago. Grandpa doesn’t have leaves anymore. Little Tommi, our newest granddaughter, born just a couple months ago, will never know the fun the older kids knew playing in Grandpa's leaves – and sadly, she will never know Grandpa's Puppy.

Arrowhead Pool Digital Timer

Today is Wednesday. Fall break is over and schools are back in session. Nobody was playing football in the basin, no umpire yelled "Batter Up!" on any of the four diamonds, the pickleball and tennis courts were silent, and there was no splashing, nobody taking laps in the pool, no divers. The pool was full of water but empty of swimmers, although the digital lap timer on the wall was ticking away as it has been 24/7 for as long as I can remember. One day maybe someone will repair the display so that the numbers will be readable again. Seems like missing lines that define the numbers is a common problem on scoreboards and clocks such as the one at the pool. Makes me wonder: “Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?"

A Party at the Ramada

Homeless Man Napping on the Grass

The park wasn’t completely silent. A homeless man was asleep on the grass in the shade of a large mulberry tree, with his bicycle and a bundle close beside him. If he was snoring, though, I was too far away to hear him. In the early years, Puppy would have heard him. A small group of party-goers was celebrating under one of the ramadas. From a distance I could see that food was involved and there were decorations on the tables, but no balloons. I was curious what food had been prepared – not sure if it was a late breakfast or early lunch. Must have been a brunch. Since my smeller is no longer functioning, I could not get a whiff of what they were having. It isn’t a total loss. I can still taste sweet and salty.

A city parks worker was washing down the tennis courts with a hose and a middle-aged man and woman appeared to have discovered the courts for the first time. They walked inside the gate to check it out but they were not dressed to play. I couldn't hear their conversation, but I had the impression they thought of coming back when they were dressed differently. Thinking they looked middle-aged brought to my mind the episode of “Happy Days” when Howard Cunningham turned fifty and was finally "middle-aged", according to The Fonz…but that’s another story.

Another man in his fifties, I’d guess, passed by me from behind at a brisk pace. He was wearing shorts and ear buds and appeared to be serious about fitness. A young woman wearing wrap-around dark glasses, a black hoodie, and headphones walked within two feet of me from the opposite direction. With her head slightly bowed and her cell phone in the familiar vertical position peculiar to this day and age, she did not respond when I said “good morning” … and she never looked up. Lucky for her Killer wasn’t there to bark her leg off.

The Playground

At the playground, three young mothers were pushing some little ones in the swings and a few other children were playing under the canopy. A man was watching another child on the slide. Usually one of those little ones at the swings would scamper across the wood chips covering the play area and want to pet Puppy. Or else, they would appear interested but reticent, holding on to mommy's leg - but today I doubt they even noticed when we passed by. Only the usual sounds were floating in the gentle breeze – the delightful melodies of children at play. Missing were their curious questions or exclamations:

“Does your dog bite?”
“Oh, mommy, look at the cute puppy!”

The Walk Between the Pool and Tennis and Pickleball Courts

“Can I pet your dog?”
“I like your dog.”
“What’s his name?”

To the last one, I always answered: “His name is Spock, like the pointy-eared guy on Star Trek, but I call him Puppy, or Killer when I want to scare someone.” That was usually followed by: “Oh, how cute”, but only if I left off the Killer part. The name thing is another story, and I have already written part of it.

Artist's Canvas

All around the park, there were signs of life but little other activity. The old cottonwood tree by the playground still displays the image of a dancer, quite skillfully drawn by an unknown artist who, in my humble opinion, definitely has a gift. It hasn’t been there long – maybe since the beginning of summer, but not much longer. A couple other irreverent artists have recently tagged the sidewalk nearby, and possibly a budding Degas or Da Vinci have recently used the sidewalk near the east baseball field as a canvas for their chalk drawings. But then again, it just might have been a couple of youngsters who came to watch a T-Ball game last weekend.

Remnants of the concrete mile-markers from Andrew Van Allen’s Eagle Project of 1993 are still standing along the course around the scarcely-used water retention basin. I’m relying on a fading memory for that date. The markers have weathered significantly in twenty-six years and probably won’t survive to the age of Stonehenge, or even Manhattanhenge, but they will remain awhile longer as a monument to a young man’s diligent efforts to earn scouting’s highest award.  The city has since upgraded the Lower Path and installed new ramadas and light poles around the basin.

Andrew Van Allen's Eagle Project
Mileage Marker

Strategically posted signs clearly outline the rules for using the park. By the entrance to the third base side of the east field, the signs clearly warned: “NO dogs allowed on ball fields” and “No metal cleats on mound”. I was wearing my Sketchers, and there was nothing posted anywhere prohibiting dog tags on the field. I think there should have been a sign saying: “Put your blasted sunflower seed shells in the trash, SLOB!” But there wasn’t one of those signs either.

No Dogs Allowed

Close to the pool on Erie Street, the trimmed Mexican Petunia bush has grown a bit since Puppy spent nearly two minutes sniffing around it Saturday morning. I think it was his way of catching a breather. Alone, I crossed the completely unshaded parking lot where I often would pick him up and carry him if he was too tired or if it was too hot.

Doggy Tags Permitted

Looking both ways out of a long-established habit I crossed the street and headed home. Saturday, a considerate motorist had slowed even more than the Speed Humps signs suggest allowing us safe crossing. Today the street was vacant. Across the street, I noticed again some trash in the oleander bushes by the corner house. Park visitors seem to dump there a lot. I have often thought to get one of those long grabby thingy’s and some plastic gloves and use Puppy’s unused plastic grocery bag (I always carried two), to pick up the trash, but never seem to think about it except when I pass by.

On the home stretch, I saw four pigeons perched atop the street light. As I drew closer I made my normal loud whishing sound and waved my arms to scare them off. Still, the sidewalk is always a mess for me to clean. I would prefer scooping doggy doo in the back yard. But that’s gone too.

At the threshold to the front door, Saturday he paused as he always did for the last few years, getting ready to make the jump into the living room. As he did, I always said “Good Boy!”, and gave him a treat after removing his leash. I sure do miss that!

The Puppy Song

The Pickleball Court

Arrowhead Pool

The Dancer

Once upon a time, we would continue straight ahead at this intersection.
Lately, we would turn left, greatly shortening our walk.

Dogs Are Welcome

The Hot Parking Lot

Erie Street East

Erie Street West

Mexican Petunias by the Pool

Puppy's Dumping Ground on the Right

Slow Down for Speed Humps (and Puppy)

The Home Stretch

Pigeons

Puppy's Dog Tags and Walking Collar

The Daring Rescue at Squaw Queen Creek by Bob Kaufman

I remember vividly the moment I saved Glenn Hull’s life. Everything else that day is just a blur.

1965 Basketball

Glenn was unquestionably the best all-around athlete in the class of 1966. A few guys might argue that point, but they’d lose. Being the best in Portola isn’t necessarily saying a lot, but if I recall correctly, Glenn did have some success after high school. While he wore the PHS Tigers uniform, he played football, basketball, baseball, and track all four years. He was a four-year letterman and a Feather River League Allstar in football both our Junior and Senior years.

According to the program for the Westwood basketball game, January 22, 1966, Glenn stood 6’2” tall – nothing remarkable, but he had long arms and a vertical leap better than anyone around. He could hold his own on the basketball court with opponents from Quincy and Greenville who boasted a towering 6’8” on the event programs. Sometimes they fudged the numbers a bit, I think, trying to get into our heads, but these guys looked every bit that tall, or taller. That was especially true of a couple of games where Glenn was suspended and I, John Hein, and a few other sub-six-footers were called on to play center for the Tigers. I saw a clip once showing a tall giant of a guy, standing flat-footed, holding a basketball in one hand with his arm straight up, and five little guys running around, trying in vain to jump and take it away. We were those little guys. To say it was hopeless is an understatement!

Fall 1965 Football

Glenn was a pretty nice guy…most of the time, but he chose to be ornery on occasion. For mouthing off to Coach Wise near the end of football, he was suspended at the beginning of our final Varsity Basketball season. After losing the first four games by a combined score of 246 to 152, including back to back games against the Quincy Trojans who outscored us by 57 points (remember the 6’8” giant?), Bob Hurd and I cornered Glenn and persuaded (begged) him to apologize to Coach so he could come back and try to salvage our season. Glenn capitulated and apologized. In the remaining 14 games he averaged 22 points and 16 rebounds per game to lead the team. Even with Glenn on the roster, though, we were small. Coach Donnenwirth’s parting words in the Pineneedle were: “The team was lacking in height but not in spirit as it turned in many outstanding efforts during the season.” That’s how coaches sugarcoat a 4 and 14 season. What he really meant was we got our rear ends kicked, but we tried hard.

And that's not all he said. He closed his message by saying "Six seniors will be departing from the present team, but the juniors showed great improvement during the season and should form the nucleus of a contending ball club for next year." Dang, I hate it when they say "Wait till next year." Thanks a lot, coach. For us there wasn't a next year!

1966 Basketball

Glenn’s orneriness didn’t stop at badmouthing Coach. He knew I always wanted to wear jersey number 14, no matter what sport. I was born on the 14th, and somewhere along the way, 14 became MY number. I managed to get it for football and basketball that year, but before the start of baseball season, when Coach Cimaglia was handing out uniforms in the boys’ locker room, Glenn muscled his way ahead of me in the line and deliberately grabbed number 14 before I could get it. Now, mind you, I had no sense of entitlement in the matter. He did it just for spite and wouldn’t give in when I tried to persuade (begged) him to trade with me. So, for baseball, I wore number 15. I’m still mad at him about that – maybe…. Come to think of it, most likely, I was able to wear number 14 for basketball because of his suspension – maybe….

I saved Glenn’s life, and for that, I had to wear number 15! Is there no justice in the world?

Well…perhaps there is. It’s time to rewind the video tape.

The Daring Rescue at Squaw Queen Creek happened four years earlier, near the end of the eighth grade, before any of us superstars in the class of 1966 took the fields, stormed the court, or ran the track in a Tigers uniform. Notwithstanding his athletic prowess in high school, in the eighth grade, Glenn could not swim. Completely in character with his machismo, he would never admit that to any of us guys. But then one day, in the heat of battle, we discovered Glenn’s Achilles Heel was aquatics.

Our eighth-grade band class was a wonder to behold. We boys made for an interesting ensemble:  Bob Hurd (aka "Turo"), Pete Thill, and Glenn Hull – Trombone; Rory Luce – Tuba; Stan Ghidossi (aka “Bugs”) – Baritone Horn; Bob Kaufman – Clarinet. I think I was the black sheep in that group of brass players.

Our music teacher, Mr. Ivan Thompson, who also taught seventh and eighth grade English, had a tradition of taking the boys from eighth-grade band class on a camping trip out in the wilderness – without our instruments. Notwithstanding our instrument-less-ness, we took our vocal cords wherever we went and made good use of them riding through Clover Valley in the back of Mr. T’s pickup singing:

“I got a gal named Bony Maroney.
She’s as skinny as a stick of macaroni.
Oughta see her rock and roll with her blue jeans on.
She’s not very fat, just skin and bones.
But I love her, and she loves me,
And oh, how happy now we can be
Makin’ love underneath the apple tree.”

I Got a Gal Named Boney Maroney, by Sha-na-na

Glenn Hull, Class of 1966

Yeah. Glenn taught us that song. Can you imagine six eighth-grade boys riding through the woods in the bed of a pickup truck singing that one? Better that than dancing to it with a girl at a sock hop. That gig didn’t launch any stellar music careers, but a half-century later, I did make it to the grand stage in Carnegie Hall…but that’s another story.

On Squaw Queen Creek, somewhere before the confluence with Little Last Chance Creek, was a swimming hole, guarded on every side by the tall willow bushes that grow along all the creeks and rivers up home. We once played a basketball game in Westwood where the court was so short the top of the Free Throw Circle was only a couple feet from the mid-court line. This swimming hole was no more than half the size of that half court.

On the west end of the swimming hole was a huge round boulder, protruding high enough above the water to make a small diving platform, but low enough that you could almost sit and dangle your feet in the water. There might have been a small patch of wild grass on the side of the creek, but at best, it was a soggy bog. The only sure way to exit the swimming hole was to climb up the rock. It wasn’t much of a climb, but it was slippery when wet and only had a few handholds we could use to pull ourselves up and out of the water. Three or four boys could sit on that rock and just barely bump elbows. I don’t know how high Glenn could reach in a vertical leap in the eighth grade. None of us had yet finished growing, but that swimming hole was deeper than that – deeper still by the height of one more thirteen-year-old. I know because many years later, Turo told me so. The water was dark and murky. I was only able to see a couple of feet below the surface.

To get to Squaw Queen Creek, we had to drive to Beckwourth, then take the Beckwourth to Genesee Road up to Clover Valley, cross over into Dixie Valley for a few miles and then hang a left to follow Squaw Queen Creek into Squaw Valley (not ‘the’ Squaw Valley loved by skiers). It might have been 25 to 30 miles away from town, but it was all dirt roads from just a few miles north of Beckwourth. I’m sure driving time was an hour or so, especially with boys in the bed of the pickup. It was a remote area. Still is today. It was the perfect place to get away, if nothing went wrong.

There we were on that rock – Glenn, Turo, me, and a couple others. Given that Rory, Pete, and Bugs were the only other candidates, it should be easy, but I simply do not remember who else was there.  Somebody asked if we all could swim. Everyone answered yes. A couple guys jumped in followed by Glenn. Suddenly the water was splashing and churning like it was full of piranha on a feeding frenzy! Glenn’s arms were flailing around as he tried to get his head back above water. The only other time I remember his arms waiving around so vigorously was during the 1965 Quincy football game when he was open in the pass pattern, but our QB, Mike Nally, was desperately trying to run away from a couple of Quincy’s defensive lineman and ended up with a mouthful of grass and a ten yard loss right in front of our bench – and a screaming Coach Wise.

The noise around the swimming hole was almost as loud as Coach’s screaming. During the commotion, Turo jumped in. I stayed on the rock, trying, but failing to grab hold of Glenn’s arm. Turo disappeared into the turbulent water for what was probably only fifteen seconds or so but seemed longer than one of Mr. T’s English classes.  His arms still flailing, Glenn drifted closer to the rock, and his head popped above the water. My reflexes were too slow for me to catch his arm, and his hair was just too short. In desperation, still having not seen Turo come up, with my right hand, I clinched Glenn’s ear! Holding on for dear life (not sure whose), it must have been enough to keep him safe until the others could get out of the water and help pull him up.

Pete Thill, Glenn Hull, Glenn Schwartz

Hearing Hurd tell the story decades later, one would think he thought he was the hero. I mean, he said he jumped in, but Glenn grabbed him and was pulling him under. With considerable effort he managed to break free from Glenn’s grasp. He sunk down, and standing on the bottom, he  grabbed Glenn’s legs and started pushing him up and toward the rock. All I remember is my hand clutching Glenn’s ear…and then singing Boney Maroney in the back of Mr. T's pickup the next afternoon. Everything in the middle is gone. But, I can still see Glenn’s face while we were singing. When he was being goofy, we all had a lot of fun!

Forty-five years later, at our 40th class reunion in the Log Cabin, Hurd and I were joking with Glenn about the rescue. He said he did remember the event, and in his goofy way said, "Yeah, and I haven't been swimming since!"

A few years ago, during a reunion as several of us gathered around a fire to reminisce, in the clear night air at River’s Edge RV Park in Clio, under the canopy of his trailer, Hurd said there was one casualty that fateful weekend. As he told it, a few hours after his daring rescue, we were all laying around the campfire in our sleeping bags when a lizard scampered toward the fire, jumped in, and was burned to a crisp. Sadly, that image did not stick in my memory. If my brain had been able to retain three images instead of two, definitely I would have wanted the third to be the fire-roasted lizard.

Great Hands, Bob! by Bob Kaufman

Google "great hands" and you'll quickly find a list of web links and an array of images depicting a variety of seemingly unrelated topics: physical massage, tattoos, potter's wheels, football, baseball and basketball players doing their thing, and even a hockey player picking his nose.  If "ball" is anywhere in the name of a sport, the successful players must have good hands. The superstars have great hands.

T-38 Flight Line, Williams AFB, Arizona, 1971

T-38 In the Overhead Traffic Pattern,
Williams AFB, Arizona, 1971

During my days in the cockpit, the best pilots were sometimes called "good sticks" referring to the stick we held in our right hand to control every movement of the aircraft. With throttles in our left hand and the stick in our right hand, it was also said of those who were the best pilots, usually with some envy, "he has great hands".  I was first in my class of 70 or so student pilots for most of our year in training. When our follow-on assignments came near the end of training, I had earned first choice. I graduated 4th in my class...but that's another story.

I had pretty good hands.

Capt. Bob Kaufman, Boomer Flight IP,
Williams AFB, Arizona 1974

On the other hand, there was "ham hands".  Walking through the hallway of the T-38 squadron building one day I observed a small crowd of student pilots listening to one of their comrades telling a "war" story about his heroics during the mission he had just completed. While performing a routine entry to the overhead traffic pattern - a maneuver that required a simple, level 60-degree bank turn to line up with the runway at an altitude of 1500 feet AGL (above ground level) at a comfortable 280 knots airspeed - this magnificent young airman somehow rolled his flying machine inverted (upside down), crossed through the final approach corridors of two active, parallel runways and almost "bought the farm" in a cotton field a few miles southeast of the runway.  Miraculously, ham hands recovered from his very unusual attitude, crossed back through the other traffic on his return to the prescribed pattern, and eventually landed safely and lived to recount his heroics to his fellow students in the snack bar. During his heroic narrative he used the phrase "great hands" in reference to his safe recovery.  Its a wonder how he didn't break his arm patting himself on the back. I was not his IP (instructor pilot) so I bit my tongue and walked away.  Discounting possible mechanical failure, only the worst of pilots could ever get such an unusual attitude in a perfectly good airplane. Nah, that’s too nice. I can’t imagine how even the worst stick could do it. This guy was awfully @#^$%* lucky! (Colorful military metaphor censored!)

So, there I was, in right field, Spring 1965, my junior year in high school playing for the PHS Tigers baseball team.  That was a few years after they had completed the new football field which is now called Coach Bob Wise Memorial Stadium.  The old football field would later become the baseball field, but at that time we did not have a suitable baseball field anywhere in town.  Instead, for home games we rode the bus to Graeagle and played on the gravel field surrounded by Tomahawk Trail, just up the hill from highway 89 in the middle of town. (Later I mention the "dugouts" at that field, but they were no more than telephone poles, laid horizontally on some footings, which we seldom used because, frankly, they hurt our butts!)

Portola Tigers High School Baseball Team, Spring 1965
Graeagle Baseball Field
1965 Pineneedle

Bunky Brown played center field.  He had the strongest arm of anyone in the county and his skill at the plate was everything you would want in a strong center fielder.  On the other hand, my ninety-eight pound weakling arm had improved just a little…very little, from Little League…but I had quick feet, good judgement, and quick responses so I was able to cover a lot of ground and run down some tough fly balls. I wanted to play center field but nobody was going to replace Bunky until he graduated. (I did make to center field in 1966!)

Mr. Cimaglia's Coach's Message in the 1965 Pineneedle said:  "The outfield was manned by Brown, Grant and Fisher".  They were all seniors.  But I must have done something right because coach also said: "The 1965 baseball season can be summarized in the score:  Portola 2, Lassen 0.  The Tigers beat Lassen in the last game of the year to knock the Grizzlies out of first place.  Stalwart pitcher Ed Cavaille performed masterfully on the mound.  Portola scored on consecutive hits by Nally, Kaufman, Hull, and Ed Cavaille."
(Mr. Cimaglia always called me "Coffee" or maybe it was "Kaufee". However you spell it, I really liked that.)

Coach Armando "Mando" Cimaglia's Message
1965 Pineneedle

Make a note of that.  It is in print for all to see.  I actually contributed to the most important game of
that year...but this story is about the Greenville game.  We were scalped by the Indians 14 - 7.

In one of the late innings, Greenville had two out and I think a couple of men on base.  Their batter hit a routine fly ball to shallow right field...and it would have been a routine catch not worthy of being mentioned ever again except that, belying my previous statement about good judgement, at first, I started moving to my left and back.  Then I realized the ball was going to drop well in front of me. Quickly I dug in with my left foot, changed course, and scrambled forward.  At the last instant, with both arms outstretched, I dove head-first onto the gravel, landing on my forearms, kicking up a cloud of dust like an Arizona monsoon.  I closed my glove a split second early and the ball landed on the crease between my thumb and fingers.  Because I was engulfed in that cloud of dust, absolutely no one at the field but me knows for sure what happened. However, the umpire, showing somewhat uncharacteristic good judgement, (something umpires seldom do when you're losing), ruled it was an out.

I trotted toward our "dugout" on the third base side, passing the first base dugout where the Indians were on the warpath, whooping and hollering and complaining they had been cheated out of a few more runs...as if 14 to 7 wasn’t enough of a massacre. You would have thought the game was on the line by their reaction.  All the Tigers had to say was "Great hands, Bob!" (A few might have said “great catch”, but that wouldn’t fit the story, so I’ll pretend I’m right.)

Truthfully, it was a catch.  The ball never hit the ground.  Instant replay would not have overturned that call. Just like that ball stuck in the crease of my glove, that mental image of the ball resting there has stuck in my memory for more than fifty years!

The next day in Mr. Rowden's math class, I sat with my elbows on the desk and both hands in the air, like a doctor waiting for his assistant to put on his surgical gloves, to keep my scarred and scabbed forearms off the desk.  Oblivious to my heroic play the previous day he said something totally in character like: "What happened?  Did you trip going down the stairs?"  Didn't he know he was in the presence of a superstar with great hands?

I don’t know if I had a girlfriend at the time.  I hardly did, ever, so probably not.  But if I did, she would have been impressed even if Mr. Rowden wasn’t.  And she would not have known that I was a hero, basking in my fifteen seconds of fame, only because I misjudged a routine fly ball...and I certainly wasn’t about to admit it!