Part 1: Finishing Blocks and Deadly Hook Shots

A few months after beating Brad at HORSE, even though he’d beat me every time since then, I was still pretty confident and hopeful about my King Jock plan A. Spring had arrived—track season.

I was in the starting blocks, ready to run the race of my life. As the second fastest kid at Hillwood Elementary School, I knew I had it in me to win this thing. Truthfully, I’d never actually lined-up against every other kid at Butler and raced before, but I knew that my best friend Brad could run a little bit faster than me and I didn’t know anyone else who could—so I figured I was second fastest. But Brad wasn’t in this race, and even if he was, I’d beaten him at HORSE once. Maybe on this race day I could have beaten him again.

It was the Junior Olympics and kids from schools all over town were there. There were seven of us in this heat. After I won, I figured then I’d go to the semi-finals and when I won there, I’d go to the finals—and then, you got it, once I won there I’d officially be the fastest kid in town.

I’d never run a race using starting blocks before. But it was no biggy, I mean they’re just these contraptions attached to these metal frames and you’re supposed to put your feet against them when you get all bent over at the start. I could just watch what the other kids did and I’d do the same thing.

I had to keep myself from laughing at all the other guys in the race. They all wore actual track shoes with stupid little spikes sticking out the bottom, like that was gonna help them. I was wearing my regular, good old athletic shoes—they were good enough for me! I felt strong and confident!

We were called to the line to start the race. I walked over and got in my lane, #3. I was glad I had that lane so that all these other guys could see me pull away from them once I kicked it into high gear. The race was only 100 yards long, but that’d give me plenty of time to show everybody what kind of King Jock I truly was!

The starter was an old guy with a starting gun. He stood to the side, like he was kind of bored. I had to admit he’d watched about a thousand of these preliminary heats but he probably hadn’t seen speed like mine yet—he’d probably want my autograph once he saw what I did in this race.

“Take your marks.  .Get set…BANG!!!”

I flew outta the starting blocks like a Cheetah on fire, like the Road Runner escaping Wily Coyote, like a rocket’s red glare and bombs bursting in . . . wait a second . . . I was completely stunned, shocked, and amazed to see something I never in a million years considered that I might see . . . the backs of my opponents as they pulled away from me. I bore down and pushed myself hard, harder, as hard as I could . . .but they were pulling farther and farther away . . .I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that one kid was about half a step behind me way out in lane #6. I was in second to last place!

There were 5 guys flying away from me who made Brad look like he’d have looked if he’d been running with a 600-pound gorilla on his back. These other runners actually appeared to be shrinking, as the distance between us grew greater. And suddenly the kid in Lane #6 had caught up to me and was starting to pull away too. I pushed myself as hard as I could, but my legs had turned to spaghetti. My feet were trapped in giant concrete blocks. This was the most embarrassing moment of my life, and I’d had my share of embarrassing moments. Suddenly a brilliant idea entered my head, maybe I was injured? Maybe I couldn’t run faster because I had some terrible injury to my ankle/leg/hambone/sacrawillyack/ something, anything to get me out of that situation. I stopped running and watched the rest of the racers disappear into the distance. I began to walk with a fake limp, unable to decide which leg was supposedly hurt, left or right?

Starting blocks, huh? Nope for me they were finishing blocks, the end of my track and field career and the end of King Jock part 1.

*                                     *                                     *

Now basketball was another matter. Hoops, baby! Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. I’d beaten Brad at HORSE once (never mind the 200,000 times he’d kicked my you-know-what at HORSE since my one victory).

Our pick-up games at lunch and recess at Hillwood had always been a blend of street basketball, full contact karate, and rugby. I was almost always one of the first two or three guys picked—Brad and Steve Swinton were the only two guys who were better than I was so they were always the captains. Actually, a lot of guys never even got to touch the ball since we usually had about thirty guys per side for our half court games, so there may have been some other good players, but I was guessing I was 3rd third best.

That day’s contest had been typically brutal. A lot of guys were standing on the sidelines holding ice packs on their heads, shoulders, knees etc, and we’d only been at playing for maybe five minutes.

In the game we’d played the day before, I’d hit a long hook shot—the kind of shot that is unstoppable unless you’re opponent is 7 feet tall and can jump really high. And I mean long too. I’d been 20 feet away from the basket and I was being guarded by about five guys when I got myself into position and launched the hook shot  . . . swish . . . nothing but net . . . well, okay, first it hit the backboard, then bounced around the rim a few times, but the important thing was that it went through.

In the game this day, I was about ten feet out and being guarded by only three other kids. I stopped my dribble and eyed the basket. Of course I was on Brad’s team—Steve Swinton saw what was about the happen and he yelled really loud, “WATCH DYLAN, HE’S DEADLY ON THOSE HOOKS!!!”

He had that right, deadly!!

At the sound of Steve’s panicked yell, everybody in the gym froze and looked straight at me. I took my single step away from the basket, lifted my arm in a perfect, gorgeous sweeping motion as I released the ball—the shot felt just right. I thought, ‘watch me, everyone, I’m deadly on these hooks!!!’ Hoops baby . . . my game. . . oh yeah.  . Deadly!!!!!

What happened? Well, the simple answer is that the ball missed by a little . . . but that’s not true, the ‘little’ part . . .the ball went a good fifteen feet over the top of the backboard—I think it actually scraped the ceiling of the gym and I didn’t even know I could throw a ball that high. It looked like something launched from one of those old-fashioned catapult things that threw big fireballs and rocks over the tops of palace walls back when guys used to wear armor and stuff.

There was no armor thick enough to save me from the laughter that echoed through the gym in that moment though. Steve Swinton was speechless and probably the only kid in the room who could be even 1/100^th as embarrassed as I was, “watch Dylan he’s deadly on those hooks”

 Ten minutes later and I stood on the side of the gym floor doing the only thing I could think to do; holding an ice pack on my ‘hurt’ wrist.

When the game was finally over, Brad walked up to me and asked, “You all right?”

I answered, “Oh yeah, I’ll be okay . . . just a little . . . I don’t know . . . tendentious of the wrist joint in the carpal tunnel vein or something.”

“Uh-huh” Brad said, then he looked at me a little bit closer and asked, “It’s funny that it’s your left wrist that’s hurt, the way you threw that hook shot up, I thought it must be your shooting hand.”

I looked down at my ice pack and quickly move it to my other wrist—“Oh, yeah, sorry,” I said.

Brad just smiled at me.

I knew right then that this was the end of King Jock part 1.

Bad Meditation Interlude I wonder if any other 12-year-old kid ever sat on his bed like some convict, thinking back to being such a total loser and thought about how much better everything will be when you’re grown-up? Not everything, I mean, probably when you get old you might go bald (That is if you ever even get a growth spurt) and your bones might creak a little and you’ll have to pay bills and all of that. But having freedom, being able to do what you want, go where you want try whatever you want, whenever you want without anybody sending you to your room or getting all mad at you over some small bad thing you did or didn’t do—that will be sooooo cool.

The Boxing Hall of Shame: End of King Jock Part 2

A few weeks ago, it was a warm spring Saturday afternoon and Brad Bukowski brought a new ‘sport’ into our world. He showed up at Tommy Anderson’s house with two pairs of large boxing gloves. I’ve watched a lot of boxing on TV with my dad. It’s about the only thing Dad and I do where he never gets mad at me and where we just hang out never talking much, but pretty happy together.

So Brad, Tommy, Tommy’s little brother David and I, set up a boxing ring of sorts in Tommy’s basement.

Brad asked, “Who wants to go first?”

I knew it had to be me, after all, I was his best friend, “I will.”

Brad smiled at me, “Good.”

After searching for some kind of timepiece to measure the length of the ‘rounds,’ (we found Tommy’s mom’s egg timer) Brad and I tapped gloves and went to our respective corners.

Tommy said, “Ding-ding.”

We moved to the center of the ring and touched gloves once again.

I began bouncing around on my toes, bobbing and weaving, flashing out an occasional left jab to test my opponent. Yeah, this boxing was fun . . . this was great . . . I felt sure I’d be good at it, after all, I have lightning quick reflexes. Besides, Brad is still my best friend even though he’s already had a growth spurt or two. He hadn’t thrown a punch yet and he wouldn’t want to hurt me and . . .

WHACK!

What was that?!

Before I could answer my own question WHACK, WHACK, and then another, WHACK!

My head spun and my face broke out in sweat.

Brad had punched me in the jaw, on the side of my head, and again, two more times on the other side. I lifted my arms and hands up high for protection from all these punches, so he hit me in the gut and my hands dropped down and he hit me twice more in the face.

I yelled, “Time out! Time out!”

Brad stopped punching me, and stepped back but quickly pointed out, “There’re no ‘time-outs’ in boxing!”

I said, “Whata ya mean? What if I’m hurt or something?”

Brad started to move towards me, lifting his hands and preparing to fight again, “Just box,” he said, not angry but firmly.

All right, I decided, that was it, no more Mister Nice Guy from me. He was going to get it now!

I began to circle to my left and then back to my right. I shuffled my feet and stuck out my jaw in a taunting gesture of bravery and fearlessness. I could see Brad trying to figure out his strategy, but I was ready now and nothing would save him!

I threw a left jab and another and next, I threw my right; thunder and death; I was sure that my right hook had amazing power and speed. I danced. I jabbed. I felt totally in control, fearless in the face of my poor helpless adversary!

Brad threw a right hook, a haymaker, and it hit me square on the chin. It was odd though because it didn’t even hurt.

In the next moment, I threw a flurry of punches, lefts, and rights, flashing like lightning; poor Brad was helpless; there was a huge crowd of fans, where did they all come from? Several really cute girls from school, yes Doneen was one of them, were screaming in their excitement; everyone was cheering for me; I could suddenly see my future; money, fame, and celebrity when I became the Heavyweight Champion of the World.  I could see myself parading around the ring with one of those big belts that the champs always get after their victories. Poor Brad would be lying there still unconscious; wow, this was amazing, I loved it; I was famous and great and I could see even further into the future. I spotted a sign on a big building in Canastota New York. A crowd of people stood there and they were all waiting for me. The sign said Boxing Hall of . . . Shame?

What?

Didn’t they mean Boxing Hall of Fame?

But then I looked at the crowd and they were all laughing, pointing at me, jeering, and mocking (Doneen was long gone).

What was going on?

“Dylan” I heard a voice calling from a hundred miles away.

“Dylan,” it called again, a tiny bit louder.

“Dylan, are you okay?”

I opened my eyes. Brad, still wearing his boxing gloves, stood with Tommy and the other guys looking down.

“You okay?” Brad asked again.

I realized that I was lying on the floor in Tommy’s basement.

“Did I win?” I asked, confused.

Tommy said, “Not exactly. You got knocked out.”

“Knocked out?” I looked around for the crowds, for the building with the big sign and the adoring fans getting ready for my Hall of Fame induction, but all I saw was Tommy’s basement and the worried looks on the faces of my friends.

Knocked out, huh? Suddenly my jaw hurt and my head ached.

And then I remembered the sign on that building, Boxing Hall of Shame.

Yep, that sounded about right.

King Jock, knocked down and out . . . forever!!

MC IDOL

Sitting on my bed, staring at my ceiling I start to think . . . When I get older, grown-up, shaving twice a day and getting my hairy back waxed, I’m gonna be a Rich and Famous comic or talk show host: I’m going to drive a Corvette and a motorcycle and I’m going to fly all over the world and see cool stuff: famous cities, and all the oceans, big lakes, deep rivers, and huge, honking mountains;

I’ll visit Continents like Europe and Australia, and places like Central America and, I don’t know, even places like Rochester, New York and Lubbock, Texas, and Elgin Illinois, which might seem like pretty much normal places, but they will be great for me because I’ll be Rich and Famous and everyone there will love me.

I’ll see Every Place Any Place because by then, I’ll be grown-up, and beloved all over the world, for being so hilarious and I’ll do whatever I want.

How am I going to achieve all this? That’s what I call Plan ‘A’

My First Plan ‘A’

Right now, though, I’m still lying here in my room, and in case you didn’t catch this little detail yet, life as a 12-year-old runt sucks.

So what else is there for me to do, trapped in my stupid room but to think about the future?

That and thinking about how to be even better at being, you got it, the funniest kid in the world?

For a while, I wanted to become a great athlete. I’ve always loved sports, so my first Plan ‘A’ was to become . . . (drum roll please) . . .

King Jock

And for a while that plan even seemed Do-able . . . The First Plan ‘A’

To be more specific, King Jock Plays H-O-R-S-E

My best friend Brad Bukowski and I have shot hoops in Tommy Anderson’s backyard about a million times. And we’ve played, I don’t know, maybe ten million games of HORSE. Once when I was 10 we were playing one day . . .

 If you don’t know, HORSE is a basketball game, usually played between two players, where player 1 makes a shot, and player 2 has to make that same shot. If you make the shot, whatever shot you like, a lay-in or a long shot, then it’s your turn to shoot first again and your opponent has to make the same shot as you. If player 2 misses he gets a letter, first miss an H, second miss an O, and so on until you’ve spelled out HORSE, at which time the game is over and you’ve lost. If you don’t have much time you can play PIG; if you’re vulgar you can play the game by spelling out some obscene or nasty swear word. Unlike regular basketball, HORSE doesn’t require dry pavement to dribble on, or sidelines to keep you in bounds, no rebounding or assists, steals or traveling violations, it doesn’t demand anything other than a ball, a hoop, and two or more players.

That day, I’d never beaten Brad before, never, ever, E-V-E-R at HORSE, at PIG, or any other version of the game with any other word.

Truthfully, I’d never beaten Brad at anything athletic.

But that day I was up over Brad’s H-O-R-S with my H-O.

It was like a good joke, no it was like a great joke a perfect joke, a rare and nearly impossible and utterly unimaginably, divine joke.

I was beating Brad Bukowski— I’d never, ever thought that could happen.

Dry leaves skittered along the asphalt; the breeze blew in my face. My feet

tingled in my  athletic shoes

H-O-R-S

to

H-O . . .

“Your shot,” Brad said and tossed me the ball. I caught it, smiled, set up fifteen feet away, and launched my fade-away jumper . . .

Swish.

Brad grabbed the ball walked to my spot, took a few deep breaths, judged distance, wind, and humidity, took another deep breath, and finally let fly—

The ball almost went through but circled the hoop and rimmed out. That was E for Brad H-O-R-S-E.

After the final letter in HORSE, the loser gets to choose whether to take the shot again or make the winner repeat the shot making it a second time. It’s like having to win by two points in ping-pong or volleyball or tennis—a confident player usually tries the shot a second time, and Brad was nothing if not confident. But that day, a fifteen-foot fade-away jumper is not an easy shot, and Brad eyed the distance again and then, “Prove it,” he said, throwing me the ball.

I stood fifteen feet from the hoop. That length of jumper, much less a fade-away jumper, is a hard shot; Brad felt sure that I’d miss.

But just then a Robin flew over our heads twittering, his eye staring straight into my eyes. It looked like he was smiling, and the gray clouds moved so slowly that I was sure the sky, silent, watched us—

I Twisted the leather rock gently in my hands and didn’t let myself think about . . .

You have to make it. You have to win. Nothing in the world can stop you now for once in this single moment you can’t lose, not this time . . .

No, all those thoughts came later . . . I took the ball, held it lightly in my skinny fingers, glanced at the hoop and I leapt, rising high into the air raising my arms above my head as though offering this shot to God, and I faded away like a man falling from a high cliff, like a song’s last words, like the laughter at the end of the funniest joke you’ve ever heard . . .

And from this fading, falling, flying arc, I shot.

There was a tiny click as the ball nicked the metal hoop yet slammed straight

through!

All the universe fell silent except for the ball bouncing once, twice, a third time, and a fourth, each bounce smaller than the one before it Bounce---bounce--bounce-bounce-bounce-bounce until it lay, motionless, on the dark ground.

“You win,” Brad said, trying to sound relaxed and cool.

Then, quickly “Wanna play again?”

I almost said, sure, but the word caught in my throat “Nah, I gotta get home.”

“Really?” Brad asked I was almost certain I could hear the pain, pain, P-A-I-N in his voice.

“Yeah,” I said, staring right at him. I added, “We’ll play again tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Brad said feigning calm, faking indifference, “See you tomorrow then,” he said, his tone full of misery.

I answered “Okay.”

I held my smile until I was out of his sight, and then the breeze blew in my hair; my feet danced as I walked six inches above the earth. My heart pounded with the strangest rhythm, I’d ever felt: pride, joy, victory—

I was only ten years old but already I realized that nothing, nothing, n-o-t-h-i-n-g—nothing would probably ever taste as sweet as this ever again.

Yep, so back on that day I was 10, and I was working on King Jock Plan ‘A’. 

Let’s just say, that didn’t turn out real good . . .

MC IDOL

Mom and Dad have been doing their thing, serious grown-up conversations about things involving, their retirement plans, the stock market, wars around the world, gas prices, their cell phone plans, ‘what’s-for-dinner?’ and ‘when is Dad going to finish his ‘remodel’ on the downstairs bathroom?’ since they got home from work. This isn’t a new thing around here; it happens pretty much every night. My parents always start these conversations all happy and enthusiastic and nice . . . that’s how it always starts.

After a while, though, my sister and I always start looking back and forth at one another because, to be honest, things start to turn, well, not all that happy.

And this is where my being a comedian comes into play. Actually, Doneen’s friend Jeanne had it right! “What are you some kind of comedian?” As a matter of fact, I AM.

I don’t think my dad likes me all that much. Even when he’s not discussing important grown-up garbage with Mom, I tend to annoy him. My mom on the other hand loves me a lot, even when she IS talking about economic disasters and politics and boring crazy adult crud that makes them both sort of grumpy and mad. My dad loves my sister Angie a ton, and my mom loves me, Dylan Dillon. Yep, that’s my name. If you think about it, how could anybody with a name like mine not be born to make people laugh? Some day, when I’m ready, I’ll change my name. I’m just not sure what my new name, my stage/famous guy name will be, at least not yet.

The thing is, I’m the funniest kid in the world. Really, I am. You can ask anybody who knows me . . . well . . . except maybe my dad and Doneen Hudson. Dad laughs at what adults call my ‘antics’ a lot of the time too, but not so much at my little skits and stuff, as he seems to be laughing at how stupid he thinks I am, and Doneen, as previously mentioned, doesn’t know I exist. My mom, though, thinks I’m hilarious. She roars with laughter, sometimes even spilling her coffee which, when that happens, Dad always yells at me to “knock it off!” like it’s my fault that I’m so funny that Mom can’t keep her coffee cup upright.

When I say that I’m the funniest kid in the world I don’t mean that I’m a full-fledged comedian yet. Heck, I’m only 12. I never tell jokes, well, hardly ever, I just make funny faces and walk funny and do impersonations of people, like old men, or tough teenagers, or Mafia type hit men guys, only I don’t use all the actual swear words they use, I just mumble. Sometimes I also imitate people on TV who look ridiculous to me.

I figure if I’m funny enough, I’ll get Mom and Dad back into grown-up-solving-all-the-problems-in-the-world hour instead of Dad sliding into mad-and-yelling-at-Dylan-hour.

Mom and Dad have been doing their thing, serious grown-up conversations about things involving, their retirement plans, the stock market, wars around the world, gas prices, their cell phone plans, ‘what’s-for-dinner?’ and ‘when is Dad going to finish his ‘remodel’ on the downstairs bathroom?’ since they got home from work. This isn’t a new thing around here; it happens pretty much every night. My parents always start these conversations all happy and enthusiastic and nice . . . that’s how it always starts.

After a while, though, my sister and I always start looking back and forth at one another because, to be honest, things start to turn, well, not all that happy.

And this is where my being a comedian comes into play. Actually, Doneen’s friend Jeanne had it right! “What are you some kind of comedian?” As a matter of fact, I AM.

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I see Doneen Hudson standing in the outdoor corridor between buildings 2 and 3, here at Hillwood Elementary School. She’s the only girl I’ve ever been madly in love with. Of course I’m only 12, there may be time someday for other girls, but I can’t think that way right now. I’ve had a crush on Doneen since, like, fourth grade but never done anything about it. I almost asked her to dance once, but I think that is not doing something, even if it’s in almost doing something.

A drawback on my fast track to love is that Doneen Hudson; blond, gorgeous, perfect in every way doesn’t know that I exist. I’m almost as tall as she is but when you’re in 6^th grade, ‘almost as tall’ as the girl you like is about the same as the difference between the tallest girl in the world and a dwarf on one of those The Learning Channel programs. I’m not putting down ‘little people’ I’m just saying that Doneen has breasts and hips and gorgeous lips and I’m . . . well, I’m not quite as tall as she is. You do the math.

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