My wife and I have been doing a lot of talking lately (see my previous post). One of the things we have talked about has been how my writing seems to be blooming lately (in large part as a result of keeping up my blog). Unlike so many blogs on the web, I've tried to make mine less about current events - though they have popped up here and there - and more about matters pertaining to East Texas. Hence the whole slant of this blog.
An indelible part of my affinity for East Texas is my experiences while growing up there. I'm sure people from a big city or a large town would have plenty of things to write about. As action-packed as such stories might be, I sincerely doubt they could rival stories I have of my friendship with one Carl Tapley. As I write this, I'm a little apprehensive of putting such personal information on the web, but I'm more apprehensive for myself than for Carl. He's the kind of guy that would likely Google himself every now and then to see if there's anything new out there about him. So, Carl, if you're reading this, you reserve the right to correct me on any of these accounts, because quite honestly it's been a while and my memory might be doing funny things.
Carl, or Tap-bone - T-bone for short, moved to Malakoff, Texas from Conroe - ironically where my family currently resides - when we both were in the 5th grade. He was always a tall, lanky sort of person. He was care-free from the time I first got to know him. We seemed to hit it off right away. He often would ask to spend the night and never seemed to want to go home the next day. Sometimes he would stay over two or three nights at a time. When he wasn't spending the night, he would often call me up and want to talk. When we ran out of things to say, rather than hang up like people usually do, I often had to pretend that something was wrong with the phone to get him to hang up. Even if I was successful getting him off the phone, he often would call back.
We played football and baseball on the same teams from elementary through high school. Both of us weren't very good early on and usually kept each other company on the bench. In the summer after our 5th grade year, our baseball team made the area playoffs and had to trim our roster by a few players. I made the team and Carl didn't. I really felt bad for him. He was a good sport about it and even came to the games to root us on. I never forgot that. He was team player if there ever was one.
But, Carl's "take one for the team" player attitude was often overshadowed by incidents that could only be described as "Carl being Carl." Here are just a few of Carl's priceless and memorable moments:
In the 7th grade, our coach was recruiting for an upcoming track meet. Our school didn't have a track, but our coaches wanted to make a strong showing at the meet. I was selected to run both the mile and 2 mile runs and to throw the discus. The faster guys were selected for all the running events, but nobody volunteered for the hurdles. I guess Carl saw this as his moment. He volunteered, though he'd never hurdled a thing in his entire life. The track meet was only a handful of days away, so none of us were able to prepare for any of our events. I'm not sure that any preparation would have helped Carl. On his first event, the 110 high-hurdles, Carl didn't clear the first one. Instead, on that first hurdle, he managed to hook his right foot under the hurdle rail and fell over the hurdle. As funny as the sight was, it was a painful event for him. He broke his wrist in two places, falling over the hurdle there on the track. Afterwards, that same coach was always quick to say, in reference to Carl, "I'll do it coach" and get a laugh out of everybody. The truth was that Carl would always volunteer to do anything and the team had to brace ourselves for the outcome.
That summer, during baseball season, we were playing a local rival, Kerens. They had a team pretty much like us, except for one player, Scotty Bryant. He was a super-athlete. He was outstanding in every sport, including baseball. He was a pitcher, not because he could necessarily pitch. He could throw incredibly hard around the strike zone which was more than enough in our league. On this particular day, we had not gotten many hits and were losing, but somehow we were still in the game. It came time for Carl's at-bat. He drew a 4-pitch, 2-out walk and proceeded to first base. When he got on base, he decided to do more than just "chatter" the pitcher (talking baseball trash at him). He started jumping and juking around in a way that I cannot describe with words. It was so ridiculous that the entire opposing team was laughing, including Bryant. It distracted Bryant just enough that he could no longer find the strike zone and walked two more batters. Carl moved from 1st to 2nd and from 2nd to 3rd base. Meanwhile, Carl kept up his goofy dance, but as was often the case, he took it just one step too far. His family was screaming "Carl Allen, you stay on that base!" Our coach was getting angry and ordered him to stop. More importantly, the opposing team wasn't amused anymore and I think they figured out how to stop him in his tracks. Just as Carl was getting his lead and beginning to shake his feet and hands, Bryant turned and threw to 3rd base. Carl froze in his tracks. He was tagged out with very little effort by the 3rd baseman. It was the end of inning and of our only legitimate scoring threat of the entire game.
Carl and I were in the 8th grade band. In our school district, our high school band would also use 8th grade band members to beef up the numbers on the field. Carl & I both played the trumpet and sat and marched by each other in the band. During rehearsals he was always joking around and often got us both in trouble. One particular time, before school had even started, Carl was joking around and some of the upper-classmen got upset. They took us to the far end of the Ag building and were ready to beat the literal crap out of us. They told us they wanted us to take things more seriously. I could see how grave a situation this was and I really didn't want to have to endure a beating, so I just went along. For some reason unknow to me - Carl couldn't keep his mouth shut. He proceeded to mouth off and summarily got us both knocked around. I didn't get the worst of it, but the whole time I was thinking "look what you've gotten us into!" Afterwards, those same guys didn't bother me, but they always had something for Carl.
In our school system, we were allowed to be in both band and athletics through Jr. and Sr. high, so Carl and I played football together, as well as baseball and other sports. One time, our 8th grade football team was playing Rusk Jr. High and had just scored the go-ahead touchdown on an incredible kick-off return in the closing seconds of the game. We're jumping up and down on the sidelines, celebrating the win. But, there on the field was a piece of yellow satin laundry, known in more proper terms as a penalty flag. "Personal foul, clipping, on number 80." Number 80? "Who the hell is that?" On the far side of the field is number 80. It's Carl - like the kid with his hand still stuck in the cookie jar - saying it wasn't him. He was guilty of clipping - making a block in the back of a defender, on his only play on the field that night - which garnered a 15-yard penalty. The touchdown came back and like so many times in our athletic history, we had just grasped defeat from the jaws of victory. Still, as bad as it was it's not the worst part. The block that Carl made was away from the play and had no bearing whatsoever on assisting the score. It's a good thing we played at home that night. Had we been away, I don't think Carl would have been allowed to ride the bus.
I could tell more stories, like the time I was nearly knocked unconscious by a baseball he threw when I wasn't ready while playing catch, or when we got into a fistfight at a youth event at our church, or when we got into a fight during baseball practice in high school. Such stories are endless. We had our share of fights, like any siblings or best friends are capable of. Now that I'm a grown man I treasure those experiences just because I had a friend like Carl. I've only seen him twice in the 19 years since we graduated high school. The last time I saw him was 3 1/2 years ago. He's hardly changed at all. I'd have to say that's a pretty good thing, too.
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