Sitting in Limbo

“Sitting here in limbo

Waiting for the dice to roll

Sitting here in limbo

I got time to search my soul”

    Neville Brothers

 

Dave made a list of his all-time favorite players on 30 MLB teams – refusing to include members of the hated Cardinals and Mets.  Most I couldn’t argue with such as Roberto Clements, Pudge Fisk, Kenny Lofton, Andre Dawson, and 1980 Phillies hero Tug McGraw.  Former or future Cubs included Ben Zobrist (KC), Mark Grace (Arizona), and Joe Carter (Toronto).  I was conflicted over Nolan Ryan and Pete Rose, terrific competitors but players I loved to hate.  My list would have included old-timers from my youth such as Ralph Kiner, Richie Ashburn, and Roy Campanella (Dave, to his credit, had Jackie Robinson for the Dodgers).

 

I compiled a list of vivid high school memories that fell into these categories: guys I hung with, memorable teachers, girlfriends, sports events, sock hops, senior play, homeroom, Friday assembly, sex education, and field trips. Regarding the latter, while taking a bus to New York City was eye-opening, my favorite excursion was when sexy French teacher Renee Polsky, who called me Jacques (which never failed to get a rise out of me) took us to see the play “La Plume de ma Tante” in Philadelphia.  Accompanying her was my homeroom teacher Miss Malkus, probably no more than a half dozen years older than the students.  As I recall, later that evening they were planning to catch a live show featuring crooner Johnny Mathis.

 

Regarding sex education, it fell to phys ed teacher Mr. Cunningham to conduct a few such classes to an all-male class.  He never strayed from using medical terms and succeeded in making a boring subject out of it.  Once when cut-up Dick Garretson said something suggestive under his breath, normally mild-mannered Cunningham grabbed him out of his seat and all but beat him up. I learned more about the subject from trial and error and an X-rated deck of cards Vince Curll had that depicted, among other things, fellatio. Once Vince and I double-dated and ended up in a rec room on adjoining couches.  Sneaking a glance at the other couple, I copied some of Vince’s moves, which back then we referred to as touching the bases.

 

Assemblies usually took place at the end of the week when we had other things on our minds. One afternoon, however, the Flamingos, a black doo wop group, entertained.  Singing acapella rather than with a band, they performed such incandescent numbers as “I Only Have Eyes for You,” in perfect harmony and with cool body movements. I can’t imagine why or how they arrived at Upper Dublin H.S. but they had everyone’s total attention. Our principal, whom we nicknamed “Sneaky Pete” because he often roamed the halls unexpectedly, pretty much left assemblies to his assistant in charge of discipline Mr. Wert, who once made the mistake of trying to lead cheers like at a pep rally because of a game that evening. Few students obeyed his exhortations despite threats to keep us until we showed some school spirit.

 

I had a minor role in “Meet Me in St. Louis,” our senior play, as an old man. What I remember best about rehearsals is developing close friendships, including with Judy Otto, Larry Bothe, and Mary Delp, a former girlfriend who I’d felt somewhat uncomfortable around since we’d broke up, like it had been my fault for acting immature.  On opening night, my hair was whitened and I was given granny glasses to wear.  After one scene I discovered to my horror that I had gone on stage in my regular glasses.  Probably nobody even noticed.

 

Sock hops following basketball games were more fun than formal dances because the dress was casual and the music more contemporary. One couple from near Ambler would do the dirty dig and we’d all gather around until a chaperone would notice and break it up. I fancied myself a good jitterbugger, especially with dancing partners Judy Jenkins and Pam Tucker.  The final number of the evening – usually “Goodnite, Sweetheart” or “Save the Last Dance for Me” – was a chance to hold someone tight and close to your body, a perfect climax to the event.

 

Although I attended football games and played on the golf team, my most vivid sports memories are watching basketball contests as an undergraduate cheering on John and Mike Magyar, neighbors from up the street who’d sometime shoot hoops at my place.  Though older, Mike was close to a foot shorter than John and was a scrappy jv sub who played with wild abandon.  Classmate Percy Herder starred for the varsity.  I caught several girls field hockey games coached by leggy Mrs. Rocchino, whom we suspected of having an affair with Cunningham. I loved watching LeeLee Minehart, Mildred Armstrong, and Kathleen Birchler take it to the opposition. Most unforgettable memory: an exhibition baseball team between students and teachers. Gap-toothed Biology teacher Mr. Gabauer (Ga-boo-boo) hit a towering drive way over the leftfielder’s head. Had there been a fence, it would have cleared it.  Rounding third, Ga-boo-boo ran out of gas, collapsed and was tagged out, his moment of glory gone.

 

I could go on and on about homeroom hijinks and memorable instructors (Latin teacher Mrs. LaVan being the worst, Edward Taddei (“taddy laddy”) the best. Looking back, why couldn’t I have taken Spanish rather than a dead language like Latin? LaVan once accused me of cheating on a test, saying someone near me had been looking at my answers.  I honestly had no idea what she was talking about. She’d whack me with a ruler when I’d turn around to flirt with Mary Dinkins. I learned later from guidance counsellor Mr. Dulfer that she tried to get me suspended for smoking a cigarette in a car leaving school. Taddei, on the other hand, was such a great math teacher I literally could remember everything he taught us, he made it so interesting. The unit on probability still comes in handy playing bridge. Taddei had a twin brother, and both were basketball referees.

 

I’ll restrict hanging-out stories to a merciful few. The Fifties was the heyday of drive-ins, both to eat and so-called “passion pits,” where once I had to listen to Ray Bates making out while my date insisted on just watching the movie. Pete Drake tried to sneak Ron Hawthorn and I in free by putting us in the trunk but then let us out within sight of an employee, who tried to shake us down into paying double. Jay Bumm drove a jalopy that was probably 20 years old; Chuck Bahmueller’s 40s road hog was lucky to get ten miles to a gallon and needed almost as much oil.

Other indelible U.D. h.s. memories: hearing about the plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper in Mr. Lewis’ Algebra II class; the pungent smell of hoagies that Pat Zollo snuck out and brought back during lunch hour from an Italian joint in Ambler; goofing off at Molly Schade’s house while supposedly studying for Mr. Sisak’s stupid Civics final; after school trips to Flourtown with Bob Reller and Dick Garretson to pick up the latest WIBG Top 40 chart at a record store and then go bowling; H.M. Jones arranging graded test papers from best to worst and scaring A student Vickie Vroom by holding hers until near the tail end.

I’m rereading John Updike’s “Rabbit Is Rich,” which takes place in 1979, the twilight of the so-called Me Decade.  Opening words: “running out of gas.”  Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom, now in his mid-40s, tells a friend, “I’m glad I lived when I did.  These kids coming up, they’ll be living on table scraps.  We had the meal.” Updike used the word ramifying, which I discovered meant spreading – an apt description of our present pandemic.