Where might it all begun? Or gone South?

By The Old Badger (Dave Klausler)

Some daydream, nightmare, or this stupid world charade tipped me to fitness thinking lately. Nah, that may not even be it – I am triggered by music frequently – during workouts most commonly. But that’s right back to physical stuff – melting deep in my head too. I paused while the haunted Sinéad was expressing herself in Universal Mother – heartbreaking. She can shove Shuhada’ Sadaqat right up her dead pseudo-muslim ass. If you really want to hear raw power and fury, try Troy from The Lion and the Cobra – incredible. There’s a guy here on SubStack – Jonathan – that I view and read – he uses gymnastic rings too – that was also stewing in me. Hard to say now… I’m always consciously multitasking.

Believe it or not, I was the fastest kid in my 8th grade class – in the whole school. All 99# and 5’3” of ultra-lean mean-machine. Way back then, we were administered a fitness test in gym class – the Presidential Physical Fitness test, actually. My version of 1975 had been established by the old nincompoop LBJ in 1966 allegedly, under the guidance of the “President’s Council”, or some such. I’m sure those bureaucrats were not much more informed on fitness than the asexual dipshits of this day. Fitness to drink, yes, but athletics, hah, forget about it.

According to the InterWeb, kids back then supposedly hated the testing… not because of failure to meet some government suggested criteria, but for the merciless criticism to follow – fatso. I recall nonesuch. I do, however, seem to remember looking forward to the testing, as I was quite adept at sports in general – despite my starvation-lean childish body. My buddies and classmates were always getting together for some common sport action – even if it was just climbing trees on the way to school. We all walked to school back then, not like the weenies where I now dwell – pathetic. My own son rode his bike to school every day one year – yes, winter too, snow and rain, all of it. Not far, but a rare bird in these spastic times.

Elder Brother had received the ultimate resultant award the previous year… even then though, I think I knew that he was a bit quicker than I and had certainly begun to mature physically well before me. Nevertheless, I sought to achieve the same. Flawless hindsight says that he had a higher percentage of fast-twitch muscle, it would show up more profoundly a few years later in high school track. He demonstrated a gift; I apparently had pain tolerance – a little less tangible in my teen years. Drifting around here… where was I?

Some few years previous we had both attended (I think that’s accurate, not really seriously competing) SOKOL – the Czech gymnastics training organization – loosely gymnastics at that age if I remember correctly – but I was just a kid. They did have rings and bars… a trampoline too. Yes, uh huh, a pommel horse as well. All caps “SOKOL” and neither I nor the InterWeb know why. Thinking back some more, I believe that there were “exhibitions” where we demonstrated that we could tumble and stuff. We BOTH were picked on there because of our prowess… that might be too strong, but we flew around and above the regular sluggos. The ring-leader bully confronted us after class one night and Elder Brother showed #1 what’s what, while puny me bit into the forearm of #2 so deeply and viciously that I gained a mouthful of blood, and he visited the hospital for a few stiches and absentee days thereafter. We told no one, and neither did they, apparently. They never bothered us again.

At our Chicago suburb public K-8 school, we had no track or outdoor anything like monkey bars… asphalt playgrounds, that’s it. We were offered Basketball and Softball as team sports. Intermural activities included several other sporting activities – all were contested indoors. “Those that can’t do, teach; those who can’t teach, teach gym.” Yeah, wisdom from Dewey Finn there… and a bit harsh. My own experience many years later showed me that to instruct [martial arts anyway] you had to be an expert, not a flunky from some other level or discipline (like Dewey).

So, the “teacher”, purported gym teacher that is, more akin to Dewey: Miss Josefiak. Unknown creature… showed up as 8th grade Girls Gym replacement. Loud and obnoxious, with poor English and sporting an ungainly blonde bouffant. Why she was administering the boys test is beyond my memory or knowledge then. Anyway, I think the test was held over two days – at least for 8th Grade. Boys separate from girls. Seventh also tested if I am not mistaken. Roughly sixty students of each sex – need I say that yes, we only had two back in reality days.

The goal: achieve 85th percentile (unknown to me then) of age group in every event and this was to be yours:

Displayed on your everyday sweatshirt, of course. A certificate supposedly signed by the fool in the Whitehouse would also be included.
Keep in mind: 1975 boys; girls test had slight differences.
1) Pull-ups
2) Sit-ups
3) Shuttle run
4) Standing broad jump
5) 50-yard dash
6) Softball throw for distance
7) 600-yard walk-run
If you’re interested, this seems to mesh well with my memory – and looks “official”.
AAPHER Youth Fitness Test Manual, 1976
https://files.eric.ed.gov/fulltext/ED120168.pdf

On that day, pull-ups began the test. Palms forward, weakling, palms backward towards your face are chin-ups and activate, to a much larger extent, the biceps – a more physically familiar motion. If you check the data at that link, you’ll find 7 as the target for 85th. I am telling you that when I hit TEN as Dewey had counted aloud, her tone definitely changed – and she stopped counting… I stopped at a dozen and cannot remember why. No one else had even five. The other listed items, excepting #5, I flew through and went well beyond all the other students; beyond 85th too (so she said).

The 50. #5. 50-yard dash. Remember, I was the fastest in the school. This was demonstrated almost daily in our variations on multi-person “tag”. The other sporting activities as well. It was common knowledge. Just as Elder Brother had been… undisputed. On that day, the weather was fine, the blacktop marked off and dry. Warm enough for T-shirt and shorts – plus whatever cheapo “gym” shoes I was provided with from home. I lined up, Dewy with stopwatch in hand. I believe the “gun” was a big chrome-plated whistle in her color adorned mouth. I sped off at the screech. She stayed and stopped the watch while viewing the finish line from fifty yards away. As I returned, happily, she had a dour look upon her face. “Nope!” I was absolutely stunned. “Try again!” I knew nothing of being tired, I was a kid… I was the fastest. Shaking her head this time, “No, not close.” I had no response. I looked closely at her and saw nothing. I would not look at my father this way, but she was just a bimbo wanna-be. “I don’t understand why you are running so slowly; this is not a fast enough mark.” I could do nothing, three tries, and I knew that I was done with the event based on her body language alone. I was a bit dejected, but I did not yet know of the full repercussions. While most struggled in the final event, walking most of the 600 yards, I buried the 90th percentile (so I later learned). Much later in life, I would score University D1 points in the 600m. She, Josefiak, aka Dewey, stared daggers into my eyes, and said: “Too late,” then smirked. I had no idea what she meant.

I was a blonde haired, freckle faced, cute little kid. Thirteen years old, yes, but tiny… why would she do this to me? I had no ill reputation to speak of… I didn’t even know what a reputation might be. I didn’t brag or boast; I didn’t even know how. I had been brow-beaten by my father forever – I never spoke out to adults – as retarded and grossly unprofessional and feebly unqualified as they were. I didn’t know shit, actually. Bad day at her second job as a cashier at the local huge grocer? Did her caked-on 70s makeup go south in the unusual heat? Beyond me, but she did it purposely, I am sure of it. As I said, I later learned the results – I do not know how or from what source. I do know that that patch was awarded to only one student that year – a seventh grader. Time was irrelevant as that particular kid, almost as old as I, couldn’t beat me in a race if I had been running backwards. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and seeing at the paltry “award ceremony.” I would guess that I was mad, but I was such an angry kid by then, who knows. Yes, fucking Dewey, that shit, fixed the results, an insult. Hindsight says: what an asshole. Why indeed.

I mentioned intramural sports. These were hosted in the gymnasium by our science “teacher” – seriously now, hindsight says: complete garbage, unless you were seeking Lamb’s Farm type special education. He was also both the basketball and softball coach. I thought that he was strange, but most kids thought he was cool. His scripted repetitive delinquency warning stories were laughable, and my buddies and I quote him to this day. Two of my less intelligent classmates suggested that I stay late, after the games, and help clean up. “He does funny impersonations,” they guffawed. I did eventually stay, and even as a naïve thirteen-year-old, something was clearly off the mark with this ape shaped guy. My opinion of the cohorts dropped even lower. Never again did I stay late. Later, much later, 25th Anniversary later, he showed up with yellow hair – no, not blonde, YELLOW. He had a skanky escort at his side. Wifey witnessed this (as a fellow student too), if you’d like confirmation. Back then, homos were still in the closet.

Miscellaneous well-attended games were played, and I remember only three: Basketball, Whiffle ball (plastic bat and aerated ball), and Dodgeball – with a capital “D”. You may know the latter as Prison Ball, but we seldom referred to it as such – even though our gymnasium was high-walled and tight to the basketball court limits. There is no way that we usually played with what is now a standard 8.5” ball – my guess is at least 12” – maybe. We did use the smaller inflated balls occasionally, but only when the more resilient kids were on site. They flew hard and fast… they hurt. We all loved dodgeball, so apparently did “Monkner” (ape attributes) the teacher/coach. We played full-speed and went for headshots when possible. The Lowland Cousin had been an athlete at some point – supposedly. He definitely could play basketball… and could throw. He was the man to beat, of course. One memorable game had me either last on the opposing court, or at least well separated from my teammates. The hirsute ape-man no more than twenty feet in front of me, ball in hand. He stared, he cranked, he threw forcefully. I caught that ball, chest high, and was pushed backwards slightly. He stared. He left the court as required. First time that that had ever happened to him – legend holds. I have no idea what happened next, with him, or my buddies.

I do remember what happened later that same 8th grade year at a school softball game – me in left field. Monkner “coaching”. I was quick and very sure handed. I had never missed a catch, frequently while running and scooping at shoelace level. Our team had a handful of lackeys. We were leading comfortably in the fifth of six and he benched me. I looked at him devastated – truly – and he smirked, he knew I treasured this role. I remember the visceral pain to this day. Why had he not swapped out one of the slugs? I think by then, he and all the upper grade teachers had known of me for three years. I was small, harmless and unknowingly smart. Why did he do that? Bad day being buttfukked by the domineering principal? Seriously, could he really be angry about the dodgeball catch? Perhaps he was disappointed that I hadn’t laughed at his post-game pedophilic antics with the morons (one of which became a local corrupt councilman). Crazy perverse fuck.

That physical fitness test all those years ago, sticks… and stinks. So does the event with the benching. Other adults remember this type of shit, don’t they? Do I work out every day in an attempt to overcome what was stored as failure? First inkling is to purge them – the memories. I’m done with them after all, I’m in my 60s now. But they made me, Me – in part anyway – right? Why can’t I seem to get rid of them? Should I get rid of them? If I get rid of them, will I cease to be Me? Then, am I really done with them? Are they still there for access when I interact with future me type kids… a design feature? This is probably true… as I reflect upon my recent interactions as an instructor. I could see the child me in the needy students – and acted in a way nearly opposite that of the wretch of a gym teacher or the leper of coaching. I wonder if either of those simpletons ever procreated. I’ve heard positive reports of my instruction, physical certainly, but more so the mental aspect. I resolve to accept these things as a part of the me I now like; keep them handy even.