THE BIG GAME

by Jeff Archer

In the playground of my elementary school, Fort Barton, of Tiverton, Rhode Island, a cooked pole stood with a warped piece of plywood attached. On the plywood was a bent basketball rim. The pole was in a dirt area that became a mud pit after rain or snow. Nobody ever seemed to use this area.

One day, I saw one of the older kids playing basketball there. It was muddy and the ball was caked in mud and dirt. He asked if I wanted to play basketball. I went to him and he taught me how to dribble. "Don’t forget, use your fingertips, not the palms of your hands," he repeated several times. This was the first time I played basketball. It would become a passion for the next 15-or-so years.

When I was 10 years old, someone took me to Pocasset Junior High School to watch a game in the town’s junior league. Wow. The court was shiny and they even used a leather ball and had referees with proper shirts. I was impressed. So much, that I joined the league the following year. This looked like the pros to me.

I finished my three-year stint in the league in the spring of 1961. I was named to the league all-star team and finished in the top-five scorers in the league.

The following year, I was appointed a coach for the team on which I had played for the past three years. Pocasset School was magic for the basketball players and spectators of Tiverton. I housed leagues for players at any age over 10.

By the time I began to coach, I had developed a style of unrelentless play. However, my home town was mostly populated by people of the upper middle class and working-class ethics and styles of play were looked upon with scorn. But, I found enough similar-minded kids over the years to hang out with and we did not have to play the politics of the squeaky-clean middle class kids. My style was either praised or condemned.

In 1962, I declined to play in the intermediate league of Tiverton and went farther afield to Fall River, Massachusetts, an adjoining city with 100,000 people. I played with kids of a mixture of backgrounds: Portuguese, Italian, Lebanese, Syrian and others. It just seemed to be more interesting and complete for me than to play in Tiverton where only white Anglos played. But, I still kept coaching in the Tiverton Junior Leagues.

For a few years, nobody in Tiverton saw me play. I was playing in more diverse leagues in Fall River and those leagues played a higher standard of basketball than those of my home town.

In 1964, my team won the league title and I became the youngest coach to head a Tiveron Junior League championship team. The next year, however, we finished in last place because three of my starting players were too old for the junior league. This was a commonplace occurrence: teams worked their way to the top and then became mediocre for the next couple of years when they lost their stars because of age stipulations.

By the time I was 18, I looked even more into the distance for my basketball career. The Newport (RI) City League was by far the best basketball circuit in the state. Most players had played either college or high school ball. I joined a team and for the first time in my basketball career, I was not a star. I held my own, but instead of averaging 18-22 points a game, I was now in the 8-12 points a game category. But, I loved it. Some people want to be stars in a mediocre league, where I wanted to play in the best quality league that I could, even if I became an average player.

The following year, I put my own team in the Newport City League. For two years, we held our own, finishing in fifth and fourth places respectively. By the 1968-1969 season, I had a formidable team, although not championship caliber, staffed with good, solid players. Occasionally, we would upset a top team, but we still were about a fourth-place squad in a 10-team league.

The 1968-1969 season was also my best as a coach in the Tiverton Junior League. This was my eighth season coaching. Combined with my three-year player stint, I had put 11 consecutive years into the league. I decided this would be my last year in the league.

At the end of the season, my team was 23-1. We broke every league record in the book. What a way to go out.

For the first time, the league had decided to play a post-season round-robin tournament to give the kids another chance at playing a few games. "Great," I thought, ‘That’s another trophy for my mantle."

About two weeks before the tournament, I received a call from Willy Frias, a Tiverton basketball legend who now was the president of the Tiverton Senior League as well as its top scorer. "Jeff," he said, "I hear you have a team in the Newport City League. Would you like to play our senior all-star team right after the last game of the junior league tournament? We can promote this as a big game and give all the kids a chance to see some real good basketball."

I feigned disinterest. My team would wipe the floor with his and I said, "Willy, you don’t want to play my team." He kept asking. I could hear in his voice that he thought he could whip my team and I also heard a pang of jealousy and pomposity. I repeated, "Willy, you don’t want to play my team." Finally, he began, "Even if we beat your team … " I quickly stopped him and said, "You’re on. Three o’clock." The junior tournament was to end at 2:30, so the timing fit perfectly.

I was at the gym at about 10:00 in the morning because several games were to be played, with the final at 1:30. There was something different about the gym, however. There were at least twice as many chairs for spectators than usual. In fact, the areas behind the baskets, as well as the sidelines, had chairs. Even the stage had about 50 chairs. I knew something was up.

By the time my team played in the finals, the gym had more people in it than at any time in its history. They were literally hanging from the rafters. Frias had promoted the 3:00 game well. All the fans in the building had seen me coach for years, but most had never seen me play since I was 13. In the ensuing years, I played against top talent and had improved my game to well better than that of the players who stayed in Tiverton.

Half the fans had come to see Archer’s team get its ass kicked. Half had come to see my team kick the Tivertonians ass. Right down the middle.

There were many sociological issues at stake, bragging rights being at the top of the list. Oneupsmanship was another. Incidents such as this are commonplace anywhere in small towns across the U.S.

By the third quarter of the junior tournament final, my team held a huge lead. Then, my adult players began to arrive. After entering the door, they had to walk down the baseline and then the entire sideline to get to the locker room. A few "holy shit" exclamations were heard when a 6’ 8" forward came though the door with his gym bag. A few minutes later, my 6’ 11" center arrived to the undercurrent of "what a fucking giant." Then, two black players came through the door. Most people in Tiverton had never seen a black person in the flesh. Simultaneously, loud whispers of "coons" were heard.

The fans were on their seats. Not for the junior contest, that was about to end with my team capturing the title, but for the anticipation of the following game.

My starting lineup consisted of players 6’ 11," 6’ 8," 6’ 6," 6’ 4", and me, the midget, at 5’ 11." The tallest player on the Tiverton team was 6’ 2."

When we emerged from the locker room, most of the fans were silent. Then, when we began our pre-game warmup, the chatter began and became louder. It looked like an NBA team against a high school team.

The game began with a trick play. My center would always control the tip because of his height. So, he tipped the ball to a forward, who, with his back turned to the basket, threw the ball over his head. I was at the receiving end of the pass and scored the easy layup. We had practiced this ploy that involved my early breaking toward the hoop and the forward blindly passing the ball to a pre-determined spot. If everything went the way it was supposed to, it looked great. The fans let out a huge cheer.

Frias was a legend in Tiverton basketball, but he never left the town’s borders to enhance his game. He was comfortable with his mythical status. He also was the league’s leading scorer.

When the Tivertonians set up for their first offense, Frias used his patented move of driving down the middle. Against guys shorter than my players, it worked. However, his first attempt was swatted away by my center. I picked up the loose ball and started a fast break. The forward drove, but was guarded and he dished the ball back to me and I hit a 15-foot jump shot. I intercepted the inbound pass, and, with my back to the basket, put up what is called a "trick shot." Again, nothing but net. Within the first half minute, the score was Archer 6, Tiverton 0.

I had a career game, scoring 21 points. Everything I put up seemed to hit. Sometimes, it is just the opposite and you can’t buy a basket on a given day, but this was my day. And, it was my team’s as well. We played almost flawlessly.

With about three minutes to go, we scored our 100^th point. This presented a problem because the scoreboard only went up to 99. No team had ever scored a hundred points in the Pocasset gym. So, the scoreboard read 00 on our hundredth point and then 02 after our next hoop, etc.

In the end, we beat the Tiverton Senior League all-stars by more than 40 points. Frias scored about seven points. He had to shoot from much farther out than his normal comfort range. We embarrassed them.

I did not feel bad because I had told Frias that he did not want to put a team up against my squad. His bravado backfired. I almost told him, "Thanks for the warmup," but I decided that would be in bad taste and someday such a statement could come back to haunt me if my team ever got the merde kicked out of us.

When we left the court, the packed audience was on its feet, cheering wildly. The Tivertonians quickly left, unheralded, and made their way to the locker room. Both teams changed in the same room. My team was laughing and discussing everything but basketball. We did not gloat. Our opponents silently put on their street clothing and left the building.

The fans waited for us to leave and shook our hands and some even asked for autographs. The Pocasset gym had been my center of the Tiverton basketball world for 11 years. I had participated in hundreds of games, but when I left that day, I never returned. I didn’t have to.

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STREET CORNER SOCIOLOGY

Rites of passage have become a part of the human experience. There is a broad spectrum of subjects that are included in such rituals — geography, age, religion, sports, education, clubs, and many others. Some rites are violent and mindless, such as hazing to the point of causing severe injury, while others are benign and meaningful, as in the case of a Little League baseball participant playing in his or her last game and then, because of age, attaining membership at the next level of the sport of baseball in a local Pony or Babe Ruth League.

In my area of southern New England, the practice of hanging out on a street corner (or on a stone wall in smaller towns) was instrumental in one’s journey to adulthood. The social nuances and implications were staggering.

I grew up in Tiverton, Rhode Island, a town of about 5,000 people. The town was quite large geographically and it represented three distinct regions. The northern section was the most populous because it bordered a city of about 100,000 people in Massachusetts and accommodated the spillage of the "foreign" population migrating from the adjoining state. Toward the middle of town, the people were of old Yankee heritage and this was considered the "real" Tiverton. The Tivertonians from this area considered the people of the northern part of town to be carpetbaggers. There was cultural friction. However, both these segments of the Tiverton population would knock those of the southern part of town, most of whom were farmers. This area was considered to be Hicksville, USA.

Until I was about eight years old, my view of my town consisted mostly of school and home life. Then, I was old enough to participate in a ritual with my father — accompanying him on a daily one-mile journey in his 1949 Chrysler to the center of town to purchase the newspaper. I sat in the back seat, my head barely reaching over the front seat to talk to my father. My legs did not reach the floor. This journey became the highlight of my day.

After a few trips, I noticed a person sitting on the stone wall outside the general store (the only one for miles around). This barrier extended for a couple of miles and it acted as a breakwater to separate a beach and the Sakonnet River from the main road of the town. Every day, the same person would be there. He was about 20 years old, although to me, he was an adult. I had no concept of one being 20 or 40 years old. They were all adults. Eventually, I learned that his name was Billy Padilla. It was odd because he never did anything but sit on the wall and occasionally wave to a selected few passersby.

About a year later, my feet reached the floor of the car and I could see over the front seat without having to stand up. It amazed me how one’s perspective could be altered so drastically by the growth of a couple of inches. By now, our daily trip was expanded by about one more mile to a gas station that carried a brand of ice cream that my father enjoyed. On a stone wall near the gas station sat another mysterious figure. Always there and always doing nothing. I asked my father about this person and he told me that his name was Jim Scorak.

For the next few years, I noticed others in various areas performing the same duties of sitting on stone or concrete walls. I did not question why they did this. I only observed and saw that is was occurring.

Seventh grade was the next step in my sociological journey of wall-sitting. My new school was farther from my house and was situated in the northern part of Tiverton. A new world opened before me as I saw different people sitting on different walls. I now realized that this practice was universal.

Two years at Pocasset Junior High School made me acutely aware of wall-sitting. The only problem with me trying to find out more about this mysterious hobby was my age — I was too young to participate. You never saw anyone younger than 15 or 16 years old sitting on a wall. Unwritten rules were in play — participants in wall-sitting ranged in age from about 15 to well into adulthood.

When I graduated from eighth grade, I had a summer to prepare myself for the most courageous experience of my life. In the fall, I would be attending a school in the "big city" of Fall River, Massachusetts. My town only offered education up to the eighth grade. From then on, one had to attend public school in Fall River.

On the first day of school, I saw more students than I ever knew existed. My home room had more people than the whole of the eighth grade of my previous school. The new school was dilapidated and old compared to the educational institutions I had attended. For the first time in my life, I encountered people of many cultures and social backgrounds. Some Tivertonians were thrown into culture shock and had a hard time adjusting, but I quickly embraced the new surroundings. I made new friends, while most of my home town comrades fraternized only with each other. Little did I know at the time that I was destined to want to explore new avenues, while others were much more comfortable being around more homogenous environs.

After the initial newness wore off, I noticed a new phenomenon — in Fall River, people would hang around street corners in the same manner in which people sat on walls in Tiverton. Every day, I would see the same people on the same street corners as I took the school bus home. I quickly assessed that these were the same occurrences only with different venues.

For the next two years, I became more aware of hanging out on street corners. As I expanded my areas of engagement in Fall River through sports or social activities, I noticed that geography played a major role. Various areas of the city sported different looking street corners (location of lights, width of roads, width of sidewalks, etc.) but they all sported an assemblage that did not vary — the same people were there every day. Another common denominator in hanging out was the weather. When it snowed or rained heavily, the street corners were barren of a human presence.

Magic occurred when I turned 16. I earned my driver’s license and bought a beat-up 1955 Plymouth for $30. The car had no reverse gear, so I always had to park facing uphill. This way, I could roll the car if I had to back out of a parking spot. If I was facing downhill and was wedged in, I had no way of putting the car in reverse. After a few times, one becomes adjusted to this deficiency and it becomes habit to always park facing uphill.

With the car, came the freedom to travel where I wanted. In addition, at 16 years old, I became old enough to venture into meaningful hanging out on street corners. This was no easy task, however, because there are myriad social mores involved that one has to learn. You just don’t park your car and stand on the corner. You must be introduced.

Within about a year, I had earned the respect of enough people to hang out. I was a freelance participant and had no home corner. I began in Fall River when I saw a friend from high school standing on a corner. He waved to me and pointed to an area to park my car. This was an invitation. At first, I was nervous, but you quickly acclimate yourself.

After a few months, I had a few corners where I hung out. I was a casual participant, while others stood on the corner every night of the week. I relished my independence. After a while, I would beckon drivers of cars whom I knew to park and hang out. I was now an accomplished participant, although not a full time one. Because I played a lot of sports, many of my evenings were taken up with athletic endeavors.

At the age of about 17, the social implications become immense. Some people who hang out on street corners are revered by the general teenage populace. For instance, in the area of Fall River known as "The Globe," six different streets converge. Here, a high school football and baseball star, Jim Klunka, could be seen nightly. You could go by his corner many times and he would not wave to you. One day, you would receive a wave and from then on he would always wave. After a few weeks, you were allowed to initiate the wave.

If, for some odd reason, you chose to wave to him before he acknowledged you, he would become unhappy and you would have forever lost your chance at ever receiving a wave. Waving at someone before he acknowledges you is bad form in the worst scenario.

Accomplished street corner participants would elevate their careers by adding head nods to their presence. Each individual had his own style. Some would nod in a quick, jerky motion, while others would be slow and deliberate in their styles. For the uninitiated, the head nods may have seemed similar, but for those in the know, each one was as distinct as a person’s height or weight.

Some who hung out on street corners gained legendary status. People would copy their head nods (not in front of them, of course), while not making it obvious, much in the same manner as copying a baseball player’s stance or a basketball player’s shooting style. In the early ‘60s, a basketball player at Providence College, Jimmy Stone, had a unique style in which he would bend his elbows and put the ball halfway down his back and then take his jump shot. On all the playgrounds of the area, kids would shout, "Jimmy Stone," as they copied his style. In the same vein, one would drive by a street corner and give a nod, while telling his comrade in the car, "Jim Klunka."

Being copied was the ultimate form of flattery. Once you developed your own head nod and became comfortable in introducing it, eventually word would come back that there were others copying your gesture. You would take pride and realize that all the hard work that went into establishing a street corner presence now seemed worthwhile.

Most freelance participants in hanging out on street corners are in their prime at about the age of 17. A year earlier, many would still be considered rookies. A year later, and most would be looking at retirement. Only the hardcore people last beyond the age of 20. There are various sociological reasons behind their extending their careers that I will explain later.

While in mid-career, one must add other social experiences to hanging out on street corners. In my case, after a couple of hours of waving and looking cool, it was time to get something to eat. I would turn to a comrade and say, "Let’s go to Dirty Nick’s and get a hot dog."

Dirty Nick’s was the street name affixed to the small eatery officially called Nick’s Hot Dogs. There was one item on the menu — hot dogs. The patrons sat in chairs with an extended and wide right side on which to put their wieners. These chairs were identical to those used in high school back then where the kids could write. I was always puzzled, however, about the exclusive right-hand area. Left-handers had to go through hell to write or eat their hot dogs.

Dirty Nick’s earned the moniker because of rumors. Nick, the owner, was always dressed in a spaghetti-style T-shirt. In a flash, he could place half a dozen hot dog rolls on his left forearm, insert the dogs and slap mustard on them. The establishment did not earn the name of "Dirty" Nick’s because of Nick’s skill of serving hot dogs, however. Many people told of him lining them up on his forearm and then putting a couple under his armpit at the same time. When he finished garnishing those on his forearm, he would pull those out from under his armpit, put mustard on them, and then serve them to the customers.

I must have eaten at Dirty Nick’s hundreds of times during my street corner days. Every time I ate there, I would observe him in action, waiting for the time when I would see him put hot dogs under his armpits. I never saw him do it. The dozens of colleagues I knew who ate there all told the same rumor, yet not one had ever seen Nick perform the duty. Rumors abounded, yet not one eye witness could come forward to testify that Nick inserted hot dogs in buns under his armpits. Probably the rumors contributed to much of Nick’s business — many people went there to see him put on a legendary performance, yet it never occurred. His name of "Dirty" Nick actually was an asset, when a name such as that would have halted most eating establishments.

By the age of 19, I was ready for retirement. When it happens, there is no ceremony. You just never again go and hang out. Usually, your evenings are taken up by other social activities such as dating girls and playing sports. There is no time for hanging out on street corners. You never miss it or think about it again.

I said "usually" when discussing street corner retirement. Let’s go back to some of the legendary people I mentioned at the beginning of this article. Jim Scorak sat on the same wall for decades until he was well into his 60s. When I was nine years old, he was an icon. However, in my 20s, I learned the truth. He never worked a day in his life. Ditto for Padilla. Klunka, although a sports hero in high school, fizzled out quickly after. He hung out on the same corner for decades after.

I have not been back to Fall River since I left the area in 1975. Recently, I was talking to another transplanted Fall Riverite who brought up the subject of hanging out. He occasionally returns to Massachusetts to visit his family. He told me that some of the people we saw in the 1960s who hung out on street corners are still active participants. He went down a list of names and venues (The Globe, Maplewood Park, Columbus Park, etc.) and it seemed like I was living in the past. My colleague told me that they were in the same places at the same times every night, weather permitting. They are in their 40s, 50s, and even 60s. These were the hardcore legends who will eventually make the Street Corner Hall of Fame. They were also people with few skills in the experience of life.

THE 1955 RAMBLER

"Oh, shit!" I said when I heard the loud noise coming from my 1955 Plymouth — clank, clank, clank — as I pulled into my driveway. The engine just died, but at least I had made it back home. I tried to start the engine and the ignition just kept making a whirring noise.

The next day, I called my brother Ronnie and mentioned it to him. He came by and quickly assessed the situation. "You threw a rod." I knew nothing about automobile mechanics and I asked him, "What do I have to do to have it fixed?" He answered, "It can’t be fixed. It’s shot."

A junkyard employee came to pick the car up and when I asked him how much he would give me for it, he laughed and said, "I should charge you for towing it away." So much for my first automobile.

I had just started my senior year in high school and now had to look at the possibility that I would have to hitch-hike to school and to my sporting events. Because I could not afford to buy another car, the outlook appeared dismal.

The next day, however, I received a phone call from my oldest brother, Bobbie. Word spread quickly and he knew that my 1955 Plymouth had died. Bobbie, in those days, to put it mildly, was a bit of a con man, so I was dubious when he quickly offered, "I’ll sell you my car, the Rambler." I knew he had a 1955 Rambler, but I had never seen it. Cautiously, I asked, "Does it work?" "Sure," he replied, "It runs great." The conversation was progressing nicely, but I still was financially disabled. I queried, "How much?" Without hesitation, he said, "Ten bucks."

Despite my lack of meaningful currency, I could muster up $10, so I told him, "Yeah. You drive it here and I will bring you back to your place. If it makes it that far, we’ve got a deal."

Later in the day, my brother pulled into the driveway. I was dubious as I started the Rambler and began to drive him home. Within a few minutes, I was less apprehensive. The car ran great. In fact, it was a better runner than my old Plymouth and it got great gas mileage. I was happy for two reasons: I had bought a functional car for next to nothing and my brother did not screw me on the deal.

Let me describe the Rambler. It was small and could seat four people adequately, although the two in the back seat would be squished up next to each other. The engine was sound and all the accessories worked. The shift lever was located almost in the dashboard, making it a conversation piece for all who rode in the car — "Wow! I’ve never seen a shift lever there before." The only apparent liability was that the body had some cancer, but in those days most older cars in southern New England’s moist climate showed signs of body rot. This was only a cosmetic fault and in no way would hamper the car’s performance.

For about a couple of weeks, everything went smoothly. I had an excellent running car that got over 35 miles to the gallon. That all changed on a Friday in November, 1964, however.

While standing on the corner smoking our last cigarette before the warning bell sounded to enter our high school, one of my comrades stated, "Let’s skip school today." I was all for taking the day off and making it part of a three-day weekend. I agreed and four others entered the foray. One said, "Let’s go to Providence. Lagauche, you’ve got a car. How about it?" I quickly nodded my approval, so six of us jammed ourselves into the small Rambler.

Soon after, we were on the newly opened Interstate 195 on our way to the premier record shop in the area, Beacon Records, a store that offered the best record collection anywhere.

I then decided to play race car driver and put my newly acquired car to a speed test. "Seventy," stated one of the back seat occupants as he read the speedometer over my shoulder. A couple of a minutes later, he shouted, "Eighty." Shortly after, "Holy shit! Ninety." When he heralded, "Ninety Five," the engine made a funny noise. I slowed down to about 50 miles per hour, but the noise was still present. It was not as serious as a thrown rod, but I knew something dastardly was taking place under the hood. We completed our day out and I returned home, all the time listening to a coughing engine.

My brother Ronnie made another trip to my house. The good news was that the car was still alive. The bad news was that I had burned out a valve. From then on, the car always ran with a skip. In addition, my gas mileage descended to about 15 miles a gallon. I did not realize that driving the car at 95 miles per hour against the wind with six people in it would tax the engine in a negative manner. We must all learn about these matters sometime.

Even though I had a car that ran at about 50% efficiency, I was happy. Basketball season was about to come into full swing and the car would be used to transport numerous individuals to venues in which to play roundball. At the time, I played or coached in four different leagues. In addition, I entered teams in virtually any local invitational tournament that became available. We played in full-size gyms with fiberglass backboards; half-size gyms with wooden backboards; and even gyms the size of a matchbox with warped plywood backboards supporting rims that were bent at about a 30% angle. The latter types of gym were a challenge to the visiting coach. You had to take your players and get used to shooting in a different manner, taking the bent rim into consideration. You tried to run your offensive plays so the player would shoot on the side of the court on which the rim was bent downwards. It was disconcerting trying to shoot over the edge of the upward leaning rim.

My Rambler was not ready for the continuous influx of bodies that was about to employ the car for transportation. The first thing that went was the driver’s seat. One day, while driving, it just collapsed and laid straight down, actually spreading itself out on the back seat. This was not a big problem, however. I put a basketball behind the seat and it was propped up at a reasonable angle to allow me to drive. When I had players in the car, the basketball got in the way of the legs of the rider behind me, so he had to keep the seat propped up using his hands. Piece of cake.

Next, the windshield wipers went. When I looked under the dashboard, I found a rod that was attached to the wipers had broken. I used a little ingenuity in discovering a method for bringing them back to use. I could steer with my left hand and bend down and grab the broken rod and manually manipulate the windshield wipers. I became so used to this action that I was confused one day when I drove a friend’s car and did not have to stoop down to drive. Also, it felt different using two hands to drive.

By January of 1965, the basketball season was in full swing. Day after day, I used my Rambler to go to games, all the time with anywhere from four to seven people inside. By now, the participants and I were used to the quirks of the car. Some players occasionally complained about having to be the seat propperupper on consecutive trips, but that was the only grievance. Everybody was happy that they were playing basketball and had some form of transportation.

Before I go any further discussing the Rambler, let me introduce you to some of the characters who were involved in my basketball playing/coaching days. First of all, they were not the typical suburban upper middle class kids who inhabited my town of about 5,000 people. These kids were mostly of working class stock and were much more boisterous and imaginative than the mainstream kids of the town. The division was evident and we knew we were almost pariahs in the methods we used playing sports. We just wanted to play ball — anytime and anywhere. We never complained about playing conditions or venues like some of the other "spoiled" kids did. Every once in a while, one of the middle class kids would approach me and ask if he could hang out and play with us. Even though I was only 17 years old, I could already feel the social differences at play and commended the newcomer on his wanting to break out of the drab existence that society had thrust upon him.

Depending on which league I was involved with and the age limit for players, there were various groups of kids who played basketball. It was not always the same kids every day.

One player who always was involved was Mike Hiller. By the time he was 15 years old, he was 6'6" tall and weighed about 150 pounds. He never put any more weight on, so he resembled a scarecrow. Hiller was eccentric, to say the least. He liked to practice his dribbling skills in an unorthodox manner — he would dribble a basketball on the street behind my car while I was driving. He had an uncanny skill at slowing down or speeding up as the car changed speeds, all the time throwing head fakes at cars coming in the opposite direction. Hiller always wanted to do this in an inhabited area and catch the glances of those who saw him. If someone gave him a nasty look, Hiller would flip him or her off. One day, he was dribbling backwards and I was approaching a stop sign. Because his back was to my car and the sign, he did not see either. I hollered to him that I was about to stop, but he didn’t hear. While he was dribbling and giving a smart-ass look to the assemblage on the street who were now watching him, he piled into my car. I pulled over and helped him up. There were about two dozen people laughing wildly. Hiller got the ball, got in the car, and let it be known that his street-dribbling career was done.

Another regular was Dave Silver. He was about 5'8" tall and of medium build. On his best day, Silver was mediocre at basketball and baseball. However, his knowledge of the sports, combined with his cockiness, made him a formidable opponent. He would orally harass the opposition to the point that he would alter their concentration and amplify his own meager talents.

I coached Silver in baseball as well as basketball. My team had two excellent pitchers and Silver rounded out the staff as number three. One year, while my team was tied for first place, Silver approached me and asked why he did not pitch against the top teams. Until then, I used him against the weaker teams and his record was three wins and no losses. He told me, "I haven’t lost a game yet. Why not give me a shot against the other teams?" I approached his request diplomatically by telling him that I did not want to wear his arm out. That didn’t work. Finally, I had to tell him that he would get hammered against the top teams.

Silver went into a long tirade about his pitching talents. He told me that he had 28 different pitches (a major league pitcher has three or four at the most). Then, he told me the virtues of his prime pitch — the Egyptian forkball. I asked him the difference between an Egyptian forkball and an Ethiopian forkball, but he could not come up with an answer.

I then challenged him to pitch to a catcher while I was behind the receiver and I would assess all of his pitches. He threw all 28 (each named with a unique moniker — nothing as mundane as a fastball or slider) and I watched each. When he asked me what I thought, I said, "They all do the same thing. They go slow and straight. There is not a wrinkle on any pitch." He still did not think I was giving him a fair shake.

I made him an offer. I told him to warm up and I would take batting practice against him. If he could adequately get me to hit routine ground balls or fly balls, or fool me with his pitches, I would let him start the next game against our top contender. On the other hand, if I hit shots all over the place, he would never again ask to pitch against the top teams.

In about 10 minutes, I hit quite a few shots over the fence, some at least 100 or 150 feet behind the barrier. In addition, I hit line drives that almost knocked him off the mound as well as shots in the gaps in the outfield. I may have hit one or two popups. Other than those couple of mediocre offerings from my bat, I knocked the hell out of everything he threw. When we were done, I did not have to say a word. Silver approached me and asked, "Will this affect my playing second base?" He got the message.

On the basketball court, Silver was a magician at creating havoc with the opposition. He may have played for about half the game and scored only four or five points, but his presence was worth that of any player who could put up stats much more impressive than his.

Hiller and Silver shared the same desire to play without pretense. They only wanted to play as much as they could.

There were other regulars and many sometime regulars. For instance, if I needed a player to round out the roster for the day, I could drive to a part of town, park my car, and holler, "Hey, Hessler?" Within about 30 seconds, four or five individuals would pop their heads out of their houses and return my query with, "Yeah. What?" For about a mile stretch in that area of town, most of the houses were inhabited by members of the extended Hessler clan. I would say, "Who wants to play basketball today?" Within a minute, at least one would come forward and say, "I will."

Another factor in those days was the age limit of the different leagues or tournaments. Nobody took precision of age too seriously. If the age limit of an invitational tournament was 14, I would ask a prospective Hessler, "How old are you?" He would respond, "Fifteen." That was too old, so I would ask, "How old were you last year?" "Fourteen," was the answer. "Great. Get in the car. You’re the right age."

Today, I realize that altering one’s age is not an astute method of gaining wins on a basketball court, but in those days, it was commonplace. All the adults did it when coaching, so I was following their lead. It was also routine to see 14-year-old players from opposing teams drive off after the games in their cars. The minimum driving age was 16.

The winter of 1964-65 was extremely cold and snowy. About a third of the way through the basketball season, the window on the driver’s side of my Rambler fell down into the door, leaving a large gap where a window should have been. I cut a piece of cardboard and used it to fill up the hole while I wasn’t driving. However, when I drove I had to leave the space open. There were difficulties when it was about 25 degrees and snow was blowing though the window.

During the months of January and February, 1965, it was common to be going to games with half a dozen players who emerged from the car and had to brush inches snow off their bodies.

In the latter part of February, I entered a team in the Portsmouth Invitational Tournament, held in an adjoining town. Every year, I entered a team but we never won. I would bring in two or three "ringers," only to be outdone by the competition who would have five or six not-so-legal players.

The 1965 tournament was held during the worst blizzard to hit the area in decades. We made three round trips to the Portsmouth gym in the blizzard, each time with eight people in the car. The kids were stretched out on top of each other and covered with snow. Even though I kept the windshield wipers going by hand, it was difficult to see because all the steam being emitted by the occupants clouded up the inside of the windshield. However, we overcame this by having a front seat occupant constantly wiping the inside of the windshield while I perpetually drove the windshield wiper rod. Ingenuity won out over inconvenience.

We lost the tournament in the final game. Ironically, the team that beat us was mostly legitimate. On the way home, we all gave excuses why we lost — the referees were bad; the opposition cheated; the opposing coach cheated. Not one of us could utter the words, "They were better than us."

The basketball season ended and for a few weeks, my Rambler would not have to carry a multitude of players. It deserved a rest. By now, the only thing working properly on the car was the radio. The signal lights and headlights were shot; the heater died months ago; the back seat had been dislocated and the springs began to appear over the seat itself; the tires were so bald that you could see the air inside them. It was becoming difficult to drive on a rainy day because I had to work the wipers with my right hand and give signals with my left, temporarily leaving the steering wheel to manipulate itself.

Despite all the inequities, it never occurred to me that I should be thinking about getting another car. That is until one night in late March. After attending a basketball tournament as a spectator, I began to return home. For some reason, the engine was more sluggish than ever and it was making increasingly louder noises. When I approached my driveway, the noises turned to a loud "clank, clank, clank." "Oh shit!" I exclaimed. As Yogi Berra would say, "Deja-vu all over again." I knew a rod had been thrown and that the Rambler was now going to the same graveyard as my Plymouth had seven months earlier.

When the car stopped at the head of my driveway, it was not running. When I tried to start it, the same ominous whirring noise could be heard that I encountered with my Plymouth. The Rambler had died.

Despite the similarities of the death knells of my Plymouth and Rambler, the Rambler had to play oneupsmanship. After about two minutes of trying to re-start the Rambler, I pronounced it dead. I had not yet emerged from the car because I was still in a state of shock. All of a sudden, I heard a loud sound — pow! Then another. I quickly got out of the car and saw that two tires went flat. In another minute, the other two deflated as well, this time silently without fanfare. Within a couple of minutes, all four tires went flat, leaving the Rambler with no working parts except the radio. And, I could not even salvage the radio for future use because its shape was so odd that it would not fit into any other brand of automobile.

The same junkyard that had picked up my Plymouth months earlier came and took away my Rambler. This time, I did not have the cojones to ask how much they would give me for it.

In 1965, a 1955 Rambler was about the most uncool automobile that a teenager could own. It was okay for sports, but one could forget having a social life with a Rambler. Girls laughed when they were offered a ride. Non-athletic friends shunned rides in it. Even dogs refused to piss on the wheels.

Before I wrote this article, I searched the Internet for a information about the 1955 Rambler. Today, the 1955 Rambler is considered a rare collector’s item that sells for about $8,000.

AMERICA’S LOSS — THE DEMISE OF THE DRIVE-IN THEATER

Kids growing up today in our country possess the technology and the tools to perform tasks, both educational and recreational, that previous generations could not envisage even in their wildest moments of imagination. There is one aspect of yesteryear, however, that most young people of today will never experience — an evening at the drive in movies.

Since the French first showed a one-minute moving picture presentation of a train in motion in 1895, movies have captivated every society on the Earth. Despite the intrusion of VCRs and DVDs, movie attendance is staggering and movie industries worldwide are flourishing. Most Americans think of Hollywood as the film capital of the world, but India has a movie industry that eclipses that of the United States. Mexico, per capita, has a larger film output than the United States. In other words, the attraction of the movie is universal.

Despite the overwhelming affinity to the screen, only the United States experienced the magic of an unusual (by international standards) method of showing movies — the drive-in theater. For a few wonderful decades, the drive-in was king of the hill for movie presentation. Adults brought their families and adolescents used the drive-in for social progression. Today, the drive-in theater is on its last legs. Even those that still are in operation risk going out of business soon. American demographics have altered the face of movie attendance and there is little economic value in keeping a drive-in theater afloat.

Let’s go back to the heyday of American drive-in theaters. I was fortunate enough to have grown up in an era when the drive-in was popular and widespread. The area of Rhode Island and southeastern Massachusetts was ripe with the outdoor magic carpets made of concrete — Ponta Delgada Drive-In(Tiverton, RI), Somerset Drive-In (Somerset, MA), Westport Drive-In (Westport, MA), Bay State Drive-In (Seekonk, MA), Seekonk Drive-In (Seekonk, MA), Newport Drive-In (Newport, RI), and many others from "foreign" areas of the outskirts of Rhode Island, such as the Quonset (North Kingstown, RI) and the Rustic (Woonsocket, RI).

For about five years, the drive-in theater was the focal point of my social life. I began attending them on a regular basis when I was about 16 years old. Initially, I would go to watch the movies with various friends. At this age, one rarely had a steady girlfriend, so the drive-in experience represented camaraderie.

You always tried to arrive early so you could see other friends in other cars going through the same motions of trying to act cool — the bravado of hollering, "Hey, Souza (or Medeiros, or Robinson, or Walsh, etc.), what are you doing here?" A common response would be, "Just checking things out." Both the question and answer were attempts to show your dismay at not having a date that evening.

Certain social patterns began emerging. You took for granted that the drive-in was your recreation and you went to watch the movies, despite your attempts at acting cool. After attending several performances, the experience became habitual. The only time you were thrown out of the routine came when you saw a friend with a girl — "Holy shit! Souza’s got a girl with him!" Then, you went to his car and began a mundane conversation, all the time acting cool and not making it obvious that you were checking out the girl. When you and your comrades went back to your vehicle, there would be only two exclamations — "What a fucking dog!" or, "How the hell did he get such a good looking girl to go out with him?"

I went to several drive-ins during my formative adult years, but the Ponta Delgada in Tiverton was my "home" drive-in. When I was about 10 years old, I read where the Ponta Delgada soccer team won the U.S. amateur title in 1953. Being a sports nut, this impressed me immensely, even though I knew absolutely nothing about soccer. To me, any Tiverton team that won a national championship was worthy of praise. I asked my older brother about the feats of the soccer champs and he told me they used to play in a stadium that was now the Ponta DelGada Drive-In. Every time I entered the Tiverton drive-in, I imagined the warriors pounding their way down the soccer field that was once under the curved concrete of the drive-in.

In 1965, The Ponta Delgada had the distinction of showing the premier of a movie filmed in Fall River (MA) called "Below the Hill." The anticipation of the release was staggering. For weeks, I and a couple of friends were waiting for the announcement of the movie presentation. Word had spread that a teacher at Henry Lord Junior High School in Fall River was the star. His name was Mr. Bernier and no one knew he was an actor.

The magical night finally came. When we arrived at the drive-in, there was a line about half a mile long waiting to get in. A thick fog contributed to the line’s length. As we inched closer to the ticket booth, the fog became more dense. It was evident that we might not be watching a movie that evening. Just as we were about to buy the tickets, the word came down that the movie was cancelled because of the thick fog. The drive-in management decided to give those who had already paid a pass to see the movie the next night.

In the ensuing chaos, a fellow of about 17 years took offense at the offer made by the theater bigwigs. He wanted his money back. A manager came out and attempted to tell him that this would not be possible and he would have to take the free ticket. The teenager began to fume and he responded, "Crabs on ice water! If you don’t give me my money back, I’ll kick you right in the twanger." To this day, I have never forgotten that statement where he put pubic lice in the same category as an elementary necessity of life. The beauty of his statement was that he had never suffered from that genetic deficiency of aging and had not yet achieved the ugly disease of adulthood. In the same circumstance, an adult probably would have said, "Excuse me sir, I would like a refund." The anonymous stranger’s remark was much more imaginative.

The following night, we saw the movie. I was quite surprised to discover that it was professionally done and was entertaining. Mr. Bernier played in a steamy scene (for those days) and from word of mouth, we found out that his students and fellow teachers never let him hear the end his R-rated performance.

Drive-ins had the worst food imaginable, yet we always saved a little money for a snack. Every time we bought something from the snack bar, the same statement was made — "This stuff tastes like shit, and it’s too expensive." We always went back.

The clam cakes at the drive-ins were about the size of marbles and they had the consistency of a rock. I am sure that more than one patron over the years broke a tooth on these culinary disasters. The pizza was cold and soggy and the burgers made those of McDonald’s appear to be haute cuisine. However, like everything else, when you don’t have it, you miss it.

I moved to Europe in 1975 and soon discovered that, along with having no drive-in theaters, no one knew what a clam cake was. When I returned to the U.S. in 1983 and landed on the west coast, I finally realized that clam cakes were a regional dish that no one outside of southern New England has ever tasted or heard of. I longed for the days of the pebble-sized clam cakes of the Ponta Delgada.

Winter was problematical for drive-in attendees. If the temperature was about 20 degrees, you had to keep your engine running to create heat in the car. All the pollution emitted would make an environmentalist cringe today. In addition, in those days, the engines of the cars were not built as well as those of today, so keeping an engine running meant that you ran the risk of having your engine die. Plus, the amount of gasoline used took a large chunk out of your gas tank. At the age of 17, most of us did not have an unlimited budget for gas.

Throughout the drive-in experience, certain experiences stick out above the rest. In those days, nudity was not available in movies presented to the general public. In 1965, I and a friend went to the Bay State Drive-In to see a feature movie. I don’t recall which one it was. Usually, there were two movies and the first one was a z-grade production that stunk. On this particular evening, the opening movie was called "The Bellboy and the Playgirls."

About 10 minutes into the film, a bunch of girls surrounded the bellboy in a hotel. Then, a miracle occurred. They took off their shirts and had no bras on. I and my colleague choked on our food and simultaneously hollered, "Holy shit! Bare tit!" We could hear the same statement from other cars. This was a first. The world had changed and there would be no turning back.

For the next year or so, I and my friends couldn’t wait for the Friday version of the Fall River Herald News to appear. On Fridays, the newspaper had a page dedicated to the new movies showing at the drive-ins. Rarely did a drive-in show the same movie on consecutive weeks. There, on the drive-in page would be all the graphics of the current movies. Despite our looking at the page every week for years, we were still conned into believing the messages put in the advertisement. The graphics always made the movies appear to be more exciting than they were.

After seeing The Bellboy and the Playgirls, we always attempted to discover which movies would show some "bare tit." Most didn’t, however, during the next year, a few movies took the leap into topless female nudity. Ironically, those movies that stated they were racy, rarely showed nudity. Those that did show some skin, in most cases, did not advertise the fact. In other words, we tried to scientifically assess whether there would be nudity, but our methods of investigation failed. One could see as much nudity through random attendance as through scientific investigation.

At about age 18, those who attended drive-in movies changed their reasons. Most males had now developed the skills necessary to have a girlfriend, either casual or steady, and the drive-in became a venue for sex education. For a couple of years, attempts at almost every kind of petting and sexual arousal were employed at the drive-in. Some girls were prudes, others not. How far you went depended on your partner’s attitude and your skills. One thing was consistent, however. If a guy was involved with heavy petting and nothing else, he would usually brag that he "got in." On the other hand, once this elusive act became fact, the male usually kept quiet. Yes meant no and no meant yes.

When I met my current wife in 1969, the drive-in was a regular venue. Rarely did we see an entire movie. That was not why drive-ins were invented.

Four years later, we were married. We still went to the drive-in, but for different reasons. "Let’s look at the movie," either I or she would say. "We spent good money on this." Four years earlier, it was immaterial what movie we saw. After marriage, we scrutinized the newspaper and only went to watch movies we wanted to see. Despite the change in attitudes about movie-viewing habits, one thing remained constant — the terrible food. We always would say that we would not buy any, but we always succumbed to the crappy ad on the screen between movies that heralded the quality of the delicious food inside the snack bar.

We used to bring our dogs to the drive-in. Most dogs get a little dysfunctional when in a car for over three hours, but that didn’t stop us. Almost every time the dogs accompanied us, there were problems — "Oh, oh, Tippy just took a piss," or "Shannon’s throwing up." The next day was usually spent on de-fuming the back seat of the car.

We spent eight years in drive-inless Europe. When we returned to the USA, we re-located to the San Diego area. At the time, there were about eight drive-in movies within a half hour of our house. We again began to go to the drive-ins. Little-by-little, they closed. Within a couple of years, there was only one drive-in left in San Diego County. It still stands today, but the magic is gone. The movies they play are mundane and the spectators are comprised mostly of redneck pickup truck drivers. It doesn’t feel the same. Rarely do we go to the drive-in any more.

Times change and our culture changes. The youth of today have no clue about the former allure of drive-in theaters. To them, it is ancient history that has been orally passed down from generation-to-generation. I feel sorry for them because of their inability to participate in what was one of the positive aspects of Americana.