The clarion call of the ice cream truck

Have you ever seen a dog when it hears a train coming?
The dog hears it about 40 seconds before you do. Its head pops up alertly. The dog’s ears spring to attention. It looks around with a curious, puzzled glare, one eyebrow cocked, trying to figure out what exactly that sound is. Is it a cat? Another dog? A giant ribeye tumbling down the street?
About the time you hear the familiar rumble of train tracks, the dog has already figured it out and has gone back to napping or licking itself or whatever it was doing prior to the interruption.
I had my “dog hearing a train” moment the other day while playing with my kids in the backyard. With yelling and laughing and running going on all around me, I heard it faintly in the distance. It was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I stopped what I was doing, lifted my head skyward and listened intently. It sounded like merry-go-round music, but with a faintly recognizable melody – different than regular carousel music.
Suddenly, it clicked.
“If you like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain... if you’re not into yoga, if you have half a brain...”
What? There’s a merry-go-round playing “The Pina Colada Song” in my neighborhood? It was then I realized what was emitting those glorious/hideous sounds.
I took off running as fast as I could, headed toward the house and my change jar, leaving my kids bewildered and alone in the yard. As I neared the backdoor, without breaking stride, I screamed “I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM, WE ALL SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM! IT’S THE ICE CREAM TRUCK!”
When I was a kid, the ice cream came to our neighborhood about once every four years. But no matter when it came, or where we were, the carnivalesque jingle-jangle of its loud speaker was instantly recognizable. Because of its rare appearances in our locale, the neighborhood kids went berserk with excitement. It could be 3:30 in the morning and we would have heard it through our slumber, jumped out of bed, scrambled through our parents’ change jars, or in my particular case, my father’s pockets, and been waiting in front of our house before the ice cream truck turned the corner.
My five-year-old son had told me there was an ice cream truck in town, but like the story he told me about the monster that ate his bongos – I thought it too good to be true.
I met the ice cream truck in front of our house before it turned the corner, waving a $5 bill high in the air, standing on my tip-toes. My children weren’t far behind, screaming “I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM, WE ALL SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM!” – one of the few phrases in all the world that is impossible to utter in a whisper.
Hearing our rancor, some other neighborhood kids met us on the street and I, being more excited than them, proudly proclaimed that all the ice cream was on me.
I found that some things have changed about the ice cream truck since I was a kid. Mainly, that $5 won’t buy ice cream for all the kids in your neighborhood anymore, or even all the kids in your family. I had to go back in the house for a second raid of my change jar. Secondly, the ice cream truck musical selections have become a tad more contemporary than I recall.
As we all sat on our back porch, eating our nutty-buttys and ice cream sandwiches and fudgesicles in blissful silence, I heard the ice cream truck drive off, a new selection emanating from its speakers – Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” as if played at a circus.
Ain’t life grand?
© Len Robbins 2007


What it was, was a fool on his back

It was the five words every father wants to hear from his son.
No, not “I hate all Broadway musicals,” which is equally desirable.
Rather, it was: “I want to play football.”
I heard it from my five-year-old son the other day, and classes in Football 101 immediately commenced.
The physical part was relatively easy. We went out in the yard and worked on the basics, although he seemed much more interested in perfecting his touchdown dance than learning any blocking techniques, of which I know nothing about anyway.
Teaching him the rules and terminology of the game was, well, not so easy.
I discovered quickly that, to a five-year-old, Xs and Os on a chalkboard look just like... Xs and Os on a chalkboard. He couldn’t really imagine them being players. So, thinking myself clever, I got out some old football cards and placed them on the coffee table.
I then put the players in position according to their card – I put Lyle Alzado at one defensive end, Joe Klecko at the other. I had Ron Jaworski at quarterback and Bubba Bean at tailback and so on, 11 on each side, the offense lined up in the I-formation.
“See, you have 11 on each side of the line of scrimmage,” I said as we surveyed our mini-field in the living room. “There are 11 on offense and 11 on defense.”
“What’s a line of scribblage? I don’t see a line,” my son said, leaning over the imaginary playing field, looking for a line of some sort.
“Well, it’s not a real line. It’s sort of an invisible plane,” I said.
“A plane that’s invisible?!! On the football field?!!”
This got him very excited, and way off track.
“Just forget that. Let’s focus on the cards and their positions,” I said, trying to get his mind off an invisible plane.
“Hey, look, this guy plays for the Pirates,” he said, picking up the card of the Buccaneers’ Dewey Selmon.
“No, don’t touch the cards yet,” I said, seizing it from his hand. “We need to learn the positions.”
“Let’s start with offense, this side of the ball,” I said, pointing to the offensive side of the coffee table with my pointer – a broken-in-half pool cue. “Here you have your quarterback. He takes the snap from the center and he either throws or hands it off.”
“Why do they call him the quarterback?,” he said, very close to picking up John Hannah’s card and messing up the whole offensive line.
“Uh, hmm, I don’t really know,” I replied. “That’s just what they call him.”
“So, behind the quarterback is the fullback, and behind the fullback in the I-formation is the tailback,” I said, pointing to each with my cue.
“Why do they call them that?”
“Because, ah, well, I don’t know,” I stammered. “It doesn’t really matter. Anyway, in front of the backs are the offensive linemen. They block for the backs. Now, the one in the middle is the center and the ones...”
“I know why they call them that,” he said in an interruption of inspiration.
“Okay, why?”
Pointing to the cards individually, he said, “They call him the quarterback cause he’s got a quarter on his back. They call this man a fool back cause he’s got a fool on his back. And they call this man a tail back because he has a tail coming out of his back.”
I chuckled, then said, “no, no, no, that’s not why. The fullback and tailback are running backs. They run with the ball. That’s why they call them that. The quarterback, well, he’s, they call him that, see, he’s... well, that’s something you can look up later. Let’s move to the wide receivers. They line up outside and catch passes thrown by the quarterback.”
“I gotta question,” my son offered, brow furrowed, pointing at Bubba Bean’s card. “Can you tackle that man by grabbing his tail?”
At that moment, I felt a close kinship with all the coaches in the history of the Atlanta Falcons football franchise.
“Yes, son, you can tackle him by grabbing his tail.”
© Len Robbins 2007




Let's win this one for Tommy

T.L. Hanna High School in Anderson, South Carolina, had their “Radio.”
We had our Tommy.
They made a movie about “Radio,” starring Cuba Gooding, Jr., as the challenged young man who becomes the unofficial mascot of the football team, bringing inspiration and good cheer to those around him.
We could make a movie about Tommy too. Tommy started hanging around the practice fields at Clinch County High School sometime in the 1990s. He lived nearby and soon was helping then-Coach Cecil Barber around the field and in the locker room. During home games, he would sometimes don a jersey and be our tallest, only gray-haired ball boy.
A couple of scenes that stick out in my mind would have to be included in our Tommy movie:
We had a big game at home, against one of our fiercest rivals. While the team was warming up, Tommy had a seizure of some type on the field. While medical professionals were treating him, the team went into the locker room to hear their pregame speech. Coach Barber checked on Tommy before he went into the locker room. Tommy was fine, the medics told the coach as they tended to him in the ambulance.
Coach Barber, though, being the ultimate motivator, saw an opportunity.
“Guys, I just talked to the paramedics,” he told the team with emotion in his voice. “And I don’t think Tommy’s going to make it. Tommy loves the Panthers, and there is nothing Tommy would want more than for you to go out there and win tonight... for him. So, let’s win this one for Tommy!”
The team then stormed out of the locker room, screaming “Let’s win this one for Tommy!” As they dashed to the field in a passionate, fiery frenzy, fans had lined up and were giving the players “high-fives.” The last person in the line was Tommy, who had apparently recovered more quickly than Coach Barber expected.
That same season, after a game against another heated rival, players and coaches were shaking hands on the field after the game. Tommy got in line with the players and coaches, and when he got to the head coach of the opposing team, he shuffled up to the man, said “good game” meekly and stuck out his hand. When the coach reached for Tommy’s hand, Tommy jerked his hand up and said “Ha! Ha!” in the astonished coach’s face.
A couple of years later, Tommy graduated to the stands, where he was always the first in the stadium and sat on the front row.
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Len, how do you think the Panthers will do tonight?,” he would ask as I would walk by him.
“Well, I don’t know Tommy,” I would reply. “What do you think?”
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, I think we’re going to win.”
The subject was always the same with Tommy. I would see him sweeping in front of Lutz, Brown, Peagler & Manley insurance office every Monday morning – his day job.
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, Len, you going to the game Friday?”
“Yep, how bout you, Tommy?”
“Yeah,” he would say, then pause. “Do you think the Panthers will win?”
“Well, I don’t know, Tommy. What do you think?”
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, I think we’re going to win.”
Tommy won’t be going to any more Panther games. He died last week at the age of 61.
I’ve been around high school sports most of my life, either as a student or covering athletic events for a newspaper. Nearly every high school has their own Tommy or Radio – some unique person who finds a home, and acceptance, in the family of high school sports.
Most of our current players probably didn’t know Tommy well. He had been ill as of late and hadn’t been able to make it out to the football field like he used to.
But, sometime this season, when the chips are down for the Panthers, we absolutely have to use Coach Barber’s “win this one for Tommy” speech.
Tommy would love it.
© Len Robbins 2007