King of Curve Balls

My father, Thomas Tillman, was never really a "sports guy." He didn't watch football or basketball or scour the sports pages of the Pine Bluff Commercial. In fact, Dad could barely participate in the routine sports blather that was exchanged among the wrinkled old men at the Wildcat Dairy Dip. Dad was more of a 'highlights guy' when it came to sports. He overheard sports trivia and regurgitated just enough of it to sound like he followed sports, but never did. So, he didn't know much about baseball either. But he did know how to throw a curve ball.

Dad was left-handed, which meant his handwriting was horrible, but his curve ball was a thing of beauty - especially to a 12-year-old version of me. Left-handers throw a 'natural' curve they say, meaning that it comes naturally, like the physical advantages that tall, lanky guys have when dunking a basketball or when short guys like me...pick blackberries and find arrowheads. It’s easier for left-handers to throw curve balls; I was short and right-handed with stubby little fingers. Curve-balls were always a mystery.

On a few occasions, I goaded Dad into pitching a few balls with me and my brother Ronnie. Admittedly, those moments were tragically infrequent. For whatever reason, we didn't follow the "leave-it-to-Beaver" norm. And that's not a whiny complaint as much as it is a sad realization. If he were alive today, I'm sure Dad would wish he'd done things differently - especially if he realized how important those moments were to his boys. I guess that's the reason I'm reflecting a bit these 50-odd years later. Those times mattered, but back then all I thought about was learning to throw a curve ball and it mattered much more than just playing 'catch.' That was my hidden agenda. The physics of a thrown ball that curved was magical to me at a time when my world needed more magic.

So, I thought that if I could just throw a curve ball, even a mediocre one, I'd be cool. And, with an added layer of coolness, I could be king of something.  King of Curve Balls?  Maybe. In 1970's Rison, to be king of anything was a bonus. Stan Sadler was King of Ping Pong. Mark Cathey was King of Cool Hair. William Miller was King of the Grid Iron. Steve Pate and Ira Moore were Kings of Cool Cars. King of Curve Balls would have suited me just fine.

Why be normal?

It was late 1974 and the falling oak leaves began to form little rows as they drifted across the campus of Rison High School. A handful of teens were working after school, huddling together and feverishly debating the design of the upcoming 1975 RHS yearbook. It was this yearbook staff - our classmates - headed by Elizabeth (Leopard) Johnson and Kelley (Cathey) Smith that insisted on the 1975 version not following a run-of-the-mill design. Any class could do that, they agreed. "But ours," they said out loud, "wasn't just any class."

We were the class of 1975...and we weren't normal.

Amid corn chips and Cokes our little team brainstormed through the chilly week nights of that fall and winter. "Do we have to use school colors for the yearbook binder?" they asked.  Can't we instead conduct a school poll and figure out the most common favorite color and use that?"  And, speaking of color, "are we required to publish in black and white only? Why can't we add color pages?"  Regarding pages, "can we have a fold-out section? And since the theme was 'the show must go on," why not have the yearbook team dress in clown-face with color portraits for the fold out section? 

I'm certain our sponsor, Mr. Lynn, was slowly losing his mind. His comments to all of these questions were typically, "Okay, but we've never done it that way before" or "Why do ya'll want to do it differently now?"

Because we were different Mr. Lynn. We weren't normal.

So, the resulting design of the 1975 yearbook yielded a cover that wasn't the traditional black or gold (our school colors). It was, in fact, blue. Blue, as we discovered, was the most popular color among RHS students that year. Also, the 1975 design contained several color photos and illustrations (as well as black and white black like most yearbooks). And, it included a fold-out section as well, adorned with the staff's made-up clown faces. And in lock-step with the theme, we presented the new yearbooks to the entire student body with Three Dog Night's "The Show Must Go On" blaring over the school PA system.

We were typically untypical. We were different and not normal. Our parents probably agreed.

Fast forward to a sticky August 2019 afternoon in Staves, AR (the "Y") at Joyce and Jewel Wilson's house. It's our 44th class reunion. Not the 40th or 45th, mind you, but the 44th. Everybody holds class reunions in 5 or 10 year increments, right? Not us.That's too ordinary.

Gwen Roberts Paul, Melinda Wilson McKnight and Ed Wilson put together a stellar event that included Whole Hog Barbecue from Little Rock - and indeed there was a 'whole hog' spread across one of the serving tables. (How'd they get that thing in a van?)  Sure, every class has food at their reunion. But not every group has a broiled hog sprawled across a table top, with two hired hands serving up plates heaped with tasty pork and beef.

We weren't your average class of seniors in 1975. We still aren't ordinary... and we still aren't finished.

We are the Class of 1975.

Reunion

So, we're having a re-union.

The "re" in reunion means that we were a union at one time. There were 54 or so of us back then and despite some misgivings, we were a pretty tight little group. It must've been the pickle juice at the Concession Stand that kept us emotionally healthy. (Sometimes I think the Concession Stand served as our version of Facebook and Twitter).

Time and consequences have had an effect on our little class of 1975. We are fatter, scattered and fewer in number. We can manage the "fatter" part (I keep telling myself that) and to some extent, the "scattered" part. But, there's not much we can do if God decides our time here is over.

Since May of '75, we've said goodbye to 6 of our classmates: William Miller, Gary Brewer, Jack Greenway, Kip Reep, L.B. Johnikin and Dan Tucker. I wish they were still here.

What's the alternative?  Live today as if its your last day on earth. Love your family and friends. Worship God and not material things.

And come to our 44th reunion on August 10th, 2019.

Keep on truckin'

-Ken

Veterans Day: More than I Deserve

In 1975, I turned 18. The Vietnam War was pretty much over, as much as any war can be "over" considering the inevitable damage they do to everyone and everything around them. Despite all that, I still thought I wanted to enlist. I wanted to "see the world" as the Navy boys say. I thought it would be an opportunity to "expand my horizons" or "man up" or whatever glib expression that was fashionable at the time. I had no idea what kind of hell I was considering for myself. 

My Dad lived that hellish life for too many months. And perhaps yours did too. But, the generation of our fathers went to war, protected you and me and, by the way, considered it an honor to do so. Many of them died physically - and many died emotionally - from the battles of those war torn regions where they made their beds each miserable night (when they could).

At their great cost I live with freedom in this country today.  Thanks the sweat and blood of my father and yours, I don’t listen for incoming mortar rounds each night. Perhaps it was your mother, or maybe your grandfather, uncle, aunt, brother or sister that gave of themselves for our country. Regardless, remember them this Veterans Day. Honor Veterans Day by honoring those that have given more than you or I can possibly imagine...and certainly more than we deserve.

(Reposted and edited from my May 29, 2012 Facebook Note)