OLDSOONER
8/31/2009, 10:59 AM
(Bonedaddy Johnson's Rant Symposium on Football's Pressbox Cliches.)
I hadn't really seen Bonedaddy since the 'Nam. I remember once in An Hoa, his announcing in his hog calling voice, the very voice that if he yelled 'sooooiee' in Cabaniss, pigs ears stood up in Arpelar, "Mite close, but right purty!" he bellered, as he sauntered out of the ***-end of a tail scorched C-130 which was all blistered up because of a fuel bladder that was touched off by a Charlie round during a touch and go delivery. They had a good reason to call those old 'Hercs' mortar magnets. So when we ran across one another not long ago and lathered up some pints, naturally we started to shoot the Texas Tarnish from beneath our Lucchese's.
Reminiscing in thought, I expect it was about third grade when White Chimney was consolidated into our school. The 'Bone was heavyset, deep voiced for a kid, and had red hair and freckles. The freckles were so numerous that he appeared to have been the target of a shotgun loaded with wet gingerbread. Even back then, he chewed tabacco and smoked hand rolled behind the persimmon stump just upwind of the girl's outdoor convenience. He was taller than most, except for Wandella Stiltz who needed to stand twice to make a shadow on the way up. Most everybody just called 'Bone, Freck.
Lazy small town kid time came and went. I still fantasized about catching a falling Lois Lane in one arm while leaping from the porch railing wearing a red bath towel around my neck. Hershel, the neighbor kid, broke his arm swinging from the porch swing chain attempting the same feat. Everyone knew that Batman couldn't fly.
We all played baseball in the summer and learned the required eye aversion tact when everybody gathered at the plein air elimination trough to rid our bladders of the gallons of warm diamond water, sweet tea and RCs. Even utilizing the direct stare ahead tactic and the required cupped hand pecker privacy screen, it was hard not to notice that Freck didn't suffer the embarassment of the dig around location fumble, and the completion of the catch and release which resulted, for most of us, the wetting of some fingers.
So at the beginning of the sixth grade, with new teachers and all, we were required to answer the roll call with our given names. I was no longer 'four-eyes'. No more nicknames. It came to pass on that first day of homeroom, then, in front of the entire group, there was the unveiling of one Finis Johnson.
It was that genesis school year in which unfamiliar stirrings crept in underneath the collective Roy Rogers chenille blanket tents of youth. Stirrings brought on by Ray-O-Vac flashlights, Men and Saga magazines and the brassiere section of the Monkey Ward catalog. We no longer cared for her magic bracelets, but of the long, long legs of Wonder Woman.
Finis on the other had, was more of a realist in matters. He allowed his anointment as Equipment Manager pro tem to spread like gossip in a dental office.
It was Lola. Though passed over for sixth grade twice, nature had given her a square deal. During her academic hiatus, some uplifting and emerging had occurred, along with some fantail widening plus a trampolinic jiggle fore and aft. Swathed in homemade, stretched thin, bleached flower sack dresses with scoop necklines, she'd set the hook and Finis, aka, Freck, on an Indian summer night that was darker than a bruised crow, while lying on a green floral carpet swatch that covered the corrugated floor of a 1951 Willys Overland Station Wagon which sat on blocks in Lola's front yard in Scipio, Oklahoma, officially became The Bonedaddy, while her brothers squabbled over a checker game and her Mama made God's Eyes on the front porch.
As the seasons passed, word has it, she never failed to cite, while serving up Burger Baskets to kids in letter jackets, that how on the floorboard of a Jeep, she had known the very Finis Johnson in grade school.
"But Finis," I state, "Seeing as how you've always spoken in a conversational technique that doesn't become trite or exhibit expressions that are used so often that the novelty has worn off, I was curious as to your opinion on football pressbox inane chitchat in the guise of fan enlightenment."
"You call me Finis one more time, and your're gonna end up as file in some momma's gumbo."
'Bone said he didn't pay any attention to the Pros. He said that he just liked to watch the college kids get frantic running around like a rooster in a barnyard full of ducks. How much he had enjoyed last year's incidents so much, when for some reason, some misguided Texans had hired a bunch of cropdusters, huffed up on 'av' gas, to fly around draggin' whine signs indicating they didn't win the Big Twelve, even going so far as assigning a championship asterisk to their team as winners. Oh, they denied the asterisk rumor, said it didn't happen. But he'd bet that asterisk is still in place where it has always been; right directly below and under Bevo's tail.
He noted the electric mousse captain and the ploughboys were expected to do well up in the Pickens Monument where T-boo has his own locker, presumably to store a chunk of Holdenville concrete signature memorabilia.
According to 'Bone, a youngster from Florida State has a sunburned tongue seein' as how it constantly flaps about in the Florida sunshine like drop botton long johns breezin' on the clothesline of noise. The kid said the Sooners played dirty. "Why sayin' that is like trying to separate sugar and salt in the same spit bucket." Bonedaddy says.
"I see by the papers, we're gonna lose 4 games, defenses are gonna hit Bradford harder than a double wad of Spearmint gum left under an old Boomer Theatre seat, making his head ring like a piece of Heisman crystal in a hailstorm." Bonedaddy laments in frustration. "Talk like that just irks me."
"Sportswriters that think a quarterback is a refund, commentators who couldn't follow a moose through a revolving door, and the glory dazed jocks that had a career as brief as a pauper's will, 'telling us what they'd do in this situation', only to have their mouths left hanging open like an old screen door when the play on the field is completely opposite of what they said would happen." 'Hell, you can tell their brains checked out and didn't let 'em know." 'Bone howls. "They even tell us that the game is about 'field position'." He explains in mock amazement, his eyes rolling.
I ask about the cliches, chancy, in that I can see 'Bone has worked up a sizeable, beer fueled harangue characterized by the foamy spittle being sprayed onto the outside pair of my eyes.
"Screw cliches and the press box too." He boomed, waving his ham fists in the air. "I call it the depressed box, a so unexciting space, they couldn't attract transient mice with cheese whiz an a Disney gold card." "They ought to just call the game action, but probably couldn't follow it with a gameday, first edition playbook in large print." "When they see a kid out there that has got some stuff, just say it, ya know, point it out." "So and so is faster than a Fleet enema, that player's fake was like a late fall squirrel hiding his nuts,
the only thing that yae-hoo's got going for him is a fast pulse, or the nose guard has a face that look like five pounds of warm putty, real stuff that fans can relate to, they way we really talk everyday." "Those mother tongue linguists torgue me up like a rained on tennis racquet." "And tell me, does anyone telegraph things anymore?"
"Well, probably OLDSOONER does." I lamely retort. "Probably so." 'Bone agrees." "That's the reason that the poor folks are always happy, they don't have telephones..."
"Say, so," says 'Bone, as he gestures with a sloshing beer mug while the coaster stuck on the bottom states 'Drink Responsibily', when a player's tenacity allows him to stick with his assignment like a February cold." "If the defense is playing like a single cell animal, or you see the defensive line is nothing but a gross of holes or the only defense a team has is their State's National Guard, then make the crowd get loud in a quite voice as they view a spectacular catch made by a three year pine rider that is so tall he has to bend over to see through a transom." "You can tell when a team's game plan is shorter than the Wright Brothers flight manual, so leave 'em with a handful of dirty shadows, man!" "Just screw a bunch of 'The officials could call holding on every play" cliches."
"You paying for the beer?" I ask, ready to leave. "Check's in the mail, Four-Eyes."
Venturing a step further, "Did you get your usual two seats at OU this year?" "Yep." He replied. "Sometimes the old lady goes to the game, but most of the time I need the space, I'm kinda big boned ya know."
"Yeah, how is Lola these days?" I inquired.
Well, Lola still calls some of the same plays she used to." Finis grinned. "She's partial to the Wishbone and I'm partial to the fullback position."
GO SOONERS!
I hadn't really seen Bonedaddy since the 'Nam. I remember once in An Hoa, his announcing in his hog calling voice, the very voice that if he yelled 'sooooiee' in Cabaniss, pigs ears stood up in Arpelar, "Mite close, but right purty!" he bellered, as he sauntered out of the ***-end of a tail scorched C-130 which was all blistered up because of a fuel bladder that was touched off by a Charlie round during a touch and go delivery. They had a good reason to call those old 'Hercs' mortar magnets. So when we ran across one another not long ago and lathered up some pints, naturally we started to shoot the Texas Tarnish from beneath our Lucchese's.
Reminiscing in thought, I expect it was about third grade when White Chimney was consolidated into our school. The 'Bone was heavyset, deep voiced for a kid, and had red hair and freckles. The freckles were so numerous that he appeared to have been the target of a shotgun loaded with wet gingerbread. Even back then, he chewed tabacco and smoked hand rolled behind the persimmon stump just upwind of the girl's outdoor convenience. He was taller than most, except for Wandella Stiltz who needed to stand twice to make a shadow on the way up. Most everybody just called 'Bone, Freck.
Lazy small town kid time came and went. I still fantasized about catching a falling Lois Lane in one arm while leaping from the porch railing wearing a red bath towel around my neck. Hershel, the neighbor kid, broke his arm swinging from the porch swing chain attempting the same feat. Everyone knew that Batman couldn't fly.
We all played baseball in the summer and learned the required eye aversion tact when everybody gathered at the plein air elimination trough to rid our bladders of the gallons of warm diamond water, sweet tea and RCs. Even utilizing the direct stare ahead tactic and the required cupped hand pecker privacy screen, it was hard not to notice that Freck didn't suffer the embarassment of the dig around location fumble, and the completion of the catch and release which resulted, for most of us, the wetting of some fingers.
So at the beginning of the sixth grade, with new teachers and all, we were required to answer the roll call with our given names. I was no longer 'four-eyes'. No more nicknames. It came to pass on that first day of homeroom, then, in front of the entire group, there was the unveiling of one Finis Johnson.
It was that genesis school year in which unfamiliar stirrings crept in underneath the collective Roy Rogers chenille blanket tents of youth. Stirrings brought on by Ray-O-Vac flashlights, Men and Saga magazines and the brassiere section of the Monkey Ward catalog. We no longer cared for her magic bracelets, but of the long, long legs of Wonder Woman.
Finis on the other had, was more of a realist in matters. He allowed his anointment as Equipment Manager pro tem to spread like gossip in a dental office.
It was Lola. Though passed over for sixth grade twice, nature had given her a square deal. During her academic hiatus, some uplifting and emerging had occurred, along with some fantail widening plus a trampolinic jiggle fore and aft. Swathed in homemade, stretched thin, bleached flower sack dresses with scoop necklines, she'd set the hook and Finis, aka, Freck, on an Indian summer night that was darker than a bruised crow, while lying on a green floral carpet swatch that covered the corrugated floor of a 1951 Willys Overland Station Wagon which sat on blocks in Lola's front yard in Scipio, Oklahoma, officially became The Bonedaddy, while her brothers squabbled over a checker game and her Mama made God's Eyes on the front porch.
As the seasons passed, word has it, she never failed to cite, while serving up Burger Baskets to kids in letter jackets, that how on the floorboard of a Jeep, she had known the very Finis Johnson in grade school.
"But Finis," I state, "Seeing as how you've always spoken in a conversational technique that doesn't become trite or exhibit expressions that are used so often that the novelty has worn off, I was curious as to your opinion on football pressbox inane chitchat in the guise of fan enlightenment."
"You call me Finis one more time, and your're gonna end up as file in some momma's gumbo."
'Bone said he didn't pay any attention to the Pros. He said that he just liked to watch the college kids get frantic running around like a rooster in a barnyard full of ducks. How much he had enjoyed last year's incidents so much, when for some reason, some misguided Texans had hired a bunch of cropdusters, huffed up on 'av' gas, to fly around draggin' whine signs indicating they didn't win the Big Twelve, even going so far as assigning a championship asterisk to their team as winners. Oh, they denied the asterisk rumor, said it didn't happen. But he'd bet that asterisk is still in place where it has always been; right directly below and under Bevo's tail.
He noted the electric mousse captain and the ploughboys were expected to do well up in the Pickens Monument where T-boo has his own locker, presumably to store a chunk of Holdenville concrete signature memorabilia.
According to 'Bone, a youngster from Florida State has a sunburned tongue seein' as how it constantly flaps about in the Florida sunshine like drop botton long johns breezin' on the clothesline of noise. The kid said the Sooners played dirty. "Why sayin' that is like trying to separate sugar and salt in the same spit bucket." Bonedaddy says.
"I see by the papers, we're gonna lose 4 games, defenses are gonna hit Bradford harder than a double wad of Spearmint gum left under an old Boomer Theatre seat, making his head ring like a piece of Heisman crystal in a hailstorm." Bonedaddy laments in frustration. "Talk like that just irks me."
"Sportswriters that think a quarterback is a refund, commentators who couldn't follow a moose through a revolving door, and the glory dazed jocks that had a career as brief as a pauper's will, 'telling us what they'd do in this situation', only to have their mouths left hanging open like an old screen door when the play on the field is completely opposite of what they said would happen." 'Hell, you can tell their brains checked out and didn't let 'em know." 'Bone howls. "They even tell us that the game is about 'field position'." He explains in mock amazement, his eyes rolling.
I ask about the cliches, chancy, in that I can see 'Bone has worked up a sizeable, beer fueled harangue characterized by the foamy spittle being sprayed onto the outside pair of my eyes.
"Screw cliches and the press box too." He boomed, waving his ham fists in the air. "I call it the depressed box, a so unexciting space, they couldn't attract transient mice with cheese whiz an a Disney gold card." "They ought to just call the game action, but probably couldn't follow it with a gameday, first edition playbook in large print." "When they see a kid out there that has got some stuff, just say it, ya know, point it out." "So and so is faster than a Fleet enema, that player's fake was like a late fall squirrel hiding his nuts,
the only thing that yae-hoo's got going for him is a fast pulse, or the nose guard has a face that look like five pounds of warm putty, real stuff that fans can relate to, they way we really talk everyday." "Those mother tongue linguists torgue me up like a rained on tennis racquet." "And tell me, does anyone telegraph things anymore?"
"Well, probably OLDSOONER does." I lamely retort. "Probably so." 'Bone agrees." "That's the reason that the poor folks are always happy, they don't have telephones..."
"Say, so," says 'Bone, as he gestures with a sloshing beer mug while the coaster stuck on the bottom states 'Drink Responsibily', when a player's tenacity allows him to stick with his assignment like a February cold." "If the defense is playing like a single cell animal, or you see the defensive line is nothing but a gross of holes or the only defense a team has is their State's National Guard, then make the crowd get loud in a quite voice as they view a spectacular catch made by a three year pine rider that is so tall he has to bend over to see through a transom." "You can tell when a team's game plan is shorter than the Wright Brothers flight manual, so leave 'em with a handful of dirty shadows, man!" "Just screw a bunch of 'The officials could call holding on every play" cliches."
"You paying for the beer?" I ask, ready to leave. "Check's in the mail, Four-Eyes."
Venturing a step further, "Did you get your usual two seats at OU this year?" "Yep." He replied. "Sometimes the old lady goes to the game, but most of the time I need the space, I'm kinda big boned ya know."
"Yeah, how is Lola these days?" I inquired.
Well, Lola still calls some of the same plays she used to." Finis grinned. "She's partial to the Wishbone and I'm partial to the fullback position."
GO SOONERS!