by Tim Conway
He pointed to the starting gate. I knew right away that he wanted me to break the horse from the gate. Horses had to do that three times before they were eligible to race so that they’d behave and break when the actual starting bell rang. I’m sure you’ve seen horses having difficulty at the gate. Sometimes a horse can get so skittish he’s taken out of the running. Anyway, this was one of those opportunities for me to speak the truth, which was that the horse already had his gate work with his regular exercise rider. If I put him in the starting gate, the only one who’d be learning anything would be me. I’d never been in the starting gate. I simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity.
I waved to the starter, gave a slight tug on the rein, turned the horse I’d been leisurely walking, and headed toward the iron monster. An assistant grabbed the reins and led us into starting gate number four. I knew this was a good day to advance my riding career because four is my lucky number. God was talking to me, and this was his way of saying, “You are going to be a jockey, my son.”
The starter stood in the viewing stand. He looked down and cried out, “Kid, are you ready?”
Ready? Was he kidding? I’d been ready for years. I leaned forward on the horse’s neck, grabbed a little hunk of mane, raised my rear end ever so slightly off the tiny racing saddle, looked straight ahead, steadied the horse, and called out, “Let him go!”
I should explain that when the starting gate opens, in an instant the horses break and go from a standing position to forty miles an hour. The second I cried “Let him go,” the starting bell rang, the gates flew open, and my horse leaped forward. I didn’t. The next thing I knew I was sitting on the ground looking at the rear end of the horse speeding down the track. I remember thinking, “God, I wish I were on that horse.”
Thus ended my racing career. I never lost my love for horseracing, though.
Aside from my failure to ride in the Kentucky Derby, my childhood proceeded without undue stress. Long before the Boomer Babies came along I was a card-carrying member of the Depression Babies. My early years were spent like any other kid whose parents were scrambling to make ends meet. Even as they struggled, and as screwy as they were, Sophia and Dan somehow managed to give me a sense of security, which has stood me in good stead all these years. All the more remarkable when you consider that I lived through the Depression, World War II, and Major Bowes’ Amateur Hour. I’m not so foolish as to believe that everything in my childhood could have been as rosy as I remember, or as I choose to remember. It’s my nature to see the glass half full; I think that might have been Sophia’s nature, too. Dan, I’m sure, saw the glass full in order for him to down the contents.
Thinking back, maybe the most significant and terrifying event of my early years was the death of President Roosevelt on April 12, 1945. Sophia and I were listening to the radio when a voice broke into the regular broadcast to announce that he had died. We both jumped out of our chairs. Sophia put her hands up to her face and rocked her head to and fro. My mouth fell open and stayed that way while the announcer gave the particulars. I was dumbstruck. How could Franklin Delano Roosevelt die? He was the only president I had lived under, and for millions of kids like me, and a lot of grown-ups, too, he was right up there with the Good Lord Himself. It’s not like today where presidents come and go and everything they do, and I mean everything, is in the news. FDR had had polio and couldn’t walk, but who knew? They never showed him on crutches. Of course, we only had newsreels then, not television. Still, photographers and filmmakers were respectful; pictures showed him from the waist up. He had broad shoulders and when you saw his big face with the great smile, he looked more like Charles Atlas than a polio victim. For Pete’s sake, FDR was immortal. If he could die then Dan could, and Sophia, and, maybe me. What was happening?
Sophia and I stood still while the radio droned on. Neither of us said a word. Then, from the depths of the cellar, came the familiar bellow, “Jaanneey Maaac!” Dan had bonked his head on a cellar beam and his accustomed howl was a sure sign that, despite the immediate tragedy, life would go on.
School Days: Part Deux
I continued my climb up the educational ladder, squeaking through the first eight years with below-average grades that were just good enough to get me promoted. Then, before you could say Horatio Alger I entered ninth grade. What really impressed me about freshman year in high school wasn’t my teachers or my studies; I couldn’t get over the fact that I didn’t stay in one room all day. I actually had to get up and change rooms for different classes. I’m being a little flippant about the teachers; I had some special ones. Foremost among them were Elsa Jane Carroll, who taught English; and Ralph “Quiz” Quesinberry, head of the physical education department. These two wonderful people eventually became personal friends and remained so until the day they passed.
English had always frightened me. Maybe it had something to do with Sophia and her struggles, but I think it had more to do with my dyslexia. Throughout my elementary school years, I agonized over my homework and often cowered when I had to read aloud in class. I got laughs, for sure, but it took me a while to get comfortable and to realize the kids were laughing with, not at, me. However, getting words down on paper, as well as reading the words that already were there, were chores that Elsa Jane Carroll wouldn’t let me dodge. In later years, she informed me that she spotted something that told her there was more to this little runt than just being funny and she was determined to bring it out. Bless her, she stood over me and made me write, and read, and recite, and, in so doing, saved me from total humiliation and ensured my future success. Elsa gave me the courage to express myself but she’s got to take responsibility for my spelling.
Ralph Quesinberry had been recruited as athletic coach from Bowling Green State University when I began seventh grade. Quiz recognized my athletic ability, and under his guidance I flourished in baseball, track, boxing, and, don’t laugh, football and basketball. I devoted myself to sports in high school and, because of my academic record, this required a bit of finagling. I needed Sophia’s signature on my report cards. (Forget Dan, he never even looked at my report cards let alone signed them.) So I spent a lot of time altering those Ds to look like Bs. Before giving the card to my mother, I would a draw a horizontal pencil line joining any Ds midsection that was dark enough to look genuine but light enough to erase with no trace. Once Sophia signed off, I would rub out the line and return the card to the teacher. On some occasions, I eliminated the middleman (Sophia) and signed the report card myself. With hindsight, it would have been a lot smarter if I’d put the energy that I devoted to changing my grades into working for them. The one grade I didn’t have to mess with was for Physical Education. Quiz gave me all As. Most of the time I earned them, although sometimes I didn’t.
I remember a track meet when one of the guys on the mile relay team twisted his ankle right before the race. In his infinite wisdom, Quiz chose me to sub. I questioned his choice; I wasn’t a runner, I was a pole-vaulter. My running consisted of zipping down the forty-foot approach to the bar where I’d plant the pole and hoist myself up and over. I could clear seven feet, which wasn’t all that bad for a high school kid, but that was the extent of my participation in track-and-field. Nevertheless, when Quiz pointed the finger at me that day, I jumped off the bench and got ready for the relay. If he thought I could do it, by golly, I could do it. I lined up for the second leg of the mile. A guy named Don Evans ran the first leg and led all the way. I had a clear track ahead of me when I took the baton from Don. Grasping it in my fist, I put my head down and took off like The Flash, one of my DC Comics heroes. I was blazing along and continued to lead the others as we reached the turn. I soared into the back straightaway. Boy, was I full of myself. Then, it happened, I hit the wall. It felt more like I’d smashed into one. In a split second, my legs and arms left my body and were replaced with rubber. Gasping for breath, my eyes rolling in my head, my limbs flailing, I teeter-tottered forward. The Flash was flushed. Here’s the thing
: I didn’t have a clue how to run a quarter mile, and Quiz didn’t have time to tell me. Who knew you were supposed to conserve some energy. I expended it all in the first few seconds. Whoosh! I felt a refreshing breeze as the rest of the field stampeded by. My slow-motion jog soon became a foot-dragging stroll. I had about another fifty yards to go and, though my vision was too blurred to see them, I could hear my teammates urging me on. At last I reached the baton-exchange area. The guy running third leg started moving with his arm outstretched behind him, expecting to receive the baton from yours truly. Unfortunately, I only had reached the exchange area when, overcome with nausea, I stepped to the side of the track and began puking. Mr. Third Leg, realizing his hand was empty, turned, saw Mr. Second Leg bent over the field spilling his guts out, and ran over. He pulled the baton out of my hand, and flew down the track in a futile effort to catch up. We lost by a quarter of a mile, and I puked all the way home. My running career was over.
Among other innovations, Quiz introduced boxing to the athletic agenda. I signed up and was immediately put into the fleaweight division, one rung below flyweight. Any lower and I’d be fighting leprechauns. Billy Butler was a fleaweight, too. In fact, the two of us fought each other in the first championship bout. Sophia had made my powder-blue trunks on her sewing machine and embroidered LITTLE BUTCHER on the side. Could it get any better? Billy and I were about the same weight, but he was a good foot taller than I. We must have looked like Mutt and Jeff in the ring. The bout, itself, was very professional. We wore sixteen-ounce gloves and fought for three one-minute rounds. The bell sounded. Billy and I came rushing out of our corners and started punching. As befitted our respective statures, Billy kept hitting me in the head while I attacked his midsection. All three rounds followed the same pattern. And so it went for the entire match with only one divergence. At the start of the third round, my Little Butcher powder-blue trunks began slipping downward. I grabbed them with one gloved hand and held on for dear life while I kept on punching with the other hand. I didn’t hear the crowd roaring (with laughter), but apparently people found it hysterically funny. In the end, although Billy and I were pretty evenly matched, I won. I’m sure it was because I provided a comic interlude. Billy and I really were the best of friends, and I felt bad taking the trophy. Our dads were so close, and I knew that Big Bill, an amateur boxer, had trained his son for the fight. When we got to the locker room, I offered Billy the trophy, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I’m happy to report that a variation of a happy ending came for Billy in the next year’s tournament. I lost in one of the early rounds, but Billy went on to another title bout. I said “variation” because Billy didn’t win but he had participated in two championship fights. I only got to one.
Football provided the next sporting highlight for Chagrin Falls’s own Jim Thorpe. I went out for the team in my freshman year, all ninety-seven pounds of me. Thanks to a steady intake of milkshakes, I managed to push my weight up to a hundred and three pounds over the summer but, by the time school started, the milkshakes were over, and, I’d lost all the added poundage. I weighed ninety-seven pounds again with my socks on. (My socks probably weighed ten pounds.) Coach Quesinberry wanted to make me the water boy, but I insisted that I wanted to be on the field. Miraculously, perhaps foolhardily, Quiz put me in as a starting guard. I had to earn my spot, though. You weren’t just given a uniform and sent on the field, you had to prove you were a “Tiger.” I cemented my position on the team the day we had tackle practice.
The squad formed two lines facing each other; on one line were the runners, on the other line stood the tacklers. At the signal, the runners would run ten yards and try to avoid the tacklers. The first thing I did when I got in line was count down the other line to see whom I’d be tackling. I was ninth in the tacklers’ row. I’m counting six, seven, eight, nine, holy smoke. It couldn’t have been any worse; my corresponding number nine was Ralph Tinge, the senior first-string tackle who weighed two hundred and forty pounds without his socks. The Titanic and the iceberg were on a collision course. Quiz must have counted the lines, too.
When the nines stepped forward, the coach took a look at the two of us and said, “Hold on a minute.”
I brushed him off, saying, “I’ve got it.”
I put my head down and hurled forward, straight into Ralph Tinge. At the impact, I felt that I’d gone to another place. My body seemed to accordion and my head settled into my lap. As I lay there, I could hear the faint sound of my teammate’s applauding.
“All right, Conway,” Quiz called out, “you’ve got a uniform.”
I was pleased to know that I made the squad and relieved to be alive. At least I wouldn’t have to tackle Tinge again; he was my teammate, now. The first thing I did when I got my uniform was to have Sophia sew a tuck in the pants so they wouldn’t fall off during a game. I was never so proud as when I put on the Tiger orange and black. It’s funny what you consider important when you’re young.
Quiz had the same faith in my athletic abilities as Elsa Jane had in my scholastic ones; the difference was his belief could have killed me. The guys I faced were giants, but that was the secret of my success. While they lumbered forward, I scooted down the field like a little rat, slipping in and out of the opposing line. By the time anyone got a bead on me, it was too late to throw a block; I was already in their backfield. That’s not to say that the Artful Dodger escaped unscathed. Ironically, it was a fellow teammate who wiped me out. During the big game with our archrival, Orange High School, our own fullback ran his helmeted head, full force, into the middle of my back. I hit the ground and lay there. Nobody rushed out to see how I was doing and I just kept on lying there. Finally, Quiz and a few other guys came on the field to check things out; after all there was a game to play. Quiz leaned over and whispered, “C’mon, kid, get up and show them you can walk it off.”
Walk? I couldn’t even talk; I couldn’t feel anything below my neck let alone move. I managed a weak smile. Quiz and the others got me to my feet, let me go, and down I went again. EMS this wasn’t. Obviously, I wasn’t going anywhere on my own. The guys took hold of my arms and legs, lifted me up, and carried me off the field—no stretchers in those days. I was taken to the locker room and placed on a training table. At this point I wasn’t so certain who I was, let alone where I was. I simply couldn’t talk. For the next half hour, I lay on the table staring at people who were staring back at me. Gradually, I came to. I recovered my ability to speak and to (tentatively) walk. I was pretty shaken up, though. A wise man might have gone home to bed. We are not talking about a wise man, however. Undeterred by my condition, I elected to go to the postgame party.
At the party, I was a bit woozy but okay enough to chat with friends and teammates. We strolled over to a serving table piled high with all kinds of hot dogs. I picked up a chilidog, took two bites, and passed out. For the third time that day, I hit the ground. Someone removed the dog from my hand and took me to the local hospital where I was examined and questioned by the doctor. The chilidog was exonerated; it happened too fast to be food poisoning. The doctor took an X-ray and found everything in order. So what’s the problem? Nothing, except that I was really sore, and I couldn’t move too easily. The good doctor taped me up, put me in a neck brace, and sent me home. I stayed in my brace/tape cocoon for about three weeks. Most of that time I had to move at a painfully slow pace. Barely able to lift my feet off the floor, I shuffled around the house and up and down the school corridors. After the third week, I went back to playing football. Ah, youth. The story doesn’t end here, though. There’s a follow-up—two follow-ups, in fact.
Follow-up #1. I’d been living in California for many years when I began having back problems. I went to a doctor, was X-rayed, and was dumbstruck when I was told that my spasms were a residual effect probably stemming from a broken vertebra.
“Broken vertebra?” I said. “I never broke my vertebra.”
“Think back,” replied the doctor, “you must have experienced some
sort of trauma. It could have been a while ago, when you were young. Did you ever have a sports injury?”
I thought about it—a sports injury—and the lightbulb went on! I told him about the football field smashup and what happened after I ate the chilidog.
“You may not realize it,” the doctor answered, “but you are one lucky man. Here’s what I think. Your vertebra probably was broken when you were hit, but when they picked you up and carried you to the locker room, your back got stretched out. I’d guess that the vertebra went back into place. The X-ray may not have shown anything at the time but, I assure you, you came very, very close to being permanently disabled. If they hadn’t moved you, it might have been a different story.”
Follow-up #2. Do you remember my saying that I had to move at an excruciatingly slow pace after the accident? I never forgot that experience. Later, I took those shuffling steps and gave them to one of my most popular characters on The Carol Burnett Show, The Oldest Man. It took The Oldest Man an eternity to get from point A to point B, and two eternities to get from point B to point C. (Again, if you want to see what I’m talking about, go to YouTube. Or, better yet, buy one of those DVD sets of the show.) Oh, one other thing before I move on. Ever since that incident on the football field, which might have altered the course of my life, Jesus and I have stayed in constant touch. I never stop saying thank you.
No question about it, except for Elsa Jane Carroll’s high school English classes, I was totally focused on sports. I always had been. Every summer, from grade school through adulthood, I went to the Chagrin Falls Recreation Center. It cost five dollars to get a pass for the entire summer, seven days a week. The pass entitled you to use the baseball diamond, the basketball and volleyball courts, and the pools. You could also attend any of the craft classes and loop leather lariats to your heart’s content. My heart was more content being on the diamond and in the pools. I started in the little pool and stayed with the swimming program right through college. It was a great way to spend the summers. I couldn’t wait to get to the Chagrin Falls Recreation Center in the mornings and to spend the day with my pals. We all looked the same, blue jeans, T-shirt, tennis shoes, a baseball hat with a Cleveland Indian patch on the front, and, of course, a well-oiled baseball glove enveloping our catching hand.