Days of Pinewood Thunder

I come from a line of men who had achieved the all-high title of becoming an Eagle Scout, my brother was one, and my father before him. Perhaps there were others before them, but I can’t be bothered to look back any further in my family line, as that requires a mild amount of effort. Though I never made it to the rank of Eagle Scout, I was a member of the Boy Scout’s equivalent to pre-school: the Cub Scouts. Though I would never reach the ranks of men such as Gerald Ford and Elmo Zumwalt, I could still make one hell of a balsawood aero plane (provided easy to read instructions were included) and design some pretty creative Pinewood Derby cars.

Life as a Cub Scout wasn’t exactly as hard as living as a serf in the middle ages, but it had its ups and downs making construction paper turkeys did take its toll on me after a while. We would meet once a week, usually at someone’s garage, though perhaps sending a group of children to a stranger’s domicile wasn’t perhaps the best idea of how to get the kids out of the house on Saturday afternoons. The actual activities we did remain a mystery to me, perhaps they were so traumatizing that my brain blocks it all out so I can’t be bothered by it.

I seem to remember participating in some kind of contest were we would have to accomplish, like bird watching, knot tying, personal hygiene, and finding mint vinyl records of Roger Whitaker’s entire body of work. Anyways, following some kind of assignment, we would be rewarded a certain number of points, with which we could redeem for a (not so) fabulous prize. Then for a few weeks of taking on assignments to do the things Cub Scouts do like, wildlife exploration, delivering small packages to the backs of warehouses, and continuing the search for Jimmy Hoffa. Eventually I was able to choose a prize from the fabulous selection of assorted crap that which likely didn’t cost much money, so that the den mothers could spend the money on online poker (which didn’t exist back then.)

I eventually spent my hard earned points on a Nickelodeon trademarked wide-ruled notebook. Why you ask? Well I will give you a speculation of mine. I had enjoyed the life luxury known as basic cable in my early childhood, but then came the dark ages. During a several year stint, my parents decided to no longer pay for cable, and had our television reduced to a measly twenty channels, including three Spanish-language networks, and Catholic public access. In my desperation for children’s entertainment, I grabbed the notebook, believing that inside there would be a screen which would play any of the network’s shows at my leisure. Alas it was just a regular notebook which I filled with crap like this:
As previously stated, I am lacking in the physical ability department, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a productive individual. What I lacked in physical prowess I could usually make up with creative skill, or whininess. Every year there would be a Pinewood Derby competition amongst the regional Cub Scout dens, where in we would see who could design the fastest car. When assembling you car, there were two kits, one which contained a solid block with pegs, weights, and wheels, for when you wanted to carve your own design for the car. Or you could simply take the pre-cut car and paint it whatever color you want (these are what the loser kids used). I am no expert in aero dynamics, but I did know how to change a block of wood into something a bad art critic would deem to be a masterpiece.
My first car I had transformed into a cartoon cat and dog watching a television while sitting on a purple couch. The cat and dog were a toy I had received from Taco Bell kid’s meal, as opposed to an extra cup of cheese, which became an unwanted item during some visits. Though the car wasn’t exactly the Mach 5, it did catch the judges eye, enough so to win me first prize in the most creative design competition, a prize awarded so that the socially awkward kids would have something good to feel about. The following year I entered in again to see if I could once again obtain the title of “most creative design,” falling in line with the previous year’s motif, my second car included kittens bowling. Daring, if not strange. I eagerly awaited for the judges to call my name, but alas like all my childhood dreams, it was crushed, preventing me from ever daring to dream again. But the thing that grinds my grits the most is that the kid who won the most creative award, obviously didn’t design it himself, his dad did it, or his dad paid some Audi mechanics to design it for him.

Alejandro's Anti-Amazing Athletic Adventures No. 3: The Wally Whale

Though I was not the most athletic of children in the greater New Braunfels, and Comal county area as a lad, I did participate in a series of sport related teams, all of them losers. During what I believe to have been the summer afternoons following fifth or sixth grade, my mother would take me along to the Landa park pool, where I was forcibly entered into the world of underwater gladiator battles. It was either that, or the local swim team.

If it is not currently a publicly known fact; was heavier set as a young adolescent than I am today, despite the fact that I have somehow grown up to be a human-lemur hybrid. My physical stature prevented myself from being terribly strong, adept, agile, or quick, so I would have to use my wits to move ahead in sports. Perhaps I should have been entered into a crochet class instead, as my lack of natural talent might be better applied to making hats and tea cozies.

Anyhow, I was forced onto a local swim “team” which had practice every day in the eastern side of the Landa Park Olympic pool. Why I was entered into this particular athletic activity still remains a bit blurry, like an Avant Guard film’s still life image. But, the reason more than likely was that my mother would have been at the pool anyways, and she didn’t want me sitting at home watching the Pokey-mans during the afternoon after my book learnings. So, there I was placed upon the concrete slab which surrounded a rectangular body of water which may or may not contain a certain yellow liquid within its walls, and I wasn’t about to dive in with my mouth and nostrils agape.

I remember there being three coaches, a man I may falsely remember as being named Doug, a overly tan woman, and an old man who was possibly at one time an Olympic swimmer, but I never saw him get into the water. Come to think of it, I don’t believe that any of the coaches got into the water, not even to show a swimmer how to properly perform a swimming stroke. This lack of interactivity is likely what led me to dislocate my shoulder for the first time, whilst mid-stoke.
I was assigned to do several laps using the butterfly stroke, wherein one propelled themselves forward by turning their arms in a circular fashion with them out in opposite directions. This movements requires a great deal of strength in your shoulder muscles, otherwise you will simply look quite the fool flopping about slowly in the water. About midway though a lap, I attempted to further myself through the water when I felt something happening to my left arm. The sensation isn’t entirely describable, just imagine squeezing a baseball until it pops out of your hand, that’s essentially what happened to my left shoulder. There I was in the water, wounded and unable to continue utilizing the stoke which had initially debilitated me. I believe this was a good sign for me give retirement a try.
Though we were dubbed a “team,” I don’t recall us ever competing against any other group of swimmers. Perhaps they felt I was simply a novelty and would only bring me along to their meets if they knew they were going to come in dead last, and they didn’t want the good swimmers to be embarrassed. As we were a “team,” we were given a mascot, and predictably it was a dolphin (big surprise.) As previously stated, I was far from the thinnest child about, so being hydrodynamic was not in my design. The rest of the male swimmers were of a slim build, and always equipped a pair of Speedos for a reduction of traction in the water, I would not follow in their example. There was a kid who was later to become my semi-friend who always felt the need to point out me being heftier than the rest of the water urchins. He would often remark “We are all the dolphins, but you’re; The Whale.” While cocking his head back to look up to the sky as if to see whether or not the all knowing seagull god was pleased with his insult.