Friday Night Bug Juice

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Welcome to Friday Night Bug Juice, a Metro Detroit bar review site. We're here to give you a look into the dive bars of the Detroit area, so you can hopefully spend your cash wisely, and get a little insight into the lives of a couple of hapless irish louts.

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Welcome to the section of our site where you can learn everything you ever wanted to know and way too much more about the gang that works hard ruining their livers to bring you all you need to know about the dive bars of the Metro Detroit area!

HONORARY ZULU


   I recall standing up after taking a long slurp at the drinking fountain in fourth grade at St. Martha School in Dearborn and locking eyes with Sister Justa.  She waddled toward me with menace in mind and took in my red face, sweat plastered hair and untucked shirt before pointing at me with a crooked finger and bellowing, “You Zulu”.

     I took it as a compliment then.  I take it as a compliment today ( ten minutes before being labeled a Zulu, Phil Smith got in my way during recess and I threw him to the pebbly pavement.  He got up crying with little stones imbedded in his palm. Much later in life, he asked his mail carrier, my wife Andrea, out on a date.  She declined and went out with me instead.  Maybe if I don’t take away a piece of his swagger in fourth grade, Andrea’s decision is different). 

   I thought of this after biking past the packed baseball diamonds and parking lots of St. Francis Cabrini yesterday.  They were packed with kids in full uniforms carrying fancy travel bags filled with metal bats and new mitts.  Adult umpires barked out the balls and strikes while row after row of moms and dads sat at the edge of their seats watching and yelling.

  FACT:  Me and my crew from the mid sixties to early seventies would have kicked the crap out of the kids of today on any baseball diamond, football field or basketball court.

   Robert Summers, Jeffrey Hoover, Marv Raupp, Pat Lafferty, James Morrison.

   This is a partial roll call of ill tempered, highly skilled, max effort guys that dotted the sports landscape of West Dearborn from 1965 through 1975.

   Bragging by a sad old man you say.  Hell no, I say.

  We played our games at 10 am or 1 pm.  We got to the games by foot or bike.  My Dad was at work, my Mom was occupied with other kids and her home.  They never saw me play.  Nobody’s parents ever saw them play. So no kid ever heard his dad yell, “you’re still uppercutting at the baseball.”   As far as umps went, they were slightly older than us and feared.  A kid giving them shit was unheard of (your retribution might arrive later in the day at Ten Eyck pool).

   Your team might have a matching jersey and cap, rarely pants and socks.  You wore tennis shoes and caught with last years mitt.  The bat was wood and cherished.  If it broke, you taped/bolted/screwed it in place until it was kindling.  The ball was dirty and sometimes heavy from absorbing the elements.

   No wise parents, no adult umpires, crap gear, tattered uniforms.

   Than why was my crew so much better than todays?

   Pretty easy answer actually.  

   Because the hour I spent on the diamond playing a sanctioned baseball game was probably the sixtieth hour I spent playing baseball that week.

   Nobody out yet, bounce the ball off the side of the house and play catch.  Two guys out, play wall ball or curb ball.  Three guys, play pickle.  Four guys means home run derby or 500.  Six guys or more means a regular game, pitcher’s hand or pitcher’s mound (if I have to explain the difference between the two, then you are too young or a twerp).

   When you played with your friends all day, you got fifty at bats and the ball is constantly hit at you.  If you are playing with your chums and there are no adults around, you are going to take a ton of crap for bad plays, so you don’t make bad plays.  Lack of adult supervision is also how I learned how to curse like a champ, a skill I retain to this day.  

   I wouldn’t term this friendly competition either.  If you and I are playing curb ball, I skin my knees on the street trying to beat you.  If you win, I don’t say good game, I say let’s play again (I’m guessing this would happen, never got beat playing curb ball so I don’t know for sure).

   At night, I listen to Ernie and Ray Lane call the Tigers games.  I am not busy with Xbox or practicing jazz flute.  I listen and learn.

  Drive around today.  Do any kids play pickle or wall ball or 500?  Are any baseball diamonds buzzing with kids unless it’s a league game?  

   This is why the old Chestnut Street gang dominates the action against the pasty faced kids of today.  It’s not even close.  And when the game is over, we don’t expect Mom snacks or participation ribbons.  We are going home to play with our army men while we listen to the Tigers beat the Kansas City A’s. 

Cheers! Jim

PS  Don’t let the wrinkly skin fool you, I’m still a Zulu.

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