Dave Ferman Author

Well, I'm here to tell you that all of that wondrous stuff was a darned good case for going the four-year route right out of high school. But not having to go back to being a squat-to-pee blocking dummy—especially after several years of being a genuine high-school hotshot—that was mighty doggoned strong medicine for the happy-assed juco experience too, if you'd stop to think about it.

You danged bet'cha, Kemo Sabbe. That, and the fact that as a juco hotshot, this child would be eligible again for another come-and-get-it round of free fun and games at the Big Eight/Big Ten/Big Everything or the Missouri Valley hot body trough in just two more years.

Like they say, "Ah haa, Sani Flush, cleans your teeth without a brush." It is, indeed, a full life if you don't weaken.

However, to set the record straight, I've got to admit that I initially had absolutely no intention of ever peddling my fuzzy buns to any danged jerkwater junior college. Have a "No" gringo. That was not in this kid's master plan. However, I had heard the word hither and yon that those friendly folks over at Great Plains really do know how to do it up brown and then some when it comes to a Saturday night party, par-tee, PAR-TEE! Therefore and hence, not only, but likewise; being a bona fide greedy sonova'gun by natural selection, I just could not resist the temptation for one more dose of boot-scooting free Saturday night on the town before running my tender wazoo over to Tulsa for about the next four years, or whatever's right.

Those Hurricanes really did seem to like the cut of my gib, and like they say, "You've got to get it while the getting is good, so good, so good, so good, cha, cha, cha." That's a natural law, don't you know? Besides, if there is one thing that I never could resist, it has to be any form of sweet temptation.

As everyone back home knows, I'm basically a defensive end by choice. However, I can go either way if I have to. But I've got to admit that I'm more partial to dee-fense because after about 10 to 15 yards of sprinting downfield, I do tend to run too long in one place.

On the other hand, I'd druther eat a fat fuzzy bug than miss a down-field block on the blind side of one of those high stepping corner backs with their big old alligator mouths and their little bitty tadpole wazoos. I surely would.

After all, pain hurts, and I want those high steppers looking over their shoulders and remembering my number whenever I come downfield to visit. Besides, that does tend to give me an occasional advantage of an extra step or two to break loose on one of those rare occasions when somebody does get around to throwing the danged ball in my direction.

However, since I had also done a pot full of the punting and extra-point kicking in high school my senior year, the Kid was suddenly one heck of a commodity because it just so happened that Coach Scraps was really hurting for a decent kicking game. No kidding. In fact, I heard that he did not have any at all for a while there. All of which got us down to the short hairs right off the bat. To wit: Coach had been purely scratching and grabbing while trying to make a name for himself for some time. That's darned important stuff to a coach, you know.

Actually, he had been doing all right, considering that when he first came to Great Plains that little school wasn't anything but a two-bit backwater doormat that did not hardly have a pot to pee in. However, all of a sudden, sports fan, there he was for the very first time, and maybe the last time as well, darned near hip deep to a tall Indian in honest-to-goodness Grade A, Pure-D talent with a capital T except for his kicking game, like I said before.

They tell me that there are some folks around town who do not think that Coach Scrapiron is smart enough to pour pee out of a boot, even if the instructions are printed plainly on the heel. Well, don't you ever believe that cheap hog wash because when it comes right down to getting his way, that old wooly booger is the type that would put a rattle snake in your pocket, and then ask you for a match. Man, if there is one thing I now know, is that Coach Scraps is bound to get his very own way, one way or another, even if it harelips every darned cow in either panhandle.

Therefore, just as sure as Tarzan swings through the trees and poops in the jungle, Coach was all over this child like white on rice while trying to get his meat hooks into that last elusive element; a first-class kicking game that would finally boost his slab-sided old shanks the heck and gone out of semi-oblivion and into a far, far better income bracket at one of those real fine four-year-type colleges like he is always bad mouthing to his juco jocks.

Do you know something? When you stop to think about it, that must be the living, breathing, blueberry trots to have your whole doggoned career—like any chance of ever making it to the Big Time—balancing preee-cariously on whether or not you can sweet-talk a couple of dozen one-way, semi-housebroken stump jumpers into sweating their raging cahones off for you instead of for some other double-talking old double dealer in some other institution of higher learning. I'll just bet that it is. That's why I did not get all bent out of shape about what happened next.

Did you ever hear about that old, old Chinese recipe for tiger stew that starts with "First you have to catch a tiger?" Hey bubba, give or take all of the fine print between the competing schools and good old GPJC, about the only good thing that Coach had to offer that those Hurricanes, Wildcats, Cowboys and all of those other big-time bull throwers could not match goodie for goodie was pretty Prissy McAllister. That's where Coach purely had those cork soaking, dice loading, apple knocking SOBs hands down.

No pun intended; neither one of them.

As I recall, I first laid a sweaty eyeball on pretty Prissy inside that super dooper chow hall at the Worthington Hotel. And I want to tell you straight out that she purely stood this child right on my ear bone. Like, in all of my born days, I had never seen anything quite like that living, breathing, ever-loving little doll. Man, she is definitely not just "your basic minimum daily requirement." Not hardly. Miss Prissy McAllister is the whole heaping plate full, and then some more for good measure.

You talk about being "merely out-danged-standing." Like in the first place, that little gal is nothing but stacked. As a matter of fact, she's pretty well packed together in the second place as well. Sho nuff, she's tuff! I am telling you. I do believe that this little doll has got curves in places where most other gals don't even have places. And she's got those long, lean, super-keen legs all of the way up to her fanny and back again. When that little gal is all decked out so fine in something too tight, just right; well Lord have mercy, she purely bankrupts the English language, at least the part that I'm familiar with.

What I'm saying is that some folks even get their enjoys from just watching that little gal breathe. Oh wow, does she ever know how to breathe. When you see her going down the street with her fine little fanny purely bouncing all around like two muskmelons tussling inside a gunny sack, and her shirt pockets are going ever which way like they're crammed plum full of jelly "because jam don't shake like that; cha, cha, cha," well mercy, mercy, Mr. Percy, if that shaky pudding doesn't wind your watch, nothing ever will.

Anyway, back at the oasis where the Aa-rabs are eating their dates, sweet little Prissy trucked out all of that good stuff right there in front of God and everybody in that peachy little peasant blouse of her's while she was taking our orders for their "Good Eats Special of the Day."

Well, sports fan, I'm here to tell you that with all of that going on inside those dry goods right there in front of my straining eyeballs, I could not even begin to think of any kind of store-bought dressing to go with my greens even though she had already rattled off the whole list to both Coach Scraps and old Ross the Third.

You see, what I really wanted was Rogueford dressing, which I purely do love on those rare occasions when I can get any. But the fact is, I just flat went blank right then and there, and ended up having to take my greens plain before I would have broken out in a sweat or gotten the terminal hiccups or even the green apple quickstep. Lordy, Lordy, I even forgot for a second there how I like my chicken-fried steak, for gosh sakes. You know: big, hot, tender and covered on both sides with lots and lots of cream gravy. Is there any other way?

I'm telling you, good buddy, that foulup flat embarrassed the bejabbers out of this child more than somewhat because I do not mind admitting that Yours Truly, the Kid, was trying awfully hard to impress that little sweetie peach about what a wondrous big shooter and naturally keen fellow I really am.

Of course, I thought that I had blown it for sure with Miss Prissy, so I was feeling lower than whale dung at the bottom of the Philippine Trench. But later that evening, doggoned if we didn't bump into each other again at a local boot-scooting joint called "The Teen Club," which is over on the Town Square. And darned if we didn't have the mutual Big Eye for each other right from the get-go, which is kind of understandable if you would just stop and think about that for a minute. I mean-hell's bells—we are both so darned good looking!

Man oh man, I just could not believe that place. I mean, there we were in the middle of this two-bit whistle stop of a little old burg about two days' hike away from anything else resembling what we laughingly call "civilization" back home, and the whole danged place was nothing but over-danged-flowing with some of the best looking chicks on this side of Jiles county. And I kid you not, before the evening was over, I had danced out the front door with the pick of the litter. You know my family's motto: "Whatever it takes."

Funny thing though, even after a couple of years of playing boy jock in and around this general neck of the woods—although I had never been to Great Plains before—I kept running into various and sundry guys I know or have locked horns with on the shoeball field or the baseball diamond. So darned if John Franklin Hildebrandt and the Turner boys—you remember those two yard apes—had already signed up and settled in for the duration. Not only that, but Harold the Scrounge and Boogie Vaughn were expected back from harvest in North Dakota at any minute and would be in Great Plains eee-mediately after that. Oklahoma is, indeed, a very small world.

Things were beginning to look surprisingly good for GPJC despite all of my prior reservations. With a core of super jocks like I was seeing, I knew that they could come up with a pretty darned good team this year.

So anyway, Miss Prissy and I doubled up with Lanny Turner, who has never ever been at a loss for wheels or folding money, or an armload of fee-male honey and a jug full of Old Tanglefoot, or any of the other necessities of life.

So first shot out of the box, we dragged Main Street from stem to stern and then back again a couple of times, which must have taken all of maybe 20 minutes including two separate stops for passing switch engines, and another for a broken-down turnip truck squatting right in the middle of the showoff lane. Then, that rascal Lanny wheeled it over to Riverside Park where we spent about an hour slow dancing to the car radio and messing around with a gaggle of local high school and college hotshots on the town's only lighted tennis courts.

I'm telling you, good buddy, that semi-secluded old park was all right. In fact, what it was, was one fine place for an evening out with a very pretty, totally stacked and bright-eyed little gal. And best of all, it was only about a couple of side steps in any direction to a soft, grassy hiding place full of non-itchy flora and fauna, and deep dark shadows for a little touchy/feelie, light slobber swapping and other good things like that.

Remember, E'se, this was just a first date.

Another real good deal is that the local cops generally mind their own business, bless their fuzzy little hearts. Actually, the only real problem was that every now and then, some silly local citizens would show up with their rackets and wanting to actually play some tennis on those courts. Who'da thunk it?

So this gorgeous little doll, Prissy, and I spent most of that little rain dance in and around the friendly shadows while draining several paper cups full of Jack Daniels snow cones, and dancing up a storm while trying to get ourselves even closer, if that was humanly possible. Somehow, I don't believe that it was.

Another real nice thing about Miss Prissy was that she was no slouch. Once she got with the program, she stayed right in there and gave it her best shot. Like I said, she is not your basic minimum daily requirement, so even between Top 10 records, she and the Kid were getting more than our share of standup tummy rubbing to the mutually hummed strains of "Memphis In June." Ah, those "sweet oleanders, blowing perfume in the air; cha, cha, cha."

Slow dancing with a beautiful gal in a skimpy peasant blouse and short-shorts from cutoff, too-tight just-right blue jeans has got to be one of the better gifts that God ever gave the man part of mankind. You can quote me on that, Kemo Sabbe.

I'd guess that it was sometime around 11 p.m. or so when ol' Lanny and Prissy finally decided that the Kid was sufficiently wise in the ways of this part of the world so that they could take me out to the 88 Club which is sort of a typical backwoods honkey tonk about two miles south of town on State Highway 88.

According to the letter of the law, the 88 Club cannot serve any-darned-thing but 3.2 beer and down-home boot-scooting music to those over 18 years old. But the fact is, you can usually get just about anything that you want out there if you are big enough to bluff and can put enough money under the table.

With my game face on, a fat roll of green money in my pocket, and my high heeled engineers boots making me about six feet and five inches tall, I had no trouble passing for 18, especially when I flashed your temporary drivers' license to the crispy critter checking IDs at the front door.

You see, this joint is just barely outside the town cops' regular turf, and is also too darned far out in the sticks to get much attention from that jelly belly Sheriff over in Buckley; even on those rare occasions when he does get off his fat fanny just for drill, I guess. Besides, when things really get to jumping out there on a Saturday night, it could take about two truckloads of National Guard guys to begin to sort everything out. It's a real hoot.

Like for example, you might notice that there is usually some sawdust scattered around on the floor among the peanut shells. Well, from what I've seen and heard out there, that sawdust may be all that's left of the previous Saturday night's bar furniture.

You probably think that I'm kidding, don't you? Hey, I don't make this stuff up. I couldn't if I wanted to.

If you have never been to the 88 Club, the main form of entertainment is mostly hooting and hollering, romping and stomping, and most of all, trying to fast finger the other guy's booze any time he is dumb enough to leave it unattended on a table while he is off watering his lily or scooting his boots across the dance floor. I heard that is darned near a tradition of the place.

The juke box could be the loudest in the whole ever-loving blue-eyed world, but there are times when even it gets drowned out by the ruckus. I mean to say that knockdown, drag-out, bare-knuckle fist fights have been known to go more or less unnoticed in the general uproar, and a cutting usually isn't good for much more than a short recess to kick out the riffraff and mop up the dance floor. So as you might imagine, there is no way to do much blabbing with the honeys out there. However, that's not all bad either; not if you are both having a good time.

So we stayed out there until we had to shut it down about 12:30 a.m., and I had to admit to that silly rascal Lanny that I had not had so darned much fun since Sissy Strublel got her boob caught in the revolving door and white-washed Sears and Roebucks.

I kind of figured that Miss Prissy must have had a reasonably good time herself because her eyeballs were shining like twinkling stars all of the way back to her house, and she never stopped laughing until we checked each other's spit at her front door at about 2 o'clock in the morning. But even then, what with the last of the wheeling and dealing season coming on like gang busters, I really did not plan on staying in Great Plains more than a day and a night. Not hardly.

However, right in the middle of Prissy and me coming up for air for about the umpteenth time, she allowed as how she would purely love to go to the annual GPJC 1951 Football Kickoff Party at the large and luxurious Covington-Davis spread that next afternoon. Her problem, she said, was that she had to have a GPJC football player or a reasonable facsimile thereof to go with her to the party, or she would never get past the no-neck goon on the gate. Would you believe that aside from Yours Truly, she said that she did not have any other prospects at that time? Poor baby.

Like I said before, I was sort of counting on taking a bus over to Tulsa the next day. But Lord knows, once you have had an armload of Miss Prissy's "so round, so firm, so fully packed" little frame, you are going to be mighty darned slow to pass up any chance of a second helping.

You know that I have always been queer for good-looking girls.

Whoops! Gotta' go now! It's quitting time and somebody is just about to turn off the lights. I'll tell you about it next week, so stand by to stand by, and don't poop too close to the house. Your buddy

Danny