Youth of a Nation: Part I - Mustang Reigns Supreme
I occasionally recall memories from my childhood which are indicative of the person I have become today. I have realized that none of my friends or family members have really changed one iota, from the time I was around 3 years old (the earliest moment I still have independent memories from) to the present day. When I relay these stories to interested parties, they typically find them humorous and am surprised I retain such vivid accounts of the times and incidents. The only other person I've seen outperform me in this area is my friend Jason (or Jr.), who was also an integral character in many of these boyhood endeavors.
The story I found myself daydreaming about tonite involves our infamous Matchbox car races. When Connie (my mother) would take me to Buehler's (our local grocery store) every Saturday morning, it would usually be under vehement protest. As is customarily a last resort for most parents and teachers who are confronted with hard-headed children that realize the authority figures lack true control, the only real way to pacify my ass was to bribe me. These gifts would typically come in one of two forms: either a new G.I. Joe figurine or a Matchbox car.
Naturally, I became restless just admiring my numerous cars after about a year and had to devise a competition to satisfy my boredom. My two best friends during this period were Jason and Patrick (Roy - pronounced "Wha," after the Goalie). Jason lived directly behind my house, and Roy lived diagonally from me across the street. At the time, I was obsessed with making lists and compiling statistics of anything and everything (e.g. baseball lineups, pro wrestling rankings from various promotions, backyard football and baseball performances, etc.).
A competition involving these cars that would be recorded seemed to be a natural remedy for two simulataneous itches. The object of the game was simple. Jason, Roy, and I would draft teams of cars and fling them down my driveway. Whomever's car went the furthest, won the race. The player that won the most races, wins the game. But if your car landed in my yard, it was "out of bounds" and that racer automatically got last in that heat.
Predictably, drafting and race tactics mirrored our personalities, both past and present. I usually had the first pack in the draft. Of course, I always selected Mustang. Mustang was indeed a Mustang known for her durability and reliable "to the street" distance each and every race. Jason usually got the 2nd pick and would choose a different car every time we played, hoping for new and unpredictable results. Roy ordinarily had the 3rd pick and 1st pick of Round 2. He'd select the two steady but unspectacular Jeeps. After the first two or three rounds, drafting transformed into a wrestling match to see who got certain inconsequential leftover cars.
Our throwing styles also reflected our levels of discipline. Roy was deliberate and careful. He almost never tossed a car into the grass. He would patiently nudge the Jeeps forward. And much like the tortoise, their slow and reliable movement would get them to the street each time for, at worst, a 2nd place result. Jason, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. Almost every "roll" involved a literal throwing of the car, hoping for a lucky bounce or sudden collision with an opponent's vehicle that would enable him to claim victory. I was somewhere in the middle in terms of patience and aggression. I frequently waited last to throw due to Jason's penchant for collisions, which later lead to the "1-2-3 throw" system being adopted. Afterwards, I'd record all results in my notebooks (which I still have in my closet) and mediate any disputes that arose during gameplay (these occurred approximately once every 15 minutes, at which point Jason would threaten to go home).
I would almost always come out the victor, whether it was legitimate or via some creative bookkeeping. After a few hours, we'd retreat to our separate homes and eat lunch. Thirty minutes later, we'd be in the backyard playing baseball until darkness fell. Summer days followed this pattern for several years.
Eventually, the games culminated with the death of Mustang (her axle had become bent) and the realization that we were too old to race cars and keep track of who had won. Apparently millions of people still haven't had this revelation yet. Either way, those were great, stress-free days on my driveway. I'd like to think I still owe some of my past, present, and future expectations of success to the tough times that Mustang's repeated gutsy performances got me through in the days of yore.
The story I found myself daydreaming about tonite involves our infamous Matchbox car races. When Connie (my mother) would take me to Buehler's (our local grocery store) every Saturday morning, it would usually be under vehement protest. As is customarily a last resort for most parents and teachers who are confronted with hard-headed children that realize the authority figures lack true control, the only real way to pacify my ass was to bribe me. These gifts would typically come in one of two forms: either a new G.I. Joe figurine or a Matchbox car.
Naturally, I became restless just admiring my numerous cars after about a year and had to devise a competition to satisfy my boredom. My two best friends during this period were Jason and Patrick (Roy - pronounced "Wha," after the Goalie). Jason lived directly behind my house, and Roy lived diagonally from me across the street. At the time, I was obsessed with making lists and compiling statistics of anything and everything (e.g. baseball lineups, pro wrestling rankings from various promotions, backyard football and baseball performances, etc.).
A competition involving these cars that would be recorded seemed to be a natural remedy for two simulataneous itches. The object of the game was simple. Jason, Roy, and I would draft teams of cars and fling them down my driveway. Whomever's car went the furthest, won the race. The player that won the most races, wins the game. But if your car landed in my yard, it was "out of bounds" and that racer automatically got last in that heat.
Predictably, drafting and race tactics mirrored our personalities, both past and present. I usually had the first pack in the draft. Of course, I always selected Mustang. Mustang was indeed a Mustang known for her durability and reliable "to the street" distance each and every race. Jason usually got the 2nd pick and would choose a different car every time we played, hoping for new and unpredictable results. Roy ordinarily had the 3rd pick and 1st pick of Round 2. He'd select the two steady but unspectacular Jeeps. After the first two or three rounds, drafting transformed into a wrestling match to see who got certain inconsequential leftover cars.
Our throwing styles also reflected our levels of discipline. Roy was deliberate and careful. He almost never tossed a car into the grass. He would patiently nudge the Jeeps forward. And much like the tortoise, their slow and reliable movement would get them to the street each time for, at worst, a 2nd place result. Jason, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. Almost every "roll" involved a literal throwing of the car, hoping for a lucky bounce or sudden collision with an opponent's vehicle that would enable him to claim victory. I was somewhere in the middle in terms of patience and aggression. I frequently waited last to throw due to Jason's penchant for collisions, which later lead to the "1-2-3 throw" system being adopted. Afterwards, I'd record all results in my notebooks (which I still have in my closet) and mediate any disputes that arose during gameplay (these occurred approximately once every 15 minutes, at which point Jason would threaten to go home).
I would almost always come out the victor, whether it was legitimate or via some creative bookkeeping. After a few hours, we'd retreat to our separate homes and eat lunch. Thirty minutes later, we'd be in the backyard playing baseball until darkness fell. Summer days followed this pattern for several years.
Eventually, the games culminated with the death of Mustang (her axle had become bent) and the realization that we were too old to race cars and keep track of who had won. Apparently millions of people still haven't had this revelation yet. Either way, those were great, stress-free days on my driveway. I'd like to think I still owe some of my past, present, and future expectations of success to the tough times that Mustang's repeated gutsy performances got me through in the days of yore.
posted by The Eminent Gadfly at 5:15 AM
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