Tatter-bug and The Flying Body-Check
By Joe Acton
When I was growing up there were three inescapable truths we all lived by: 1) If you put an aspirin in a bottle of Coke, shook it up and drank it, something would happen to you. Nobody I knew could tell you exactly what would happen to you, but we all knew something would happen. 2) Annette Funicello would like me if I ever got the chance to meet her. And had the guts to say anything more intelligent than "Ummm ... er ... ah ... gosh ... gee ... 3) The coach's kid always plays more than anybody else.
I was 13 years old and playing the lead role in The Worst Year Of My Life. You remember that play, it's the one that started with puberty, worked its way up to acne and finished out with the shocking truth about the birds and the bees. Life would never be the same.
Anyhow, I didn't want to play basketball — which was good considering all I did was sit on the bench — but my parents figured it would "round out" my athletic endeavors, which to that point included only hockey.
Bud "Bubba" Dubois was our round-ball coach — a good 'ol boy from Alabama who had nicknamed his kid "Tatter-bug." Tatter-bug was older and bigger than me and I figured that if he'd made it this far with that name I wasn't going tempt fate with any Mr. Potato Head jokes. Besides, he was the coach's kid and seemed to be doing as much yelling at us as the coach was at him. And he played all the time.
We were busy extending our perfect 0 and 8 record when Mikey Williamson busted his wrist by running into the wall behind the basket. With 5 minutes left and our star scoring threat up to his elbows in Ace bandages, Bubba figured he had nothing to lose by putting me in. Even though I'd never played in an actual game before.
I ran onto the court and stood where Bubba told me to — about 5 feet from Tatter-bug. True to for, Tatter-bug starts right in telling me how to stand, hold my hands, where to look, who to watch, and who to check.
Roger Quessenbury was the other team's star center. He grabbed a pass and came roaring down court about Mach 2 and drove around me like I was standing still. Which I was. Two easy points for their side and a quick reality check from Tatter-bug.
"Geez, Acton — you sweat-hog. Next time he comes around you like that, check him."
And that's where the trouble began. You see, the problem in trying to do something new isn't so much in actually doing it. Doing whatever it is, is usually fairly easy, once you get the hang of it.
The hard part is getting past the jargon of whatever it is, so you understand what you're supposed to do. Figure out the jargon and you've got it made.
On the other hand, if you don't understand the jargon, you won't understand what you're supposed to do and will probably try to fake it instead.
Anyway, the very next play, Quessenbury smells another easy two points and pulls a repeat performance, flying around my side of the court again, wearing a great big cheesie John Elway grin. So, remembering what Tatter-bug said, I checked him. Into next week.
You see, it doesn't matter what you think or mean. If you tell a hockey player to "check" somebody you better get out the dictionary or a stretcher, 'cause somebody's going down.
Well, the next thing I know I'm standing in the middle of a very animated discussion between both coaches, one ref, a time keeper, several parents and Tatter-bug. I'm not paying attention to any of it because I'm a hockey player -- I know what you're supposed to do when a body-check fires up this kind of donnybrook.
You cruise around, act nonchalant, unconcerned, and generally let the other players know that if they monkey with you, you'll put a body-check on them that will give their unborn kids a concussion.
They threw me and my brand new PF Flyers off the court and the team that night and invited me never to return to their gentlemen's game again.
That was fine by me. Too many silly rules anyway — these clowns obviously didn't know a clean "check" from Aunt Girdy's girdle. If they wanted me to stick my hands in the guy's face or slap at the ball, why didn't they just say so? But noooo, all they said I had to do was "check" him. And when I did it was like Mission Impossible: "The Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions."
That was the last night I was ever on a basketball court. Until last week when I volunteered to cover a kid's game for the local newspaper.
I got there mid-way through the second quarter, score tied 6 to 6. The coaches were rotating their lines and I noticed that one kid's face was beet-red. I also noticed he didn't rotate out.
We watched as the teams exchanged leads and lines, but the one kid was always in there. And he always had the ball or was near it.
And when the coached yelled at someone, it was generally that kid. Bubba used to yell a lot at Tatter-bug, too. I remember feeling sorry for him because no matter what he did, his dad was yelling at him.
Finally a parent from the other team began looking through the roster to find out who the kid was.
"It's the coach's kid," I offered.
"You're right," she said, finding the kid's name. "How'd you know?"
"Oh, I've known Tatter-bug for a long time now," I replied. "Bubba, too."
It ain't easy being the coach's kid. But you do get to play a lot.
Sometimes it goes on like that for days and days. And then it gets worse.
By Joe Acton
When I was growing up there were three inescapable truths we all lived by: 1) If you put an aspirin in a bottle of Coke, shook it up and drank it, something would happen to you. Nobody I knew could tell you exactly what would happen to you, but we all knew something would happen. 2) Annette Funicello would like me if I ever got the chance to meet her. And had the guts to say anything more intelligent than "Ummm ... er ... ah ... gosh ... gee ... 3) The coach's kid always plays more than anybody else.
I was 13 years old and playing the lead role in The Worst Year Of My Life. You remember that play, it's the one that started with puberty, worked its way up to acne and finished out with the shocking truth about the birds and the bees. Life would never be the same.
Anyhow, I didn't want to play basketball — which was good considering all I did was sit on the bench — but my parents figured it would "round out" my athletic endeavors, which to that point included only hockey.
Bud "Bubba" Dubois was our round-ball coach — a good 'ol boy from Alabama who had nicknamed his kid "Tatter-bug." Tatter-bug was older and bigger than me and I figured that if he'd made it this far with that name I wasn't going tempt fate with any Mr. Potato Head jokes. Besides, he was the coach's kid and seemed to be doing as much yelling at us as the coach was at him. And he played all the time.
We were busy extending our perfect 0 and 8 record when Mikey Williamson busted his wrist by running into the wall behind the basket. With 5 minutes left and our star scoring threat up to his elbows in Ace bandages, Bubba figured he had nothing to lose by putting me in. Even though I'd never played in an actual game before.
I ran onto the court and stood where Bubba told me to — about 5 feet from Tatter-bug. True to for, Tatter-bug starts right in telling me how to stand, hold my hands, where to look, who to watch, and who to check.
Roger Quessenbury was the other team's star center. He grabbed a pass and came roaring down court about Mach 2 and drove around me like I was standing still. Which I was. Two easy points for their side and a quick reality check from Tatter-bug.
"Geez, Acton — you sweat-hog. Next time he comes around you like that, check him."
And that's where the trouble began. You see, the problem in trying to do something new isn't so much in actually doing it. Doing whatever it is, is usually fairly easy, once you get the hang of it.
The hard part is getting past the jargon of whatever it is, so you understand what you're supposed to do. Figure out the jargon and you've got it made.
On the other hand, if you don't understand the jargon, you won't understand what you're supposed to do and will probably try to fake it instead.
Anyway, the very next play, Quessenbury smells another easy two points and pulls a repeat performance, flying around my side of the court again, wearing a great big cheesie John Elway grin. So, remembering what Tatter-bug said, I checked him. Into next week.
You see, it doesn't matter what you think or mean. If you tell a hockey player to "check" somebody you better get out the dictionary or a stretcher, 'cause somebody's going down.
Well, the next thing I know I'm standing in the middle of a very animated discussion between both coaches, one ref, a time keeper, several parents and Tatter-bug. I'm not paying attention to any of it because I'm a hockey player -- I know what you're supposed to do when a body-check fires up this kind of donnybrook.
You cruise around, act nonchalant, unconcerned, and generally let the other players know that if they monkey with you, you'll put a body-check on them that will give their unborn kids a concussion.
They threw me and my brand new PF Flyers off the court and the team that night and invited me never to return to their gentlemen's game again.
That was fine by me. Too many silly rules anyway — these clowns obviously didn't know a clean "check" from Aunt Girdy's girdle. If they wanted me to stick my hands in the guy's face or slap at the ball, why didn't they just say so? But noooo, all they said I had to do was "check" him. And when I did it was like Mission Impossible: "The Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions."
That was the last night I was ever on a basketball court. Until last week when I volunteered to cover a kid's game for the local newspaper.
I got there mid-way through the second quarter, score tied 6 to 6. The coaches were rotating their lines and I noticed that one kid's face was beet-red. I also noticed he didn't rotate out.
We watched as the teams exchanged leads and lines, but the one kid was always in there. And he always had the ball or was near it.
And when the coached yelled at someone, it was generally that kid. Bubba used to yell a lot at Tatter-bug, too. I remember feeling sorry for him because no matter what he did, his dad was yelling at him.
Finally a parent from the other team began looking through the roster to find out who the kid was.
"It's the coach's kid," I offered.
"You're right," she said, finding the kid's name. "How'd you know?"
"Oh, I've known Tatter-bug for a long time now," I replied. "Bubba, too."
It ain't easy being the coach's kid. But you do get to play a lot.
Sometimes it goes on like that for days and days. And then it gets worse.