We were talking about team names and I told the table that I had once played on a Little League team called the White Owls — a well-known cigar, I guess.
My buddy Kirby found that rather funny. “Did you all pose for the team picture with little cigarillos in your mouths?”
Yuck!
I hated all forms of tobacco back then (and now). My mom used to smoke in the car — usually with the window cracked, and I despised the smoke and the smell. After 20-some years, she quit cold turkey and became an anti-smoking crusader and health nut.
She’s 96 now and maybe her lungs are back to pink again, but I still kid her (sort of) that if she hadn’t smoked during my formative years, I would have been a state champion in something.
Sometimes after church — if dad hadn’t gone — she would circle a downtown block while I had to run into a variety store and buy her a pack of Marlboros. I was mortified. I was probably 11 at the time and looked about 8.
Finally, one Sunday morning, the lady at the cash register put an end to my humiliation. “I’m sorry, Honey, but I can’t sell you these cigarettes,” she said. “You’re just too young for me to sell them to you.”
If I hadn’t been so shy, I would have leaned over the counter and kissed her. So my mom had to parallel park down the next block and go in and purchase her own cancer sticks. Ha, ha.
I’ve never had a cigarette in my mouth my entire life. I guess I helped smoke a cigar one time. That was during “hell week” at my college fraternity and probably a story for later.
Oh, what the heck. Eight pledges at a time were put in the frat house’s little downstairs phone booth with the door closed and wearing only our underwear (or less). We couldn’t come out until we had smoked a cigar all the way down and eaten a big old Vidalia onion. I took one puff and then volunteered to eat a big share of the onion.
That kind of hazing was childish and maybe a little mean-spirited but that was more than 50 years ago. I’m going to be honest, it didn’t bother me then, but I would hate for my grandkids to go through anything like that now. Different times, as recently-fired Northwestern football coach Pat Fitzgerald would attest.
But I digress. We were talking about team names. I never understood the White Owls name, but at least there was no owl across my bony chest. I couldn’t even tell you if a cigar shop or some guy who liked stogies sponsored us. I do not know.
Anyway, can anybody beat that team name for uniqueness — or weirdness? My buddy Ken mentioned that at one point, four different funeral homes sponsored teams in his senior slow-pitch softball league. Probably looking for business.
That would have impressed me a lot more if one of them — maybe the ever-expanding Palmer Funeral Homes — printed up uniforms with a Grim Reaper logo across their fronts?
Aaron finally piped up from his side of the table and said that he had once played on a Little League team sponsored by Superior Waste. Wow! Now that’s a name for a bunch of 10-year-olds to aspire to. “We might be a bunch of – – – -, but at least we’re superior – – – -.”
Yep, I think that Superior Waste may be a more remarkable name than White Owls. I don’t know how good Aaron’s Wasters were, but we White Owls were a pretty good team. In a game, I’m thinking we would probably have “smoked” them.