Football Players: Pawns in a Dangerous Game

         
           Preface: During research on my grandfather, John Beck, who was an all-conference halfback during his senior year of college football, I discovered that football was almost banned in the early twentieth century due to the large number of injuries and deaths that occurred.  The game has changed, but it continues to be a dangerous sport.

          The following essay received first place in non-fiction submittals in a six week writing seminar in which I participated last year.

 

Football Players: Pawns in a Dangerous Game

non-fiction essay

by Gregory E. Larson

 

          The quarterback for the Washington Redskins, Joe Theismann, held the ball on a routine play during the Monday Night Football game with the New York Giants on November 18, 1985.  Two of the Giants’ defensive linebackers, Lawrence Taylor and Harry Carson, tackled Joe, and in an instant both the tibia and fibula in his lower right leg snapped like chicken bones. Theismann, suffering from compound leg fractures, lay motionless on the field.  A nation of football fans was shocked and horrified, and Joe’s professional football career came to an abrupt end.  Television viewers watched the slow motion replay in horror as Taylor’s knee hit Theismann’s lower leg, fracturing the bones and creating a limp attachment.  With each replay, viewers turned their heads away from the television.  The injury was too sickening to watch.  The incident shook the American football fan’s psyche to the core. They wanted to see a clash of modern day gladiators – they just didn’t want to see a career-ending injury.

          Football has been, and always will be, inherently dangerous.  Throughout the history of the sport, both college and professional football organizations have attempted to address various safety issues to help protect the players and make the game more enjoyable for the fans.  As each safety issue is corrected, others arise to be given attention, but the violence and danger continue to be an integral part of the game.  

          In the early years of college football, 1880 to 1905, the deaths and injuries incited a public outcry to ban the sport.  Mass formations and flying wedges (players locked arm-in-arm) were commonplace.   Injury-prone gang-tackling (piling on the ball carrier) and the lack of protective clothing also contributed to player injuries. In 1894, the Harvard versus Yale game became known as the “Hampden Park Blood Bath.”  Four players sustained crippling injuries, and future games were suspended between the two teams until 1897.  There was enough concern about the violence of the Army versus Navy contests that authorities suspended the games from 1894 to 1898.  Deaths and injuries in the sport continued to mount.  In the years between 1880 and 1905, 325 college football players died, and 1,149 were seriously injured.

          In 1905, the public clamored for the President, Teddy Roosevelt to either ban the sport, or bring the colleges together to work to improve the safety of the game.  On October 9, 1905, Roosevelt sat down with representatives of Harvard, Yale, and Princeton to discuss the issues.

          Ironically, on the weekend prior to the Roosevelt football summit, the brutality that occurred during a game between University of Pennsylvania and Swarthmore College highlighted the continued violence. It became known as the Tiny Maxwell Incident. 

Tiny Maxwell was a 240 pound player for Swarthmore College.  He was a brute of a man who played both offense and defense.  When he carried the ball, it took three players to bring him down.  Pennsylvania was a football powerhouse, and they didn’t want little Swarthmore College to ruin their reputation, so they developed a plan to rough up Tiny Maxwell.  On every play, the Penn players gang-tackled Maxwell, and inflicted slugs and punches to his face.  By the end of the game, Maxwell’s nose was broken and his eyes were so swollen that he could hardly see, and he had to be led off the field.

          Supposedly, pictures of Maxwell’s bloody face were given to Roosevelt prior to his meeting with Harvard, Yale and Princeton.  At the very least, the images were a convincing argument that changes were needed.   Roosevelt’s meeting prompted the colleges to create the American Football Rules Committee.  The committee formulated several rule changes which initially reduced injuries by spreading out the game over the entire field of play.  The key changes were:

·        Creation of a neutral zone at the line of scrimmage

·        The distance required for a first down was increased from five to ten yards

·        Mass formations and gang tackling were banned

·        The length of the game was reduced to two thirty-minute halves

·        The forward pass was recognized as a legitimate offensive play

In 1906, college football deaths were reduced to six, of which three were caused by fist fights between Ivy League players. 

          By 1909, the danger returned, with thirty-three football-related deaths.  More changes were made to the game in 1910 and 1912, including a ban on flying tackles.  Field goal points were reduced from four to three, and touchdown points were increased from five to six.

          College Football blossomed as a sport in the years following World War I.  Many of the veterans returned from the war and entered college.  The deaths and violence experienced in Europe made football seem like a parlor game.  The prosperity of the 1920’s, and the relief that war was over, seemed to heighten the enjoyment for the fans during their Saturdays at the stadiums.  The radio broadcasts also created legions of followers.

          But the danger continued to lurk on college football fields throughout the United States during the 1920’s.  At Kansas State Normal (currently Emporia State University), many veterans returned from the war to play football.  Their coach, Bill Hargiss, followed the strategies of Knute Rockne, the coach at Notre Dame, who was perfecting the wide open game of passing and open field running.  It was in the latter part of the 1920 season when tragedy struck the Normal team during a game against Washburn College.  In a light mist on a muddy field, Normal’s big fullback, Jack Reeves, took the ball and plunged through the line.  A sideline tackle by one of Washburn’s players broke Reeve’s neck.  He was carted off the field and died while the game continued.  His teammates were not told of Jack’s death until after the game.  The news broke the spirit of the Normal players.  The game for the next week was cancelled, and the final game of the season was played, but Normal lost to College of Emporia, 24-0.

          Tragedy struck again at Kansas State Normal in 1921.  Don Davis, Normal’s outstanding running back was playing with an ear infection.  He was tackled hard in a game against Baker University, and the infection spread to his sprained and bruised shoulder.  Davis’s condition deteriorated, and he died on November 21, 1921.  The final game of the season was cancelled.

          In 1923, Normal was renamed Kansas State Teachers College.  For the football players, the deaths of years past were behind them.  The college fans looked up to those who continued to play the game.  To them, the players were heroes, and carried an aura of invincibility and machismo. 

The senior quarterback and halfback, John Beck, had the best game of his career at the beginning of the season, scoring three touchdowns and two drop-kick field goals.  He paid a heavy price through the physical pounding he received from the opposing players.  The coach put him on the bench for the better part of two games to allow him to recuperate from his injuries.  While Beck sat on the bench during a game against Southwestern College, KSTC tied the score, and then intercepted a pass.  Time was running out and KSTC was within field goal range.  This prompted coach Hargiss to call time-out and walk over to Beck, who was known by the fans as Johnnie with the educated toe.  They knew he was suffering, but they yelled for the coach to put him in the game.  A great cheer went out from the crowd as Beck stood up and did his best to mask the pain as he limped out onto the field.  He kicked the winning field goal and became the hero, upholding the macho image of a football player who ignores pain and injury to do anything for the team.

While college football continued to grow as a sport, there wasn’t much public interest in professional football in the early twentieth century.  After World War II, the National Football League grew in popularity as the public sought out sporting and recreational venues.  The league’s largest expansion occurred in 1970 when it merged with the American Football League and expanded to twenty-six teams.  The players continued to increase their size and speed, due to improved nutrition and physical training, which included major emphasis on weight lifting. 

With larger, faster athletes, new safety issues have emerged, such as concussions and bone/joint injuries.  In 2004, the average weight of an NFL defensive tackle exceeded 300 pounds.  Quarterbacks, running backs and wide receivers have become open targets for massive defensive players who move at lightning speed. The Joe Theismann injury is a prime example of this vulnerability of the ball carrier.  The defensive players have learned to be effective by lowering their heads just prior to executing a tackle, thus creating a battering ram of tremendous force.  The NFL has attempted to counteract these issues by imposing new rules to penalize players for intentional use of the helmet as a weapon, and for late tackles or hits to the quarterback.  The immediate injuries are obvious, but there is now concern among the players and the league regarding long-term effects from the heavy and repeated blows a player receives during his career.  One recent NFL study determined that football veterans over the age of fifty are five times more likely than the average population to exhibit some form of dementia.

Will the danger in football ever be eliminated?  The NFL history has shown that violence continues regardless of rule changes and fines to players and teams.  The constant changes to the rules seem like a whack-a-mole strategy.  When one safety issue is solved, another pops up.  Fans enjoy the violence as long as it doesn’t get out of control.  They see the players as gladiators on the field, and get a rush from screaming out their anger or their joy, releasing all their pent-up emotions each weekend.

The NFL has attempted to address player safety through rule changes, but the recent discovery of the bounty system that existed within the New Orleans Saints team has shocked coaches, players and fans.  The NFL alleges the Saints organization promoted and supported cash payments of $1,000 to $1,500 to defensive players if they were able to inflict enough pain to cause the opposing players to be carted off the field.  The Saints have been fined $500,000, and the head coach, Sean Payton, has been suspended for the entire 2012 season.  The defensive coordinator, Gregg Williams, has been suspended indefinitely.

The story continues to unfold, but the existence of a locker room tape provides a glimpse into the attitude and directives of Gregg Williams as he prepared his team for a game with the San Francisco 49ers. 

Williams’ instructions to “kill Frank Gore’s head” seem eerily similar to Pennsylvania’s pre-game plan to injure Tiny Maxwell over 100 years ago. Williams told his players to turn Gore’s head “sideways.” He also directed them to inflict injury on Kyle Williams, a San Francisco wide receiver, who was recovering from a concussion:  “No. 10 [Williams] . . . about his concussion.  We need to put a (expletive) lock on him right now.”

It causes the fans to ask, “Has anything really changed?”

If football safety were taken to the extreme, the players would suit up in marshmallow-like suits, wearing foam helmets the size of pumpkins, chasing each other like Michelen men, bouncing and rolling around on the field.  Football would be in danger of losing its soul if that scenario became reality.  Fans want to see the physical strengths and weaknesses of the players tested on the field.  They want to see the muscles and the sweat, the action and the glory.

So for the time being, college and professional football will roll the dice and let the game continue to be played in a heady mix of television money, fanatical followers, packed stadiums and slow motion replays . . . and they’ll wait for the next tragedy to occur.  

*  *  *

Sources:

History of American Football – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, Violence and Controversy (1905)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_American_football

Miller, John J.  How Teddy Roosevelt Saved Football.  Wall Street Journal, Thursday, April 21, 2011, page A13.

Pagano, Richard.  Robert ‘Tiny’ Maxwell.  College Football Historical Society, Volume I, No. IV, May 1988.

Keyes, Ralph.  Tiny Maxwell Cut a Wide Swath As a Football Player, Ref and Writer. 

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1122810/1/index.htm

Markowitz, Fred A.  Football – For the Sport of It (A history of football from 1893 to 1962 at the Kansas State Teachers College of Emporia).

Football game summaries, Kansas State Teachers College, Yearbook, The Sunflower 1924, pages 116 - 117.

Wallace, Francis.  Knute Rockne.  Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1960

Futterman, Matthew and Albergotti, Reed, NFL Flags Saints for Bounty Hunting.  Wall Street Journal, Thursday, March 22, 2012, page A1.

Mellinger, Sam.  NFL, Fans Share Blame for Pain.  The Kansas City Star, Thursday, March 22, 2012, page A1.

Babb, Kent.  A Stunning Penalty.  The Kansas City Star, Thursday, March 22, 2012, page B1.

MercuryNews.com, 04/04/12, Bounty Tape Transcript: Saints assistant Gregg Williams tells his players to try to seriously hurt 49ers players.

http://www.mercurynews.com/49ers/ci_20332637/bounty-tape-transcript-ex-saints-assistant-gregg-williams

 

 

Broken, then Baroque: Triumph over a Sicilian Tragedy

Basilica della Collegiata - Catania, Sicily



Broken, then Baroque: Triumph over a Sicilian Tragedy

non-fiction research and photos

by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

 

     All was at peace over the Sicilian landscape on the Sunday evening of January 11, 1693.  The fields were in their winter sleep.  The farmers and the shopkeepers were at rest, full of food and time spent with family.  An earthquake had given them a shake two days earlier. Some damage occurred along the east coast, but it was assumed that the worst was over.  They did not know that a stronger quake was yet to come.

     At 9:00 P.M. their world was rocked with an estimated 7.4 (Richter) magnitude earthquake, centered off the east coast of Sicily.  The quake was so violent, that in Palermo, over 100 miles west of the epicenter, parents and children, shopkeepers and laborers, all ran out into the streets in panic.  They thought their world was coming to an end.  Sure, there was significant damage to their city, but what they didn’t know was that the eastern third of Sicily was destroyed – cities unrecognizalbe, structures leveled.  Over seventy cities were destroyed and an estimated 60,000 people lost their lives.  The ocean surge on the east coast (now known as a tsunami) added to the destruction.

Ancient ruins - Siricusa, Sicily

     Slowly, the plans to rebuild emerged city by city.  At the time, Spain ruled the island of Sicily.  The Viceroy in Madrid appointed the Duke of Camastra to be responsible for organizing the rebuilding process.  The Duke collaborated with agricultural aristocrats in Sicily, who were the main economic force behind the cities and churches. There were immediate issues to resolve in each city and village.  Should the rebuilding occur on the same spot as the original city?  Should they rebuild in a new location?  Gradually, the reconstruction began, but many of the homeless endured the hardship of living in temporary camps for years after the earthquake.  Many assumed that God had punished Sicily for various sins.                                                                   

     For the churches, civic buildings and palaces, the aristocracy decided to use the Baroque style of architecture, which was already firmly established on the mainland of Italy in the 17^th Century.  The original Baroque style was born out of a desire to break away from the stiff traditions and rules of the Renaissance period, where building facades seemed too predictable, too static and plain.  The term baroque comes from the Italian word barocco, which means bizarre.  Architects and designers wanted to add more movement, more feeling of three dimensions and more personality into the churches and important civic buildings.  The architects for the rebuilding of Sicily took the baroque style to a whole new level – and it is now recognized as Sicilian Baroque, and yes, some of it seems bizarre and a bit cartoonish, or whimsical.

     Catania, the largest city on the east coast of Sicily, was totally destroyed.  Giovanni Battista Vaccarini (1702-1769), a native Sicilian architect, was trained on the mainland in the Renaissance and Baroque styles.  He returned to the island to assist in the rebuilding process, and was selected to plan the main square and church.  Many younger Sicilian architects became involved in the design process, and their work overlapped, due to the length of time required to build the stone structures.  Vaccarini’s design for the Catania Cathedral can be described as a hybrid of Renaissance and Baroque Style.  Overall, the appearance is a bit stiff, but the main façade begins to show the Baroque elements of balcony and movement in the sculpture, as well as various colors of stone.  Vaccarini is now considered the father of the Sicilian Baroque style. 


Cathedral in Catania, Italy

     Many architects who were originally from Sicily came back for the reconstruction.  They were well-versed in Baroque design, and once they became engrossed in their work, the Baroque style began to flourish beyond the unusual style seen on the mainland. 

     The façade designs of Sicilian Baroque each have their own personality, but they have very similar elements, such as balconies, belfries, animated sculpture, curves, and three-dimensional depth.  One of the best examples of a Sicilian Baroque façade is the Basilica della Collegiata in the City of Catania on Via Etna.  It was designed in the latter period of Sicilian Baroque (1768) by Stefano Ittar (1730-1789).  Ittar arrived in Sicily after Catania’s reconstruction was well underway.  He assisted in the design work on the Palazzo Biscari, working for Francesco Battaglia, the main architect for Prince Biscari. Stefano Ittar eventually met and married Francesco’s daughter, Rosaria Battaglia.      
 

Basilica della Collegiata - Catania, Sicily

      Ittar's front elevation of the Basilica della Collegiata exudes many of the Baroque elements (balcony, belfry, etc.) used in the Sicilian structures.  The main façade column bases seem to pierce the steps, rather than sit atop them, adding to the dynamic quality of the front of the church.

     The palaces of the aristocrats give us an additional glimpse of the Baroque details.  The balconies on the upper floor of the Palazzo Cosentini in Ragusa Ibla are constructed of outward-curving iron railings which allowed space for the women’s billowing skirts.  The stone supports for the balcony are full of grotesque and playful figures ranging from sea creatures to musicians.

Cosentini Palace - Ragusa Ibla, Sicily

Looking up at Cosentini Palace balcony

Balcony detail - Ragusa Ibla, Sicily

     The Church of San Giorgio in Ragusa Ibla is another fine example of Sicilian Baroque style.  The architect, Rosario Gagliardi (1700-1770), was born in Sicily, and amazingly, never left the island.  He developed a great understanding for the elements of Baroque architecture, and designed many churches during the reconstruction, of which two are located in Ragusa Ibla: the Church of San Giorgio and the Church of San Giuseppe.  His design for the Church of San Giorgio (1738) includes a daunting entrance of angled steps, and a façade that blossoms forth with huge oval scrolls and dynamic statues and details.


Church of San Giorgio - Ragusa Ibla, Sicily

Church of San Guiseppe - Ragusa Ibla, Sicily

    The rebuilding process continued for decades.  Many of the elders who lived through the 1693 earthquake did not experience the final fruition of church designs nor were they alive at the time the church rebuilding was complete.  But the human spirit and the Sicilian spirit prevailed, and the reconstruction provided them pride and hope for a better future beyond the natural tragedy.

     What remains today is a magnificent collection of structures that were the response of the vision of the Sicilian leaders and designers at the beginning of the 18^th century.  Many of the structures are now listed on UNESCO’s World Heritage Sites.  There is much to think about when looking at the buildings today – mostly the hardships and sacrifices endured by the Sicilians through the natural disaster, and the joy the Sicilians felt when a new church was dedicated.  It makes one realize the Sicilians hearts and minds were stronger than the stone they cut.

Additional Photos:


Church detail - Caltigirone, Italy

Church of San Giovanni Battista - Monterosso Almo, Sicily

Church of the Souls of Purgatory - Ragusa Ibla, Sicily

Town square and Cathedral Church - Grammichele, Sicily

This is Why I Ride the Bike

Bikes on top of the van

Preface:  After another memorable bike trip in Italy, I've realized the tour company, Ciclismo Classico, is a big reason for the successful trips.  They've continually exceeded our expectations, with top-notch guides and unique accomodations, as well as their selections of restaurants and entertainment - so a special thanks to all of them for another collection of wonderful memories.

This is Why I Ride the Bike
non-fiction travel
by Greg Larson

“How was your trip to Sicily?” was the question our friends and family asked once we returned home from abroad.  My wife, Gretta, and I have been on many bike trips to Europe, and I always struggle to answer the question adequately.  It’s like going to summer camp, but the food and accommodations are much cushier than the old scouting days.  Unless you actually get on the bike, day after day, and experience the countryside firsthand, I can only share a hint of what it’s like to travel through sun-drenched Sicily during the summer solstice.  Our group of sixteen cyclists and two guides rolled along each day on a kinetic adventure, gobbling up the Sicilian food and scenic landscape.

Typical Sicilian countryside

On the bike, we were able to reach out and touch the countryside, stop in the towns and interact with the people, and learn of their historic past.  Sicily, a cultural melting pot in the Mediterranean, is an island of fascination on all counts.

There is no substitute for touching the wild capers and fennel growing along the highways, or feeling the temperature change when passing a field or riding towards the sea coast.  We passed vineyards, as well as olive, lemon, and carob groves while rolling through a patchwork quilt with a background of grain fields, forests and sea coast.  The blooming cactus, roadside guava and swaying palm trees, as well as my profuse sweat, made me realize just how far south we were in the Mediterranean climate.

Our veteran guides, Paolo and Enrico, cared for us like true shepherds.  One of them rode his bike with us, and the other drove the support van.  They alternated the riding and driving responsibilities from day to day. 

Greg, Enrico, and Gretta

Gretta and Paolo

To me, cycling is similar to skiing, but it is done in warmer weather on public roads.  The tour company provided a quality bike, and we personalized the fit with our own seats, pedals and bike shoes, which clamp onto the pedals like a ski boot system.  The colorful clothing made it easy for motorists to spot us, and the fabric wicked the perspiration to keep the skin cool. 

Our morning ritual began with applying liberal amounts of sunscreen.  The nervous excitement mounted as we pulled on our helmets and gloves after breakfast, and then searched for the water jug to fill our bottles.  Just before we climbed on the bikes, Enrico reviewed the day’s route map and instructions, giving us the good news first, “We will have a few little climbs this morning,” and the bad news second, “There is a big climb in the afternoon, and it will be very hot.”

Paolo is a native Sicilian, and he was a super support guide.  His loud voice penetrated the countryside, sounding like a vendor at an Italian soccer match. “Aqua, vini, Coca-Coli, Fanti!” he jokingly rattled off a list of multiple refreshments, but water was our only choice.  He poured the water into our bike bottles with all the fervor of a drink vendor, and it looked like he’d had plenty of experience. Once the bottles were full he brought around a box of fresh Sicilian peaches, cherry tomatoes, figs, or any other fruit that looked good at the market that day.

Cycling in Italy is not for the faint of heart.  You have to ride safely, but with authority.  One observation I’ve made from cycling in Sicily is that traffic is much more chaotic the further south one travels, especially in the cities.  When riding through the streets of Siracusa at rush hour, my brain kicked to overload mode with multiple decisions while pedaling and bouncing on the ancient pavers, dodging and pointing out potholes and cracks, shifting gears and flowing in the traffic with Vespas, Fiats, tour busses and delivery vans.  Our guides bravely rode into the large roundabouts, stopped and extended their arms into the air to block the traffic, and then yelled for us to proceed to our exit.

The Italians seem to think that traffic laws are mere suggestions. The hair on my neck stood on end while the cars on the side streets nudged out a few inches at a time onto the thoroughfare, essentially playing a game of chicken and ignoring our right-of-way.  The best way to combat these drivers was to growl at them while holding an outstretched palm as if to push them back. 

One hot afternoon I looked up at the curve ahead and saw a small car traveling at about 60 miles an hour, skidding sideways towards us.  Fortunately, his over-steer forced him back to his side of the road, but then he slid into a stone wall, with the car smacking and scraping the stones before skidding to a stop.  He staggered out of the car, took a quick look at the damage, then got back in the car and drove off.

There are no flat areas in Italy.  The climbs were slow and arduous, but the descents were free-falls of excitement bordering on terror.  During the climbs, Gretta began to recite the Gettysburg Address to keep her mind off the steep roads that loomed ahead.  I usually remembered a favorite song, looked at the trees and plants that were different, or cursed the engineer who designed the road.  On the descents, a feeling of sheer freedom overcame me, similar to skiing a big slope.  Every time I crouched down on the accelerating bike and the wind roared in my ears it made me feel like a kid again.  But freedom brings responsibility.  I didn’t want to become a hood ornament for an oncoming tour bus.  I focused on controlling the speed and picked my line around the hairpin turn while hugging the guardrail or stone wall.  On the long descents, I’d pulse the brakes when slowing down, to prevent overheating of the wheel rims.

Gretta climbing a hill into Ragusa

The small town bars were a good place to try the local food and drink.  At one of our stops, a workman on a roof yelled in Italian to get our attention.  Fortunately, Gretta is well-versed in Italian, so she responded and they spoke a few moments.  Then she turned to me, “He wants us to try the Gassosa at the bar.  He said it tastes really good on a hot day.”  We discovered Gassosa is a brand of carbonated water, and at the bar they added a scoop of lemon granita – sort of the Italian’s version of a root beer float.  Most of the bar fare was Italian workingman food, like calzone, stromboli, arancini or pizza.  On a particularly long day, I loaded up with carbs at a local bar and ate a huge slice of pizza with french fries as one of the toppings.

Bikes parked at a local bar

The benefit of riding the bike in Sicily was the anticipation of dinner, which was a major event from 8:00 P.M. to 10:30 P.M. each evening.  After burning thousands of calories on the bike, my taste buds were ready for the savory sauces and multiple flavors of the Sicilian cuisine.  The food seemed to appear and disappear at our table as fast as the Sicilian countryside passed us by on the bike.  Most of the time we had five course meals consisting of appetizers, salad, pasta, main course, and dessert, along with two or three types of local wine to sample.  One of the restaurants opened a double magnum bottle (three liters) of vintage wine, and our group polished it off in quick order.  Seafood appetizers, salads full of mozzarella cheese and Sicilian tomatoes, pasta seasoned with garlic and olive oil; it was all a gastronomic blur across the table.


Seafood appetizers

During one of our evening foodfests, an accordian player filled our restaurant with his voice and instrument as we celebrated the birthday of one of the riders in the group.  On another memorable evening, an entire troupe of folksingers and musicians serenaded our dinner with authentic Sicilian folksongs.  The history of the island came alive before us with colorful costumes, choreography, and singing.

For a change of pace, we spent one day hiking on the slopes of Mount Etna, the tallest active volcano in Europe. After a ride on a ski gondola and a special bus that drove us across a huge slope of cinders, we stepped out into the cool, thin air and stood within a kilometer of the four-cone peak.  Two of the cones constantly emitted steam, and one of them built up to a crescendo every few minutes, spitting steam vortices to the wind.  The guides had a geologist accompany our group and explain the complex workings of the volcano.  He showed us which rocks were cinders from explosions, and which were crusts from the lava flows.


Hike day on Mt. Etna (10,922 ft. elevation)

At our closest point to the volcano peak, we noticed a roped barricade.  Just as Enrico announced, “It is forbidden to go any further,” a group of Italian hikers stepped over the rope and continued towards the volcano.

We gave Enrico a puzzled look.  His comment regarding the rogue hikers showed his humor and gave us a peek into the Italian psyche, “You can do what you want.  You can walk into a bank and wave a gun, but it is forbidden.”

“Are they breaking the law?” we asked.

“They won’t get arrested, but if they have to be rescued, they will get a big bill,” Enrico replied. 

Our long climb down the ski slopes included sliding on the cinders of the steepest slopes.  The guides showed us how to grind our heels and lean forward.  It felt like skiing on cinder moguls, and it was fun on the shorter slopes.  After lunch at a lookout point, we began using the boots more often to slide down the slopes.  By the time we hiked to the bottom of the ski runs, my quad muscles were burning. 

The next morning, I rested my screaming quads as we rode a hydrofoil ferry to the Aeolean Island of Lipari, one of seven remote islands with a sleepy, dreamy charm.  Enrico told us that political prisoners were banished to Lipari during the Norman reign of Sicily.  I thought, take me prisoner, I’ll stay as long as necessary.  

Hydrofoil to the Aeolean island of Lipari

On our last two days, we rode the bikes on the islands of Lipari and Salina.  The short lengths of the rides (25 km and 16 km) were deceiving.  Our toughest climb of the trip was a long stretch of 8 km with the beginning 3 km exceeding 10% gradient.  At our rest stop at the top of the steep climb, Gretta gasped for air and then blurted out to the guides, “Assassins,” referencing a 1910 quote by the Tour de France winner who let the organizers know how he felt about the inclusion of the mountains as part of the Tour. 

But with pain comes the joy.  Shortly after the toughest climb, I pedaled along an easier stretch of road and looked out to the sea and the nearby islands.  The luminescent clouds hung on the mountainside, and for a moment it seemed the winding road, the verdant landscape, the sparkling sea and the expansive sky all melded together into a Van Gogh painting. 

So when people ask, “How was your trip to Sicily?” I remember the vista and reply, “This is why I ride the bike.”

This is why I ride the bike

Gretta and Greg at the end of the bike tour

The Newspaper Boy

Evening newspapers ready to be folded

The Newspaper Boy
memoir by
Greg Larson

I wound the straps of the bag around the handlebars of my bike and adjusted the two bulging canvas pouches which were filled with Garden City Telegram newspapers.  In a flash, I flipped up the kickstand and rolled down the driveway and into the street.  I couldn’t believe that I was getting paid to ride my bike and throw newspapers.  I liked being out in the world, on my own for an hour or two each day, free from parents, teachers, and siblings.  It was just me, the bike and the neighborhood.

            As a boy of thirteen, I looked forward to my daily adventure.  I was too old to play with toys and too young to worry about life beyond school.  The route was my personal space, an important job that I learned to do well.  Every afternoon, I was on a mission.  Each of the 110 households expected the paper to be on the driveway or porch before supper time, and I was up to the task. 

            When I came home from junior high school each day, the bundle of papers was always waiting for me at the curb.  I didn’t have the option to ignore them or skip a day on a whim.  I’d carry the stack of papers bound by thick cotton string down to the basement.  While the radio or hi-fi pumped out the tunes, I’d position the stack in front of me and place about twenty rubber bands on my ring finger.  The folding began as I jiggled to rock and roll music.  I was getting paid to listen to the Beach Boys or Simon and Garfunkel!  I couldn’t believe it.

            It was a perfect time to daydream or play mind games during the folding process.  Sometimes I’d think about the future.  Where would I be ten years from now . . . twenty years, thirty years?  I’d also read the front page of the paper, a line or two, fold, then read another line or two, fold.  LBJ or Viet Nam were usually somewhere above the fold.

            Mom had an ongoing battle with me in her efforts to stamp out the black ink that covered everything in my path from the basement to the kitchen and garage. The walls, doorknobs and light switches were some of the places that received the black film.  I was the target of wrath in her attempts to eradicate the evil, black scourge.

About once a week, she would yell from the top of the stairs, “Greg, just look at the black marks all over the house.  Do you realize the mess you make with that ink all over your hands?  You need to wash your hands before you touch anything!”  Then she would add, “If you don’t clean up the smudges, then guess who has to do it?  You know where to find the sponge, and the Spic and Span.”

            With the folding done, I’d haul the bags to the top of the stairs, but there was one crucial stop before going out into the garage . . . the cookie jar.  At least a half-dozen cookies quickly found their way into my newspaper bag.   More valuable than gold doubloons, I’d eat them as a reward at the quarter points on the route.

My route was as close as I could get to a Norman Rockwell existence in the high plains of Kansas.  After riding three blocks south, I followed the highway on a frontage road and stopped at Mr. Walton’s barber shop for my first delivery.  He wanted the paper delivered inside, since customers were waiting to read it.  There were a handful of businesses which also had subscriptions: the Elks club, a hamburger stand, and the Norge Laundromat.

            I was always anxious to get across the highway and into the older residential section of town, mainly because of the cool shade of the giant elm trees, which seemed like endangered species in the desert-like climate.  They were my cover, my umbrella in the late afternoon sun. 

The houses and the names of the families on the route were burned into my subconscious memory.  It was a choreographed journey, with every body movement used to create an efficient delivery system.  The timing of each throw was essential to prevent the wasted energy required to get off the bike and re-throw a paper.  The pedal strokes, the arm leverage on the throw, and the balancing of the swinging bags were all timed to work in harmony.

Parts of the job weren’t so cozy.  Weather was always changing in Western Kansas, and the wind never ceased.  The summer heat felt like a blast furnace, and the winter winds made me think of Antarctica.  The brutally cold days taught me to wear the right clothing, as well as truly appreciate the comforts of home.  During the worst storms, or when the streets were slick with snow and ice, I would walk the route, with mom following me in the car.

Collection time was one of the burdens I had to bear.  Each month for two or three evenings after supper, I began the slog from house to house, with the Garden National Bank pouch, a hole punch, and a ring of subscription cards.

Looking back at the collection process, I can see now that it was a quick way to get exposed to society and learn about the variety of people that live in any given neighborhood.  The worst subscribers pretended they didn’t hear me at the door, or they would ask me to wait until next month.  I didn’t even want to step inside those houses, due to the odor and all the stuff strewn about.  The best subscribers invited me into their living room to sit down.  They chatted with me and asked me about my school and family while they wrote out their check for $1.55 for the month’s subscription.  Sometimes they would pay me another month or two in advance.  I punched their subscription card, along with my duplicate card on the large ring.

My heart began to race whenever I walked up to collect at the Rossi’s house.  Georgette Rossi was one of the most beautiful girls in my school.  Just the sound of her name caused my heart to pound.  Georgette, with curly, jet-black hair, always answered the doorbell, and invited me inside.  Her mom would be in the kitchen, cooking Italian food. I always held out hope that they would ask me to sit down and eat with them, but it never happened.

The county judge who lived on my route had two daughters who were cheerleaders at the high school.  They were always excited when I came to collect, but I wasn’t.  “Mom, Dad, it’s the paper boy to collect!” they’d yell. Then they looked me over like I was a little puppy and say, “Isn’t he such a cute little paperboy?”  It made me feel like Opie or Beaver Cleaver.

Other memorable subscribers were two of my teachers.  I always made sure their papers were right by the door at every delivery.  I thought it might help their thinking process when report cards came due.

And there was Mrs. Gudenhausen, a widow who lived in a tidy bungalow with picturesque flower beds.  She always gave me a five dollar tip at Christmas time.  Every year when spring arrived, she hired the same painter to paint the outside of her house from top to bottom.  He was usually there for two or three months.  I always wondered what kind of relationship she had with the painter, but it really didn’t matter to me.  She was a generous lady, and I just enjoyed the big tip each Christmas.

I always picked a friendly customer to finish collecting for the evening, and then I asked permission to use their phone to call home.  Mom or Dad would come quickly to take me home.  Mom didn’t want me walking alone with a bag full of money hanging from my hand, even in a small town.  She’d draw the curtains in the house, afraid that someone would see me counting the money.  The majority of it went to the newspaper company.  If I had a good month, I’d clear thirty-five to forty dollars for myself . . . slightly better than a dollar a day for my work.  Thirty dollars a month went to a savings account, and the rest I used for pizza and coke money, and some for church. 

Mom kept telling me that I should save the money for college, but I had different motives.  I wanted to buy a car when I turned sixteen.

By the time I started high school, after-school activities began to interfere with my daily routine.  I had to find a substitute to throw the papers.  Usually, it was my younger brother.  He knew the route so well, that he decided to take my place, and the circulation manager at the Telegram agreed.  It was a perfect succession plan, and the subscribers were thrilled to have another Larson paperboy.

I had saved over $900 during the three years of my route, and the job had made me a better person.  It had taken me from childhood to manhood.  Like the papers, I was flung out into the world.  I learned to interact with strangers and manage a business.

I wish every boy could have a paper route.