Simon Gribben

Charlie and I met on the Allentown High football stadium when he played for South Mountain Jr High and I played for Raub Jr High.  I was playing offensive guard and Charlie was a defensive end.  Somehow I ended up blocking him with my upside down body and my foot in his face.  We spoke a few words and Raub won the game.  Charlie and I became friends when we were both playing for Allentown High. 

Charlie and his Dad had an auto repair shop repair shop that I frequented.  Was a member of their race team once when they raced in Reading.  My fondest memoriy was when we were out partying, had a few drinks.  Charlie was driving his 50 Ford convertable and farting like hell was warmed up for a great scene.  There were 4 of us in the car when Charlie decided to light his farts.  He bent over the driver's seat, ass in the air!

Someone had a zippo lighter and I was the fart lighter.  The 1st fart was a boomer and was colored blue.  Charlie noticed another fart ready to launch. and got me into position to light his launch!  However, this fart was a slow shooter, a creepy crawler that lit up Charlie's ass hair and he had a slow burn and a loud scream!  Thus ended our science project.

SIMON GRIBBEN

“Slam’s Court”

When I grow too old to play, will you still love me, will I still love you, and will I finally love me?  The answer to all of the preceding is a large, fat YESS!!!

If we are what we eat, as some have suggested, then part of who I am is the breakfasts I eat with some of the guys I played football with in high school.  They have friends I never knew and some I did but we all swirl together like the clouds in our coffees.

When I finally returned home after 40 years away, I discovered that one of my teammates, actually my hero at my football position, Tom “Slam” Barrett, held court at breakfast every morning at Metzgar’s Diner at 19th and Tilghman in Allentown.  I was new in my old town so I decided to look him up.

I found “Slam” at the diner but at first I didn’t recognize him.  The dark curly hair was gone, replaced 45 years later with a thin shell of white hair much like my own.  We had been acquaintances on the team who came from opposite ends of Allentown society.  We were all tribal: the kids from the wealthy West Side didn’t hang out with the kids from the poorer East Side.  We all stuck with our “homies from the hood”, rich or poor.
 
I had always admired “Slam” as a player and found him to be fair in his dealings with me and others but we had never “bonded”.  At first, he didn’t recognize me.  My black hair was white and mostly gone on top.  Hair was important to “Slam” because he had been a barber; in fact he never went to college to go directly into barbering after high school.  He could have gotten a football scholarship but he had had enough of school.

He ended up as a deputy sheriff and had retired when he had a massive heart attack with all the attendant surgery.  He was supposed to stop smoking but he complained of chest pain that was only relieved by smoking.  If you loved the guy, you wanted to stop him from shortening his precious life, but, if you loved him, you never said a word.

The irony of “Slam” holding court was that as a deputy sheriff he had spent most of his time in courtrooms as a security figure; now, he was the master of ceremonies for a gathering of mostly gray or bald males.  It was like a locker room for the aged.  

The occasional female visitor was treated courteously and gossiped about when not around but then so were the guys except the guys were mercilessly ridiculed when they were still there.  It was done with affection and no one was banned.  The talk was about sports and politics and gossip about the living and the dead but the bottom line was companionship.  “Slam’s Court” was a sober place to go where eventually everybody knows your name.  

“Slam” knew everybody’s name whether they sat with us or not.  He noticed the guy who now used a walker as a healthy stranger going downhill, health-wise.  We were all sitting very close to the shore between life and death.  The waves of what the mystics call “The Akashic Sea of Consciousness” where the record of all incarnations are kept were lapping at our feet and some of us were afraid.

Every time I drive up to the diner, I always check to see if “Slam’s” car is there so that I know he’s still alive.  I got there early on the day you’re supposed to turn the clocks ahead and he wasn’t there.  I got scared and was relieved to discover my error.  The person sitting in “Slam’s” seat told me of my error and when His Majesty arrived, he chased the interloper from his throne.

“Slam’s” nickname came to him because he had a permanent chip on his shoulder like a comic book character who was named “Slam”—a little tough guy!  Our “Slam” grew up to be a big tough guy who suffers no nonsense.  He was a sheriff before he was a sheriff.  

“Slam’s Court” is ruled by a half-Syrian, half-Irish, All-American cynic who challenges some and courts others.  He is a Master in the art of the Schmooze: lips are moving but nothing’s being said but good feelings are being exchanged.  He is retired but still cuts a few heads but only for old friends.  

“Slam” not only knows your name, he also knows your story.  He’s the barber or hairdresser you tell your troubles to.  He asks about your health, your well being and your latest blunder or good fortune.  He seems interested in you and keeps his troubles to himself and his old ward buddies, “Muzzy” and “Eskie” who are barbers too.  It’s a conspiracy of barbarous proportions !

I’m afraid when “Slam” goes, his court will go with him.  He’s the magnet, the glue, the charming and generous host: in fact, the game here is to see who can pick up and pay the most checks.  There is great generosity scattered about freely.  Not a bad club to belong to.  I dream of  someday being flush enough to pick up everyone’s check and win their game, magnanimously.

I am sure there are billions of “Slam’s Courts” all over the planet, speaking every language, of every race, religion and political opinion.  It’s a human thing.  What do I know?  Maybe animals, insects and fish have their own versions.  Only God knows what herds, hives and schools gossip about.

When I was a kid and there was no television, adults would religiously gather at the end of the day to discuss the day’s events: wins and losses were open to sympathy or ridicule.  The confessionals were simply folding chairs on a porch or a lawn or a pavement in front of a house.  In the summertime, these confessions were always done outdoors and always with an audience.  

The high priests were wits, wise guys or gals, who made fun of everything, even death.  Nothing was sacred and nothing was serious.  It was pure entertainment unless it was your turn in the barrel.  Then it was pure humiliation when your foibles were made public.  If you couldn’t give as good as you got, you became the victim of laughter.

So I looked up “Slam” at Saylor’s Diner but he wasn’t there.  Bruce Trotter, another ex-football friend, directed me down the block to Nick’s Diner where “Slam” had taken up residence because he had been “BANNED” from his usual lair.  

The truth turned out to be that “Slam” had actually banned himself because the owner complained that “Slam’s Court” was taking up valuable seating space on busy Sundays.  “Slam” took umbrage and moved his breakfast gang down the street.  The waitresses were all upset because “Slam’s Court” were great tippers and the “BANNING” had left them financially short; however, the boss wanted more food orders from each seat.

I had lived with less and less friends for the last 20 years and had become isolated from the outside world and had finally surrendered to the thought of companionship with someone other than myself (whom I get along with famously but we do have our issues but schizophrenic persons always have issues and everyone’s crazy anyway).  

I never belonged to a breakfast club before or any club before.  I was like that Groucho Marx joke that I wouldn’t join any club that wanted me to join.  So I never stuck with any group.  I was a rolling stone who ate too much. But I never ate breakfast!   

I suffer from the same chip on the shoulder disease but I never was a sheriff, I was “A Lone Ranger”.  Leo Gorcey, who played the kingpin in the Bowery Boys’ movies, was my tough guy hero and always wore a hat on his head and a chip on his shoulder.  Standing up for the good and righteous.  When he could.

Now his routine was to eat breakfast everyday at this West Side diner near where he now lives on the wealthy end of town.  It is called Metzgars now but had been Hooks and was my Mom’s favorite diner 40 years ago.  It’s funny.  Going to places that I went to long ago with my dead parents brings back pleasant memories.  It’s almost like visiting their graves but they are alive in these places, not dead under a stone.  One of my many joys of being home.  In fact, I rarely visit their graves.  I prefer to stop by their haunts that are still haunted by them.

Was going to call "MUZZY" and visit but kept putting it off; so his passing screwed up my plans to share goodies with my only classmate to share  ... Oh, fuck!  I am sad but I am overlooking the joy we shared as friends.  That stuff is bungled away in the Akashick Sea of Consciousness where the videotape of every moment of creation is stored in The Universal Memory.  Friendship is not often mentioned as a BEAUTY that surrounds us, makes life worthwhile, a flower in this dungheap of disappointments that Buddha would've called "SUFFERING" . 

I met "MUZZY" on the football field, Allentown High Stadium, fall, 1950-something, our 9th grade.  He played halfback for Harrison-Morton and I played defensive guard for Raub.  There was an air of rich vs. poor.as Ruab were the richies on the west side and the H & M crowd were poor and lived in "the ward"!   Funny, a lot of guys from H & M ended up living on the west side.

I was unstoppable in practice but a pussy against opponents.  I just started getting the hang of things, I broke up a pass play but the QB, Melosky, laterraled to "MUZZY" WHO RAN THE BALL AROUND RIGHT END AND SCORED!  That ended my football career!  The coach blamed me for the TD and benched me just as I was getting my sea legs for the game.  I was never a starter after 9th grade.   I BLAMED "MUZZY" for my downfall and was delighted to discover at a reunion that he was packing weed and I was willing.  Great friends ever since.  (I did turn down a football scholarship at Muhlenberg.)

Posted on: May 23, 2018 at 12:41 PM

Ira, the actor, hiding out in Florida. Hope all is well. Simon

Happy Birthday, Rabbi! From Sufi Rev. Simon-Peter Gribben

Posted on: May 27, 2016 at 4:33 AM

Charlie sat next to me in home room at AHS (Allentown High School--none of us went to Wm Allen as it didn't exist) and would regale me with his weekend tales of the upper class--he drove a Cadillac convertible. I called him "The Lone Ranger" as he always had a new impossible adventure to share every Monday morning! He dressed preppy but had a passion for the banjo and I went to one of his gigs in downtown Allentown. We both ended up living in the West Village in NYC and I remember running into his wife strolling their daughter in front of my digs on West 10th Street. We married women who could have been twins. Charlie was in advertising and is proud of convincing the NFL to use one of his products, Gator-Aide, on NFL sidelines; whereas, I created "The Football Follies" for NFL Films. We drifted apart, but I am thrilled that "The Lone Ranger" has used his heart to help the needy.

John's nickname as a teenager was "BEERS" which made no sense sincxe he was so straight -laced, but I called him that every time we saw each other.  He responded by using my nickname, "SEEMORE".  We played football for Raub Jr. High and one day at preactice, Coach O'Keefe pissed me off and I had my best day ever, practically shutting down the offense.  The last play of the day, two guys grabbed my arms and QB "BEERS" elbowed me in the mouth.  He denied that 50 years later but it was so out of his character that I never forgot.  "BEERS" loved my film, "The Football Follies", that I made for NFL Films that he wore out the Allentown Libray's copy that he showed to his players.  When I returned to Allentown, "BEERS" helped me get settled.  Absolutely deserving of being our class president!!!

Posted on: Oct 23, 2015 at 7:29 AM

Thought you died many years ago. Glad you're still hanging on!