“Growing up in Northcrest”
By Jim Gassensmith
Back to the pocket knives before I forget. Besides being pretty good at carving and spending a lot of time leaving wood chips in the dirt, we also got really good at a game called mumblety-peg. I’m not sure I spelled that right, but it was very similar to the basketball game called “HORSE.” Where one guy shoots a twenty-footer and the next guy has to make the same shot, and if he misses, he has an “H.” If he misses again, he has an “O.” You keep going until he completely spells out HORSE, and then he is out of the game.
Mumblety-Peg and Sound Effects
With mumblety-peg, you flip your pocketknife up into the air, and when it lands in the dirt, it has to stick. Sometimes it flips over two or three times and sticks in a circle you drew in the dirt. Then the next guy has to do the same flip, or he loses. Then you get on your horse and flip your knife over your horse’s ass and stick it in the dirt.
These games took hours of our time because, unlike galloping around the neighborhood on our horses, we could play mumblety-peg and talk at the same time. Some of you might remember that when you galloped your horse across the yard, you also made a gallop sound with your mouth, only interrupted if you fired your fake gun (finger) at a friend where you also made a speeding bullet sound with your mouth. I had mastered both of these sounds and also added the sound of a bullet ricocheting off a rock to my arsenal of weapons.
With the knife tossing, we were able to spend hours talking about the topics of interest for our age group. These topics ranged from cowboys to war to guns and knives, and about that time we were all starting to follow sports somewhat.
Big John Rogers: The Neighborhood Enforcer
Burnell Southhall lived three doors down and was probably the best athlete in the neighborhood, not counting John Rogers, who was maybe three years older than me. If beating people up was a sport, then Big John was the best. John had physically developed way beyond his years and probably beat me up once a week until he went into the Army after his sophomore year of high school. John later married my good friend Ken Nelson’s sister and drove a big semi-truck to make a living.
I swore once I got to high school I’d come back to Wilmington and kick old John Rogers’ ass. I saw him when I was 24, out of college, married, and working as an accountant. I was a trim 195 lbs. and just a couple of years out of college football. I was doing some work for Lyn Rayburn’s Trucking Co. in Wilmington, and he mentioned that John was working for him driving a truck. Just my chance to talk to old John and remind him about the old days.
John walked into the trailer, and Lyn asked him if he remembered me. John said, “Not hardly,” and sprawled out on the office couch. He was as big as a house. He had arms bigger than my legs and hands the size of catchers’ mitts. He had tattoos over most of his body and just a very unpleasant attitude. I have no idea how John got that big and so strong, but I decided now was not the time to kick his ass for all those early beatings. John had continued with his wood carving and was really skilled in that area. He also had done most of his tattoos on his body. He could bend a steel nail with his bare hands and could tear a pack of playing cards in half and then into quarters. He died a few years back without me ever getting the chance to kick his ass.
Wall Ball with Burnell Southhall
Back to Burnell Southhall, one of my closest friends from Northcrest. As I indicated, he was good at all sports: baseball, basketball, and football. We’d go over to the grade school in Northcrest and I’d pitch a tennis ball to him with the school building as the catcher. He’d swing a broom handle and pretend he was someone famous. I would try and strike him out three times, then I’d get to bat. The pitcher got to call the balls and strikes, since he could see where the tennis ball hit the wall. The batter got to call out if the hit was fair or foul, and if it was a single, double, or home run, because he had the advantage of knowing how much contact he had made and, of course, how far the ball went. We’d play nine-inning games and sometimes a doubleheader.
You had to know every batter from Nellie Fox to Louie Aparicio, because you’d go through the whole batting order. I knew every player on the Cubs, White Sox, Yankees, and Cardinals. I never had much interest in baseball except for these games and, of course, the neighborhood pickup games. I never learned the player statistics, but I knew the lineups because one day I’d be the Yankees and the next I’d be the White Sox. Burnell used to always win these games, but that didn’t bother me because I knew I was getting better and it was just a matter of time. Much like my current golf game.
Full-Speed Tackle on the Island
Football was my love. Our Northcrest team—made up of myself, Gene, Burnell, the three Rogers brothers (including Big John), the Johnson brothers (Bruce and Jim), and a couple of other tag-alongs—rode our bikes to the Island to play a Saturday tackle game with the guys from Brookside. The Howard brothers—must have been five of them—and the Craigs and a few Van Duynes. In Wilmington, there had to be at least 125 Van Duynes. My good friend Ken Nelson, along with Ronnie Hilliard, suited up for Brookside. By “suited up,” I mean they were dressed. It was tackle with no equipment and at full speed. They had speedy Ronnie Hilliard, but we had Big John. No referees were needed; all arguments were settled by John.
John actually liked Gene and me most of the time, especially when we were on his side in a football game. We used to play football in football season, basketball in basketball season, and baseball during baseball season in vacant lots with as many guys as we could gather up. We’d pick sides by throwing the bat to the other guy, who caught it one-handed. Then the guy who threw it would put his hand above the hand of the guy who had caught it, and they’d go back and forth hand over hand until they reached the top of the bat. The one who grabbed the top of the bat with his “chicken claw grip” was the one who picked first, but first the other guy got one chance to kick the bat from the chicken claw grip. If he kicked it out, he got the first pick. You’d pick back and forth until you had your five or six guys, you’d play until supper, and you did all the great plays that the pros did. You’d go home and eat and be back out for twilight ball. By that time, I wasn’t riding my horse anymore.
Catholic Swearing and Hammering Thumbs
As I mentioned, a lot of my friends smoked and swore, but since we were from a Catholic family, we only swore when you hit your thumb with a hammer. I never could understand that any more than I couldn’t understand how my dad could hit his thumb so many times when he hammered. He must have had very poor eye-hand coordination.
