Historical October 1988 report or notice. Original dates, prices and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
Ah, the men’s locker room: Standing with a dozen sweaty guys, holding a razor in your hand while trying to find an open space amidst the condensation on the mirror. What a place! No, I’m not referring to that former bastion of El Ropo cigars, XY chromosomes, and power breakfasts, the MAC. I’m talking about “Racquetball And More” on Hanley, not far from highway
40. I recently decided that it was time to stop procrastinating and to begin working out on a regular basis.
Not that I “need” it, mind you, simply that I figure that the alternatives are pretty clear: I can either eat like a normal human being, work out regularly, or start buying “all” sized clothing (as in “one size fits ail”).
As you can see, the second option, working out regularly, quickly rises to the top in this group of choices. I made this decision about seven years ago, but it’s taken me this long to get around to doing it. No, getting started hasn’t taken this long because a Board of Freeholders has been in charge of it, the major part of my problem has been trying to figure out a good time to schedule a one hour racquetball game.
There may officially be 24 hours in the day, but by the time I get to allocating my share there’s not a whole lot left for me. Playing racquetball during the day sounded great and I was all ready to get started until I remembered that I have a job. I keep planning on getting that call from Ed McMahon, but until I do so day-time racquetball is out of the question. Playing in the late afternoon sounds good until I try to leave work. I don’t know about your day, but it would have been easier to get in to the Indiana National Guard in 1969 than it would be to get out of my workplace in 1988.
If I’m home before six I’m ecstatic. I even see my first wife more often than I see Dan Rather.
On those occasions when I do scoot out early from work, the paper monster gets revenge by squatting on my desk when I return in the morning, smiling at me with a sadistic grin, and making sure I pay heartily for every minute.
If I leave at 5:00 pm it’s as if a hidden signal goes out to everyone I know: Call Tom at work immediately. Leave a message that says it’s very important that you talk to him and where is he, anyway?
Besides, except for the academicians and dilettantes, everybody else is unavailable because they’re working in the late afternoon. (In case you have trouble distinguishing between the academicians and the dilettantes, just remember that the dilettantes don’t need tenure.) Playing racquetball in the evenings came to mind next, but that was quickly dismissed because of (a) God’s invention to keep couples married, evening meetings, and (b) the fact that I’m not at my best—whatever that is— between 6 and 8 pm. Late night racquetball is even less of an option; that would mean giving up my cigars and the close relationship I’m developing with David Letterman.
With daytime and late afternoons and evenings out of the question, that moved me to consider playing on weekends.
But weekends are made for honeydos (“Honey, do this…” and “Honey, do that…). (Does AnhueserBusch produce Honeydo Beer?) Weekends are the only opportunity for me to sleep later than the first run of “Morning Edition.” They are also the only chance I have to catch up on all the stuff I didn’t do during the week in the evenings when I was too tired to do anything because I had spent the day fighting with the paper monster and the phone monster and the I-need-to-see-you-and- can’t-wait monster.
So no weekends. “What’s left?” you may ask, and that brings me to MORNING RACQUETBALL! Yes, this from one who in the past willingly submitted to the rack monster. I’ve been playing racquetball several times a week at 6:30 am. (Actually I’ve not played recently due to a recent injury.
This is a problem when one’s body is so finely tuned like a fine musical instrument. I think my body is a trombone.) Yep, set the ol’ alarm to 5:45 am and suddenly 6:30 am is there before you know it! Awakening isn’t too tough.
Two cups of steaming hot caffeine-laden coffee will generally do it, one to drink and one to splash on the face.
Now you may not even know that there is a 6:30 am. Believe me, there is. It’s not too pleasant, and you’d be astonished how many other people are out fully dressed and driving around. I hear that farmers get up early all the time, but I’m not sure I believe it. Maybe it’s somehow related to drinking from a trough or voting Republican in the Iowa primary.
So here I am now, back in the men’s locker room on a regular basis with a bunch of guys who are all balancing on one foot while trying to pull up a genuine dacron over-the-calf sock over the other leg.
The good part is that I haven’t had such an experience since my high school days when JFK was president.
The bad part is that it hasn’t changed much.
There are still some very strong societal rules about men’s locker room behavior.
These rules were developed centuries ago and are the same regardless of the sport being played, the socio-economic level, race, or age of the participants, or whether they wear striped or solid ties.
These rules aren’t written anywhere, but young boys learn them just like they learn that pigtails are to be pulled and saliva is for spitting. Herewith the rules forsooth:
1.
No matter how many empty lockers are available, you should always grab a locker next to someone else.
2.
The less hair you have on the top of your head, the more time you should spend playing with it in front of the mirror.
3. Never tuck your tee shirt into your underpants.
4.
It is inappropriate to discuss anything having to do with the nature of man. the search for truth, the concept of original sin, the definition of art, or Vanna White.
When in doubt whether or not to bring up a topic. just remember that if it causes you to think. it’s not suitable for the locker room.
In this respect locker rooms are a bit like political conventions.
5. Sanctioned topics are previous wives or girlfriends, one’s ever-expanding waistline, the local sports team, jokes that are in poor taste, automobiles, and how much liquor one drank the night before. (It’s almost like being in a time-machine and going back to 1962.)
6. Any conversation that lasts more than 90 seconds is also inappropriate.
7.
The guys who are the best at the sport must continually downplay their abilities and attribute every victory to luck or the poor play of their opponent.
8.
One should never never appear pleased about winning.
9. Guys like me who don’t win often inevitably lose their cool and show excitement about winning.
This lets everyone else know that we aren’t good and, indeed, the victory is due purely to chance (see rules 7 and 8).
10.
The older and/or more overweight you are, the more stuff you should put on your body that smells like toilet water or vanilla extract.
This can be hair spray, cologne, deodorant, body powder, foot spray, after shave, or nasal scoop.
It matters less where it goes, and more that it smells bad. Well sports fans, there you go.
Now you don’t need to have coffee with KWMU’s Bob Edwards or be in your car before the sun rises to experience the macho atmosphere of a country club.
If this isn’t an argument for daughters, I don’t know what is. Oh well, life isn’t perfect. Does anyone have any cologne I can borrow?
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, October 1988.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1988_10.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
