Category: Chat Rats

Our incessant whining finally wore him down. It wasn’t bad really, it only took two years of non-stop begging to convince him to install a basketball goal on the front of the garage. We were relentless, but eventually dad grew tied of our petitions and just did it. After all, we really needed the reps if we were going to turn pro and make tons of money!

We didn’t have much in those days, except what dad built or mom made, and in that particular case the backboard was handmade by dad from wood scraps retrieved from the dumpster at Newell Coach where he worked. Patched together like a quilt with dowel rods, Elmer’s wood glue and staples, it was reinforced with 1” iron straps across the back. The horizontal straps were welded to a box frame made of 1” steel tubing and the vertical braces were anchored to the front of the garage with four 6” lag screws. Yeah, Bob Glover built it to withstand two pre-teen boys who were even more destructive than a Cat 5 tornado.

He work hard on it like everything else he did. If our dad built it, it was done right! Whether it was a make-shift basketball backboard or a spectacular 29’ 11 3/4” sailboat (he built that while we were in high school), the craftsmanship was first rate through and through. He was meticulous with even the smallest of detail and his hands moved over wood like Picasso over canvas. He was a master craftsman if there ever was one. He filled every hole and every crevice in the backboard with wood filler or epoxy and then he sanded, primed and painted it. Two coats, at least. It was bright white of course with the customary red square and when he mounted it to the garage we all stood there in awe admiring it, for a minute.

I seriously doubt that it was regulation height, but we didn’t care in the least. None of us could touch the net anyway. I think it might have been Barry Stinson that made the first shot and earned the right to name the game. He chose HORSE of course, he always did. Barry was taller than all of us then and he liked to launch the big bombs that none of us could make.

The gravel driveway made dribbling difficult, so we just passed the ball mostly, and walked a lot when were were playing two-on-two. (Sorry, I think they call it traveling these days). The rough surface wreaked havoc on our ball, but I didn’t mind, the chunky surface made it easier to palm the ball for my famous sky hook! Hop, skip, jump, swish just like Lew Alcindor. Well, once or twice anyway.

We had a long driveway and on most days we would back up all the way to the street, take off at full speed (no need to dribble) and launch high into the air hoping against hope that today would be the day that we reach the magic 10’6” apex. Sadly, that day never came, at least not for me anyway. Dennis stood an inch taller than me and I think he might have reached orbit once against Wyandotte in the NEO tournament. But that was years latter. Dennis, Rod, Rex, David, Craig and Big Don spanked the Bears that day!

But, I digress, back to the story. I’ll never forget one particular fall day when me, Dennis, Barry and Marlon were playing. The air was crisp so the ball was extra hard and so were the bi-fold wooden doors that dad built for the front of the garage. We kept crashing into them on the way down for extra effect to show how powerful our dunks were (uh, um, maybe they were more like layups).

Dad always told us not to play with the doors open because there were too many things to damage or break inside the garage with an errant shot. But on this particular day we decided to open them anyway. He wouldn’t be home from work for hours, we reasoned, he will never know. Mom was in the house getting things ready for supper so she was too busy to notice too. So, we carefully folded back the bi-fold accordion style doors to give us more room to do cools trick shots underneath the basket.

We had already grown tired of dunking the ball that day so we started playing HORSE again. Marlon liked to do all kinds of crazy layups and Barry favored the long bombs, as I mentioned. We played for at least an hour, retrieving several shots from the interior of the garage before passing the ball to the next trick shot artist. We clanged shots off of all kinds of things that day, yeah we were doing cool trick shots long before the Dude Perfect guys were ever born! But we didn’t break anything, so dad would never know.

We played so long in the cold that our hands started to turn blue, so we decided to go inside the garage and warm up. Dad worked in the garage every night after dinner, year-round, so he had a little gas heater in the back. It was small but it did the trick. Unfortunately, we left the doors open too long and the cold wind had blown out the pilot light. No worries, dad always kept a big box of matches on the window sill for just such an occasion.

I remember Dennis kneeling down in front of the stove, match in hand, looking for the little pilot hole on the side. We had just closed the doors and there was a distinct odor in the garage now. I took a step back and glanced down the side of the boat dad was working on and that’s when I saw it. The 2-gallon round blue gas can that we used for the lawn mowers. A stray ball must have knocked it over and gas had spilled all over the garage floor. “No wonder I feel light-headed,” I thought.

Dennis was on the opposite side of the boat in the back corner of the garage. Down on his knees, leaning forward, he must have been below the vapor level because he didn’t smell the fumes. As if in slow motion, I saw his hand spring out match in hand. And before I could say STOP, he did it. With one quick flick of the wrist I heard the tell-tale sound of a matchhead dragging across the concrete floor. Then almost instantly came the WOOSH! And then the BOOM!

Fire flashed across the garage floor instantaneously and the concussion of the explosion knocked me back into the workbench. Dennis lifted off the floor like a pop bottle rocket and I think all four of us wet ourselves. Countless tools came flying off the shelves and at least a dozen Gerber Baby Food jars shattered, spilling nuts, bolts and screws all over the place. I swear the walls of the garage ballooned out and then rapidly snapped back like a rubber band. The garage doors flew open and four boys exited at warp speed right behind them. White as ghosts, and cold in the seat.

Miraculously the fire blew itself out and thankfully no one was seriously injured. Just a little singed hair on Dennis’ arm and I think Marlon might have lost an eyebrow. We were scared within a inch of our life and I’m quite sure that all four of us had to change pants afterwards. But, thank God, we were not injured. At least not by the explosion…

The blast not only rattled the garage it shook the whole entire house. The windows, the doors, the lights, the tables…and not just ours, but the neighbor’s house too. It took about ten seconds for Mom to appear on the front porch. She came running out, spatula in hand, with flour all over the front of her new apron. I think she even had flour in her hairs but I can’t say for sure because none of us had the guts to look her in the eye.

Mom had been preparing fried chicken for dinner and now she and the kitchen were both covered in gooey egg wash and flour. It was about that time when she utter the words we had heard so many times before but never enjoyed: “You boys just wait till your dad gets home.”

The next hour, sitting there on the front porch dangling our feet, might have been the longest hour of my life. I’m not sure who was more surprised when dad got home; mom or us. Anna Lue, our mom, said “Bob, the boys have something to tell you.” He instinctively said, “What have they done now.” And then we proceed to explain how it was all Marlon and Barry’s fault, but he wasn’t buying it. We expected a secondary explosion would be promptly forthcoming, but it wasn’t. He looked us in the eye and said, “You boys will listen to me next time, won’t you.”

We nodded our heads vehemently in agreement, but we and he knew that would never happen! “Boys will be boys,” he said to mom on his way into the house after a long day of work. That’s when she threw the chicken at him.

So the next time you see, hear or read a story about a flash mob appearing somewhere out of nowhere to surprise an audience. Maybe, just maybe, you will remember the Dirty Little Glover Boys, the original basketball flash mob!

We could always count on Marlon to come through with a big fat one when the time came. We never knew where he got them, but he always seemed to find one when we need it. They were the kind that gave you an amazingly dizzy, head-spinning rush after the ride. In fact, they were so good that we often fought over who would get to try them first. Just one roll left you dazed and confused, but eager for your next turn.

Not many folks could remain standing after their turn, at least not without wobbling. In fact, most ended up on the ground, on all fours, shaking their noggin and snorting like a bull trying to clear their head. The rides were so good that few people knew where they were afterward. It was like the old dizzy bat game, only at warp speed. It was mind-bendingly addictive and great fun to watch.

It usually started after school toward the end of the spring semester when the days grew longer and the air became warmer. Good weather just seemed to make everything roll much smoother. But you still had to watch the landing, even on warm days, because it could be really rough, if you weren’t prepared for it. I’ve seen more face plants than I can count, and it’s not a pretty sight to see, especially when the landing zone is a pile of chat.

On this particular day we were joined by our cousin Russell Anderson, or Russ for short. He was several years younger than us and liked to tag along on our adventures when he came to visit. We often had him in tow when his parents visited from Miami and today was one of those days. Miami was the big city in Northeast Oklahoma back in the day, and it was home to a massive BF Goodrich tire plant. Marlon’s dad worked at “The Plant” and we suspected that was where the big ones came from, but we were never sure and it didn’t really matter as long as they kept coming.

Marlon dropped by early in the morning that day and he had a real beauty with him. A big fat one that was almost as tall as he was! We were playing catch in the yard with Russ when we saw Marlon coming down the road with it. It was huge, and we became giddy just looking at it. Everyone wanted to try it, but no one wanted to be first. It was that big!

It had to be from a tractor or an earthmover or something huge. That inner-tube was so fat that we could hardly wrap arms around it. It was made of thick, heavy-duty industrial rubber and it had a metal valve stem that came out about an inch before making a 90-degree turn to form a perfect L-shaped handle. Yes sir, we were in for a big day, I thought. “I sure hope mom has plenty of band-aids, we’re going to need them tonight,” I said rather jokingly. Thinking to myself, “Just not the ones with mercurochrome, they suck.” The little red gauze patch in the middle would make the toughest of the tough cry.

It took us a good half-hour to get to the top of the Sooner chatpile, even though it was only a few hundred yards from our house on North Pearl Street. It was gigantic, it covered two square miles at least and it stood nearly 25-stories tall. When we reached the top, the whole gang started to get a little weak in the knees. Looking downhill from the peak, we could see the big mill pond at the end of the run and it looked like a postage stamp from up there. We also saw dozens of crevices and bumps along the run that made for a thrilling ride in the winter when the chatpile was snow covered, but not today. Today the tube would be upright not flat and each of those bumps and crevices would be like a ferocious kick from a wild bucking bronco, creating a massive challenge for the rider to stay saddled.

I looked at Marlon and swallowed hard. “You go first,” I said. “Are you crazy,” he shouted back at me, “I bit through my lip the last time I rode a tube down this hill! I’m not going first, you do it!” Oh, that’s right, how could I have forgotten about that. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the image of him taking flight after hitting one of the biggest bumps on the hill. Somehow the momentum flipped the tube in mid-air and Marlon face-planted into a nearby snow drift. We rolled on the ground in laughter until he extricated himself and turned around. His teeth were intact, they were just in the wrong place. Three of them were protruding through his bottom lip. I’m not sure how I could have forgotten about that. “Yeah, you’re right I said. Let’s get Dennis to do it.”

I turned to Dennis and he wouldn’t even make eye contact with me, he remembered too. Then it hit me, “Barry will do it, he’s crazy!” I pivoted to Barry but he already had both hands up in protest, even before I said a word. Barry Stinson lived one street over from us on Gladys and he was Dennis’ best bud, aside from me of course. Dennis and Barry were constant companions and Barry was usually just as fearless as we were, or even more so, but not this time.

“Well, someone has to try it,” I argued. “We didn’t drag this darn tube all the way up the chatpile for nothin.” That’s when I saw Russ standing behind Marlon and it hit me; “we’ll make Russ do it!”

Russ looked up to me and Dennis (risky I know) and we quickly learned that he would do almost anything we told him to do. Besides, he wasn’t around for Marlon’s last ride, so he didn’t know what to expect. We took a vote and it was unanimous, Russ would go first. What, you don’t believe me…of course it was unanimous, Russ didn’t get to vote.

We stood the tube upright, with the L-shaped valve stem facing slightly downhill at about three o’clock on the dial. Dennis stood on the left side and I stood on the right. Marlon and Barry stood uphill, behind the tube ready to give it a shove. Ignoring his protests, we loaded Russ into the saddle (the center of the tube), facing downhill. He grabbed the valve stem with both hands, like we told him to do. He wasn’t wearing gloves and we could see that his knuckles were white. He had a death-grip on that valve stem and his eyes were as big as grapefruit. He sat Indian-style in the saddle with his legs crisscrossed; his right foot dug into the left side of the tube and his left foot did the same on the right side. His body was all neatly tucked inside the center of the tube with his back and neck arched like a crescent moon. Perfect form!

This would be Russ’ first roll and I remember giving him explicit instructions, just like they did at Six Flags! “Keep your head down and your elbows tucked in tight. Keep your hands and arms inside the tube at all times, hang on tight, and enjoy the ride!” Or something like that, at least.

Then we gave the tube a big push down the hill before Russ could dismount! That big beautiful tube took off slowly at first but gained speed with every revolution. She wobbled a bit at first then momentum took over and the tube straightened up and raced down the hill. Shooting off the crevice walls like a Tilt-a-whirl at the county fair the tube bounced higher and higher with each successive bump. It was a thrilling, off-the-rails roller coaster ride, and it was the best show on earth. We hooped and hollered like fans at the National Finals Rodeo. Russ hung on for dear life, like a true world champion, but with a little less style. His head bobbed out one side and then the other while his left arm flailed away in circles just like a real bronc buster trying to keep his balance. It was a belt buckle winning performance, until it wasn’t!

I’m not sure if it was inertia or fear that kept him in that tube, but he made it two-thirds of the way down the hill before dismounting, involuntarily. When his hands released the valve stem he came flying out of that tube like the unluckiest of cowboys, head-over-heels. He must have rolled a dozen times before ending up face down in the chat…just like Marlon, but without the snow. “Oh no!”

We raced down the chatpile as fast as possible. Our heels sinking into the sandy soft spots of the chat as we ran down, leaning back and zig-zagged to avoid falling and tumbling down head-over-heels ourselves. He was still face down in the chat when we arrived. In a raspy out-of-breath voice I managed to say, “Are you alright?” The rest of the gang had arrived now and they all stood around him in a circle, hands on their knees, as they leaned forward to catch their breath. We waited anxiously for Russ to turn around, Marlon’s knees trembled a little as his hand instinctively went to his mouth in remembrance of that fateful day the winter before.

Russ coughed hard several times to clear his lungs of the dust he ate, then carefully pushed himself up onto all fours. He stayed that way for what seemed like an hour before raising fully upright on bent knees. That’s when I got the first glimpse of his face and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Oh, there was plenty of chat embedded into his skin, but nothing was broken and he still had all of his teeth! No doubt he would need a band-aid or two for sure, but we had plenty, especially the special “healing” kind with the red gauze pad in the middle…

We retired Big Blue after that and she now stands enshrined in our Hall of Fame. Oddly, no one wanted the next turn, not even Barry. Climbing in the chute with that beast was more than anyone wanted, no matter the size of the buckle. To this day, as far as I know, Russell Dean Anderson still holds the world-record. He was the first and last buckaroo to go the full eight on Big Blue.

Next time you see Russ, raise glass, he still has bragging rights on Pearl Street. Tell him I said hello; he doesn’t come round much anymore. Can’t imagine why…