Valiant Pond Dive

The bell rang promptly at 3:00 pm and everyone bolted from the building, racing for an array of cars parked along the East side of the building. Camaros, Trans-Ams, Mustangs, a couple of Beetles, a Vette or two, a few sedans and one spotted Plymouth Valiant sat there quietly, totally unaware of the onslaught about to hit them. Engines revved, music blared, tires spun, gravel flew, and the race was on to see who would be the first to reach the Dairy Queen down the road. An after school ritual repeated day-after-day, week-after-week during the school year. But today would be different, mighty different, for a few of us.

I sat on the trunk lid of my spotted Valiant, waiting for Dennis to come out. He was always the last one, stopping to talk to every pretty girl he saw on the way. It was a typical Friday in late October, overcast with a slight chill in the air, in fact it was nearly perfect. It was football season in Oklahoma and today was game day.

“The pads will be popping tonight,” I thought to my self as I donned my letter jacket and zipped it up. It was a bit nippy outside wearing only a red away jersey. I was number 60 that year and the jersey was bright red, made of nylon/polyester with big white numbers front and back. It was filled with small pinholes to improve air flow and the wind cut right through it on that chilly fall afternoon.

Just then I heard a shout-out that sounded something like deedle-deedle-dee and I looked up to see Dennis coming across the parking lot with our good friend Larry Cox in tow. They wore their jackets and jersey too, just like all the other varsity players in Picher on game day. It was tradition for players and cheerleaders to wear their uniforms to school every Friday during the season, and we enjoyed participating in and observing the tradition, if you know what I mean.

We had a couple of hours to kill before the bus left at 5:00 pm. We played the Fairland Owls that night and it was an hour bus ride to get there. Coach Floyd wanted everyone on board and ready to roll promptly at 5:00 pm and he was serious about it. He had been known to leave players behind who didn’t comply. No one wanted to pay the price for missing the bus so everyone got there 15 minutes early, at least.

“You guys want to run down to Betty’s and play some pinball,” Larry asked. “Nah, I can’t. I lost all my money pitching quarters with JD and Marlon at noon,” I replied. Then Dennis piped up and said, “Hey, let’s go cut some didos at Lawyers. That will be fun!” Didos, short for donuts, were a frequent pastime for Chat Rats and that was a great idea. So, we loaded quickly into my Valiant and head off toward the chatpile.

The Lawyers chatpile had seen better days but it had become a haven for outdoor motor sport enthusiasts. At it’s peak, it was the third largest chatpile in Ottawa County, after the Sooner and Western. But at that time, wind and weather had eroded it’s peaks and had created a large kidney-shaped sand flat along the southern base of the chatpile. On any given Saturday, the sand flat was filled with motorcycles, dune buggies and go karts. We had just been there the weekend before and had a great time. It would be deserted on a Friday afternoon and we would have the whole flat to ourselves. “Hurry up,” Dennis said. “We don’t have much time.” It was now 3:15 pm.

We raced down A street from the High School, turned right on Connell and headed south. We made a left turn on 12th Street like we were headed to Mineral Heights and then made a quick right onto an old gravel road that led around to the backside of the chatpile. We were eager to get to the flats and have some fun, so I had the Valiant floored and we were flying down road. That little straight-6 engine was revved to the max and chat was flying out from the back wheels clanging against the fender wells like popcorn popping at the movie theater.

We rounded a sharp left turn and the rear end of the car swung to the right just a bit too much, but we never lost control. Chat was flying everywhere, and we were whooping and hollering like the ornery teenagers we were, having a great time! And then I saw it! 

“Oh Sh*t!” I shouted at the top of my voice. Someone had cut a trench across the road leading to the sand flats and they had piled up the chat 10-feet high on the other side of the trench. I considered jumping the mound like the Duke brothers, but then realized we would never get to the mound because of the trench. I slammed on the brakes, standing on the pedal as hard as I could. The rear end slid wide to the right so I counter-steered hard right into the slide to keep the car from spinning out of control. That stopped the spin but left us sliding sideways down the gravel road toward the trench at 50 miles an hour.

I hit the gas hard hoping to spin the Valiant around in the opposite direction of the trench and slow our momentum. (Yeah, I know, it was a Valiant with a six-banger instead of a Hemi. What was I thinking?) But the rear wheels suddenly found grip on the hardpan under the loose gravel and the car lurched forward and shot off the road, about 10 degrees left of the trench. Everyone in the car breathed a momentary sigh of relief, thinking we had avoided catastrophe, until we saw the pond!

A deluge of water splashed high, up and over the hood, and hit the windshield with a loud thud. I thought for sure it would break, but it didn’t. We sat their motionless, surrounded by the thick cloud of dust we had stirred up on the gravel road. For a couple of minutes, we couldn’t see anything outside, and no one said a word. I could hear the heavy breathing of Dennis and Larry and I turned to look at both of them. They were as white as ghosts and taking in big gulps of air. Larry whispered, barely audible, “We’re alive!” It was now 4:00 pm.

When the dust cleared, we realized we were not out of the woods just yet. My poor Valiant sat high-centered on the steep embankment of Lawyers Pond. Rocking back and forth on the ridge like a teeter totter. I opened the driver’s side door and water poured into the floor board. The front half of the car was floating in the pond and there was an eerie gurgling noise coming from under the hood. Oh yeah, that little straight-6 was still running. Halfway under water!

Larry was sitting in the backseat, leaning over the front seat so he could see through the windshield. Dennis had been riding shotgun, up front with me. I told Larry to scoot back hoping it would help change the center of gravity. When he did, the front end of the car rose a couple of feet and the gurgling noise under the hood changed into a propeller sound. 

We spent the next few minutes debating who would wade out into the filthy mill pond to push the front end of the car up enough for the back tires to make contact with the ground. Finally, it was decided that it would be Dennis and me. So, we took off our letter jackets and our jerseys, our shoes and our socks, but we left on our jeans. After all, we had to have some protection from the water moccasins…

Dennis and I waded carefully out into the pond, gingerly stepping over the rocks until finally making contact with the slimy mud bottom of the mill pond. Thank God, it wasn’t the deep end of the pond. I could feel the mud squeezing up between my toes with each step. Hanging on to the front bumper of the car trying not to slip and fall completely into the pond. Dennis and I each grabbed a corner of the car to steady it and then I hollered to Larry to move to the driver’s seat. Just then I looked up and tadpole eggs were dangling from my right forearm. Yuck!

Larry eased out of the back seat and the center of gravity shifted. The front end of the car suddenly weight hundreds of pounds more and it broke over center and started to fall into the pond. Dennis and I grunted and pushed up simultaneously like we were coming up out of a personal best squat. My feet sunk another six inches into the muddy bottom, but we held the line. Larry slid carefully into the driver’s seat, and that helped, finally we could feel momentum changing in our favor. The front end of the car came up out of the water another foot, just enough for the fan blade to touch the top of the pond and spay muddy water all over us. We were now covering in mud from head to toe. But we didn’t care, victory was in sight.

Larry shifted the car into reverse and gunned the engine, but the rear wheels were still 6-inches off the ground. “Rock it,” I shouted to Larry, and he started rocking his body weight backward in the driver’s seat. Better, but still 3-inches from the ground. “Okay, let’s try it again and this time we’ll push up when you gun it.”

Larry threw his weight back in the seat with all his might and floored the pedal. Dennis and I pushed upward simultaneously with all our might. The car broke over center for good and the rear wheels grabbed the dirt. The little Valiant shot backward at breakneck speed. Larry hit the brakes hard, and the car slid backward, coming to rest just inches from the trench! It was now 4:30 pm.

No time to dress, Dennis and I piled into the front seat of the car while Larry jumped over the front bench seat into the back. We made a mad dash out on Lawyers Road and almost hit someone as we exited onto 12th Street at full speed. We only had 30 minutes to make the bus and our gear was still in the locker room!

We took the back roads this time, avoiding traffic in downtown Picher :-), and cutover to Cardin Road. We flew down the backroad, slid around the corner onto A Street and slid into a parking spot between the Band Room and Hayman Field. Everyone else had already boarded the bus, except for Coach Floyd and Dick Newton. They were pacing around in circles holding clipboards. They were missing 3/5ths of the starting offensive line and they were pissed. I played center, Dennis played right guard and Larry played left tackle. They weren’t leaving without us, but they we not happy to be forced to wait. It was now 4:45 pm.

We made a mad dash for the locker room, throwing on jerseys and coats while we ran bare footed across the parking lot to the field house. Stuffing everything from our lockers into gym bags we stopped only long enough to put on shoes and socks. Still wearing those wet jeans, we raced to the bus and rushed to find seats. It was 5:00 pm straight up!

That was the only time I can remember us not having to fight to get the back row seats on the bus. Brian Martin shouted out, “Glover, you stink!” Vance Box gaged and both of them quickly gave up their seats. In spite of all that, it ended up being one of our better games as an offensive line. The defense had a hard time staying close to us for some weird reason.

So goes another day in the lives of the Dirty Little Glover Boys, a couple of chat rat rapscallions in pursuit of adventure. This time accompanied by a loyal and true friend who helped us make a memory that will last a lifetime. 

Deedle-Deedle-Dee!

%d bloggers like this: