The Uniform

The other day Alex was playing with a group of kids from the local Catholic school. They were all wearing Red Polo Shirts, Brown slacks, and White tennis shoes. I couldn't believe it. Polo shirts! Slacks on the girls! And Tennis Shoes! How trendy is that! Could they truly call those uniforms!?

I too, went to Catholic School and I wore a uniform, long before it was fashionable or commonplace. The uniform consisted of a green and gray plaid v-neck jumper, white blouse with a peterpan collar, a dumb little beanie, and saddle oxfords.

I was expected to hang up the jumper as soon as I got home each afternoon, so it could be worn again. I never really understood that hanging up ritual though, because it was impossible to wrinkle those plaid skirts. I knew this to be true, because I did everything I could to mess it up.

I stuffed it into my sock drawer. I carelessly tossed it onto the closet floor. I rolled it up into a ball and used it as a pillow. But no matter what I did, the minute I put it on, it took on an “Oh my, how much starch did you use?” appearance. That jumper was the most wrinkle-defying garment ever produced on a sewing machine.

Looking so crisp and tidy annoyed me. I was convinced that trekking off to school in a more rumpled state would make me feel less conspicuous beside the neighborhood girls who got new clothes every September. But, I wouldn’t have minded spending my entire elementary career in the same dress so much if I could have worn something besides a plain white blouse under the jumper.

“I think all the stinky bleach you moms are using to make our shirts so blinding white is warping our brains." I complained to my mother. "I mean really! Our classroom smells like the Hunt Park swimming pool all the time! Do you mom's really think it’s healthy for kids to be sniffing so much chlorine?”

Getting no response, I continued on, “Don't you guys think it would be safer to let us wear colored shirts that don’t need any bleach instead? What’s the big deal with white anyway?”

“The big deal,” she replied icily, “Is that little girls should do as they are told and not be so impertinent.”

At that point I knew I was licked. To pursue my argument in favor of aquamarine and lavender blouses would have landed me in my room, with my rosary, praying for deliverance from my rebellious vanity.

The beanie I had to wear was a nuisance. It was sort of diamond shaped and matched my jumper. It had a thin plastic band sewn into the front seam that was supposed to keep it on my head. But, the band was so fragile that it rarely survived one semester of hop scotch and dodge ball recesses. So every morning I had to hunt up bobby-pins to secure the annoying little thing to my pixie-cut hair.

But the absolute worst thing about that uniform was the saddle oxfords. I hated those clunky black and white shoes. “Why, can’t we wear Hushpuppies?” I whined to my dad. I loved Hushpuppies. They were cool looking and lightweight, and best of all, they never had to be polished.

“Just think of all the money we could save if we weren’t buying gallons of shoe polish every minute of our lives!” I exclaimed to my thrifty father every time I sat down to cover my latest crop of scuff marks.

“Polish doesn’t cost much and no one ever died from shining a few shoes.” was his usual response to my gripping, which pretty much closed the Hushpuppy discussion.

But I wonder. Did the trauma of wearing ugly shoes and boring dresses cause me lingering psychological damage? Did I grow up with complexes and phobias because I wasn’t allowed to make my own wardrobe choices? Did wearing the same outfit to school for years stifle my creativity and cause me to become unable to think for myself?

Oh, I know that uniform made me stand out. It set me apart and spotlighted me as being different from the public school girls I grew up around. But, was that a bad thing? Our current cultural philosophy demands that we tread carefully, so that no one’s self- esteem is stepped on. But, is healthy self-esteem dependant upon us getting every silly thing we want or on our being exactly like everyone else?

Looking back on my Catholic School experience, I can truly appreciate what a blessing it was to grow up in an environment that stressed the importance of honoring God, respecting authority, and living within defined boundaries. Those things have served me well in the forty plus years that have passed since I donned that jumper.

Wearing a uniform to school didn’t scar me for life. It didn’t cause me to feel deprived or abused. It didn’t rob me of my individuality or my creative spark. My dreams are not haunted by plaid monsters in black and white loafers.

In fact, if the truth be told, I miss the boring old thing. Wearing a uniform would simplify my life. It would free me from the daily ritual of choosing what to wear. It would eliminate the bother of matching tops with bottoms. It would save the hassle of shopping at the mall. That uniform was a dependable friend who served me well. I hope there is a garment heaven where my plaid jumper is enjoying a peaceful retirement.

Gregg and The Lakers

Gail C. Goodrich -- Basketball Hall of Famer -- Enshrined 1996.

In spite of the fact that Gregg spent most of his young life with a basketball in his hand, neither I nor any of my sisters, can put our hands on a picture of him actually holding one,

so alas, Mr. Goodrich's photo will have to suffice.

A couple years ago, Chicken Soup for the Soul did a call-out for "Basketball Lovers" stories. Well, I personally couldn't give a rip about the game, but those two words brought immediately to mind a person in my life who truly fit the bill as a "basketball lover".

Chicken Soup didn't publish the story, but I had fun writing it, and thought someone out there...like maybe my mother or my brother might enjoy reading it so...

Before Shaq, before Magic, before Kareem, the Los Angeles Lakers were already setting National Basketball Association records. One of their loudest and most loyal fans was my little brother, Gregg. It was the late 1960’s. LA jersey’s sported names like (13) Chamberlain, (44) West, (25) Goodrich, (52) Hairston, and (22) Baylor.

My brother’s bedroom walls were decorated with NBA posters. Shoeboxes in his closet held dozens of basketball cards. There was Lakers insignia on his pajamas, his sheets, his pillowcases, and his blanket. He slept with his arm wrapped around his basketball like it was a teddy bear.

All Gregg ever talked about was the Lakers. Our family meals were peppered with play-by-play commentary on the latest court exploits of Mr. Clutch, Stumpy, The Stilt, and Happy. Gregg’s recitals became particularly passionate and animated during play-off seasons. After one of his long-winded tirades on slam-dunks, rebounds, and personal fouls, I rolled my eyes and retorted sarcastically, “Who keeps inviting Chick Hearn to dinner? Don’t they have potatoes at HIS house or what?” Which got me rather abruptly excused from the table and dubbed my poor brother “Little Chickie” behind his back, for the remainder of his young life.

Growing up surrounded by five sisters, Gregg’s preoccupation with basketball probably provided the outlet he needed to escape his female infested world. I am pretty sure that my father saw it as such; for he did everything he could to encourage my brother’s obsession with the game. Dad’s personal sports preference was baseball, not basketball, but nevertheless, he spent hours sitting with Gregg in front of the television cheering the Lakers to victory.

When my brother was nine or ten, Dad put a netted hoop on the garage so Gregg could practice shooting free-throws. My bedroom was right next to the driveway. As a consequence, every morning of my junior high years, I was awakened at dawn by the incessant thumping of his ball being dribbled on the concrete and banged against the wooden backboard. I found this habit of “Jerry West Junior” beyond annoying and was not bashful about saying so. But my protests went unheeded and Gregg continued to get up with the sun and shoot hoops outside my window.

When he was in the fifth grade Gregg could rattle off statistics on half the players in the NBA, but couldn’t remember that four times nine was thirty-six and three times eight was twenty-four. So my father, being a rather resourceful man, devised a way of using basketball stats to teach multiplication to my brother. I don’t recall exactly how he went about it, but it was very effective. Before long Gregg could recite times tables as effortlessly as he could spout Chamberlain’s scoring average and Baylor’s assist record.

When Gregg was about eleven years old, a family friend treated him to a live Lakers game at the Forum. Getting up close and personal to the objects of his affection was the highlight of my brother’s life. From the moment he walked through the gate and found his seat in the bleachers, Gregg was drunk with euphoria. When the Lakers walked onto the court, he was mesmerized. He watched every play as if his life depended upon the outcome of that game.

Being in the presence of Lakers greatness so overwhelmed Gregg that for the first couple hours after he returned home he couldn’t even speak about it. Although once he did start talking, even the Boston Celtic’s couldn’t have shut him up.

“I can’t believe how tall Wilt is in REAL life!”
“Can you believe West didn’t miss a SINGLE free-throw!”
“It was SO cool. You could SMELL the SWEAT on their foreheads!”
“Goodrich waved back AT ME!”

Gregg esteemed the entire Lakers Club, but Gail Goodrich was his personal hero. At just over six feet tall, Goodrich was the shortest player on the team. My brother, being rather small of stature in those days himself, was inspired by Gail’s accomplishments and aspired to be just like him. His desire to emulate his hero was so consuming that Gregg, who was right-handed, began developing the use of his left hand because Goodrich was a “lefty”. He did this so effectively, that by the time he was in high school, Gregg was fully ambidextrous and now, four decades later, he is predominately left-handed.

In the winter of 1971, Gregg was in junior high and LA was winning every game they played. In January, when the Milwaukee Bucks ended the Lakers record breaking thirty-three game streak, my brother was devastated. I don’t know for certain of course, but I would be willing to bet, that Gregg shed more tears on that day than the entire Lakers bench.

By the time my brother started high school he had shot up to a respectable basketball playing height of six feet, four inches. He still loved the game, but began to realize he had no outstanding talent or extraordinary gifts that would get him noticed by college scouts. Gradually, he gave up his dream of playing for the NBA.

Gregg is still a loyal LA Lakers fan, although he isn’t quite so loud about it anymore. A pack-rat by nature, he still has most of the basketball memorabilia he collected as a youngster. When I talked to him about writing this story, I told him that he owes me one for putting up with all of those crack-of-dawn wake-up calls he subjected me to. I am thinking his Lew Alcindor and Earvin Johnson rookie cards should just about cover it.