Non-Fiction By Alan Bern
For the sake of the game: 1964 CE
Me and my buddies played croquet, sometimes croquet for money, when we were in junior high: did the Queen just faint away? Such a civilized game played by us punks … and for money! This was 1964.
1964?
1968 was not THE year of my generation— although much certainly happened throughout that magical, terrible year: worldwide student protests, many against the Vietnam War; and the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr., and Bobby Kennedy. Evil Dick Nixon became President. All these years later, I remain speechless— and how much worse we would become 55 years later.
I’ll opt for 1964.
Just beginning to go to parties, new fun. I had crushes: at one party, I fast danced with slender, tall Pam to the Beatles’ “Twist & Shout,” still a favorite. Hadn’t even heard of the Isley Brothers yet, but the Beatles still remain an adequate substitute. After some fast numbers, chestnut Pam, hair cut short, laughed loud, and changed partners— of course, I wanted to kiss her rich, thick dark red lips. But there was Ann with wide hips and low timbre, blonde— tall, too. We pressed close on a slow number, also the Beatles: “If I Fell” really helped us press in. Never kissed Ann … or Pam. Rumors had it that Ann was trying things with Chuck, a very tall, thin, sharp-nosed Chuck, who smoked cigarettes outside of Johnnie’s after-school pretty good wide receiver. It turned out Ann was ahead of us and way ahead of Chuck, too, since she was already down with college boys.
1964: the first year the Beatles visited us. Of all bands I saw over the years, I never did get to a Beatles concert. Bob Dylan, neither. Darn, doubled!
Of course, I was obsessed with my height. My friends were taller, not my issue. If I was going to play pro basketball, I needed some inches. 1964 was another Celtics year, Bill Russell leading them into those Finals against Wilt Chamberlain and my San Francisco Warriors. Sad outcome. Only years later was it clear how great those Celtics were; fast team play. Decades ahead of everyone, and maybe still ahead today. But what an idiot Wilt was. Russell, on the other hand, was already in the midst of that blooming Civil Rights Movement. Most who know basketball choose Russell first on their all-time team: and it wasn’t just Russell’s physical brilliance, but perhaps, even more, his incredible mind … for all things sport, political, and historical.
Russell never signed autographs for anyone, even kids. When the FBI opened a file on Russell, they called him “an arrogant Negro” for this stance. Bill Russell’s priorities: Russell, long arms angled high, was at the proverbial wall, the barricades for Muhammad Ali with other black athletes in 1967 for Ali’s refusal to serve in the Vietnam War.
Croquet doesn’t require height, just finesse and controlled strength: big game of billiards or pool. Maybe a little golf. We played on uneven turf. None of the smooth, pleasant lawns for us; we played for keeps, cutthroat. We didn’t let smaller kids play, and we definitely didn’t invite grownups like my Dad either.
My Dad? He didn’t know one thing about basketball or any other U.S. national sport, just handball, which he played pretty well. 1964: my Dad was 44— I love “4” (2-4’s!), and I love “11,” 4 X 11 his age. For the first time in a decade, he was relieved. Relieved of the FBI following him around after his long patriotic WWII years; relieved, far too late, of the necessary loyalty oaths so he could work at a scientific career at U.C. Berkeley; relieved to be able to speak out again. Mom, too, was relieved.
1964 was one beginning of the modern student movement: the Free Speech Movement (FSM) at Berkeley sparked wildfires: so many student movements throughout the country. Of course, the FSM had roots in anti-war protests and civil rights movements, the latter movements throughout the 1950s. Dad and many colleagues— and their students— had awakened the whole Berkeley campus, the Bay Area, and even California and the country.
FSM, a Mass Movement across the widest political spectrum since many actually believed in the First Amendment, not to mention the Constitution. Everyone reached high together into a more hopeful, clearing sky.
That sky, clear or not: just how long have we known about global warming and climate change? Since 1896? 125 years! Longer?
There have been many hints of climate change over these years, and the floods of 1964 might have alarmed us if we’d been paying attention. My parents had a cabin 80 miles north on the Russian River. The huge 1964 floods, which remain the West Coast high water marks, were different: they began with a huge freeze, then relentless rains for weeks. Mudwater flooded into the cabin. We, kids, had a sticky, gleeful time helping clean up. The rugs were the hardest.
Back in Berkeley, houses near my friend Tom’s were about to slide down ravines into Codornices Creek. Tom’s father, a doctor, led us to the Rose Garden to dig trenches and divert rainwater to save houses. We built some low walls to divert the deluge, holding spades high in the air, shouting; Tom’s older sister stopped digging for a beat to dance, as she always did. We saved a few houses. Few paid attention to that early Flood of the Century.
Yes, those croquet games still linger. We had our own version of the “croquet,” when a ball strikes another ball. By rule, this striking player is entitled to two extra strikes. The first extra strike is a special shot called a “croquet,” and the second is a normal strike. Our version of a “croquet” was to smack the opponent’s ball as far as possible, maybe far into bushes, never to return. For the sake of the game. Whatever that meant. A teenage pranking and so much fun.
Still, here we are now, probably too late to save our globe.
Retired librarian Alan Bern is a published/exhibited photographer. He has won awards for his poems and stories, has published three books of poetry, has a hybrid memoir forthcoming from UnCollected Press, and performs with dancer/choreographer Lucinda Weaver as PACES. Lines & Faces, his press with artist/printer Robert Woods: linesandfaces.com.
