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Headed West. Only 600 mi to go.
The Original Old Farts Club
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Unca Walt
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OMIGAWD. (*snokk*) (*snif*) Remember this?
Puck, my Chuck Norris-type son, showed up at the Chateau yesterday with a present for his mama's birthday... Seems he went out in the early-early (just past midnight) and swam out to the reef (about 300 yards).
Well, he had asked me if I had a whole picture of the partial he had in his wallet. I recongnized it, and told him I'd look for it. <-- My computer files are absolutely random. I am NOT an organized person. You'd think all my pictures would be in a picture file, right? Probably about half of them are in multiple picture files. Spanning four decades...
Anyway, I found the picture in a file called "Birthdays" <-- Go figure.
Puck is 56, BTW -- the little blondie on my right. He has a tad of SCUBA experience...
But that is not the reason for the (*snokk*) (*snif*). I also found a short story Puck wrote 35 years ago that I swear I cannot remember seeing before. I dare ya to read it and not get just a little snokk-sniffy.
I'll C&P it on the next post below.
Puck, my Chuck Norris-type son, showed up at the Chateau yesterday with a present for his mama's birthday... Seems he went out in the early-early (just past midnight) and swam out to the reef (about 300 yards).
Well, he had asked me if I had a whole picture of the partial he had in his wallet. I recongnized it, and told him I'd look for it. <-- My computer files are absolutely random. I am NOT an organized person. You'd think all my pictures would be in a picture file, right? Probably about half of them are in multiple picture files. Spanning four decades...
Anyway, I found the picture in a file called "Birthdays" <-- Go figure.
Puck is 56, BTW -- the little blondie on my right. He has a tad of SCUBA experience...
But that is not the reason for the (*snokk*) (*snif*). I also found a short story Puck wrote 35 years ago that I swear I cannot remember seeing before. I dare ya to read it and not get just a little snokk-sniffy.
I'll C&P it on the next post below.
Last edited:
Unca Walt
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The Day My Father Bought Me A Beer
Todd “Puck” Snedeker
My fascination with the martial arts started when I was about eight years old, when father took me to see Bruce Lee in Enter The Dragon. The theater in which this movie was playing was of the “second showing” variety, and located in the shadier part of town. As my father and I sat in the old run down playhouse I became engulfed in the amazing natural physical abilities of Bruce Lee. I sat there mesmerized, absorbing his display of martial art mastery with a young boy’s wide-eyed wonder. The magical acrobatics of this martial arts legend awakened a yearning in me.Todd “Puck” Snedeker
There was honest dismay at the fact that the movie had finally ended. As my father and I were leaving the old theater, I asked him if we could see Bruce Lee’s next movie. His reply was far from what I wanted to hear.
“Bruce Lee is dead, Puck,” he said flatly (my father very rarely ever called me anything but my nickname, ‘Puck’). I stood there in shock. I actually felt like crying.
“Are you sure dad?” I said desperately, hoping he may have some doubt.
“Sorry Puck, I thought you knew,” he replied with finality. He put his arm around me and we got into the car and drove home.
“Do you think that I could be like Bruce Lee someday?” I asked my father.
“Yeah, but… Bruce Lee didn’t become Bruce Lee overnight,” he answered with that fatherly tone that fit him so well.
“Can we check out that Judo Club we heard about?” I asked earnestly, hoping for his approval.
“You bet, we’ll check it out tonight,” he answered with a smile, putting his hand on my head and messing my hair with a shaking motion.
My journey into the sport of Judo began.
The years passed.
The shiai[1] was alive with active athletic people; adults as well as children. In the center of the dojo[2] lay the three fighting areas of gray and red mats. At the front of the mats were the timekeeper tables with the scoreboards.
The atmosphere inside the building was electric. This was the state championship arena, the place where the fundamental concepts of the sport were tested.
“Judo” is the Japanese word for “the gentle way.” To some people, this may seem to be an oxymoron.
There are four ways to win or lose a Judo match:
One is to pin your opponent on his back for thirty seconds without letting him turn over onto his stomach, or otherwise escape.
The second way to win is to throw one’s opponent with force and stylistic perfection.
The third way to win is by a decision of the two judges and the referee.
The fourth way to win is the most dramatic -- forcing your opponent to submit and ask for mercy by tapping the mat. This is accomplished by way of choking techniques or arm locking techniques. There are no kicks or blows in Judo.
I had been training for seven years for this day, and now it was all coming down to this last match; the fight I will never forget.
Waiting on-deck for your next fight produces a sensation in your stomach known as ‘butterflies’. The abdominal region of the body feels actual fluttering.
The butterflies were wearing heavy boots as I stood across from my opponent and archrival, the aptly named Cain Dell.
Cain was a Spartan-looking athletic dark black teenager whose skills as a Judoka[3] were well known throughout the Judo community. His Olympic physique complemented his agile aura, making him a challenging opponent.
The referee ordered us out to the mat competition area. I could feel most of the spectators watching this match with quiet collective enthusiasm, including my mother and father.
“Rea!”[4] Then the referee yelled. “Hajime!” [5] The fight for the number one ranking in the State of Florida commenced. I circled my opponent to the right; looking for my opportunity to acquire for a safe grip on his gi. [6] Cain was doing the same. With lightning speed, he reached for my gi lapel and shot the left side of his body across mine with a sweeping motion. I hadn’t been aware that Cain was ambidextrous, and did not anticipate a left-side throw. I landed on my shoulder with tremendous force.
“Yuko!” [7] said the referee forcefully, giving my opponent the first score of the match. With skillful agility, Cain managed to get a very effective choke hold on me.
By using my own lapels, he began to attempt to choke me into submission. I was now in serious trouble. I could not breathe, but I did manage to get two of my fingers between my neck and lapel thereby allowing blood to flow to my brain and avoided passing out. Cain had his legs wrapped around my body and was using leverage to increase the pressure on my neck. But I was not going to give up. A full thirty seconds had now elapsed. I knew that if I held out for another twenty seconds, the referee would stop the match and have us begin again standing up.
Twenty seconds is an eternity when you can’t breathe. I could feel my opponent’s hand tremble from the force he was applying to the choke. I was gasping, desperately close to unconsciousness. Just a few more seconds, I kept promising myself.
I could hear my mother, who is normally a calm person, screaming, “Hang on Puck!” “Hang on!” I felt the dojo get eerily quiet, my eyes growing dim.
Suddenly: “Matte!” The referee had stopped the match. Cain released me.
For several seconds I fought for air. The blood returned to my brain. I knew, somehow, that I would win this fight.
I stood up and looked into the eyes of my shaken opponent. A primal feeling had come over me, and I could see his dismay that I had taken his best.
The match was no longer about the gold medal, it was about perseverance. From the look of disbelief on Cain’s face, I knew he could sense this determination in me.
“Hajime!” The fight started again. The butterflies had disappeared. The raging feeling in my heart grew as I grabbed Cain’s gi. I pivoted and dropped down in front of Cain’s knees, pulling him with all of my might.
“Yuko!”
The score was even, but there was more: I had Cain in a hold-down.
“Osaekomi!” 8 The clock began.
With all of my remaining strength, I squeezed my opponent. Cain tried to get out of the hold I had on him, but he knew he had been beaten and his efforts were ineffectual.
“Ippon!”9
The required thirty seconds had expired. I was, with that word, the state champion. A wave of relief flowed throughout my body, followed by a rush of triumph.
We both stood up and the referee signified me as the winner. I bowed and left the mat.
A sudden and overpowering thirst consumed me, and I ran for the nearest water fountain. I gasped as I gulped the mouthfuls of water down my abused throat. I saw my father approaching me with a wide, proud smile on his face.
“I knew you could get him on the mat!” he shouted exultantly, “How did you hold out so long, were you breathing from your ears? I thought that your mother was going to have a heart attack.”
“I wasn’t breathing,” I said drinking more water and feeling slightly better.
During the entire ride home, my father and mother relived the match. Where my adrenaline was subsiding, and my exhaustion growing, their energy was expanding.
My father pulled into a convenience store and came out with a
Becks beer. He handed it to me. I don’t ever think there was a time where someone accused my father of being politically correct.
“Here Puck, you sure have earned this.” he said with a smile.
“Thanks, Dad.” I replied.
It wasn’t the first beer that I’d ever had, but it sure was the best beer I’d ever had!
Like many athletes, my Judo career was ended prematurely because of injuries. In the years after that state championship match, however, I went on to become a state champion two more times, culminating my career as the national champion.
My first state championship is the one that I recall the most fondly. It was the day that my father no longer saw me as a boy, but as a man.
[1] Japanese for “tournament”
[2] Japanese for “practice hall”
[3] Japanese for “Judo student”
[4] Japanese for “Bow”
[5] Japanese for “Begin”
[6] Japanese for “Judo Uniform”
7 Japanese for “Major technical advantage”
8 Japanese for “Hold-down”
9 Japanese for “Full point”
Dang, how far west you going?
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Just got to Ukraine this is a mess over here. I forgot my gun I don't know what to do
Drop trousers and wave your flag!
So do serious Second Amendment types. Like me. Serial killers are nuts, I just dont trust my government, as the founding fathers intended. Dexter had no gun collection, Ted Bundy had no gun collection, Son of Sam only had one. Which serial killers are you talking about?
Bubba
snag one off a dead russian, or ukranian.
LOL
A joke directed at most of us here.
I have a rather large collection of unusual toys myself.............
My tool gets played with a lot
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I bought it cheap and stocked it deep. You wouldn't believe just how many rounds I have and what I paid for 'em.
Pick up a Ukrainian one. Just like ARVN rifles; never fired and only dropped once.
Well the French did train them.............................
Weee surrender
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