Memories of The Bogie, a football & Christmas past

It is Christmas morning 1940 and there is ice on the windows of the second-floor apartment overlooking Third Street, near Highland Avenue, in the West End of Chester.

A huge Christmas tree practically fills the front room, which is a living room by day and a bedroom by night for the 10-year-old boy who, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, sits up from his blankets on the couch and gazes in wonderment at the miracle that has been worked since he fell asleep the night before.

His parents aren’t up yet and the sun hasn’t risen but there is just enough light from the streetlight outside his window – a light reflected thousands of times in the tree ornaments – to make out the magical tree in the semi-darkness and to see the pile of gifts under it.

One item in particular strikes his attention and he leaps from his bed, switches on the lamp and runs to pick it up.

It is an “Official, Regulation Size and Weight” football.

The ball is slightly darker than a pumpkin in color and has a marvelous feel because of its “Pebble Grain” texture. The lad hugs the ball to his chest, smells the exotic new-leather smell and his eyes fill with tears of joy.

The ball is fully inflated and the boy tries to hold it in a passing grip, but the new leather is too slippery and the boy’s hand is too small and the ball drops to the floor, crashing into the Lionel train beneath the tree and wakening his parents.

There are other gifts, of course, but the football is the most special and for the next two hours, it is never out of his hands except for when he places it in his lap while eating his

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breakfast of hot cocoa, followed by Wheaties with cold milk and bananas.

He is naive enough to believe the “Breakfast of Champions” will help him when he tries out the new ball later in the morning.

By eight o’clock, the youngster can contain himself no longer and he dresses as warmly as possible against the sub-freezing weather in an old, motheaten, orange Chester High football jersey he treasures even though its thick wool scratches like crazy when he sweats and the shirttail reaches almost to his knees.

A scarf, a hunter’s cap with fur ear flaps his Uncle Jim handed down to him, knickers, knee socks and high top “tennis shoes” complete the outfit.

No one is around when the boy reaches the lot, an area of cinders and frozen mud in the middle of the block formed by Highland Avenue, Thurlow Street, Second Street and Third Street.

So for a half-hour, he tosses the ball into the air and catches it himself, extremely careful the brand new ball doesn’t fall onto one of the frozen tire ruts and become scuffed.

But long before his friends arrive with their Christmas gifts, most of which they were wearing – hats, gloves, high-top boots with a pocket for a penknife, and new corduroy jackets. The neighborhood isn’t a particularly affluent one.

Because of the intense cold, the youngsters are eager to begin a game of touch football. But there is no mention of using the new ball in the game. This gang has used everything from an empty condensed milk can to a stocking stuffed with rags for a football, so they certainly can get along without his prized possession this day.

Maybe on another day when

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All submissions are subject to editing. they get to a real field with grass and the ground isn’t frozen, maybe on such a day they will use the new ball. But not today. Today they will use a ball one of the guys swiped from the practice field at St. James High the previous fall.

The ball is out of shape, nearly oval, and the bladder shows through at one end where it had landed on the cinder field too many times.

But after a few plays with the lopsided ball, the temptation is too great.

“Let’s try the new ball,” one of the gang says.

“Uh uh,” the owner answers. “I just got it and I don’t want to mess it up.”

“What the hell you gonna do, frame it?” asks one of the older members of the group.

“Let’s see it, for crissakes. Nobody’s gonna to steal it on you.’’

“Yeah, come on, let’s pass it around a little. Nobody’s going to drop it.”

The pressure is too great and the young boy reluctantly tosses over the ball.

“OK,” he says, “but no long passes. Just throw a couple short ones. Besides, I have to go in pretty soon.”

The boy doesn’t have to “go in” until dinnertime and everybody knows it so the kids begin passing around the ball.

After a while, one of the older boys asks if he can punt the ball.

“How ‘bout it?” he pleads. “Just once. Boy, I bet you could kick a helluva spiral with a ball like this.”

The youngster grabs his ball and starts to go home. “The hell with them,” he thinks, “let them kick their own ball.”

“Gaw head, take your damn ball and go in the house,” the older boy shouts, “but don’t come around later looking for no games. Who needs you anyhow?”

The taunt is too much for the

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610.622.8887 young lad who turns back to the group of boys.

“OK,” he says, “one kick and not a hard one. Just try and get a spiral and I’ll catch it. And make sure you don’t kick it anywhere near The Bogie’s.”

The Bogie is a name given by the neighborhood kids to an old man who has a garage fronting on their play area. “The Bogie” also has a vicious German shepherd he keeps in a tiny cement yard behind the garage.

Occasionally, a baseball or rubber ball will sail over the garage roof and land in Bogie’s yard. Because of the dog, the kids don’t dare go over the fence after the ball.

And Bogie never has been known to give back a ball, like the other neighbors do.

The older boy’s first kick is shanked off the side of his foot and the youngster has to make a fine running catch to grab it before it hits the hard ground.

“Come on now. That’s what I was afraid of. One more kick and I’m going in.”

The older boy backs off 10 or 15 yards and kicks the new ball again. This time, he gets off a high, spiraling punt that soars into the air, gets caught in a stiff breeze and is blown toward The Bogie’s garage.

The young boy stares in openmouthed horror as the ball lands on the icy ground, bounds high into the air, lands on The Bogie’s garage roof, takes one more bounce and drops into the yard.

Panic stricken and furious, the youngster lets loose a string of profanity and runs to the side of Bogie’s yard, hoping against hope his ball has bounced back out again. It has not.

It is resting squarely in the center of the yard and the huge police dog is over it, smelling it suspiciously. When the kids arrive, the dog leaves the ball and charges the board fence, snarling

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The barking, of course, brings The Bogie running into the yard.

He is an old man and always wears a gray cap and a dark gray woolen sweater, even in the summertime. The kids have never heard him speak English except when he swears, which is every time he sees them.

Despite the fact that Bogie has never returned a ball that landed in his yard, the youngster feels today will be different. Not only is it a new football – and an expensive one – but it is Christmas morning.

Surely The Bogie will be moved this day, of all days.

The youngster, tears streaming down his cold cheeks, approaches the fence as The Bogie picks up the ball.

“Please, Mister,” he says, sobbing bitterly. “Please, can I have my ball back? I promise I’ll never let it come near your yard again. Honest, please — it’s a brand new ball. I just got it for Christmas.”

“You want your ball back, huh?” The Bogie says. “Hokay. You waita minute, I give you ball.”

The Bogie disappears into his garage and comes out a few moments later.

“Here’s your damn ball,” he says flipping the ball over the fence as he walked toward his house. “Now get the helloutta here.”

The youngster couldn’t believe his good fortune as he ran to retrieve his precious ball.

“Good old Bogie,” he thought. “He’s not such a bad guy after all.”

When the boy picked up his ball, it felt funny. Something was wrong. There wasn’t any air in the ball. When he touched the ball, the sides collapsed.

Then, through his tears he

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saw what had happened.

Inside the garage, The Bogie had taken an ice pick and punctured the ball in a dozen places.

For a few seconds, the kid was too stunned even to cry.

Then he dropped to the ground, cradled the ball in his arms and, between sobs and curses, swore everlasting vengeance on The Bogie.

That was more than 50 years ago and there have been many memorable Christmas mornings since then – coming home for the holidays from the first job away from home – a Christmas in the mountains of North Korea – the first Christmas for your first son.

But each year at this time, the most vivid Christmas memory is not of homecoming or family or snow-covered tents in a foreign land or carrying your son down the stairs to his first Christmas tree.

The most vivid memory always is of The Bogie and what he did to my new football. Ed Gebhart is a retired public relations executive. This column appeared for years in the Daily Times on Christmas Day.