Friday-Gold Cup Day Part 1
Must be 5 am.
Six hours sleep on the dot.
Dark and damp.
But not cold.
I always sleep just fine on an air mattress in the van.
Lisa loaned me an extra sleeping bag, so I’m all toasty.
Don’t take much body heat in a van.
The imp harrumphs in my ear.
“Wondered when you’d show up,” I say. “Missed you. Kinda.”
She’s in an 18th century chambermaid’s grey skirt and kaboodle, white ruffled blouse, her long red hair stuffed up in a grey and white checked bonnet.
She holds a small porcelain chamberpot in one hand, pouring water into it from a small ceramic pitcher with the other.
Tinkletinkletinkle.
We all know what that does, right?
Gotta go.
Now.
“Do you?”
Go on.
Go.
You know you gots to.
1-2-3-GO-GO-GO!
LOL
I think that damn imp is rubbing off on me!
The bathhouse is like 200 yds away.
Fumble for my phone.
Can’t find it.
Fumble for the flashlight.
Can’t find it.
Can’t even remember where I put it.
Insert a string of cuss words here.
I DO find my shoes.
Hit the side door switch.
Bzzzzzt.
Cool damp air, laden with the smell of tannin, brushes my face.
Haven’t smelled that in 20 years.
Really freaking dark.
The moon must’ve just set.
Bathhouse here I come.
When I gotta go, I gotta GO!
Not easy to get anywhere fast when you’re a bent and twisted cripple.
I take my time on the walk back. Step, slide, clack. Step, slide, clack. Not a soul stirring anywhere. No birds chirping. Not a breath of breeze. Highway sounds, however, are picking up.
Friday morning traffic in South Austin.
Ugh. Gonna be brutal for country folk.
Not like Albuquerque.
Everybody goes 80, at least, most of the time.
Catch a draft and it’s 90.
Or more.
Love driving in NM!
Almost back now.
Better get all the youngsters moving.
But Talon is up, making coffee on a little propane stove at the picnic table.
Good man.
My brother from another mother.
Maddy is helping CC tidy up their gear. Can’t just leave it all unattended in the campground.
Gotta load all the steal-able stuff back in the van.
The air mattress stays blown up and goes in the tent.
Ain’t blowing anymore than I have to and it only cost $20.
WTH.
Got COPD on top of all this other crap.
Five years of huffing asbestos dust.
Kensey is pretending to be asleep so she doesn’t have to help.
Talon points behind the van. “Dude, you left your cooler out. Go look.”
The cooler lid is open.
Egg shell everywhere.
Three of my dozen boiled eggs remain in the bag, a fourth is half-buried in the dirt.
All the ham gone-gone-gone.
Milk jug on its side but otherwise unadulterated.
“A squirrel did it!” shouts Maddy, 8. “It stole your eggs!”
Laughing, CC adds, “I’m calling it Squegg! Here Squegg! Here Squegg!”
Kensey joins the chorus.
Cynthia is laughing.
Talon and I look at each other and shrug.
Can’t no squirrel open a cooler like that.
Need an opposable thumb.
Besides, I grew up in Bama.
I can smell a coon from a mile away.
But we don’t spoil Maddy’s fun.
I take the dirty, half-buried egg and hand the rest to Talon. “You figure out how to split 3 eggs between 4 people, dude.”
The females all turn up their noses.
No squeggs for them, I guess.
Freaking girls.
Talon and I eat ours.
No problem for us. We have jerked grasshoppers and fried mealy worms sometimes.
Roasted mealy worm candied apples for Halloween.
Ok. I’ll say it. We Techies tend to be a little stange.
Go on. Nod agreement and chuckle.
It’s all right. The truth is the truth.
And we still had two eggs left for tomorrow.
That’ll do, I guess.
We add Pop Tarts, yogurt, breakfast bars and bananas.
Good to go.
The sun is up.
Gonna be a perfect day.
But 7 o’clock has rolled around.
“Load ‘em up, move ‘em out,” says Talon.
And we go.
He’s driving.
Don’t want any part of this city traffic business.
Ain’t my thing.
Don’t like assholes on my bumper.
Always give ‘em the Bama “Stop and go”.
Plus a finger.
So far, nobody has kicked my ass over it.
At least not lately.
Traffic is, indeed, atrocious. The tinny female genie’s voice in Talon’s phone tells us where to go. “Turn right... On Old Manchaca Road... In... 200... Feet...
Talon drives into the front parking lot of South Austin Karate.
Finally.
Here.
Excited.
Almost breathless.
Looks like a nice, very large dojo.
Reminds me of the old days.
Shoulda worn my black belt.
Or my 1st AD tabs.
A sign says go around to the other side of the block.
Clank! Clang! Thunk-thunk-thunk.
We are definitely in the right place.
Nothing more soothing than the steady, rhythmic thunks of steel into wood.
Calms me instantly.
“This is it, bro. I wish we had more time to warm up. You know it takes me an hour or two to get loose.”
“You’ll be fine. Just have fun,” says Talon. “That’s what we came for. We aren’t going to win anything. Just make some contacts that can help us promote the sport in NM.”
“Right on. Let’s do it!”
“You ready Kensey?” I ask.
She’s reading a Goosebumps book, but looks up, shrugs, says, “Yeah, I guess.”
Kids.
They just don’t have a clue, do they?
Maddy seems 10 times more excited and she’s not throwing.
This year.
CC is taking it all in with a smile on her face.
Good to see.
A tickle on the back of my neck.
The imp, just letting me know she’s with me, waiting her chance to get me in some trouble.
Talon parks.
730.
Not bad.
The Gold Cup tournament starts at 9.
We get our stuff together.
The walk looks short.
Can’t really see yet, but looks like throwing walls EVERYWHERE.
How cool is that?
I got nothing with me except knives and a water bottle. CC carries a stack of homework she still has to grade this weekend. Talon has his knife box.
The girls are unencumbered, Kensey with her dad, Maddy with her mom.
I come around the oak tree that seems to dominate the throwing area.
See a compact man, probably younger than me, shaved head, all in black western clothing, talking to Mike Bainton, the only person I actually recognize.
Talon is already talking to people he met through Social Networking.
Laughing.
Shaking hands.
Talking shop with a big, middle-aged, bearded man dressed in a buckskin jacket and hat, big Bowies in sheaths on his belt.
Well, I should probably introduce myself to the host.
That’s just the way I was brought up.
Bama born and bred.
I ease over by Mike and the man in black, wait for a break in their conversation.
Meanwhile, I watch a long-bearded man in a wheelchair at one of the 8 practice ranges. I can sympathize. Spent a long time in one myself.
Sucks.
Seriously.
Gotta meet him later.
Must be a good story there.
“Life is all about the stories,” Talon told me once. “If you don’t have any stories, you haven’t been living.”
Amen, my brother.
I check out others.
A pretty, petite blonde lady at the scorers table.
Lotta big men with big-ass knives.
A dark young man in black territorial dress.
Dangerous looking.
Kinda like Zorro.
A smiling, pretty young woman in white blouse, big territorial skirt.
Ferocious looking knives.
Wonder if they might be a couple.
Fat men, skinny men, tall, short, young, old.
Two blonde girls, one about Kensey’s age, one a little older. I watch the oldest one for a minute.
“Holy shit, dude!” says the imp. “That little girl is gonna kick your ass.”
“You got that right.”
Probably, Kensey will, too.
Whupped by little girls.
Ain’t life a bitch?
So many interesting-looking characters.
Almost overwhelming.
My eyes keep wandering back to a slim young man nailing bullseye after bullseye.
Black floppy hillbilly hat. Long brown hair.
In the lane beside him, a tall blonde kid. Long hair.
Also throwing well.
His black t-shirt has the name of sponsors in neon green on it.
That’s what we need.
Sponsorship.
Or a benefactor or two.
Here we go. A break in conversion.
I turn to Mike and the man in black.
Any man in black always reminds me of Johnny Cash.
“I hear that train a-comin’, comin’ ‘round the bend,” sings the imp, sotto voce.
She likes JC.
I have no earthly idea why.
She has changed into a Pocahontas outfit.
Fringed buckskins.
A bow and quiver slung over her shoulder, a big Bowie in a sheath at her side.
“1-2-3-GO!” she adds.
I am a little nervous.
Her pinch on my ass sets me in motion.
“Excuse me gentlemen,” I say.
They both look at me expectantly.
Mike is a big man, too.
Looks like a Texan, if there is such a stereotype.
I stick out my hand to him. “I’m Pete Bonkemeyer, from New Mexico. Just wanted to introduce myself.”
Mike nods and smiles, gives my hand a hearty shake. “We’re glad you could make it, Mr. Bonkemeyer. Welcome to Texas.”
Mike leaves to attend to his business.
The man in black grins and sticks out his hand. “Rick Lemberg, good to meet you, Pete.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.”
My granny used to say, “The damn Yankees might’ve taken our land, livelihoods and money, but they can never take our manners!”
So I try to be polite.
We exchange some info, chitchat for a bit.
I really like him.
He excuses himself.
Time to look at the competition walls.
Cordoned off with police tape.
Take out the camera, make my way past a gaggle of ladies.
Probably volunteers for the events.
How cool is that?
The only volunteers at our event were Lisa and Kaatje.
Though some of the throwing club students lent an occasional hand building walls and targets.
I shoot a short video describing and explaining the competition walls and throwing lanes.
Barn red walls. White targets. Octagonal “rings”.
Glad Talon set ours up that way.
Feel right at home.
I like the set up. Four lanes for competitors
A fifth, “on-deck” lane.
Great idea.
All lanes marked by half-buried 2x4s, with inches marked off, a dark string stretched from one side to the other at the 2,3,4,5,6 and 7 meter marks.
Some sort of maybe small cinders cover the lanes.
Very nice.
Need to set our competitions up like that.
If we can get enough targets built.
A handsome young man in a black Stetson, wearing a headset, wanders by. A second later he announces over the loudspeaker, “Ok everybody. Mandatory throwers and range safety meeting at 830.”
So he must be the MC.
Looks vaguely familiar.
Hmmm...
8 o’clock now. Should warm up while I have a chance.
See an open practice lane at the very end.
The north end.
Nobody wants this one. Oak tree roots wind and poke up all over the lane. Even the oak tree from which the roots extend is almost in the way, too.
Reminds me of my range at Keli’s.
I feel right at home.
Digging it.
The tall, blonde kid is throwing in the lane beside me, sharing it with what must be a teammate.
The tall, blonde kid is throwing in the lane beside me, sharing it with what must be a teammate.
Same shirts. Black with the neon green sponsors on back.
Then a third, maybe a little older, maybe not, joins them.
My knives are clearly visible in the air.
Pink, wrapped handles. Purple, wrapped blades.
Can’t throw without the wrap, yet.
Don’t have the grip.
Getting there, though.
Pink for all the women I know who are, or have, battled women’s health issues.
Did I mention I love women?
Not just the f’ed up ones, either.
Purple ‘cause it’s Veteran’s Day.
For the Purple Hearts and the blood they shed defending our great country.
Guys like me.
Don’t expect anybody to understand it at this point.
Probably bad enough I wrap my knives.
Someday, I’ll find a set that fits, that I can actually get a grip on.
For now, the colors help me judge overspin or underspin when I miss.
Also make the flight dynamics very clear as the knife travels.
Not sure why that is.
I keep to myself and just throw.
Talon stops by for a second. His dark eyes shine with excitement. “You ok, bro?” he asks me.
I chunk a 2-spin.
Thunk.
“Yep. I’m doing fine. You?”
“Oh yeah. The trip has already been worthwhile.”
“Kensey?”
Talon points at the other end of the practice ranges. “She’s throwing with Roger.”
Didn’t see Rog earlier.
He’s cool in my book.
Almost like family.
Spent a weekend at Talon’s with Cliff Payne. They were winging it, too, just to come help us out.
And there’s Cliff, now.
Very humble, polite young man.
Like him a lot.
I pick all my 2&1/2 spin throws off the ground.
Not very good from this distance. Just started throwing 2&1/2 and 3 spin last week. Still hurts me.
Cliff sees me, grins, waves me over.
“It’s good to see you, sir.”
“What did I tell you about calling me sir, Cliff?”
He chuckles. “I can’t help it, Pete. That’s the way I grew up.”
Only in the south, folks. Only in the south.
We catch up for a minute.
“How are all your women doing?” he asks me.
I laugh. “Running me ragged, bro. Burning up I-25 between Socorro and Albuquerque.”
Cliff laughs at me. “Good luck with that, though I gotta admit, those redheaded girlfriends of yours are something else!”
He frowns for a second, then a smile spreads across his face. “I’m gonna be a dad, I guess.”
“Yeah? For real?”
He nods. “For real. Gotta move to her place, 30 miles outta town.”
He seems a little glum about it.
I laugh at him. “You’re the one needs the luck, man.”
It ain’t easy raising kids in this day and age.
And everybody under the age of 35 is bankrupt.
They just don’t know it yet.
Other throwers are talking to Cliff now.
A short fellow in black hat, jeans and a white moustache.
A ruddy fellow in shorts and a white shirt.
No clue who they are.
I wander over to CC and Maddy. Cynthia is grading papers.
Intently.
Maddy is watching everything, gray-green eyes open wide.
“Damn, Cynthia,” I say. “Still grading papers?”
She nods. “Yep. I never catch up with this crap.”
She puts the papers down and looks me in the eye. “Can I borrow your van? I want to take Maddy back to McKinney Falls, go for a hike, maybe pick up some books to keep the girls settled and occupied.”
“Sure! Whatever you two want to do. The van is yours.”
She smiles at me.
She hasn’t done much of that lately.
“Good luck, Pietor.”
That’s what she calls me. I have more sobriquets than Old St. Nick.
“All throwers report to the competition lanes,” booms the loudspeaker.
Everybody heads in that direction.
I let them all go before me.
Don’t do well in crowds.
Well, except the mosh pit.
Ask Keli.
I met her in one, but that’s yet another story.
(Available for the asking)
I stand with Talon and Kensey. The Chaparral Gang.
Seems like about 50 competitors gather for the meeting.
“Welcome to the 2014 World Knife and Tomahawk Throwing Championship!”
says the MC with a big, Hollywood-style smile. “I’ll let Mike take the mic, no pun intended, and he’ll tell you what’s going on.”
Mike doesn’t take the mic.
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