Mike has a commanding presence.
This ain’t his first rodeo.
He greets us, makes us all chuckle and laugh, then gets down to the nitty-gritty.
(Paraphrased. Next time I’ll bring a voice recorder.)
“So today, we have the Gold Cup tournament. For you first-timers, this is our only tournament competition.”
I hear whispers about a big-ass trophy.
The name Werner Lengmüller keeps coming up.
Which one is he?
“Gold Cup is a double elimination tournament. We’ll have one for knives this morning, have a lunch break, then we’ll come back and throw hawks this afternoon.”
“After the first round of competition, we’ll have two brackets. One for the winners, one for the throwers with a loss. Lose twice and you’re out. The final round will be between the winner of the winners bracket against the winner who comes up through the losers bracket, which means the thrower coming up through the losers bracket will have to beat the winner of the winners bracket twice to win the tournament.”
“Ya’ll got that?”
Mumbles and nods.
Seems simple enough.
Seen double elimination tournaments before.
Pretty much standard procedure for this sorta competition.
Won a pool tournament like that in Port O’Connor once.
Everybody scratched the cue ball while shooting the 8..
Saved me a lot of time and energy.
And a drop is the same as a scratch when you’re slinging steel at this level.
“Don’t miss, then, cowboy,” says the imp.
Annie Oakley getup this time. Bill Page Diamond-heads like Doc Talon’s hang from a wide leather belt instead of guns.
I shake my head, try to flick her off my shoulder. “Right. Don’t miss. Easy for you to say. You’re just a freaking spectator, Imp. These guys don’t look like they miss much when they throw.”
She sticks her steaming little forked tongue out at me, then poof, she’s gone.
Mike sweeps an arm to indicate the competition lanes. “After we have the Pledge of Allegiance and National Anthem, we’ll draw numbers for the order we’ll throw in. The number you draw will be your number for all events this weekend.”
“We’ll use lanes 1 through 4 during Gold Cup competition. Please reserve the practice lanes for the next few throwers behind those already competing.”
“When you’re name is called for the on deck lane, don’t make us go looking for you.”
He points to an older man, slim, cowboy hat, looks kinda like a billy goat. “Cliff Hill here we call AWOL. Whenever we called his name, nobody could find him. Finally, during one competition, I got frustrated and called out, “Somebody find that AWOL S.O.B.! He’s been AWOL ever since!”
Appropriate laughter.
Good way to break the tension.
Good job Mike.
And now I can match another name with a face.
AWOL.
Bet he’s got some stories.
Andy Keen, AWOL and Rick the Rocket (The Man in Black)
Andy Keen, AWOL and Rick the Rocket (The Man in Black)
Mike waves a hand at our MC, the young man in a black Stetson I mentioned earlier. “Jack Dagger will be our MC.”
Some chuckles, whispers, elbow nudges and a few catcalls from the contestants.
They all know who he is.
I don’t.
But he’s got a cool name.
Jack Dagger
Jack Dagger
Jimi Hendrix is now singing in my head, “Here comes Dolly Dagger, her love’s so heavy gonna make you stagger.”
Maybe she’s Jack’s mama?
Sounds like she got around.
If you know what I mean. ;)
Mike goes on for a bit.
I listen with half an ear, check out other contestants.
Another big man, maybe a few years older than me. Long gray hair beneath a Longhorns cap. Goatee and moustache. Glasses.
Jeans. Well-worn Rolling Stones t-shirt.
Serious-looking.
That’s what I’M talking about!
Now the Pledge of Allegiance. Mike leads it.
Almost forgot the words.
Nobody uses it anymore.
People getting offended by the use of the word “God”.
That’s not the point. The pledge is about Americans and patriotism, whether the pledgee believes in God or not. And the people who cry the loudest about intolerance are even more intolerant themselves.
It’s a crazy, mixed-up world we live in, folks.
The Star-Spangled Banner is next, sung very well by a pretty young woman with dark hair.
Very impressive.
She could do a big league park and do us all proud.
Then pictures.
And more pictures.
But it’s fun. I’m still just checking everybody out.
“Line up and draw a number,” says Jack Dagger after the anthem is done. A line forms.
Seems silly to stand in line when I could be sitting over there on a bench.
So I hobble over to the bench where CC sits, still grading papers, the poor dear.
But Maddy is there, too. She’s reading a Goosebumps book.
I ask her about it, let her tell me.
Throwers compare the numbers they drew. Some are grinning, some are grumbling good-naturedly.
Only a few more to go.
Better get my slow ass in gear.
Coach said I was slow as a bucket of nails.
But twice as tough.
Make it to the hat as the last thrower to draw.
Talon is there at my shoulder. “What’d you get?”
I show him the paper.
He starts laughing at me. “Four? Dude, you better warm up!”
I let out a big sigh. “Why? Takes me at least an hour. I’ll just throw what I got, bro.”
He walks away laughing.
He really is an evil little basterd sometimes.
Besides, that gives him an edge. We’d been throwing identical practice round scores for two days. 166-166. 183-183.
And more.
“And now, the competition for the Dr Ted Eisenberg Gold Cup begins! Throwers, #2 to Lane 5 for practice, followed by Mike “Alamo” Bainton, Peter… uh… Bonk-meyer, Rick “The Rocket” Lemberg, and Kenneth Spirit Wolf.”
Apparently, #1 is not throwing so my 4 is really a 3. I don’t know the man throwing #2.
Tall lanky fellow about my age.
“Movin’ on up…”
The imp, in top hat and heels, dancing the Charleston, doing her best George Jefferson impression.
Talon comes over from where he’s talking with a group of throwers. He’s got that grin on his face. He’s about to mess with me.
“Pete, you are gonna get your ass kicked. Do you know who you’re throwing against?”
Yeah, the man in black.
I shrug. “Rick Lemberg. Why?”
Talon’s evil grin widens. “He’s a former world champion.”
He points at Mike Bainton. “Former World Champion. You’re in between them.”
Sandwiched by the best. Wolf included.
Sandwiched by the best. Wolf included.
He points at the man who drew #2, but going #1. “Dr Ted Eisenberg, the sponsor of the event.”
Talon knows what I will say, but I gotta say it anyway. I give my nonchalant shrug first. “I ain’t skeered. They put their pants on one leg at a time, just like I do.”
Kensey wanders over, “What did you draw?” she asks.
I glare at her. “Four.”
She snickers and points her knives at me. “You’re screwed.”
That little girl is a smartass.
Like her dad.
Even though they aren’t related.
I make a face at her. “Shut up, Dorkette.”
Dorkette
Dorkette
That’s what the Chaparral Gang girls call themselves.
“The Dorkettes”.
If the shoe fits…
Dr Ted steps into Lane 4 while Bainton heads for Lane 5 to warm up.
CC walks over.
Can’t help but think of the first time I met her. She gave me the best hug a stranger ever gave me. For some reason, I always remember the first time I meet a woman.
“Ok, well, Pietro, I think me and Maddy are gonna go for that hike.”
“You guys have fun, CC. You need a break.”
I hand her the keys.
Maddy grins and waves goodbye.
She looks better now that her teeth came in.
They’re cool kids, don’t have a tv in the house and Talon gives them extra homework as part of their daily responsibilities.
Kensey is about ready for The Calculus.
10. Years. Old.
I watch Bainton throw for a minute. Big Bowies. Make a solid thunk.
I would dearly LOVE to throw a set.
Better yet, own one.
Dr. Ted is done in lane 4, moves to lane 3.
Bainton to 4.
Ok, this it.
“Damn skippy straight,” whispers the imp in my ear.
I’m ready.
Breathe in as I acquire the target picture. Bend my knees a little. Push up, let my breath out in an explosive ‘whoosh’ as I throw the first half spin.
‘Thunk’.
The second.
‘Thunk.’
The third.
‘Thunk’.
4-5-4
Acceptable.
Gotta make my points on the shorter throws.
Say 35 points each round.
That’s 140.
Just 20 points total from the longer throws and I’ll make my goal.
160.
When we get to 2-spin, I stick all three in the paint.
Hell yeah.
“But it’s only practice, dill-weed.”
“And you’re only imaginary, so shut up. Imp.”
Flash back to the NM championship. I’m at the 2 & ½ spin line for the 4th and last time. Haven’t hit a 2 & ½ all afternoon. On the edge of heat stroke, but I throw. 5-4-5.
Either Roger Jals or Cliff Payne (sorry, I was THAT foggy) comes over from the practice rounds, where they’ve been instructing some children. “I was just telling these guys not to throw with a pinch-grip, and you gotta go stick three 2 & ½ spin throws in a row, Pete. You’re making me look bad.”
Sometimes it be like dat.
Rog claps me on the back. “You da man, Pete.”
Then he borrows my lighter.
Probably shoulda kept it. He looks kinda shifty.
When it’s all said and done, I throw a 47 in round 1 of the Eisenberg Gold Cup.
The man in black totally kicks my ass.
But I’m good with my score, pretty much what I expected.
Even got a point on 3-spin, which I’d only practiced at Talon’s once, just a few days before.
They really hurt me.
Talon claps me on the back. “Good job. Bro.”
He won’t throw for a while, yet. Kensey will be even further down the list.
And I’m suddenly hungry and need a cuppa.
On the other side of the practice range, smoke rises from a grill.
And there on that table.
That’s gotta be…
COFFEE!!!
Muscles are finally loosened from the throw. Lungs, too.
Moving better for sure.
I stop for a minute behind the admin tent, watch the practice lanes for a minute. The hillbilly kid in the floppy hat can really throw.
If I’m lyin’ I’m…
Never mind.
<snicker>
“Shut up, Imp. I’m just trying to find my limits.”
Before I take another step, a young man with a boom microphone approaches, followed by a curly-haired man with a camera.
“Andy Keen,” says the guy with the mic. “We’re filming a documentary about knife throwing, Can we talk to you later?”
Are you kidding me?
“Sure!”
They move on. Just ahead, in the shade of the oak tree, several men have set up tables to display their wares.
Knives.
Big knives.
Plus one older guy selling memorabilia, t-shirts, coffee mugs and such.
Definitely gotta have a t-shirt.
Even if I go hungry to get one.
Besides, CC would never let me starve,
Talon?
That’s a different story.
Did I mention that he’s an evil little bastard?
An old man bumps into me, apologizes profusely.
Now this guy looks like an old school mountain man!
Buckskin jacket and hat. Cane with antlers for a base.
How cool is that?
Wouldn’t mind one of those canes for myself!
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not as fragile as I look,” I say, then stick out my hand. “Pete Bonkemeyer, from New Mexico.”
He gives it a shake. “’Paiute’ Brown, well… actually… it’s Ed Brown, but they call me ‘Paiute’.
“Pleased to meet you.”
We talk a bit. I tell him about having to camp to make the trip. He tells me how in the old days, him and Mike Bainton and others would drive all night so they could compete in a throw, then drive all night to get back for work on Monday.”
Now that’s hard core!
Bobby Branton and Paiute Ed Brown
Bobby Branton and Paiute Ed Brown
And I still haven’t had my coffee.
So I head in that direction again.
Already a bit wobbly. Every step really a controlled fall, in a way.
“Weebles wobble, but they won’t fall down.”
“Damn skippy straight they don’t, Imp!”
She can be a real smartass, if you haven’t noticed.
In the last lane, near the chuckwagon, a young man throws no spin. He’s very good.
Underhand, overhand, backhand, from the hip, sidearmed…
Clean cut kid, probably ex-military if I’m any judge of such.
And that no spin throwing… excellent! I’ve watched some of Ralph Thorn’s videos.
This kid might be just as good.
Have to find out who he is later.
Finally make it to the coffee urn.
It’s empty.
The man at the grill smiles at me, “Hang on a minute, I’ll make some more. You guys drink a lot of coffee.”
So I just watch for a while.
A tough looking man, short hair, t-shirt, camo pants laughs with Rog Jals and several others.
I hear them call the guy in camo pants what sounds like “Warner”.
And Warner has a German accent.
Had to be Werner Lengmuller.
Another World Champion if I remember right.
I don’t see Talon and Kensey.
Talon might be throwing. Kensey watching.
But I need my coffee.
Ain’t movin’ til I get some!
No comments:
Post a Comment