The summer of 1961 had me ripped from the nurturing womb of the SoCal beach community and rudely transplanted into East Blast Furnace L.A. — more commonly known as Norwalk. And for the record, I wasn’t consulted. I hereby cast my ‘No’ vote — better late than never. ‘Course, after the first couple weeks at my new school, New River Elementary, I was happy as a bug in a rug. Nothing like a cool new teacher, new buds, and makin’ your bones on the playground to turn that glass into being half full. 
During that first summer the neighborhood kids, about half a dozen or so, accepted me into the Behrens Avenue Regulars, a name I just now gave ‘em. Though I spent a decent amount of time with those guys, the lion’s share was spent playin’ baseball with the other athletes in the extended neighborhood — if we had enough guys. We usually played over-the-line which only required 4-6 guys. I mention that only cuz it resulted in me not being a total outsider on the first day of school. As you well know, being the new kid can be, um, stressful. My first day saw me walkin’ to school with my sister, a lowly 3rd grader — not the first impression I had in mind.
I’ll pause here to note that it’s probably true, the ability to make friends and blend into new groups was an unintended but welcome consequence of attending three elementary schools, a jr. high, and three high schools. My kids, on the other hand, attended three schools total. They both have friends they’ve known since milk money was an issue. How cool is that?
Anywho, it’s the first day of fifth grade, and I’m relieved to see that a couple of my new baseball buddies are in my class. Mrs. Kuno is the teacher, a Yugoslavian born to teach kids. Even though the excitement of the first day continued, I couldn’t wait for recess. I knew we’d be playin’ kickball, and since I was the new kid, I wanted to establish myself as one of the ‘sports’ kids. You know, the ones who get picked in the first couple of rounds when the two captains are choosin’ up teams.
To both my surprise and delight, I was picked second by Jim, one the summer boys. My first time up the other team moved everyone in cuz I was such a little guy. Perfect. I tripled over the center fielder’s head, much to the amazement of my teammates — and the center fielder. But I really made my bones a couple innings later.
I kicked a double my second time up. The next kid, a pretty big girl, lofted a soft fly into short right field. I knew it wouldn’t be caught, and took off like a scalded cat. Their stud grabbed the ball and threw it home. Without thinkin’, I slid into home just ahead of the throw — on the blacktop. The teacher broke into a gallop just knowing I’d broken something. The other kids? Well, anyone who slides on blacktop, hops up to rub it off, then smiles at the teacher having a heart attack, was OK with them.
I had a major strawberry on my hip for a long while. Also, Mrs. Kuno told me in no uncertain terms I was never to do that again. She was smilin’ when she said it though. Score.
By the time lunchtime arrived, my hip was in full blown agony but my spirits were flyin’ way high. The kids were playing softball, and this time I was picked third kid overall. Sweet.
‘Course as I recounted all this to Mom that night at home, what’d'ya think were the first words outa her mouth? “You slid on the blacktop?!” She had to see the bruise immediately, which I showed with immense pride. “Why would you do something like that?” Why do moms almost always ask the silly questions first? “Cuz I prolly woulda been out if I didn’t slide, that’s why.”
Rolled eyes. She was happy to hear Mrs. Kuno had laid down the ‘no slide’ law on the spot. “Um, Mom? I was safe — and we won.” I’ve always wondered if, at that moment it occurred to her I was gonna be ‘one of those kinda kids’.
Epilogue — Growing up we all learn the little practical things in life. That night I learned a particularly painful lesson. Don’t take a hot shower then put soap on a brand new strawberry that’s taken off who knows how many layers of skin. I musta sounded like Tarzan. First I put the soap on it without thinkin’, then when the pain flashed like a hundred bee stings, I pointed my hip towards the cascading hot water. (Cue the Tarzan yell.)
It’s so hard to keep up with everything a 10 year old doesn’t know.
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Ya know, this flashback would make a great children’s book, something along the lines of “First Day of School – Bittersweet Strawberries”.
Thanks for sharing.
Never thought of that. Hhmmm…