Junior year in high school I signed up for the track team and began running six miles a day around and around Plummer Court, the street where I lived. Joe Kohl, the garbage man, would honk as he passed in his orange truck; the policemen would sound their sirens when they saw me coming. In the field at St. Gabriel Catholic Church, which backed up to our block, I practiced shot put and hurling the discus. I finished fourth in a Fox Valley Association meet in the discus (132 feet).
I was also a volleyball and wrestling cheerleader. Mat Mates, we were called, and we came in all shapes and sizes, just like the guys on the wrestling team. Most of our cheering was done sitting crosslegged on the floor and slapping out variations of Pin Your Man, Takedown and Be Aggressive. We did, however, do occasional acrobatics. (My brother, Bill, says there are still dents in the front yard where we practiced jumps.)
The city of Neenah lived for high school basketball games, and so did I. Every Friday and Saturday night the Armstrong High School fieldhouse was packed to the rafters with screaming fans of all ages, from babies to grandmas. It was—and still is—the social event of the winter. Most car windows bore the sticker NEENAH WITH PRIDE.
Since 1969 the Neenah Rockets have qualified for the state tournament in Madison nine times, winning the title in 1975 and 1978. But regardless of how they finished, when the players returned home from Madison they were paraded through town on fire trucks, while people dressed in red and white lined the streets.
I miss that small-town spirit, the community feeling of knowing every face and every name that goes with it. And having everybody know me. I miss the matside seat at the wrestling matches, the camaraderie of Rockets games and, yes, even those trips to the Townsend dump.
More than anything, though, I miss barbecues. You can invite me over for bratwurst anytime. I'll wear my stretch pants. And after dinner we can go bowl a few games. What the heck, I'm from Neenah.