Somewhere, safely wrapped away, is my old Hart letterman’s jacket. Me being me, I couldn’t just stick with the traditional maroon and grey school colors. No. I procured an ancient wool red wine-dyed coat, an inch thick from the 1950s. It has a giant Indian chief head sprawled across the back. The rare few times I wear it, I get compliments — even from Indians.
Darn time. So whimsical and beyond measuring. One, self-mutilating chemistry class from 1967 took a seeming ice age to pass. A lifetime goes by in a blink. I’ve a dear gal pal I haven’t chatted with in a few decades. She’s still a kid, flirting with 40. We wasted a lot of hours, shooting hoops, and she became one bona fide college all-star, the status of that I take full credit. I learned from my coach, Fran Wrage, to smile, take zero crap and plant someone on their butt, whether they needed it or not. I passed that on to Lisa. I played my last, serious pickup game with her on my side and shall never forget that.
A bunch of us pals vacationed in Yosemite’s Wawona and there’s a little elementary school on the way to a community of humble cabins and epic log homes. In my 20s, I played with a semi-pro team sponsored by the sports shoe giant, Adidas. In real life, I was pretty darn good. On the Adidas squad, I was the worst guy on the team. Still. It was a blast. A couple of years, we just changed uniforms and last names and competed in the state AAU tourney, winning it both times in the unlimited Valhalla division. I’m surprised (and so was Rudy) that no one noticed former Laker and five-time NBA all-star Rudy LaRusso played with us. His nickname was Roughhouse Rudy and he wasn’t even the best guy on the team.
So. Back to Lisa Ballard, whom I love. She was in the eighth grade that summer all us pals and parents were up in the High Sierras. Even at that tender age, she’d go on shooting streaks where the ball never nicked the orange rim paint. Swish. Swish. Swish. What Manner Of Strange Creature From Outer Space Are You? Swish. Swish. Swish, etc. Worse? Lisa’s like Teddy bear cute. I’m much closer to graveyard than the delivery table. At the time, I weighed about 250, thirty pounds of that various leg, calf, back, shoulder and ankle braces. Bad knees. Bad everything.
Two young guys pull up in a Porsche and take the other court. I’ve always had an eye for talent and these two stallions weren’t Players, with a capital “P,” but they could hoop it. Both were in racehorse shape, both about 6-4. Lisa wanted to set up a 2-on-2 game and, as an ongoing lesson, I urged her to go challenge them. They laughed at My Lisa, threw out some lower-case insults and oozing hubris, noted that they were atop the Playground Food Chain, adding a “Go away, little girl.” Lisa, embarrassed, wandered back.
“Yeah,” I yelled down to the other end. “You two young trust fund monkeys wouldn’t want to get your bony asses handed to you by an old man and 5th Grade Barbie, would you?” (Don’t tell Lisa’s mom I said, “asses.”) I took a shot from mid-range, purposely missing it by a yard. I huddled up with Lisa. The strategy was this. Being a point guard, I’d lure them into double teaming me and Lisa would get to the free throw line where I’d bounce it to her. Saaaa-whish …
In a game to 11, those two yuppie scums somehow got two points and cried for a rematch. I whispered to Lisa. Next game? Eleventh commandment? They shall not score. We shut out the yuppie scum the second game. They scored three in the third game, but only because all I had left in the tank was Hart High Indian pride and an enlarged heart.
Funny thing. A few years later, Lisa asked if she could wear my one-of-a-kind Hart letterman’s jacket to school. I noted it was a reasonable request, then listed all the terrible things, from asteroid strike to theft, that could happen to my coat.
With the big, giant Indian head displayed on the back.
My wise and beautiful Lisa Ballard. She thought for a moment, pursed her lips and said, “I better not …”
The Arabs have an interesting definition for the word, “sin.” It’s an archery term for “missing the mark.” Not that long ago, the William S. Hart Union High School District board of trustees, in a 4-1 vote, eradicated the Indian as the Hart High mascot. The prissy move was made during a dark time in this nation and valley, committed in the misplaced spirit of wokeness, dishonesty and simpering hypocrisy.
The Indian became the Hart High mascot in 1946 as a homage to both Indians and our legendary screen hero, William S. Hart, who was raised by Indians in Montana as a boy and who spoke fluent Lakota. In fact, when Hart was on stage to dedicate Newhall’s American Theater during World War II, he noted several Native American servicemen in the audience, asked where they were from, laughed heartily when they told them they were Sioux and held a 20-minute conversation with them in their tongue.
I honestly can’t tell you what the new Hart mascot is — Squirrel Nut Zippers? But what four Hart trustees did in eliminating the noble American symbol in a pique of cement-headed, pearl-clutching Language Police State was plain damn wrong.
I noticed the president addressed both houses of Congress earlier this week. He mentioned that the policies of woke agenda were gone. Mr. Trump missed Newhall.
It’s time to talk with some lawyers. Consider recalls. Form committees. Attend Hart board meetings (and get on the agendas). Make calls. WOKE is dead. Thank goodness. It’s time for thousands of previously silent Santa Clarita alumni to return the Mighty Indian as the Hart High mascot.
John Boston is a local writer. His bookstore is at — johnlovesamerica.com/bookstore.
