Yo-Yo Man

"Yo-Yo Man!" The cry rang out across the school yard. No, he wasn't a rapper, but "yo mama" probably remembers him. Yo Yo Ma's's less musically talented cousin? No, but he was a fantastic stringed instrument artist. The Wizard of Wind (rhymes with rind), the Ultra Cool of Unwind, the Spinoza of Spin. The Duke of Duncan, more accurately. The Duncan Yo-Yo Man, a frequent visitor to grammar school campuses in the 40s and 50s. A young guy in his 20s, usually with a suitcase and a fold-up stand—a suitcase filled with the very latest in yo-yo technology (I deliberately avoided the adjective, "state-of-the-art"—up until "family values" American's most overused catch phrase): Solid reds, and blues and yellows, and many with fuzzy diagonal single stripes across the center, golds and silvers, blacks and whites, and then there were the expensive, highly lacquered, rhinestone studded beauties that you wouldn't dare buy unless you were worthy of one—unless you knew what to do with it. Awe-struck kids would gawk as the Yo-Yo Man pulled out a heavily lacquered black job with concentric rhinestones and began his demonstration: "Walking the Dog," "Rocking the Baby," "Around the World," "Looping the Loop," "Making it Sleep," "Shooting the Moon," "Skinning the Cat," and probably a lot more that are irretrievably mired in the eroding crevasses of my memory bank. He could make the yo-yo emit a low hum—like the noise a two-pound mosquito might make, while the best that the most proficient of us could hope for was a sort of unimpressive whizzing sound.

The Yo-Yo Man's coming was never a surprise, as there were always posters around announcing his scheduled arrival, which of course, was always at recess and inevitably during the first month of school.

After his "ooo"-inspiring performance, kids would line up to spend their lunch money on the multi-colored discs. I never saw any girls buying them or even playing with them for that matter. Some sort of cultural gender bias, I guess, and one that Gloria Steinem et al somehow have overlooked. The yo-yo, one of the last all male bastions, torn down figuratively at least, by latent feminist Marilyn Quayle upon her marriage to one.

Unfortunately, I never mastered the art of yo-yo-ing, a liability which, no doubt, reveals a large chink in my masculinity, a chink that only widened with the realization of a similar deficiency in playing marbles. I compensated for the later handicap by avoiding public marble games and simply buying vast quantities of the inexpensive agates. I fired if the measure of marbularity success was how many you could accumulate, buying them was certainly the easier route (not to mention the only one for me), and I would avoid all this stress and humiliation of losing.

But of course, because of the relative expensiveness of yo-yos, I was unable to pursue this same game(less) plan. My friend, Jerry, was one of the best yo-yoists I knew. He, in fact, would win all the Duncan yo-yo contests. He could do every single trick and with more dexterity than anyone else. But the most amazing thing was that he developed this extraordinary skill within a year, at the same time he was mastering the English language and trying to assimilate himself into a strange culture, and an even stranger sub-culture—Charleston. Jerry was a Greek immigrant. He couldn't speak a word of English when he entered our 3rd grade class and had never even seen a yo-yo before, but here it was two years later and he had just claimed his second championship, winning an impressive medal and a wild looking, white yo-yo with a single lavender stripe across the center, and multiple rings of rhinestones that 20 years later Elvis would have probably worn as a pendant.

In vivid contrast to this, I, despite my yo-yo centered environment, was still many fathoms beneath mediocrity. I had purchased a medium priced yo-yo; this year it was a plain yellow job—no stripe and definitely no rhinestones. I was not worthy of those extravagances. I would practice a lot at home, but to no avail, and eventually I even accepted Jerry's offers of tutoring. He was extremely patient, but there was only negligible improvement. I was eventually able to perform the most rudimentary movement of causing the yo-yo to roll back up the string to my hand after flinging it toward the floor, a feat commonly accomplished by 4 year olds, sometimes even accidentally.

Naturally, I never carried a yo-yo with me—then I might be pressured into playing with it—"oh the humanity!" Jerry, on the other hand, always kept his in his pocket during yo-yo season, which was anytime the weather wasn't cold, and he would whip it out at the slightest encouragement. Often, there would be a group of boys standing around in the schoolyard doing their yo-yo posturing. You could hear the whizzing sounds from 20 yards away. Jerry would be among them and I would be in the no yo-yoing audience, who gaped at them unashamedly. Some girls, some geeks and myself. Geek by association? Perhaps. A cute title for a future short story: "The Geek and the Greek"? Maybe.

Jerry and I remained good friend through high school, despite our yo-yo and marbles gap. He went on to excel at yet another male bastion, The Citadel, and later joined the Air Frice, so that he, no doubt, would be able to exponentially expand upon his "Loop the Loop," and "Shooting the Moon."

Occasionally, over the years, I have found myself in the vicinity of a yo-yo and, astonishingly enough, I have found that I am now able to do a few of those once unattainable tricks—oh, only the simple ones like "Around the World" and "Loop the Loop." Well, I guess, comparatively speaking, it's not that much of an accomplishment, and I think I only included it in the "special skills" section of one job application, but it did make me feel a little proud, and maybe the chick got filled in a little—so what if it's with clay—or maybe silly putty.

To be realistic, I guess there's not much peer pressure among middle-aged men for good yo-yo performances. Perhaps, I should be more concerned with more stereotypical areas.

I feel sure there are no more Duncan yo-yo men holding court in school yards. It's too bad, really. Look how much they helped Jerry. And certainly without them, I would never have gotten such an early start in the development of self-deprecating humor.

Running Myths Debunked

Running, as other sports, certainly has its allotment of myths and hyperbole, most of which can be easily discerned from fact. But runners, unfortunately, just as some lower forms of athletes such as bowlers, golfers and professional wrestlers, seem to have an unrelenting compulsion to believe—even exult in—these exaggerations and untruth, in spite of themselves. Therefore, in order that running might be able to maintain its image as a fountainhead of verisimilitude and integrity, there is need from time to time, for someone to play the Dreaded Debunker, the Redoubtable Refuter, the Nasty Nihilist. A person who is willing to risk scorn and even physical abuse in order to reenlighten his fellow athletes and uphold the probity of running. And for a brief time, the onerous role has fallen upon me (it might be helpful at this juncture for the reader to imagine himself or herself at the XXIII Olympics closing ceremonies in the LA Coliseum, my voice thundering out in a God-like baritone refined by a British accent):

1) The myth that a see-through shirt with large oblong holes and low-cut back will increase a runner's speed and stamina in a marathon. Alberto Salazar finally but unwittingly destroyed this myth in LA recently, togging himself out in a bizarrely alluring outfit obviously designed for Kappa by Fredrick's of Hollywood, and finishing 15th in the marathon.

2) The myth that underarm hair will slow down women runners was shattered, in this year's Olympics by the performances of Maricia Puica (gold medal, 3000 meters), Valerie Brisco-Hooks (gold medal, 200 and 500 meters and 4x400 relay), Rosa Mota (bronze medal, marathon), and a herd of others, much to the horror of prospective Lady Gillette sponsors.

3) The myth that Cheese Whiz makes a cheap but effective substitute for Shoe Goo was exploded by Italian marathoner Guido Latrino, who not only came up with a strained hamstring, but was attacked violently by a mob of marauding field mice inside the coliseum tunnel.

4) A marathoner from Three Mile Island, Sebastian Cobalt, narrowly missed becoming a human decal for a tractor trailer, while unintentionally exposing the myth that runners from his community have no need to wear reflective clothing during night training, when he attempted to run the Santa Monica Freeway a week before the big race.

5) The myth that an athletic supporter filled with dry ice will not only keep a runner cool but will increase his speed was partially debunked last spring, when a Chinese Citable Cadet, Ring Hop, attempted it during a 10,000 meter race. The myth, stated Hop, was apparently started by a Clemson student as a rumor designed to be passed on to the Univerity of South Carolina track team for malevent reasons. "I intercepted it," said the ill-fated Hop, when I interviewed him in his Medical University of South Carolina Burn Trauma Unit room. "I really thought I had something hot—and of course, I did."

6) Finally, the last and most topical myth is that of the infamous "Australian Wonder Wand" or "Goose Staff," a twelve-inch pencil thin, battery operated devide that world class runners are supposed to use to keep inconsiderate (or inexperienced) runners from passing in front of them within a stride's lenth. Actually, this instrument is only rumored to have existed about thirty years ago when it was said to have been used, somewhat successfully, by Australian runners. However, its unfortunate side effect of occasionally creating life-long, but unwanted friendships, when used indiscriminately, led to its demise.

There are also apocryphal reports of its reappearance among gay runners in the San Francisco Marathon (or the "Great Fruit Loop" as some of the more insensitive staights put it), but no one has ever actually produced a wand as evidence. Despite the non-existence of the Wonder Wand, the time may not be ripe for its invention.
Of course, there are myriad running myths to be recounted and refuted, many of which are unfit for exposure to the public in general, much less to the pristine eyes of Charleston Running Club members. For example, the one about the Russian female sprinter and the lonely yak. Editorial guidance will certainly be needed in some instances.

In the meantime, if any readers have running myths that they would like to have investigated, debunked or bunked (?), let me know.