The Hole in the Wall Gang

One of my favorite things to do was to ride down the indoor stairs on my belly. I would lie on my stomach facing the top of the stairs, push off and thump, thump, thump, thump all the way down. It hurt sometimes and occasionally I would bang my chin, but it was hilarious. It sounded a little like bowling balls rolling down the stairs at great speed. I used to do it over and over until I would get yelled at to stop. 

That was usually my modus operandi. I think during my entire childhood when I was told to stop doing something I had to do it three more times before stopping. It was built into my DNA. This included sticking metal things into wall sockets, drinking milk right out of the carton and pulling all the elastic out of my underwear.

The very last time I rode down the stairs, unbeknownst to me, my father was taking a nap in his room right below me. My mother, who was making chicken pot-pie, screamed my name and ran from the kitchen because she thought I had fallen. Now being a junior, every time my mother said “Neil” my father and I would both answer. It became a hassle after a while until my dad’s friends started calling me “Little Neil.” Barf. Of course there were questions that naturally fell on the right person like “Neil, did you finish your homework?” or “Neil, where are the sharp knives?” and “Neil, will you comb the peanut butter out of Karen’s hair?”

Anyway, my mother started screaming, “Neil! Neil! Neil!” and ran into the living room to see if I was dead at the bottom of the stairs. My father, who was jarred awake by these same screams and loud thumping, came running out of the bedroom in his boxers not knowing what had happened. For all he knew I was tearing out the kitchen cabinets with a crowbar. It has been known to happen.

By the time he cleared the corner from the hallway, my mom had reached the living room and realized that I only was playing. My father was still breathing hard and demanded, “What’s the matter? What’s the matter? ”My mother dismissed him in a non-chalant tone, “Oh nothing, go back to bed.” As I watched him, I saw the color physically leave his face only to be replaced with some sort of plaid.

On a side note, my dad was the only southpaw in the family. As a matter of fact, the only other left-hander I knew was my cousin Randy, unless you count Orioles’ Mike Cuellar and Dave McNally, but we weren’t really friends.

My mom walked back to the kitchen, but my father stood there for a few seconds, seething in the moment and then… Bam! With Muhammad Ali speed he threw a left hook that caught the living room wall square. It was the fastest thing I had ever seen except for the time Buddy Miller stopped a floor fan with his tongue. My dad pulled his fist out of the plaster and then he retreated back to his room in his boxers.

My mom rushed in and said, “What was that?” and then noticed the hole. My father had punched a hole right through the frickin’ wall! The plaster dust was still falling to the floor as I stood there marveling at his strength. Holy guacamole, that was awesome!

Unfortunately, my mom didn’t think so, and a huge argument ensued. When my parents argued, the decibel level, at times, rivaled a standard Who concert. My parents yelled at each other often and about everything. Listening once while lying in bed, I heard them argue about if they were to get divorced who would take which kid. Fortunately for all the kids listening, they both wanted everybody.

This particular argument was about ruining my mother’s house, which apparently my father was just visiting. It didn’t last long, and soon he was napping; she was cooking, and I was looking for trouble.

Turns out, my father was better at demolition than home repairs. After many plaster applications; my dad finally fixed the wall by covering it with a bookshelf. By removing a few old novels and a blue book about bathroom humor, I could easily show my friends the evidence to corroborate my story. 

Four years later, I was standing in my room holding a pool stick. My dad brought home a second-hand pool table and put it in the basement. I had gathered some skills playing billiards with Joey Orla, who lived at the very bottom of Uxbridge Road. Joey was about four years younger than me but caught my attention one day when he was riding his bike while wearing a football helmet. Keep in mind this was years before any headgear was required to ride a bike; he had the whole facemask thing working and everything. What a trendsetter!

So I’m in my room with four new pool cues and a bag of corresponding tips. My dad just dropped them off and instructed me to put them on. He also told me to make sure they were on tight and to press down on them hard. I always thought they came attached but apparently not. Now this sounds like a simple task, right? Well, I was struggling because they kept falling off. I was using this glue that Elmer made, but it wasn’t working. Maybe I needed some more pressure.

I couldn’t turn the sticks upside down and press down on the floor, because of the carpet, so I opted for the next hardest thing, the wall. I held up the stick, glued on the tip and pressed it into the wall. My system seemed to be working pretty well, and I plowed my way through three of the four sticks. The last one was a little more troublesome; I had to glue it twice.

Meanwhile, my mom called us for dinner, and I was hungry, so I took the stick and quickly pressed it into the wall. Before I knew what had happened, four feet of the pool stick protruded on the other side. I had pushed the damn stick right through the wall! Oh, my God, I am in big trouble now. To make matters worse, when I pulled the stick out the tip came off and fell inside the wall. I was now a member of the club; the next day I put up a bookshelf.