When former Blackhawk Bobby Hull announced recently that he was selling the memorabilia of his hockey career (including the precious 1959 Stanley Cup ring), we got to talking about the awards from our past that we have thrown away, but found more interesting the awards we have kept.
So here are nine pieces by Tribune staffers on the memorabilia — ranging from badges to trophies to an old pair of socks — with which they just cannot part.
The Scout sash
Long, long before “Mean Girls” the movie there were mean girls, a swaggering, snotty bunch of 8th graders at Blessed Sacrament School.
They wore silver basketball charms on chains around their necks, the ardor tokens from their boyfriends on the grade school b-ball team. I was the frizzy-haired girl without a boyfriend, without a silver basketball charm. The one in the Girl Scout uniform.
To say that there was a Cool Clique among the girls at Washington, D.C.’s, Blessed Sacrament (aptly shortened to “B.S.”) is to grossly understate it. And to say that I wasn’t in it — but wanted desperately to be considered cool — well, that’s an understatement too.
I still don’t know how you got to be a member of the popular silver charm/boyfriend crowd. But I can tell you for sure that Girl Scouts need not apply.
And if there was anything less cool than a Girl Scout, it was a Girl Scout who actually wore her uniform to school every week, on Girl Scout meeting day. And to be the girl who actually strove to be the top scout, with the most merit badges sewn on to her badge sash? Sneers. Eye rolls. No coveted invitation to the Aburrow twins’ cool graduation party.
What would possess a grown woman to hold on to her Girl Scout sash for all these years? The one with more badges than any of the other girls in Troop 840?
So that many decades later, I’d be able to brag about my 17 (17!) merit badges in a big-city newspaper — and to sneer at those B.S. meanies who long ago lost track of their silver basketball charms and the boys they came from.
How cool is that?
— Ellen Warren, Tribune senior correspondent
The Phys Ed skills test
A co-worker with whom I used to be on speaking terms called it “pathetic” that I still have a copy — OK, in the spirit of full disclosure, make that multiple copies — of the Joliet East High School Physical Education Department basketball skills test that I aced 35 years ago in 1969.
When you exist in the shadow of an older brother who was a man for all seasons — basketball playmaker, 13-foot pole-vaulter, star quarterback and homecoming king — you tend to hold on to any shred of evidence that you, on paper at least, had game, even yellowing paper personally highlighted to showcase school records in 6 of 10 categories, including total score!
Pathetic? It’s not as if I keep a copy in a safe-deposit box, although that isn’t a bad idea. I have bequeathed copies to each of my three children, but the original document, courtesy of my late father, the P.E. teacher/coach who conducted the test, is all mine, and you’ve got no shot of wresting it from me.
— Bill O’Connell, Tempo copy editor
The college dorm award
After dozens of moves, I’ve lost most of the awards I snared in my youth — merit certificates, gold medals from my high school track days. But I still have one oddity buried in a basement box, a crude, construction-paper document: “Most Likely to Order a Pizza.”
I lived in Rutgers University’s Clothier dormitory, eighth floor, my junior year of college. There, a certain hotshot boasted that he was “The Pizza Pie King,” and ate pizza more often than anyone he knew. In the way dorm rivalries often develop, a group of his friends — eager to knock said hotshot off his cocky perch — decided to draft a challenger to his crusty crown.
They chose me.
The contest was simple: Who could eat the most pizza over the course of the 1983-84 academic year? While the “competition” was open to anyone in theory, it was basically a two-horse race. And I had certain advantages; I loved pizza (being Italian) and had the souped-up metabolism of a 19-year-old.
Still, there were nights I craved something different (say, a meatball sandwich). Other times, I’d be in my dorm room — already stuffed from a dining hall dinner — and my three “sponsors” would come knocking like Mafia goons: “Come on, Lou, it’s pie time.”
It’s amazing what a kid will do when he doesn’t want to let people down, or wants to claim a laurel, ridiculous as it may be. I thought my nemesis would be tough, but he buckled toward the end of the spring. Still I kept going, wolfing down the sausage, pepperoni and cheese with the zest of Rocky Balboa rushing up the Philly Art Museum steps. “Gonna PIE now . . .”
I recall the applause and laughter when dorm awards were handed out at the year’s end, and I stepped forward to claim my prize. My floormates seemed like such close buds then; it’s sad I can only remember a name or two from the dozens. Furthermore, I don’t even eat pizza anymore, being on Atkins.
But, ah, the memory: Delicious! Urrrrrrrrrrrp.
Lou Carlozo, assistant Friday edi
The baseball socks
My treasure trove of keepsake items from high school-letter jacket, certificates, caps, diploma, newspaper clippings, T-shirts-have dwindled through the years, fatalities of spring cleaning blitzes as well as moves to new homes.
Carefully hidden from the rest of the family in the bottom of an underwear drawer, there was one item I always considered a reminder of my high school baseball days. It was a rolled-up pair of uniform socks, pilfered as a souvenir.
Today, of course, no two baseball players wear their uniforms the same way, even if they do still put them on one leg at a time. The elasticized ends of the pants either get tucked just below the knee or plunge all the way to the ankle, making it impossible to see any sock.
When I played for my high school team, there was only one way to do it: The uniform’s pant leg was extended to midcalf. This meant my prized socks — they were similar to those of the old Milwaukee Braves, my favorite team then — were on display without running all the way up to my knee to look as if I were wearing knickers.
My socks didn’t see much action during my sophomore year when our tiny school surprisingly made a run all the way to the state tournament’s semifinals. Watching the playoffs from the sidelines was a big disappointment.
But as a regular the next two years, the socks — along with the rest of my uniform — collected all the dirt and grime my mom and her washing machine could handle. I can still recall almost every slide, hit and catch in each of those seasons.
We were supposed to return the socks to the school with the rest of the uniform following our senior year, but I kept mine figuring I was owed something for getting benched during the state tournament.
At the time, I was tempted to steal my whole uniform, and now I wish I had done that. Just the other day I dug the socks out from the bottom of the drawer, unrolled them from the ball they had been kept for many years, and discovered they were not from my old high school baseball uniform.
The only thing I can figure is that these socks were from one of the many softball uniforms I wore after high school. Apparently those from my baseball days got tossed. This was a big disappointment, but it did prove one thing: You don’t have to have memorabilia to keep the memories alive.
— Mike Conklin, Tribune staff reporter
The star
Among my collection of spelling awards, a “Rubber Chicken” certificate (from an idiosyncratic high school English teacher) and an International Thespian Society induction award, stands my most prized possession: a gold, Oscar-like statue holding an oversize star, with “Best Actress” emblazoned at the bottom of the pedestal.
Depending on my audience, I might recite a monologue about how the trophy was awarded in reflection of my Meryl Streep-like emotional range or my Shannen Doherty-like cattiness.
But little did my friends realize that my finest performances were in convincing them of how I won that tiny, golden statue. Although I acted in many plays in high school, I didn’t get cast in everything for which I auditioned. I really wanted to be Rizzo in Deltona (Fla.) High School’s production of “Grease,” but my singing voice wasn’t good enough to make even the glee club at Rydell High.
And now, friends, I have a confession to make. I never won a best actress award. The truth is, my sister gave the golden statue to me as a birthday present when I was 14.
She was always in the audience on my opening nights, steadfastly cheering, bringing me flowers — she even did my hair and makeup for my first role as Doris in “Sugar and Spite.”
And even today, my sister is one my biggest fans. I’ve done some acting since high school (really, I have), and I still hope to someday accept an actual acting award, but for right now, my little plastic statue, and my sister’s encouragement, are enough to inspire the Charlize Theron inside of me.
— Kelly Haramis, Tempo copy editor
The No-Prize
As my long-suffering wife will attest, some sort of separation anxiety disorder prevents me from trashing things that sane people would have thrown out long ago. But one treasure indisputably merits safekeeping:
Back in the 1960s, Marvel Comics’ editor and chief writer, Stan Lee, came up with an ingenious (cheap) way to reward letter-writing readers.
For spotting a mistake — I had caught a villain “remembering” something that had happened in the future — Marvel published my letter in The Incredible Hulk No. 105 (July 1968). It began: “I hate to inform you of this, but Marveldom is now faced with a paradox. . . .”
Marvel acknowledged this keen literary criticism by return mail: “Congratulations!” it read. “This envelope contains a genuine Marvel Comics No-Prize which you have just won. Handle with care.”
Of course, the envelope was empty.
It was a small gesture. But it inspired a young writer to keep writing. And I would sooner part with the high school “Thespian of the Year” award, those International Frisbee Association achievement certificates and enough journalism plaques to build a small doghouse than I would surrender my No-Prize. If I could find it, that is. I’m sure it’s here somewhere. . . .
Charlie Meyerson sends (cheap) chicagotribune.com pens to readers who spot goofs in his free daily e-mail news column, Tribune Daywatch: bancodeprofissionais.com/daywatch.
The almanac
Long before scorn for anything French led to bizarre constructions such as “freedom fries,” I was a decent enough student of the language. I took it beginning in 4th grade and even now fondly recall such sentences as, “Ou est la poupee de Monique?” (That one, we sang to the tune “Miss You” by the Rolling Stones; I’m literally getting a little misty about that.) Sometimes my pronunciation was a little off (my pronunciation of “coq au vin” in particular was guaranteed to generate snickering from some of my classmates). But I could conjugate verbs and remember vocabulary with the best of them, and despite occasional bouts of teenage rebelliousness, I usually did my homework. Still, I was honestly surprised when my high school gave me its foreign language award my senior year. Was the prize a Camus novel? A copy of “Le Petit Prince”? Nope. It was the 1986 New York Times Almanac. I guess the teacher who got it for me knew I was interested in newspapers. I think I flipped through it once, and it has been gathering dust on a shelf since then. The sad thing is my French is probably every bit as outdated. But I don’t know if I’ll ever toss either of them away.
— Raoul Mowatt, Tribune staff reporter
The silver dish
You may have learned everything you needed to know in kindergarten. Not me. It was on field trials, and I’ve got a trophy to remind me — a silver dish engraved “Spring 1962; St. Louis P[ointer] & S[etter] Club; 1st Puppy.”
Field trials are gun dog competitions; dogs are paired up and sent out on a cross-country course in a timed, simulated bird hunt. Judges and spectators follow on horseback; the sorry, car-bound souls have to follow as best they can on gravel roads.
I rode into that world when I was old enough to sit on a horse alone and reliable enough to stay out of the way of the judges. As any kid does, I took things as I found them, which means I had an early grounding in magic. I learned:
If you believe, you can do. I could wake up at 4 a.m. without being called; manage a hard-mouthed horse I was neither strong enough nor long enough in the leg to control; never get hungry, thirsty or require a bathroom break out in the field. Also:
Courtesy. Weather-beaten, gruff men who always touch their hats to greet a woman will do so, without a trace of irony, to acknowledge a grade-school tomboy.
Sportsmanship. Try to win, but if you lose, congratulate the winner. Take your bad day out on your dog and no one will ever forget.
Responsibility. Take care of yourself, stay out of everyone’s way, and if you show you are reliable, someone might trust you with his horse and you won’t have to ride on the dog wagon.
Resilience. If you fall off the dog wagon, laugh, get up and climb back on. Start acting like a kid and someone will make you ride in a car.
I was going-on-9 when I watched my grandpa’s pointer win a puppy trial one bleak and drizzly Missouri spring day. I’ve kept the silver dish ever since, but it took many, many years to appreciate its true value. It’s the symbol of my launch in life.
— Lilah Lohr, Deputy Tempo editor
The gold statuette
Early on a Saturday in the fall of 1969, my father walked with me to a park in South Evanston to participate in the local Punt Pass & Kick contest, sponsored by the Ford Motor Co. I recall not really wanting to go, partly because it was cutting into my TV time, but mostly because I was certain I’d be competing against a crush of boys bigger, stronger and better-looking than I.
As it turned out, the turnout was small. My kick and my pass were long and true. (The punt is better left forgotten.) And I won.
Today, the trophy is in our basement, among all those that my kids have acquired through the years.
Why did I keep it? In part because it’s a beauty. Unlike most youth sports trophies of today, it’s a regal hunk of metal and wood.
But mostly I keep that faded gold statuette because it reminds me a sweet Saturday morning that I spent with my dad.
Tim Bannon, Tempo editor
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Your turn
We’d like to hear about the awards/mementos from your past you have kept.
Post your thoughts at ChicagoTribune.com/Mementos, e-mail us at ctc-Tempo@tribune.com or write to Tempo, Chicago Tribune,
435 N.Michigan Ave., Chicago, IL
60611. Please include your name and your hometown.
