Category: Funny Business

Tomorrow night, all the little Trick-or-Treaters will be dressed as witches, ghosts, goblins and telemarketers, and I’ll be reminded of the wonderful times I had as a child begging for teeth-destroying edibles. As you might know, I would often dress up as either a werewolf, Batman or Joe Namath, and had no desire to be anything other than those three iconic figures. Why?

I’ll tell you.

Werewolves are far and away my favorite mythological creature. They shapeshift into a wolf due to a curse or bite from another mythological creature that has shapeshifted into a wolf due to a curse or bite from yet another mythological creature that has shapeshifted into a wolf due to a curse or bite … you get the idea. There’s cursing and biting involved, then you sprout fur and foam at the mouth.

My favorite werewolf mask was based on the 1941 “The Wolf Man” movie character, and it even had fake hair that made it look authentic. It was also shaped in such a way that I could wear my eyeglasses underneath it. Man, I loved that mask … didn’t even need Halloween as an excuse to put it on. Sometimes I’d be sitting at the dinner table in mid-July wearing it … just thinking about how cool it would be if I were a lycanthrope. Then I’d lift it up so I could take a bite out of a yeast roll, and then put it back in position and think more about lycanthropy. And really, the mask was the only expense to the ensemble; the rest of the costume was just regular clothes.

I can’t tell you how many times I’d knock on a door and the person who opened it would say, “Oh my, you’re scary!”

And I’d want to answer, “No shit. I’m a werewolf … you should be scared,” but I wouldn’t because nippers shouldn’t cuss.

Batman is my favorite masked vigilante – a man who presents himself as a nocturnal flying mammal in order to strike fear into the hearts of malefactors, ne’er-do-wells and tosspots. Personally, I’ve always liked bats – I find them quite pleasant. But then again I’m a delightful person, so Batman would have no reason to strike fear into me. Now feral hogs are another story … I find them quite off-putting. So if I may digress for a moment, let me say that if someone dressed as a feral hog – we’ll call him Feral Hog Man for the purposes of this column – then yes, I would be scared of them. (Note to self: as soon as I’m done here call DC and Marvel and pitch a character that has shapeshifted into a feral hog due to a curse or bite administered by late country singer/sausage maven Jimmy Dean).

Anyway, Batman costumes were more difficult for bespectacled kids like me, at least when it came to the cowl. I couldn’t wear them over or under the hard, plastic, traditional Halloween masks, and wearing them under cloth Batman masks made me resemble a large bug.

One year my mom convinced me to just place my glasses over the homemade cowl she had fashioned from an old dress.

“Oh, Scotty,” she said, “No one will even notice.”

First house I went to an old man answered the door and said, “You supposed to be Batman? I didn’t know Batman wore glasses.”

What an ass. I mean, Batman watched his parents killed right in front of him in an alley behind a theater, and all that’s going through this codger’s mind is, “Hey Myrtle – get a load of the Caped Crusader wearing horn rims!” Maybe – just maybe – the Dark Knight’s retinas were damaged during a fight with Mr. Freeze, forcing him to follow optometrist’s orders. I really wanted to tell that geezer off, but he gave me two Snickers bars so I let it go.

Finally, when I became obsessed with tackle football, I decided to Trick-or-Treat while rocking the uniform of my favorite player, Joe Namath. In retrospect, this was probably my most authentic recreation.

Christmas of 1970 I got a New York Jets/Joe Namath Rawlings uniform, complete with helmet, jersey, pants and shoulder pads. It was absolutely glorious. The packaging said the helmet was “not suitable for competition,” but when it came to competing for the best Halloween costume, it suited me just fine.

If Joe Namath and I had been standing side-by-side, it would’ve been hard to tell us apart – except for the age, height and muscle differences. And the great thing is, no one would even see that I was wearing glasses because I’d have my helmet on.

So while my friends were dressed like cowboys, lumberjacks and dental hygienists, I was repping No. 12 and snagging copious amounts of candy.

After being told by several snack-givers I looked just like Namath, I finally reached a house occupied by a teenager who I believe was babysitting. She looked me up and down and said, “Hey little boy, I don’t think Joe Namath wears glasses.”

And I thought, “How do you know? Maybe Joe Willie’s been hit so many times by Ben Davidson he suffers from blurred vision. Or maybe since by the end of his injury-plagued 1970 season the coaching staff was concerned that his career interception total was 116 against just 102 touchdown passes, and Weeb Ewbank decided to buy him a pair to better spot Don Maynard and George Sauer. Or maybe he just likes how cerebral they make him look. You’re not omniscient.”

This Tiger Beat-reading, Bobby Sherman-lusting teen had absolutely no clue about Joe Namath’s optical history, and I was this close to giving her a piece of my mind when she stuck a big bowl full of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in my face and told me to grab a handful. At that point I realized she was both kind and beautiful, and I was in love.

Ah, what great memories those were. Even years later when late October rolls around, I’ll occasionally think about dressing up as a werewolf, Batman or Joe Namath. Sometimes I daydream about combining the three, where Joe Namath is secretly Batman but also shapeshifts into a wolf due to a curse or bite. Of course I’d still have to deal with the glasses situation, and being ridiculed by the person handing out candy. Then again, if a 60-year-old man dressed as Joe WereBat came to the door holding a pumpkin bucket, eyewear would probably be the least of their concerns.

When I left Birmingham on Christmas Day, 2006, I thought I might never again call the Magic City home.

I was set to start a new job the following day in Anderson, South Carolina, marking the first time I’d ever worked outside of Alabama. It was exciting to try something new, and I was ready to embrace my unfamiliar surroundings.

And I did.

After six months living in Anderson I moved to Greenville, and fell in love with the city. Downtown is glorious, most things that interest me are conveniently located (Bon Secours Wellness Arena, home of the ECHL Greenville Swamp Rabbits, was exactly one mile from my driveway), and we were 60 miles from Asheville, North Carolina – one of this planet’s most beautiful places.

After spending a quarter of my life (so far) living in the Upstate, there was no compelling reason to leave.

Until there was.

The first five years or so that I lived there, trips back to my hometown were bittersweet. It seemed I remembered the bad times more than the good, and it was like visiting an old friend you’d had a falling out with and didn’t really know anymore.

Every time I left, I couldn’t wait to get home to Greenville.

Then there was a slight shift over the next five years. Going to Birmingham was more enjoyable, marked by memories of good times and the warmth of gatherings with old friends. My farewells were much fonder when I headed east, even though returning to G-Vegas was always welcome.

These last five years, though, have been like a nostalgia trip played on a continuous loop. Every restaurant, park or monument I pass in Birmingham has a story, and the plot has thickened as time goes by – with me as a character.

I think about my first football game with my dad and brother at Legion Field.

I recall my first concert at what was then known as the Birmingham-Jefferson Civic Center Coliseum (Boston, with Sammy Hagar opening).

And I smile when I recount those times when – in an attempt to be suave –  I’d take a date to the observation tower atop the Vulcan statue.

And of course no trip down memory lane would be complete unless I mentioned my college days when I’d walk in the Upside Down Plaza at midnight and then stumble out in daylight.

I found myself wanting to stay a little longer, and feeling a real sense of sadness when I left.

Over the last few months Mary and I talked about eventually moving back, but there was no timetable and no sense of urgency; it would happen when it happened. In a span of just a few days, however, a couple decided they wanted to buy our house, and we discovered a condo for sale in Vestavia Hills, which is a suburb of Birmingham that sits atop Shades Mountain.

Next thing you knew, my hometown became the town I call home once again.

Don’t get me wrong … these last 15 years have been wonderful. I learned that after three decades in the newspaper business – covering everything from the NFL to Olympic soccer to the Masters – my favorite thing was telling stories from Division II athletics (thank you, Anderson Trojans).

Later I discovered that writing for fun instead of profit is the most rewarding kind of writing, even if there’s no money in it.

And I realized that home is where your heart is, and Greenville, South Carolina, certainly had mine.

I’ll always treasure those years in one of my very favorite towns.

But on Friday I began a new chapter in my old city – excited about reconnecting with friends and family and reestablishing my roots. And since sports has always been an important part of my ongoing journey around the sun, I found a sweet landing spot.

The distance from Bartow Arena, home of the UAB basketball Blazers, is 6.8 miles from my front door. Protective Stadium, where UAB will play football, is also less than seven miles away. The Birmingham Barons AA baseball team at Regions Field (6.8 miles), UAB and Birmingham Legion soccer at BBVA Field (6.6 miles), G League basketball at Legacy Arena (7.4 miles), Birmingham Bulls hockey at the Pelham Civic Complex (10.2 miles) – I couldn’t ask for a more perfect pinpoint on the map.

It’s a homecoming that feels real and joyous, and one long overdue after being gone for a decade and a half. The fit is snug and comfortable.

Turns out that even though I left Birmingham, Birmingham never really left me.