Selling Beer at the Derby

In the spring of 1975, my mother-in-law suggested that I take a job at the Derby, selling beer.  Apparently, a number of people where she worked had done so the year before and had made a bunch of money.  It seems that they sold 12 oz. beer for 65 cents and often got the rest of the dollar in tips. Being a man who has had over 50 jobs from the age of 14 until now, I decided that it would be pretty cool and maybe an adventure.  It wasn't cool but it was certainly an adventure. 

I was told to get in line for the infield with my work pass and that I had to be there by 7:00  AM.  Good, I thought, I am an early riser anyway and this way I would beat the crowd.  That was my first mistake.  I did not consider that this was the 100th anniversary of of the first running and they expected 100,000 people in the infield alone and the line was already six wide and 200 feet long when I arrived. Princess Margaret, of Great Britain, was going to be in attendance and there were all kinds of security including a number of blokes with british accents.  I was not carrying anything such as a bag and showed them my pass for the job of brew pourer and yet they searched me for booze and patted me down and asked me if I were bringing in any.  I laughed and reminded them that I was there to serve alcohol.  They didn't laugh.  Once in I finally found the tent where I was supposed to report, the man in charge said proudly that they had increased the size of the cups to 16 ounces and were now charging 95 cents per beer.  He said it was a service to the customer that they would not have to stand in long lines as often and the the increase in price was fair to all.  

I'll admit that 5.9 cents per ounce is not much worse than 5.4 cents per ounce but to me it looked like I would have less volume of customers and that the tips were going to be a whooping 5 cents per beer and I was sure that some would not even do that, especially the relative young ones.  I decided, at that point that I would require ID's from everyone who looked and acted like they were under 40, and I did.  That made the lines longer to no ones pleasure, except a little bit, mine.

This turned out to be the job from Hell.  Not only was I stuck all day in a beer booth pouring draft beer, but I had no way to get to the bathrooms.  My hand were sticky to the point of sticking together and the Sun was hot and uncomfortable. As predicted, there were more than 100,000 people in the infield with an average age of about 30, meaning that I ID'd a lot.  The bathrooms had line like the great wall of China and the women were using both men and women's facilities because the wait was hours for the women.  practically every inch of the ground was covered with human flesh, often doing what human flesh should have been doing in the privacy of ones bedroom.  I never ventured out of the booth after about 1PM and did not go to the bathroom until the races ended at about seven, I never saw a horse but I wagered early on the winning ticket which paid about 2-1.  I still have the ticket somewhere.   I was miserable all day long and had I been older and more secure, I would have quit and waded through the human refuge and gone home. But I had made a commitment, so, there I was. 

Other inconveniences include:

A weight lifter ordered a beer I reached for his dollar and he jerked it back and walked off through the crowd with the beer.  I'm not stupid and after that I took and tilled the money, first.  His fellow weight lifters were not so happy about that. Then they began hanging around the stand and after someone payed and got their beer, they would snatch it away and drink it.  One man complained to the security people, but when they saw the weight lifters, they dismissed it with "boys will be boys" and walked away.  That was an invitation for mischief and things got no better.  

A young man climbed the 40 foot flagpole and mooned the Princess and was handcuffed to my beer stand  until the could get a car ready to take him away. He could barely stand up, so I don't how he got up and down that flagpole. The biggest insult of all, one of my students, a tall blonde, scandinavian beauty named Lisa, sincerely thought that I would sell her a beer, knowing that she was 16 years old. I told her to try somewhere else At the end of the day, the final insult was a demand that I hand over all my tip money and they would send it back if the amount of beer I sold at my stand was correct for the money that I collected.  I then said that ,with what little tips I had, I was going to keep it and if things didn't turn out right to let me know I would sent them the money. YEAH, RIGHT. Believe it or not I got my pay in the mail.

I decided I just wanted to only teach.

The Senior-Faculty Softball Game

For a very long time, Seneca had a senior-faculty softball game, open to males and females near the end of each year.  Eventually, that duty fell to me to run it.  It was an opportunity to send them off with the memories of a good time and comradery with their former teachers.  It sounds all touchy-feely but it was always very serious on both sides.  I was always a bit taken aback by how much the teachers really wanted to win.  As it turned out, until the day that I transferred to Manual, the teachers never lost while I was organizing it.

Knowing that the students were younger, faster and with better reflexes, this seems, at least superficially, to be a strange thing.  But after analysis, maybe not.  Although the teachers are slower and maybe without all the athletic skills of their past, they are still stronger and many are coaches in some capacity.  We could for the most part hit the ball farther.  The other issues that favored the teachers is that we understood our handicaps and played smarter for that reason.  We always threw to the cutoff player, we did not play to be heroes but to win.  Three, we always played on the softball field with it's shorter fences.  and, four, Not all teacher wanted to play.  Those who did were usually former athletes and many of them softball and baseball player, some, including me, still playing in softball leagues around the city.

The seniors, on the other hand had 30-40 people sign up laboring under the illusion that they were ten feet tall and bulletproof.  They thought they could beat the world all in one softball game.  Consequently, the teachers were always had 15-16 competent players and the teams was passably good at all times.  We also had many large, strong men who could easily hit the ball over the fences, only two hundred feet away.  I placed them in the batting order every two or three hitters.  That way, we never had to run full out very often. There were a number of boys on the senior team that could do the same, but most were baseball player who had not played softball much.  There is a big difference in hitting a baseball and a softball pitched underhanded and with an arch of up to 12 feet.

There were a number of funny things happen in these games. but the two that comes to mind was a collision at home plate  and one that made a big splash.  We had a catcher who was a frequent substitute and thus considered by all to be a faculty member.  A dynamically sensuous and beautiful girl with adult female proportions was  on base and in an attempt to score she ran over the catcher and land on top of him.  After that he seemed to be in a daze the rest of the game and was not quite as good as he was before.

One year, we were playing on the "back" softball field that sat next to a branch of Beargrass Creek.  There was a young man at Seneca, who was considered a suave young man, always beautifully dressed with the best clothes he could buy.  His hair was always perfect and his manners always the best.  He was watching the game from behind the backstop when a ball was Fouled over the backstop heading for the creek.  The young man of note ran backwards and jumped to catch the ball.  The creek level was about 7-8 feet below the playing surface  From the third base position all I saw was him disappear over the edge and then a huge splash of water appeared.  He climbed out unhurt but very embarrassed and not looking quite so neat.

Even though the seniors never won, they were always good sports and each year the next class came in with the hope of defeating the always successful faculty.  I had a great job.