Last week’s column was devoted to my list of annual gripes and questions. The gripes were there … but I chickened out over the annual question I’ve asked at the beginning of each football season in recent years. It was after that column was submitted, I learned that other people are beginning to ask the same question online.
That question has always been “Why are there no African-American kickers and punters in professional football?” Well, I found out that there is one I overlooked: Marquete King of the Oakland Raiders. He’s the second black player to hold the position in the NFL. The first — and only other kicker — Greg Coleman, was hired by the Cleveland Browns back in 1977. Coleman had a 12-year NFL career — as both punter and field-goal kicker — for several teams. In recent years, those positions have been separated to the point where there are specialists in each category.
As I said, more people are finally asking why the scarcity of African Americans exists in that particular field. The despicable racist reception that Jackie Robinson endured throughout his career in baseball no longer seems to be the major factor…on the surface at least. But, for instance, the argument that African Americans can’t stand up under the pressure—and there’s a lot of that in both punter and place kicker positions—is the same old racism, in the extreme, that Robinson would find familiar.
Enough. I’m sure there’ll be more on that situation when sports commentators begin to feel they can also address the question without fearing that they’ll be given the same treatment as Jimmy the Greek. Remember his episode a few years back?
It’s time to go forward with more examples of the trivia that keeps collecting in my alleged brain. For instance, are you old enough to remember when Log Cabin Syrup came in a tin container, built in the shape of an actual log cabin? My memory seems to picture them as being slightly larger than they probably were, but what fun they were to play with! Enough of them could form the makings of a village surrounding our 10 or 12 feet of railroad track.
And did you live near a corner store where they sold those little boxes in the shape of a treasure chest containing a half and half combination of vanilla ice cream and orange sherbet? They were eponymously (look it up) named “Treasure Chests.” You could eat the two flavors separately or mush them together; there was no etiquette written on the subject.
There was no protocol as to disposal of the container once it was emptied either, but I’m sure it’d be difficult to determine how many of them were put underground, along with their contents of a favorite rock or flower or memento of some kind. I wonder, too, if at least some of those treasures, certainly not the containers, still exist underground at 4019 South 12th street in Tacoma.
The house that was once home to the Moellers, has since been replaced by two duplexes. And with the exception of a single pear tree which grew alongside our septic tank all the many varieties of trees on that large plot of ground have vanished. I remember the huge walnut tree where my best buddy, Bob Muntz, and I used to lie on the slope beneath it, after he had bicycled the three miles from his home and crunch our way through Gravenstein apples until the juice ran down our chins.
To this day, I maintain that a Gravenstein apple is the tastiest apple of all if eaten under proper circumstances. The primary rule is that the first bite must be taken no longer than 15 seconds after it was picked. It is not an apple known for long-term storage, with two exceptions: apple pies, still warm, and canned applesauce.
It’s time to quit, I’m salivating.
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Bill Moeller is a former entertainer, mayor, bookstore owner, city council member, paratrooper and pilot living in Centralia. He can be reached at bookmaven321@comcast.net.
