Trapeze

Reaching my sixth birthday included a rite of passage of sorts.  No one made a statement; but I recognized my new status, because I was then allowed to walk unattended the one block to Stanyan Street, and the one more block along Stanyan to the Golden Gate Park entrance so I could go the remaining fifty yards to the big swings, parallel bars, chinning bar, and trapezes.

It wasn't that I could use any of them very well.  I couldn't.  But it meant that I was no longer compelled to use only the “little kids” equipment in the rest of the park's huge playground area, the area forbidden to boys twelve and older.  This gymnastic equipment was for those who could do chin-ups, flips, and vaults, and who didn't cry when they landed on an ear or elbow.  And I didn't have to take my sister in tow.  I was about to become “the daring young man.”

The horizontal bar was too high for me to jump up to; but I could shinny up the support and ease out over the middle.  I saw myself doing one-and-one half tucks and “barrel rolls.”  At least I could see myself soaring until I got up there and hung by my knees.  Then I decided to settle for dropping off and landing on my feet.  All I had to do was count... like to ten, and kick out....That was all. Yeah.

As I began to count, twenty seemed more appropriate, and then thirty.  When an older boy (every boy there was older) mounted the trapeze and did a back flip at the peak of his swing, I decided watching and learning was more imperative than dropping off right then.

I began to wonder if I could get off at all. As my head was beginning to throb, when I was addressed by a boy I couldn't see.

“Hey, Kid,” I heard. “You stuck?”  Twisting my head, I saw a wiry boy, hands on hips, grinning at me. 

       

Getting my hands back on the bar, I pulled myself where I could see between my knees.  I glared at him.  I could tell by his posture and build that he had to be good at this kind of thing.

“That's not so hard to do,” he assured me. “In fact,” he said, “it's easy.”

       

“You're twelve!” I snapped back. Twelve was when any boy could do anything. At the moment I was wishing heartily that I was twelve.

       

He stepped over to where I hung and said gently, “Look, just swing out a little.  I'll spot you.” 

I'd no idea what “spot” meant, but it beat counting forever. Anyway, I felt that he wouldn't let me land on my neck. I knew that if I arrived home with any blood my free trips to the park alone were kaput.

He had me hang again by my knees, then swing out. At my highest swing, he put a hand on my chest, saying, “Drop!”

My landing was almost graceful. Then he helped me again twice before he made me do it alone.  I was exhilarated.  After my solo drop, he went over to the trapeze and (I realized later) showed off. One act was to swing out, let go, and twist back onto the bar.  I was in awe.  When he was done, I asked him how he got to be that good.

Polytechnic High School was next to the park.

“I'm on the Poly gymnastic team,” he said. (Eventually, I would attend Poly High.)

“And I'm fourteen, not twelve.”

He said that any time we met at this equipment area, he'd teach me things.  We never met again. But I kept one piece of his advice without fail. I'd asked him what I needed to do to get like him.

       

“Get joggers that fit,” he told me. “And never keep loose change in them.”

After that, when I returned to the trapeze area, I'd take a few minutes to sift through the sand.  I uncovered a nickel once.