Youth Gone Wild. Robert "Bob" Sorensen
It was now the fall of 1970. I was heading into third grade. Again, because of my height, weight, behavior, and glasses, I was an easy target for my classmates. Not a day went by without me being picked on in some form or fashion. For the time being, I accepted my fate. My attempt at “reasoning” with my bullies (per my parents’ instructions) had zero impact. Later in life, I would hear a line from the movie Caddyshack that would perfectly describe my situation at this time: “If I saw myself in those clothes, I’d have to kick my own ass!” So true. My mom’s response to all this at the time? “Let’s sign you up for Cub Scouts. This will allow you to further interact with boys your own age while learning a new set of skills.” Now the last thing in the world I needed right now was more interaction with the kids from school. Wasn’t it enough I was getting my ass kicked from eight to three, five days a week? Add in Billy, my neighborhood “friend,” and you can make that seven days a week.
I begged, pleaded, and slammed my head into the wall to no avail. She signed me up anyways.
“First, we must buy you a uniform. There is a store in the neighborhood that sells officially licensed Boy Scout uniforms.”
As we headed out the door, my mom told me to behave while we were at Goldblatt’s.
“Goldblatt’s? Mom, why are we going there. We need to go to the uniform shop.”
“Don’t be silly, Bob, we can’t afford to buy you your uniform from there. Goldblatt’s sells uniforms at a much cheaper price.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. We headed out, bought a “uniform,” and headed home, preparing for this evening’s Cub Scout den meeting. I had to admit, deep down inside, I was thinking this might be a good thing. I was holding out hope that I would fit in and make new friends. My mom walked me to the house, rang the bell, handed me off to the den leader, and disappeared into the night. I was scared. I was nervous. I was ready. As we headed up the stairs and into the living room, there were ten to twelve boys sitting in a circle. I looked on in horror as I noticed they were wearing the same uniforms—dark-blue shirts, blazers, and pants with yellow sashes and scarves held in place nicely with cool-looking metal Boy Scout sleeves. These were a far cry from the drab green shirt and flood pants (no sash, no scarf) I was wearing. Let’s not forget, I was wearing my Sunday choir shoes (shiny black patent) while all the other boys had on their cool gym shoes. My face turned red. Tears streamed down my cheek as I was led to my place in the circle. As boys will be boys, even at that young age, they rode me mercilessly. The rest of the night was a blur; I could not remember much else, which was a good thing. The one thing I do remember is being assigned our first task as a Boy Scout. We would be working on our woodworking badge. We were all told to go home, come up with a project, work with our fathers to design and build it, and come prepared to present at next week’s meeting. A chance to spend time with my dad. A real bonding moment. Seeing he was an architect, this project should be a slam dunk. I couldn’t wait to show my tormentors what I had created.
I went home and told my father. He appeared indifferent; maybe he’d had a long day. No big deal. Days went by without a word from my father. It was now midweek, and we had not started our project.
“Please, Dad, we need to get started.”
“I’m up to my ears right now, Bob. We’ll get to it shortly.”
A few more days went by and nothing. It was now Friday night, less than twenty-four hours from my next meeting. I was in panic mode. How the hell were we going to get this done in time? My dad was sleeping on the couch in front of the TV. He was not going anywhere. I guess I was on my own. I headed to the basement. Reminder, I was in third grade and knew absolutely jack shit about designing or building anything. I had never even touched a tool. What the hell am I going to make? I got it, why not build an airplane? I picked up two pieces of wood (unfinished, mind you). I grabbed a nail (looking back, it was probably a five-inch commercial nail) and hammer. I proceeded to do the best I could to nail the two pieces of wood together. After more than thirty minutes of finger-breaking effort, I had the nail all the way through. I then proceeded to bang on the piece of the nail that was extruding from the bottom until it was folded back against the wood. What next? I had to make it look more like a plane than a cross. I got out my watercolors and markers. I spent the next several hours decorating my plane. I painted the entire unit yellow (several times, as the watercolors soaked into the wood) and drew in the details (windows, people, whatever) with a black marker. It was done. Who needed Dad? I was so excited by the masterpiece I had created. I couldn’t wait to show my fellow Cub Scouts.
Twenty-four hours later, and it was time to head off to my meeting. My dad was nowhere to be found. I grabbed my plane and headed out the door, smiling from ear to ear. As I headed into the den mother’s living room, my joy once again turned to excruciating pain. Spread out on the floor were beautiful bookshelves, birdhouses, rocking chairs, etc. All were finished in lacquer or brightly painted. As I assumed my position in the circle, I thought I was going to puke. It was time for each boy to describe their project, sharing all the details leading up to its completion. I had my plane hidden under my shirt. What the hell am I going to do? It was my turn. I pulled my plane out, tears running down my eyes. I could barely put a sentence together as the other boys laughed and screamed at me. Somehow, I got through it. The meeting was now over, and I wanted nothing more than to get home and hide in my room. I was never coming out again! As I headed for the door, the den mother, with tears in her eyes, handed me a brightly colored woodworking badge. She felt so bad for me she gave me one even though I failed miserably on my attempt. Kids may be brutal to other kids, but at least there are a few good adults in this world.
Next on the docket was the biggest Cub Scout event of the year. It was what they called the pinewood derby, scheduled for early December. A downhill racetrack would be set up in the church hall. Each of the Scouts had the next several months to build a car with their father in preparation for racing one another until a winner was crowned. This was open not only to my den but also to all Scouts in the parish. There would be several hundred participants. This was the big one! I took my instruction booklet home and gave it to my father. I told him how important this was to me. Working with my dad to design and build the fastest and coolest-looking car would most certainly make up for my wood badge fiasco. I’d stay on his ass until this was done. No excuses. September went by. Then October. Fast-forward to Thanksgiving. Nothing but excuses to this point. I was begging him on a daily basis. We were a week away from the event, and again, nothing. I guess I’d get started, and he could jump in.
I was back into the basement. I found a block of wood. I needed to “carve” it down into the shape of a race car. I grabbed a fifteen-inch handsaw and went at it. I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I hacked away for hours until there was a slight curve in the block. Close enough. Wheels? I broke off two sets of axles and wheels from one of my remaining (smaller) Tonka trucks. I found an industrial-type stapler in my dad’s tools and proceeded to “staple” the axles to the bottom of the woodblock. Some more watercolors and markers and I was good to go. I kept the car out of sight until the day arrived. This was a father-son event. As we neared departure time, my father told my mother that he was tired and wouldn’t be able to attend. After a few minutes of back-and-forth, my father assumed his position on the couch, and my mother and I headed over to the church hall.
Kids were flying around everywhere. There was a huge track in the center of the hall. Not one mother in sight. I awkwardly sat down in the corner of the room, awaiting my turn to race my car. As I looked around, I could see, once again, I had been severely outclassed when it came to my car. Theirs had sleek bodies, beautiful paint jobs, chrome wheels. I saw where this one was going.
“Sorensen, Johnson, please step to the track!”
I was crying even before my butt lifted from the seat. I took my block of wood to the starting gate. People, including adults this time, were laughing and talking. I was so embarrassed I wanted to melt into the floor. As Mark Johnson placed his miniature Indy-style car next to my “doorstop”, he knew it was over before it started. The gate was lifted, and his car screamed down the track. My car? It went about six feet before the staple on the front axle broke off, and my car froze in place. My evening came to a screeching halt. I took my