Goin' Dancin'

There are some people on this earth who don’t get enough recognition. Raymond L. Crouch was one of them.

Serving in World War II and Korea, not to mention liberating two concentration camps during World War II left Mr. Crouch unsatisfied. When Vietnam began to unfold, right or wrong, Mr. Crouch was ready to serve his country. This time, in his 40s, the United States Government told him to stay home. The government refused him because of his age.

Mr. Crouch lived a life filled with great moments spent with family. His only child, Uncle Ray, as my family knows him, became one of my family’s best friends after we met in a community we shared river houses in. Quickly after meeting Ray Jr., we met Ray Sr. and his wife, Catherine.

The family couldn’t have been nicer - a rare find in our river community. The Crouch family was the one of the only reasons that I ever wanted to go to the river. Part of it was selfish; they had jet skis and their son, Cory, was fun as shit. We also played golf with the Rays - my dad, Wes, my brother, and my grandfather. I’m not sure I could have had more fun. Ray Sr. was calm but had a certain way about him. I was in my teens, thought I could crank every shot 250 yards and straight as an arrow. He would always make me take a mulligan when my divot went farther than my ball and say, “take a deep breath. It’s just a piece of cotton. Pick it off the ground, son.” Inevitably my shot would be one hundred times better than the first and since I always cranked my tee shots 250 yards my second would be on the green, or “on the dance floor,” as he would say. I was dancing after a quick lesson in breathing and taking my time.

His son was quite different.

Ray the junior was a little more colorful. He would lift his leg on the way to the tee box and rip a fart. As my little brother and I would laugh (we still have that type of sense of humor) he would ask with a smile on his face but with a certain seriousness, “who let that dog in here?”

Once after my very young brother crashed a golf cart, ran over my dad’s ankle and almost sent my 70-something grandfather flying out of the cart, Ray could only respond with the Ringling Brothers Circus tune. My dad in pain, my grandfather maybe a little dazed, I sat in the cart with Ray Jr. and laughed hysterically.

We would go back to their house, or ours, and eat a huge spread, drink a few beers and complain about the rest of the people who lived in the community before my family left to go home for whatever function my siblings or I had to attend.

On Christmas Eve in 2006 Mr. Crouch turned 83. The only reason I know that is because I was at his bedside. It was a few days after his family had pulled the plug.

Unable to speak and barely able to open his eyes, Mr. Crouch gave his family a thumbs up, as if to say, “I’m going dancing.”

Mr. Crouch left his wife, only son and his only grandson who was married a few years ago and soon after had a baby girl at home in Richmond, Va.

A few days after his family made the hardest decision imaginable, Mr. Crouch moved on. My dad was in the room, almost by chance. After respects had been paid, my dad accompanied Ray, Melinda, his wife, and Catherine back to Ray’s home to reminisce and drink a beer or two.

Tonight, I sit in New Jersey, two days after seeing a man who gave me some of the best advice I’ve ever received, drinking a beer in his honor and thinking of the simpler times in my life. The days I spent at the river with my family and my extended family: The Crouch family.

One last quick story: I had the job of sweeping one thing or another; a chore I found to be awful. I was 14, maybe 15; the last thing I wanted to do was sweep a sidewalk or a garage (probably because my family had neither at our river house, it wasn’t mine, whatever I was sweeping, so I REALLY didn’t want to do it). I’ve long forgotten what my actual task was. After doing a mediocre job it wasn’t my dad who called me out on it, it was Mr. Crouch. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Son, if you have time to do a job wrong, you have time to do a job right.

God Bless you, Mr. Crouch. One day we’ll all be up to go dancin’.

Happy Birthday, LB

Larry Bird turned 50 today, as noted all around the internet.

Everyone has a favorite Bird story, if they like him, which not everyone does. Favorite Bird moments have been noted on the internet as well, here is mine.

Larry Bird was someone who thrived on hustle and outworking everyone else. The Hick from French Lick, as he called himself would do anything to get the ball or make the shot including running laps around the Boston Garden to stay in shape during the season and shooting jumpers hours before game time. He is easily the best white player to ever put on an NBA uniform and one of the best players in the 80s.

That didn’t mean that he couldn’t get the job done. He could.

My favorite Bird story happened on Christmas Day in a game against the Indiana Pacers.

Bird told Chuck Person of the pacers that he had a Christmas present for him. After releasing a three pointer near the Pacer’s bench, Bird turned to Person and sniped “Merry fucking Christmas,” to him.

How perfect is that? And why Chuck Person?

I have no idea, couldn’t care less. What matters is the Hick From French Lick had the balls to talk trash about a shot that hadn’t even fallen yet. He also had the balls to premeditate a Christmas present for an opponent.

There are other instances of Bird’s cockiness.

In 1986 he was scheduled to shoot in the three point competition during All Star weekend. Beforehand he told the rest of the competitors that he was planning on taking the trophy home.

“I want all of you to know I am winning this thing. Who’s playing for second?”

Needing the last money ball for the title, he let it fly, began walking away and raised a single finger above his head because he knew it was going in. Who does that?

Larry Bird, that’s who.

Other notable trash talking instances are out there, like what caused the famous fight between he and Dr. J.

In 1984 Bird was absolutely handling Dr. J outscoring him 42-6. Throughout the game Bird reminded Erving of their point totals, something that is unfathomable. After you score 20 points or so it has to be hard to know exactly how many points you have and still be effective. If you have scored three lay ups that tally is relatively easy to compute. Bird, apparently, always knew how many points he had and I’m sure he knew his rebound and assist totals as well. Dr. J, it seems, didn’t appreciate having a statistician on the court and started a fight. I’m no fighter, but I can’t say that I would appreciate it either.

Not everyone is a Larry Bird fan, mind you.

One of my college roommates for instance is not. He and his family were waiting in an airport during one of their vacations. Bird was as well waiting on a flight. I don’t know how young my roommate and his younger brother was at the time but like any fans or kids they went over to get an autograph. Bird, long finished playing, didn’t want to be bothered and declined. I don’t know if there was any discontent displayed by Bird (it may have been a simple decline) and perhaps that is a reason to not like him but as a player, the man was unbelievable.

And that damn shooting jacket he wore all the time, as ugly as it was, I think it was fitting that he wore it.

Happy Birthday Birdman.