A Site for Shore Eyes

The continuing saga of building a high rise in Wildwood continues. As mentioned before, the mini skyscraper planned for the old Rio Motel site failed CAFRA (Coastal Area Facilities Review Act) review. Sounds almost redundant, doesn’t it? Plans for a similar structure, a few blocks down Ocean Avenue, have been ushered through by the various city authorities and will soon also face CAFRA review.

In keeping with the “doo-wop” theme, this latest monstrosity sports a cocktail glass design on the facade, complete with a couple of lava lamps, which, incidentally, relate not even remotely to the doo-wop era.

The regressively progressive mayor and company simply don’t get it. Doo-wop is not about tearing down authentic doo-wop architecture and replacing it with new, improved versions. Okay, so maybe the synthetic doo-wop themes of the Wawa and Acme Market would have been nice complements to the older buildings that generated the doo-wop hype, but they don’t work as stand-alone replacements. Neither does the old Atlantic Diner, transformed into the gaudy Pink Cadillac. The original diner was doo-wop, but the new version more closely resembles someone’s fantasy.

And what about those silly-looking street lamps along Ocean Avenue? Again, nothing similar ever existed during the doo-wop years, or at any other period of time, for what it’s worth! The only people who can drive past those stupid, overbearing, palm tree street signs without laughing, are those who sadly shake their heads in bewilderment. At least the embarrassing multi-colored sidewalks quickly faded away.

I suppose we can give a pass to the Starlux Motel, only because it’s sort of an upgrade to what existed before, although to say it’s overdone is a bit of an understatement.

Doo-wop, when related to architecture, was the Satellite Motel, and the Carousel and Kona Kai motels, and the Captain’s Table Restaurant, just to name a few of the more than one hundred already shoved into oblivion by bulldozers. Condos, for those who don’t know, never belonged to the doo-wop era, and make poor substitutes.

For some reason, certain individuals think they possess some superior ability to think up bigger and better things to benefit their respective communities, or life in general. What they fail to realize is that doo-wop was never contrived, or intentionally created as a theme. It just happened because that particular style of architecture prevailed at the time. Attempting to reinvent it according to someone’s idea of what it should have been only results in a ridiculous sideshow that offends, rather than gratifies. These feeble attempts at newer, improved versions of doo-wop architecture will almost certainly guarantee its demise forever.

I think it’s time to congratulate the colleges of division I-A, especially the most prominent teams, for making it more difficult, and considerably more expensive, to attend a college game than to go see a professional football game.

To the die-hard fan, nothing generates more excitement than game day, and the game itself comprises only part of the day’s hoopla. Pre-game tailgating and post-game partying both provide fans with additional euphoria, and even a loss by the home team usually falls short of completely raining out anyone’s personal parade.

During the Middle Ages of college sports, schools participated with “student athletes,” meaning, real students who played for the school’s honor. Just about any college fielding a team offered adequate competition, including Ivy Leagues schools, as well as the military academies. Of course, bigger was always better, giving some advantage to schools with more students, and thus a greater pool of potential athletes, but the dragons lacked enough fire to completely incinerate their lesser opponents.

After a while, college administrators figured out that, rather than simply picking players from the student body, the school could increase its chances of winning by shopping around for players and attempting to lure them into the student body. Coaches at major colleges now started spending the off season traveling the country, visiting the homes of the most promising high school prospects, explaining to the student’s parents the advantages of attending XYZ University. The biggest advantage, obviously, was that of attending school on a fully-paid scholarship! Yes, he would probably have to maintain a “C” average, not a difficult task for general studies, or sports-related curricula, resulting in what soon became fondly called, a “jockstrap degree.” In many cases, the teaching staff understood that the student would stand no chance of receiving a grade less than required, a minor detail first practiced at the high school level by some schools.

Recruiting quickly went out of control, and a number of schools faced probation, imposed by the NCAA, for improper recruiting, gifts to athletes and/or their families, and various other infractions. The boosters, not to be denied their teams’ successes, took the reins, stuffing players’ mailboxes with anonymous donations. This practice continues today, and most scholarship athletes cruise around town in cars they could never afford to buy with their own resources. For the most part, the NCAA just looks the other way. To say, for example, that Florida hosts six professional football teams hardly strains one’s imagination. The total could soon rise to seven.

For a number of years, I owned season tickets to the University of Georgia football games. Each year, ticket prices edged up, and without the “suggested” additional donation to the athletic fund, chances of getting seats pretty much disappeared. To the fortunate recipients of tickets, seat location was determined by some formula based on how many years the patron had held season tickets, and the amount of the donations to the athletic fund.

Notre Dame announced this year that 5,000 new season tickets would be available to the public for purchase for the next year. The lowliest seats, in the end zone, require a mandatory donation of $1500.00 per ticket, in addition to the price of the ticket! This amounts to $250.00 per game, not even counting the ticket price! I’m quickly considering a more proactive interest in the NFL, because I can attend five Philadelphia Eagles games for less than the price of one ND game!

Last year I broke tradition and paid $100.00 a ticket for the Penn State-Wisconsin game. We bought the tickets in the parking lot, but lacked the resources to hire a helicopter to deliver us to our seats just below the cloud ceiling. Prior to that, I had never paid more than about three dollars over face value to see a game, and often paid much less. I attended my first Penn State game in 1971, and bought a pair of no-show tickets from the “Will Call” booth, then just a wooden shack sitting in the cow pasture. We sat at the 20-yard line, with a total expenditure of six dollars per ticket. I considered that a sharp increase over what I usually spent to see a high school game, but it seemed well worth the price.

Back then, the horseshoe-shaped stadium held somewhere around 40,000 fans or so, and I watched the Nittany Lions defeat Army on a crisp, bright, Saturday afternoon. The expanded behemoth stadium now packs in 107,000 plus, and features an electronic scoreboard with an instant replay screen that belches out an annoying lion’s growl after every significant play. Rock music gets the fans jumping up and down in unison. Call me old-fashioned, but for me, I’ll just stick with the marching band for inspiration.

College football now reeks of greed. The schools charge outrageous prices for tickets, and most large programs force sizable donations to their athletic funds to ensure a season ticket. They receive millions for games broadcast on TV, and additional millions if invited to a significant bowl game. Single-game tickets are largely non-existent. A cup of soda with more ice than a snow cone, costs between $2.50 and $3.50 to a captive audience prohibited from bringing in their own drinks, even if purchased on campus. Hot dogs and hamburgers cost several dollars, and game programs run about $15.00 on the low end. Expect to pay $70.00 for a school sweatshirt, if you’re stupid enough to buy it in the school’s bookstore.

I used to live for those six days of going to the game each year. Due to a turn of events, I no longer hold season tickets, and living in New Jersey now, I hardly find it worthwhile to attend more than a game or two. With ESPN Gameplan, I watch a multitude of games for the season price of about $130.00, and pay supermarket prices for refreshments. I can transport myself instantaneously from Athens, Georgia, to State College, Pennsylvania, to South Bend, Indiana, and never have to fight traffic, find a parking space, or walk to the stadium. I miss some of the game day atmosphere, but that particular air is becoming way too expensive to breathe.

Sometimes traditions die hard, and sometimes they leave with hardly a whimper. In Wildwood, the football tradition just sort of faded away, like old soldiers. The only difference is that old soldiers supposedly never die. That may not be the case with Warriors football.

When I escaped WHS in 1965, the football and basketball programs both flourished, and despite the school’s small student body, both programs offered serious competition to foes both large and small. In 1961, aided and abetted by Randy Beverly (and a very talented team and innovative coach), the football team went undefeated, and won the Cape-Atlantic League and South Jersey Group I titles. The basketball team won the Cape-Atlantic League and New Jersey Group I state titles.

During the next three years, the football program won the CAL and Group I titles one more time. The basketball team wore the CAL and South Jersey crowns all three years, and the state crown one more time, in 1964.

After that period, both programs performed respectably, although the football team failed to win three games in a row after 1965 until sometime in the 1990’s, if memory serves me correctly. After moving to the south, in 1981, I stopped following my hometown sports until I gained access to the internet, in the late 90’s.

I didn’t like what I saw, when I scanned the electronic news for the latest buzz on football. The marching band (or band of any type) had already marched into oblivion, and the adults involved with the football program spent their time whimpering about how the team struggled to compete in the Cape-Atlantic League, because the other teams were bigger and better. They put in a request to the New Jersey Interscholastic Athletic Association to be relieved of the difficult task of competing in the league. The NJIAA granted the request, and Wildwood put together a schedule against schools that most local sports fans never knew even existed. So much for traditional rivalry.

But it got better (or worse, depending on one’s point of view). WHS forfeited several games because the powers that be decided that the team had such a small number of players on the roster, some of the players could get hurt! Imagine that – some players could get hurt playing football!

At any rate, the team disbanded, primarily because the so-called coach complained that they had no weight room for the players. Now the school at least fields a junior varsity team. Baby steps, as they say.

What happened to sports in Wildwood? Apparently, the adults in charge of high school sports fumbled the ball. Or maybe they got hit in the head with a soccer ball. Yes, some of the interest shifted to other sports, such as soccer. How soon before we replace baseball with cricket? Other small schools, many of which WHS beat on a regular basis during prior years, not only kept their programs, but strengthened them.

During my years at WHS, Maxwell Field sat off-center inside a 440-yard cinder surface track, with no scoreboard, no interior fence around the field, and wooden goalposts. Today, it sports an electronic scoreboard, regulation steel goalposts, a state of the art track, and an interior chain-link fence around the field. For all practical purposes, it contains all the elements for a better practicing and playing environment. The only thing it lacks is a team.

Something more important than a team is missing, however. Some people call it competitive spirit, and others may call it character, or even chutzpah. It only grows in fertile ground, and left unnurtured, it dies a quick death.

In 1961, Coach Dom Mancia fielded a team perhaps a bit undermanned, but overflowing with desire. His playbook came out of the old school, with single wing formations run from an unbalanced line. Many on the team played both offense and defense, sometimes for the entire game. The only complaint I remember hearing was when a team co-captain returned from the coin toss and begged the team doctor to cut a cast from his hand, because the officials told him he couldn’t participate with it. The good doctor told him he didn’t think it was a good idea. The player replied that he had transferred from Wildwood Catholic just to play football, and that he wanted the cast cut off. Reluctantly, the doctor took out his shears, cut off the cast, and taped the player’s hand. He played till the final whistle.

No one that year complained that the opponents were too big, or had too many team members. No one whined about the school’s inferior facilities and equipment. Instead, they dug in their spikes and rudely introduced themselves to the other teams’ players, and won every game. The worst games of the season were a 6-0 win over Group III Pleasantville, and a 14-7 win over arch-rival Middle Township. The rest were blowouts, including a 54-0 rout over Lower Cape May in the final game.

The students, as well as the members of the community, felt proud of Wildwood High, its traditions, and its Warrior teams. At no time was that feeling more prevalent than on a football Friday night or Saturday afternoon. The drum cadence of the tiny marching band, made up of both junior high and high school students, rolled across the island like distant thunder, announcing that the school was prepared to defend its honor. If the team fell to its opponent, it was never from lack of effort or preparation.

Resurgence of the football program now seems to be a possibility. The JV football team has shown itself to be more than a worthy opponent. The basketball team never went away, and continues to compete on a respectable varsity level. Maybe all it’s going to take is for a few students to turn off their Madden 2006’s (or 2007’s or 2008’s) and get out on the real field.

No matter what the song says, we spent most of our time on top of the boardwalk. We considered the “underneathers” pretty weird. Actually, we thought most of the vacationers bordered on weirdness in one way or another.

Most people go to the beach to either swim or soak up some sun. Hiding beneath the boards accomplishes neither, and we wondered if the cellar dwellers went home with striped tans. They probably got no tans at all, earning them no bragging rights when they returned to their workplaces.

A trend started in Wildwood in the mid 1950’s when the now long-gone Baysea Motel opened, advertising “The Only Pool in Town!” Shortly after the paint dried, they revised it to “The First Pool in Town!” Not quite the same thing, but we appreciated their candor.

Anyway, as new motels opened, making room for swimming pools, no matter how small, visitors flocked into town and filled the pools with humanity. Pretty strange, considering the location of many of the pools, hardly a stone’s throw from the ocean. But the pools lacked a few ocean essentials, like crabs, sharks, jellyfish, and rip currents. We called the rip currents “the undertow” back then, and it still works for me. I don’t care what they call it, as long as I know what to do when it whisks me away. Whatever it is, it usually ran south to north, and after a few rounds of body surfing, we often found ourselves five or six blocks north of the old familiar blanket. We usually used someone else’s umbrella as a landmark, not a great idea, because they sometimes closed up shop for the day long before we left.

I spent some time under the boardwalk, though. Mostly, I sifted for coins beneath the pier where I worked. Funny how loose change finds those cracks when dropped from above, so ticket booths offered prime locations for prospecting.

Back on top, the spaces between the boards offered other challenges for women during the late 50’s through the early 60’s. For whatever reason, many of them wore stiletto, or spiked heels for their walks on the wood. I neither profess to understand why someone would wear high heels to the boardwalk, nor why they would not recognize the problems posed by the cracks, but I saw many a shoe yanked from the wooden jaws. A cottage industry sprang up when some opportunist started selling little rubber (or maybe they were plastic) cups that fit over the ends of the shoe heels. They occupied premium space in a Catholic woman’s purse, right beside the prayer veil. Semper Paratus!

People vacationing at the shore apparently think that buying stupid things demonstrates intelligence. It doesn’t, but it makes many a smart person appear stupid. Okay, so maybe it just makes them look fun-loving, but I’m sticking with stupid. Like, is there something really hilarious about a huge comb that I’m not aware of? How about the gigantic sunglasses? A hat with little beer cans around the brim? Yawn. . . Okay, so those things were long ago, but who can predict next year’s barrel of laughs? Why don’t they just buy some of those things on the TV ads and bring them along, saving tons of money?

Decades ago, (even before the Pet Rock) the popular boardwalk prankster invested in a dogless leash with a collar. A wire or something kept it stiff, enabling the jokester to pretend a dog tugged at the end. Up and down the boards they walked, apparently never tiring of keeping the collar at the right height to properly simulate a dog. Most of these people also thought they possessed quite a talent for barking. Maybe next year I’ll sell empty bird cages and watch visitors walking around chirping.

Back then I avoided terra firma whenever possible, spending much time either in the ocean, in or on the bay, or on the boardwalk. The latter became mandatory when I started working on an amusement pier. We prayed for rain, just to get a night off, but from 1961 through 1966, it hardly rained at all, especially during the evening. It teased us once in awhile, raining just enough to close the rides for an hour or so. I do remember getting off early one night in ‘64. My cynical side tells me that from 1967 on, it probably poured at least once a week, but that’s like worrying about the price of stock shares after you sell them. My time spent on the island is something I would never have traded, not even for a pair of gigantic sunglasses.

I guess some good things come of extending the season at the shore, especially for those who benefit monetarily, such as store owners. Some of us have mixed emotions, however.

The Wildwoods, AKA Five Mile Beach (that’s a bit of a stretch without including Lower Township) always felt overcrowded during the summer season. The primary reason for this was that it was overcrowded.

Excitement and anticipation grew steadily during the spring months, and most of us welcomed the summer, as well as the visitors. The welcome generally wore out sometime in July. It wasn’t that we didn’t like the people, but we grew tired of fighting traffic every day. Almost daily, we performed an aggravation/benefit analysis in deciding whether or not to bother driving to one store or another.

It was always easy to forget that we knew the island like the backs of our hands, when assessing the driving abilities (or seemingly lack thereof) of the typical vacationer. They apparently believed they’d be ticketed for driving faster than eight miles per hour, all the while gawking at the things we considered rather normal, such as motels. Now they gawk at condos, because the motels are going the way of the dodo bird.

For those of us working the rather simple jobs, such as running rides, our patience wore thin with explaining that six tickets were required for a ride, as stated on the five or six signs plastered all over the place. Follow this conversation, not made up, repeated many times during the season:

Mother of rider: How many tickets for this ride?

Operator: Six.

Mother: Six? Six tickets per child?

Operator: Yes.

Mother: The lady in the ticket booth said I only needed one ticket.

Operator: If she said that, she was incorrect.

Mother: Where do I get the tickets?

Operator: Where did you get the ones you have?

Mother: Over there (pointing to the ticket booth).

Operator: That’s where you get them.

And so forth. Invariably, the patron returned with three tickets, and either the conversation took root again, or the operator (I don’t like admitting that I played that role) would just shrug and let the kid or kids on the ride.

Some of the residents referred to vacationers as “shoobies.” Mostly, this term described some of the day trippers, especially those who arrived via charter bus. They wore shoes to the beach, mainly because that’s what they wore when they arrived, and took to the beach just because it was there.

For those of us who actually survived the onslaught of vacationers, we looked forward to Labor Day, when we “took back the island,” so to speak. Let me correct that. I really never wanted the summer to end, but there was this thing about being able to breathe again.

Immediately after Labor Day, we found the island empty of tourists, save a few stragglers. Our summer friends usually came down for a few weekends, but virtually everything associated with the summer season was now closed for the winter. A thirty-minute round trip now took less than ten. We rode our bikes on the boardwalk any time of the day, and usually encountered no more than a few people, even on weekends.

The extended season started with the introduction of senior citizen tours during the 70’s. It seemed rather harmless, bringing in a few more dollars to some of the entrepreneurs who didn’t mind postponing their winter vacations. Nothing really seemed threatened during that era.

Times change, however, and now the extended season includes more businesses and more out-of-towners. I wouldn’t call it crowded, but the wonderful desolation waits until about Columbus Day to make its appearance. Last weekend, I saw quite a few people strolling the boards. This makes it difficult to ride a bike along the walk, although the curfew is somewhat ignored during this time.

I’m not really complaining. Observing seems like a better term. Actually, I have no right to complain. I’m now one of the out-of-towners.