THE TOPLESS CAR WASH & A NO HITTER (#55):
On Saturdays we always tried to raise money. We worked a deal with the local Krispy Kreme doughnut shop and got a discount when we bought 30 dozen doughnuts. We’d go door to door selling them for full price plus a $1 a dozen.
That got a little old, and we were eating most of the profits, so we decided to try a car wash. Not just any car wash, but a “TOPLESS CARWASH!” The girls weren’t interested in helping us out, so a few of us stepped into the breach. Our signs got a lot of attention, but also a lot of disappointed looks when men pulled into the Shell Station and found that topless was just a bunch of college guys with their shirts off.
A photographer for “The Evening Independent” was intrigued by our innovative marketing approach and a picture similar to the one below appeared in the paper that night with a short caption, “Local fraternity Alpha Delta Epsilon holds Topless Carwash”.
We were also into sports. We played tackle football against the other fraternities and were usually creamed. And that could really hurt since we had no equipment and played in just gym shorts and cleats. The other frats were still mad and they brought in the big older guys to punish us. We had some good athletes, so the games weren’t too lopsided. I remember Mike Matyi, who died several years ago, had been a high jumper in high school and was great as a defensive back. Johnny MacFarlane and his brother Jimmy were great. Then we had Mark “Bubba” Kaiser as long as his knees held out.
Still it was a brutal game. The year after I graduated, my little brother, Tom Davis, was hurt pretty badly on a dirty play. I gained a little weight at UF, so if there was a game when I was back in town, they put me on the line. In the summer we played football on the beach barefooted and that was a lot more fun. If you could make it into the water before you got tackled, it didn’t hurt so much.
We played on a fairly deserted stretch of beach, but the city must must have gotten some complaints, and put up a sign “FOOTBALL PLAYING ON BEACH PROHIBITED”. It was a neat metal sign. I gave it to brother Steve Beach.
My one claim to fame in sports came in the City of St. Petersburg Slow Pitch Softball League. I was the pitcher for two reasons. First, I could not be relied on to catch a ball either hit or thrown to me, and not too many balls were hit to the pitcher. Second, I was the President and they had to play me somewhere. After all, it was slow pitch softball, how bad could I be?
One magical night it happened. We were playing a real team. I swear, they even had uniforms. But they always swung at one of the first pitches and our guys always caught the ball. Shortstop Johnny Mac was like a vacuum cleaner. Our guys always had time to run down a fly ball. The nearly impossible happened, a NO HITTER in slow pitch softball.
It was the same night that Willie Mays hit his 600th home run. Willie was on the front page of “The Evening Independent”. I was on the third page, “SIMMONS PITCHES SECOND NO HITTER IN CITY LEAGUE HISTORY.” I don’t want to seem greedy, but it should have been a perfect game. Our third baseman, who signed with the Astros for an $8,000 bonus, cleanly fielded an easy ground ball and then threw it over the head of our first baseman. Damn, Wally Hawthorne was 6’ 5” and had long arms. He took a big leap, but the ball was still a foot out of reach.
After that game, the word was out. Don’t swing at the first pitch. Don’t swing until Simmons gets it over the plate and you have at least one strike. The next game I walked in four runs and we lost. For the rest of the season I concentrated on, “Just throw a strike. Just throw a strike. Just throw a strike.”
I found a few other fun old photos. Our Roaring 20s Gangster party. The gang dressed for it! The best imitation of a tough guy goes to Jere Gardner (far right), “You talking to me?” Jere died of cancer several years ago. He was a soft spoken, sweet guy!
You may remember the 1969 Miracle Mets. During Spring Training they stayed on St. Petersburg Beach and played at Al Lang Field. There was a big sign mounted of two telephone poles just before the bridge on Corey Causeway, “Welcome To St. Petersburg Beach.” The City was so proud of the Miracle Mets they added a sign, “HOME of the WORLD CHAMPION NEW YORK METS”. Under the cover of darkness, and with the help of an old white pickup truck, two extension ladders, and two socket wrenches, the sign mysteriously disappeared.
For years there were two fiberglass cows and a calf in front of the Hood’s Dairy on 34th Street North, then there were just two cows. On night, Ferdinand got ahold of a socket wrench and managed to free himself. He wandered over to Emerson Avenue where we gave him shelter. That’s Wally Hawthorne, our 6’ 5” first baseman with his finger in Ferdinand’s ear.
With lots of therapy, Wally finally over came his livestock fetish. Wally and his wife, Lynn, live in Redington Beach, Florida. Thirty Three years ago they started “SANTA ANGELS” to bring a magical Christmas to children who would otherwise have nothing. Isn’t that wonderful! I’ll share a video!
Good people, good friends, and good memories can help get you through tough times!
