The Kentucky state flag shows a city guy and a country guy who are shaking hands, but you don't see the country guy's left hand, something that my eighth-grade history teacher ominously noted.
"That's because he has a knife in it," said Mr. Young.
My middle-class family was bathed in Louisville. It's work ethic fit us. It's underdog status defined us.
My father once threw a shoe into our television set when Terry Howard cruelly missed his first free throw of the season in the final seconds of a 1975 national semifinals loss to UCLA. My older brother Brad attended Kentucky, transferred, and now has a Louisville license plate. Several of my relatives attended Louisville at night or on weekends, including cousin Art, who became a family hero by working his way through school to become a noted radiologist.
My best grade-school friend, Charlie Gabriel, received two degrees from Louisville, played in their pep band, began the "C-A-R-D-S" cheer, in which the name is spelled out by body parts, and today cannot even begin to describe Kentucky.
"I can't talk about them without seeming mean and stupid and small," he said this week. "Let's just say it's all about how you were brought up."
No comments:
Post a Comment