THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, December 21, 1994 TAG: 9412210259
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Guy Friddell
LENGTH: Medium: 59 lines
The youngest brother called Monday to report he had found for his son a game, called Nok-Hockey, that he and his two brothers had played as children.
I remembered. That game nearly got me arrested in 1958.
Their mother discovered late Christmas Eve there was no eye-popper under the tree, no game that would make the three forget all else.
So near midnight, I was at the locked doors of a newfangled discount store, begging through the glass to get in, folding my hands as if in prayer.
The guard shook his head, and I, feigning dejection, walked off; but when he looked away, I began running all-out along the face of the building. And, turning the north corner, saw, appalled, that the side stretched 150 yards to the rear west corner.
Never mind, dig in, RUN, you fool, and reach that back door before it closes. Midway, I sprawled on wet soil. Get up, mutt. MOVE!
I rounded the west corner and saw, dismayed, that some misguided architect had placed the rear door at the far south end, 400 yards away. I had practically run around the entire confounded building!
Don't maunder, clown. GO! GO!
Racing along the rear, I reached the open door, plunged through plastic strips and shot past two guards on metal folding chairs.
One, tilting back, fell to the floor as a wild-eyed, muddy-faced madman, bolting by them, opened the double doors, vanished.
``HEY!'' one guard yelled as the doors were closing. ``YOU CAN'T GO IN THERE!''
Inside, housewares were to the left. Clothes to the right. Where were toys? Try the east aisles.
Use your wits. Slink, a coyote, below the shelves. But hurry, in a fast crouch, knucks grazing the floor for balance, Akut the Ape.
Behind me, a cry: ``YONDER HE GOES!'' A yell: ``BLOCK THE AISLES!''
Aha, THE TOYS, at last! Dolls? Nothing doing! Parcheesi? Forget it! And in the corner, long boxes of heavy cardboard. NOK-HOCKEY. I grabbed one.
And turned to see my pursuers gathering around. ``You'll have to wrest it from me,'' I said. They paused. ``Somebody call the manager,'' somebody said. Somebody did. He took in the scene.
``What the hell, it's Christmas,'' he said. ``Ring it up!''
At home, wrapping gifts, Gin raised her eyes, shining in the tree's reflected lights, and saw the box.
``Was it hard to find?''
``Nothing to speak of.''
She thought of her three sons, thwacking wood sticks. She smiled. A thumping good Christmas!
On the phone Monday, the youngest said the 3-foot new version was plastic. The old wood one had extended 6 feet.
You found it, I told him. Nothing's the same. Nothing.
And thought: Keep running. Just keep running. by CNB