REGION
East Oregonian
Yo-yo champion of
Arroyo Seco playground
By CRAIG CHASTAIN
Special to the East
Oregonian
There were not a lot of
entertainment options for
11-year–old boys in 1957.
Sure, we were living in
Los Angeles (Highland Park,
actually) home of Disney,
big dreams and Stage 3 smog
alerts, but there was not much
day-to-day excitement coming
from the world’s entertainment
capital. The music charts were
dominated by snoozers like Pat
Boone, Paul Anka and Andy
Williams. Our black and white
TV off ered such compelling
fare as “Father Knows Best”
and “The Real McCoys.” Elvis
and “American Bandstand”
still were down the road, and
the Dodgers were playing in
Brooklyn.
With so much idle time and
so few diversions, it is small
wonder I and a cadre of friends
chose a seldom-traveled path
littered with potential heart-
break, frustration and disap-
pointment.
For us, it was the yo-yo.
The yo-yo of 1957 was just
two pieces of rounded wood
connected to 3 feet of string,
but in the hands of a gifted
showman, the results could
be spectacular. I watched the
“Ed Sullivan Show” with my
family as a world-renowned
“yo-yo-ist” (which I am still
not sure is a word) stunned the
audience with a jaw-dropping
display of whirling wood and
sizzling string.
As an athletically chal-
lenged, nearsighted geek
(before “geek” was cool or
even a word) I thought — “I
can do that.”
Monday at school I shared
my dream with three close
friends — Larry Lehigh, Tom
Byerly and Danny Hall. The
freshly formed quartet imme-
diately traveled to Tanner’s Toy
Town where we purchased four
yo-yos in four diff erent colors.
(Full disclosure: Tom picked
up the tab since he had a paper
route and our solemn promises
to pay him back.)
Within days, we were
hooked by the addictive allure
of the yo-yo. Every spare
minute we were practicing in
anticipation of showing off and
outdoing our brothers.
The singular hangout in
those days was the Arroyo
Seco Playground, where young
guys from the neighborhood
came to partake of such tempt-
ing diversions as ping pong,
checkers and tetherball. As our
shared addiction snowballed
for all things yo-yo, the four
of us soon focused on little
else. Eventually, we took to
huddling together behind the
handball courts to avoid the
stares and scorn of our peers.
We became known around the
playground as “the yo-yucks.”
There were few outlets to
express our chosen passion,
but all that changed one Satur-
day when a representative of
the Duncan Yo-Yo Company
came to the playground.
Duncan was, at the time, the
world leader in the “sport,”
and the company chose the
Los Angeles parks and recre-
ation system as the launching
pad for what it hoped would
be a national competition to
fi nd the best young yo-yo-ists
in the country.
To that end, there would
be competitions at local play-
grounds with appealing prizes
like a trophy, yo-yos and $10 in
cash. The playground winners
would move on to a city-wide
event and a potential shot at a
national title.
As we listened for the
details, each of us was think-
ing the same thing: “I am going
to win this, even if I have to
crush my three best friends in
the process.” It was a day that
would mark the beginning of
the end for “the four yo-yucks.”
With just three weeks to
prepare, each of us dived into
our own training regimen.
Larry, the mama’s boy, bulked
up on a steady diet of encour-
agement and sugar cookies.
Tom, the recluse, went to his
room where no one quite knew
if he was practicing or just
taking a lot of “naps.” Danny,
the juvenile delinquent, tempo-
rarily quit bullying fourth grad-
ers and threw all his anger and
daddy issues into the task.
For myself, I uncharacteris-
tically made a commitment to
triumph — a decision, I believe,
that has helped to shape me as
a grown-up. Over the next 21
days, I became one with my
yo-yo, practicing tricks again
and again in front of my mirror
with a new-found fl air I stole
from the guy on the “Ed Sulli-
van Show.” I visualized step-
ping forward to accept my
trophy — and the $10 — in front
of my three best friends, each of
them humbled in defeat.
The day of the event arrived
and the early rounds went pretty
much as expected. There were
about 20 entrants, but every-
one knew it was going to come
to a smack-down involving the
“four yo-yucks.” After an hour
of eliminations, it had become
a Four-Friend Face-Off .
Larry faltered first, due
perhaps to the 7-plus pounds he
packed on during training. His
attempt at “Walking the Dog”
ran away from him and he was
too slow to respond. And then
there were three.
Tom reinforced our thinking
he had napped through his train-
ing. His version of “the sleeper”
— pretty much a “Yo-Yo 101”
trick — went to sleep at the
bottom of the string, and Tom
was powerless to wake it up. It
was down to Danny and me.
Squaring off with yo-yo in
hand, it was not lost on me that,
if I beat Danny, there was a real
possibility he would fall back on
old habits and beat me up every
day until school started. Making
a key life decision, I pushed the
fear aside and focused on the
prize.
What happened next became
the stuff of playground patter for
the rest of the summer. Danny
and I matched trick for trick,
from compulsories like the
“creeper” and “rock the cradle”
to the challenges of the “break-
away” and “around the world.”
Finally, I stuck a fl awless execu-
tion of “the Eiff el Tower” and
Danny muff ed it, string and
yo-yo draping him ingloriously
in defeat and despair.
And just like that, I was the
“1957 Duncan Yo-Yo Champion
of Arroyo Seco Playground.”
Regretf ully, the four
yo-yucks were never friends
in the same way again. I claimed
my trophy in front of them,
but it did not feel as good as I
thought it would. I went on to
the city championships and was
eliminated in the fi rst round,
ironically by a bungled “Eiff el
Tower.” And Danny never beat
me up — he just did not speak
to me again until high school.
I took away a lot from
that day of winning. That
persistence, passion and prac-
tice can sometimes be rewarded.
That victory is sweet but short-
lived. And friendships are frag-
ile.
I used the $10 to pay back
Tom.
And I still have the trophy.
ANYONE CAN WRITE
Nearly 40 years in the business have taught me that readers
long for meaning and a connection at a deeper and more
universal level.
And that’s why the East Oregonian will be running, from time
to time, stories from students who are in my writing class,
which I’ve been teaching for the past 10 years in Portland.
I take great satisfaction in helping so-called nonwriters fi nd
and write stories from their lives and experiences. They walk
into my room believing they don’t have what it takes to be
a writer. I remind them if they follow their hearts, they will
discover they are storytellers.
As we all are at our core.
Some of these stories have nothing to do with Pendleton or
Umatilla County. They do, however, have everything to do
with life.
If you are interested in contacting me to tell me your story, I’d
like to hear from you.
Tom Hallman Jr., tbhbook@aol.com
Tom Hallman Jr. is a Pulitzer Prize-winning feature writer for the
Oregonian newspaper. He’s also a writing coach and has an
affi nity for Umatilla County.
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