The Port Arthur Package

Introduction • Chapter 1 • Chapter 1-Page 2 • Chapter 1-Page 3 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 2-Page 2 • Chapter 2- Page 3 • Junior Year • Junior Year-Page 2 • Junior Year-Page 3 • Junior Year-Page 4 • Head Hunters • Black Friday • We Beat Beaumont • Sweethearts • Wrapper Page 1 • Wrapper Page 2

Introduction

When the Port Arthur Yellow Jackets came to town, the supporters of that city were presented with the whole package. There was a football team that represented themselves so well that win or lose, the opponent regretted the visit. The Maroon and Gold Band, among the finest in the state, marched and played proudly at halftime.  From the moment they fell into formation, the Red Hussars sounded in the distance as if a formidable army approached, and all should beware. Finally, the parking lot was full of PA cars, with maroon and gold streamers, and the visitor’s stands were filled with Jacket rooters with cowbells and banners. When the cheerleaders lead the team onto the field, there was an imposing roar, along with the fight song. People linked little fingers in the stands for the kick off.

That’s the way I remember it. Growing up in that environment was very inflating to a young boy. At the earliest date, my Gramps taught me the school song. He never went to school, but learned the song at the games, when his kids went to TJ. From the moment I knew about them, I knew I was going to be a Yellow Jacket some day, part of the package.

All the senses could be employed in describing the memories of home. There was the smell of the refineries, when the wind changed,  the sounds of the ships whistles from the canal, and the shift whistles from the plants that signaled that Dad would be home soon, or was just on the way to work. Heaven help us, now and then there was the sound of the fire whistle, or an explosion that shook us in the night. When walking in town, the smell of popcorn came from  JC Penny, and  bacon was cooking at the Southerner, or the best burgers in town, at Bob’s Café. The sight of new cars on Proctor Street, and pretty girls going to and from school or shopping, was everywhere. There was a bustle, an urgency, a pulse that ran the city. On any day except Sunday, the sidewalks were full of people, paying bills, going to the bank, shopping.

In the summer it wasn’t at all unusual to hear music or drums, off in the direction of the school. I’d ask Mom what it was, and she’d say “the Hussars of course, or “Pop Lantz is training the band”. As I grew up, I was allowed to walk to the school sometimes, because the gym was open. There I could watch the group practice. I heard a strange language there I’d never heard before. “Kick your tails” someone would shout, and then---yatti yatti yat, yatti yat, yatti yatti yatti yat.!! A bunch of Greek! Sometimes big boys would be there, playing football. They would adopt famous players names to emulate like Eidom or Mills. I couldn’t wait to get big enough to play with them. I wanted to be Ronnie Stanley.

It is a pleasure to put these thoughts and memories on paper. It is like shedding a weight carried too long. It is also like letting go of an old friend. From time to time, I will take another step in the process of becoming a part of the package.