remember exactly what it was and I'm sure it wasn't much because
it was '75 in Jersey, after all. But afterwards, some guy who looked
like a Californian came up to me and offered me a deal to skate
for an emerging skateboard manufacturer called Santa Cruz.
My dad said, "Go for it!"
"What about college?" I asked.
"Forget it. If these people will pay you to do these tricks on
your skateboard in front of other people, then do it. My God, you'll
be a professional athelete. If you wind up living out in California
and get residency, then you can go to a UC. school when the
skating thing dies out. They have a marvelous system out there.
I wish I could've had this opportunity," said my dad.
I skated demos for Santa Cruz in New Haven, Rhode Island,
Delaware and Maryland. Skate parks were opening up all over
and wherever they did, Santa Cruz sent me and two other guys.
They gave us unlimited skates, meal chits and an old Volvo sta-
tion wagon. We had to pay for our own gas, but usually we could
charge the local skate shop for an appearance. We even did malls.
We had girlfriends in every town from Cape Cod to Cape Hatteras.
When I turned 18, Santa Cruz brought me to California. When
I had been on the road back East, I was able see my dad several
times a month, but that changed once I hit California. Everything
in California was way bigger. I remember the first contest I went
to-1 mistook a crowd of contestants waiting for their runs for
a bunch of fans. You would go to demos in L.A. and there would
be several thousand kids there. And then there was the whole
punk thing. Kids would skate a pool, then they'd empty out and
a band would roll in. The bands were all hardcore and all the
posers and Hollywood types would pogo. The promoters never
payed less than a C-note for a ten minute demo. After I met enough
of them they introduced me to Las Vegas.
From then on, my dad and I got together a lot in Vegas. I skated
huge, clear bowls and half-pipes in the middle of vast casinos lousy
with gamblers who ignored my airs and inverts. I got $500 a night.
Meanwhile, my dad would attend one or another teacher's coven-
tion. Then, after work, we would get together and drive around
in the desert trying to explain existence. Las Vegas was our second
hometown.
Then, one year, my dad died. I was almost through my fourth
year as a professional skater. I hadn't made any effort to get into
a U.C. I hadn't filled out any of the residency paperwork. The only
time I had been on a UC. campus was when I was paid to skate
there. Only occasionally did I get a craving for the smell of
splotchy-covered note books.
My dad had still been living in Lawrenceville. I was surprised
to find out he'd actually retired from teaching some years before.
He'd been working with something called the College Board Over.
sight Committee, and the job included unlimited travel funds to
attend seminars, conferences and conventions. This was how he
managed to show up in Vegas nearly every month for two years.
He had known he was dying and left a videotape. The first part
was a lot of parental advice for me to find a good woman and marry
her. Near the end was a transfer off an ancient Super-8 home
movie. It was my dad at Englishtown Raceway in Englishtown,
New Jersey, around 1971.
My dad took me when I was ten. He was out of place at the drag
strip. He had on a Harris tweed sport coat with elbow patches,
grey slacks, wingtips and a deerstalker cap. That was how he
always dressed, but most of the other patrons tended towards
plastic jackets with the crest of a tavern on the back.
It was early April, one of the first race days of the season, and
a chill hung in the air. On the drive, my dad kept whistling Glenn
Miller tunes. At the gate he was as impatient as a schoolboy going
home for a holiday. Once we got in he bought beer and popcorn.
and hot dogs and hot chocolate. He stood and hollered and
stomped around and ordered more beer.
Knievel was late. We could see him and a mechanic in the pits,
tinkering with his red, white and blue Harley. The announcer kept
saying Evel would be right out and the crowd made a lot of impa-
tient noises. Finally we heard the Harley roar and Evel drove out
on the strip. He blasted up and down a few times.
Every time Evel came at the ramp, it looked like he was going
to go up, but the bike would shoot around the side. After five or
six such false passes, some of the crowd began to boo. There were
scattered sounds of "Jump!" and "Get it over with!" Then Evel
stopped zooming up and down. He was a good 400 yards from
the ramp. He sat there with the brake lever to the handlebar, the
clutch slipping and the back wheel spinning and smoking. The
motor was screaming. The crowd shut up. Evel let the brake off
and the clutch out and the bike lunged forward. It shot the eighth-
mile in a blink, hit the ramp and sailed into the air. The only sound
was the wham-bam of the Harley, revving like a buzz bomb about
to go off. But when Evel came down there was only a smooth land-
ing and no crashing explosion. It took a while for the crowd to
cheer. Evel did a few wheelies, then the Harley
started missing and he took it in. A crew ran out
on the drag strip and started to disassemble the
ramps and pull away the clunkers Evel lept over.
The crowd headed for the bathroom or the conces
sion stand, talking about the next event; Funny Car
Eliminators.
Standing around and listening to the people talk,
I found that most of them felt let down for not hav
ing seen a spectacular crash. Though it was a thrill
to see Knievel sail like that, most of the people had
actually wanted to see him fall and turn himself
into a bloody mess of mangled flesh and flying cy
cle parts.
The last few seconds of the video tape showed
my dad shaking hands with, and getting an auto-
graph from Evel. My dad's face was one huge smile.
Instead of being let down by not seeing blood, he
was obviously inspired by Evel's display of courage
and skill. I cried. I had forgotten the event.
Alra
ATHLETE JIM MORPHY
YO
SKUH-BRUTHUHS!
PHOTO: TULIE GOLD.
MURF PROMODEL
10x 30.5
WEVE GOT THE ALVA GOOD-WOOD GONG WITH CUSTOM
AIRBRUSH AND STAIN TO MATCH FUE GOT THESE NEW
INDY 169 THAT IM GONNA GO OUT AND GRIND TO
THE AXLES. CHECK OUT THESE NEW SPEED SKINS
WHEELS THEY MAY NOT BE WEIGHED DOWN BY 5
COLOR GRAPHICS, BUT THEY'LL SLIDE STRAIGHT TO HELL
AND BACK. GO CHECK OUT MY NEW SHIRTS AND DECALS
AND GRAB YOURSELF A SET OF THESE WINGS AND FLY
-
LIVE FAST, SKATE UGLY
PS. LOOK FOR ME AN' THE
Boyz RIPPIN' IN THE NEW
Jim Murphy,
ALVA VIDEO AVAILABLE SOON!
188
32991-F Calle Aviador San Juan Capistrano, California 92675 (714) 496-8330 SEND SI FOR DECAL & INFO.