Winning Anything Is a Bear in ‘Sports’ at a County Fair

I go back a long ways with county fairs. I go back to the third grade in Centreville, Mich. I go back so far I don’t even remember the name of the county.

Centreville being a hamlet of maybe 800 in the farm country of southern Michigan, the size of that fair would just about have fit into the fun zone at the Del Mar Fair.

I remember the judging of animals and apple pies and the portable amusement park that seemingly appeared from nowhere and then disappeared from whence it came. And I remember Mrs. Carrico and some friends setting up a card table and selling hot dogs to salve our hunger.

Nowadays, I suppose what we called a county fair would be called a block party.

However, what I remember most were the athletic events.

Huh?

Bear with me.

I went looking for my athletic roots Friday at the Del Mar Fair.

And I found them.

Yes, just as the fair is a smorgasbord for junk foods, it is also a smorgasbord for junk sports. You take your steady hand and your hand-eye coordination and your strong arm and your sense of balance and your competitive fire and you can turn a trip to the fair into an Olympic experience. Of course, you can’t be too fussy and you have a good imagination.

Sports at the fair can essentially be divided into two categories: 1. Organized; 2. Spontaneous.

For the organized sports, you run through the calendar of events for the day. I got there Friday at about the time the Carlsbad Flip-Floppers Horseshoe Club was due on the contest court, which is tucked between the tote board and the grandstand stage in the infield. I opted instead for viewing, or listening to, hog calling, which called for athletic vocal cords if nothing else.

Children were invited to a watermelon rolling contest, which hardly seemed fair. The adults should have been invited to a watermelon throwing contest, but they, alas, were scheduled only for a watermelon eating contest. Figuring it would take a rather large person to both eat or throw a watermelon, I assumed the outcome would be the same regardless of the contest.

Had I been there Saturday, I would surely have at least viewed the cow chip throwing contest. I might have considered entering, but I assume this event is strictly for politicians.

Another popular athletic event is the Frisbee toss, but I see enough of that at halftime of Charger games.

Alas, most of these events were more spectator than participatory. They are basically venues for those who have spent some time in a beer garden and are willing to make fools of themselves on a dare or a whim.

I was ready for the real sports.

I was ready for the spontaneous . . . the fun zone.

Mind you, I’m not talking about the rides. There’s not enough beer in all of the beer gardens combined to get me on most of those, particularly the ones that go upside down. Having had lunch, I was determined to keep it.

I’m talking about athleticism . . . using my skill and wits to win stuffed animals. I could be a hero with my granddaughters. If only, I sighed, they were there to watch.

The first thing I encountered was an outdoor billiard hall. It had been a while since I had been to a fair, and this was a new one. You call all your shots after the break and you win a prize.

Why not?

I walked away without a stuffed animal. They should have put the darned pool tables in the beer garden, where they belonged. You don’t shoot pool while you’re eating cotton candy, for heaven’s sake.

However, I could get that stuffed animal throwing darts at balloons. To get a decent-sized animal, it would only take $28 worth of darts . . . if I never missed.

Robin Hood, I wasn’t. Still no stuffed animal.

Then I found a real American sport. Basketball. This, I could do. Pop a few shots into the hoop and I could win a bear with a USC or UCLA or UNLV or some such jersey. San Diego State, what with its 2-26 record, was apparently un-bear-able.

So was my shooting. I think the balls were bigger than the hoops.

No stuffed animal.

Wait a minute, I thought, flexing my right arm. Anyone can knock down those jugs with a baseball. I wound up and . . .

Are they glued to that platform, or what? Trevor Wilson would have knocked them down in a second. Not me. No stuffed animal.

I tried a game where you combine bowling and golf and try to roll a ball into a hole to move a cow backwards across the course. It sounds silly, but this was a time of desperation. No luck there, either. No stuffed animal.

I was ready for one of those Footsie Wootsie massagers. About all I had seemingly accomplished was the walking of a marathon. You walk as far as I did in Centreville, and you’re out past Mr. Miller’s farm.

Maybe I should go back out to the fair today. They’re having a frog jumping contest at noon. Maybe my days as a “fair” athlete are behind me. Maybe it’s time to get into coaching.