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Clint Eastwood’s Influence ~1974

Like all teenagers, my friends and I were greatly influenced by the movies. For weeks after seeing “The Omega Man”, for example, we denounced anyone who disagreed with us as “eee-vill” in our best falsetto zombie-mutant voices. We referred to any desperate girl as a “Moneypenny” in our best Sean Connery accents. And I don’t even want to think how many unintentional bruises and muscle strains were the result of some member of our group momentarily forgetting that he was not actually Bruce Lee.

But the greatest cinematic influences on our swim team had to come from the work of Clint Eastwood. Of course, you’d expect kids to try to psyche out opponents by leaning over and growling cool action-hero lines such as “Do ya’ feel lucky, punk?” and “A man’s got to know his limitations.” Or “Make my day!” But you might not expect an Eastwood influence to manifest itself during the breaks between workout sets.

Our coach at the time was a gentleman named Bill Spahn. Despite being cursed with a surname reminiscent of something nasty that salmon do, Bill was well-respected and well-liked by the kids on the team. He’d stand on the deck and give instructions for the workout sets, and for the most part we’d pay courteous attention.

But sometimes a few swimmers would finish the set before the others were done. Or perhaps there was a built-in rest period to let us recover before launching into the next challenge. During those moments when we weren’t swimming and Spahn wasn’t talking, well, we had to do something to pass the time. Here’s where Clint comes in:

In “A Fistful of Dollars”, there’s a lovely scene where Clint politely asks a group of local hooligans to apologize to his mule. Being bad guys, of course they refuse, and begin to taunt him. A gunfight appears imminent – and poor Clint is outnumbered 6 to 1. Being a good guy, of course he cannot draw first – which provides an opportunity for some excellent camera work showing the squinty-eyed determination from these potential combatants. Then, inevitably, one of the bad guys reaches toward his holster…and the shooting starts.

Of course, our hero fires six shots almost instantaneously, neatly eliminating his foes before a single one of them can aim a shot in his direction. An impressive feat, indeed. And something that any moviegoing teenage boy would love to emulate.

Well, for some reason we were not allowed to bring loaded pistols into swim practice. And even though there were people on the team who were not very popular – perhaps even a bit obnoxious – none of them would stoop so low as to harass a defenseless mule and therefore did not deserve to be the subject of our target practice. We had to find substitutes.

We used the backstroke flags for bad guys.

Backstroke flags consist of a series of vinyl triangles hanging from a line that is suspended above the water a few yards from the pool end. When doing backstroke, a swimmer can see these flags as he passes underneath, and can thereby gauge how far he is from the wall in preparation for making a turn. They are a valuable swimming aid… but with the proper imagination, they can also be transformed into a bunch of ugly thugs who deserve a good plugging. And it just so happened that there were about 6 vinyl triangles per swimming lane. Perfect.

Instead of shooting bullets, we squirted water. By interlacing our fingers, cupping our hands, and pressing the palm heels together, we could create a water-holding reservoir inside our fists – about the size of a small egg. Then, by forcefully squeezing from the thumb toward the pinkie, we could force a stream of water to jet forth from the pinkie side of the hand. With enough practice, a swimmer could shoot a stream high enough and hard enough to splatter one of the triangles on the backstroke flags.

(Let’s be honest, if you could master that shot, you could also squirt some other unsuspecting swimmer in the eye with enough force to cause genuine pain. But such an offensive act would elicit retaliation, and was therefore dangerous. As Bruce Lee would say, “flags don’t squirt back”.)

Since the flags weren’t going to draw down on us, we set an arbitrary time limit for blasting all six flags: one and a half seconds. Every time there was a break between sets, you could hear someone quietly mumble “I’d like you fellas to apologize to my mule”. A short pause, and then spat-spat-spat-spat-spat-spat as another 6-flag injustice was righted by our erstwhile Eastwoods.

And that was about the extent of Clint’s influence on our team…until the release of “High Plains Drifter”.

“High Plains Drifter” is a morality tale, focusing on a mysterious stranger (Clint) who visits the small town of Lago. At first it appears that he has come to save them from an impending attack by revenge-hungry criminals. But as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that the stranger has a darker agenda. The townspeople begin to discuss how to get rid of him.

Since the stranger is staying at the town’s only hotel, they decide to meet there to plot against him. Conspirators include the banker, the grocer, the town “good-time” girl, the hotel owner, the…huh? Wait a second – omigod! The hotel owner looks exactly like coach Spahn!

We couldn’t believe it! Here we were in a theatre, watching a real Hollywood movie feature, and our very own swim team coach is right up there on the silver screen, plotting to kill Clint Eastwood! Oh, man! This is SO cool!

(OK, it wasn’t really him, but the resemblance was uncanny.)

Um, back to the plot. So just how did our hotel owner/swim coach character plan to get rid of Clint, anyway? Well, he convinced a bunch of the townspeople to sneak into Clint’s hotel room after the unsuspecting cowboy had gone to sleep. They all carried baseball bats (wait, this was before Abner Doubleday – so let’s just say they were carrying sticks. Yeah, that’s it, sticks. Big sticks.) Surrounding the bed, they all raised their sticks up in the air and waited for the signal from the hotel owner.

“Welcome to Lago, you offspring of a female dog!*” he shouted, and the pounding commenced. Oh, it was brutal. I mean, these townspeople were whaling on the bed so hard, there is no possible way Clint could’ve survived.

…Unless, of course, he had previously prepared the old “two pillows under the covers look exactly like a sleeping man” trick, and was currently standing outside the window, lighting a stick of dynamite to toss into the room. Which he was.

Oops. Nasty club-wielding bed-whompers go boom. And Clint is off to torment the other townspeople. And as far as I know, our Bill Spahn look-alike actor never made another movie. (The coach himself did, though…he appeared as…what else? A hotel staffer – in “Dr. Thunderfinger is Forever”… but that’s another story.)

Anyway, the bed-pummeling scene was etched into our pliable young minds. So, for the next several years, it became very dangerous to be the last one asleep in a hotel room at a swim meet.

“Where’s Nyberg?” someone would ask. “Still asleep? Well, OK then, let’s welcome him to Lago.” And with that, we’d gather a half-dozen strapping young athletes and surround Nyberg’s bed armed with pillows, sleeping bags, and the occasional beach towel. “Welcome to Lago!” we’d shout, and then whale away.

Now, pillows may seem to be soft and cuddly things, but trust me, you DO NOT want to be welcomed to Lago. It can really hurt.

But that was years ago. It’s funny, though – I can still blast 6 backstroke flags in less than two seconds, and I continue to practice between workout sets. But I haven’t welcomed anyone to Lago in years and years. I no longer share motel rooms with other swimmers, so there aren’t really any opportunities.

But come to think of it, it’s sometimes a bit difficult to wake my teenage son in the mornings. Hmmm…now where’s that extra pillow?

*  This is not an exact quote, but this is a family column, so you’ll have to use your imagination.