Rocket Man

By Special Guest-Blogger Mike

Some things that you experience as a child end up shaping your life as an adult. My adult-life was shaped--or perhaps marred is a better word--by rockets.

I remember when I was a nine-year-old Cub Scout, my Cub Master announced that our next Pack Meeting would be a Rocket Derby. Star Wars had just hit the movie theaters and pretty much every little boy wanted to be Luke Skywalker (without the whole kissing his sister thing). I carefully opened my "kit" to examine the raw materials of my new rocket: a small block of balsa wood, a plastic propeller, and two rubber bands to turn the propeller. I took my kit home and placed it on the shelf in my bedroom.

A month went by when I returned home from school one day to see my mother waiting for me with a concerned look on her face. "Did you and Dad assemble your rocket before he left town yesterday?" she asked. "You know the Rocket Derby starts in a couple hours." Panic swept over my little body as I looked on my shelf where my rocket kit sat unopened in the same place I had left it a month earlier. We grabbed the kit and went to the kitchen, spreading the contents of the kit on the kitchen table. The instructions said we needed wood glue, a carving knife, and some paint. Unfortunately, all we had was duct tape, a potato peeler, and a wide-tipped magic marker.

We clumsily wrapped the duct tape around the rocket to hold the fuselage together. Then, using the well-worn potato peeler, we began carving. Chunks of wood sprang from the peeler, leaving behind a jagged hull. Finally, I took the magic marker and scribbled "USA" in blue ink across my rocket.

When we finished, we stood back and looked at our creation.

It was without a doubt the most pathetic looking rocket in the history of Cub Scouts. The shape of my rocket vaguely resembled a cube of butter that had its corners bashed in after being dropped on the floor a few times. But, the Rocket Derby was about to start. I packed up my rocket and headed off to the church for scouts.

When I arrived at scouts, my worst nightmare was realized. It seemed that every other rocket had been designed and manufactured by NASA. I looked enviously at the other boys’ rounded, sleek, aero dynamic rockets, pimped out with smooth, glossy paint. Some rockets even had professional looking stickers of flames or racing stripes. Nobody else had tried my technique of using a magic marker. “Well, she may not look like much,” I thought, thinking back to the wise words that Han Solo used to describe the Millennium Falcon, “but maybe she’s got it where it counts.”

Han Solo is sooo full of crap.

You know that old rule that you can't judge a book by its cover? It doesn't apply to rockets. Not only did I have the ugliest rocket ever conceived, but it never even made it off the launching pad.

Not once. Not in 12 separate, excruciating races.

To add insult to injury, at the end of the Rocket Derby they made all the Cub Scouts stand in a line at the front of the crowd to receive an award. I got the "sportsmanship" award from Sister Wimmer, the Cub Master’s wife. "That's a lovely rocket, Michael," she said as she handed me the “award,” pity dripping from each word. I was only nine, but at least I learned an important lesson about sportsmanship that night.

Sportsmanship is for losers.

All of which brings me to today. A month ago, my 10-year old son, Christian, came home from Cub Scouts with his own rocket kit. Over the past 30 years, science has progressed across a wide spectrum: GPS satellites. DNA fingerprinting. MP3 players. Prozac. Despite these advances, the Cub Scouts of America still use the exact same rocket kit I used as a kid. I pulled the contents from the kit and laid them on my kitchen table. My old nemesis was back. This time, I was ready.

I immediately paid a visit to my friend Rob Gonzalez. Rob is a real life rocket scientist for ATK Launch Systems … you know, the guys that build rockets for NASA and the military.

“I want to know everything,” I told him. "Start with Area 51 and go from there."

“That would require security clearance from the Pentagon,” he replied.

After some serious negotiations and a heated argument about the existence of Men in Black, Rob finally agreed to teach me all the unclassified stuff he knew about rockets. He told me about aero dynamics, thrust, propulsion, drag and aero heating. We even had a rather robust conversation about vectoring. When we were done, I drew up blueprints for the most sleek, perfectly aero dynamic rocket in the history of Cub Scouts.

With the design phase of my (uh...I mean Christian's) rocket completed, I headed to Mike Frame's wood shop. Mike is the guy in the neighborhood who has every tool known to man. Involuntarily, a low, gutteral growl escaped my lips as I entered his wood shop. This was a man's place. All around there were tools and complicated looking machinery: scroll saws, band saws, planers, and compound miter saws. We took the balsa wood and crafted the rocket, finishing it with precisely the right grade of sandpaper. It was smooth as marble. We even tested the rocket's aero dynamics with Mike's air compressor. It cut the air like a white-hot knife through butter.

At about that time, Christian stopped in to talk with me. "Uh...Dad, aren't I supposed to help with this?" he asked. "You are helping," I said. "You're helping Dad with his therapy."

The final task was to find just the right paint and decals. I went to the local craft shop and bought high performance, racing paint. Fire-engine Red. I was sure it was the kind of paint that is only sold to owners of winning rockets. I also bought stickers (flames and racing stripes) which were painstakingly applied with a magnifying glass and tweezers.

When I finally finished, I stood back and looked at my creation.

It was beautiful. Cradling the rocket gently in my arms, I felt the same sense of pride and wonder as when my children were born. This was more than just a rocket...it was redemption.

On the night of the Rocket Derby, Team Mayfield assembled at Flight Control (aka our kitchen) to go over the flight plan. Nothing could be left to chance. The girls made banners and signs to wave from the cheering section. Christian convinced me that I should actually let him hold the rocket. My heart was racing. Team Mayfield was ready to rock.We arrived at Pack Meeting and positioned ourselves prominently on the front row next to the track. A rocket derby "track" is actually four strands of strong fishing line hung side by side across the the length of the basketball court. One rocket is hung from each line, so that four rockets can race across the lines at the same time.

The Cub Master announced the rules. "The most important thing," he concluded, "is for the boys to have fun and learn good sportsmanship." "Sportsmanship?" I thought to myself. "The only sportsmanship my boy needs to learn is how to graciously say 'thank you' when they hand him the 1st Place trophy!" I secretly wished that Sister Wimmer could be here to see my return to glory...and so I could unceremoniously return her stupid "sportsmanship" award.

When it was time for Christian’s first race, I was ready with one last secret weapon. Most of the boys and dads were hand-winding their propellers. They could wind the propellers about 100 times by hand. Amateurs. I walked to the corner of the gym and pulled out a power drill, which wound our propeller nearly 200 times…just short of the breaking point. The torque those bands could generate would probably power a freight train.

And then the countdown began…3, 2, 1 - Blastoff!

The fiery, red rocket lurched forward, its propeller spinning twice as fast as the other rockets. Spinning so fast, in fact, that to my utter horror it broke free from the track, spun around in a circle and violently catapulted itself nose first into the ground--where it shattered into five pieces.

I looked over at Christian and saw myself 30 years earlier.

Embarrassed, he ran off and hid behind the large curtains on the stage. I gingerly retrieved the crumpled rocket and followed him. “Christian!” I said, struggling to maintain my confidence. “We can fix this. Come on, we’ll superglue this together. It'll be just fine.”

“Spare me the humiliation!” Christian wailed. “Just let me go home. This is the worst rocket ever!”

“But son,” I said, “we’ve got to go back there and try. There are important lessons you’ve got to learn...like uh, uh…oh yeah…like sportsmanship.”

“Sportsmanship is for losers,” he blurted. “I don’t want anything to do with that crappy rocket!”

Although shaken by having been abandoned by Christian, I rushed back into the cultural hall and found some super-glue. I patched the rocket back together and put the wings back on, although they jutted out from the rocket in strange, asymmetrical directions. I had just finished blowing on the superglue to dry it when our next race was announced. I hand-wound the propeller and placed the broken rocket halfheartedly on the track--my faith in flight all but extinquished.

Up on the stage, two earnest little eyes peered out from under the curtains. “Please,” I thought. “Just don’t blow up again. Just make it off the launching pad.” As the rockets shot off, I looked on in disbelief as our super-glued, hand-wound, assymetrical rocket slugged its way to the finish line.

Second place. Team Mayfield was back in the game!

With a swagger normally reserved for NFL football players, I strutted to the finish line to claim my rocket--the first Mayfield-made rocket that had finished a race in two generations. I got there just as Christian returned from his self-imposed exile on the stage. We took third place in the next race and even cruised to a first place victory in the last race. Overall, we finished somewhere around sixth place...just out of the trophies...but way ahead of the kid who won the sportsmanship award. In your face!

Walking home from the church that night gave me a good chance to talk to Christian about the lessons we learned.

Important lessons. Life lessons.

We talked about sportsmanship. We talked about perseverance in the face of adversity. We talked about pride. But most of all, we talked about how cool it would be when Christian has his own son. By then, I told him, we will know how to make a REALLY kick-butt rocket.

And Team Mayfield will rise again!