Because it was the right thing to do, and because it was a dream, anyway, Spicoli gave the band a signal and launched into a cocktail rendition of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” When it was over, he took a seat next to Carson.
“How are ya,” said Johnny, lightly touching Spicoli’s arm.
“Bitchin’, Johnny. Nice to be here. I feel great.”
“I was going to say,” said Carson, “your eyes look a little red.”
“I’ve been swimming, Johnny.”
The audience laughed. It was a famous Spicoli line.
“Swimming? In the winter?”
“Yes,” said Spicoli, “and may a swimming beaver make love to your masticating sister.”
That broke Johnny up. Spicoli recrossed his legs and smiled serenely. “Seriously, Johnny, business is good. I was thinking about picking up some hash this weekend, maybe go up to the mountains.”
“I want to talk a little bit about school,” said Carson.
“School.” Spicoli sighed. “School is no problem. All you have to do is go, to get the grades. And if you know anything, all you have to do is go about half the time.”
“How often do you go?”
“I don’t go at all,” said Spicoli.
The audience howled again. He is Carson’s favorite guest.
“I hear you brought a film clip with you,” said Carson. “Do you want to set it up for us?”
“Well, it pretty much speaks for itself,” said Spicoli. “Freddy, you want to run with it.”
The film clip begins. It is a mammoth wave cresting against the blue sky.
“Johnny,” continues Spicoli, “this is the action down at Sunset Cliffs at about six in the morning.”
“Amazing.”
A tiny figure appears at the foot of the wave.
“That’s me,” said Spicoli.
The audience gasps.
“You’re not going to ride that wave, are you Jeff?”
“You got it,” said Spicoli.
He catches the perfect wave, and it hurtles him through a turquoise tube of water.
“What’s going through your mind right here, Jeff? The danger of it all?”
Johnny,’ said Spicoli, “I’m thinking here that I only have about four good hours of surfing left before all those little clowns from Paul Revere Junior High start showing up with their boogie boards.”
The audience howls once again, and then Spicoli’s brother—that little fucker—woke him up.
Coach Ramirez
On a hot October afternoon twenty years earlier, the late great rock and roll star Ritchie Valens had stood at the very spot where biology lab was now and sung his two hits of the day, “La Bamba” and “Donna.”
A local disc jockey had corralled Valens into making the personal appearance. Valens showed up at high noon on the day of the inaugural Ridgemont High School homecoming game against Lincoln. He brought no guitars or amplifiers. Valens simply stood outside on the hot concrete and sang a cappella.
“That’s for the Ridgemont Raiders!” Valens shouted. “The best darn football team in the West!”
Ritchie Valens was killed four months later in the same tragic plane crash that took the lives of Buddy Holly and The Big Bopper.
It could be argued that in the twenty years of Ridgemont football played since that day, the Raiders had enjoyed an only slightly better fate than Ritchie Valens. Once, the football team had a season in which it won more than lost. That event’s ten-year anniversary was coming up.
In recent years other sports had taken the spotlight at Ridgemont, particularly soccer. Ridgemont’s soccer team had gone to the C.I.F. (California Interscholastic Federation) playoffs the year before, mostly owing to the spectacular efforts of junior Steve Shasta. Shasta had brought so much attention to himself, and to soccer, that Ridgemont football players went virtually ignored on campus. They thought it was a travesty! A kid grew up playing football, hoping, expecting some of that fabled high school f-ball glory. Then he got to Ridgemont and found he was lucky to be able to meet Steve Shasta.
At the helm of Ridgemont football these days were Mr. Vincent Ramirez and his assistant coach, Les Sexton. Ramirez spoke in sharp yelps. And he had a favorite phrase: “Take a lap.” Depending on the inflection, it was alternately an insulting punishment or a symbol of his respect. If you were goofing off in class, talking with some girls, he might bark, “Take a lap, Casanova.” Or if you had impressed him with a nice play on the football field, he might call for a command performance. “Take a lap, my friend.”
Coach Vincent Ramirez knew he faced an uphill battle from the moment he arrived at the first budget meeting of the year. He had been placed last on the agenda.
He sat and waited while the head of the drill team argued for and won more school-purchased uniforms.
Coach Ramirez appeared supportive while the band teacher, Mr. Fletcher, presented a $387 request for new instruments. It was seconded. Fletcher then gratefully added that, to help repay the budget, he would sell mouthpieces to students for a dime profit. “And I thank you all.”
Coach watched while Commissioner of Spirit Dina Phillips presented her report that the Sophomore Sockhop would require either a live disc jockey playing records ($125 an hour, but he supplies everything) or a band like Ridgemont’s favorite, the T-Birds ($500 for the whole night). A budget was passed allotting $750 for the entire evening, to include entertainment and security. There were a few outraged whistles.
“Come on, now,” said speech teacher Gina George. “The kids need to get out of the house.”
“I think they manage just fine without our help,” said Vice-Principal Ray Connors.
“There just isn’t enough money in the till for all the worthy causes,” said Mr. Haynes, a counselor.
“Come on, lighten up, Harold.”
“I think Hal has a point,” said Connors. “These kids already have the off-campus lunch, and they already have self-grading classes on campus, why pamper them any more?”
Through it all, watching his chances for a big killing with the board ebb, sat Head Coach Vincent “Take a Lap” Ramirez.
“You’re next, Mr. Ramirez.”
Coach stood.
Whenever he was off the field, people were always telling him to talk slower. Most of the time he did not pay attention to these people. It was enough, Ramirez thought privately, that he had learned English at all. English was a damn tough language. When Ramirez went home he still spoke rapid-fire Spanish.
“I’ll tell you why we need money for the athletic department,” Ramirez said slowly. “Because I’m out there every day watching our teams. I know the difference between the Raiders and a championship ball team.” He paused, just as he had in practicing the night before. “The difference is $1,895.”
More outraged whistles.
Ramirez whipped out a piece of paper. “We need new jerseys, nice red-and-yellow jerseys. They run $1,100 total. We also need helmets for these boys. I don’t want any brain-damaged ball players. Not when I know we can replace the cracked plastic ones we have now for $300.”
Coach Ramirez held his coat together and gestured with the other hand. “I think you all know it’s dog-eat-dog in the C.I.F. And if we want to do anything at all, we need to keep up. We need what everybody else already has.”
He looked into the eyes of the board members.
“We need movie cameras,” he said. “We need to take and review films like all the other teams in the C.I.F. Then we will be a complete winning football department. Don’t we owe these kids that much?” Ramirez let his hands drop to his sides. For a moment it appeared that he had gotten through to his audience.