Story Time With Bomb Volume 3...Charles In 3-D: Sweetchuck & The Chuckster

The first, and only time to date, that I met Charles Barkley was late in the evening in Atlantic City. It was Fall 1987, after the conclusion of our first quarterly marking period. I was 11 years old, in the sixth grade, my first attending middle school.

Charles was my favorite hooper and playing for my hometown Philadelphia 76ers.

It was shortly after I'd just witnessed Tyson pummel Tyrell Biggs for 7 rounds, alongside my uncle John, from the $50 nose-bleed seats in Trump Plaza.

Big title fights, especially peak-era, undefeated, unified world heavyweight champion Iron Mike Tyson fights, are amazing places to people watch. There was likely no better place post-Ali to spot countless celebrities under one roof, there to have a good time, while you’re all taking in the same adrenalin-charged event.

I’d 'met' Hall of Fame Giant linebacker Lawrence Taylor that night, on the way outta the fight in the concourse, but didn't actually speak to him. As I approached, LT was pushing folks out the way, as if someone was after him, with a wild look in his eye.

Later in life that look, along with his actions, made much more sense to me.

But back to Charles.....

Sometime shortly after Tyson's savage bludgeoning of Atlantic City-bred, 1984 Gold Medalist, undefeated Olympian Biggs, was stopped by the referee and scored a TKO, Unc and I were walking out of Atlantic City's Convention Hall. Clutching my fight program, wearing my white Tyson/Biggs hoodie, a prized piece of clothing in '87/'88 Unc had copped for me pre-fight at the gift shop.

I waited outside, gawking at a bare-chested fight promoter named Butch Lewis, standing by me wearing a tuxedo vest like it was a wife beater, barking out orders to his minions.

I went on to wear that hoodie so many days in my first year of middle school, that it was on when the rest of the kids cleaned up nice for Picture Day. Mom was less impressed and opted not to frame that year’s edition.

Standing outside with my uncle, I spotted none other than the Round Mound of Rebound, walking out from the sliding doors in a tuxedo, with a couple other similarly dressed, seemingly important people, who signaled the valet for their ride.

"There's Charles Barkley!" I exclaimed to Unc as we looked on from 50 yards yards away.

"Go get his autograph", Unc said.

This seemed like a sensible, perhaps even inspired, idea at the time.

But keep in mind I'm an 11-year-old kid, not yet fully confident in my approach.

Nevertheless, I begin creeping across the parking lot in spite of my own hesitation.

Got to the start of the pavilion where the valet featured a long lane of limo cars, out front of the Plaza, where Charles was hobnobbing with his important friends.

I didn't even have a pen let alone a Sharpie, a thought which occurred to me far too late.

All the sudden, after standing frozen still for perhaps a second, or was it a minute, Charles Barkley made a waving motion with his hand.

I didn't make much of it, he was Charles Barkley, in a tuxedo on fight night, waiting on his ride, talking to others doing the same.

He waved a second time. This time it really seemed like he was staring right at me, which couldn’t be.

Looked behind to see if there was more grown, important men in tuxedos or possibly gorgeous women in evening gowns in the lot.

Nope.

Third wave.

By this time we were at a close enough distance to detect direct eye contact.

But I still wasn't buying it.

"Me?" I said out loud, in an tone of inquiry, while pointing to the middle of my chest, adorned with Mike Tyson and Tyrell Biggs faces on it.

"Yeah, YOU! Boy, get over here!"

All the sudden I was crossing the limo line, approaching the franchise power forward of the Sixers, an intense man whose poster hung on my bedroom wall and whose two-handed rim-hanging power dunks I'd often tried to imitate at the dunkball court by Kingsway Learning Center and the low backboard-less rim hanging over my buddy's parents garage on Belmont Ave, that I’d eventually rip down with said move.

Charles continued to motion me closer and ceased stopped talking to his other tuxedo-d friends.

"Hi, Mr. Barkley"

"Hey little man, what's your name?"

"Matt", I said, still a few nickname shifts away from the Bomb you know today.

"You lookin' lost over there son, you need something?"-The Chuckster.

"Well, I'm a Sixer fan, you're my favorite player, I didn’t wanna bother you but wanted to see if you would autograph my fight program”

"Where you go to school, Matt? What grade you in?" asked Charles, making conversation in the interim.

"Haddonfield Middle School, sixth grade, it's my first year there" came my reply, already developing a habit for long replies to short questions.

"How you like it?"

"It's good"

"How your grades?"

*slight pause*

"They're pretty good."

Author's Note: I was already, in my mind, lying by omission. I'd recently received my first 'C'. School was getting a little harder now, since I could no longer coast on natural intellect, and expected to actually hit the books to get into the messy business of things like homework, term papers, assigned reading, or studying for tests.

"Hey son, you hesitated, you tellin' me the truth?"

*longer pause, muted reply*

"Yeah" (in a voice lacking bass even by my own pre-pubescent standard)

"What'd you get on your last report card? I wanna hear every class, every grade!"

*gulping*

"Well, I got an A in Math, an A in English, an A- in Social Studies, a B+ in Science, an A in PE, a B+ in Spanish and *trailing off into a barely audible lets-wrap-this-up-mumble*.....a-C-in-Technology*

"Hold on now, you said that last one too quick, say it again"

Sheepishly, but more audibly, “'C' in Technology"

"Technology?!? What kinda class is that?"

"Well....it's this class where we have like....projects, like we saw wood, use this metal vice, carve stu-"

*Charles cuts me off quick, with an incredulous retort/question*

"You mean SHOP?!?"

*pausing to think*

"Yeah, guess so"

"BOY! How in Thee.....HELL......are you gonna get A's & B's in Math, English, Science, and then turn around and get a C in SHOP?!?"

*struggling to find an answer, twisting and turning inside, no discernible words being produced from my mouth in reply*

"Boy, didn't anybody tell you SHOP the easiest class they got in those schools?!?"

Charles Barkley seemed genuinely pissed, like my father upon seeing the same mark a month earlier.

Nevertheless, he grabbed the program from my hand, possibly noticing it beginning to shake in my grip.

"Now I'ma sign this......but don't ever let me hear you got a C in no damn SHOP again!"

*beginning to exhale again*

"I won't"

"Where's your pen at?"

*uh-oh*

"Um, I don't have one"

Charles again looks some combination of annoyed and disappointed, then makes his way over to the limo behind me, the driver rolls down the passenger side window, Charles asks the driver for a pen, who hands one to him as Chuck thanks him.

"You should always keep a pen with you Matt even when you ain't in school, never know when you might need to write something down"

"Okay, thanks, Charles"

"You gonna be alright, little man, now go find your people before they leave you here and I get stuck with you”

"Thanks again, Charles"

Over three decades since that night, Charles likely has no recollection of that exchange but he gave me three things in that moment which I've carried with me ever since: