Was Tarzan a Three-Bandage Man?
by Bill Cosby
In the days before athletes had learned how to incorporate themselves, they were shining heroes to American kids. In fact, they were such heroes to me and my friends that we even imiteated their walks. When Jackie Robinson, a pigeon-toed walker, became famous, we walked pigeon-toed, a painful form of locomotion unless you were Robinson or a pigeon.
"Why you walkin’ like that?" said my mother one day.
"This is Jackie Robinson’s walk," I proudly replied.
"There’s somethin’ wrong with his shoes?"
"He’s the fastest man in baseball."
"He’d be faster if he didn’t walk like that. His mother should make him walk right."
A few months later, when football season began, I stopped imitating Robinson and began to walk bowlegged like a player named Buddy Helm.
"Why you always tryin’ to change the shape of your legs?" said my mother. "You keep doin’ that an’ they’ll fall off - an’ I’m not getting’ you new ones."
Although baseball and football stars inspired us, our real heroes were the famous prize fighters, and the way to emulate a fighter was to walk around with a Band-Aid over one eye. People with acne walked around that way too, but we hoped it was clear that we were worshipping good fists and not bad skin.
The first time my mother saw me being Sugar Ray, not Jackie Robinson, she said, "What’s the bandage for?"
"Oh, nuthin’," I replied.
"Now that’s a new kinda stupid answer. That bandage gotta be coverin’ somthin’- besides your entire brain."
"Well, it’s just for show. I wanna look like Sugar Ray Robinson."
"The fastest man in baseball."
"No, that’s a different one."
"You doin’ Swiss Family Robinson next?"
"Swiss Family Robinson? They live in the projects?"
"You’d know who they are if you read more books instead of makin’ yourself look like an accident. Why can’t you try to imitate someone like Booker T. Washington?"
"Who does he play for?"
"Bill, let’s put it this way: you take off that bandage right now or I’ll have your father move you up to stitches."
The following morning on the street, I dejectedly told the boys, "My mother says I gotta stop wearin’ a bandage. She wants my whole head to show."
"What’s wrong with that woman?" asked Fat Albert. "She won’t let you do nuthin’."
"It’s okay, Cos," said Junior, "cause one bandage ain’t enough anyway. My brother says the really tough guys wear two."
"One over each eye?" I asked him.
"Or one eye and one nose," he said
"Man, I wouldn’t want to mess with no two-bandage man," said Eddie.
And perhaps the toughest guys of all wore tourniquets around their necks. We were capable of such attire, for we were never more ridiculous than when we were trying to be tough or cool. Most ridiculous, of course, was that our hero worshipping was backwards: we should have been emulating the men who had caused the need for bandages.