Growing up my father tried to instill as much Slovak into our Amercanized lives as possible. My brother took accordion lessons, my siblings went to Slovak school twice a month, I was forced to eat strange sausages straight from the Slovak butcher in Astoria, NY, and we had to attend gymnastics at Sokol Hall.
When I was really young, we’re talking younger than 5, I used to envy the other kids for being old enough to attend Sokol. Every Tuesday after dinner my father would herd my sisters, clad in red leotards and my brother in shorts and a tight, tucked in tank top, to Sokol Hall in Guttenberg, NJ – home to Slovak gymnastics.
Dad and I would drop all three off, and I’d watch them head out into the huge gymnasium where I would hungrily eye the mats, beam and uneven parallel bars. Oh, how I wanted to join them! But you had to be 6 I think to join Sokol, so I would leave behind the chalk-covered apparati, and go visiting some local Aunt, Uncle or cousin with dad.
But when I got old enough, I was promptly signed up. I couldn’t wait to get my hands in the chalk and get my white gym slippers broken in. Clad in my very own red leotard I marched onto the wooden floor of Sokol hall and prepared to start my gymnastics career.
Within a month, all I wanted to do on Tuesday nights was hide behind the couch. Sokol wasn’t the wonderland I thought it would be. The instructors were strict. Like, no bullshit whatsoever I don’t give a rats ass if you are only 6 shut the hell up strict.
The first thing you did was line up in a long line from oldest to youngest along the walls of the gym. We were like a nazi youth square, standing at attention, hands pressed firmly to your sides and feet absolutely together. Any deviation in form, or any whisper or titter got you called out, bawled out and sent to the corner.
Let’s remember, I am six. My nickname is motor mouth. My future gymnastics career was quickly morphing into a gloomy corner staring at dusty wood paneling.
One instructor was big and blonde. Her name was Karen. I imagine she was the type of lass who at 10 smoked unfiltered Camels and pushed down small children in playgrounds. She was assigned my age group one fine Tuesday night, and this broad, for whatever reason, did not like me. I remember following my usual team mates to her group that night and her saying to me, “You’re not in MY group. Go find where you belong!”
I was dumbfounded. This was my group. I always tumbled with these girls. I wandered around the gym in a daze for a while, not sure what to do. I was waiting for someone to help me – to guide me into the group that I belonged in. Finally, I sat on the floor in a far corner and began to cry. My oldest sister came up to me and when I told her what Karen had said, she grabbed my hand and let me join her group. The instructor didn’t seem to mind even though they were way more advanced – when they did back walkovers down the mat, I did somersaults.
I don’t know if that bitch Karen was ever reprimanded for her cruel treatment of me, but I hated her guts after that. I hated all of the instructors after that. And my parents? I think they thought I was overreacting. Now if it were MY kid she’d done that to, that skank would’ve been on the unemployment line faster than you can say Olga Korbut.
Twice a year we had a recital for our parents. We’d rehearse and rehearse and then put on a show on a Saturday afternoon. One year we did a routine involving jump ropes. Picture twenty 6 year olds continually skipping with jump ropes and the room there was for a multitude of errors. I can still hear the parents laughing. Another year we did a routine that was nothing more than a vehicle to showcase the most talented girl in our group. I was not a fan of hers.
I can’t remember her name but still remember the house she lived in. We used to have to pick her up sometimes to drive her to Sokol. She was not friendly towards me at all even though we were in the same age group. Let’s face it, she was a star and I was still struggling with back bends. I remember the recital routine – each girl came out and did her little trick; cartwheel, walkover. Then you joined the others to make an open ended circle. And the last girl was little miss star, who would run out and do a round-off back handspring and land right in the center of the circle we formed.
Oh, I was pea-green with envy! I could NEVER do a back handspring, and let me tell you I tried! On the bright side, while that routine was somewhat belittling, at least nobody was laughing.
Some Tuesdays, rather than go visiting, dad would stay and wait for our lessons to be over – see, Sokol Hall had a bar. Oh, how I LOVED that bar. It was dimly lit and smelled of stale beer and wet cardboard. The crusty bartender would serve draft beer and drinks from the center of a square bar with stools lined all around it. Some nights after Sokol was over, dad would buy us a soda, served in slim, small bar glasses, and a bag of Bon Ton potato chips. If we were lucky we’d get some money for the jukebox where I would always play “Knock Three Times” by Tony Orlando and Dawn.
I only did Sokol for two or three years. Most likely my dad got tired of trying to find me every Tuesday night and decided to spend his money on something worth-while. I’d visit Sokol Hall often, though. Every year we’d have a big Slovak celebration there called a Hody – yes, there’s another good blog post in that – and other times my dad would go by there to discuss some sort of Slovak business. During those visits, I’d walk out into the empty gymnasium and stare at the rings, tucked away in a recessed hole in the ceiling. I’d see the beam and the bars quietly stored in the room next to the kitchen, waiting for the next Tuesday where girls would again tumble and twirl on them.
I might do a cartwheel or two as I stood in there alone and I’d think back none too fondly of Tuesday nights clad in a red leotard and white gym slippers. Then I’d head to the bar where my dad, a bag of chips, and Tony Orlando waited for me.
I remember there was this one, tall blonde girl, who was not a very good gymnast, but always tried really hard. One night she was making a ton of mistakes, and the Gestapo trainers chewed her ass off. She was so upset, snot was running out of her nose and it crusted into a yellow blob between her nostrils.
The WORST part of those damn recitals was being herded in that practice room on the 2nd floor. It was hot and stuffy in there, and I remember trying to stay out of the way of the stuck up “clique” chicks, and trying not to scuff up my newly whitened gym slippers.
I also remember trying to take a peek down in the basement where the boys practiced. It was strictly verboten for girls to go down there…
I still shudder whenever I think of having to chalk up my hands…I hated that shit.
Man, I forgot about that practice room upstairs.
I just Googled Sokol Hall Guttenberg to see if its still there (my aunt & uncle lived down the street so I remember it). Its still there BUT whats so amusing is that this post is the #8 Google result!
Get out! how funny!
Oh my gosh, I feel really bad for laughing throughout reading this article but I love how much emotion is contained in this article! I especially liked how you described Karen. My family was the same way with me and forced me into Vietnamese school at this Buddhist temple when I was 5 (or maybe even younger?). I remember hating it and like you, would hide in a corner of some random room until some enraged family member came over and dragged me out. It was only until this year that I quit because the place was crumbling and I saw no hope for it (everyone had already left to college or whatnot).
Ha! Good, you were meant to laugh! Mission accomplished!
Hi Tracy,
my name is Joe Reda. My grandfather Jack Reda was the manager at SOKOL Hall in Guttenberg. I am working on a college paper about my family’s history and where we came from and I am including info about SOKOL hall. Based on your age you might have known my cousin Kelly Sheerer, she did some gymnastics there when she was young. do you have any other stories about the place you could share with me? thanks, Joe Reda I posted this in another spot on you blog hoping you will see it.
joe_reda2000 at yahoo.com is my email address. I hope to hear from you.
I am going to share your response with my siblings – I’d love to help you and they may have more info that I do, as they attended Sokol way longer than I did. I don’t remember Kelly, but that means zilch – I don’t have a great retention for names and such.
Tracy,
I had family in the Guttenberg/ Hudson County area for many years. there was Steve, Douggie and Kelly Sheerer, Jodi and Jeff Ciongoli, Joel Reda, Jack and Helen Reda. If you lived local you must have been in school together during overlapping times. My family members are in their late 40’s and early 50’s. I plan to reference this site for the picture showing the bar front. Where did you get it? I would be interested in adding it into my paper. Thanks for replying. I remember playing in the hall when no one was there, going up on the elevated area by the piano and banging on the keys until I would get yelled at by my parents. Have a great day!
We actually lived in Leonia, not Guttenburg so I would only know these folks if we shared tumbling mats at Sokol.
I too used to love that elevated band area. Each September we would have a Slovak party called the Gajarsky Hody that went on until 3 am or so. We kids would crap out early and my father would fix a bed for us up in that elevated area. It’s a wonder we could sleep with the band right there!
OK, you still might have shared mat space with Kelly. Very cool, thanks for replying!
and yes, I think the building is gone, sadly. The photo I used on my blog was one I pulled off the web and was pitifully small.
I heard it is no longer there and that there may be some new construction happening, or has already happened there???
I went to Solol on Tuesday nights from 1964 to 1970.
I was wondering if anybody knows where I can find pictures of my group of girls. We were around 7 years old.
Maybe even newspaper articles.
I did win some trophies and it would be great to find some pictures.
And yes I do remember the bar and Bon Ton potato chips.
It was next to impossible to find the one exterior shot on the web. I know I don’t have any photos from those times, probably because I didn’t like them very much.