In 1972, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit. These men promptly escaped a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire...the A-Team.
So begins the best action show of the 80s. It’s inspiring isn’t it? There are people out there who can help you in your time of need. If you’re a shopkeeper in need of protection from neighborhood racketeers, perhaps Hannibal can help. If a contractor who lost a bid on a construction site you own sabotages it, perhaps you need B.A. Baracus. Do you need someone to infiltrate a gambling ring to save your foster home? Face is there for you, buddy. Are you a Mideast prince that thinks assassins have targeted his soon-to-be-wed daughter and need someone to walk her down the aisle? Think Murdock. Who better?
So began my quest, back in fifth grade at Garfield Elementary School in Olympia, Washington, to rid the world of bad guys, one recess at a time.
I started my own A-Team. We put up posters around the school yard. We were ready for hire. You need some fifth graders to solve a problem? Come to us, no questions asked.
I was Murdock because I was borderline crazy. Blair Keithley, a guy who went to Annapolis and is now flying helicopters somewhere saving the U.S. from God knows who, and one of the smartest guys I know, was Hannibal because he could put plans together into a good plan, a plan that comes together. Quon Huong, my Vietnamese friend, was Face. He was a good looking fellow and popular with the ladies (don’t get me started about what those fourth grade girls said about him!). Finally, we needed a B.A. Baracus and who better to play the part than a thug with the initials B.A.? Brett Altmeyer was our B.A. Baracus. No one much liked him (me, Quon, and Blair included) but he was NFL linebacker big and didn’t take guff from anyone. He could also say, “Shut up, fool,” really funny.
We put up our posters. Sure we were supposed to be “underground” like the real A-Team but who would know we existed? We drew a picture of the sweet A-Team van on it. We gave them our names and where they could find us (math class, probably). We waited, four brothers (friends) of do-goodness, four friends (acquaintances) who would do what it took to make things right in the world, four men (pre-pubescent boys) ready to take on any challenge (so long as it was during recess and not during lunch because we liked eating lunch, bags of Fritos and Capri Suns in our bags).
A second grader, a small meek boy, came to us. “I lost my coat,” he said to us A-Team members, huddled near the four square court. “I’ll get in big trouble if I lose my coat,” he said.
”No problem,” Blair (Hannibal) said. “We’ll find your coat, son.”
And off we went, me, the crazed sugar-addled boy, Blair, bubble gum cigar in his mouth, Quon, hair nicely quaffed, and B.A., a lumbering ogre in a Totally Awesome T-shirt. It took all recess but we found the boy’s coat. It was in the bathroom, the one closest to the library. The face on the small meek boy who thought he had lost his coat but was found instead by the A-Team was worth everything we put into the group (almost nothing except the cost of copies that my mom did for us at her job at the middle school across town).
”Thank you,” the boy said to Quon (Face).
”Don’t thank me,” Quon said. “Thank the A-Team.”
”Thanks A-Team,” the boy said, glowing.
Ah, I love it when a plan comes together.
That was our only case. Our teacher, the evil Mrs. Tranum, our own Colonel Decker, put a stop to our role playing. “We can’t have these posters around the school. What are you doing? You can’t do that? It’s against the rules.”
”But Mrs. Tranum (Colonel Decker), we’re just doing good in the world. Don’t you want us to do good?”
”This is silly,” Mrs. Tranum (Satan?) said. “We can’t have you going around glorifying action stars on television.”
”But they do good. They’re do-gooders.”
”Sorry,” Mrs. Tranum (Satan) said. “You’re officially disbanded.”
We were disbanded. It was sad. We wondered why we were thwarted in our efforts to make Garfield Elementary School a safer happier place. We ate bubble gum cigars. We bought matching Totally Awesome T-shirts. We moved on to lip synching Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” album at recess, but it wasn’t the same. How could it?
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