by Doug Myers
WCHS Class of ’72
It was the spring of 1967, and the air around Webb City High carried a buzz of anticipation. As a seventh grader, my friends and I hurried toward Hatten Field, drawn by the legendary W Club Initiation – a spring ritual that held a strange mix of fascination and trepidation for those of us still dreaming of varsity letters.
Even then, I knew the W Club, a group of male athletes whose traditions stretched back to at least the faded pages of the 1935 King Jack Yearbook I’d once glimpsed, was more than just a social club.
They did good things for the school, I’d heard, but the initiation… that was the stuff of whispered stories, a rite of passage that even my youthful mind sensed might raise a few eyebrows in the years to come. Yet, the older guys who’d gone through it always insisted it was just good-natured fun, a way for teammates to bond, and I believed them. Any hint of real malice, they said, was frowned upon and long remembered.
Fast forward to the spring of 1970. Wrestling, a new sport championed by Mr. (Charlie) Meadows, had become my unexpected path to that coveted varsity letter. Those two wrestling moves I’d diligently practiced had paid off, and now, as a sophomore, my wish was coming true: I was going to join the W Club.
The day loomed, a mix of excitement and a nervous flutter in my stomach. I don’t recall any solemn oath or a secret handshake, so the inner workings of the club remained somewhat of a mystery.
The week leading up to the initiation took on a new dimension when we were tasked with a familiar shop class project under Mr. (Curtis) Kamler’s guidance: crafting a paddle. This wasn’t just another piece of wood; it was an instrument that would soon play a central role in our induction, both as a symbol and, I suspected with a growing unease, as something more tangible. Each swing of the sander, each careful rounding of the edges, carried a weight of anticipation for the unknown rituals that awaited.
Finally, the day arrived. My induction began with the responsibility of retrieving my assigned pony cart. My sponsor was George Mayes, the quarterback. Even before this official day, we had a unique dynamic. As sophomores, we were tasked with the less-than-glamorous job of polishing the upperclassmen’s football cleats.
George, being the untouchable quarterback during practice, somehow managed to get his cleats perpetually caked in mud. I often pictured him gleefully splashing in puddles after practice, a mischievous glint in his eye. A nagging thought kept surfacing: was this just a chore, or was George subtly breaking me in for what was to come?
With the pony cart in tow, I pulled it to George’s house. As he climbed in, he brandished his own newly crafted paddle I made for him, waving it with a grin that I couldn’t quite decipher – was it excitement, anticipation, or something else? My task was to pull him in the cart to the high school.
I remember the strain in my arms and legs, the rhythmic squeak of the cart’s wheels, and the curious glances from passing cars. I felt a small surge of relief that my route was direct; I’d heard stories that some initiates were forced to make detours for donuts or to pick up their sponsor’s girlfriends, adding layers of inconvenience and, likely, further opportunities for playful torment.
As we pulled into the high school parking lot, a knot of W Club members had already gathered, their own paddles held casually or tapped against their legs. A wave of self-consciousness washed over me as they began to order the initiates to perform various tasks for the amusement of the growing student body.
I remember the burning in my arms as I dropped for push-ups, the awkwardness of doing jumping jacks under the scrutiny of my peers, all while George sat in the pony cart, occasionally waving his paddle with a theatrical flourish. I was thankful that George and I didn’t share the same lunch hour, allowing me a brief respite from what I now recognized as the initial stages of hazing.
The school day itself passed in a strange calm, a deceptive lull before the main events scheduled for after classes.
Once the final bell rang, the pony carts reappeared. I found myself once again pulling George, this time from the high school toward Hatten Field, the site of that distant spectacle I’d witnessed years before. The sponsors, energized by the impending rituals, began racing each other, their shouts of “Mush!” “Step it up!” and competitive boasts filling the air. The paddles waved like batons in a bizarre parade. The exertion of pulling the cart, combined with the jeers and the general absurdity of the situation, gave me a fleeting understanding of how a sled dog might feel – a mix of dutiful obedience and a quiet yearning for the destination.
Upon arriving at the field, we were directed to the locker room. The air inside was thick with nervous energy and the faint smell of old athletic equipment. There, we donned dresses – brightly colored, often ill-fitting garments that immediately stripped away any remaining sense of dignity. The soft, unfamiliar fabric felt strange against my skin, a tangible symbol of the ridiculousness that was to come. This, I realized, was the first step in preparing us for the “rites” of initiation.
Stepping out of the locker room and onto the field felt like entering a bizarre arena. A significant portion of the student body had gathered, their faces a mixture of curiosity and anticipation, a collective hunger for the “carnage” I’d overheard whispered.
The initiation began with a barrage. Eggs rained down, splattering against our bodies, the initial shock quickly followed by a slimy, stinging sensation. Then came the syrup, cold and sticky, followed by the greasy slickness of STP and the dry, itching cloud of flour. It felt like being caught in a bizarre storm of kitchen and garage detritus. Spectators called out encouragement to the sponsors, egging them on (pun intended) to throw harder, to target specific individuals, or simply to create more general mayhem.
Amidst the chaos, there were brief, almost surreal moments of reprieve. We would be ordered to chase a girlfriend or another female spectator and give them a hug. Their shrieks of mock terror – “Stay away!” “You’d better not!” – and their attempts to flee added another layer of bizarre theater to the afternoon. Some escaped, their laughter echoing across the field; others were caught in our sticky embrace.
The syrup, STP, and flour were unpleasant, but the rapid-fire egg throwing was genuinely painful. We instinctively braced ourselves, turning our backs and hoping they would run out of ammunition. The feeling of broken eggshells and yolk coating my skin was repulsive, but by that point, it was just another layer in the growing tapestry of sticky, gooey concoctions that adhered to my body.
The swats from the paddles were delivered freely – a sharp sting on the backside for not following instructions or for failing to answer absurd questions like “What is the square root of 1,452,000?” The sponsors, of course, didn’t know the answer either, but they held the paddles, and that was all that mattered.
There were small moments of vindication. I remember a flicker of satisfaction when an egg, thrown with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm, actually struck one of the sponsors. And later, a small, almost imperceptible shove from a slime-covered initiate sent another sponsor stumbling. It wasn’t much, but in the midst of the chaos, it felt like a tiny rebellion.
One of the W Club members, I learned, had a connection to Bell Egg Farms, providing access to a truly memorable element of the initiation: a pit filled with eggs and other chicken byproducts (not feathers!). Being ordered to jump into that smelly, slimy, sticky pit felt like the culmination of the afternoon’s indignities. The viscous concoction clung to my legs, completing the total coating of my entire being in something truly foul.
Finally, after surviving the barrage of swats, eggs, syrup, and the horrors of the Bell Egg Farms pit, we were herded toward the final act: the paddle line. Each member stood in a row, offering a concluding swat as we exited the field. The sting on my backside was a somewhat painful punctuation mark to a truly bizarre afternoon.
Thankfully, the promise of a shower in the locker room spurred me forward. Shedding the sticky dress and the layers of grime felt like a shedding of the day’s absurdities. A more civilized portion of the day awaited: our induction banquet at Keller’s, where we were formally welcomed into the W Club.
Looking back, the W Club initiation was undeniably a product of its time and place. While certain aspects of it make me wince today, there’s no denying that it fostered a strange sense of camaraderie, a shared experience forged in the sticky chaos of that afternoon.
The tradition, I’m sure, evolved over the years, adapting to changing sensibilities and hopefully becoming less… messy.
My time in the W Club, from the bewildering initiation to the more conventional camaraderie of the meetings and banquets, remains a distinct and perhaps slightly surreal memory of my time at Webb City, a vivid reminder of how traditions, for better or worse, can shape our experiences and leave an indelible mark.
The messy initiation that Doug Myers endured didn’t sour him on the W Club. As a junior, he sponsored Danny Weber, who made Doug’s paddle. That initiation, in the spring of 1971, was the last with serious hazing. “There was an incident that pretty much killed the practice of hazing,” says Doug.
As a senior and club president in the spring of 1972, Doug oversaw the last W Club initiation which he says was much more subdued.
