I’m not saying that our Abraham Lincoln High School football coaches weren’t bright, it’s just that they didn’t figure out that there were two Dave Clark’s on the football team until they drafted the depth chart and couldn’t figure out how one guy could simultaneously play guard and tight-end. (No wonder we didn’t win very often).
In our little school, there were three of us, three David J. Clarks. I’m convinced that I still carry David James Clark’s ‘B’ instead of my ‘A’ on my official transcript--not that I’ve been holding a grudge all this time. But the fact that our history teacher was also a football coach does add credibility to my suspicion.
I’ve met a lot of David Clarks who are my age. Apparently the DC5 was so popular that when our parents produced male offspring they had a readily available name. I read that if you are a male child born into a Clark family during the ‘60’s you have a one-in-six chance of being named David. The Dave Clark Five became the Dave Clark thousands. For the record, my parents say that I was named after three Davids: King David of the Bible, Dave Clark of the DC5, and David Nelson from Ozzie and Harriet (my brother was named Ricky).
People give away their ages all the time. I know this because when I meet them, people who are my parent’s age will invariably mention the DC5. When I was the guest preacher for Dayna Kinkade at the Norwalk Christian Church, people of a certain age requested we sing “Glad All Over” as our opening hymn. I’ve never minded carrying the same name as the famous Dave Clark because I’ve been given an easy way to begin conversations with a whole generation of folks. As my hair grays, I worry that new people I meet will be disappointed when they learn that I’m not that Dave Clark. I’m beginning to identify with ESPN’s commercial about people getting their hopes dashed when they get to meet Michael Jordan, who turns out to be a middle-aged pudgy white guy.