Christmas morning, 1959. A skinny 12-year-old kid, one normally almost impossible to get jump-started in time to get him to school before the tardy bell, bounces out of bed at the crack of dawn and thunders down the hall, like a cutting horse after a runaway calf.
And there they were, artistically arrayed before the tree on a spread-out newspaper to keep the factory grease somewhat contained: 12 brand-new Victor Number 1