Before I owned the silver 1984 Toyota Celica GT Hatchback with power roof, windows, and doors, I owned a refurbished 10-speed bicycle, my vehicle of choice for traveling to school from my apartment during middle and high school. Like some deranged mailman, I set out on that straight handle-barred bike each morning at 6 a.m. in whatever weather the Board of Education deemed not detrimental for bus travel. And not being a skilled 'biker' as it were, I spent most of my time on the frail - and sometimes frosty - sidewalks avoiding people, dogs, and their leashes. as well as the cars driven by sleepy people, who couldn't care less about students on 10-speeds at 6 a.m. What made me look the most hysterical and ridiculous was the way I 'carried' my bag. For whatever reason, I did not like backpacks during middle and high school. I can't give a good reason why; I simply didn't want to have one. Instead, I carried a duffel bag, a big you-can-fit-all-of-your-books-in-it duffel bag. How does one carry such a bag when venturing to school? Not on one's back lest one break one's back at the age of 15. No, I 'fastened' the bag to the right handlebar and subsequently attempted to wobble the bike the 1.4 miles to the high school.
Of all the mornings I rode to school, I think I can choose a worst. I can give you no date apart from the fact that it was during high school, meaning between August 1991 and June 1995. The rain was falling hard. My mother made the suggestion that I call someone for a ride. Although a good idea, I could think of no 'someone' for whom it wouldn't be an inconvenience. My mother left for work, as she always did, leaving my brother and I to stare into the murky morning. Thinking I had no other choice, I wheeled my bike from the apartment and banged the wheels down the stairs to the front doors of the apartment complex. I 'fastened' my duffel bag to the right handlebar and opened the door. It wasn't raining; it was pouring. But, convinced I had no other choice, I pushed the bike into the rain, sat on the seat, and began pedaling. It would have been better had anything I was wearing been waterproof. But it wasn't. And my book bag? Same issue. Within the first half mile, my hair was as soaked as it had been prior to my post-shower towel drying that morning. By the one mile mark, my socks and school shirt were drenched. I could only imagine my books. And by the time I arrived at school, it looked as though I had driven off a diving board and into the deep end of a pool. I thought about going to my homeroom, but then thought better of it. Having been a nerd in high school, that might have been all the ammunition the other students needed to let loose. Instead, I walked into the office and simply said, 'I can't go to class like this.' Those blessed women agreed and allowed me to call my mother, who contacted someone to take me back to the apartment. I changed and returned to school.
It continued to rain all day.
And I had to ride back home...
Showing posts with label Lyman Hall. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lyman Hall. Show all posts
Monday, February 15, 2010
Monday, May 11, 2009
It's Sunday Scribblings Personal (On Monday): Healing
A Brief Note: I woke yesterday at 7 a.m. We were off to softball by 8. A game at 9:40 (win). Another at noon (win). And a final game at 2:30 (win). A good day at the fields. Called mom to no avail. Called the older white folks and chatted. Headed for a post-game beer. Arrived home at 8 exhausted. And didn't blog. So, I've decided to combine my Sunday blog topic with my Monday blog topic.
It was an autumn Monday in 1991. I know it was 1991 because I was a freshman in high school. Autumn, because that's when the bulk of football games are played. And a Monday because that's when the Junior Varsity team generally played their football games at Lyman Hall.
We the freshmen were practicing behind Lyman Hall's Fitzgerald Field while the Junior Varsity played someone in the Housatonic League, which at that time consisted of teams like Derby, Shelton, and Seymour as well as North Haven, Sheehan, and Lyman Hall. There I was on the defensive line running full speed drills. Pounding each other incessantly. That's how our coach liked it. Some of us liked it too. I had my days of liking it. And then there were others that I didn't enjoy so much.
This was one of the latter.
There I was - I remember it rather clearly, which is saying a lot since I'm not one of those who remembers plays of which I was a part on some cold Friday on God knows what field during the early 90s. The running back - Scott, number 48 - plowed forward, almost out of my reach. Almost. I stuck out my hands and grabbed for anything I could. I succeeded in grabbing. But not in securing a handle on the pads. He drifted by like a bad dream. I fell to the ground.
It was then that I felt something weird. No pain. Just a weird sensation on my left hand. Two pieces of skin that normally don't touch. A finger that doesn't usually point in that direction. My ring finger had been dislocated. It pointed over towards my index finger. Almost horizontal (if you consider that fingers normally point vertically).
I stood. I think some of my teammates ogled the sight of a displaced finger. But I can't be certain as I was concerned only with putting it back the way it had been. The coach took one look and immediately decided it needed to be evaluated. Duh! He therefore took me to the ambulance that had to be present at any football game played in the state. The EMT sat me down and took a look. 'It looks like we'll need to take you to the hospital.' I looked at him with utter fear. He read my face. 'It's because we can't risk making it worse. And we're not doctors.'
I did not want to go to the hospital. The last time I had been for a serious injury, I had had multiple stitches in my head. Not to mention that if the ambulance carted me off to the hospital, I would have been responsible for the disruption of the JV game. I wasn't particularly thrilled about either possibility. So, the EMT searched the stands for a doctor. And found one.
I can't remember that doctor well. A seemingly nice middle-aged gentleman with a good bedside manner. He asked me if I wanted him to fix my finger. I told him I did. Then he started talking to me. Calmly. Too calmly, I realized only later. After he jerked my finger and put it back the way it was supposed to be. He subsequently gave me the disclaimer. 'You should go see a specialist to ensure that you didn't break anything in there.'
No ambulance ride. I sat out the rest of the practice - though I think the coach expected that with five semi-functioning fingers on my left hand, I should have been able to rejoin the practice.
That week, I visited a specialist. He commented that the doctor had done well. Put a splint on it and told me to take a week off from football. A reprieve. I kept the splint in place, waiting patiently for it to heal. I took off the permanent splint to find a crooked finger. 'It will be fine' he explained to me. I just had to do some exercises so that it would heal normally. So, I wore a splint that could be removed a few times a day for the exercises.
I exercised that finger. Had to make sure the tendon was stretched well enough to allow the finger to straighten out. I exercised. And exercised. And concentrated on making it go back to the way it was. I pushed that knuckle to the point of rather extreme pain. Day after day. Night after night. Expecting some day that it would miraculously appear as it did prior to that day.
After a year trying to exercise, I came to grips with the fact that my finger would be crooked forever. And so it healed crookedly. Scar tissue and tendon. A gross marvel for friends and family alike. A tribute to a doctor who couldn't read an x-ray. A prime candidate for future arthritis. And a handy keepsake from my days as a Lyman Hall Trojan.
I wouldn't trade this little unique piece of me for anything.
It was an autumn Monday in 1991. I know it was 1991 because I was a freshman in high school. Autumn, because that's when the bulk of football games are played. And a Monday because that's when the Junior Varsity team generally played their football games at Lyman Hall.
We the freshmen were practicing behind Lyman Hall's Fitzgerald Field while the Junior Varsity played someone in the Housatonic League, which at that time consisted of teams like Derby, Shelton, and Seymour as well as North Haven, Sheehan, and Lyman Hall. There I was on the defensive line running full speed drills. Pounding each other incessantly. That's how our coach liked it. Some of us liked it too. I had my days of liking it. And then there were others that I didn't enjoy so much.
This was one of the latter.
There I was - I remember it rather clearly, which is saying a lot since I'm not one of those who remembers plays of which I was a part on some cold Friday on God knows what field during the early 90s. The running back - Scott, number 48 - plowed forward, almost out of my reach. Almost. I stuck out my hands and grabbed for anything I could. I succeeded in grabbing. But not in securing a handle on the pads. He drifted by like a bad dream. I fell to the ground.
It was then that I felt something weird. No pain. Just a weird sensation on my left hand. Two pieces of skin that normally don't touch. A finger that doesn't usually point in that direction. My ring finger had been dislocated. It pointed over towards my index finger. Almost horizontal (if you consider that fingers normally point vertically).
I stood. I think some of my teammates ogled the sight of a displaced finger. But I can't be certain as I was concerned only with putting it back the way it had been. The coach took one look and immediately decided it needed to be evaluated. Duh! He therefore took me to the ambulance that had to be present at any football game played in the state. The EMT sat me down and took a look. 'It looks like we'll need to take you to the hospital.' I looked at him with utter fear. He read my face. 'It's because we can't risk making it worse. And we're not doctors.'
I did not want to go to the hospital. The last time I had been for a serious injury, I had had multiple stitches in my head. Not to mention that if the ambulance carted me off to the hospital, I would have been responsible for the disruption of the JV game. I wasn't particularly thrilled about either possibility. So, the EMT searched the stands for a doctor. And found one.
I can't remember that doctor well. A seemingly nice middle-aged gentleman with a good bedside manner. He asked me if I wanted him to fix my finger. I told him I did. Then he started talking to me. Calmly. Too calmly, I realized only later. After he jerked my finger and put it back the way it was supposed to be. He subsequently gave me the disclaimer. 'You should go see a specialist to ensure that you didn't break anything in there.'
No ambulance ride. I sat out the rest of the practice - though I think the coach expected that with five semi-functioning fingers on my left hand, I should have been able to rejoin the practice.
That week, I visited a specialist. He commented that the doctor had done well. Put a splint on it and told me to take a week off from football. A reprieve. I kept the splint in place, waiting patiently for it to heal. I took off the permanent splint to find a crooked finger. 'It will be fine' he explained to me. I just had to do some exercises so that it would heal normally. So, I wore a splint that could be removed a few times a day for the exercises.
I exercised that finger. Had to make sure the tendon was stretched well enough to allow the finger to straighten out. I exercised. And exercised. And concentrated on making it go back to the way it was. I pushed that knuckle to the point of rather extreme pain. Day after day. Night after night. Expecting some day that it would miraculously appear as it did prior to that day.
After a year trying to exercise, I came to grips with the fact that my finger would be crooked forever. And so it healed crookedly. Scar tissue and tendon. A gross marvel for friends and family alike. A tribute to a doctor who couldn't read an x-ray. A prime candidate for future arthritis. And a handy keepsake from my days as a Lyman Hall Trojan.
I wouldn't trade this little unique piece of me for anything.
Monday, April 20, 2009
It's Personal: Assassination
You might read the title and automatically think TMI. (That's 'Too Much Information' for those who don't try to abbreviate every single common English phrase known to man.) And if it was associated with anything even closely related to the act to which it refers, you'd be right. But it's not.
Instead, Assassination was - and may still be - a game in which mostly males at Lyman Hall High School participated. The game's rules were easy. Each person who chose to be an assassin received a piece of paper with another assassin's name on it. (The assassin was therefore both assassin and potential victim.) The assassin would then 'assassinate' his victim and take from him the piece of paper that the victim was trying to assassinate. Last one alive won. Much like Highlander.
There were also bodyguards. Bodyguards could protect assassins going so far as to be 'shot' themselves, which neutralized them for 24 hours. Bodyguards could also neutralize other bodyguards. But bodyguards could not assassinate.
The only limitations? Assassins could not assassinate on school grounds or in a victim's home.
The weapons of choice? Water guns.
During senior year, one of the assassins - a rather popular kid and a fellow football teammate named Jason - asked me to be his bodyguard, mostly because I owned a car and often drove him home from school. Having always been the consummate goody-goody and fearing any repercussions, I hesitated. Until one day, a guy by the name of Beau with whom I had played both football and Little League baseball - a bodyguard for another assassin - chased my car in order to get me to stop so he could forcibly carry Jason off to the assassin who would kill him. Beau broke the antenna on my Silver 1984 Toyota Celica GT Hatchback with power doors, windows, and moon roof.
Not happy. So, I joined.
Not only did I protect Jason, I also acted as an accomplice in his attempts to assassinate. I keenly remember one evening when we were following our target. We followed that target into the Wallingford Country Club parking lot. Little did we know that the assassin that had Jason's name was tailing us as well. The target and the assassin had teamed up to eliminate Jason, a common tactic. We found ourselves trapped. Just when we were convinced that we would have to make a mad dash across the course, a few men ran out to us from the country club. The target and assassin peeled away in opposite directions. The men approached the vehicle.
'Are you okay?' they asked. We answered affirmatively. 'It looks like they wanted you pretty badly,' one of them continued. 'I'm a cop, you want me to call this in?'
'Uh, no' I replied sheepishly.
It seems we had happened upon a policeman's ball or some such thing. Just our luck. We talked our way out of it without giving the game away and were on our way home.
During another instance, Jason and I were looking for his target near the section of Durham and Old Rock Hill Road (close to where the target lived). When we saw said target drive past us, Jason started yelling for me to turn around. I stopped in the middle of the street - idiot that I was - and backed up. I then put the car in drive and hit the gas harder than I intended. I also thought the Silver 1984 Toyota Celica GT Hatchback with power doors, windows, and moon roof had a better turning radius. I was wrong. And thus I slammed the right side of the car into a telephone pole.
Not the brightest thing I've ever done.
It was at that moment the consummate goody goody almost lost his lunch. First thought: the old man's gonna kill me. Second thought: how much is this gonna cost? Third thought: what the hell was I thinking?
Jason sat beside me, unusually silent.
'I guess I should go see what damage there is,' I said solemnly.
I exited the car and rounded to the right side. There in all its blackened beauty was my bumper, virtually untouched. And there was the telephone pole with a big black dent in it. I couldn't believe it. I walked back and sat down in the driver's seat and said, 'no damage.' Jason leapt from the car and surveyed it himself. He came back laughing hysterically. 'You hit a f@#$ing telephone pole,' he exclaimed.
Never lived that one down.
Then it came. That day when Jason told me he had been assassinated. Just walking out of his cousin's house, he was 'attacked' by our friend and teammate Jesse. It seems Jesse had lain in wait for nearly two hours waiting for his prey. And he let loose a blast that soaked Jason.
And thus my assassination experience had ceased. Jason made it to the top five, I think, but at the end of that game, there was only room enough for one.
Instead, Assassination was - and may still be - a game in which mostly males at Lyman Hall High School participated. The game's rules were easy. Each person who chose to be an assassin received a piece of paper with another assassin's name on it. (The assassin was therefore both assassin and potential victim.) The assassin would then 'assassinate' his victim and take from him the piece of paper that the victim was trying to assassinate. Last one alive won. Much like Highlander.
There were also bodyguards. Bodyguards could protect assassins going so far as to be 'shot' themselves, which neutralized them for 24 hours. Bodyguards could also neutralize other bodyguards. But bodyguards could not assassinate.
The only limitations? Assassins could not assassinate on school grounds or in a victim's home.
The weapons of choice? Water guns.
During senior year, one of the assassins - a rather popular kid and a fellow football teammate named Jason - asked me to be his bodyguard, mostly because I owned a car and often drove him home from school. Having always been the consummate goody-goody and fearing any repercussions, I hesitated. Until one day, a guy by the name of Beau with whom I had played both football and Little League baseball - a bodyguard for another assassin - chased my car in order to get me to stop so he could forcibly carry Jason off to the assassin who would kill him. Beau broke the antenna on my Silver 1984 Toyota Celica GT Hatchback with power doors, windows, and moon roof.
Not happy. So, I joined.
Not only did I protect Jason, I also acted as an accomplice in his attempts to assassinate. I keenly remember one evening when we were following our target. We followed that target into the Wallingford Country Club parking lot. Little did we know that the assassin that had Jason's name was tailing us as well. The target and the assassin had teamed up to eliminate Jason, a common tactic. We found ourselves trapped. Just when we were convinced that we would have to make a mad dash across the course, a few men ran out to us from the country club. The target and assassin peeled away in opposite directions. The men approached the vehicle.
'Are you okay?' they asked. We answered affirmatively. 'It looks like they wanted you pretty badly,' one of them continued. 'I'm a cop, you want me to call this in?'
'Uh, no' I replied sheepishly.
It seems we had happened upon a policeman's ball or some such thing. Just our luck. We talked our way out of it without giving the game away and were on our way home.
During another instance, Jason and I were looking for his target near the section of Durham and Old Rock Hill Road (close to where the target lived). When we saw said target drive past us, Jason started yelling for me to turn around. I stopped in the middle of the street - idiot that I was - and backed up. I then put the car in drive and hit the gas harder than I intended. I also thought the Silver 1984 Toyota Celica GT Hatchback with power doors, windows, and moon roof had a better turning radius. I was wrong. And thus I slammed the right side of the car into a telephone pole.
Not the brightest thing I've ever done.
It was at that moment the consummate goody goody almost lost his lunch. First thought: the old man's gonna kill me. Second thought: how much is this gonna cost? Third thought: what the hell was I thinking?
Jason sat beside me, unusually silent.
'I guess I should go see what damage there is,' I said solemnly.
I exited the car and rounded to the right side. There in all its blackened beauty was my bumper, virtually untouched. And there was the telephone pole with a big black dent in it. I couldn't believe it. I walked back and sat down in the driver's seat and said, 'no damage.' Jason leapt from the car and surveyed it himself. He came back laughing hysterically. 'You hit a f@#$ing telephone pole,' he exclaimed.
Never lived that one down.
Then it came. That day when Jason told me he had been assassinated. Just walking out of his cousin's house, he was 'attacked' by our friend and teammate Jesse. It seems Jesse had lain in wait for nearly two hours waiting for his prey. And he let loose a blast that soaked Jason.
And thus my assassination experience had ceased. Jason made it to the top five, I think, but at the end of that game, there was only room enough for one.
Monday, December 22, 2008
A Christmas Story... No, not that one...
It has now been 16 years since this story began. And 13.5 years since it ended. It's a Christmas Story... of sorts.
I was a sophomore, taking Honors Algebra 2. Until that class I was not particularly good in math, but my teacher proved to be a God-send. She had a knack for delivering her material so that everyone could get it, including me.
A note about me. I was a very quiet student in high school. I rarely raised my hand in class for fear of looking foolish or making a mistake. That fact becomes important right about...
Now. So there I was sitting in this teacher's classroom in the middle of December. The class was about to begin. This small blond-haired woman in her early to mid-40s stood in front of the class and explained to us that she was a Christmas fanatic. She loved everything about Christmas. The cartoon specials. The movies. The decorations. All of it. And each year, she explained, she asked random questions that, if answered correctly, would score the responder points on a quiz or test.
The questions began that day. The first question: Who was the bad guy in 'Santa Claus Is Comin to Town'? It was worth 5 points on the next quiz. I knew it, but I didn't. Not the name anyway. But I knew who she was talking about. I began squirming in my seat, and like any good teacher would, she noticed me and put me on the spot. My face caught on fire as I turned bright red. 'I know who it is, but I can't remember the name.' She looked away. 'I remember the song, though,' I blurted. The teacher turned and smiled an evil smile. She then said that she would give me 10 points if I sang one verse of the song in front of the class. My face went from red to scarlet. My mind raced, vying between the 10 points on the next quiz and the incessant teasing I'd sustain for the remaining 2.5 years of high school. As anyone who knows me understands, I decided to sing. And I got the 10 points.
The teacher then announced that there would be weekly questions - for which I was not eligible to receive quiz points - leading up to the Christmas quiz that would be good for 10 points towards any test for the rest of the year. Each week, the teacher asked a new question. And each week, I knew the answer, passing it along to a peer. When the day of the Christmas quiz came, the teacher said that she would be handling a tad bit differently than in years past. Instead of giving 10 points to the person / people who had the most correct answers, it would be a competition. The class against me. If they won, everyone in the class would receive 5 points towards any test. And if I won, I would get 15 points. I accepted the challenge.
There were 20 questions. Name the town in 'It's a Wonderful Life.' What did Frosty say when he came alive? What was the name of the miner in 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?' What was Mrs. Claus' first name in 'Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town?' In which state did the ski lodge reside in 'White Christmas'? How was it that Santa Claus was proven to be who he was in court in 'Miracle on 34th Street?' The class answered 17 correctly.
I answered 18.
I didn't need those points the rest of the year. I aced the class, in fact, because the teacher was so good. I did not have her for Pre-Calculus junior year. But I did have her for Calculus my senior year.
I did well in Calculus. I enjoyed it, in fact. I struggled, at times, but kept a high B to low A average. At the end of my senior year, the teacher calculated my grade. 89.3 a B+. Not bad.
What does this have to do with the Christmas Quiz I 'won' sophomore year? Well, there was a policy at Lyman Hall that allowed those students who received an A in a class in the second semester to forego the final in that subject. When the teacher showed me my grade, I was understandably disappointed. But she said, 'do you remember that Christmas Quiz from sophomore year? I think that's enough to give you an 89.5. And that rounds up to a 90. Enjoy the summer and get yourself ready for college.'
That was the best delayed Christmas gift I've ever received...
And the one I didn't get: the Winter Warlock
I was a sophomore, taking Honors Algebra 2. Until that class I was not particularly good in math, but my teacher proved to be a God-send. She had a knack for delivering her material so that everyone could get it, including me.
A note about me. I was a very quiet student in high school. I rarely raised my hand in class for fear of looking foolish or making a mistake. That fact becomes important right about...
Now. So there I was sitting in this teacher's classroom in the middle of December. The class was about to begin. This small blond-haired woman in her early to mid-40s stood in front of the class and explained to us that she was a Christmas fanatic. She loved everything about Christmas. The cartoon specials. The movies. The decorations. All of it. And each year, she explained, she asked random questions that, if answered correctly, would score the responder points on a quiz or test.
The questions began that day. The first question: Who was the bad guy in 'Santa Claus Is Comin to Town'? It was worth 5 points on the next quiz. I knew it, but I didn't. Not the name anyway. But I knew who she was talking about. I began squirming in my seat, and like any good teacher would, she noticed me and put me on the spot. My face caught on fire as I turned bright red. 'I know who it is, but I can't remember the name.' She looked away. 'I remember the song, though,' I blurted. The teacher turned and smiled an evil smile. She then said that she would give me 10 points if I sang one verse of the song in front of the class. My face went from red to scarlet. My mind raced, vying between the 10 points on the next quiz and the incessant teasing I'd sustain for the remaining 2.5 years of high school. As anyone who knows me understands, I decided to sing. And I got the 10 points.
The teacher then announced that there would be weekly questions - for which I was not eligible to receive quiz points - leading up to the Christmas quiz that would be good for 10 points towards any test for the rest of the year. Each week, the teacher asked a new question. And each week, I knew the answer, passing it along to a peer. When the day of the Christmas quiz came, the teacher said that she would be handling a tad bit differently than in years past. Instead of giving 10 points to the person / people who had the most correct answers, it would be a competition. The class against me. If they won, everyone in the class would receive 5 points towards any test. And if I won, I would get 15 points. I accepted the challenge.
There were 20 questions. Name the town in 'It's a Wonderful Life.' What did Frosty say when he came alive? What was the name of the miner in 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?' What was Mrs. Claus' first name in 'Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town?' In which state did the ski lodge reside in 'White Christmas'? How was it that Santa Claus was proven to be who he was in court in 'Miracle on 34th Street?' The class answered 17 correctly.
I answered 18.
I didn't need those points the rest of the year. I aced the class, in fact, because the teacher was so good. I did not have her for Pre-Calculus junior year. But I did have her for Calculus my senior year.
I did well in Calculus. I enjoyed it, in fact. I struggled, at times, but kept a high B to low A average. At the end of my senior year, the teacher calculated my grade. 89.3 a B+. Not bad.
What does this have to do with the Christmas Quiz I 'won' sophomore year? Well, there was a policy at Lyman Hall that allowed those students who received an A in a class in the second semester to forego the final in that subject. When the teacher showed me my grade, I was understandably disappointed. But she said, 'do you remember that Christmas Quiz from sophomore year? I think that's enough to give you an 89.5. And that rounds up to a 90. Enjoy the summer and get yourself ready for college.'
That was the best delayed Christmas gift I've ever received...
And the one I didn't get: the Winter Warlock
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
How I Met Jared
I had heard of him in sixth grade at Dag Hammarskjold Middle School. An eccentric student in my grade but not in my team of teachers. I had Englehart and Brown. I forget who he had. He had come from another elementary school - Pond Hill, I believe though I could be wrong - and so, I had had no interactions with him. Just his name and some hearsay.
I met him in seventh grade. We had both been placed with the same 'team' of teachers. The 'upper' level team of Mr. Germanese, Mr. Truehart, and Mrs. Economopolous (who we understandably called Mrs. E). We formed an odd sort of friendship that year. I, the geeky recluse; he, the eccentric outcast. I remember he began calling me an Irish potato bug, or something of the sort. And he had a habit of using polysyllabic words that confused even the teachers.
I specifically remember a time when he came over my father's house with his skis and ski boots to sled down the hill we had in the backyard while my brother and I use an inner tube - a very steep hill. After we had finished, we had dinner. My stepbrother was there, and he decided that he wanted to try on the ski boots. Jared matter-of-factly stated 'Please refrain from wearing my boots.' My stepbrother, taken aback by not only the politeness but also the language, literally guffawed and ran to his room, continuing his hysterical laughter. But that was Jared.
Our frienship continued through middle school and into high school. We both decided to play football. And we were always compared by the coach. Whether King of the Hill or Ball in the Ring, Coach Scott pitted the brainiacs against each other. Oh, and Jared may be shorter than I - well, now he is - but he's very much more compact than I. In other words, I normally got the worst of it. He broke his hand halfway through the season, and didn't return to football. Then again, in college he played rugby. He liked full contact sport.
But it wasn't on the field that we learned to be the best of friends anyway. It was in the school. We helped each other with anything and everything. He credits me with getting through Munley's precalc and Tetreault's calc classes - I still think he's full of it - and he did his share of helping me when it came to science, English, and even history. Because we had the same classes, we always sat together at lunch. Ribbing each other and our other friends. Talking about the latest news, whether political or familial. There wasn't a school day that went by when we didn't see each other.
Some of the times I remember best? Jared most likely wouldn't want me revealing some of them. So I will anway.
Freshman year in Mrs. Johnson's class - she looked rather like a white version of Yoda - Jared thought it would be funny to enclose himself entirely in his altogether ridiculously large bag. He actually zipped himself in. When Mrs. Johnson spied the bag moving in the back of the room, she - rather bewildered - sent him to the office.
I also recall a time when Jared did worse on a test than he expected - instead of an A+ he received a B+. He crumpled the paper and ate it. Yes, ate it.
In French class his freshman year, he decided that he would not take the name Francois. Instead, he would be Framboise - which he kept as his French name all four years. It means raspberry.
During high school, Jared would encourage all of his friends to scale the walls of Rock Hill school for no reason in particular. On Saturday nights. Yes, when others were out experiementing with normal things, we were finding ways to climb atop schools and not be noticed by the police.
Jared loved - and most likely still loves - paintball. I played only once with my friends. I had a slingshot and did rather well. Until the end, when I was outflanked, ran, tripped, and fell. Jared approached me confidently and fired at my stomach. I was pissed at him for a week.
During our senior year, he gave me rides to school. In the car, we listened to one of two things. They Might Be Giants or Rush Limbaugh. 'Nuff said.
Boy could he write. But, his handwriting? Completely illegible. I actually had teachers ask me to interpret his handwriting so they could grade his papers.
It turns out Jared was the valedictorian our senior year. By far. I was somewhere in the mix in that top percentage too, but he took the cake. The most intelligent and talented person I'd had the pleasure of meeting in my tenure at Lyman Hall.
He went to Middlebury, acing everything he did. Then he went to med school at Columbia. He joined the Air Force. And now he's working in Boston, eminently successful and as smart as ever.
We stay in touch. Maybe once a month. Well, normally longer. But that doesn't change the fact that he has been - and is - the best friend I've had the opportunity to know for the longest period of time. Almost twenty years...
I met him in seventh grade. We had both been placed with the same 'team' of teachers. The 'upper' level team of Mr. Germanese, Mr. Truehart, and Mrs. Economopolous (who we understandably called Mrs. E). We formed an odd sort of friendship that year. I, the geeky recluse; he, the eccentric outcast. I remember he began calling me an Irish potato bug, or something of the sort. And he had a habit of using polysyllabic words that confused even the teachers.
I specifically remember a time when he came over my father's house with his skis and ski boots to sled down the hill we had in the backyard while my brother and I use an inner tube - a very steep hill. After we had finished, we had dinner. My stepbrother was there, and he decided that he wanted to try on the ski boots. Jared matter-of-factly stated 'Please refrain from wearing my boots.' My stepbrother, taken aback by not only the politeness but also the language, literally guffawed and ran to his room, continuing his hysterical laughter. But that was Jared.
Our frienship continued through middle school and into high school. We both decided to play football. And we were always compared by the coach. Whether King of the Hill or Ball in the Ring, Coach Scott pitted the brainiacs against each other. Oh, and Jared may be shorter than I - well, now he is - but he's very much more compact than I. In other words, I normally got the worst of it. He broke his hand halfway through the season, and didn't return to football. Then again, in college he played rugby. He liked full contact sport.
But it wasn't on the field that we learned to be the best of friends anyway. It was in the school. We helped each other with anything and everything. He credits me with getting through Munley's precalc and Tetreault's calc classes - I still think he's full of it - and he did his share of helping me when it came to science, English, and even history. Because we had the same classes, we always sat together at lunch. Ribbing each other and our other friends. Talking about the latest news, whether political or familial. There wasn't a school day that went by when we didn't see each other.
Some of the times I remember best? Jared most likely wouldn't want me revealing some of them. So I will anway.
Freshman year in Mrs. Johnson's class - she looked rather like a white version of Yoda - Jared thought it would be funny to enclose himself entirely in his altogether ridiculously large bag. He actually zipped himself in. When Mrs. Johnson spied the bag moving in the back of the room, she - rather bewildered - sent him to the office.
I also recall a time when Jared did worse on a test than he expected - instead of an A+ he received a B+. He crumpled the paper and ate it. Yes, ate it.
In French class his freshman year, he decided that he would not take the name Francois. Instead, he would be Framboise - which he kept as his French name all four years. It means raspberry.
During high school, Jared would encourage all of his friends to scale the walls of Rock Hill school for no reason in particular. On Saturday nights. Yes, when others were out experiementing with normal things, we were finding ways to climb atop schools and not be noticed by the police.
Jared loved - and most likely still loves - paintball. I played only once with my friends. I had a slingshot and did rather well. Until the end, when I was outflanked, ran, tripped, and fell. Jared approached me confidently and fired at my stomach. I was pissed at him for a week.
During our senior year, he gave me rides to school. In the car, we listened to one of two things. They Might Be Giants or Rush Limbaugh. 'Nuff said.
Boy could he write. But, his handwriting? Completely illegible. I actually had teachers ask me to interpret his handwriting so they could grade his papers.
It turns out Jared was the valedictorian our senior year. By far. I was somewhere in the mix in that top percentage too, but he took the cake. The most intelligent and talented person I'd had the pleasure of meeting in my tenure at Lyman Hall.
He went to Middlebury, acing everything he did. Then he went to med school at Columbia. He joined the Air Force. And now he's working in Boston, eminently successful and as smart as ever.
We stay in touch. Maybe once a month. Well, normally longer. But that doesn't change the fact that he has been - and is - the best friend I've had the opportunity to know for the longest period of time. Almost twenty years...
Monday, October 6, 2008
A Look Back: Freshman Football
August 1991. I sat in the old man's Astro van, silent as a corpse. As I recall, he retrieved me from the apartment eager to see me off to this new thing we decided I would try. Football. Some game I had seen from afar. Watching the Giants. Hating Buddy Ryan and the Eagles. Not having much of a clue otherwise. On that short trip from the apartment to the back doors of Lyman Hall, I knew that I wasn't ready for whatever it was I had agreed to do.
I arrived, said goodbye to the old man, and opened the heavy back door of the high school. There, standing on either side of the short hallway were about 30 of my classmates. All of them stared at me in disbelief. In their eyes, the phrase 'what's he doing here?' I knew the look because, if I had been a fly on the wall, I'd have asked myself the same question.
Long story short, I was the most introverted of introverts in middle school. I had few friends and little interest in friendship with anyone beyond those friends. My life was schoolwork. With an occasional little league baseball game in the spring. So, for me to have walked into the gym to play football was like Edward Scissorhands going out to become a pitcher.
One of the freshman coaches taught me hot to adorn myself with the football gear. Hip pads. Knee pads. Shoulder pads. Helmet. Mouthpiece. It takes a little while the first time.
And we proceeded with what we called double sessions and what others call two-a-days. I had no idea what I was in for. I got my assed kicked. And I was terrible. I couldn't catch a football worth a damn, so I certainly wasn't meant to be a receiver. I had no speed; running back and quarterback were out. Linebacker too. That left the line. I was 5'8", 150. Only 13 when I entered high school. And I was a lineman. That's why I got my ass kicked.
As if double sessions weren't enough, there was also the mandatory hazing for freshmen. Singing 'I'm a Little Teapot' in front of the others. (We continued singing the song every so often in the school cafeteria.) Oh, those seniors were an interesting group. Some would say mean. Others would say great football players. I'd say both. We had different types of relay races every day at lunch. The one I remember most, for whatever reason, was grape racing. The freshmen competed in racing grapes across the ground... with our tongues. Love that gritty sidewalk taste to this day.
Double sessions did actually end. And school began.
Every day except Sundays, from August to November 1991, I dragged myself down the high school's halls after classes and into the lockerroom. Every God forsaken day. The others wouldn't look at me. They didn't want to see the pain in my face. And I didn't want to see the pain in theirs. We'd see each other soon enough. Through those facemasks. In the dirt and muck and mud. In the creek at the bottom of the sandy precipice. We just walked together, dead men to the gallows.
Freshman football at Lyman Hall was not a sport. It wasn't about learning a game. It wasn't even about spending time with friends. Freshman football was nothing but a quarter-long nightmare inflicted by the Varsity Head Coach's son. We were at war, he'd tell us. We had to defeat the enemy. There was no room for the weak. Just the strong. Intelligence? Agility? There was no place for such attributes. Just unmitigated bloodlust.
There was a drill he called 'Ball in the Ring'. He, or one of the coaches, yelled the name of one unsuspecting victim. And then he threw the ball to another. The goal? The two victims run straight at each other and see if the impact knocks one or both out. If one of the two did not run directly at the other, he did it again. And again. And again. Until he was dizzy from the hits or until he got it right.
There was another drill. A classic. King of the Hill. Behind our playfield was a creek. Leading down to that creek was a sharp decline covered with beach sand. Everyone, in their full pads, skidded and slid down the hill until the entire team stood in the polluted creek. Again, the coach would call two unsuspecting victims' names. The two would battle up through the sand, throwing each other, punching, jabbing, kicking. Each one doing anything in his power to make the other succumb. The one who made it to the top claimed victory. The one who didn't remained at the bottom waiting for his next shot.
When we weren't doing 'Ball in the Ring' or 'King of the Hill' we hit. Sideline hitting. Open field hitting. Straight on hitting. Hitting from a sprint. Hitting on the line. Through the rain. The sun. The brisk chill of autumn. From 2 p.m. when school ended until 6 p.m. when the coaches stopped asking if we wanted more. We hit. And as the year progressed, we lost one. Then another. Then another. We started at just around 25 souls in August. We finished with 15 in November.
On Thursday November 21, 1991 the final 15 souls celebrated. After that final hit, we exhaled collectively; we had succeeded in braving the storm of freshman football like so many other before us. And we let our coaches know. We had but one game remaining, and the coaches could do nothing more to us. We went into the lockerroom, gathered our belongings, and waited for our respective parents, siblings, and friends to come get us.
On Friday, November 22nd it rained. No, it didn't rain. It poured. The rain had started the night before. I heard it when Bonnie Raitt sang that God awful song, Something to Talk About. It just didn't stop. All day. All freaking day! But it's football, I said to myself, we'll play in this. I spoke these words in the hallways to my teammates. Yes, they said, we'll play. We have to play.
We didn't play.
Instead, we had a practice in the gym that evening. A practice in the gym meant minimal hitting and maximum running. We ran until we dropped. Literally. Baseline to baseline. Suicides. All sprinting. With the pads on. Sprint again. When we couldn't sprint with the pads on anymore, we took them off and sprinted more. And sprinted. And sprinted.
When 7 p.m. rolled around, the coach smiled and told us he'd see us the following day. When he left the gym, we all looked into each others' eyes and witnessed the utter terror. Another practice. Another session in torture.
I went home that evening and wept. Yes, I wept. I told my mother I wasn't going back, that I was quitting football forever. I couldn't bear another practice. I couldn't bear another go at 'Ball in the Ring' or 'King of the Hill'. I just couldn't. And I wouldn't. I refused. But it was all an act. I knew I would go. Because I'd have to deal with my father if I didn't. Because I'd have to explain it to my teammates. Explain to them why I had quit. And I wasn't going to do that.
The next day, we watched as the sun rose over a damp field. There was not a person in sight. All the other fall sports had ended. Even the varsity team had the luxury of this Saturday off. I had always taken some solace in the fact that someone else was watching just in case this crazy man tried some stunt that was beyond comprehension. But, on that day, he had the freedom to do whatever he wanted. After stretching, he screamed to the heavens 'Good Morning, Vietnam!' and proceeded to have us hit each other in every way imaginable. 'Ball in the Ring'. 'King of the Hill'. And every other variation, including some he had seemingly imagined over that previous rainy night. By noon, our spirits and bodies were broken. We limped off the field. There was no boasting; there were no comments. We would not test the football gods again.
We went out and played valiantly that Monday against our crosstown rival, the Sheehan Titans. But they were too good, too strong. And we had all of 15 people playing against their significantly deeper sideline of at least 30.
I don't think we won a game that year.
But, my God, we learned how to be tough.
I arrived, said goodbye to the old man, and opened the heavy back door of the high school. There, standing on either side of the short hallway were about 30 of my classmates. All of them stared at me in disbelief. In their eyes, the phrase 'what's he doing here?' I knew the look because, if I had been a fly on the wall, I'd have asked myself the same question.
Long story short, I was the most introverted of introverts in middle school. I had few friends and little interest in friendship with anyone beyond those friends. My life was schoolwork. With an occasional little league baseball game in the spring. So, for me to have walked into the gym to play football was like Edward Scissorhands going out to become a pitcher.
One of the freshman coaches taught me hot to adorn myself with the football gear. Hip pads. Knee pads. Shoulder pads. Helmet. Mouthpiece. It takes a little while the first time.
And we proceeded with what we called double sessions and what others call two-a-days. I had no idea what I was in for. I got my assed kicked. And I was terrible. I couldn't catch a football worth a damn, so I certainly wasn't meant to be a receiver. I had no speed; running back and quarterback were out. Linebacker too. That left the line. I was 5'8", 150. Only 13 when I entered high school. And I was a lineman. That's why I got my ass kicked.
As if double sessions weren't enough, there was also the mandatory hazing for freshmen. Singing 'I'm a Little Teapot' in front of the others. (We continued singing the song every so often in the school cafeteria.) Oh, those seniors were an interesting group. Some would say mean. Others would say great football players. I'd say both. We had different types of relay races every day at lunch. The one I remember most, for whatever reason, was grape racing. The freshmen competed in racing grapes across the ground... with our tongues. Love that gritty sidewalk taste to this day.
Double sessions did actually end. And school began.
Every day except Sundays, from August to November 1991, I dragged myself down the high school's halls after classes and into the lockerroom. Every God forsaken day. The others wouldn't look at me. They didn't want to see the pain in my face. And I didn't want to see the pain in theirs. We'd see each other soon enough. Through those facemasks. In the dirt and muck and mud. In the creek at the bottom of the sandy precipice. We just walked together, dead men to the gallows.
Freshman football at Lyman Hall was not a sport. It wasn't about learning a game. It wasn't even about spending time with friends. Freshman football was nothing but a quarter-long nightmare inflicted by the Varsity Head Coach's son. We were at war, he'd tell us. We had to defeat the enemy. There was no room for the weak. Just the strong. Intelligence? Agility? There was no place for such attributes. Just unmitigated bloodlust.
There was a drill he called 'Ball in the Ring'. He, or one of the coaches, yelled the name of one unsuspecting victim. And then he threw the ball to another. The goal? The two victims run straight at each other and see if the impact knocks one or both out. If one of the two did not run directly at the other, he did it again. And again. And again. Until he was dizzy from the hits or until he got it right.
There was another drill. A classic. King of the Hill. Behind our playfield was a creek. Leading down to that creek was a sharp decline covered with beach sand. Everyone, in their full pads, skidded and slid down the hill until the entire team stood in the polluted creek. Again, the coach would call two unsuspecting victims' names. The two would battle up through the sand, throwing each other, punching, jabbing, kicking. Each one doing anything in his power to make the other succumb. The one who made it to the top claimed victory. The one who didn't remained at the bottom waiting for his next shot.
When we weren't doing 'Ball in the Ring' or 'King of the Hill' we hit. Sideline hitting. Open field hitting. Straight on hitting. Hitting from a sprint. Hitting on the line. Through the rain. The sun. The brisk chill of autumn. From 2 p.m. when school ended until 6 p.m. when the coaches stopped asking if we wanted more. We hit. And as the year progressed, we lost one. Then another. Then another. We started at just around 25 souls in August. We finished with 15 in November.
On Thursday November 21, 1991 the final 15 souls celebrated. After that final hit, we exhaled collectively; we had succeeded in braving the storm of freshman football like so many other before us. And we let our coaches know. We had but one game remaining, and the coaches could do nothing more to us. We went into the lockerroom, gathered our belongings, and waited for our respective parents, siblings, and friends to come get us.
On Friday, November 22nd it rained. No, it didn't rain. It poured. The rain had started the night before. I heard it when Bonnie Raitt sang that God awful song, Something to Talk About. It just didn't stop. All day. All freaking day! But it's football, I said to myself, we'll play in this. I spoke these words in the hallways to my teammates. Yes, they said, we'll play. We have to play.
We didn't play.
Instead, we had a practice in the gym that evening. A practice in the gym meant minimal hitting and maximum running. We ran until we dropped. Literally. Baseline to baseline. Suicides. All sprinting. With the pads on. Sprint again. When we couldn't sprint with the pads on anymore, we took them off and sprinted more. And sprinted. And sprinted.
When 7 p.m. rolled around, the coach smiled and told us he'd see us the following day. When he left the gym, we all looked into each others' eyes and witnessed the utter terror. Another practice. Another session in torture.
I went home that evening and wept. Yes, I wept. I told my mother I wasn't going back, that I was quitting football forever. I couldn't bear another practice. I couldn't bear another go at 'Ball in the Ring' or 'King of the Hill'. I just couldn't. And I wouldn't. I refused. But it was all an act. I knew I would go. Because I'd have to deal with my father if I didn't. Because I'd have to explain it to my teammates. Explain to them why I had quit. And I wasn't going to do that.
The next day, we watched as the sun rose over a damp field. There was not a person in sight. All the other fall sports had ended. Even the varsity team had the luxury of this Saturday off. I had always taken some solace in the fact that someone else was watching just in case this crazy man tried some stunt that was beyond comprehension. But, on that day, he had the freedom to do whatever he wanted. After stretching, he screamed to the heavens 'Good Morning, Vietnam!' and proceeded to have us hit each other in every way imaginable. 'Ball in the Ring'. 'King of the Hill'. And every other variation, including some he had seemingly imagined over that previous rainy night. By noon, our spirits and bodies were broken. We limped off the field. There was no boasting; there were no comments. We would not test the football gods again.
We went out and played valiantly that Monday against our crosstown rival, the Sheehan Titans. But they were too good, too strong. And we had all of 15 people playing against their significantly deeper sideline of at least 30.
I don't think we won a game that year.
But, my God, we learned how to be tough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)