Déjà Vu All Over Again by BJ Neblett

Déjà Vu All Over Again

Beautiful late summer evening. Softball under the lights. Last game of the season. It all seemed way too familiar. You know: Been there, done that. I've said it often, when things seem to be repeating themselves it is usually for a reason. Fate or something or someone is trying to tell you something. You should listen. Of course, as usual, I wasn't paying attention.
Below you will see the results of when an inattentive pitcher tries to stop a hard hit line drive with his face. (No for the squeamish) I have a fractured nasal bone, a fractured orbital bone, and several fractures of the left cheek bone. Easily the worst injury I've suffered in my long and storied baseball/softball career as a pitcher. By the way, I picked up the ball and threw the runner out before I commenced to bleed all over the pitcher's mound... pure instinct and reflex.
Speaking of déjà vu and a storied career, this is good a time to re-post the true story of my last, eerily similar, injury which took place on a beautiful summer night, under the lights, last game of the season. (Also not for the squeamish) Enjoy.
BJ

         

Some of the swelling had gone down, the discoloration on the way!

Perhaps I should have a red target on my chest.

See me right here next season!

The Most Dangerous Pitch

BJ Neblett

© 2007, 2014

            Blood dripped onto the hard, cracked, sun dried earth, creating puddles of crimson mud. This was the first time I’d been hit and unable to complete a play. That’s what made me the maddest; that and the fact that we were ahead, winning. I was pitching a shutout into the fourth inning: no walks; a couple of strike outs. The nine guys behind me were doing a great job of handling the ball. And our opponents, a team made up of tough, young Dominicans and Puerto Ricans, were no slouches in the field.

            I was still standing when the first player reached me. I think it was Jose from the other team. He’d been on second base. Bent over, my blood pooling at my feet, I felt the comforting touch of his strong hand on my back.

            “Easy, take it easy.”

            My hand cradled my swollen right eye. It felt as if it would pop from its socket. Adrenalin still surged in my body as my good left eye desperately searched the infield around me. “Where’s the ball… where’s the damn ball?”

            Someone hollered to stop the play. “He’s hurt,” they shouted, “It’s a ground rule double.”

            A double, which would mean Jose would score. I cursed silently and then caught myself, asking for God’s forgiveness; and to save my sight. By now my eye throbbed, swollen shut, swelling to nearly the size of the softball that struck it.

            “Damn,” I repeated out loud as my team mates began to crowd around. Shock and concern showed through their troubled cries of, “Oh, God,” and “Wow!” Then again, head and face wounds do tend to bleed a lot. You’d have thought someone spilt a quart of red ink into the parched dirt.

            As a pitcher, you have an invisible target painted on your chest. You are fair game for every line shot, bouncing drive, and screaming grounder that burns its way up the middle. On the mound you have two responsibilities: pitch the ball, and get set. Or, better put, catch the ball without getting killed in the process. In baseball, you are sixty feet, six inches away from the batter, and raised ten inches. Softball plants you on the same plain as the hitter, some forty seven to fifty feet from home plate. And the extra feet can make all the difference, the difference between a hit and an out; between a bad bruise and a career ending injury.

            Baseball rookie for the Cleveland Indians, Herb Score led the American League in strike outs each of his first two seasons. In 1957, during a game against arch rival New York, Score was struck in the eye by a line drive off the bat of Yankee Gil McDouglas. His comeback lasted five frustrating seasons. But the one time overpowering pitcher never again posted a winning record.¹

            While waving to a relative during warm ups at Washington’s Griffith Stadium, Julius ‘Moose’ Solters was struck in the face by a thrown ball. The veteran American League outfielder fought back from the injury, but it eventually caused him to go blind.²

            Being known as possibly the first and only person ever blinded during a softball game was not a distinction I was interested in carrying.

            No one intentionally tries to hit the pitcher. That would be stupid. Chances are you’d be thrown out at first; maybe out of the game if your intentions are known. It just happens, more often than many people realize. Hairline shin fractures, battered knee caps and dislocated fingers are a part of a pitcher’s life. I should have known better. I have the experience, and the scars, to prove my point.

            In slow pitch softball, after release, there is an easy two and a half to three seconds before the ball reaches the plate. There’s plenty of time for a hitter to adjust himself in the batter’s box, and more than enough time for the pitcher to get set. Freak accidents do happen. But there is no excuse for any player not to be ready.

            Getting sloppy on the mound can shorten your career considerably. A combination of recent victories, plus having avoided being seriously hit for some time, conspired to make me careless. Instead of watching the travel of the ball, estimating where the hit ball would travel, and getting set, I found myself remaining planted on the rubber, no better than a spectator, after the pitch.

            To compound matters, I’d been working on a new pitch. The past couple of weeks, while honing my curve ball, I discovered a sharp downward breaking ball. During batting practice, the new pitch proved devastating to right handed hitters, and frustrating for lefties. Cutting sharply inside and dropping with a wild spin, no one seemed to be able to strike the ball squarely. The best efforts of some of the most skillful hitters resulted in a bouncing hard grounder or a low line drive. A few were able to get the ball in the air. When they did, it usually went straight up for a short pop fly.

            Because of the propensity of even pull hitters to send the pitch back up the middle of the infield, I jokingly dubbed my new weapon my ‘Come Back Pitch.’ During practice I threw out several surprised opponents at first base. My come back, often as not, came back right into my waiting glove.

            I worked on perfecting my new pitch. Slow pitch softball is far from an exact science. Tossing the oversized sphere at the proper height and arc, the balls fall victim to the slightest breeze. Sometimes you can make the wind work for you, bending an outside lob right into the face of an unsuspecting hitter, or cutting the edge of the plate. That is, if you are lucky. Otherwise, the best you can hope for is a corner plate strike. Knuckle balls, spinners and curve balls can also be used to thwart hitters, but are difficult to master. My ‘Come Back’ pitch had the added advantage of a fast, tight spin, making it extra difficult to place squarely on the bat.

            One of my heroes of the old time players is a pitcher for the hapless Washington Senators, nicked named ‘the Big Train.’ From around 1900 through the ‘20’s, Walter Johnson terrorized hitters with what most consider to be the fastest fast ball in the major leagues, then and since.

            How fast was Johnson’s fast ball?

            Consider Ray Chapman.

            Chapman once took first one, then a second blazing fast ball from the Big Train, Johnson. Stepping out of the batter’s box, the stunned hitter headed towards the dugout only to be reminded by the umpire he had another strike coming. Chapman continued on his way, calmly calling back over his shoulder, “Keep it. I don’t want it.”

            Perhaps the ill-fated Chapman should have taken the event as an omen. On October 10, 1920, while up at bat, Ray Chapman was struck and killed by a fast ball from pitcher Carl Mays.³

            We jumped out to a quick two run lead our first at bat. I managed to set down three of the four batters I faced in the bottom of the first, including a strike out. Our team went three up, three down, as did the opposition, in an uneventful second inning. We went up four to nothing with two more runs scored in the third off of left fielder Ron’s triple. The last of the third started off innocently enough with a routine pop fly. Then the bottom fell out. A single up the middle, a misplayed grounder followed by a line shot, and the bases were loaded. And the top of their lineup was coming to bat.

            It was time for some fancy arm work.

            It was time to try out the ‘Come Back.’

            The first pitch caught Alfredo, a good hitter, by surprise. Looking at first like it would fall short and outside, the ball veered sharply inside, slicing the edge of the plate. The look on his face was priceless.

            Ok… strike one…

            So far, so good...

            I gave him two junk pitches to think about, then another Come Back. It tipped off the edge of his bat and rolled harmlessly towards the mound, right to me. A quick throw home for the force and there were two outs.

            Franco wouldn’t be so easy. After a couple of called balls and a Come Back called strike, I gave him a sharply curving breaking pitch, thanks to a friendly cross breeze. He swung hard. But the backspin sent the ball straight up. It was caught by the catcher. Out number three and we were out of the inning. The Come Back had done its job.

            Our fourth inning produced a couple of hits but no runs. Then it was their turn again. And their three best sluggers were coming to bat.

            Jimmy is a strong pull hitter. He had managed a double and a triple off of me in other games. He wouldn’t bite on a short lob which fell ineffectually in front of the plate. My second pitch, a Come Back, he sent past me to my right. Our short stop bobbled the hard hit bouncing grounder, but managed to throw Jimmy out at first.

            Next was Jose, the team’s cleanup hitter and a threat to send one out anytime at bat. He’d gotten a deep dangerous fly off of me in the first inning which thankfully turned into a long out. I toyed with him best I could, giving him nothing to swing at until the count was three and two. Then he saw my Come Back. He not only saw it, but lined it like a rocket past me, the short stop and the infield for a double. My Come Back was earning its name. Those two shots should have told me something. They didn’t. I was still standing flat foot on the rubber.

            Bugara hits the ball probably as hard as humanly possible. His drives jump to the outfield before anyone has a chance to react. He once hit three tape measure homers over center field in three consecutive at bats in one game. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to fool around with him. Not with Jose at second and only one out. Even a sacrifice fly to the outfield would result in a run scoring. I took a deep breath, let it out, and tossed a Come Back.

            And it did…

            As best I can figure, the ball came off his bat and tipped off my glove in about half a second. That works out to something like 75 or 80 miles per hour.

            And there I stood.

            I raised my glove, but not quickly enough, not far enough.

            Victims of automobile accidents often report that at the moment of impact time seems to move in slow motion. I now understand what they experience. For one protracted fraction of a second time stood still. The din of the spectators faded to a distant thunder in my ears. My gloved hand crept skywards. It paused motionless in front of me at about nose level. The dull white leather clad ball balanced precariously on the edge of the mitt’s webbing, frozen in space. One thought replayed in my mind over and over, like a stuck 45 RPM record: I’m not going to catch this.

            And then someone hit fast forward.

            The speeding projectile tipped off my glove and mercifully slowed slightly. It slammed into my face, catching the cheek bone and upper eye socket squarely with a brain jarring, sickening thud.

            I was helped off the field, still holding the bloody wad of tissue someone provided, against my eye brow. It is interesting and strange to note that I never experienced any major pain, especially considering the seriousness of the injury. At the time of the impact, I felt as if punched by a gloved boxer, more surprising than painful. After, a dull, achy throb and a feeling of pressure against the eye ball were the main discomforts. By morning, and for several weeks, the entire orbit around my right eye remained extremely tender, swollen and sore.

            It’s never a good sign when your attending physician grimaces at your injury. The swelling and discoloration were severe. For others it made looking at the damages more painful than the actual experience. After tolerating an hour of ice, the gash just below my eye brow was cleaned and stitched. A comprehensive exam commenced including x-rays and a lot of discomforting prodding and poking. The doc said keeping the badly swollen and bruised eye socket well iced may have helped saved my sight. I was released with anti-biotic and strict orders to keep my eye iced constantly for the next twenty four hours. Two days later an optimistic optometrist said he could find no permanent damage, thank God. But I wasn’t out of the woods yet. He told me it would be weeks, maybe more, before the long term affects of such an injury could be determined.

            In the ‘60’s, Tony Conigliaro was well on his way to a hall of fame career. Joining the Boston Red Sox in 1964, in just a few seasons, the twenty two year old right fielder hit an amazing 104 home runs, running up 294 RBIs, with a .276 average.

            On August 18, 1967, Tony C came to bat in the fifth inning against California Angels’ pitcher Jack Hamilton. A fast ball, estimated near 100 MPH, struck Conigliaro in the left cheek bone. The impact shattered his eye socket and permanently damaged his left eye.

            Conigliaro was carried off the field on a stretcher. It wasn’t immediately known if he would survive the injury. Tony survived and returned to the Red Sox in 1969, moving to the Angels in 1971. After three disappointing seasons, it was evident the damage done on that August night in 1967 was too great, and he retired.

            Tony C suffered a massive heart attack and stroke in 1982 which left him in a vegetative state. The one time Cooperstown bound slugger passed away shortly after his 45^th birthday in 1990.⁴

            Sunday, October 14^th. It was too soon. I knew it was too soon. The days were growing short, the air chilly. Softball would be ending. I wasn’t about to spend the winter wondering how it would feel; wondering if I would pitch again; if I could pitch again.

            Outwardly, my eye was healing quickly. All that remained was some discoloration and a forming scar where the stitching of the ball cut me.

            But that was on the outside.

            The pressure on my eyeball subsided, returning from time to time. And my depth perception was nearly normal. At least that’s what I told myself. But I was starting to be bothered by sparks of light, flashes they are called, and they can be harbingers of more serious problems to come.

            Still, I was determined; stubborn.

            For the first time in my life, nervousness and doubt accompanied me to the mound. Doing my best to shake the feeling, I steeled up some counterfeit courage and took my warm up pitches.

            Not bad…

            Not good either…

            Then again, a four week layoff will rust up anybody’s arm. Even without a batter to face, I found myself purposely avoiding the pitch that had nearly blinded me. It’s too soon I rationalized. Just stick with the basics.

            It did little to easy my churning stomach.

            The first hitter of the game dug into the batter’s box. A familiar, reassuring voice reached me from left field. It was my friend Ron. “Give ‘em the old ‘Come Back,’ Billy!”

            And so I did.

1. Cahan, Richard and Mark Jacob, The Game That Was, p. 230

2. Cahan, Richard and Mark Jacob, The Game That Was, p. 231

3. Cahan, Richard and Mark Jacob, The Game That Was, pp. 24, 138

4. David Eisenthal, davideinsenthal.typepad.com

6*24*14 by BJ Neblett

After enjoying this personal account of some of my recent adventures, please click on the image to the right. It will take you to my new romance story Tulips, now available in the July issue of Romance Magazine (Vol 2 No 6) through Amazon. And be sure to check out all of my stories in other issues of Romance Magazine.
BJ

6*24*14

BJ Neblett

© 2014

            The Bud Light wasn’t very cold. Then again, I’ve never been much of a beer drinker. But it’s her favorite and I wanted everything to be perfect. Even though I had managed to blow the best thing to ever come my way, not once or twice but three times, it still was our anniversary. I had flowers delivered to her at work: six orange and red flamed tulips surrounding a single yellow rose. I wondered how the arrangement turned out – the man at Ballard Blossoms failed to e mail me a picture as he promised. And I wondered about her reaction.

            6 PM. I loaded my butt onto the #44 bus, transferring to the #16 in Wallingford. It was the first time I’d been back since we played our final pick-up game last September. The old deserted ball field held many ghost. The one that had haunted me this past year lived over my shoulder in left field, out of reach, but never out of my mind.

            After a stroll around the infield, and a stop to scratch our initials in the dirt, I settled into the third base bleachers. Gazing out onto the sun bleached field, I could see her ponytail as it bounced and shimmered in the late afternoon summer sun.

            “Nice catch… and very nice throw…”

            “Thanks…”

            “Hi, I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”

            …You’re the cutest thing I ever did see/Really love your peaches wanna shake your tree…

            It wasn’t my ring tone announcing an incoming call – I wished it was – the alarm on my cell phone pulled me from my thoughts: 7:02 PM, exactly. I opened the small lunch tote and retrieved two Bud Light cans. The ice pack had kept them somewhat chilled. But more importantly, the single orange and red flamed tulip was still fresh and perfect. It smelled like summer.

            I had run this moment over in my mind’s eye a hundred times, covering every situation; every possible conversation; every conceivable scenario:

            “Oh, my God, you came…”

            “I can’t believe I’m here…”

            “I’m glad you are…”

            “I’m sorry it took so long…”

            “It doesn’t matter how you got here, Ponytail just that you are here…”

            “So, now what…?”

            Good question, now what? 7:05 PM. I looked around. Except for a couple walking their dog and some kids playing Frisbee I was all alone.

            I popped the top of a beer, offering it to the empty seat next to me along with the tulip. The second can fizzed and foamed as I pulled back the tab. “It’s been one hell of a year,” I said aloud, toasting the air. “Here’s to you, Ponytail. Thanks for coming into my life.”

            I watched as the last 365 days of my life played before me: every day; every minute; every word; every smile; every movement; every touch; every sparkle of her dazzling, expressive eyes; every faltering and fumbling attempt to communicate my feelings. It was as fresh and as real and as beautiful and as painful as ever.

            8:40 PM. A final rehearsed scene took center stage:

            “Why did you come here?”

            “Isn’t this the sort of thing hopeless romantics do? Besides, I needed an ending for Ponytail, the story I wrote for you about how we met.”

            I placed the tulip on the gate at the entrance to the field and left.

♥

            I’ve been called a lot of things in my life. Fool sits right up there at the top of the list. I believe in love. I believe in love at first sight. I believe love is blind and ageless. I believe in soul mates. I believe a heart can break. I believe a heart can be mended. I believe in second, and third and eighteenth chances. I believe in never saying, “Uncle!” I believe in fairy tales. I believe in dreams coming true. I believe in happily ever after. If this makes me a fool, then a fool I’ll proudly be.

            But I re-discovered three things about myself tonight, sitting there alone in the bleachers, staring out onto the field, thinking; remembering; imagining:

            1) I am a hopeless romantic.

            2) A hopeless romantic is a pretty cool and amazing thing to be.

            3) I still don’t care much for the taste of beer.

BJ Neblett

June 24, 2013 – June 24, 2014

She Loves You by BJ Neblett

Hello again and happy spring! I have been keeping busy with new stories appearing in Romance Magazine as well as on line at Short Story Me. Thanks to all who have made my work both publications so popular! Once again I offer up another random chapter from my follow up historical memoir A Change Is Gonna Come, which should be out this winter. As you know, like Ice Cream Camelot it not only follows my life, it traces what was going on in the country and the world at the time. So here is a quick and entertaining history lesson from the mid '60's. Enjoy, and be sure to like, link, comment and spread the love.
Peace,
BJ

She Loves You

BJ Neblett

© 2004, 2013

            January, 1964. Emerging folk singer Bob Dylan said it first, and best: The Times They Are A-Changin’. In an ironic twist, it was Dylan’s songs that were helping to bring about dramatic changes to popular music. Folk music had always been about real things, real people; real occurrences. Dylan sang about the things that he saw happening around him; around all of us. What Dylan and the rest of us witnessed in the ‘60’s were social, political, economical and cultural changes. Unlike the personal changes controlling my own young life, thanks to my interest in President Kennedy I had begun to appreciate and agree with most of the changes taking place in the world. They seemed obvious and natural. What I didn’t get was why so many adults didn’t seem to understand. It was frustrating. Most of the changes were clearly necessary and overdue, but the struggle and methodology wasn’t pretty.

            The Civil Rights movement was a perfect example; a large part of the irony I saw all around me. In Lawrence Park, the development where we’d moved after leaving South Philadelphia, there were no blacks. In school we were taught God created everyone equally. That tenant was part of the American Constitution. And yet, at St. Pius X Grade School there were no blacks. Furthermore, in class the girls sat behind the boys; and for the most part women in general were treated like second class citizens. Ever since Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery, Alabama, bus in 1955, we’d witness protests and demonstrations against segregation, nightly on the TV news. In the last couple of years those demonstrations had turned ugly and violent. My fallen hero, John F. Kennedy had repeatedly urged Congress to pass legislation directed at ending segregation. On January 23, 1964 the 24^th Amendment eliminated the Poll Tax in federal elections. Kennedy’s successor, Lyndon B Johnson continued his predecessor’s efforts, eventually signing the Civil Rights Act of 1964. And yet, the often violent practice of segregation, and the demonstrations to end it, continued.

            In May, black youths Charles Moore and Henry Dee were beaten and killed by members of the Ku Klux Klan. Although suspects were identified, the murders would go down as unsolved. The same month, the NAACP and the Motor Car Dealers Association reached an agreement on the hiring of blacks. The agreement was the direct result of sit-ins in new car showrooms in San Francisco and fifty other American cities. In June, legislatures from southern states led a successful filibuster in Congress, forcing the Senate to limit debate on a purposed civil rights bill. On the 21^st of June, violence once again flared up in Mississippi as three young civil rights workers were murdered. It would take four decades before a suspect was brought to justice. At the same time some 700 young people, mostly from the north, descended on Mississippi to teach in “freedom schools” and register black voters. The violence in the south and growing discontent in America’s black neighborhoods resulted in riots breaking out in several cities including New York City, Rochester, Chicago, Patterson, New Jersey, and Philadelphia. Later in the year, The Reverend Martin Luther King received the Nobel Peace Prize for his peaceful efforts to end segregation. In a statement that punctuated the growing rift in the struggle for equality, J Edger Hoover called King, “The most notorious liar in the country.” The comment resulted from King’s harsh criticism of the FBI’s handling of racial issues in the south. In 1965 the protests grew as did the violence, with demonstrations and confrontations spreading throughout the south. As Kennedy had done before, President Johnson was forced to send in troops to protect protesters marching peacefully from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama.

            Political and social leader Malcolm X had left the Nation of Islam in 1964. An outspoken proponent of Civil Rights, he believed the group’s policies towards integration to be too soft. Openly criticizing both the Nation of Islam and Reverend King for their non-violence stance, Malcolm X called upon blacks to rise up against what he termed the white man’s rule. On February 21, 1965, as he prepared to address the Organization of Afro-American Unity at the Audubon Ballroom in Manhattan, Malcolm X was shot and killed by three members of the Nation of Islam. By the summer of 1965, race riots had again erupted in Chicago, Los Angeles and other US Cities.

            Watching live coverage of the Philadelphia riots on TV, I bitterly vowed to ignore the ongoing struggles for equality. Camelot was dead. The powers now firmly in charge, the older establishment America, had killed Kennedy. And it seemed they would soon squash his dreams of a racially balanced country. There was nothing I could do about it. I retreated back into my comfortable personal existence, and the world once again receded into its role as background players in my life’s story. Soon, though, a new school and some new, caring teachers would reignite my interest in social issues.

            Bob Dylan’s songs, along with other folk tunes of the decade, sharply reminded America of the many short falls and inequities that still needed to be overcome. At the same time, that very same music helped to polarize the nation, drawing defining lines between the older establishment and the younger generation. As the decade progress, the gap between generations would only widen. And music would be at the core.

            On January 18, 1964, the Beatles made their first appearance on Billboard’s Hot 100 Chart, placing I Wanna Hold Your Hand at the number thirty five position. Following a taped segment on the Jack Parr Show, and the groups’ first live American TV performance on Ed Sullivan, the song shot to number one, remaining at the top for seven weeks, eventually being replaced by their own She Loves You. It was nearly impossible to take a breath during 1964 without hearing about the group of mop tops from Britain. On February 3 their LP Meet The Beatles went gold. The same month they began their first American tour with a concert at Washington, DC’s Coliseum, followed by two performances at New York’s Carnegie Hall and a second appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show. They visited Cassius Clay as he trained for his heavy weight bout with Sonny Liston. Then filming of the band’s first movie, A Hard Day’s Night began in March. The film was released in the US in August to widespread acclaim.

            On the heels of their countrymen, on June 1 the Rolling Stones arrived at Kennedy Airport in New York to begin their own American tour. By year’s end, the music charts had been taken over by the numerous bands of the British invasion. But American music wasn’t quite dead yet. It had been ten years since the first stirrings of rock ‘n’ roll, and a new generation of young enthusiasts had grown up. The new American rock held its own against the onslaught from across the Atlantic with timeless hits like Louie Louie, I Get Around, Where Did Our Love Go, Rag Doll, Baby I Need Your Lovin’, and Pretty Woman. In 1965 a new electrified genre called Folk Rock, led by the Byrds and the Mamas and the Papas would claim the air waves. The same year, Bob Dylan would electrify himself and his music, to the condemnation of folk purists and the overwhelming approval of the new rockers. But by 1966 Dylan had silenced his detractors, even winning over the support of music critics. Once again, the pioneering musician had changed the face of pop music.

            I had retired my old trusted transistor radio, partly because of the changes coming out of it. The Beatles weren’t bad; I didn’t care much for the Rolling Stones or the other British Invasion bands at the time. Having recently mastered playing the guitar, I clung to what was left of the old rock ‘n’ roll and slowly gravitated towards folk music. It would be another year before I fully accepted what was now passing as popular music. The new friends I encountered at my new school, especially the girls, would have a strong influence on my musical taste.

            While the British were boisterously invading America, America was quietly and secretly invading Southeast Asia. The struggle between North and South Vietnam wasn’t a new one. Since the end of the Second World War when the country was divided, the south had been fighting for its independence while northern forces were intent on unifying the tiny country under communist rule. The French gave up its defense of South Vietnam, and the political mess ended up in the lap of our new young president. Reluctant to bring the US into another war, Kennedy approved sending non-combatant advisers to aid the South Vietnam forces. The buildup of US aid continued, culminating in the Gulf Of Tonkin.

            On August 2, 1964, the destroyer USS Maddox engaged three North Vietnamese Navy torpedo boats in the Gulf Of Tonkin. The three torpedo boats were heavily damaged and four North Vietnamese sailors were killed. One US aircraft carrier and the Maddox were slightly damaged. Two days later, the US National Security Agency claimed that a second encounter between the two forces had taken place. This incident was later proven to be false. However, the result of the two incidents was the passage by Congress of the Gulf Of Tonkin Resolution. This gave President Johnson the authority to assist any Southeast Asian country whose government was considered to be threatened by communist aggression. The resolution gave the president legal justification for the deployment of conventional forces and the start of open warfare against the North. By September, US destroyers were regularly firing on targets in North Vietnam.

            As Russia and Communist China continued to supply the northern forces of Ho Chi Minh, President Johnson steadily increased the number of American troops supporting the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN), through his policy of “graduated pressure”. In March of 1965 more than 150 US and South Vietnamese planes bombed two bases in North Vietnam in the first of the Rolling Thunder raids. On April 6 Johnson authorized the use of ground troops in combat operations. By year’s end American troops in Vietnam numbered nearly 185,000. Within a year that number would more than double. Meanwhile, the Joint Chief of Staff organized a war game code named Sigma II. The secret operation tried to gauge reaction to continued conflict with Hanoi and the Viet Cong. Ironically it predicted that continued escalation would result in diminished public support for the president’s policies. They were right. In 1965, a new type of demonstration began to appear on college campuses along side of those supporting desegregation. The college students were now protesting America’s growing involvement in Southeast Asia. In Washington DC, the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) held its first anti-Vietnam war rally.

            President Johnson’s State of the Union address in January of 1965 highlighted his goals for his Great Society. The agenda called for extensive programs including combating diseases; doubling the war on poverty; stricter and more extensive enforcement of Civil Rights Laws; reforming immigration laws, and support for better education. The program attracted support for a time, but Johnson’s Great Society would soon fall victim to the escalating, undeclared war in Vietnam.

            While tensions in the cold war between the US and the Soviet Union had eased, a different conflict between the two countries continued in the atmosphere above the earth. By the time Ed White became the first American to walk in space on June 3, 1965, testing of nuclear devices underwater, in the atmosphere and in space had been banned by a 1963 agreement between the US, the Soviets and the UK. Nuclear testing continued above and underground on a limited bases, eventually giving rise to more college protests. But the Soviets had caught America and the world by surprise with their successful launch of Sputnik, the first satellite to orbit the earth, in 1957. Since then the US space program had been playing a game of catch up. Having successfully concluded its pioneering Mercury Program, NASA set its sights on fulfilling President Kennedy’s mandate of reaching the moon. The manned Gemini Program, begun in 1965 placed two astronauts in a single craft. Its successful rendezvous in space with a second capsule in December of that year, and the eventual docking of the two crafts in 1966, paved the way for the more ambitious Apollo Program.

            My interest in the race for space continued as I faithfully watched each launch live on our 19” black and white TV. Slim, attractive color televisions, along with remote controls were rapidly replacing the old boxy sets of the fifties. My practical, thrifty father stubbornly stuck with our old square Emerson.  Dad had been promoted to chief plant electrician at his work, receiving a commensurate raise in pay. But modern conveniences were slow to arrive at the Neblett household. It would be 1970 before Dad bought an air conditioned car, and Mom received a dishwasher and a color TV. The summer of 1965 central air conditioning was finally installed in our house. The same year my second car, a 1957 Chevy, lost its home as the recreation room was expanded into the garage. Still not old enough to drive, and under the surveillance of some nosy neighbors, it became more difficult to sneak away for a night of joy riding.

            Modern conveniences took a hit on November 9, 1965, when a major power failure hit the East Coast of the US. Just after 5:30 PM, New York City experienced a blackout that quickly spread, eventually encompassing nine Northeastern states and parts of Canada. The outage, which lasted for up to thirteen and a half hours in places, was blamed on a malfunctioning switch at a station near Niagara Falls.

            After blowing a shot at the National League Pennant in 1964, my Phillies ended the ‘65 season in sixth place, eleven and a half games behind the Los Angeles Dodgers. LA would go on to defeat the Minnesota Twins four games to three to clench the World Series title. Minnesota had won their first pennant since 1933 when the team was based in DC as the Washington Senators. But the Dodgers had plenty to celebrate as well during their 97 game winning season. Pitching aces Don Drysdale and Sandy Koufax had won 23 and 26 games respectively. Koufax also pitched a perfect game on September 9, becoming the first left hander to do so since 1880. The overpowering southpaw won the Cy Young award in 1963, 1965 and 1966, retiring in 1966 at the age of 36 due to arthritis in his left elbow. Elsewhere, San Francisco’s Willie Mays hit his 512^th home run on May 4, surpassing Mel Ott’s longstanding record.

             My own stuttering career as a pitcher would have a brief resurgence as I fumbled my way through my first encounter with public school.

Becky by BJ Neblett

A broken heart can be devastating and lasting, regardless of the form it may take.

My beloved Becky in
happier times.

Becky

BJ Neblett

© 2014

            I remember the very first time my heart was broken. How can anyone forget something like that? I’m not talking about puppy love here, or a crush, or deep infatuation or even your first real romance. Having your heart broken, truly and totally broken, affects your entire body and every aspect of your life. The physical pain is there, just as real as a broken bone, only deeper, more intense. The emotional pain is indescribable, permeating and coloring everything you do, and all of your daily activities.

            The ironic thing is that my first broken heart came not in the form of unrequited love, but rather in the guise of stone and mortar.

            What does a magnificent Victorian house have to do with love and breaking hearts? To a hopeless romantic like me she was the embodiment of my deepest reverie. She was truly a thing of beauty, the kind of lady you fall for instantly; the seductress who haunts your dreams and blurs your days; the one you never fully get over.

           

            I was maybe nine years old when I first met Becky. My family had recently moved to the suburbs. I spied her several times from afar through the dusty window of our old Ford sedan. She stood like a grand mistress, regally dominating the landscape from her noble perch atop a gracefully slopping hill top. But to me, she seemed more a warm friendly companion than the dominating queen. She called to me, silently weaving her spell. As I lay awake I could hear her sweet Siren song floating on the warm night air. It spoke to me, beckoned me, and filled my dreams with grand images from another era.

            Soon, I was deep into exploring the new and fascinating world around me. Suburbia was unlike anything I’d ever experienced running the streets of south Philly. I missed the familiar feel of concrete beneath my Converse, yet soon discovered a strange affection for the green grass and blue skies and open spaces of my new home. Pedaling my trusty old Columbia two wheeler one warm summer morning, I found myself at the entrance to a long, gracefully curving driveway. Hopping off my bicycle, I looked up in awestruck silence. Becky peered down at me from her lofty position, her sweeping portico a welcoming smile to a weary traveler. She spoke to me, inviting me to visit, with the tender, genteel voice of a refined lady. I had recently finished reading Tom Sawyer and perhaps Twain’s earthy prose struck a chord. “Hello, Becky, my name is Billy. It is very nice to meet you ma’am,” I said aloud and started up the tulip lined driveway.

            Becky was born in 1907. A generation earlier three brothers, French/Irish immigrants, arrived in America with little more than what they could carry. With ingenuity, hard work and a bit of luck, they made their fortune. Becky was the brothers’ crowning accomplishment, a graceful monument to the American Dream. She stood atop a peaceful hillside, commanding a breathtaking view of the original thirty plus wooded acres through which passed a gently flowing river. Her structure was of massive hand hewn granite blocks; her form a unique combination of French Castle and stately English Manor.  Becky wore an elegant sloping burnt orange slate roof; and sported grand over-square leaded window casements. As befitting any castle, ivy covered the side and rear walls of the main building, as well as the smaller carriage house. Becky’s corner battlements, capped with skyward sweeping spires earned her the majestic nickname of Château Épatant.

            As I mounted the three polished marble steps, Becky’s immense front porch seemed to embrace me. Hesitating for just a moment, I slowly opened one of the massive mahogany doors and entered. Instantly, I was transported to a time of stiff round collars and handlebar moustaches; Gibson Girl hairdos and tightly synched waist lines; of high wheeled bicycles and brass motor cars; lawn croquet and Sunday picnics. I became dizzy, lost to the heady atmosphere of a forgotten time. It was a time and a feeling I wanted to know better; a place I wanted to experience.

            The grand entry loomed over me three stories high. An imposing stone stairway seemed to extend to the very heavens. I could feel the house’s rhythmic pulse emanating from the rich wooden paneling. Becky’s pounding heartbeat met my own and we became one.

            My feet never felt the blacktop as I raced down the drive. It seemed as if my heart would burst as I pedaled faster and faster. Scrambling through the screen door of our modest home, I announced proudly and loudly that I was going to one day buy the old mysterious castle on the hill.

            Mom smiled, “That’s nice, Billy.”

           

            A dozen years later, I returned from service in the Army to find my beloved Becky fallen on hard times. With no surviving heirs, she passed unnoticed through a few unconcerned hands, finally landing as a ward of the state. A group of investors, more interested in profit than history insulted my lady, dividing her spacious rooms and defacing the once lush front lawn. The newly erected tacky wooden sign indignantly declared: Castle Apartments, Elegant Living for Discerning Adults. However the intended residents never materialized. Becky became a haven for transients and directionless young people. Hard rock and all night acid parties replaced the formal cotillions in the once elegant ball room. It wasn’t long before the owners and police alike had enough. Becky was closed, shuttered and abandoned.

            I never gave up on my desire to purchase Becky. My daily commutes to school; friend’s houses; on dates, and to work took me past the gracefully aging beauty. I would smile and nod knowingly, whispering, “Someday, Becky, someday, I promise.”

            My chance came a year later. Local officials decided to make one last attempt to do something with the once proud property. Rumors of developers wishing to erect modern condos on her grounds abounded. The historical society failed in an attempt to raise capital to establish her as a local museum. Working with a realtor friend, I began to lay the ground work for making my dream a reality. During an inspection of the building, I found Becky still strong, noble and no worse for the wear. I could still feel her heartbeat as it matched and meld with my own.

            Three nights later I awaken to the sounds of distant bells and frantic sirens. As I peered out of my bedroom window, the night sky took on an ominous smoky red-orange hue.

            My heart ceased to beat.

            It took firefighters from four departments all night and most of the next day to extinguish the massive fire. When the smoke finally cleared all that remained of Château Épatant was four charred stone walls. Vandals had taken Becky’s life.

            As with any true love affair, I never fully got over Becky. It was the first time my heart had been broken. It wouldn’t be the last. But as the saying goes, perhaps the first cut truly is the deepest. I have lived several places since then; owned a couple of houses. Whenever I come across a Victorian style building I remember Becky. I can still hear her voice and feel her heart beat with mine.

The last time I saw Becky.

Love Alone by BJ Neblett

Thanks to everyone who has made Ice Cream Camelot such a huge success! I know you've waited, but the paperback version will be released late this Spring. I have had numerous inquires as to what happened to young Billy beyond grade school. I am hard at work on a follow up memoir titled A Change Is Gonna Come. Picking up where Ice Cream Camelot left off, it follows me as I move through high school, the army and beyond. Look for a possible winter release. In the mean time I'll be posting random chapters here, works in progress, for your enjoyment.
Be sure to comment, like, link and share the love!
BJ

Love Alone

by BJ Neblett

© 2013/2014

            By the time I escaped the killer nuns at St. Pius X Grade School my drinking was starting to get out of control. Dad had even caught me one night returning home drunk from a session of singing doo wop with my older buddies. With an expression that told me he knew what I’d been up to, he sent me off to bed.

            I knew there would be more to come.

            It wasn’t so much that I’d been caught that upset me. But the look of disappointment in Dad’s eyes brought back memories of all the other times, the times I’d been high or drunk and manage to escape detection. It had been over four years since I started drinking, sniffing glue and smoking pot. Fooling myself into believing it was all under control, I teetered dangerously close to the abyss of addiction. I’ve yet to completely figure out if my parents ever knew of my activities. I prefer to believe that they were simply clueless, doing the best they knew how to raise a rebellious, stubborn and curious son.

            As it turned out I was right, Dad was waiting for me the next morning at the breakfast table. The absence of my sister and mother told me this wasn’t good. But once again my particle and loving father surprised me. In no uncertain terms, tempered with homemade waffles and maple syrup, he advised me of the dangerous game I was playing. His words made sense and I think for the first time I began to see the damage I was doing. I had already blown my internship at WIBG radio, working with DJ legends Hy Lit and Joe Niagara. My pitching arm was stronger than ever but I’d been banned from every Little League organization in the area for my drinking and obnoxious behavior. Yet in my stubbornness, I refused to see the long term, bigger picture as my dad explained. Drinking was interfering with things I wanted to do, that’s all. My young mind said simply, “Be more careful and slow down a bit.” That was all. Even my father’s stern reminder of the pact he and I had made allowing me to attend public school made little impression.

            I could handle it.

           The summer between eighth and ninth grade still remains mostly a hazy memory. Most of what I recall comes second hand by way of friends and some long gone writings. But I do remember the date vividly.

           June 2, 1965 was the last Wednesday of grade school. I was saying goodbye to St. Pius X, and killer nuns, and school bullies and, as it turned out, to my friends. I knew that I would be attending public school in the fall; that most all of my classmates would be going on to Cardinal O’Hara High; that things would change.

            I didn’t know how quickly they would change.

            My long time girlfriend Amy and I had already come to terms with the idea of different schools. After four wonderful, turbulent, exciting, confusing, and memorable years of growing and learning together, we agreed that our relationship had come full circle. We still cared greatly for one another. But it was time to move on, learn new things, and meet other people. We agreed we would remain friends – close, special friends – while we explored the world beyond St. Pius X Grade School, the Lawrence Park Shopping Center, and our click of friends.

            Neither of us suspected it would be the last time we’d ever see each other.

       I remember the look in her eyes, those gorgeous mysterious hazel orbs that had held so much excitement and intrigue for me, on that final Wednesday. Sister Joann made a touching if a bit contrived and overlong speech about moving on and becoming young adults. It was just a bit too pat and rehearsed for my taste. Amy agreed. The Sisters of the Sacred Heart were as eager to see us go as we were to leave.

          From behind, a slender well manicured hand with the pinky nail bitten down found my shoulder. Amy’s soft touch lingered. It was a touch I’d grown to know and love over the last four years. A minute later the bell rang and it was over. Nine years of growing, and learning; of confusion, and being bullied; of friendships, and falling in love and discovering myself and the world around me, with the shrill tolling of a bell it all came to an end.

            Memories came rushing back in a flood of bittersweet images. I thought of failing the fifth grade and the friends that had moved on ahead of me; of the first day of fifth grade part two and my father’s chiding words of encouragement, “New faces; new experiences; new friends to make.”  I thought of the new friends I’d made. I remembered my first meeting with the beautiful and beguiling Amy Johns who confounded and captivated me so. And I thought about Chris, the best friend I’d lost to a careless game of chase.

            My eyes began to mist.

          Fighting back tears of confusion and wonder, I turned in my seat. Amy stood at my side looking down. Her hazel eyes were wet.

            “Well…” she said softly before turning away.

            “Yeah…” I managed.

            Later that day we talked and reminisced with her mom over chocolate ice cream. In her back yard play fort, Amy and I awkwardly clung together. There didn’t seem much for us to say. Amy returned the simple silver friendship ring I’d given her, and that was that.

            The main difference between the summer of ’65 and past summer vacations was that I was alone. Amy and her family were once again summering in Atlantic City. My other friends, Tommy and Frankie and the rest, were busy with their own activities. I never saw any of them again. Instead I returned to my routine of sitting in the bleachers at the Little League games and then wandering up to the public grade school where I’d find my older friends.

            But all this too was changing. The baseball games held little interest for me if I couldn’t play. And most of my hanging buddies had moved on, too. Even my beloved transistor radio was unable to cheer me. Long time rocker WIBG was quickly giving up the fight against the British Invasion. As doo wop and traditional rock ‘n’ roll slipped from popularity, Philadelphia began to vibrate to a different beat. After a couple of false starts, the Beatles along with other English acts had finally established a foothold in American rock ‘n’ roll. Their influence would change the fabric of popular music forever. Even stalwart greaser DJ Jerry Blavat saw the writing on the charts. He began spinning more Motown and less doo wop. I remember the evening I switched on WHAT and heard the Righteous Brothers’ You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’. It seemed to announce the end of the world as I knew it. Sure, it was a cool song. But in my perfect world mind set it belonged on WIBG, not being spun by the ultimate in coolness, the Geator With The Heater. In another year the torch would be passed and the takeover complete as upstart WFIL and their Boss Jocks ruled the Philly airwaves. Removing the nine volt battery from its plastic case for the last time, I parked my trusted old musical friend in the top drawer of my desk.

            I was totally alone now.

            With nothing better to do, I continued my old routine, usually with a pint of bourbon or gin secreted away within a casual Pepsi bottle. My parents were gone a lot, Mom deep into her acting, convincing Dad to join her and handle lighting and effects for local performances. And my sister Mary, now a licensed driver, was spending much of her free time on dates and with friends.

            I stared at the lush green ball field blankly. I didn’t even know who was winning. I didn’t care. Taking a long pull from the ersatz Pepsi container, visions of Ronnie flooded my mind. It had been a long time since I’d seen her, too long, but she remained as fresh in my memory as yesterday’s sunset. We had met right here, on these bleachers, both of us pretending to watch the game, both of us looking for something more; neither of us knowing what that something might be.

            She was different from Amy in almost every way. I think that was what intrigued me so much about her. Ronnie and I didn’t talk a lot, there was no need. We’d meet after dinner, sit in a corner of the bleachers and share a bottle of whiskey. Often we’d wander deep into the woods behind her house. There Ronnie allowed me to touch her; explore her young body while she laid motionless, smoking a cigarette or just staring at the trees. But we never spoke of the things we did. If the petting became too heavy or uncomfortable for her she’d simply turn away.

            Despite the quiet distance between us, or perhaps because of it, I found I had strong feelings for Ronnie. I missed her when she moved away. I loved Amy as best my young years were capable of loving. But lying in my bed late at night, with the open window and roaring attic fan doing little to alleviate the burning fever in my young body, it was Ronnie I recalled.

            A loud clash of thunder stirred me from my brooding. A sudden summer shower was blowing in from the south. Within minutes, bleachers and field alike lay deserted as parents hurried their kids to the safety of the family sedan.

            “That’s a good way to get electrocuted”

            I looked up, finding a pair of cold black sardonic eyes. “I know an easier way,” I replied.

            A drop of rain found her slightly turned nose. She didn’t flinch, continuing to return my stare. I felt the rain on the back of my neck. “I’ll bet you do,” she answered with a disconnected dullness. It was the same kind of response you got from parents and teachers who were more interested in the things you didn’t say. “C’mon, I don’t feel like being struck by lightning right now.” Without looking back she turned and headed off.

            I don’t know why but I just sat there, a child stubbornly defying his parent’s orders. The rain picked up. It was cold; felt good. Taking another hard pull form my bottle, I finally slipped from the aluminum bleachers and slowly walked home.

            The rain persisted, ebbing and flowing in sprinkles and showers throughout the night. As I figured, no one was home to shoot me despairing looks and tell me to get out of those wet clothes before I caught cold. I stared blankly at a rerun of The Man From UNCLE, and then went off to bed.

            Sunday after dinner I headed out the door. Mom asked where I was going. I had no idea. “To the ball field,” I called back. I knew Little League games weren’t played on Saturdays or Sundays. I doubted if my parents knew.

            “Have a nice time,” was mom’s reply as the screen door hissed shut.

            I sat in the deserted home team dugout nursing three fingers of rum. It was all I had left, and with my neighbor Mike doing thirty days for drag racing down West Chester Pike while drunk I didn’t know where or when I’d be getting my next fix. Tipping back the bottle once again released more ghosts along with the tart liquid. Unwelcome phantoms are the hidden prized at the bottom of every bottle of liquor. It was right here, in the home team dugout I’d lost my virginity. It had been about a year and a half ago but seemed an eternity. She was a gift for my thirteenth birthday from my older doo wop singing buddies, her and a bottle of Seagram’s Seven.

            Try as I may I couldn’t recall her name. Involuntary selective memory is the bother and bonus for regular drinkers. But her face came into sharp focus as the last drops of rum burned their way down my throat. The girl was nothing more than a fish, a groupie. Except for her face and the warm sensation between her legs I remembered nothing of the encounter. But that cold December night we both got what we wanted. She was accepted as a member of the gang that hung out at the public school making a nuisance of themselves, singing and drinking.

            And I became a man.

            I laughed out loud at the thought, coughing up thick green and brown phlegm in the process.

            “Didn’t your mother ever tell you you’d get sick sitting out in the rain?”

            I spit the slimy wad to the far side of the floor, holding up the paper sack wrapped empty bottle. “Not sick…”

            A flash of white teeth approached as she made her way across the narrow dugout. “So, what ya got for me?”

             I tossed the bag after my luger. It shattered in the corner as she flopped down next to me. “I got nothing, I’m tapped out. All I got is my memories.” I turned and found a familiar pair of cold black eyes. “And memories suck. At least mine do.”

        “I’ll drink to that.” Slipping a denim purse from her shoulder, my visitor produced a bottle of Thunderbird wine. “You don’t think I carry this thing because I’m a girl do ya?”

            We both laughed as she cracked open the fresh pint. “That shit sucks worse than my memories.”

            “You said it.” Taking a long pull, she passed the bottle over. “But, whatcha gonna do?”

            I accepted the offering.

            “To memories,” it tasted awful, and I had to swallow hard to get it down. I never cared much for the taste of wine or beer. But at fourteen you couldn’t be picky.

            We sat in silence for a long time. I didn’t know what to say and she didn’t seem interested. The sky was slowly clearing and a waning crescent moon spilled its light into the dugout. She was someone I’d probably ignore on the street. Pretty in a plain sort of way, piercing black eyes and tight figure were her best features. Our two brief conversations so far bespoke of a cynical, sarcastic attitude.

            I liked her immediately.

            “What did you mean about knowing a better way?” she asked, breaking the silence.

            “What?”

            “The other day, in the bleachers, you said you knew a better way to get electrocuted.”

            “Oh…that…” More ghosts; little did I realize at the time how large a part in my life to come those ghosts would play. Perhaps if I’d kept a tighter rein on the endless bottles of liquor they would have stayed put. I thought about what she’d asked. I didn’t have to think long. The day was burned indelibly on the insides of my eyelids. It shadowed my days and haunted my nights. “May 18, 1962.” I turned and our eyes met. “I was in the fifth grade. I watched my best friend get fried by a high tension electrical wire.”

            She didn’t blink or even stiffen the way most people reacted when I spoke of Chris’ death. For just a moment her eyes softened and her detached demeanor slipped – for just a moment, “I’m sorry. Now that must have sucked!”

            I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud. She laughed, too. I could picture my old pal Chris looking down, laughing and grinning from ear to sugar bowl ear right along with us. It was exactly the way he’d want to be remembered, with laughter.

            Trudy turned out to be a combination of both Amy and Ronnie; a mysterious amalgamation of the good and bad of both my former girlfriends. Like Amy she was fun and interesting; unlike Amy she was shy and withdrawn around most people. Like Ronnie she drank and smoked, and we engaged regularly in sexual activities; unlike Ronnie she participated freely and eagerly. We became friends, or as much of friends as she would permit. I discovered Trudy didn’t trust many people, kids or adults. Nor did she allow anyone into the private thoughts and feelings and fears she kept tightly sequestered behind those impenetrable black eyes. I was afforded cleft note glimpses of her inner mind set and rhetorical reasoning. Some of it reflected my own; some of it frightened me.

            Her drinking was a result of a dysfunctional alcoholic home life. Trudy’s dad began feeding his daughter liquor when she was six. After she passed out he’d sexually abuse her. When she grew old enough to understand what was going on she started drinking on her own. One night when she was twelve she broke a bottle of cheap rye over her father’s head while he slept. In a day an age when abuse was spoken of in whispers and most people preferred to look the other way, Trudy was sent to live with foster parents. The situation only abetted her anti-socialism.

            But we were a pair, Trudy and I, soul mates, kindred spirits cast from the same flawed mold. Without explanations or questions we understood each other. Later, perhaps too late, I came to realize it was more than just an errant storm that had brought us together; and more than mere alcohol that kept us together that summer. With Amy’s departure, I had nailed my emotions to my bedroom wall and placed my heart in the desk drawer. It was obvious Trudy had long ago done the same.

            As with Ronnie, the Little League games formed the framework for deceiving nosy parents. We’d meet and watch the game from the bleachers while sipping bourbon or rum or gin from a Pepsi can that fooled no one. Later we’d hang around the vacant dugouts or slip into a small, tightly concealed clearing in the woods. One evening I introduced her to what remained of our thinning doo wop group. The guys were cool and seemed willing to accept her as part of the gang. As it turned out Trudy had quite a pleasant and natural singing voice. Problem was she disliked doo wop and adored the Beatles. After that I began spending less time hanging out and singing. New, younger faces soon began to replace the old bunch, and by fall doo wop days at Loomis School, like doo wop itself, were a thing of the past. I missed those times of adolescent camaraderie. I still do. Those nights of simple songs and innocent dreams hold some of my fondest memories.

            Among the many things Trudy and I didn’t talk about, our feelings for one another ranked right at the top. It wasn’t necessary; we shared a quiet understanding that transcended anything I’d experienced with Amy or Ronnie. We weren’t in love; co-dependent would be a better term. She never cracked the door to her feelings more than her safety chain allowed. I kept mine locked up in the drawer with my transistor. We wore our pain and loneliness like stealth armor, visible to anyone who cared to notice; most didn’t bother. Sex mirrored our drinking; both defined our relationship: selfish, detached, indulgent and satisfying.

            It probably should have been a memorable summer – crossing the threshold between adolescent and teenager, moving on – it wasn’t. I did my best to hide from the changes going on around me and to ignore the ones that lay ahead. With Trudy I succeeded. The rest of the summer is a blur. I remember Trudy moving away the first week of August, sent off to live with yet another foster family. It was probably the only time I ever saw her show any signs of emotion. “This sucks,” she said flatly, “I’ll miss you.”

            A week or so later I sobered up long enough to realize junior high was just around the corner. I’d better get my act together. I cut down on my drinking, mainly because I’d begun to hate drinking alone. By now there was no one left to hang and sing with, and I’d lost all touch with my old St. Pius gang. The week before Labor Day was spent shopping with my mother. She let me pick out most of my own clothes. That turned out to be a mistake on both our parts.

            September 9, 1965 was the first Thursday of junior high. It was the start of ninth grade; the beginning of the new Billy. I felt nervous, scared and alone. Maybe that was because I looked like a clown.