"Drinking Like a Fisch" Submission #28

It was the fall of 1974. I had just begun my sophomore year at the newly built high school out on Highway 17, at the north end of town. Beautiful building. It had opened up a couple years earlier but it was still shiny and new.

The old, brick high school building on Main Street had been built in 1915 and had churned out nearly 60 graduating classes. The old school educated and matured men who would fight in two world wars, the Korean conflict and Viet Nam. There were a lot of memories generated in the halls and classrooms of that three-story building but the town was proud of the new construction and those first few classes of students were anxious to occupy the new digs.

I think it was the first Friday of that school year. I found myself sitting with Mike Fischer in the Student Center. Shooting the breeze.

Fisch was a grade ahead of me. He was an acquaintance, but I never had a significant history of hanging out with him. So, the invitation to come over to his house that night to drink some beer came as a bit of a surprise but… there was beer… so I said, “Absolutely! I’ll be there. What time?”

He told me to come over late… about midnight. I don’t remember the reason for the lateness of the hour but I didn’t mind. Friday nights were meant for adventure, risk and exploration. It wouldn’t be the first time that I navigated my way across town after the legal curfew. I was pretty much a pro at avoiding the cops.

My mom and step-dad were gone for the weekend. They left Friday morning for a bowling tournament in Cincinnati. It was going to be a good weekend. I didn’t have to worry about experiencing their inevitable, Sunday knockdown, drag out brawl and on top of that, I could come and go as I please… no matter the time of day or night. I could head over to Mike’s house that night by walking out the front door instead of crawling out my upstairs bedroom window.

I was caught totally off guard when I came home from school to find that they had left a babysitter. Grandma Edna. My step-dad’s mom. Sweet lady but a fly in my ointment. Minor inconvenience. I’d work around it.

At about 11 o’clock that night, I yawned, stretched and told Grandma Edna that I was beat and was heading off to bed. I smiled to myself as I headed upstairs.

I smoked a few cigarettes in my darkened room as I watched the light traffic make their way east and west on 2^nd Street. I saw many of the same cars, multiple times… evidence that they were “scooping the loop,” a continual circle through town… radios blaring, horns honking as they passed friends, raising one finger off the steering wheel as a low-effort greeting. The cool kids.

One of those cars that I saw over and over was the Madrid cop car, patrolling his beat and looking for trouble makers. Keeping the streets clean. I began timing his appearances. When traveling west, he would come back by in about four minutes. When traveling east, his return was in about six minutes.

As midnight approached, I waited to see the cop traveling east in front of my house. As he passed by, I scurried out my window, down the slant of our porch roof, hung off the rain gutter and felt for the porch rail with my feet. I hit the ground and immediately crouched as I watched him turn left on Highway 17 and then I sprinted across the street.

I journeyed quickly between houses, under the cover of darkness, at a steady jog. Most houses in Madrid did not have fences… thank God. I never walked along the streets or sidewalks, I just crossed over them after making sure the coast was clear.

I saw the cop a couple times along the way. He didn’t see me.

I got to Mike’s house. He lived at the end of a cul de sac on the north side of town. His street ran parallel to Highway 17, one block west. The north side of his house was bordered by a cornfield with an abandoned old house and shed just beyond the yet-to-be harvested corn crop.

I heard voices coming from his backyard. I followed the voices.

There were a few guys there… sitting on lawn chairs with a large cooler of beer serving as a footstool for Denny Young, or “Farmer” as everyone called him. Farmer was the only “legal” drinker there. He was 18, the legal drinking age in Iowa at the time. The rest of us were juveniles… breaking the law, seeing who could get intoxicated the quickest.

I grabbed a beer and a chair and settled in. We spent the next few hours drinking, talking, drinking, laughing and then we drank some more.

It was about 3 or 4 in the morning. I think I was a six-pack or better into the process when I started thinking about heading home. I was a skinny kid that topped out at about a buck ten and I couldn’t hold my liquor. I was drunk. Drunk enough that I worried about finding my way home and my ability to dodge the police successfully.

Fisch laughed at my anxiety but I just kept obsessing about getting caught and going to jail. He told me I’d be fine. No problems. He smiled.

Mike excused himself and went into his house. Said he’d be back. I didn’t think anything about it as I finished off a cold one and decided to grab just one more before heading off.

About 20 minutes passed as I finished that last beer and realized that Mike had not returned to the backyard. Must have fallen asleep.

As I got up to leave, Mike rejoined the group with a smile on his face. I didn’t bother to quiz him about the smile and he didn’t offer an explanation. He just smiled.

Suddenly, we heard a siren… and then another one. We all looked at each other… wondering what was happening in our small town at 4 in the morning. The sound was getting closer. Fisch just smiled.

We finally saw the cop car out on Highway 17, heading north past the high school. As my eyes followed his path, I saw where he was headed and why he was heading there. That old, abandoned shed just beyond the cornfield was ablaze.

“Wow! Look at that thing burn!” I yelled. “How did that happen?”

I looked at Mike and he said with a grin, “Well, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about running into the cop on the way home now.”

“Wait! did you….?” My voice trailed off. He didn’t respond.

“Better get going if you want to avoid the cop.” Fisch advised.

So I went home. Never saw the cop. Never knew for certainty… but was pretty sure about what happened.

My adventures with Fisch and Farmer were not over. I met up with them again a week later. Alcohol was to play a role again… but there was another element involved this time… not fire… but rifles. 

"After Midnight" Submission #27

I was devious in so many ways back then… 14 or 15 years old… little parental support and certainly no guidance. I looked for ways to push the envelope. I’m not sure if I was just bored or if I was crying out for attention… or help.

My mom and step-dad had a routine on week nights. They would get home from the bar at about ten o’clock and continue their steady intake of hard alcohol as they tried in vain to comprehend what they were watching on a blurry television screen.

Whichever one stayed awake the longest would eventually rouse the other one, who had passed out and they would stumble off to bed. That might be 11 o’clock or it may be two in the morning.

On these summer evenings… when I wasn’t camping out at the Catholic Church, I’d find myself in my upstairs bedroom, lights out, windows open… watching the cars pass by on Madrid’s main drag… 2^nd Avenue… just two blocks east of downtown.

Boredom. Hitting on a cigarette, practicing the blowing of smoke

rings… using an empty pop can as an ash tray. One after another.

On numerous occasions, the desire to break free became overwhelming and I would escape through that window. I’d crawl out and onto the arched roof that covered our front porch. I’d lay on my belly… feet dangling over the edge as I inched downward, my feet feeling for the rail around the porch. Once I had my footing, I’d let go of the roof’s edge and hop to the ground below. Freedom.

Most of these “out the window” adventures were the result of a prearranged rendezvous with a buddy. Sometimes it was Carlo sometimes Steve Ewing or maybe Greg Drake. We would walk around town, lurking in the shadows and ready to scatter if we saw a cop car patrolling nearby. We were killing time and looking for some action.

 

One night, Greg Drake and I were roaming around town in the wee hours of the morning and decided to head to Lori Comstock’s house. Lori and I had been seeing each other briefly. She lived out near Edgewood Park on the southwest part of town.

Her bedroom window was too high to reach and so we began throwing little pebbles at it, bouncing them off the glass. Eventually, I saw the top part of her head slowly come into view as she scanned the darkness, trying to figure out what was going on.

In a loud whisper, I said “Lori! It’s me… Bart… and Lucy!” (Lucy was a nickname I had for Greg… long story… and boring too).

“What are you guys doing? It’s one in the morning!” She whispered through her giggle.

“Let us in!” I suggested… still whispering loudly.

“I can’t, my dad’s still up.”

“Oh… then that won’t work.”

Eventually, she devised a plan to go to her basement by telling her dad that she didn’t feel good and that it was hot in her room. She explained that the cool basement would make her feel better.

Seemed like an odd story... but it apparently worked.

Within a couple minutes, she was opening the small basement window as Greg and I took turns squeezing through it. We sat on her couch… the three of us… awkwardly. We didn’t want to talk because her dad was just up that flight of stairs.

After a few minutes of silence, feeling like a fifth wheel, Greg declared he was leaving and he made his way through the small window and disappeared into the night. Lori looked at me and smiled.

Alone at last. Alone and scared. Alone… without a plan.

So I left too. I tried to catch up with Greg but he was long gone. 

I headed home and walked through  my unlocked front door at about 3 AM. Very few people locked their doors at night in Madrid in the 1970’s. For all I know, they still don't. When I sneaked out of the house through my upstairs window after midnight, I always knew my reentry would be much simpler through the front door.

Carlo and I pulled some similar shenanigans one night as we crept over to Deanna Morning’s house. She lived on the north side of town, just a block west of the Dairy Sweet. Her dad owned the body and fender shop on Highway 17.

Deanna was a very sweet girl and we had been going steady for quite some time. I had a very strong affection for her that lasted long after we broke up.

I don’t remember exactly what time it was but it was near midnight. Deanna’s bedroom window was ground level and behind some bushes. We saw that her light was on and her window was open. As we crept around the bushes, through the screen, we could see Deanna, in her pajamas, sitting on the edge of her bed.

I whispered her name, expecting her to rush to the window… but instead, she bolted from her room… yelling for her mom!

Carlo and I took off at a dead sprint… laughing the whole time.

I think of these mischievous adventures now and laugh… until I think about my kids and if they had tried pulling stuff like this. Then it doesn’t seem nearly as humorous. Of course, my parenting style was/is 180 degrees different than that of my mom and step-dad, so the risk for such behavior was greatly mitigated… thank God and James Dobson.

One weekend that fall, my parents had made plans to drive to Cincinnati, Ohio where my step-dad was going to bowl in a tournament. I came home from school that Friday and was excited to see the Buick Electra was not parked in its normal spot on the east side of the house. They were gone!

Parents gone! No adults! Party time!

I came into the house, screaming Alice Cooper’s “Billion Dollar Babies,” but stopped in my tracks when I saw Grandma Edna sitting on the couch with a smile on her face.

They left a babysitter?

Edna was Jack’s mom and a very sweet lady. I was very fond of her… but her presence was cramping my style and putting a crimp in my plans.

I would just have to get more creative…

"Reckless" Submission #26

My behavior grew worse and my careless stunts more reckless.

One summer night, Carlo (Marc Carlson), Bob C (Robert Cervetti) and I found ourselves in our familiar setting… the back patio of St. Malachy’s Catholic Church with our sleeping bags and pillows strewn about on the cement slab.

Fighting boredom at about one in the morning, Carlo and I decided to venture out to see what sort of mischief we could drum up. Bob C had no interest in our plans as he turned over and headed to dreamland.

We crossed over Gerald Street, between a couple houses and through the parking lot of Dunne's Sure Save grocery market. The town was eerily silent and the air hung heavy with typical, Midwest humidity. We stood there for a minute trying to decide where to go and what to do.

Highway 17 was usually a bustling thoroughfare of vehicles heading north to Boone or Ames, or heading south towards the state capital, Des Moines. But not at 1:00 AM on a week night… in Madrid, Iowa.

Carlo and I crossed over the highway and found ourselves in front of Farley’s Dairy Sweet, a local eating establishment with a gravel parking lot. They specialized in ice cream desserts, candy and a variety of sandwiches. My favorite by far was their tenderloin sandwich. The golden brown meat dwarfed the bun as it hung out several inches from the bun’s perimeter. Ketchup, mustard and onions… please.

Of course, the Dairy Sweet had closed for the evening some hours before. Inside of the restaurant was mostly dark with only a couple lights illuminated. The “CLOSED” sign hung prominently in the front window. A street light conveniently lit the parking lot and the walk-up window area.

I was always the sort of kid who checked the coin shoot in telephone booths and vending machines. In stores, I’d always scan the floor near the check-out stands for loose change that customers may have dropped but were too lazy to pick up. And I have already chronicled my history of shoplifting. I looked to get something for nothing… a very bad characteristic.

It is with that spirit that I decided to run over to the walk-up window of the Dairy Sweet and see if one of the minimum wage workers had remembered to lock the sliding window at closing time. As luck would have it, somebody didn’t do their job. Tragedy!

With ease, I slid the window open. Carlo jogged over… laughing. Our eyes lit up as we considered the possibilities. For a moment, we considered trying to squeeze our whole bodies through the small window opening but in the end, decided to simply grab that which was within reach from the window. That strategy yielded us pockets full of candy bars and cigarettes.

My body was parallel to the ground… half in and half out… as I grabbed and stuffed the goods into my pockets. Through the corner of my eye, I saw headlights from a north bound vehicle. Minor interruption. I hopped out, slid the window closed and ducked under some bushes. All that was between me and the building was about 20 feet of larger rock gravel.

I didn’t know where Carlo took refuge but was certain he’d come out of hiding like me as soon as the headlights passed.

I caught partial sight of the car from my hide-out as it slowed down upon approach. It became clear that the vehicle wasn’t heading to Boone or anywhere north of town. It turned left just beyond the Dairy Sweet and I figured all was clear. But before I could crawl out from under the bush, I again saw headlights as the car slowly swung around from behind the building and I heard the crunching of the gravel under the tires of the car as it crept closer to my hiding spot.

It wasn’t until the vehicle came to a complete stop five feet away from me that I saw the writing on the side of the vehicle, “Madrid Police Department.” The jig was up. I thought I was caught! I thought some nosy neighbor had seen us breaking into the Dairy Sweet and had dialed up Madrid’s finest. They were here to cuff us and haul us to the pokey.

Two cops were in the vehicle. They killed the engine and with windows rolled down on that still, calm, sticky, summer night… they casually conversed. The chirping of the crickets was the only audio competition to the voices of these police officers… that and the beating of my heart. No other cars on the streets.

Meanwhile, there I was… on all fours… just a few feet away. They were so close to me that I was almost afraid to breathe, lest they hear me. I was frozen in position… fearing that the slightest movement would generate a grinding sound from the rocks crunching beneath my hands and knees. Sweat soaked my t-shirt as I strained to maintain my composure and my position.

At that point, being out after curfew was the least of my worries. My pockets full of cigarettes and candy bars were evidence that I had just committed the more serious offense of breaking and entering.

It became obvious that they were not dispatched there to investigate a robbery or any other crime. They were just two cops, killing time on the boring overnight shift in small town Iowa. This assignment did not typically generate much excitement for the boys in blue, in Madrid.

The minutes went by. I was paralyzed with fear. My knees and hands were killing me and starting to go numb, as they supported my weight atop a pile of large, sharp rocks. The two cops… five feet away.

Should I make a run for it? That was my usual “go to” strategy in such situations but this one was a little different. My offense was far more serious this time. My hands and legs were numb and I wasn’t sure how they would react if I tried to sprint away. Plus there were two of them. I just didn’t like my odds. So I kept still… in a crouch.

At one point, I came this close (finger, thumb… a quarter inch apart) to walking up to them and giving myself up… spread eagle, hands on top of their cruiser. But… I resisted the temptation and kept still.

The minutes passed and eventually gave way to hours. After what seemed to be an eternity, the engine roared to life and the cops vacated the parking lot of the Dairy Sweet. As I slowly unfolded my body and attempted to stand in an upright position, the pain I felt in my joints made me think of what the elderly must go through as they get up every morning. I was hurting!

It was after 3:30 AM. I was trapped under that bush for more than two hours!

I carefully made my way back to “Camp St. Malachy’s,” watching carefully for headlights before I sprinted back across Highway 17. As I reached the patio, Carlo and Bob C were in a deep state of slumber. I lit a cigarette and took a few hits before shaking Carlo awake. My nerves were shot.

Groggily… he asked me where I had been. I recalled, for him, each and every excruciating detail. He howled with laughter. Apparently, he had chosen an escape route that was a tad better than mine. He told me that he thought that I had either been caught or that I had gone home. He was wrong on both counts.

I slept at the Catholic church several times a week that summer. My parents didn’t really care. Heck, most of the time, they probably didn’t know. My bedroom was upstairs and they NEVER ventured upstairs. I was free to roam… no restrictions, no rules, no supervision… no guidance or direction.

I was young… and I was reckless. 

"Holy Camp-Out!" Submission #25

8^th grade seemed to be a transitional year for me. Most kids seem to transition naturally and flow smoothly into high school. I, on the other hand, stumbled and bumbled my way into the new high school building on Highway 17, just north of town.

As I articulated earlier, my 8^th grade football season began with such promise… before it all crashed and burned around me after I fractured my wrist. In similar, negative fashion… my circle of friends seemed to shrink and in some cases, actually become hostile towards me.  

I often wonder how young teens can be so hypersensitive when it comes to them being on the receiving end of unwanted, negative attention but, at the same time, be so insensitive as they dish it out to others.

Adolescence can be a treacherous and tricky period to navigate through… and for me, it was all of that and more! I sorely lacked the loving, nurturing familial infrastructure that God designed to help facilitate the growth and maturing process of children. I had no guidance… nobody to listen to the desires of my heart or the troubles that tortured my mind. I was truly left to fend for myself.

I remember being envious of my friends who had an intact family with loving and involved parents.
Sparky was one of those guys. His parents, Tom and Angie Gibbons, seemed so nice and caring. As bizarre as this sounds, the times I envied him most were those times when his parents refused to allow him to do something or go somewhere because he had obligations or chores to fulfill at home. I sensed the comfort and safety that parental boundaries offered. I don’t think I articulated it like that in my mind back then but I knew how I felt and it made me jealous of his home life.

And Sparky’s life and behavior demonstrated the stability and sanity that came with his upbringing. He was very smart, pulled down great grades and demonstrated responsibility in about every area of life. I wanted that but I had no such boundaries. I had no such involvement.

If absolute freedom was such a cool thing for a kid to have… why did it hurt so bad?

More on that later.

Starting the summer after 8^th grade, there was a group of us who camped out many or most nights of the week. Some nights there were two and some nights there were 10. The roster of participants would change night by night.

Along with me, some of the regulars included Scott Lombardi, Ed Burke, Mark Gibbons (Sparky), Greg Drake, Marc Carlson (Carlo) and, of course, Robert Cervetti… or “Bob C,” a nickname that, to this day, is hollered whenever someone sees him walking the streets of Madrid. No matter what the combination of campers, Bob C was ALWAYS in the group. If it was just me and one other… that “one other” was Bob C.

Saint Malachy’s was the Catholic Church in the northeast part of town. On the backside of the church was a cement patio that was covered by an overhanging roof that provided a windbreak as well as a dry shelter during inclement weather. That little area became the host for blankets, pillows, sleeping bags and unruly teens, starting the summer of 1973.

If parents of the campers knew half of what was going on under the shadow of the statue of the Virgin Mary, they would have had a stroke. If my kids ever want to know the catalyst of my strictness as a dad, it is directly tied to the shenanigans in which I initiated and/or participated in, when left to my own devices.

Cussing, drinking, smoking, toking, streaking and more… it was ALL going on… just about every night of that summer.

And on occasion, we would rendezvous with a group of girls who would be camping out at a house nearby. On one of those occasions, someone had the idea that we all should go streaking… frolicking about in the buff.

"Streaking" was a craze popularized nationally in the early 1970’s and locally by my cousin, Kevin Munson. Kevin was the Student body President his senior year, 1973-74, when he decided to give everyone a close-up of his... student body... if you catch my drift.

He "streaked" past the student center while the whole school ate lunch. All the guys chuckled and all the girls gasped. Despite the fact that he wore a mask, everyone knew it was him because word had leaked out some days prior to the event. If I remember correctly, I think they threatened to not let him take part in his graduation ceremony but in the end, he was assigned to work with the janitorial staff after school until the end of the academic year.

Back to our streaking adventure...

Braving the awkward notion of a mixed streaking party, we all grabbed a blanket for cover as everyone (but me) disrobed. I never had any intention of participating but played along so as not to ruin anyone else’s fun. No doubt, the streakers were emboldened by the pitch black night where you could barely see your hand in front of your face.

One, two, three… GO! They all dropped their blankets and sprinted from the church patio to the cornfield about 40 yards away and back. I couldn’t see a thing but could hear the feet pounding the turf and the nervous laughter of the brave participants.

Yes… I took quite a bit of grief for abstaining from the birthday suit sprint but I did my share of other mindless activities to make up for it.

Curfew in Madrid was 11:00 PM for us youngn’s. I guess we viewed this law merely as a suggestion because we were in constant violation, especially the nights we camped out.

There was nothing more stimulating than to catch the eye of a Madrid Law Enforcement Officer after the witching hour and then leading him on a foot chase through the neighborhoods. One of the beauties of small town Iowa was that nobody built backyard fences and we could run between houses with impunity.

I can remember one such chase on a hot and humid summer night, when an overweight but persistent peace officer was tracking behind me in the darkness, as I ran through the shared yards between two rows of houses. The jingling of his keys as he ran gave me a good gage of the distance between us.

I spotted an overturned row boat being stored next to some guy’s garage and I quickly lifted it up and slid underneath it. I lay there, doing my best to control my breathing as sweat drenched my t-shirt. About 10 seconds later, I heard his footsteps, the noise from his keys and the labored breathing of the portly cop as he passed within feet of my hide-out.

Another successful escape.

One night, I came extremely close to getting caught…

"Green-Stick" Submission #24

8^th grade football continued…

(Can you believe I’ve devoted three blog posts to this singular subject?)

green·stick frac·ture

ˌɡrēnstik ˈfrak(t)SHər/

noun

1.    a fracture of the bone, occurring typically in children, in which one side of the bone is broken and the other only bent.

That’s what I had. A “Green-Stick Fracture.”

Bruised, huh Coach Janovick?

“Yeah, but can I still play football?” I wondered as the doctor rubbed his chin and stared at my x-ray.

As if he read my thoughts, “I guess your football season is over, partner. This will take a good four to six weeks to heal.”

My thoughts were racing ahead of him. “Do I have to wear a cast?” I inquired.

“No, I don’t think so.” He explained as my dashed hopes revived. “We will fit you for a splint that you will wear for the next four weeks or so. You can actually take it off at night, after your activities have died down. But absolutely no physical activity involving your wrist until it heals.”

Let’s see… today is Friday. Practice is Monday. I have three days to heal sufficiently. I’ll be fine.

I went straight from the doctor’s office to football practice… wearing my newest fashion accessory on my left wrist. Coach Janovick glanced my way and then did a double-take as he spotted my splint.

He walked over to me. “Guess it was more than a bruise, huh?” He joked. “Did you break it?”

“No.” I lied in an attempt to downplay the injury. “I’ll be ready to go next week.”

Janovick gave me a skeptical look as he smirked and cocked his head.

“Next week?” He asked rhetorically. “I don’t think so, Munson.”

“Seriously. I will be fine.” I said with all the conviction that I could muster.

The following Monday, I sprinted to the locker room as soon as the final bell rang. I was on a mission.

The locker room was downstairs, just off the north side of our old gymnasium. The equipment room was adjacent to the locker room. I turned the door knob and was thankful that it was unlocked. I went in. It wasn’t well lit and it stunk of stale sweat.

I started rummaging through the leftover shoulder pads, helmets, practice pants… not exactly sure what I was looking for. Eventually, I settled on a couple knee pads and a roll of tape.

I carefully removed my splint and began to disrobe. It was amazingly difficult to perform this seemingly simple task with one hand. Reflexively, my left hand wanted to dive into action and help with the process and every time it did, my wrist sent an immediate bulletin to my head saying, “STOP IT! THIS HURTS, YOU IDIOT!”

Putting on my pads and practice clothes promised to be even more difficult and I wondered how in the world I was going to actually practice when I could barely undress myself. I dismissed the question from my mind before my brain had a chance to analyze it. I was going to practice! And the next game, I was going to be wearing my #32 orange jersey, ready to be the best safety that I could be!

My teammates began to filter into the locker room as I awkwardly attempted to pull on my undersized, practice pants. Impossible.

Paul Mott’s locker was right next to mine. He watched in amusement as I tugged on my pants with my right hand… hopping up and down… as though that might help the process.

“Do you need some help, Muns?” He offered.

Paul was a big kid. The biggest kid in our grade. He was gifted with intelligence but athletic ability? … Not so much. That never stopped him from participating in sports.

Paul and I never talked to each other much. (There was no Facebook back then.) We were certainly acquaintances but I wouldn’t classify us as “friends.” And so I was a bit surprised that he was so willing to help me get dressed for practice. I was grateful.

The final detail was to arrange the knee pads into a protective barrier on my fractured wrist. One on the top of my wrist and one on the bottom. Mott handled the tape job too.

“Thanks Paul.” I mumbled.

“Yeah. Any time.” He smiled.

Mott and I played out that ritual every day for the rest of that season. Each day, we got better… more efficient.

I trotted out to the practice field on the northeast corner of the school property and tried to blend in with the other players who were assembled in straight rows, ready for calisthenics. I didn’t say anything… I didn’t want to call any attention to myself. I was hoping that Coach Janovick had forgotten about my silly little injury.

He didn’t forget.

As we began our jumping jacks, I couldn’t get my left arm in sequence with my right arm. It hurt to move it and so I let it hang limply as I continued in the semi-circle motion with only my right arm. I looked like a pair of windshield wipers with only the passenger side wiper in motion.

Janovick walked over to me, gently grabbed my face mask and led me out of the formation, to the side of the practice field. He looked down at Paul’s handiwork on my left wrist.

“Has your doctor cleared you to play?”

“Yes.” I fibbed, as my lying eyes refused to make contact with his.

“So… you’re telling me that if I called your doctor right now, he would tell me that you are cleared to play football less than a week after injuring your wrist?”

“Yes.” I lied… again… less convincingly this time.

He stood there and stared at me for about 10 seconds. Silent. If he was waiting for me to break… and tell him the truth… I wouldn’t… and didn’t. But he knew the truth. One look at me trying to do one-armed jumping jacks was all one, of reasonable intelligence, needed to see.

He sent me to the sidelines to watch.

Tuesday and Wednesday… I tried it again. Mott helped me dress and taped my wrist only to have Coach Janovick send me to the sidelines to watch. Each Wednesday, at the end of practice, the coaches would tell us the various starting teams for Thursday’s games. Punt team, punt receiving team, kick-off team, kick-off receiving team, offense and defense. Not surprisingly, I never heard my name mentioned.

I went home that Wednesday after practice and went straight to my room. I was depressed. I cried… and cried. I sobbed. Nobody knew… nobody cared. I was nobody’s priority during that time in my life.

I remember lying on my bed with red and swollen eyes… and quietly but audibly repeating a phrase over and over. “I can play, coach. Really, I can play. Please let me play.”

Now… you may say that this is strange, over-the-top behavior for a 13-year-old boy. I agree. It is odd. But it happened and it was such deep emotion that I can still feel it in my chest as I write about it today. I’m not a psychologist. I can’t give you a professional analysis. But I can hypothesize that this emotion was tied to the fact that playing on this team was about the only thing in my life, at that time that was positive, fulfilling and fun. And now… it had been ripped away from me.

I don’t remember exactly how many more 8^th grade games that were played that year… maybe six or seven. What I do know is that I didn’t play a single down in any of them. I still showed up and dressed out for every practice but sat on the sidelines most of the time.

My wrist did heal quicker than expected and I was allowed to practice during the final week of the season but what happened next only added insult to injury.

The 7^th grade team had their one and only game that final week. The coaches grabbed me and three additional scrawny 8^th graders and told us that we would be playing with the 7^th graders in their game, since none of us played much during the season. Talk about total humiliation.

Ed Burke, Mark Gibbons, Scott Lombardi and I… playing with the kids. I went from being the starting safety on the 8^th grade team to suiting up with the 7^th grade team. It couldn’t get any worse, could it? Stay tuned.

Before the start of the 7^th grade game against arch-rival, Woodward-Granger, Coach Janovick hauled the four 8^th graders to the center of the field to meet with the officials and the opposing coach. Initially, I thought “Cool! They are making us the team captains and we are going out for the coin toss!”

Not so fast. The purpose of the little pow-wow was so that Coach, in the spirit of full disclosure, could tell the officials and the other coach that he planned to use four 8^th graders in the 7^th grade game. We were brought out as props… visuals… so that they could see for themselves that we didn’t pose much of a physical threat on the football field. So humiliating. Could anything else go wrong? Stay tuned… again.

The officials glanced at us, shrugged and appeared apathetic. The opposing coach, however, was indignant that Coach Janovick would blur the lines of propriety by inserting illegal players into his line-up. He was willing to compromise, however. Once the game reached the fourth quarter, if one team or the other was clearly in control… then… and ONLY then, could we insert the 8^th graders.

Woodward-Granger took control of that game early and never came close to relinquishing the lead. I saw the field for one series of downs with less than two minutes to play in the game. I played right guard on the offensive line and got pushed around by a chubby 7^th grader wearing a green and yellow uniform.

That is how my illustrious football career came to a crashing conclusion. I never played organized football again. I had worked all summer to get in shape and showed so much desire even while injured… to no avail.

This was a microcosm of my life at that time. A bitter snap-shot. Another disappointment.

"Snap!" Submission #23

8^th grade football continued…

The coaches gave us Monday off. We practiced on Tuesday. I was still fired up about the game last week and was ready to run through a brick wall in practice if called upon to do so.

After some stretching and running, the coaches divided us into two groups. Offensive backs and

defensive backs were in one group, linemen and linebackers in the other group. One by one, the backs were given the ball and had to run through a line of tacklers who were all positioned between two cones. If you could put a move on them and get past them while staying between the cones, you’d go to the next tackler. If you were tackled… you’d get up and make your way to the next tackler.

I was ready… all 90 pounds of me. If I got tackled, I wanted them to know that they had just taken down a tornado! I thought I was so tough.

Mike Gibbons was the first of eight tacklers waiting to tear my head off. He was a pretty big guy who had at least 40 or 50 pounds on me, but I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t even attempt to put a move on him, I just ran at full tilt and buried my helmet in his chest. He grunted at the unexpected challenge but quickly recovered as he tried to take me down. My legs kept churning as I refused to be tackled.

Soon, the coaches got caught up in the epic David versus Goliath battle unfolding before their eyes. They started yelling encouragement to the underdog in this fight and that fired me up all the more. Suddenly, Mike did what he probably should have done in the first place. With my helmet in his mid-section, he wrapped his large arms around my waist and with his chest on my back, simply fell on top of me. Under the burden of his mass, I felt a snap and immediately experienced a sharp pain in my left wrist.

I slowly got up, holding my wrist, examining it for any visible damage. It looked okay but it certainly didn’t feel okay.

The coaches were still amped up. “Do it again, Munson! Let’s see if these other fat linemen can tackle you!”

How could I say “No” to that? Rather than telling them that I was hurt, I proceeded to go at half speed through the remaining seven tacklers who had no trouble taking me down as I offered little or no resistance. The coaches lost interest in me and started focusing on some of the others.

After being tackled the final time, I reluctantly walked over to Coach Jim Janovick and informed him that I had injured my left wrist. He grabbed my wrist and turned it. My knees buckled in pain as I grimaced, yet remained silent.

“You may have bruised it.” He diagnosed. “Go sit on the sidelines. You’ll be fine.” Easy for him to say!

I sat on the sidelines for most of the rest of practice. Wrist throbbing. Toward the end, I was summoned to take some snaps from center. In addition to being the starting safety on defense, I also filled the insignificant roll of being the third string quarterback.

I rattled off the cadence and the center slammed the ball into my hands. My left wrist was forcibly bent backwards and I yelled out in pain as the ball fell harmlessly to the turf below.

Coach Janovick sighed heavily and scanned the remaining talent pool in search of someone who could take my place behind center. He looked back at me as though he were ready to say something to me… and then sighed again.

“Try it again, Munson. But this time, hold onto the ball. That’s simple enough, isn’t it?” Janovick blurted out with obvious frustration and impatience.

“No!” I thought but didn’t say out loud.

Second verse, same as the first. Cadence… hike… pain… a mostly inaudible murmur of semi-silent agony… ball on the ground.

“That’s it! We’re done! Hit the showers!” Coach yelled with obvious frustration.

I stood there… motionless, waiting for him to explain in detail, my ineptness. Yet another heavy sigh and finally, “Go shower Munson. We’ll get back at it tomorrow.”

My heart was truly heavy. I disappointed my coach. With so much negativity in my life, this was my outlet… my escape from the reality of my tortured home-life. I needed to not be injured. I needed this pain to subside.

For some reason that I presently do not recall, I found myself at my sister’s apartment that evening. She had taken up residence in the apartment above Jack’s bar after she divorced her first husband and moved back to Madrid from California.

It was a nice little abode if you could put up with the noise from the likely inebriated and enthusiastic patrons. It certainly could have used some more extensive noise insulation. The crack of the billiard balls colliding; the raucous laughter of an amused drunk; the overly loud conversations that seemed to increase in volume as the drinkers reached higher levels of intoxication.

The pain in my wrist hadn’t subsided. In fact, it had grown worse. It throbbed. Yet… my primary thought was wrapped around the fear that I may miss a football game. My overwhelming hope was that I would wake up in the morning and the pain would be gone.

I stole away for a while and sat on the stairs, crying… softly, as I held my wrist. Before long, Barb came looking for me. She came around the corner before I had a chance to wipe the tears away.

“Bart, what’s wrong?” She asked… genuinely concerned.

Barb has always been a second mom to me… sometimes a first mom. She was 13 years my elder and had practically raised me. We had… and still have… a very special bond. To this day, she is the “Switzerland” in our family. The peace-maker. The neutral one. The glue that holds us together. The one that we can all go to without fear of judgment. I’d be lost without her.

She hated to see me cry. She always tried to comfort me. I can now reveal that I used her soft heart to my advantage on occasion as I grew up. I guess she probably knows that. I manipulated my way into attending a movie or eating a free meal at a restaurant as I would cry when Barb was set to go out on a date. She would simply tell her date… whomever that might be… that I was going with them. Isn’t that crazy? I mean… if I were the guy, I would have bolted! Taking a chick on a date and having her little brother tag along? No chance! But Barb seemed to have this mysterious power over those of the male persuasion and they simply nodded and went along with her program.

But there was no manipulation going on now. My tears were real and born out of great pain.

Barb made arrangements for me to see the doctor the next day. The pain had eased somewhat later that night… at least as long as I kept it still… and so I was confident the injury was minor and that I’d be back on the football field the following day.

When the doctor came in after reviewing the x-ray, I was so nervous that I felt I’d throw up…

"I Still Had Sports" Submission #22

With so many facets of my life headed south, I could still focus much of my energy and passion on sports. I grew up in the Los Angeles area, a hotbed of year round athletic endeavors and a plethora of college and professional teams to root for. I was submerged in the sports culture for as long as I could remember.

My brothers collected baseball cards and when I was just 3 or 4-years-old, with my brothers' help, I had memorized the names of the players and the names of their teams just by looking at the baseball cards. This was so impressive to my mom that she would trot me out, like a dog and pony show, to demonstrate my amazing memory power every time a neighbor or friend stopped by to visit. Heck, I think she even walked me over to a few neighbor's houses so that they could get a special, in-home viewing of "Bart, the Magnificent!" She would mix up the stack, like a Vegas dealer shuffling a deck of cards, and then one by one, show them to me as I rattled off the player's name and his team.

That's sort of embarrassing to think about now. I'm sure there was a lot of eye rolling going on.

I was a decent athlete back in the day but far from great. If I wanted to succeed, I had to push myself.

The summer before 8^th grade, I spent a good portion of my time trying to get into shape by running everywhere I went. When my neighborhood buddies would ride their bikes downtown, I’d run alongside of them. I was hardly an intimidating physical specimen, in fact, I was a scrawny runt. All the more reason to work myself into football shape and improve my chances to earn some playing time.

My first year in tackle football was the 7^th grade. For some reason, back then, the 7^th grade team had a single game all season. The rest of the time, we served as tackling dummies for the 8th grade team.

I played linebacker during that one game and even picked off a pass. It was such a rush to make a big play like that in a game, I was exhilarated. I was also in a daze. I think I shed the initial tackler before being blindsided before I could gain any positive yardage. But that one play in that single game got me so pumped up for 8^th grade football.

The 8^th grade football team had a full complement of games… eight of them, if I remember correctly.

When the school year started in the fall of 1972, football practice started also. I went all out. I was dedicated to being the best I could be. I lacked size, I lacked speed, I lacked strength… but I did my best to mitigate the effects of those inadequacies with my heart and my hustle.

After practicing a few days in our gym shorts and t-shirts, we were advised to head to the equipment room to be assigned our gear, which included our pads, our helmet, our practice jersey and our pants. By the way, our practice pants would be one in the same as our game pants.

I remembered from 7^th grade that most of the practice/game pants were ancient. Vintage 1958… or somewhere close. I did know that there were a few newer pairs sprinkled in there because I remember last year, the Gio twins (Tim and Greg Gioffredi), had newer looking pants and they looked more sleek and intimidating than the players with the old, torn and baggy pants.

So my objective was to be at the head of the line to snag a newer looking pair of pants. I was the first in line and indeed, got a newer looking pair of pants. Unfortunately, after loading them with a hip girdle, thigh pads and knee pads the next day before practice, it took the help of three players for me to get them on. As small as I was… these pants were way too small for me. I couldn’t run in them… I could only waddle… real fast. But I looked cool because my pants were newer. Enough said.

The day before our first game, the coaches sat us down to read through the starters on offense and defense. He started with offense and I waited excitedly to hear my name… “Quarterback, Isolini. Tailback, Cowles. Fullback, John Long.” He continued until he finished with all 11 starters. My name was not called. Not a huge surprise, I guess. I wasn’t fast enough to be a back and I wasn’t big enough to be a lineman.

So, I waited to hear the defensive starters to be named.

He started with the linemen and then moved to the linebackers. I waited. He got all the way down to the two safety positions. “Mac Cowles, strong safety.” One more position. “And Munson, you’ll be at the free safety position.”

When I heard my name called… I swear I also heard angels singing, fireworks exploding and all of Boone County breaking out in raucous applause.

Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration but the point is, I was almost delirious with excitement. This was the age in which I absolutely fell in love with the concept of competition. I was consumed by it. I thrived on it.

Even into adulthood, "competition" had a great influence on me. I can remember living alone in my apartment in 1980, a few months before getting married. I played church league softball on Saturday mornings and I would spend Friday nights tossing and turning because I was so excited to go out and compete the next morning.

Back to 8th grade football...

Our first game was at Ogden. We didn’t take a school bus for some reason. I distinctly remember riding in a van with about three or four of my teammates. We were a rowdy bunch, each taking turns bragging about what we were going to do to our opponents. We were so tough!

I sat next to Curt Chapman and wondered why he wasn’t participating in the bravado like the rest of us. He just stared straight ahead. Didn’t say a word. I mean… Chappy was cool like that… didn’t always say a whole lot. But man… this is the first game… surely he was amped! Maybe he was just getting his game face on. Meditating. Praying. I don’t know…

As we pulled into the parking lot of the football field in Ogden, we found out why Chappy had been so quiet as he showed us, in living color, what he had eaten for lunch. Before any of us could pile out of the van, Curt projectile vomited all over the seat in front of him and onto the floor. Apparently, that’s all he needed because following that event, he instantly became as hyper as the rest of us.

As for the inaugural game of my 8^th grade season… we lost 32-0. But… I played the entire game on defense. I don’t think I did anything spectacular but I don’t think I played bad either. All I know was that I had a blast and I could not wait until the next game!

"Three Against One" Submission #21

Meanwhile, on the home front, things grew worse. Not only was my step-father a full-blown alcoholic, my mom, who had never really imbibed much alcohol prior to this, was now matching her husband drink for drink. To ever see them sober was a rarity indeed.

To make matters worse, my step-siblings, Jackie and Phillip and my cousin, Bruce, were definitely not a part of the “Bart Munson Fan Club.” Frankly, they couldn’t stand me. They began a united campaign to make my life miserable (more so than it already was), and it worked. They would berate me, exclude me from any plans and insult me in their “private” conversations… knowing that I was within earshot.

I remember one time, I was sitting on my bed with my feet on the floor when Jackie burst into my room and with great force, slammed the bedroom door into my knees. It hurt… badly! I yelled out in pain as she looked at me with a smirk on her face as I heard Phillip and Bruce laughing from the living-room. Mission accomplished, she returned to the living-room and gleefully joined in the laughter.

Another time, I remember drinking a can of pop that tasted very odd and yet, I took several drinks thinking that my taste buds were playing tricks on me. When I finally voiced my complaint about a horrible tasting Coke, Bruce proudly proclaimed that he had urinated in it when I had briefly left the room. I immediately rushed into the bathroom and made myself vomit.

Although I would never, ever recommend this sort of treatment for anyone for any reason… I was not blameless. I needed to be humbled. I was acting out with displays of arrogance, rudeness and disrespect. I don’t know why. Maybe it had something to do with the trauma that was ripping through my life from the point of my father’s death through the present set of tragic, familial circumstances.

By the end of my 7^th grade year, I felt a large shift in my interpersonal relationships. I already outlined my experience with my family but even my friends at school seemed to be pulling away from me.

A school year that had started out so promising for me, was ending in disaster. My parents were totally detached from me, the sober wing of my family hated me, my “friends” at school began to ignore me, Joni had broken up with me and I was miserable. The walls were caving in on me and I had no clue how to deal with it.

Beyond these years, I never had a relationship with Jackie and Bruce. Once we parted ways, any sort of relationship was completely severed.

Barb, me, Butch and Phil

It was different with Phillip. I never felt that he was a real willing participant in all of this crazy activity directed at me. I think he was sucked into it by “sibling pressure” more than anything. If you know Phil, you know that he has a great heart and it is hard to fathom that he would ever desire to hurt anyone. I have enjoyed numerous occasions of visiting with him over the years and I love him as a brother.

I didn’t see God in all of this but He was there… working, molding, drawing me to Himself. But in my frail, childlike mind… I couldn’t comprehend what was happening to me; why it was happening to me. I had no viable recourse. I had no power. I had no faith. All I had was pain and misery.

"So I Started a Gang" Submission #20

I tried starting a gang once. Yes, in Madrid, Iowa. Rough town surrounded by cornfields. A boy has to do what a boy has to do to survive the tough streets of Madrid.

I know, I know… could I have had a more stupid idea? Maybe… but not likely.

Where was this idea born?

My brother, Bill, gave me a book called, “Run Baby Run.” It was the story of a kid named Nicky Cruz from Puerto Rico, who moved to New York City as a child. He grew up on the streets and ended up joining a notorious street gang called the Mau Maus. He eventually worked his way to the top of the gang and the book, very graphically, chronicles every gory detail of his ascension.

Now… the real point of the book is Cruz’s glorious conversion to Christianity under the street ministry of David Wilkerson. Maybe you have heard of the film adaptation of this biography called “The Cross and the Switchblade.” I was totally fascinated with the story up until the conversion part… I’m ashamed to admit today.

I was captivated how this gang terrorized and intimidated everyone they came in contact with. When someone wanted to join the Mau Maus, they had to be “jumped in,” which meant they were beat up by several of the gang members and if they could withstand the punishment, they were in. It all sounded so cool… to a 7^th grader in the great Midwest.

My friend, Ed Burke and I would take turns reading portions of the book out loud. We discussed starting the Madrid Mau Maus. The shed in my backyard would be our meeting place. We would invite only the coolest and the toughest.

Yes… I am laughing and shaking my head as I type.

Mac Cowles, John “Scrounge” Long, Curt Chapman, Kevin Gibbons… these were a few of the initial

invitees. All of them were interested enough to come to our first meeting in the shed. I don’t remember exactly what we talked about. Gang stuff, I guess. Who we were going to intimidate first, maybe. I do remember that we lit some matches. Not sure why. Gang members like fire?

Our first order of business was whether to accept the Lombardi brothers, Scott and Tony, into our elite group. The vote was affirmative but only if they could withstand the gauntlet. One at a time, they had to travel through the members, lined up on two sides, as everyone threw punches and kicks. If they made it through, to

the other end, they were in.

Scott went first and was pummeled from the get go. I remember he fell down and had to crawl to the other end of the shed. I don’t think anyone had the heart to do too much damage and he ended up making it through without any real injury. His eyes were red and watery. He was happy to be done.

As we finished with Scott, our attention turned to his younger brother, Tony. But Tony must have thought better than to offer himself up to the blood thirsty 12-year-olds, because he was nowhere to be found. He must have exited during Scott’s initiation. Smart kid.

As co-Presidents, Ed and I had to wear something that made us stand out. We talked about some sort of leather wrist band but settled on a heavy chain bracelet. Gang leaders must accessorize.

A few days later, Brian “Huffy” Huffstutler got wind of the newly formed gang and was dying to be a part of it. We were at school, on a break after lunch. We stood in front of the three-story school building, near the street.

“What do I have to do, Muns?” Huffy pleaded, “Name it!”

Thinking back to the “jump-in” initiation from the book, I modified the protocol as I told him to turn his head away from me and turn back when I told him to a few seconds later. Huffy obediently turned his head as I slipped my heavy chain bracelet over the knuckles on my right hand.

“Ok Huff, turn around.” I said

He turned his head and before he could focus his eyes, I slugged him on his left cheek as the chain dug into my knuckles, taking the skin with them.

Huffy fell against the tree and slithered down in a squatting position with his face in his hands. He stayed that way for quite some time as a small crowd gathered. Eventually he got up and smiled. A welt in the shape of the chain links protruded from his cheek.

He had taken a shot from all five foot one inch, and 80 pounds of me… and lived to tell the story. Huffy was in.

We never beat anyone up. We never intimidated anyone. Heck, we never even had a second meeting. The Mau Maus disbanded prior to ever wreaking havoc on the scared souls of Madrid, Iowa.

The memories of our gang faded into the mist of time, never to be brought up again… until a couple years later.