Plato’s Cave is a fictional construct by that famous Greek in his most famous work. You can get the short story by clicking the link or googling up the thousands of entries that comment on it.
Here we embrace its most basic meaning, people judging the world by their reflected view of the actions of others. We can never really know the reality that drives them to do and say what they do. All we see are their actions. That is the world in which we struggle.
Your own reflections are welcome.
Use the comments button to post your thoughts.
Plato focused on “Good”. We’re not all Plato.....
Michelle Obama can win the 2020 presidential election without even running a campaign.
The best way to overcome it [the fear of death]—so at least it seems to me—is to make your interests gradually wider and more impersonal, until bit by bit the walls of the ego recede, and your life becomes increasingly merged in the universal life. An individual human existence should be like a river: small at first, narrowly contained within its banks, and rushing passionately past rocks and over waterfalls. Gradually the river grows wider, the banks recede, the waters flow more quietly, and in the end, without any visible break, they become merged in the sea, and painlessly lose their individual being. The man who, in old age, can see his life in this way, will not suffer from the fear of death, since the things he cares for will continue. And if, with the decay of vitality, weariness increases, the thought of rest will not be unwelcome. I should wish to die while still at work, knowing that others will carry on what I can no longer do and content in the thought that what was possible has been done.
Bertrand Russell
Robin Hansen just solved the immigration problem at a Denver public speaking gig with Sam Harris.
He suggested that we have the opportunity to sell our citizenship.
Monetize our citizenship. Let each one of the millions of poverty-stricken American citizens get a tangible financial reward for being an American. What a great way to give poor proud Americans a tangible chance at the American Dream. Put a real "boot" into bootstrapping.
What a great chance to allow the 12 million illegal immigrants living in fear a simple direct way to gain some peace and security for themselves and their families. The good people here without legal status would still be good people with a chance to continue contributing to our society and pay taxes. The criminals would still be criminals, and treated as such.
Make your citizenship something that can become a part of your estate, something that can be sold by your heirs. Maybe attach a special “Citizenship Inheritance Tax” to it in order to give the government more tax revenues without really taking anything from the citizenry. The CIT could be the answer to our trillion-dollar national debt.
Once you’ve sold your citizenship, you needn’t leave. Just stay where you are with the equivalent of a Green Card. Maybe it should be called a Purple Card. No disruption of any kind. You have all the rights and privileges of any Green Card holder.
So, what’s the problem?
Ethical Happiness
You’ve heard Sam define ethics/morality with the same scenario each time: Imagine everyone in the world suffering in the worst way. Anything that alleviates that amount of suffering is the right moral/ethical direction.
Prior to Sam, I had always subscribed to Plato’s simple and similar description: Whatever does the greatest good for the greatest number. That may have been Plato quoting Aristotle. Plato gets 90% of the credit for Aristotle’s ideas. At some point, you wonder if he had any of his own.
If you want to just read through things, those two examples seem to be two different sides of the same idea. When it came up in the recent podcast with Sean Carroll, it occurred to me that they are not. More on that in just a bit.
People don’t equate the absence of suffering with happiness. People believe that material things bring happiness. Other more evolved people think good personal relationships/friendship is a measure of happiness. Another metric would be lack of conflict. John Lennon would choose Love. Still another would somehow try to describe Family as a measure of happiness. My own most current thoughts circle around a recent podcast or article that pointed out that we are each oriented to production or consumption. People who measure happiness by how much they consume are in the majority and are almost never really ‘happy’ because they are never satisfied and always want to consume more. You can read that as spend more, eat more, travel more, play more, have more stuff.
Maslow and his pyramid of happiness felt that production brought happiness. Self-actualization is a common phrase used. The more you do, the happier you are. This all focuses around the oxymoronic redundant phrase hard work. There are nuances there that the consumers amongst us just don’t get.
The point I want to get to is that you can spend your time trying to alleviate suffering, and you should. I make a conscious effort, and it makes me feel moral/ethical. But following that path to the nth degree does not lead to overall world happiness or even personal happiness. It leads to a cessation of sadness/misery. There has to be another metric that focuses on that consumption/production activity. Winning the World Series or getting the Nobel or winning the lottery. It’s a separate game plan that also needs to have a moral/ethical component.
That’s my point. We’re working with two separate, but almost equally important measurements. I will note that almost everybody embracing this kind of a thought would use an X/Y axis with one axis being a measurement of misery reduction/creation and the other being a measurement of joy creation/loss. If every act you are involved in has an element of each, then that x/y axis would be a great way to plot ultimate ethics and chart a behavior module.
It’s not just about relieving suffering, Sam. Shame on you for over-simplifying. The moral/ethical problems arise on the other side of the problem when people try to obtain happiness, often at the expense of somebody else. It’s that infamous zero-sum game.
If you still have time, Sam’s podcast guest Sean Carroll engaged him with a question that challenged Sam’s alleviating suffering paradigm. Sam dodged it, dismissed it, ignored it. There was, and is an answer. The question was something like what would justify all the people in the world suffering at the maximum degree? The proper answer would be that if #1 the suffering were guaranteed to be of finite measurable length, and #2 the result would be the “Ultimate Good” whatever that might be.
A facile example, easy to grasp, is the suffering a woman goes through in giving birth. Giving birth is often described as the worst hardest thing any human being goes through. The result is life itself. How many endless examples are there of suffering bringing a reward? The suffering artist is almost a cliché. Jordan Peterson is vested in the concept that life is essentially endless suffering that we need to do our best to mitigate. We can turn suffering to a good result.
So when Sam uses the rhetorical tent peg of universal suffering to define morality/ethics, it’s flawed. Sam says that moving away from that extreme is the ethical moral thing to do. I say, not necessarily. If you remove the suffering of childbirth, you could end up with higher natal mortality, and what do you do 100 years down the road? You can certainly fence with me over that example, but I’ll just move on to any one of a thousand things that embrace some amount of suffering for a good result. I can do this because Sam is being absolute in his own usage of this example. How about throwing out the baby, bathwater and everything else involved and just say that lancing an infected boil is incredibly painful, but the result is beneficial. Lancing the boil increases suffering.
Only point here is that Sam needs to do a better job with his moral/ethical barometer/compass. If somebody else said what Sam is saying, Sam would take them down in 30 seconds.
Just to get back to the main point, happiness is both alleviating suffering and the creation of happiness. That’s two, II, 2 separate things. Both need ethical/moral guidelines. Sam is guilty of using a false equivalency. And how about that audience member who told him he was the most hated guy in the world?
https://samharris.org/podcast/
The TSA
If the TSA failed 96% of the bomb and weapon smuggling tests, and there has been no terrorist attacks on airlines; Why is the response to restructure the TSA?
Why isn't the response to disband it and save the billions of tax dollars and the annoyance to tens of millions of air travelers?
Shouldn't we revisit that cautionary tale "The Emperor's New Clothes"?
The Self
“There is the bodily self, which is the experience of being a body and of having a particular body. There is the perspectival self, which is the experience of perceiving the world from a particular first-person point of view. The volitional self involves experiences of intention and of agency – of urges to do this or that, and of being the causes of things that happen. At higher levels, we encounter narrative and social selves. The narrative self is where the ‘I’ comes in, as the experience of being a continuous and distinctive person over time, built from a rich set of autobiographical memories. And the social self is that aspect of self-experience that is refracted through the perceived minds of others, shaped by our unique social milieu.”
Anil Seth from Sam Harris "Waking up" Podcast #113 January, 2018 at the 2 hour point
3 Hearts 3 Faces
"Every man has three hearts within himself and three faces for each heart.
There is the public heart, the private heart shared only with one's chosen life-partner, and a man's secret heart of hearts shared with no one.
Each heart has three faces. The first is the face perceived by others.
The second is the face he sees himself. The third is the reality."
"Every man has three hearts within himself and three faces for each heart.
There is the public heart, the private heart shared only with one's chosen life-partner, and a man's secret heart of hearts shared with no one.
Each heart has three faces. The first is the face perceived by others.
The second is the face he sees himself. The third is the reality."
Sam Harris Quotes
Sam Harris says
"The feeling that we call “I” is an illusion. There is no discrete self or ego living like a Minotaur in the labyrinth of the brain."
"Confusion and suffering may be our birthright, but wisdom and happiness are available."
Sam Harris "Waking Up"
"The feeling that we call “I” is an illusion. There is no discrete self or ego living like a Minotaur in the labyrinth of the brain."
"Confusion and suffering may be our birthright, but wisdom and happiness are available."
Sam Harris "Waking Up"
There are eight levels of charity, each greater than the next.
[1] The greatest level, above which there is no greater, is to support a fellow Jew by endowing him with a gift or loan, or entering into a partnership with him, or finding employment for him, in order to strengthen his hand so that he will not need to be dependent upon others . . . [2] A lesser level of charity than this is to give to the poor without knowing to whom one gives, and without the recipient knowing from who he received. For this is performing a mitzvah solely for the sake of Heaven. This is like the “anonymous fund” that was in the Holy Temple [in Jerusalem]. There the righteous gave in secret, and the good poor profited in secret. Giving to a charity fund is similar to this mode of charity, though one should not contribute to a charity fund unless one knows that the person appointed over the fund is trustworthy and wise and a proper administrator, like Rabbi Chananyah ben Teradyon. [3] A lesser level of charity than this is when one knows to whom one gives, but the recipient does not know his benefactor. The greatest sages used to walk about in secret and put coins in the doors of the poor. It is worthy and truly good to do this, if those who are responsible for distributing charity are not trustworthy. [4] A lesser level of charity than this is when one does not know to whom one gives, but the poor person does know his benefactor. The greatest sages used to tie coins into their robes and throw them behind their backs, and the poor would come up and pick the coins out of their robes, so that they would not be ashamed. [5] A lesser level than this is when one gives to the poor person directly into his hand, but gives before being asked. [6] A lesser level than this is when one gives to the poor person after being asked. [7] A lesser level than this is when one gives inadequately, but gives gladly and with a smile. [8] A lesser level than this is when one gives unwillingly. There are eight levels of charity, each greater than the next. [1] The greatest level, above which there is no greater, is to support a fellow Jew by endowing him with a gift or loan, or entering into a partnership with him, or finding employment for him, in order to strengthen his hand so that he will not need to be dependent upon others . . . [2] A lesser level of charity than this is to give to the poor without knowing to whom one gives, and without the recipient knowing from who he received. For this is performing a mitzvah solely for the sake of Heaven. This is like the “anonymous fund” that was in the Holy Temple [in Jerusalem]. There the righteous gave in secret, and the good poor profited in secret. Giving to a charity fund is similar to this mode of charity, though one should not contribute to a charity fund unless one knows that the person appointed over the fund is trustworthy and wise and a proper administrator, like Rabbi Chananyah ben Teradyon. [3] A lesser level of charity than this is when one knows to whom one gives, but the recipient does not know his benefactor. The greatest sages used to walk about in secret and put coins in the doors of the poor. It is worthy and truly good to do this, if those who are responsible for distributing charity are not trustworthy. [4] A lesser level of charity than this is when one does not know to whom one gives, but the poor person does know his benefactor. The greatest sages used to tie coins into their robes and throw them behind their backs, and the poor would come up and pick the coins out of their robes, so that they would not be ashamed. [5] A lesser level than this is when one gives to the poor person directly into his hand, but gives before being asked. [6] A lesser level than this is when one gives to the poor person after being asked. [7] A lesser level than this is when one gives inadequately, but gives gladly and with a smile. [8] A lesser level than this is when one gives unwillingly. |
Maimonides’ Eight Levels of Charity
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Objectivism
"My philosophy, in essence, is the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute."
Ayn Rand
The most unique and valuable aspect of what she says is its simplicity.
No big words, overly long sentences or qualifiers. No arcane syllogisms or high-minded ideals: Just a simple observation of reality that anybody can understand.
#1 Man is heroic - This is good. She believes we are essentially “good”.
I like that. I’m on board.
Heroes usually struggle against odds. To me that means that we struggle for good things against bad things. We certainly all struggle. It’s nice to have somebody say we’re well-meaning. There’s a nobility implied
#2 Our own happiness is our goal. Of course it is. If it wasn’t we’d be neurotic.
It’s nice to have somebody acknowledge that it’s okay to struggle to be self-serving. Even Ricky Nelson said so in “Garden Party”. And she says it’s moral. That means it’s a good thing and nothing to be ashamed of.
#3 “Productive achievement” Rand gets to the core of her thesis for which she is most well-known. She believes we all need to work and achieve stuff. That is our true measure. Laziness, idleness-bad bad. Go out there and do something. Produce something. Produce it for yourself. That’s okay. Just “Achieve Something.” Most people embrace this as her blanket endorsement of Capitalism. There is some truth to that, but her followers take it to an extreme she would not have embraced. At least that’s what I think.
#4 Reason My favorite and most often forgotten part of her philosophy.
And the most often forgotten part of our lives. We are human beings with the ability to “reason”. To me that means putting two or three ideas together and coming to a “logical” conclusion. It’s the opposite of what’s so often referred to as “lazy thinking”, which is not “thinking” at all. It’s just repeating whatever Rush Limbaugh or Oprah says, or being a slave to ‘political correctness’.
Ayn Rand
The most unique and valuable aspect of what she says is its simplicity.
No big words, overly long sentences or qualifiers. No arcane syllogisms or high-minded ideals: Just a simple observation of reality that anybody can understand.
#1 Man is heroic - This is good. She believes we are essentially “good”.
I like that. I’m on board.
Heroes usually struggle against odds. To me that means that we struggle for good things against bad things. We certainly all struggle. It’s nice to have somebody say we’re well-meaning. There’s a nobility implied
#2 Our own happiness is our goal. Of course it is. If it wasn’t we’d be neurotic.
It’s nice to have somebody acknowledge that it’s okay to struggle to be self-serving. Even Ricky Nelson said so in “Garden Party”. And she says it’s moral. That means it’s a good thing and nothing to be ashamed of.
#3 “Productive achievement” Rand gets to the core of her thesis for which she is most well-known. She believes we all need to work and achieve stuff. That is our true measure. Laziness, idleness-bad bad. Go out there and do something. Produce something. Produce it for yourself. That’s okay. Just “Achieve Something.” Most people embrace this as her blanket endorsement of Capitalism. There is some truth to that, but her followers take it to an extreme she would not have embraced. At least that’s what I think.
#4 Reason My favorite and most often forgotten part of her philosophy.
And the most often forgotten part of our lives. We are human beings with the ability to “reason”. To me that means putting two or three ideas together and coming to a “logical” conclusion. It’s the opposite of what’s so often referred to as “lazy thinking”, which is not “thinking” at all. It’s just repeating whatever Rush Limbaugh or Oprah says, or being a slave to ‘political correctness’.
Chinese Food Fantasy
THE WORLD is a smiling face, usually female and often in bed clothes if you earn your daily bread delivering brown paper sacks of Chinese food around Brighton and Allston. After nearly forty months, there have been plenty of adventures, both pleasant and less than pleasant. Generally speaking, people receiving their dinner are smiling and grateful enough to tip a half a buck or so. Just enough for this mild-mannered reporter to support his small family.
You’re probably curious about what sort of adventures could befall the humble Orient Expressman. Settle in. Here they come, and if you grow disinterested, we can digress to the tales of a former incarnation spent in the wonderful world of advertising. No, nothing like Putney Swope, Mason Reece, or Don Draper, but interesting enough if stories of multimillion-dollar budgets, ethnocentricity, and big business hold any intrigue for you.
What? Neither Chinese food nor big business beckons seductively? Maybe you’re a veteran of Kenberma Street on Nantasket Beach. A few nostalgic paragraphs about Paragon Park and the old Fun House with the enormous circular slide ought to do it. Or how about “Buck buck, how many fingers do I have up?”
I’m the Chinese food delivery man, former advertising executive, veteran of Kenberma Street and the US army. Father of one with the dutiful wife at home doing freelance typing to supplement our drastically diminished household income. It’s been interesting, if not profitable. Maybe we ought to begin in the summer of ’74 at that now-famous dispensary of Oriental cuisine, Dragon Chef Restaurant.
Dum dee dum dum.
I was sitting behind the counter watching the Washington Street traffic go by. Sunday was slower than usual, not much to watch, which was a good enough excuse for getting caught in a conversation with a funny-looking 50ish lady and her patient husband. They entered the front door together – he with a measured step, she with a slight limp – and made their way to the counter.
“Do you have that mooshee chicken?”
“No. No moo chi,” said Alan. Alan was the manager. He was about my age, twenty-seven, but a lot smarter. His wife, Christine, worked there too. Your value at Dragon Chef often hinged upon your ability to speak English. Alan spoke quite well and understood a lot more than he’d ever admit to. It always seemed easier for him that way. Inscrutable, you know?
“I just love that mooshee chicken, Irv. Ask again. Maybe he didn’t understand.”
“Do you have mooshee chicken?” said the smiling husband a bit louder.
“No. No moo chi,” repeated Alan.
“Oh, Irving.”
“No mooshee chicken, dear. How about some egg foo young?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you just handle it?” and with a deliberate neck swivel, she faced me.
“My name is Edith.”
“Oh.”
“My husband fixes air-cooled engines. His name is Irving.”
“Oh.” You gotta be kidding. Where is Allan Funt hiding?
“He works on Porsche engines and gets all dirty and greasy. You wouldn’t know it to look at him. He’s all cleaned up now. it’s Sunday, you know.”
She was right. I wouldn’t have known it to look at him, and it was Sunday. No cameras. No Allan Funt.
Edith went on to detail several bodily malfunctions and malformations peculiar to her. It seemed that she was currently suffering from a loss of feeling in both the ring finger and pinky finger of her left hand. The trouble seemed to continue up her arm. A twinkle entered her watery eyes as she raised her voice and quizzically quipped, “It seems to be growing shorter too.” not missing a beat, she continued on into a litany of lower back problems that led to sleeping problems that led to ... um, personal problems. Irv finished ordering around the time Edith started twinkling and had waited patiently for her to finish.
I had the feeling he’d heard it all before. For some reason, Edith stopped and gleamed at Irving. I smiled, got up, and quickly walked back into the kitchen. That was about it. Four, maybe six minutes of entertainment on a slow Sunday. Well, no, not quite.
It was the following Tuesday night that I had a delivery to Newton Corner, an apartment building, up three flights, apartment 24 on the left at the head of the stairs. I knocked, the door opened against a chain, and eyes peeked out.
“Hello, Dragon chef!”
The door closed, the chain rattled, and the door opened again on Edith in a housedress. Her left arm was definitely smaller and shorter than her right. One leg was bandaged, and her housecoat was as tacky as any I’d seen all month.
“Hi, Edith.” Maybe a decent tip?
“Oh, hello there. You’re the fellow from the Chinese restaurant.” This was no surprise to either of us, but I recalled Edith’s wavelength and chalked it up to a different drummer as I smiled.
“It’s $12.75, please.” Hoping for $14 and “Keep it.”
“My leg’s been bothering me all day. Would you like to look at it?”
I was ready to settle for $12.75 even. I reached for change for a twenty just to be prepared for a quick exit. I did not want to look at Edith’s leg.
But there I was, looking in spite of myself. Edith got that soggy twinkle, and she was off. With a remarkable stream of verbiage, she lowered her lumpy middle-aged butt into one kitchen chair and raised her foot onto another. She was actually removing the bandage from a very stubbly calf, refusing to allow me a word, grunt, or movement except to put down the dripping sack of egg foo young. The bandage came off, and I felt strange.
It wasn’t the leg. It really wasn’t. Sure it was nauseous looking, but I’d seen a lot worse at Brooke Army Medical Center at Fort Sam Houston back in ’69. It wasn’t even the odor. I think the strange feeling really came from a built-in alarm we all have. Something was wrong. Edith was less than attractive in any sense of the word, but I could sense that she had begun a successful seduction. There was no sign of her mechanic husband. In truth, I was no Dustin Hoffman, and no one ever mistook Edith for Anne Bancroft. Not even if I closed my eyes.
It just wouldn’t be tasteful to detail the whole scene as it unfolded. To the best of my knowledge, Edith never ordered Chinese food again. She had spent at least twenty full minutes detailing diseases and afflictions that Sunday night. I can’t honestly say I remember each malady, malaise, and malfunction, but there was one I’m sure she didn’t verbalize. Edith left that one for my wife’s gynecologist to explain.
This is an excerpt from Marbles; Chapter 2
You’re probably curious about what sort of adventures could befall the humble Orient Expressman. Settle in. Here they come, and if you grow disinterested, we can digress to the tales of a former incarnation spent in the wonderful world of advertising. No, nothing like Putney Swope, Mason Reece, or Don Draper, but interesting enough if stories of multimillion-dollar budgets, ethnocentricity, and big business hold any intrigue for you.
What? Neither Chinese food nor big business beckons seductively? Maybe you’re a veteran of Kenberma Street on Nantasket Beach. A few nostalgic paragraphs about Paragon Park and the old Fun House with the enormous circular slide ought to do it. Or how about “Buck buck, how many fingers do I have up?”
I’m the Chinese food delivery man, former advertising executive, veteran of Kenberma Street and the US army. Father of one with the dutiful wife at home doing freelance typing to supplement our drastically diminished household income. It’s been interesting, if not profitable. Maybe we ought to begin in the summer of ’74 at that now-famous dispensary of Oriental cuisine, Dragon Chef Restaurant.
Dum dee dum dum.
I was sitting behind the counter watching the Washington Street traffic go by. Sunday was slower than usual, not much to watch, which was a good enough excuse for getting caught in a conversation with a funny-looking 50ish lady and her patient husband. They entered the front door together – he with a measured step, she with a slight limp – and made their way to the counter.
“Do you have that mooshee chicken?”
“No. No moo chi,” said Alan. Alan was the manager. He was about my age, twenty-seven, but a lot smarter. His wife, Christine, worked there too. Your value at Dragon Chef often hinged upon your ability to speak English. Alan spoke quite well and understood a lot more than he’d ever admit to. It always seemed easier for him that way. Inscrutable, you know?
“I just love that mooshee chicken, Irv. Ask again. Maybe he didn’t understand.”
“Do you have mooshee chicken?” said the smiling husband a bit louder.
“No. No moo chi,” repeated Alan.
“Oh, Irving.”
“No mooshee chicken, dear. How about some egg foo young?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you just handle it?” and with a deliberate neck swivel, she faced me.
“My name is Edith.”
“Oh.”
“My husband fixes air-cooled engines. His name is Irving.”
“Oh.” You gotta be kidding. Where is Allan Funt hiding?
“He works on Porsche engines and gets all dirty and greasy. You wouldn’t know it to look at him. He’s all cleaned up now. it’s Sunday, you know.”
She was right. I wouldn’t have known it to look at him, and it was Sunday. No cameras. No Allan Funt.
Edith went on to detail several bodily malfunctions and malformations peculiar to her. It seemed that she was currently suffering from a loss of feeling in both the ring finger and pinky finger of her left hand. The trouble seemed to continue up her arm. A twinkle entered her watery eyes as she raised her voice and quizzically quipped, “It seems to be growing shorter too.” not missing a beat, she continued on into a litany of lower back problems that led to sleeping problems that led to ... um, personal problems. Irv finished ordering around the time Edith started twinkling and had waited patiently for her to finish.
I had the feeling he’d heard it all before. For some reason, Edith stopped and gleamed at Irving. I smiled, got up, and quickly walked back into the kitchen. That was about it. Four, maybe six minutes of entertainment on a slow Sunday. Well, no, not quite.
It was the following Tuesday night that I had a delivery to Newton Corner, an apartment building, up three flights, apartment 24 on the left at the head of the stairs. I knocked, the door opened against a chain, and eyes peeked out.
“Hello, Dragon chef!”
The door closed, the chain rattled, and the door opened again on Edith in a housedress. Her left arm was definitely smaller and shorter than her right. One leg was bandaged, and her housecoat was as tacky as any I’d seen all month.
“Hi, Edith.” Maybe a decent tip?
“Oh, hello there. You’re the fellow from the Chinese restaurant.” This was no surprise to either of us, but I recalled Edith’s wavelength and chalked it up to a different drummer as I smiled.
“It’s $12.75, please.” Hoping for $14 and “Keep it.”
“My leg’s been bothering me all day. Would you like to look at it?”
I was ready to settle for $12.75 even. I reached for change for a twenty just to be prepared for a quick exit. I did not want to look at Edith’s leg.
But there I was, looking in spite of myself. Edith got that soggy twinkle, and she was off. With a remarkable stream of verbiage, she lowered her lumpy middle-aged butt into one kitchen chair and raised her foot onto another. She was actually removing the bandage from a very stubbly calf, refusing to allow me a word, grunt, or movement except to put down the dripping sack of egg foo young. The bandage came off, and I felt strange.
It wasn’t the leg. It really wasn’t. Sure it was nauseous looking, but I’d seen a lot worse at Brooke Army Medical Center at Fort Sam Houston back in ’69. It wasn’t even the odor. I think the strange feeling really came from a built-in alarm we all have. Something was wrong. Edith was less than attractive in any sense of the word, but I could sense that she had begun a successful seduction. There was no sign of her mechanic husband. In truth, I was no Dustin Hoffman, and no one ever mistook Edith for Anne Bancroft. Not even if I closed my eyes.
It just wouldn’t be tasteful to detail the whole scene as it unfolded. To the best of my knowledge, Edith never ordered Chinese food again. She had spent at least twenty full minutes detailing diseases and afflictions that Sunday night. I can’t honestly say I remember each malady, malaise, and malfunction, but there was one I’m sure she didn’t verbalize. Edith left that one for my wife’s gynecologist to explain.
This is an excerpt from Marbles; Chapter 2
Kevin
“31, get 115 Mokema…..Waltham 31…….Waltham 31………Waltham three one….31 come in…..Waltham 31…………..Waltham 31……….Twenty four get 115 Mokema…Waltham 31…....….come in 31…”
Kevin’s probably out of the cab dopin’ up. Kevin’s the only guy I ever met with the name ‘Kevin’ that I liked. It’s only been three months driving, but there’s something about night-drivers that breeds camaraderie. Lots of problems and no solutions, so you drive through the night laughing at the drunks, hoping for a run to Logan, smoking dope at the stand. Long hours spent on the same streets night after night build a relationship, almost a faceless one in the shadows of a driver’s side window. Night drivers.
“Thirty-one come in…….Waltham 31….Will someone run up to Trapelo and Lex and see if that was one of our cabs that got rolled over?.....Right, six seven, let me know. Waltham 31 come in…..three one come in please.”
Kevin’s got a cute wife and a new baby. He lives in the projects and works days as a shipper on Calvary St. He’s driving a cab to try and save some money to buy a car. Little chance. Every time he gets a hundred bucks together a gram of coke seems to come around. He keeps threatening to go to school on the GI Bill. He’s 25 and could live nicely for those four years. He’s got some kind of disability pay plus an additional stipend if he goes to school. He almost applied to UMass once.
“Come in six seven. Right…..Is it the 31?..........Right. I’ll call Joe. He’ll know what to do.”
Kevin was parked at the intersection of Lexington and Trapelo. A 19-year old kid with two buddies aboard side swiped 2 cars on the way up Lexington by the Wal-Lex, got it up to 80 mph with the police siren screaming and urging right behind them. The 80 mph reduced to 0 as he slammed into the rear of Kevin’s cab.
I was sitting in the Square and decided to swing over to the hospital to see what was doing.
“Waltham four three get 5 Grant Place….Right.”
5 Grant Place is the security guard at the hospital heading in for his 11-7 shift. May as well pick up $1.20 on my way over.
The heavyset Irishman slid into the front seat with his brown bag and thermos. I don’t like people sitting in front, especially fat Irishmen with uniforms. They sweat a lot. I dropped him at the main entrance, then swung around to the Emergency, parked the cab and walked in like I knew what I was doing. I saw a nurse and asked if they had brought in Kevin Joliet, the cabbie.
They had.
I asked to see him.
She hesitated and asked if I was his employer.
“Sure.”
His face was all cut up. The nurses had cleaned most of the blood away. His pupils were dilating back and forth. I never noticed he had very attractive blue eyes. He was awake.
Apparently when the car hit him, the windshield popped out and Kevin followed. He landed on somebody’s front lawn resulting in a helluva backache but no broken bones. He must have slid across the lawn Superman style. It was a big yard. The cuts on his face were from his broken glasses and a bloody nose. He gave me a thumbs up and a weak handshake of sorts. We spoke a bit and I left. My bedside manner deserted me. He was alright. The cab had rolled three times and the gas tank was in the back seat, but what the hell. He had got in early that day and was driving my cab. So I sit writing this in a brand new air conditioned Impala. Thanks, buddy. All is not for naught.
* * * * *
Nana had a stroke last week. I guess mother told you. She’s not putting up with it. She was walking down the hospital hall today. She’s got use of one of her arms and a leg back, but she can’t hear out of her right ear and can’t really talk. The side of her face sags. She has strength. When I went to kiss her cheek, she grabbed me and nearly sprained my back with the strength of her hug.
Beverly was there too. She hasn’t changed much. The first thing she said was “Oh good, Bobby’s here, Nana. I’ll leave so you can talk to him.” Nana grimaced. Then tried to smile. She’s tough as nails. No shit. The doctor said it would be too dangerous to try and thin her blood to dissolve the clot. That means it either stays where it is or it moves. There’s no winning on that deal. Nana is bullshit. She gets more bullshit when the nurses try their ‘happy talk’ routine. Beverly tries it too.
Bob Raxler found this super lady about a year ago. She’s about 29, real pretty, and manages the Statler Office Building. No shit. I went up to see her and she’s a lot more than a Rental Agent. She’s real clever, looks you in the eye when she speaks and has a great set of tits. She’s got to be about the nicest thing that ever happened to Bob. He’s been really dragging since his separation and divorce about three years ago. Heavy drugs and all kinds of bad shit, but she really straightened him out. I’ve spent a couple of nights talking with her and was really overwhelmed. I’ve never met a girl like her. She’s even got a good name, Ingrida Block. She may or may not be Jewish. I don’t know, but I’ll find out tomorrow. I’m going to her funeral. She woke up this morning and jumped off the balcony of her luxury apartment.
I’ve gone back to seeing my shrink. I’m thinking about buying a booth in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace. They sell about $100,000 worth of Lucite key chains and things. I can get the money, about $50,000, from the SBA. I don’t know. A shopkeeper’s life sounds pretty boring to me. I’ve got nothing much to do though. I’ve kind of lost interest in looking for a job.
There’s a pile of things I could tell you about, but I think I already told you already in my last letter. I hate to repeat myself. I just hate it. The weather for the past two-three weeks has been in the nineties each day. Kind of interesting. A real struggle to get through the days. And then there are the nights. One of these days I’m going to gather up the last few letters you wrote and try to fill your requests. It’s just too hot to go poking around the house in Newton right now.
You may be interested to know that Dragon Chef is now serving Szechuan style food. Maybe some day they’ll realize what we both already know; the home cooking they do in the back for the staff is much better than anything else. It’s only about 9:30 and there’s nothing doing in Waltham. I’d put up, but I figure to wait around till 11 and try to say hello to Raxler on my way home. Then again, he probably isn’t much in the mood for company.
Lisa has a Chinese girlfriend who lives down the street. She’s very proud of our kanji wooden name-plate. It’s hanging on the front door like you told me. She was so proud of it she wrote “Daddy” on the upper right hand corner with a black felt tip. It’s real small and didn’t hurt it much.
You never said much about the Fleetwood Mac tapes. The critics didn’t lavish the praise on it that they had for the previous tapes. I felt it had real excellence that needed a lot of listening to appreciate. I think I also mentioned to you that it deserved playing on a decent sound system. So what do you think?
Wednesday 7/23/80
Ingrida was not Jewish. No wonder I liked her. Today the rains have come. I find it cheery. Tomorrow I have two interesting appointments: One with the owner of the Quincy Marketplace stand, and second, with one of two publishers who have joined forces and are looking for a third to form a consortium of sorts. All things considered there should be some interesting discussion to spur me on through the weekend.
I have not reread the previous pages, though I’m sure the tone was moribund. Today is not, so why ruin things? Joany is getting married Saturday. Johnny had a party last Saturday night to celebrate. ‘Free at last’, huh? It was fun. He bought an island on a pond in Wayland and had about twenty-five people including numerous children for a cookout and stuff. Lots of smiles.
I’ve got a few resumes to send out and lunch with a girl who’s helping me put my condo guide together. I’d better get going. Might as well mail this and start again tonight.
Waltham 47 put’n up.
Love
Bobby
Chapter #3 of Marbles
Kevin’s probably out of the cab dopin’ up. Kevin’s the only guy I ever met with the name ‘Kevin’ that I liked. It’s only been three months driving, but there’s something about night-drivers that breeds camaraderie. Lots of problems and no solutions, so you drive through the night laughing at the drunks, hoping for a run to Logan, smoking dope at the stand. Long hours spent on the same streets night after night build a relationship, almost a faceless one in the shadows of a driver’s side window. Night drivers.
“Thirty-one come in…….Waltham 31….Will someone run up to Trapelo and Lex and see if that was one of our cabs that got rolled over?.....Right, six seven, let me know. Waltham 31 come in…..three one come in please.”
Kevin’s got a cute wife and a new baby. He lives in the projects and works days as a shipper on Calvary St. He’s driving a cab to try and save some money to buy a car. Little chance. Every time he gets a hundred bucks together a gram of coke seems to come around. He keeps threatening to go to school on the GI Bill. He’s 25 and could live nicely for those four years. He’s got some kind of disability pay plus an additional stipend if he goes to school. He almost applied to UMass once.
“Come in six seven. Right…..Is it the 31?..........Right. I’ll call Joe. He’ll know what to do.”
Kevin was parked at the intersection of Lexington and Trapelo. A 19-year old kid with two buddies aboard side swiped 2 cars on the way up Lexington by the Wal-Lex, got it up to 80 mph with the police siren screaming and urging right behind them. The 80 mph reduced to 0 as he slammed into the rear of Kevin’s cab.
I was sitting in the Square and decided to swing over to the hospital to see what was doing.
“Waltham four three get 5 Grant Place….Right.”
5 Grant Place is the security guard at the hospital heading in for his 11-7 shift. May as well pick up $1.20 on my way over.
The heavyset Irishman slid into the front seat with his brown bag and thermos. I don’t like people sitting in front, especially fat Irishmen with uniforms. They sweat a lot. I dropped him at the main entrance, then swung around to the Emergency, parked the cab and walked in like I knew what I was doing. I saw a nurse and asked if they had brought in Kevin Joliet, the cabbie.
They had.
I asked to see him.
She hesitated and asked if I was his employer.
“Sure.”
His face was all cut up. The nurses had cleaned most of the blood away. His pupils were dilating back and forth. I never noticed he had very attractive blue eyes. He was awake.
Apparently when the car hit him, the windshield popped out and Kevin followed. He landed on somebody’s front lawn resulting in a helluva backache but no broken bones. He must have slid across the lawn Superman style. It was a big yard. The cuts on his face were from his broken glasses and a bloody nose. He gave me a thumbs up and a weak handshake of sorts. We spoke a bit and I left. My bedside manner deserted me. He was alright. The cab had rolled three times and the gas tank was in the back seat, but what the hell. He had got in early that day and was driving my cab. So I sit writing this in a brand new air conditioned Impala. Thanks, buddy. All is not for naught.
* * * * *
Nana had a stroke last week. I guess mother told you. She’s not putting up with it. She was walking down the hospital hall today. She’s got use of one of her arms and a leg back, but she can’t hear out of her right ear and can’t really talk. The side of her face sags. She has strength. When I went to kiss her cheek, she grabbed me and nearly sprained my back with the strength of her hug.
Beverly was there too. She hasn’t changed much. The first thing she said was “Oh good, Bobby’s here, Nana. I’ll leave so you can talk to him.” Nana grimaced. Then tried to smile. She’s tough as nails. No shit. The doctor said it would be too dangerous to try and thin her blood to dissolve the clot. That means it either stays where it is or it moves. There’s no winning on that deal. Nana is bullshit. She gets more bullshit when the nurses try their ‘happy talk’ routine. Beverly tries it too.
Bob Raxler found this super lady about a year ago. She’s about 29, real pretty, and manages the Statler Office Building. No shit. I went up to see her and she’s a lot more than a Rental Agent. She’s real clever, looks you in the eye when she speaks and has a great set of tits. She’s got to be about the nicest thing that ever happened to Bob. He’s been really dragging since his separation and divorce about three years ago. Heavy drugs and all kinds of bad shit, but she really straightened him out. I’ve spent a couple of nights talking with her and was really overwhelmed. I’ve never met a girl like her. She’s even got a good name, Ingrida Block. She may or may not be Jewish. I don’t know, but I’ll find out tomorrow. I’m going to her funeral. She woke up this morning and jumped off the balcony of her luxury apartment.
I’ve gone back to seeing my shrink. I’m thinking about buying a booth in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace. They sell about $100,000 worth of Lucite key chains and things. I can get the money, about $50,000, from the SBA. I don’t know. A shopkeeper’s life sounds pretty boring to me. I’ve got nothing much to do though. I’ve kind of lost interest in looking for a job.
There’s a pile of things I could tell you about, but I think I already told you already in my last letter. I hate to repeat myself. I just hate it. The weather for the past two-three weeks has been in the nineties each day. Kind of interesting. A real struggle to get through the days. And then there are the nights. One of these days I’m going to gather up the last few letters you wrote and try to fill your requests. It’s just too hot to go poking around the house in Newton right now.
You may be interested to know that Dragon Chef is now serving Szechuan style food. Maybe some day they’ll realize what we both already know; the home cooking they do in the back for the staff is much better than anything else. It’s only about 9:30 and there’s nothing doing in Waltham. I’d put up, but I figure to wait around till 11 and try to say hello to Raxler on my way home. Then again, he probably isn’t much in the mood for company.
Lisa has a Chinese girlfriend who lives down the street. She’s very proud of our kanji wooden name-plate. It’s hanging on the front door like you told me. She was so proud of it she wrote “Daddy” on the upper right hand corner with a black felt tip. It’s real small and didn’t hurt it much.
You never said much about the Fleetwood Mac tapes. The critics didn’t lavish the praise on it that they had for the previous tapes. I felt it had real excellence that needed a lot of listening to appreciate. I think I also mentioned to you that it deserved playing on a decent sound system. So what do you think?
Wednesday 7/23/80
Ingrida was not Jewish. No wonder I liked her. Today the rains have come. I find it cheery. Tomorrow I have two interesting appointments: One with the owner of the Quincy Marketplace stand, and second, with one of two publishers who have joined forces and are looking for a third to form a consortium of sorts. All things considered there should be some interesting discussion to spur me on through the weekend.
I have not reread the previous pages, though I’m sure the tone was moribund. Today is not, so why ruin things? Joany is getting married Saturday. Johnny had a party last Saturday night to celebrate. ‘Free at last’, huh? It was fun. He bought an island on a pond in Wayland and had about twenty-five people including numerous children for a cookout and stuff. Lots of smiles.
I’ve got a few resumes to send out and lunch with a girl who’s helping me put my condo guide together. I’d better get going. Might as well mail this and start again tonight.
Waltham 47 put’n up.
Love
Bobby
Chapter #3 of Marbles
Bullying: The Education of a Coward
Albermarle Field in the West Newton of 1960 was not really much of a field at all by the time early November made its arrival. It was three acres of park that endured four-season use. The grass that began the football season in September had long since given way to stubble and dirt loosely defined by white lime stripes spaced at ten-yard intervals. There were no goal posts. This was a junior high field. Field goals weren't part of the game. Extra points were decided by a run or pass from three yards out and counted as two points. A dramatic foreshadowing of the AFL to come. But 9th grade football was not at all the AFL. This was serious stuff.
Bigelow Junior High School was playing its 5th game of a season that found us unbeaten, untied and unscored upon. We were playing Day Junior High, also unbeaten. This was for the city championship. This was real.
We had rolled over the other three junior highs and one non-league game against Our Ladies. The Catholic school had given us a scare. Mainly because most all the guys on the team were either Italian or Irish, and playing against Our Ladies had a flavor of the anti-Christ to it. Being one of two Jews on the team, I had no such qualms. The game itself was pretty uneventful. As the second string fullback I didn't play much anyway. Rodney Moore was the starter and despite his incredible case of acne , he got the call. My second string position was due mostly to my chronic absence from practice and frequent early departures. It was one of the first real-life opportunities to learn that if you don't pay, you can't play. Nobody ever got cut from the football squad, so I could at least suit up. But I was not a favorite on or off the field. I thought I was better than Moore. Didn't matter. He was there, all the time, and I wasn't.
My absences were fairly easy to understand. Understanding did not bring forbearance. It never does. At first I had to miss practice every Tuesday and Thursday because of Hebrew School. I was in my final year of six and graduating from Temple Emanuel was high on my parents' "Demand List". The only way I finally got out of Hebrew School was midway through the season I managed to piss off Mr. Myers enough to have him suspend me for a month. Thus I was able to attend regular football practices from then on. It still didn't prevent me from leaving early. Nothing in my life at that time could overcome the fear of what could follow football practice.
It had actually begun about two years earlier when I first entered junior high. I came from an all-Jewish elementary school in the heart of the heavily Jewish neighborhood of Newton Centre. (yes spelled 'tre'). I had spent three years at the John Ward School after moving from Boston in the fourth grade. It was culture shock before the term was even invented.
The Boston School system was everything you ever read about from medieval times. Or exactly on a par with most parochial schools. The main lessons to be learned had nothing to do with reading or writing, but with discipline and the penalties involved in not following the rules.
Newton, Massachusetts was almost too good to be true. The desks and chairs were not bolted to the floor in rigid rows. They were tables and chairs with drawers and shelves that could be moved around the room. Three and four kids sat together with their desks abutting, and you could talk. You could talk! It wasn't school at all. The teachers sat around and smiled and told stories and you could do what you wanted. You could play with clay. You could draw. You could play with the erector set. Use the science lab stuff. Read whatever books you wanted, if you wanted. All I ever wanted to do was talk. And I did. For the next three years they couldn't shut me up.
Each morning we all sat in front of the teacher and wrote our "Plans" on the board. And these boards were green not black. You had your arithmetic to do, they called it 'math', and your science and your reading book chapter and your quiz on something and your project. Everybody always had projects. They had maps and globes and glass cages with turtles and lizards right there in the room. You could do what you wanted whenever you wanted. Almost. They never got mad. They had a library attached right to the school and everybody was Jewish, except the teachers.
The only thing I liked doing almost as much as talking was reading. I got to read The Hardy Boys, this crazy stuff called Greek Mythology and the teachers all let me talk. It was like that right through 6th grade. For some reason I got real good scores on these tests they gave every 6 months. I had learned all my arithmetic in Boston. Everybody had to memorize the times tables. Everything else just came easy, even long division. I happened to stop talking long enough at the end of one fourth grade class to learn about carrying and remainders and there really wasn't much more to it. Fractions just made sense.
Science was kind of fun. They actually cut up one of the frogs that had been living in one of those glass cages all year. The girls went crazy. I loved it. They put him in a bottle with a rag soaked with ether till he stopped jumping around. Then they took him out and stuck a pin right through his brain. Then they tacked him down on a bed of wax and cut him open. It was unbelievable. They taught us the names of every single part of him. Did you know that the frog has only a two-chamber heart? You can make their limbs jump even after you stick a pin through their brain. Female frogs have eggs right inside of them. I guess it was a "her" not a "him". After the dissection, they would just toss the guts in the wastebasket. They didn't even have plastic bags back in the 6th grade of 1957. I really loved it.
Every morning after "Plans" we would have "News" where you could get up and share some current events. Every Monday morning I would get up and share a full report on that Saturday morning's wrestling, Sam Menneker style. Legs Langevan always lost. Argentina Rocca always won even though he wrestled in bare feet and Edourd Carpentier, the Fabulous French Gymnast, would leap around the ring doing flips and land on people's backs to win his match every time. Then came Killer Kowalski with his Claw Hold, and he just devastated everybody. Nobody will ever forget when he tried to pull it on Haystack Calhoun. Unh-Unh. Wouldn't work. Then came "The Big Splash" and KK never really recovered. Yukon Eric had yet to get his ear knocked off in a dramatic foreshadowing of what would happen to Evander Holyfield 50 years later at the hands of Mike Tyson.
That was my job. Every Monday morning: The Wrestling News. And then on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and whenever, I'd just make up stuff. Nobody seemed to care. Sometimes the girls would giggle, but the teachers always let me have my turn. They let me talk and talk all I wanted.
I was also the biggest kid in my grade and coming from a pretty combative Brighton neighborhood, I established myself quickly. Nobody in Newton Centre fought very much. It was too easy. I was almost kind of a bully. Sort of. It's just that nobody ever fought back. So I only beat kids up for fun. Not like back in Brighton where it was more a matter of survival. I played sports a little but never very well. These kids all knew how to play baseball. They could hit and throw and catch. Some even played basketball. I had never even seen a basketball up close till we moved to Newton Centre. All I could do was play football. At that I was good. Real good. It was kind of like fighting. I was just bigger than them. The End.
After three years of this we graduated to junior high. Things changed. Bigelow Junior High was in Newton Corner, not Newton Centre. Newton Corner was filled with Italian and Irish kids. I'm sure there were some in Brighton where I grew up, but I was too young to know the difference. There is a difference. I would spend the next few years learning.
It was about the third day of school in the seventh grade. After lunch we were all let out into Burr Park for 20 minutes of recess. Time to digest and work off some of that energy that junior high kids seem to have way too much of. I was strutting around the park with my contingent of followers from the Ward School, kind of scoping out the terrain, acting like a big jerk, pushing around some of the kids to remind them who I was. About that time I started noticing girls who weren't Jewish. There was definitely a difference. Better left for another day. Remind me to tell you about Maria Civetti.
So there we were parading through the park with about 150 kids from all three grades milling around. A skinny little kid with a wiry blonde brush-cut gets in front of me and asks me for a match. He had a Lucky hanging from his lip. Wow. I had no matches or anything like that and just kind of stood there. Then a kid behind him yells out "Yeah your face and his ass!" I looked up and grinned and the little guy kicked me in the balls. At 12 years old my balls weren't that big and made a poor target. So he actually just put his shoe in my groin with some reasonable force, but caused no real damage. He reached out his left arm with a fist at the end to throw a punch which I managed to catch, twist and whip behind his back just like I'd seen Pat O'Connor do to the Masked Marvel. I then whipped it further and flipped the guy right on his ass; flat on his back, actually. Really cool.
He was only a little guy. Then I laughed. He jumped to his feet much quicker than I could have imagined and had both his fists cocked looking ready to do some serious damage. Right about then Mr. "A", the gym teacher stepped in saying, "Alright that's enough that's enough. DeMichael, quit picking on the seventh graders. Stay with your own kind." And he pushed us all apart. Everybody was screaming and yelling for the fight they were getting cheated out of.
"After school! After School!" the other kid was yelling at me. I ignored him and walked off the field amidst a crowd of screaming kids. Mr. "A" patted me on the back and said "That's a boy, don't let those ninth graders get the best of you." Ninth graders? What did he mean? This kid looked like he was about eleven. I kept hearing people saying the name DeMichael, Dicky DeMichael over again all afternoon long. When the day ended, I got on the school bus that took me and my friends back to Newton Centre, and that was the end of it. Right.
Myron Dousche was one of my sixth grade buddies who'd made the transition to Bigelow with me. He was a bit of a geek before it was fashionable. Smart with glasses that were chronically broken and held together with a band-aid. But he was cool. I may have been one of the few that knew it. He was also very fast and the only other Jewish kid that went out for the 7th grade football team. That alone would have automatically disqualified him from geekhood. It was the band-aid on the glasses, the advanced math classes and his generally quiet ways that pigeonholed him.
We had fun together. He had a sense of humor, a sense for the absurd, a kind of nascent beatnik/hippie. He ended up going to Harvard and being a successful writer/editor. But on one September afternoon he turned out to be my only friend. We had both just showered and were walking out of the locker room after football practice loaded down with our books ready for the mile and a half jaunt home. At 4:30 PM the buses were long gone. If you played football, you didn't get any bus service. Not a big deal. 7,500 more feet to walk after two hours of wind sprints and laps for "doggin' it". No biggie.
There we were walking out the locker room door. It wasn't quite nippy yet. Actually a bit of Indian Summer warmth still lingered in the late afternoon sun. We were met by Dicky DeMichael and his buddy Pete Rigoli.
Rigoli was a scary looking guy. About an inch taller than DeMichael, but built like Quasimodo. Big hands, real big. And big fists. He had that idiot kind of grin that was scary. He was a ninth grader and was DeMichael's lieutenant. He immediately threw a short punch at the books under my arm and scattered them too far away for me to even think about picking them up.
"Hey!"
"Hey what, asshole?" DeMichael did all the talking."Hey asshole, you're an asshole."
Silence. I just got introduced to fear. I don't know why. He was still a good foot shorter than I was, I outweighed him by 50 pounds. Rigoli looked seriously deranged. I had heard just a little about DeMichael's reputation over the past few days. It was mostly centered around his fists.
"Ready to finish up, asshole?"
Rigoli picked up my gym towel that had been stacked with my books. He twisted it around in a rat-tail and started snapping it at my calves. It was loud. It hurt a little. It made him laugh. I flinched like a jerk. He laughed more. Then he flicked it at Myron's pile of books and spread them on the sidewalk too."
"Hey asshole. Leave him alone." It was me talking.
"What'd you say, asshole?" DeMichael
"You’re the only asshole here. You and your asshole four-eyed faggot friend and I'm going to kick your ass."
"Myron, you'd better get out of here. Go on home."
"I can't. They'll get me. What about you?"
"Go on. I can deal with them."
"Look at the assholes whispering! What are ya telling, fag secrets?" The towel whipped into my face and nearly made contact. I flinched again. They laughed.
"Okay. I'll fight you, but not him. Not both of you. And no boxing. Just wrestling." Rigoli slipped behind me and threw a short hard jab into my back right about where my kidney should have been. DeMichael brought his foot up at my crotch with a much more effectively placed kick than the last time. Today he was wearing his motorcycle boots. I quickly understood that rules were not anything that were going to be negotiated. These guys weren't from Newton Centre. They were from The Corner.
Neither the kidney jab nor the boot to the balls was incapacitating. But I didn't strike back. I don't know why. I just didn't.
"Hey, cut that out. I'll fight you DeMichael, just call off your pet monster here." Another towel snap to my face. They were surprised I hadn't hit back. But only for a minute.
"Myron, get out of here. Now."
"I can't. How can I leave you alone?"
"Go!" but he wasn't going. His books were at his feet and his fists were clenched and as ready as he could get them.
"Okay asshole, let's go." DeMichael put up his fists.
"No, I said no boxing. I’ll fight you, but no boxing and keep this animal out of it. Whatsamatter can't you handle me yourself." Punctuated by another kidney shot to my other side. Rigoli scuttled away. DeMichael stopped for a minute. I don't know why. Somehow he felt that he had to out talk me as well as beat the shit out of me. I still don't know why.
"I don't need him to handle a piece of shit like you. C'mon. I'll fight you any way you want". And he took a fast hard swing at my face that just grazed my shoulder. My 12 inches of height advantage helped out. Rigoli snapped his towel at Myron.
"Okay asshole let's go, but let my friend go. He's not part of this. Just let him go and I'll kick your ass good."
"Get outta here. Now!" Myron bent over cautiously and got his books.
"Alright four-eyes. Get your ass outta here." Rigoli snapped the towel at Myron's legs and made painful contact.
"Go." I said, "I'll be alright. Seeya tomorrow. Go. Just go."
Myron looked around for a minute. Looked at me and backed away. He didn't run. He walked slowly around the corner. Rigoli was on my back. I felt his boots around my waist and he was banging his fists on my head. I'd been there before, so I just fell backwards onto my back with all my weight and knocked the wind out of him. I got right up. He didn't. DeMichael was ready with his fists.
"I said no boxing. You agreed." He actually hadn't. But that's what came out of my mouth. He stared at me. Wondering. Rigoli sat up a little bit queerly. "And keep that shitforbrains out of it. It's just you and me, right?"
"Yeah, right." He still had his fists up, but Rigoli stayed away. He came at me swinging. I ducked away and grabbed him. He kicked a lot. Rigoli punched me in the back of the head. Then again. I let go of DeMichael. He popped back up with his fists ready. He hadn't landed a good punch yet. He was mad. He really wanted to.
It was after 5 and getting dark. Rigoli just stood there snapping the towel over and over. DeMichael came at me again with his fists. He caught my shoulder and arms and I grabbed him again. He squirmed loose and caught me on the cheek with a very sharp smash. It didn't hurt. Not then. He caught me in the mouth with the other hand. It didn't really hurt either, but his hand was bleeding. Rigoli snapped the towel again. I swung at him and he backed off. DeMichael followed.
"You’re an asshole you faggot. We're not done. Watch your back asshole. Watch your back." They ran off with DeMichael's hand leaving a bloody red trail in the sunset. Rigoli had my towel.
And I did watch my back. For the next six years. The next day I had a lip that looked like a red balloon. I was branded the "Big Jew who wouldn't fight." So every one of the Corner kids took their shots. And I never fought back. Not till high school. I don't know why. I would go back and pick on the kids from my neighborhood. One in particular. I would give to him just what I got. Kind of like a "pass it on". I feel badly for him, But I was taking it on my end. I just don't know why. Is that what a coward is? Maybe.
I ended up leaving football practice early to avoid any possible repeat. It didn't help. It happened in Burr Park at lunch. Before school. In the corridors. All the time. They all loved it. I lived in fear. Fear of what? I really don't know. Nobody ever really kicked the shit out of me except my father. These kids would just throw fake jabs and run. They'd corner me in the park, about 6 or 7 of them and take turns running in at me like bear-baiting. It was pathetic. I was an inveterate coward. I never fought back. I still liked to play football and wise-off to teachers and generally earn my jerk-of-the-class degree. That didn't stop either.
There was something about the football field that let me release all of that frustration, tension and basic strength that I really had, but couldn't seem to use in a fight. Then they got wise to me in scrimmages. There was one particular day when they all planned to have me go through the 2-hole, between the center and right guard. The whole defense knew I was coming. I got the handoff and saw them all waiting. I remembered my days in sixth grade flag-football and just kind of leaped high and dove over them. God, were they pissed. They jumped on me and kicked the crap out of me for getting by. But I was all padded up and didn't get hurt too badly. Most of the time I loved the Reverse. I just loved running that play. Get them all running right chasing Myron who played halfback, then he'd hand it off to me going the other way. I'd always gain twenty or thirty yards. Once I got up some speed they just couldn't bring me down. I was too big. I loved when they hit me because they'd just bounced off. On the football field I could be The Man. Why not in the schoolyard?
I would beg my Mother to come by at lunchtime and let my dog Sparky loose in the schoolyard. He'd protect me. I was sure. But she never did. I never really told her why. I was too ashamed.
I went through all of Seventh grade hoping it would end when the summer came. I came back in September now that DeMichael and Rigoli had gone on to high school to find I had been passed on to the next generation. I was in the eighth grade now. There were Seventh graders to pick on. But it wasn't to be. I was the favorite. Even some of the Seventh graders from the Corner got into the act. There was Tony DeNucci, Joey DeNucci's younger brother, who just loved to practice the boxing stance his older brother had taught him. I was a great target. DeNucci was a young celeb at the time. The ninth graders who used to be eighth graders had learned their lesson and I was the one they went for. All through the Eighth grade I was their target. And never a punch thrown back.
I went through all of Seventh grade hoping it would end when the summer came. I came back in September now that DeMichael and Rigoli had gone on to high school only to find I had been passed on to the next generation. I was in the eighth grade now. There were Seventh graders to pick on. But it wasn't to be. I was the favorite. Even some of the Seventh graders from the Corner got into the act. There was Tony DeNucci, Joey DeNucci's younger brother, who just loved to practice the boxing stance his older brother had taught him. I was a great target. DeNucci was a young celeb at the time. The ninth graders who used to be eighth graders had learned their lesson and I was the one they went for. All through the Eighth grade I was their target. And never a punch thrown back. I don’t know why.
Then it was the Ninth grade and I was resigned to my role. Now there were the tough Ninth-graders that singled me out. Not as many, but they were there. In fact some of the kids that had gone on to high school would even come back just to rough me up a little. Kind of like a class reunion. But it wasn't as bad as before. Not good, but not as bad. Maybe I was just getting used to it.
It’s always been on my mind, just forever. Shame doesn’t wash away, just ineffectively buried. It comes out in later years in terrible ways. You become a bully yourself. You exhibit a neurotic need to dominate, humiliate.
Bullying has been carefully studied for the past 20-30 years with very little to show. What’s clear is that it’s a learned behavior. Abusive parents raise children who become abusers. Others become victims and the lessons go on and on. They did a study in Finland that showed some great results. Go look it up yourself on Google. Interesting, but didn’t help me. I had me to deal with and only me, and I wasn’t Finnish.
I’ve thought about it more than a thousand times. It was only some months after my 70th birthday that the slightest shaft of understanding seemed to make a hairline crack in what was more enigma than puzzle. May as well share it, for what it might be worth to you.
What was clear from early on in my young adult reflections was that my Father had an Anger Management problem. Kudos to the psychiatric community for offering a label. He would release his anger on whoever was closest. The three people closest were his wife and two sons of which I was the younger. Both of the other two family members made brave efforts to escape. One succeeded. One didn’t. My choice seemed to be Endurance. That strategy remained until he died. No need to go into details about exactly how he expressed his anger.
An early memory was the last of many trips to the St. Elizabeth’s Emergency Ward hearing one of the green uniformed personnel say,
“Hey Doc, (my father was an Oral Surgeon, and much too proud of it) You ought to be careful about coming in here so often. Between your two sons your name appears on our Admissions Logs too many times. People from the City come through and look through them from time to time and your name is so long that it tends to stand out. I’m not trying to tell you what to do or anything, just giving you a little information you may want to be aware of. You don’t need that kind of trouble.”
We stopped going to the St. Elizabeth Emergency Room. After that he brought us to the private office of Dr. Heinrich Kamen on Harvard St. in Allston. Dr. Kamen’s office was directly across the street from my Father’s office. They had known each other for many years. Dr. Kamen repaired the damage done with very little comment He was not a cold heartless man as his name might make him sound. He just did his job without unnecessary words. What was he going to say to a child anyway? I think that’s when I decided I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up. That didn’t quite work out.
My Father knew of his problems and did his best to self-medicate. Being a doctor with a legal prescription pad and a great relationship with the pharmacist at Donovans Drugstore that was just beneath his office at the corner of Harvard and Brighton Ave in Allston, he could write himself precriptions for anything.
I seem to remember him always having a little bottle of blue and pink capsules, (maybe blue and white?), in his pocket and frequently taking one. I would later be able to identify them as Librium. He took Seconal to go to sleep each night. I don’t believe he was any happier with his Anger Management problem than the rest of us. He was trying. He was failing. The positive consequences for me were that I was able to learn the principles of Pain Management at a very early age.
I’ll not go through that piece for you. It’s also easy enough to dig out on Google. What they don’t share with you on Google is that a child of 3-4 years old and growing inevitably older develops what they later label as PTSD. Those psychologists are just great at labeling things, aren’t they?
When your home, is a place where you can be struck by a massive fist wielded by a 6’ 200 pound man at any time with no warning, you learn at the earliest moments of life to stay at least an arm’s length distance away. It’s no more complex than that. Not really other than you had to be constantly aware of your surroundings and his potential movements in order to be sure you never ventured into that danger zone. Just keep alert, aware, afraid.
Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? All three of us adjusted. This was the 1950s and that sort of behavior was not as scorned and vilified as it is today. It was almost considered normal. Not almost, it was normal for me, and what else was there? But he did try. He had other problems that don’t need exposure here. They made his Anger Management even more difficult to control. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t a human being. Then again, he was a Dentist, and I pitied the poor souls that sat in his chair.
That didn’t mean he didn’t care for people. He did. That doesn’t mean he didn’t love people. He surely wanted to. Everybody wants to. He just did not have the tools to show those emotions. It was a few months after my 70th birthday that it occurred to me that his beatings were his way of showing affection; that he cared. Yes, I’ve been through 12 years of therapy decades ago and I know that kind of thinking also has a label. Blah blah blah. Doesn’t matter because it led me to the understanding that his beating me was his way of being intimate with me. This was flesh on flesh, knuckle on bone, rib-cracking embraces etc. This was how my Father showed me he loved me. At one time I believed this, if only because there was nothing else to believe. As I type this, years after, I still believe there is some truth to it, just a bit. And the reason why I’m sharing this odd reminiscence is:
I believe it is part of the reason I never fought back, the reason I was a coward, and then a bully in turn. I could not punch back at these kids that were pummeling me because being struck and striking was an act of intimacy shared only with my Father. These kids were strangers. I could not share that kind of intimacy with them. I was not their Father. They were not mine. Besides, my role was as a victim. Fighting back just never made any emotional sense. Not until I moved on to High School, 10th Grade, and my best friend Bobby transferred from Rivers Country Day, a private school for rich kids, to Newton High School where I attended. Bobby deserves his own chapter, his own book. He was as crazed as I was and maybe a bit more. The main thing was that he was a great fighter with hard hands and he was, and remains, the best friend I ever had in my life. With Bobby at my side any fear I had or any other emotion was washed away with the bizarre need to crush and destroy anything that happened to stray into our path. The first time I was almost picked on, there was Bobby by my side and we destroyed the kid. The role reversal started and I was on the prowl for three years. I certainly got my ass kicked a few times, but we sent too many kids to the school nurse or one time to the ER at Newton Wellesley Hospital. We burned houses. We burned fields. We burned trash barrels. We just burned.
I’ve never felt fear since then. I probably should have, but it’s just gone from me. Between my Father, Bobby and my early lessons in pain management, for me fear is an anomaly. That does not mean I am brave, although it might appear that way to a casual observer. I am not that. I am as immune to fear as I am to diphtheria. It’s not through any noble effort on my part. Quite the opposite. It just happened. I do believe for many reasons that are not shareable right here and now that there is far more truth to the idea that my Father’s beatings were his only way of showing intimacy and affection. You don’t have to believe a word of that. I do.
* . * . *
I loved playing football, but was never first string. Not as long as I kept leaving early. But I'd still get a few minutes to play at the end of the games. Garbage time. It was a great season.
We were just unbeatable. Our line weighed an average of 200 pounds. This was Ninth grade. These guys were 14 and 15 years old. They were big. Bob Joyce the center, another Harvard grad-to-be, was just a big smart Irish kid who ate these lettuce sandwiches on Wonder Bread every day for lunch with just one slice of cheese and occasionally one slice of ham. He'd have two containers of milk and an apple or banana. He just kept growing. We were in the same homeroom all three years. Very simple guy. The only kid in the class bigger than me, but he never once picked on me. He just didn't. He was one of the Corner kids. He was part of the "smart class" they had in Newton in those days. They grouped all the smart kids together and let them go as fast as they could. Myron was part of the group of course. There was a kind of classroom camaraderie that never really extended outside the school. You had your own friends, but in the classroom, you played it differently. Dave Bliss was the Right End. He was the son of a minister, blond, blue-eyed tall, handsome and smart. He prayed before every game, sometimes before every play. He worked real hard at practice and tried to be as inspirational to us as his Father was to him and his congregation. He ended up going to Princeton, and then a missionary in Africa. No kidding. But back then he was just a real hard-working co-captain of an unbeaten, untied unscored-upon junior high school football team. A team that was heading for Albermarle field to face unbeaten Day Junior High School.
Day was known for their amazing high school-level half-back, Marty O'Gorman and a line that was almost as tough as ours. It was a normal Thursday in November with late afternoon sun fairly bright with little warmth. We were pumped and unaware of the climate. Mr. Whitney, Science teacher/football coach got us in our team huddle and delivered a forgettable short speech on the importance of the game. We all broke the huddle with the usual roar and took the field. I took my spot on the bench. We were confident. Nothing much happened of note in the first quarter, just the usual back and forth between the 20 yard lines. Then on the first series of plays in the second quarter, Marty O'Gorman broke off tackle from our 35-yard line to race in for the score. Tommy Marquis, our own right tackle, just sat there on his ass stunned by the double team that had taken him down and out of the play. He had no chance. We stopped them cold on their 2-point conversion attempt. We were in a state of shock. We had just been scored on for the first time in two months and we were losing. The rest of the second quarter went nowhere.
Half time found a concerned Mr. Whitney pointing out the basics of what we had to do. "Run the ball up their gut." We had Bob Joyce at Center at 5'11" and 190 lbs. Bruce Garron at Left Guard at 5'9" and 200 lbs. Frank Grant, the strongest guy on the team at Right Guard 5'10" 185 lbs. The tackles were each 200 pounders. Tommy Marquis was back in play and working hard. His counterpart on the left was John Vanderslice, a behemoth of an overgrown kid at 6'2" and 240 pounds with red hair, a goofy grin and a very strong blocker. We had made our living on this line all year long. Dana Mills, our quarterback liked to toss a few short passes to Dave Bliss on the right end or Pete "Ball Hawk" Gibbs on the left just to mix things up. They both had very good hands. Nothing was working quite right on this Thursday. We came out for the second half kickoff. Day received and brought the ball across mid field in two series. They set up on our 40 yard line and pumped a pass deep down to our 20 where Dave Bliss, now playing cornerback on defense snagged an interception, tripped over his own feet and came down at our 25 with three Day players piling on top of him. Here we go.
The cheerleaders were all doing their thing and calling out the individual names of the players in their favorite cheer. "Mills Mills, he's our man, If he can't do it Moore can. Rodney Moore, he's our man, if he can't do it, Grant can!" and on and on. We started to move a bit. Short pass to Bliss for seven yards. Off tackle run to Moore, stopped. Reverse to Katz for 14 yards. Quick buttonhook over the middle to Gibbs. Buried, but a gain of four. Dana Mills calls his favorite Bootleg Quarterback Keeper and goes for eight up the middle and into Day territory. Draw Play to Moore up the middle, stopped. Halfback option around the left end for 15 yards down inside the Day 20. Moore up the middle stopped, fumble. Day recovers and back they came.
O'Gorman took the ball three out of four plays and just drove over our line. He wasn't too big, but remarkably shifty and fast. You just couldn't get a good hold on him. It took at least two guys to bring him down. One to hit him and one to grab on. Even then he'd get an extra yard or two. He was relentless. Off tackle, End around, then just a little flare pass in the flat. All to O'Gorman. All for three to five yards at a time. The sun was going down. It was after 4pm and a chill set in. Most of us didn't feel it. But sitting on the bench made you susceptible. That's where I spent the game. I was just a little cold, very bored and kind of annoyed. Moore was doing what he could, which wasn't much. I knew I could do better. Big deal. Mr. Whitney was a guy who went with his first team.
The third quarter ended with Day on our 20-yard line threatening again. This was serious. We came out and set up on defense. Bliss came up from cornerback to play a crashing end. He dropped their quarterback for a three-yard loss. Okay. High fives weren't invented in 1960 so we did the best we could with slaps on the butt. Bliss crashed again and nearly picked off a pitch-out to O'Gorman. He batted it down and tried to fall on it but got the ball kicked out of his hands by the angry Day blocking back who had got beat. They were back to our 30, third down and twenty. Bliss was making a difference. He was shouting, Grant was shouting. Bob Joyce was down in his three-point stance growling. The Day quarterback called signals and our line just surged over them and buried him for another five-yard loss. Okay, things seemed to be working. But we just had no offense.
A wobbly punt was taken at our five by Katz and returned to the 15. Back to basics. Flare pass for five. Off tackle for three. End around for five more and a first down. We worked the ball down the field to their 30 and were stopped on fourth and three. We went for it. Moore down the middle for two. Not enough. Back came O'Gorman and company. He just never got tired. We knew he was going to get the ball and just couldn't stop him. Three and four yards at a time from their 30-yard line to our 15. O'Gorman tried an Off Tackle left and somehow Vanderslice fell on him. I think Gibbs must have pushed him or something, but Big John was on the ground and O'Gorman was underneath with his leg bent in a way it wasn't meant to be. He hobbled off the field with a bit of help from their coach and trainer. Two plays later it was fourth and two on our five. They went for it. We stopped them. There were only about five minutes left in the game. We were on our own four-yard line. It was cold and dark.
Mr. Whitney turned around and pointed at me. "Get in there for Moore." That was the first time in my life I ever felt my heart leap. The next time was with Wendy Schneiderman behind the sand dunes on Kenberma Street in Nantasket Beach the following summer, but that is definitely another story. My head was buzzing. I felt a weird sensation in my veins, like an electric current had been turned on that ran up my arms and through my legs. My mouth tasted funny. I got into the huddle and nobody paid much attention. They were pretty tired. I wasn't. Mills called a halfback option and Katz went for eight yards. I slipped and missed my block. Nobody noticed.
Mills called a long pass down the left. I blocked well but the ball fell incomplete.
"32 Right on Two" That was Me. Fullback(#3) up the Two Hole between Center and Right Guard. Joyce and Grant seemed ready. Mills called the signals. "Hut one! Hut two!!" Mills took the snap swiveled right and stuffed the ball in my gut. I tore through the hole Joyce and Grant made and just kept going. One step, two, three. I got hit in the head from my right, but it did nothing. Another stride and another. The Corners came up and hit me from both sides. That was enough. Down with a gain of five. I leapt up and ran back to the huddle happier than I can ever remember being. Nobody else seemed too impressed or inspired.
"Okay, let's try it again." Said Mills. "On One. Break!" We lined up again. I was directly behind Mills. "Ready, Set, Hut One!" Ball snapped, swivel right, ball in my middle with both arms wrapped around. Grant and Joyce doing what they do and the hole was there and I was through it again. One step, two three and somebody was on my back. Didn't matter a bit. Just slowed me a little, Two more strong strides with this guy trying to strangle me and then a shot on my hip and another helmet rams into my gut from the front. Down for six more. First Down.
"Okay, we're workin'. Let's go with a 14 Bootleg Keeper Right, Crossblock." Mills was feeling good. I made my block and he took it off tackle on the Keeper for about eight yards.
Buttonhook to Bliss in the Right Flat for six more.
"32 Right on two" Here we go "Hut one Hut two" Swivel right, ball in my gut. The hole was so big I could have waltzed through. Nobody touched me. I went for 14 yards before the safeties and cornerback tripped me up. Joyce and Grant were just awesome. They had hit the Day defensive linemen so hard they got pushed into their own linebackers.
"32 Right again on Set. Break!" all business.
"Ready, Set." I was over mid field and the Day tacklers were like flies. They were tired. I wasn't. I tripped on my own feet at their 30 and went down, tried to get back up, but was whistled down by the Ref. Junior High School rules didn't allow you to get up once your knee hit the ground. Nobody seemed to care.
"Keeper left on two. Break!" Mills took the ball on his Bootleg down to the 25.
Two minute warning.
We huddled loosely. Out came Mr. Whitney with Mr. "A" the trainer and the water bucket. A few helmets came off and most of us took a knee. I didn't. I was just buzzed. "Okay boys, we have our chance." Whitney said. "Grant, Joyce, great job. Keep it up. Mills, Keep the ball on the ground. Just drive it in. C'mon boys, this is it."
The whistle blew and we got in the huddle.
"32 Right on two. Break!" Down the middle for four. It was a little tougher going. Day brought up their linebackers to strengthen the center of the line. Mills called a Reverse to try and open things up but one of the linebackers crashed through and got my ankle just as Katz tossed me the ball. Loss of two.
"32 Left on two. Break!" Going to the left was just a little different step. I almost dropped the ball and tripped over Mills' toe. I stumbled forward for a gain of two.
"32 Right on Set. Break" I heard Joyce growling from five feet back. The hole was there. I was through it and put my shoulder into the linebacker who didn't have a chance. I drove for eight and carried at least three guys for the last two yards.
"32 Right on Two. Break!" No time to think. Grant and Joyce were there. Big hole again, Right through, four, five, six yards and my legs were wrapped in arms and something big fell on me. We unpiled. The Ref was looking at his watch. The timekeeper was standing up. We were on the four-yard line. Huddle.
"32 Right on one! C'mon let's do it! Break!" There just wasn't any time to do anything but set up and go.
"Ready, Set, Hut One!" I got the ball smoothly. The hole wasn't there. Grant and Joyce were buried under four Day Linebackers with four more bodies charging over them and me the target. Marquis and Katz dove in front and dropped two of them at the knees. It was a mound of bodies about waist high. I drove forward trying to climb over them as the memory of my leaping over a similar wall in practice flashed in front of my brain. I was climbing a mountain of bodies with my cleats. I saw the Ref standing in the end zone in front of me as I put one foot above the other and felt a hit on my right, lost my footing, a hit on my left, a hit from behind and I fell forward over that mountain of adolescent angst wrapped up in all the Day players that were left on the field.
We unpiled and there I was. The Newton Graphic had a small headline in the local sports page on Saturday that read "Biederman stopped two feet short of paydirt. Day wins the city championship"
The bus ride back was bad. Bliss was crying. Most everybody was visibly shaken. Nobody said anything. Nothing. I should have gone over. It was so clear to me. It was as if that practice session back in September was there just for that reason. I should have vaulted the line, not tried to climb over. I would have made it easy. I had done it before. I did it in Flag Football in sixth grade. I did it in practice just a few months ago. I should have gone over. Not through. Nobody ever said anything to me about it after that day. Just a few days later, Mr. "A" the gym teacher and trainer mentioned that I did a great job in the fourth quarter. "Too bad about that last play." Yeah, too bad.
I sit here 54 years later with that memory as clear as this morning's newspaper. I kept that clipping from the Newton Graphic in my cigar box next to the Mickey Mantle rookie year baseball card and the letter Wendy sent me after the summer telling me it was over. There was the butt of the first cigarette I ever smoked, my dog Sparky's black leather collar, my boutonniere from the high school prom and the Learner's Permit when I first got my driver's license. I lost the cigar box some time between college and the Army, but I never lost the memory. "Stopped 2 feet short of paydirt" It's with me whenever I've faced any kind of challenge whether at the Saturday night "rumble" in high school, at Hell Night as a fraternity pledge in college, as a combat medic in the US Army, a victim of a mugging as a Chinese Food Delivery guy during some tough unemployment years, as a construction worker trying to guide a two wheel carriage filled with 800 pounds of fresh concrete across a 2x4 board bridge, or as a businessman facing the day to day struggles of making a living. I thought of it as a father dealing with my kids during the toughest testing times of their own adolescence, and when they are stricken with an illness we can't seem to cure. The headline was there when I gave the eulogy at my dearest friend's funeral and again when I stood up for my Mother at her funeral. Whenever the challenge is there, I see the headline "Biederman stopped 2 feet short of paydirt." I should have gone over. Not through.
Bigelow Junior High School was playing its 5th game of a season that found us unbeaten, untied and unscored upon. We were playing Day Junior High, also unbeaten. This was for the city championship. This was real.
We had rolled over the other three junior highs and one non-league game against Our Ladies. The Catholic school had given us a scare. Mainly because most all the guys on the team were either Italian or Irish, and playing against Our Ladies had a flavor of the anti-Christ to it. Being one of two Jews on the team, I had no such qualms. The game itself was pretty uneventful. As the second string fullback I didn't play much anyway. Rodney Moore was the starter and despite his incredible case of acne , he got the call. My second string position was due mostly to my chronic absence from practice and frequent early departures. It was one of the first real-life opportunities to learn that if you don't pay, you can't play. Nobody ever got cut from the football squad, so I could at least suit up. But I was not a favorite on or off the field. I thought I was better than Moore. Didn't matter. He was there, all the time, and I wasn't.
My absences were fairly easy to understand. Understanding did not bring forbearance. It never does. At first I had to miss practice every Tuesday and Thursday because of Hebrew School. I was in my final year of six and graduating from Temple Emanuel was high on my parents' "Demand List". The only way I finally got out of Hebrew School was midway through the season I managed to piss off Mr. Myers enough to have him suspend me for a month. Thus I was able to attend regular football practices from then on. It still didn't prevent me from leaving early. Nothing in my life at that time could overcome the fear of what could follow football practice.
It had actually begun about two years earlier when I first entered junior high. I came from an all-Jewish elementary school in the heart of the heavily Jewish neighborhood of Newton Centre. (yes spelled 'tre'). I had spent three years at the John Ward School after moving from Boston in the fourth grade. It was culture shock before the term was even invented.
The Boston School system was everything you ever read about from medieval times. Or exactly on a par with most parochial schools. The main lessons to be learned had nothing to do with reading or writing, but with discipline and the penalties involved in not following the rules.
Newton, Massachusetts was almost too good to be true. The desks and chairs were not bolted to the floor in rigid rows. They were tables and chairs with drawers and shelves that could be moved around the room. Three and four kids sat together with their desks abutting, and you could talk. You could talk! It wasn't school at all. The teachers sat around and smiled and told stories and you could do what you wanted. You could play with clay. You could draw. You could play with the erector set. Use the science lab stuff. Read whatever books you wanted, if you wanted. All I ever wanted to do was talk. And I did. For the next three years they couldn't shut me up.
Each morning we all sat in front of the teacher and wrote our "Plans" on the board. And these boards were green not black. You had your arithmetic to do, they called it 'math', and your science and your reading book chapter and your quiz on something and your project. Everybody always had projects. They had maps and globes and glass cages with turtles and lizards right there in the room. You could do what you wanted whenever you wanted. Almost. They never got mad. They had a library attached right to the school and everybody was Jewish, except the teachers.
The only thing I liked doing almost as much as talking was reading. I got to read The Hardy Boys, this crazy stuff called Greek Mythology and the teachers all let me talk. It was like that right through 6th grade. For some reason I got real good scores on these tests they gave every 6 months. I had learned all my arithmetic in Boston. Everybody had to memorize the times tables. Everything else just came easy, even long division. I happened to stop talking long enough at the end of one fourth grade class to learn about carrying and remainders and there really wasn't much more to it. Fractions just made sense.
Science was kind of fun. They actually cut up one of the frogs that had been living in one of those glass cages all year. The girls went crazy. I loved it. They put him in a bottle with a rag soaked with ether till he stopped jumping around. Then they took him out and stuck a pin right through his brain. Then they tacked him down on a bed of wax and cut him open. It was unbelievable. They taught us the names of every single part of him. Did you know that the frog has only a two-chamber heart? You can make their limbs jump even after you stick a pin through their brain. Female frogs have eggs right inside of them. I guess it was a "her" not a "him". After the dissection, they would just toss the guts in the wastebasket. They didn't even have plastic bags back in the 6th grade of 1957. I really loved it.
Every morning after "Plans" we would have "News" where you could get up and share some current events. Every Monday morning I would get up and share a full report on that Saturday morning's wrestling, Sam Menneker style. Legs Langevan always lost. Argentina Rocca always won even though he wrestled in bare feet and Edourd Carpentier, the Fabulous French Gymnast, would leap around the ring doing flips and land on people's backs to win his match every time. Then came Killer Kowalski with his Claw Hold, and he just devastated everybody. Nobody will ever forget when he tried to pull it on Haystack Calhoun. Unh-Unh. Wouldn't work. Then came "The Big Splash" and KK never really recovered. Yukon Eric had yet to get his ear knocked off in a dramatic foreshadowing of what would happen to Evander Holyfield 50 years later at the hands of Mike Tyson.
That was my job. Every Monday morning: The Wrestling News. And then on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and whenever, I'd just make up stuff. Nobody seemed to care. Sometimes the girls would giggle, but the teachers always let me have my turn. They let me talk and talk all I wanted.
I was also the biggest kid in my grade and coming from a pretty combative Brighton neighborhood, I established myself quickly. Nobody in Newton Centre fought very much. It was too easy. I was almost kind of a bully. Sort of. It's just that nobody ever fought back. So I only beat kids up for fun. Not like back in Brighton where it was more a matter of survival. I played sports a little but never very well. These kids all knew how to play baseball. They could hit and throw and catch. Some even played basketball. I had never even seen a basketball up close till we moved to Newton Centre. All I could do was play football. At that I was good. Real good. It was kind of like fighting. I was just bigger than them. The End.
After three years of this we graduated to junior high. Things changed. Bigelow Junior High was in Newton Corner, not Newton Centre. Newton Corner was filled with Italian and Irish kids. I'm sure there were some in Brighton where I grew up, but I was too young to know the difference. There is a difference. I would spend the next few years learning.
It was about the third day of school in the seventh grade. After lunch we were all let out into Burr Park for 20 minutes of recess. Time to digest and work off some of that energy that junior high kids seem to have way too much of. I was strutting around the park with my contingent of followers from the Ward School, kind of scoping out the terrain, acting like a big jerk, pushing around some of the kids to remind them who I was. About that time I started noticing girls who weren't Jewish. There was definitely a difference. Better left for another day. Remind me to tell you about Maria Civetti.
So there we were parading through the park with about 150 kids from all three grades milling around. A skinny little kid with a wiry blonde brush-cut gets in front of me and asks me for a match. He had a Lucky hanging from his lip. Wow. I had no matches or anything like that and just kind of stood there. Then a kid behind him yells out "Yeah your face and his ass!" I looked up and grinned and the little guy kicked me in the balls. At 12 years old my balls weren't that big and made a poor target. So he actually just put his shoe in my groin with some reasonable force, but caused no real damage. He reached out his left arm with a fist at the end to throw a punch which I managed to catch, twist and whip behind his back just like I'd seen Pat O'Connor do to the Masked Marvel. I then whipped it further and flipped the guy right on his ass; flat on his back, actually. Really cool.
He was only a little guy. Then I laughed. He jumped to his feet much quicker than I could have imagined and had both his fists cocked looking ready to do some serious damage. Right about then Mr. "A", the gym teacher stepped in saying, "Alright that's enough that's enough. DeMichael, quit picking on the seventh graders. Stay with your own kind." And he pushed us all apart. Everybody was screaming and yelling for the fight they were getting cheated out of.
"After school! After School!" the other kid was yelling at me. I ignored him and walked off the field amidst a crowd of screaming kids. Mr. "A" patted me on the back and said "That's a boy, don't let those ninth graders get the best of you." Ninth graders? What did he mean? This kid looked like he was about eleven. I kept hearing people saying the name DeMichael, Dicky DeMichael over again all afternoon long. When the day ended, I got on the school bus that took me and my friends back to Newton Centre, and that was the end of it. Right.
Myron Dousche was one of my sixth grade buddies who'd made the transition to Bigelow with me. He was a bit of a geek before it was fashionable. Smart with glasses that were chronically broken and held together with a band-aid. But he was cool. I may have been one of the few that knew it. He was also very fast and the only other Jewish kid that went out for the 7th grade football team. That alone would have automatically disqualified him from geekhood. It was the band-aid on the glasses, the advanced math classes and his generally quiet ways that pigeonholed him.
We had fun together. He had a sense of humor, a sense for the absurd, a kind of nascent beatnik/hippie. He ended up going to Harvard and being a successful writer/editor. But on one September afternoon he turned out to be my only friend. We had both just showered and were walking out of the locker room after football practice loaded down with our books ready for the mile and a half jaunt home. At 4:30 PM the buses were long gone. If you played football, you didn't get any bus service. Not a big deal. 7,500 more feet to walk after two hours of wind sprints and laps for "doggin' it". No biggie.
There we were walking out the locker room door. It wasn't quite nippy yet. Actually a bit of Indian Summer warmth still lingered in the late afternoon sun. We were met by Dicky DeMichael and his buddy Pete Rigoli.
Rigoli was a scary looking guy. About an inch taller than DeMichael, but built like Quasimodo. Big hands, real big. And big fists. He had that idiot kind of grin that was scary. He was a ninth grader and was DeMichael's lieutenant. He immediately threw a short punch at the books under my arm and scattered them too far away for me to even think about picking them up.
"Hey!"
"Hey what, asshole?" DeMichael did all the talking."Hey asshole, you're an asshole."
Silence. I just got introduced to fear. I don't know why. He was still a good foot shorter than I was, I outweighed him by 50 pounds. Rigoli looked seriously deranged. I had heard just a little about DeMichael's reputation over the past few days. It was mostly centered around his fists.
"Ready to finish up, asshole?"
Rigoli picked up my gym towel that had been stacked with my books. He twisted it around in a rat-tail and started snapping it at my calves. It was loud. It hurt a little. It made him laugh. I flinched like a jerk. He laughed more. Then he flicked it at Myron's pile of books and spread them on the sidewalk too."
"Hey asshole. Leave him alone." It was me talking.
"What'd you say, asshole?" DeMichael
"You’re the only asshole here. You and your asshole four-eyed faggot friend and I'm going to kick your ass."
"Myron, you'd better get out of here. Go on home."
"I can't. They'll get me. What about you?"
"Go on. I can deal with them."
"Look at the assholes whispering! What are ya telling, fag secrets?" The towel whipped into my face and nearly made contact. I flinched again. They laughed.
"Okay. I'll fight you, but not him. Not both of you. And no boxing. Just wrestling." Rigoli slipped behind me and threw a short hard jab into my back right about where my kidney should have been. DeMichael brought his foot up at my crotch with a much more effectively placed kick than the last time. Today he was wearing his motorcycle boots. I quickly understood that rules were not anything that were going to be negotiated. These guys weren't from Newton Centre. They were from The Corner.
Neither the kidney jab nor the boot to the balls was incapacitating. But I didn't strike back. I don't know why. I just didn't.
"Hey, cut that out. I'll fight you DeMichael, just call off your pet monster here." Another towel snap to my face. They were surprised I hadn't hit back. But only for a minute.
"Myron, get out of here. Now."
"I can't. How can I leave you alone?"
"Go!" but he wasn't going. His books were at his feet and his fists were clenched and as ready as he could get them.
"Okay asshole, let's go." DeMichael put up his fists.
"No, I said no boxing. I’ll fight you, but no boxing and keep this animal out of it. Whatsamatter can't you handle me yourself." Punctuated by another kidney shot to my other side. Rigoli scuttled away. DeMichael stopped for a minute. I don't know why. Somehow he felt that he had to out talk me as well as beat the shit out of me. I still don't know why.
"I don't need him to handle a piece of shit like you. C'mon. I'll fight you any way you want". And he took a fast hard swing at my face that just grazed my shoulder. My 12 inches of height advantage helped out. Rigoli snapped his towel at Myron.
"Okay asshole let's go, but let my friend go. He's not part of this. Just let him go and I'll kick your ass good."
"Get outta here. Now!" Myron bent over cautiously and got his books.
"Alright four-eyes. Get your ass outta here." Rigoli snapped the towel at Myron's legs and made painful contact.
"Go." I said, "I'll be alright. Seeya tomorrow. Go. Just go."
Myron looked around for a minute. Looked at me and backed away. He didn't run. He walked slowly around the corner. Rigoli was on my back. I felt his boots around my waist and he was banging his fists on my head. I'd been there before, so I just fell backwards onto my back with all my weight and knocked the wind out of him. I got right up. He didn't. DeMichael was ready with his fists.
"I said no boxing. You agreed." He actually hadn't. But that's what came out of my mouth. He stared at me. Wondering. Rigoli sat up a little bit queerly. "And keep that shitforbrains out of it. It's just you and me, right?"
"Yeah, right." He still had his fists up, but Rigoli stayed away. He came at me swinging. I ducked away and grabbed him. He kicked a lot. Rigoli punched me in the back of the head. Then again. I let go of DeMichael. He popped back up with his fists ready. He hadn't landed a good punch yet. He was mad. He really wanted to.
It was after 5 and getting dark. Rigoli just stood there snapping the towel over and over. DeMichael came at me again with his fists. He caught my shoulder and arms and I grabbed him again. He squirmed loose and caught me on the cheek with a very sharp smash. It didn't hurt. Not then. He caught me in the mouth with the other hand. It didn't really hurt either, but his hand was bleeding. Rigoli snapped the towel again. I swung at him and he backed off. DeMichael followed.
"You’re an asshole you faggot. We're not done. Watch your back asshole. Watch your back." They ran off with DeMichael's hand leaving a bloody red trail in the sunset. Rigoli had my towel.
And I did watch my back. For the next six years. The next day I had a lip that looked like a red balloon. I was branded the "Big Jew who wouldn't fight." So every one of the Corner kids took their shots. And I never fought back. Not till high school. I don't know why. I would go back and pick on the kids from my neighborhood. One in particular. I would give to him just what I got. Kind of like a "pass it on". I feel badly for him, But I was taking it on my end. I just don't know why. Is that what a coward is? Maybe.
I ended up leaving football practice early to avoid any possible repeat. It didn't help. It happened in Burr Park at lunch. Before school. In the corridors. All the time. They all loved it. I lived in fear. Fear of what? I really don't know. Nobody ever really kicked the shit out of me except my father. These kids would just throw fake jabs and run. They'd corner me in the park, about 6 or 7 of them and take turns running in at me like bear-baiting. It was pathetic. I was an inveterate coward. I never fought back. I still liked to play football and wise-off to teachers and generally earn my jerk-of-the-class degree. That didn't stop either.
There was something about the football field that let me release all of that frustration, tension and basic strength that I really had, but couldn't seem to use in a fight. Then they got wise to me in scrimmages. There was one particular day when they all planned to have me go through the 2-hole, between the center and right guard. The whole defense knew I was coming. I got the handoff and saw them all waiting. I remembered my days in sixth grade flag-football and just kind of leaped high and dove over them. God, were they pissed. They jumped on me and kicked the crap out of me for getting by. But I was all padded up and didn't get hurt too badly. Most of the time I loved the Reverse. I just loved running that play. Get them all running right chasing Myron who played halfback, then he'd hand it off to me going the other way. I'd always gain twenty or thirty yards. Once I got up some speed they just couldn't bring me down. I was too big. I loved when they hit me because they'd just bounced off. On the football field I could be The Man. Why not in the schoolyard?
I would beg my Mother to come by at lunchtime and let my dog Sparky loose in the schoolyard. He'd protect me. I was sure. But she never did. I never really told her why. I was too ashamed.
I went through all of Seventh grade hoping it would end when the summer came. I came back in September now that DeMichael and Rigoli had gone on to high school to find I had been passed on to the next generation. I was in the eighth grade now. There were Seventh graders to pick on. But it wasn't to be. I was the favorite. Even some of the Seventh graders from the Corner got into the act. There was Tony DeNucci, Joey DeNucci's younger brother, who just loved to practice the boxing stance his older brother had taught him. I was a great target. DeNucci was a young celeb at the time. The ninth graders who used to be eighth graders had learned their lesson and I was the one they went for. All through the Eighth grade I was their target. And never a punch thrown back.
I went through all of Seventh grade hoping it would end when the summer came. I came back in September now that DeMichael and Rigoli had gone on to high school only to find I had been passed on to the next generation. I was in the eighth grade now. There were Seventh graders to pick on. But it wasn't to be. I was the favorite. Even some of the Seventh graders from the Corner got into the act. There was Tony DeNucci, Joey DeNucci's younger brother, who just loved to practice the boxing stance his older brother had taught him. I was a great target. DeNucci was a young celeb at the time. The ninth graders who used to be eighth graders had learned their lesson and I was the one they went for. All through the Eighth grade I was their target. And never a punch thrown back. I don’t know why.
Then it was the Ninth grade and I was resigned to my role. Now there were the tough Ninth-graders that singled me out. Not as many, but they were there. In fact some of the kids that had gone on to high school would even come back just to rough me up a little. Kind of like a class reunion. But it wasn't as bad as before. Not good, but not as bad. Maybe I was just getting used to it.
It’s always been on my mind, just forever. Shame doesn’t wash away, just ineffectively buried. It comes out in later years in terrible ways. You become a bully yourself. You exhibit a neurotic need to dominate, humiliate.
Bullying has been carefully studied for the past 20-30 years with very little to show. What’s clear is that it’s a learned behavior. Abusive parents raise children who become abusers. Others become victims and the lessons go on and on. They did a study in Finland that showed some great results. Go look it up yourself on Google. Interesting, but didn’t help me. I had me to deal with and only me, and I wasn’t Finnish.
I’ve thought about it more than a thousand times. It was only some months after my 70th birthday that the slightest shaft of understanding seemed to make a hairline crack in what was more enigma than puzzle. May as well share it, for what it might be worth to you.
What was clear from early on in my young adult reflections was that my Father had an Anger Management problem. Kudos to the psychiatric community for offering a label. He would release his anger on whoever was closest. The three people closest were his wife and two sons of which I was the younger. Both of the other two family members made brave efforts to escape. One succeeded. One didn’t. My choice seemed to be Endurance. That strategy remained until he died. No need to go into details about exactly how he expressed his anger.
An early memory was the last of many trips to the St. Elizabeth’s Emergency Ward hearing one of the green uniformed personnel say,
“Hey Doc, (my father was an Oral Surgeon, and much too proud of it) You ought to be careful about coming in here so often. Between your two sons your name appears on our Admissions Logs too many times. People from the City come through and look through them from time to time and your name is so long that it tends to stand out. I’m not trying to tell you what to do or anything, just giving you a little information you may want to be aware of. You don’t need that kind of trouble.”
We stopped going to the St. Elizabeth Emergency Room. After that he brought us to the private office of Dr. Heinrich Kamen on Harvard St. in Allston. Dr. Kamen’s office was directly across the street from my Father’s office. They had known each other for many years. Dr. Kamen repaired the damage done with very little comment He was not a cold heartless man as his name might make him sound. He just did his job without unnecessary words. What was he going to say to a child anyway? I think that’s when I decided I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up. That didn’t quite work out.
My Father knew of his problems and did his best to self-medicate. Being a doctor with a legal prescription pad and a great relationship with the pharmacist at Donovans Drugstore that was just beneath his office at the corner of Harvard and Brighton Ave in Allston, he could write himself precriptions for anything.
I seem to remember him always having a little bottle of blue and pink capsules, (maybe blue and white?), in his pocket and frequently taking one. I would later be able to identify them as Librium. He took Seconal to go to sleep each night. I don’t believe he was any happier with his Anger Management problem than the rest of us. He was trying. He was failing. The positive consequences for me were that I was able to learn the principles of Pain Management at a very early age.
I’ll not go through that piece for you. It’s also easy enough to dig out on Google. What they don’t share with you on Google is that a child of 3-4 years old and growing inevitably older develops what they later label as PTSD. Those psychologists are just great at labeling things, aren’t they?
When your home, is a place where you can be struck by a massive fist wielded by a 6’ 200 pound man at any time with no warning, you learn at the earliest moments of life to stay at least an arm’s length distance away. It’s no more complex than that. Not really other than you had to be constantly aware of your surroundings and his potential movements in order to be sure you never ventured into that danger zone. Just keep alert, aware, afraid.
Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? All three of us adjusted. This was the 1950s and that sort of behavior was not as scorned and vilified as it is today. It was almost considered normal. Not almost, it was normal for me, and what else was there? But he did try. He had other problems that don’t need exposure here. They made his Anger Management even more difficult to control. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t a human being. Then again, he was a Dentist, and I pitied the poor souls that sat in his chair.
That didn’t mean he didn’t care for people. He did. That doesn’t mean he didn’t love people. He surely wanted to. Everybody wants to. He just did not have the tools to show those emotions. It was a few months after my 70th birthday that it occurred to me that his beatings were his way of showing affection; that he cared. Yes, I’ve been through 12 years of therapy decades ago and I know that kind of thinking also has a label. Blah blah blah. Doesn’t matter because it led me to the understanding that his beating me was his way of being intimate with me. This was flesh on flesh, knuckle on bone, rib-cracking embraces etc. This was how my Father showed me he loved me. At one time I believed this, if only because there was nothing else to believe. As I type this, years after, I still believe there is some truth to it, just a bit. And the reason why I’m sharing this odd reminiscence is:
I believe it is part of the reason I never fought back, the reason I was a coward, and then a bully in turn. I could not punch back at these kids that were pummeling me because being struck and striking was an act of intimacy shared only with my Father. These kids were strangers. I could not share that kind of intimacy with them. I was not their Father. They were not mine. Besides, my role was as a victim. Fighting back just never made any emotional sense. Not until I moved on to High School, 10th Grade, and my best friend Bobby transferred from Rivers Country Day, a private school for rich kids, to Newton High School where I attended. Bobby deserves his own chapter, his own book. He was as crazed as I was and maybe a bit more. The main thing was that he was a great fighter with hard hands and he was, and remains, the best friend I ever had in my life. With Bobby at my side any fear I had or any other emotion was washed away with the bizarre need to crush and destroy anything that happened to stray into our path. The first time I was almost picked on, there was Bobby by my side and we destroyed the kid. The role reversal started and I was on the prowl for three years. I certainly got my ass kicked a few times, but we sent too many kids to the school nurse or one time to the ER at Newton Wellesley Hospital. We burned houses. We burned fields. We burned trash barrels. We just burned.
I’ve never felt fear since then. I probably should have, but it’s just gone from me. Between my Father, Bobby and my early lessons in pain management, for me fear is an anomaly. That does not mean I am brave, although it might appear that way to a casual observer. I am not that. I am as immune to fear as I am to diphtheria. It’s not through any noble effort on my part. Quite the opposite. It just happened. I do believe for many reasons that are not shareable right here and now that there is far more truth to the idea that my Father’s beatings were his only way of showing intimacy and affection. You don’t have to believe a word of that. I do.
* . * . *
I loved playing football, but was never first string. Not as long as I kept leaving early. But I'd still get a few minutes to play at the end of the games. Garbage time. It was a great season.
We were just unbeatable. Our line weighed an average of 200 pounds. This was Ninth grade. These guys were 14 and 15 years old. They were big. Bob Joyce the center, another Harvard grad-to-be, was just a big smart Irish kid who ate these lettuce sandwiches on Wonder Bread every day for lunch with just one slice of cheese and occasionally one slice of ham. He'd have two containers of milk and an apple or banana. He just kept growing. We were in the same homeroom all three years. Very simple guy. The only kid in the class bigger than me, but he never once picked on me. He just didn't. He was one of the Corner kids. He was part of the "smart class" they had in Newton in those days. They grouped all the smart kids together and let them go as fast as they could. Myron was part of the group of course. There was a kind of classroom camaraderie that never really extended outside the school. You had your own friends, but in the classroom, you played it differently. Dave Bliss was the Right End. He was the son of a minister, blond, blue-eyed tall, handsome and smart. He prayed before every game, sometimes before every play. He worked real hard at practice and tried to be as inspirational to us as his Father was to him and his congregation. He ended up going to Princeton, and then a missionary in Africa. No kidding. But back then he was just a real hard-working co-captain of an unbeaten, untied unscored-upon junior high school football team. A team that was heading for Albermarle field to face unbeaten Day Junior High School.
Day was known for their amazing high school-level half-back, Marty O'Gorman and a line that was almost as tough as ours. It was a normal Thursday in November with late afternoon sun fairly bright with little warmth. We were pumped and unaware of the climate. Mr. Whitney, Science teacher/football coach got us in our team huddle and delivered a forgettable short speech on the importance of the game. We all broke the huddle with the usual roar and took the field. I took my spot on the bench. We were confident. Nothing much happened of note in the first quarter, just the usual back and forth between the 20 yard lines. Then on the first series of plays in the second quarter, Marty O'Gorman broke off tackle from our 35-yard line to race in for the score. Tommy Marquis, our own right tackle, just sat there on his ass stunned by the double team that had taken him down and out of the play. He had no chance. We stopped them cold on their 2-point conversion attempt. We were in a state of shock. We had just been scored on for the first time in two months and we were losing. The rest of the second quarter went nowhere.
Half time found a concerned Mr. Whitney pointing out the basics of what we had to do. "Run the ball up their gut." We had Bob Joyce at Center at 5'11" and 190 lbs. Bruce Garron at Left Guard at 5'9" and 200 lbs. Frank Grant, the strongest guy on the team at Right Guard 5'10" 185 lbs. The tackles were each 200 pounders. Tommy Marquis was back in play and working hard. His counterpart on the left was John Vanderslice, a behemoth of an overgrown kid at 6'2" and 240 pounds with red hair, a goofy grin and a very strong blocker. We had made our living on this line all year long. Dana Mills, our quarterback liked to toss a few short passes to Dave Bliss on the right end or Pete "Ball Hawk" Gibbs on the left just to mix things up. They both had very good hands. Nothing was working quite right on this Thursday. We came out for the second half kickoff. Day received and brought the ball across mid field in two series. They set up on our 40 yard line and pumped a pass deep down to our 20 where Dave Bliss, now playing cornerback on defense snagged an interception, tripped over his own feet and came down at our 25 with three Day players piling on top of him. Here we go.
The cheerleaders were all doing their thing and calling out the individual names of the players in their favorite cheer. "Mills Mills, he's our man, If he can't do it Moore can. Rodney Moore, he's our man, if he can't do it, Grant can!" and on and on. We started to move a bit. Short pass to Bliss for seven yards. Off tackle run to Moore, stopped. Reverse to Katz for 14 yards. Quick buttonhook over the middle to Gibbs. Buried, but a gain of four. Dana Mills calls his favorite Bootleg Quarterback Keeper and goes for eight up the middle and into Day territory. Draw Play to Moore up the middle, stopped. Halfback option around the left end for 15 yards down inside the Day 20. Moore up the middle stopped, fumble. Day recovers and back they came.
O'Gorman took the ball three out of four plays and just drove over our line. He wasn't too big, but remarkably shifty and fast. You just couldn't get a good hold on him. It took at least two guys to bring him down. One to hit him and one to grab on. Even then he'd get an extra yard or two. He was relentless. Off tackle, End around, then just a little flare pass in the flat. All to O'Gorman. All for three to five yards at a time. The sun was going down. It was after 4pm and a chill set in. Most of us didn't feel it. But sitting on the bench made you susceptible. That's where I spent the game. I was just a little cold, very bored and kind of annoyed. Moore was doing what he could, which wasn't much. I knew I could do better. Big deal. Mr. Whitney was a guy who went with his first team.
The third quarter ended with Day on our 20-yard line threatening again. This was serious. We came out and set up on defense. Bliss came up from cornerback to play a crashing end. He dropped their quarterback for a three-yard loss. Okay. High fives weren't invented in 1960 so we did the best we could with slaps on the butt. Bliss crashed again and nearly picked off a pitch-out to O'Gorman. He batted it down and tried to fall on it but got the ball kicked out of his hands by the angry Day blocking back who had got beat. They were back to our 30, third down and twenty. Bliss was making a difference. He was shouting, Grant was shouting. Bob Joyce was down in his three-point stance growling. The Day quarterback called signals and our line just surged over them and buried him for another five-yard loss. Okay, things seemed to be working. But we just had no offense.
A wobbly punt was taken at our five by Katz and returned to the 15. Back to basics. Flare pass for five. Off tackle for three. End around for five more and a first down. We worked the ball down the field to their 30 and were stopped on fourth and three. We went for it. Moore down the middle for two. Not enough. Back came O'Gorman and company. He just never got tired. We knew he was going to get the ball and just couldn't stop him. Three and four yards at a time from their 30-yard line to our 15. O'Gorman tried an Off Tackle left and somehow Vanderslice fell on him. I think Gibbs must have pushed him or something, but Big John was on the ground and O'Gorman was underneath with his leg bent in a way it wasn't meant to be. He hobbled off the field with a bit of help from their coach and trainer. Two plays later it was fourth and two on our five. They went for it. We stopped them. There were only about five minutes left in the game. We were on our own four-yard line. It was cold and dark.
Mr. Whitney turned around and pointed at me. "Get in there for Moore." That was the first time in my life I ever felt my heart leap. The next time was with Wendy Schneiderman behind the sand dunes on Kenberma Street in Nantasket Beach the following summer, but that is definitely another story. My head was buzzing. I felt a weird sensation in my veins, like an electric current had been turned on that ran up my arms and through my legs. My mouth tasted funny. I got into the huddle and nobody paid much attention. They were pretty tired. I wasn't. Mills called a halfback option and Katz went for eight yards. I slipped and missed my block. Nobody noticed.
Mills called a long pass down the left. I blocked well but the ball fell incomplete.
"32 Right on Two" That was Me. Fullback(#3) up the Two Hole between Center and Right Guard. Joyce and Grant seemed ready. Mills called the signals. "Hut one! Hut two!!" Mills took the snap swiveled right and stuffed the ball in my gut. I tore through the hole Joyce and Grant made and just kept going. One step, two, three. I got hit in the head from my right, but it did nothing. Another stride and another. The Corners came up and hit me from both sides. That was enough. Down with a gain of five. I leapt up and ran back to the huddle happier than I can ever remember being. Nobody else seemed too impressed or inspired.
"Okay, let's try it again." Said Mills. "On One. Break!" We lined up again. I was directly behind Mills. "Ready, Set, Hut One!" Ball snapped, swivel right, ball in my middle with both arms wrapped around. Grant and Joyce doing what they do and the hole was there and I was through it again. One step, two three and somebody was on my back. Didn't matter a bit. Just slowed me a little, Two more strong strides with this guy trying to strangle me and then a shot on my hip and another helmet rams into my gut from the front. Down for six more. First Down.
"Okay, we're workin'. Let's go with a 14 Bootleg Keeper Right, Crossblock." Mills was feeling good. I made my block and he took it off tackle on the Keeper for about eight yards.
Buttonhook to Bliss in the Right Flat for six more.
"32 Right on two" Here we go "Hut one Hut two" Swivel right, ball in my gut. The hole was so big I could have waltzed through. Nobody touched me. I went for 14 yards before the safeties and cornerback tripped me up. Joyce and Grant were just awesome. They had hit the Day defensive linemen so hard they got pushed into their own linebackers.
"32 Right again on Set. Break!" all business.
"Ready, Set." I was over mid field and the Day tacklers were like flies. They were tired. I wasn't. I tripped on my own feet at their 30 and went down, tried to get back up, but was whistled down by the Ref. Junior High School rules didn't allow you to get up once your knee hit the ground. Nobody seemed to care.
"Keeper left on two. Break!" Mills took the ball on his Bootleg down to the 25.
Two minute warning.
We huddled loosely. Out came Mr. Whitney with Mr. "A" the trainer and the water bucket. A few helmets came off and most of us took a knee. I didn't. I was just buzzed. "Okay boys, we have our chance." Whitney said. "Grant, Joyce, great job. Keep it up. Mills, Keep the ball on the ground. Just drive it in. C'mon boys, this is it."
The whistle blew and we got in the huddle.
"32 Right on two. Break!" Down the middle for four. It was a little tougher going. Day brought up their linebackers to strengthen the center of the line. Mills called a Reverse to try and open things up but one of the linebackers crashed through and got my ankle just as Katz tossed me the ball. Loss of two.
"32 Left on two. Break!" Going to the left was just a little different step. I almost dropped the ball and tripped over Mills' toe. I stumbled forward for a gain of two.
"32 Right on Set. Break" I heard Joyce growling from five feet back. The hole was there. I was through it and put my shoulder into the linebacker who didn't have a chance. I drove for eight and carried at least three guys for the last two yards.
"32 Right on Two. Break!" No time to think. Grant and Joyce were there. Big hole again, Right through, four, five, six yards and my legs were wrapped in arms and something big fell on me. We unpiled. The Ref was looking at his watch. The timekeeper was standing up. We were on the four-yard line. Huddle.
"32 Right on one! C'mon let's do it! Break!" There just wasn't any time to do anything but set up and go.
"Ready, Set, Hut One!" I got the ball smoothly. The hole wasn't there. Grant and Joyce were buried under four Day Linebackers with four more bodies charging over them and me the target. Marquis and Katz dove in front and dropped two of them at the knees. It was a mound of bodies about waist high. I drove forward trying to climb over them as the memory of my leaping over a similar wall in practice flashed in front of my brain. I was climbing a mountain of bodies with my cleats. I saw the Ref standing in the end zone in front of me as I put one foot above the other and felt a hit on my right, lost my footing, a hit on my left, a hit from behind and I fell forward over that mountain of adolescent angst wrapped up in all the Day players that were left on the field.
We unpiled and there I was. The Newton Graphic had a small headline in the local sports page on Saturday that read "Biederman stopped two feet short of paydirt. Day wins the city championship"
The bus ride back was bad. Bliss was crying. Most everybody was visibly shaken. Nobody said anything. Nothing. I should have gone over. It was so clear to me. It was as if that practice session back in September was there just for that reason. I should have vaulted the line, not tried to climb over. I would have made it easy. I had done it before. I did it in Flag Football in sixth grade. I did it in practice just a few months ago. I should have gone over. Not through. Nobody ever said anything to me about it after that day. Just a few days later, Mr. "A" the gym teacher and trainer mentioned that I did a great job in the fourth quarter. "Too bad about that last play." Yeah, too bad.
I sit here 54 years later with that memory as clear as this morning's newspaper. I kept that clipping from the Newton Graphic in my cigar box next to the Mickey Mantle rookie year baseball card and the letter Wendy sent me after the summer telling me it was over. There was the butt of the first cigarette I ever smoked, my dog Sparky's black leather collar, my boutonniere from the high school prom and the Learner's Permit when I first got my driver's license. I lost the cigar box some time between college and the Army, but I never lost the memory. "Stopped 2 feet short of paydirt" It's with me whenever I've faced any kind of challenge whether at the Saturday night "rumble" in high school, at Hell Night as a fraternity pledge in college, as a combat medic in the US Army, a victim of a mugging as a Chinese Food Delivery guy during some tough unemployment years, as a construction worker trying to guide a two wheel carriage filled with 800 pounds of fresh concrete across a 2x4 board bridge, or as a businessman facing the day to day struggles of making a living. I thought of it as a father dealing with my kids during the toughest testing times of their own adolescence, and when they are stricken with an illness we can't seem to cure. The headline was there when I gave the eulogy at my dearest friend's funeral and again when I stood up for my Mother at her funeral. Whenever the challenge is there, I see the headline "Biederman stopped 2 feet short of paydirt." I should have gone over. Not through.
Boy Interrupted: Thoughts on Mental Illness
There's a documentary available on HBO called "Boy Interrupted". It was produced by a Mother and Father who both have film making experience. The story is about their son's suicide at age 15. It's bizarre to note that teenage suicide is almost mundane. Teenagers and geriatrics are the two largest demographics that commit suicide. I saw much of it during my Trauma Intervention Program days, but never found it mundane, but in our media world , it could seem that way. This piece is simply the most moving and educational you could ever imagine seeing.
The reason: The Mother decided to make the piece and had the courage to show herself in all her emotional vulnerability that never became maudlin or pathetic. The boy was Bi-Polar and seemed destined to end his life. The family's struggle with that reality for 15 years was the theme. Her profiles on each of the family members were incredibly sensitive and revealing. You'll never see such emotional honesty. There's an integrity to it.
The other equally valuable aspect of the piece was how effectively they portrayed mental illness as a true disease. No matter what we say, there's still that stigma that somebody's "crazy", but now, somebody got it right!
Much has been written about the progress achieved in dealing with mental illness. I feel quite strongly that it's very similar to that point in the 19th century when Louis Pasteur discovered germs, and the ensuing revolution in medical science. The key there was that we recognized that there were entities that we could not readily see (microbes) that caused disease. Once we figured out how to "see" them, we could identify and overcome them. We can't yet do that with mental illness and I think that's part of the reason there's still this stigma of "crazy". It's just our own ignorance and inability to recognize something tangible or quantifiable. I think the real "best" word is 'fungible', but that word is just too strange and unfamiliar to be an effective adjective. Woill a metaphor work?
Too often we see the problem as an elusive hard to grasp shadow. We try to solve the problem by "shedding some light on it".
Trying to illuminate it with our metaphorical flashlight doesn't work. You can't chase ashadow with a flashlight.
Recognize that the problem is a shadow caused by something, the Sun, and made tangible by something else, the object blocking the sun. The Sun might represent wisdom and common sense.
The object is usually the problem, but without understanding the role of the Sun, we can't really solve it by dealing with the shadow. The shadow is just the tangible manifestation of the problem.
All we can do right now is recognize that there is something wrong with some of us. We're at the labeling stage where we use words like Bi-Polar, Schizoid, Narcissism, Sadism, Autism, and all the other labels we constantly update. And no, I don't include ADD. I think those initials ought to be LSC&U: Lazy, Self-Centered and Undisciplined. But I digress....
We can label afflictions by their visible symptoms. We can even treat some of them with meds to correct a chemical imbalance. But what creates the chemical imbalance? There is a current short-sighted theory that the chemical imbalance is the problem itself. I don't think so. I think there is something else that stimulates that chemical imbalance that then stimulates the behavior we decide to label. I think that "something" has to do with that voice inside each of us. Freud approached it with his identification of the ego, superego and id. It's something, and it's at the root. Just my own thought. It's that something that can manifest as a fatal illness that ends in suicide. It's almost like an auto-immune disease where the body attacks itself.
Then I watch the News, as you do, and see that the world continues to be engaged in mass murder from the Ukraine to the Middle East to North Africa to Central America to Chicago. All of these wars are essentially a form of insanity. In most cases they always have been. Sure there was a Hitler or a Tojo, but they were just the spreaders of a disease of the mind that convinced old people to send their children to their deaths. Killing yourself is one dreadful disease. Killing your children is just one step deeper into the depths of that disease.
There is a confluence of theology, psychiatry and philosophy. All three focus on the entity that we're trying to grasp. No good answers just yet. The emerging field of Neuroscience is quite interesting and may be a path.
Find "Boy Interrupted" on HBO ON DEMAND or maybe Netflix. It's certainly not a happy experience, but it's a valuable piece of work filled with various aspects of enlightenment.
The reason: The Mother decided to make the piece and had the courage to show herself in all her emotional vulnerability that never became maudlin or pathetic. The boy was Bi-Polar and seemed destined to end his life. The family's struggle with that reality for 15 years was the theme. Her profiles on each of the family members were incredibly sensitive and revealing. You'll never see such emotional honesty. There's an integrity to it.
The other equally valuable aspect of the piece was how effectively they portrayed mental illness as a true disease. No matter what we say, there's still that stigma that somebody's "crazy", but now, somebody got it right!
Much has been written about the progress achieved in dealing with mental illness. I feel quite strongly that it's very similar to that point in the 19th century when Louis Pasteur discovered germs, and the ensuing revolution in medical science. The key there was that we recognized that there were entities that we could not readily see (microbes) that caused disease. Once we figured out how to "see" them, we could identify and overcome them. We can't yet do that with mental illness and I think that's part of the reason there's still this stigma of "crazy". It's just our own ignorance and inability to recognize something tangible or quantifiable. I think the real "best" word is 'fungible', but that word is just too strange and unfamiliar to be an effective adjective. Woill a metaphor work?
Too often we see the problem as an elusive hard to grasp shadow. We try to solve the problem by "shedding some light on it".
Trying to illuminate it with our metaphorical flashlight doesn't work. You can't chase ashadow with a flashlight.
Recognize that the problem is a shadow caused by something, the Sun, and made tangible by something else, the object blocking the sun. The Sun might represent wisdom and common sense.
The object is usually the problem, but without understanding the role of the Sun, we can't really solve it by dealing with the shadow. The shadow is just the tangible manifestation of the problem.
All we can do right now is recognize that there is something wrong with some of us. We're at the labeling stage where we use words like Bi-Polar, Schizoid, Narcissism, Sadism, Autism, and all the other labels we constantly update. And no, I don't include ADD. I think those initials ought to be LSC&U: Lazy, Self-Centered and Undisciplined. But I digress....
We can label afflictions by their visible symptoms. We can even treat some of them with meds to correct a chemical imbalance. But what creates the chemical imbalance? There is a current short-sighted theory that the chemical imbalance is the problem itself. I don't think so. I think there is something else that stimulates that chemical imbalance that then stimulates the behavior we decide to label. I think that "something" has to do with that voice inside each of us. Freud approached it with his identification of the ego, superego and id. It's something, and it's at the root. Just my own thought. It's that something that can manifest as a fatal illness that ends in suicide. It's almost like an auto-immune disease where the body attacks itself.
Then I watch the News, as you do, and see that the world continues to be engaged in mass murder from the Ukraine to the Middle East to North Africa to Central America to Chicago. All of these wars are essentially a form of insanity. In most cases they always have been. Sure there was a Hitler or a Tojo, but they were just the spreaders of a disease of the mind that convinced old people to send their children to their deaths. Killing yourself is one dreadful disease. Killing your children is just one step deeper into the depths of that disease.
There is a confluence of theology, psychiatry and philosophy. All three focus on the entity that we're trying to grasp. No good answers just yet. The emerging field of Neuroscience is quite interesting and may be a path.
Find "Boy Interrupted" on HBO ON DEMAND or maybe Netflix. It's certainly not a happy experience, but it's a valuable piece of work filled with various aspects of enlightenment.