Flagrant Misconduct

by E. Clay



  Flagrant Misconduct

  E. Clay

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1: The Mailman Delivers

  Chapter 2: Thirty-Year Westside Class Reunion

  Chapter 3: Wall of Fame

  Chapter 4: We’re Movin’ on Up (to Westside)

  Chapter 5: Thinking Man’s Sport

  Chapter 6: Don’t Say Goodnight

  Chapter 7: Blessed Are the Children

  Chapter 8: A Few Good Men

  Chapter 9: Intruder Alert—State of Emergency

  Chapter 10: Stereotypes

  Chapter 11: Heavy on My Mind

  Chapter 12: 1977 State Championships—Conflict of Interest

  Chapter 13: Coach’s Decision

  Chapter 14: The Stone the Builders Rejected

  Chapter 15: For Whom the Bell ‘Towles’

  Chapter 16: The Mary Effect

  Chapter 17: Homecoming 1978

  Chapter 18: Semester Exams

  Chapter 19: Suspicious Minds

  Chapter 20:1978StateChampionship—Sudden Death

  Chapter 21: Final Exam

  Chapter 22: Return to the Rock

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  End Notes

  Copyright © 2011 by E. Clay

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise copied for public or private use without prior written permission of the author— other than for fair use as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

  Preface

  Flagrant Misconduct is based on the true story of one of the greatest high school athletes you never heard of, narrated by his best friend and teammate. It takes place in the late 1970s against the backdrop of school desegregation. The author tastefully addresses the darker side of family relations, race relations, bullying, and the pursuit of absolute dominance in high school sports at any cost.

  This book is inspired by true events, but the names of characters and locations of events have been changed to protect the privacy of those portrayed.

  Chapter 1

  The Mailman Delivers

  It was almost noon, and outside the weather was 99 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade; just another typical autumn day at Marine Corps Base, Camp Courtney on Okinawa, Japan. Lance Corporal Jones, the mail clerk, passed out the mail for the day.

  “Master Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, you’ve got mail!” Jones shouted from across the office.

  “Anything from Headquarters Marine Corps?” I responded. I had submitted my papers to retire just a few months ago, and it was stressful waiting for the word to come down.

  “Nope—sorry, Master Guns. No joy today.”

  “Whoever said no news is good news lied to all of us!” I said. Nonchalantly, I began sifting through the junk mail and bills. I found a letter from Parker Science Applications.

  “Jones, you are the man!” It was a job offer to work in London, England! I had applied for a computer analyst position with the Department of Defense. All I needed now were my retirement papers. I had taken all my pre-separation classes, including a class on salary negotiations. I had paid very close attention to this class because I did not want to sell myself short. I asked all the right questions, did all the required reading, and even volunteered for a role-play in which I had to negotiate with a prospective employer in front of the class.

  When the time came to put all my training into action, I took the first offer without batting an eye. But at least I had a job in the real world.

  Also in the stack of mail was a reminder of my thirty-year high school reunion from Westside High School in a suburb just outside Los Angeles, California. I started to feel old; most of the troops under me weren’t even born when I enlisted back in 1978. Whenever we ran for physical training, I was always in the rear trying to motivate the slower youngsters to keep up. No one but me knew that I was running as fast as I could. Yeah, it was time to call it a career.

  As soon as I got off duty, I went straight over to visit one of my closest Marine buddies, Warrant Officer Yasmin Mike. She lived on Marine Corps Base Camp Foster, about a thirty-minute drive away. I knocked on her door holding the offer letter firmly in my hand. When she opened the door, I stood there pointing to the paper in my hand with a big smile on my face. I could tell she had just gotten off work because she was still in her camouflage utilities. She looked puzzled because she didn’t know what I was pointing to.

  “It’s my offer letter from Parker Science Applications. I got a job in England!”

  “I can’t believe you’re finally leaving the Rock![i] You’d better keep in touch and write us!”

  “Of course I will, and I expect you guys to come visit!” I said with a grin. She invited me in, and I sat on her black leather couch.

  “Where’s Richard and the boys?” I said.

  “Richard got stuck on bus monitor duty this week, so he’ll be late. The boys are at the teen center.” We both started feeling nostalgic as we realized that our families would be separated permanently. We reminisced about all the card games we had played until three a.m. Our favorite card game was Bid Whist, and we were almost unbeatable on the island.

  I also mentioned that I would be going to my thirtieth high school reunion and would need someone to watch Clay Jr. She smiled and gladly agreed.

  “How much do I owe you? It will only be for one week.”

  “The same as last time,” she said.

  “Naw, I gotta give you something this time.”

  “Just make sure Clay Jr. has some spending money so he and the boys can do their thing.”

  Although I was happy to finally punch out of the Corps, I was sad to leave the Mike family. We had been stationed at the same duty assignments for the last twenty years. Her three boys and my one were just like brothers. I cared for Yasmin in a sisterly way, and she was always there for me. As a single parent, I really appreciated that she looked after Clay Jr. whenever I deployed or went on assignment.

  It was odd knowing that I was going to be a place where I would be a complete stranger. After one had been in the Corps for a while, it was uncommon to take a posting without knowing at least someone from a past duty station who would be there. But I had been offered a job on a US Air Force base in England, and there were only a handful of Marines there. I told Yasmin that after being stationed in some of the garden spots of the world, like the Mojave Desert and Mogadishu, Somalia, I was thrilled to find a job in Europe of all places.

  For about the next fifteen minutes, we chatted about her degree program; she was pursuing her Master’s in Business Administration. We had both come a long way since the old days at Marine Corps Station El Toro, California back in the eighties. I told her I had better get going because I still needed to break the news to my son. As I was leaving, I saw her husband Richard getting out of his car. He looked exhausted—I guess it was from dealing with all those screaming teenagers on the bus. As I drove off, they both waved from their front door.

  I was so preoccupied on the way home that I didn’t even notice the stench of the pig farm I passed on the way back to Camp Courtney. It was around five-thirty, and the traffic was pretty congested. It took me twice as long to get home, but that didn’t even faze me. As I entered the base, the military police pulled me over for a random security inspection (the third time that week). Normally, I would have been livid, because it never seems random when you are pulled over; it always seems personal. This time, I was extremely polite and chatty. The whole time, I was thinking, Not much longer. The guard cleared me
and waved me through onto the base. I saw Clay Jr.’s bike locked up outside, so I knew he was home.

  When I entered the house, I saw my son in front of the PlayStation with his headphones on. He looked up and asked, “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.” I told him to get ready to dine at the NCO Club on Kadena Air Force Base. Immediately, he knew something was up. That was his favorite place to eat, and I always took him there whenever I had to break news to him about a deployment or a temporary assignment.

  “Dad, are you going to Iraq?”

  “No.”

  “Afghanistan?”

  “Nope. We are going to England.”

  “For vacation?”

  “Nope, for good. We are moving.”

  “But dad, I just made the basketball team!” Clay Jr. said as he swiveled his chair around and removed the headphones from around his neck. I really felt sorry for him. He had a good crew of friends, and they were becoming pretty popular at Kubasaki High School. Clay Jr. and Yasmin’s boys had taken first place at the school talent show doing a rap act that brought the house down. They were enjoying almost celebrity status after that performance and looking forward to future gigs on base. I asked him how I could make it up to him.

  After about two minutes of silence, he said, “I want to have the biggest going-away party ever, without chaperones and with a DJ.”

  “Done!” I was happy that he was finally accepting the inevitable.

  I also told him I was going to my thirtieth high school reunion and he would be staying with Yasmin’s boys for a week. Then he got excited. He was always more than happy to stay with the Mikes. Things calmed down after that, and we both went into our rooms to get ready to head to Kadena. As I sat on the bed, I noticed my high school yearbook from 1977 on the top shelf of my closet. I reached for it and began reminiscing about my days at Westside High, home of the Cougars. As I perused the pages, I stopped on the page with a picture of my varsity wrestling team from 1977. As I scanned the faces in the photo, I started to reflect about a special teammate and friend, Jimbo Pernelli. I hadn’t seen or heard from Jimbo since I had left school, and over the years, I had often wondered what he had gotten up to. I came across my school photo and laughed aloud. I was wearing a green-flowered, silk midriff shirt and sporting a Jackson-Five afro. I looked like a seventies Soul Train contestant.

  After looking at more pictures, I made up my mind: Westside High, here I come. I bought my tickets the very next day to leave the following Saturday.

  * * * * *

  On the day of my departure, I called for an Okinawan cab to pick me up from my quarters on base. This was always an experience I looked forward to because of the customer service. While I stood on the corner waiting with my luggage on the curb, I saw the mauve-colored taxi turning right onto my street. The driver slowly approached, and the rear passenger door automatically opened as the taxi came to a stop.

  A very old but friendly Okinawan honcho[ii] politely greeted me, gathered my luggage, and placed it in the trunk. What always amazed and puzzled me was that after a few minutes into the drive, the driver would pop in a CD for my listening pleasure. But the music was not random; it was like it was a CD from my personal collection—like a mix tape I would have made from my all-time favorite tunes. I often wondered how they always managed to somehow tap into my subconscious and play songs that were so personal to me. I had an hour-long drive to the airport, so I inquired.

  “Hey honcho, you always play my favorite songs.

  You a part-time DJ?”

  “~#$%^&*!” said the driver.

  “Sorry, no speaka Japanese.” I said.

  “Profile.” The driver said, this time in perfect English.

  Apparently, the owners of this particular taxi company realized a high level of repeat business as a result of being able to profile their clients for their music preferences. I found this to be extraordinary and interesting; they had it down to almost an exact science as far as I was concerned. The driver began to explain to me that from the moment he picked me up, he was profiling me. The driver mentioned this was an informal part of his training and that he would note the following in his personal assessment of a client: age, ethnicity, dress, manner of speech, gait, and carriage. “Am I still being profiled?” I asked.

  “G.I. …you easy. Berry easy.” He said as he winked at me in the mirror. I was impressed and pleased to realize that type of customer service existed on this tiny island, five miles wide and sixty miles long. Sometimes the song selection was so special that I almost hated for the journey to end. Whatever they taught him in his training was working; this was the only taxi service I had ever used during my many assignments on the Rock dating back to 1982. Once I arrived at the airport, the passenger door opened automatically. The driver jumped out of the cab and assisted me with my belongings.

  “Arigatou gozaimasu,” [iii] I said, bowing just slightly. I tipped him a thousand Yen ($12 US).

  After maneuvering through the check-in line, I finally boarded the plane to LA from Naha International Airport. After over ten hours of flying, nine games of Trivial Pursuit, and three in-flight movies, I finally landed in Los Angeles International Airport. As soon as the wheels touched ground, the passengers began clapping. I had never quite understood why people did that. It had been at least three years since I had returned home, and the first meal I craved was a Grand Slam from Denny’s.

  I exited the terminal and I waited in line for the next available taxi. I declined the first few taxis that pulled up to me; the first one smelled like feet, and the second one had a smoky exhaust. Normally, I would never walk away from an available cab, but the drive was over two hours long, and I wanted some comfort. I ended up phoning a limousine company contracted through the airport.

  The chauffeur arrived in a brand new black Lincoln Continental limousine with black tinted windows. This was first-class transport and the fare was just slightly over what a cab ride would have cost. As the limousine came to a stop, the driver exited the vehicle to collect my bags. He was in his mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper hair, and he was dressed very smartly. He was dressed in starched long-sleeved shirt with shiny gold cuff links and creased black trousers.

  He was extremely courteous when he spoke; in fact, I detected a slight accent.

  I asked him where he was from, and he said, “Cambridge.”

  “Oh, Massachusetts,” I said.

  “I’m from Cambridge, England,” he said with a smile.

  During the drive home, we chatted just about everything. I asked him if he had ever chauffeured any celebrities. He said he had chauffeured the football great George Best. Being a football fan myself, I was almost embarrassed to ask what team George Best played for, but I had to ask anyway.

  He replied, “George Best played for Manchester United.”

  I had never heard of either one, but I quickly figured out that he was talking about an English soccer team. During our conversation, I was getting nervous about driving on the opposite side of the road because in Japan we drove on the other side. But after about thirty minutes of me chatting away, I asked the chauffeur to put on my favorite oldies station, and I nodded off to sleep. When we got to my hotel, I asked the driver for his name.

  He replied, “I’m Martin.”

  I thanked him for his excellent service and tipped him twenty dollars. After he handed me my bags, I asked him if he could collect me from the hotel next week to take me back to the airport for my return journey. He agreed and said, “Enjoy your reunion. I will see you in a week.”

  Chapter 2

  Thirty-Year Westside Class Reunion

  Classmates began to trickle into the main foyer, and excitement spread as former students recognized old friends, some with significant others and some without. After ten minutes or so, I saw Michael, Jerry, and John, with whom I ran cross country. They had been fantastic runners, and they were just as jovial as they had been back then. I also ran into my wrestling buddy Tom; as sophomores, we were very c
ompetitive. He went undefeated that year, and I finished 18–2.

  Meanwhile, we waited for our tour guide. After about thirty minutes, the tour guide arrived; she introduced herself as the principal and welcomed us to our thirty-year reunion. She was very enthusiastic and had been there long enough to remember most of the teachers we had thirty years ago. She then alluded to the obvious: this was not the same Westside High we all remembered.

  She broached the issue rather delicately, stating, “As you can see, things have changed quite a bit since 1978.”

  Westside High had metamorphosed from almost an exclusive country-club society to a school fitted with metal detectors, police liaison offices, and security staff. In 1978, all we had were hall monitors, who were mostly fellow students. It was surreal to witness the change over thirty years. The racial demographics within the school had completely reversed. During my first year at Westside, there were maybe three Black athletes between the football, basketball, and baseball teams combined. I once saw in a Westside high school yearbook from 1974 that there was only one Black student in the entire school, and she was biracial. By the time 1978 had rolled around, there were still fewer than twenty Blacks. It was odd to see such a small presence of White students compared to how it had been thirty years ago.

  During the orientation, the principal mentioned that the number of students graduating and going on to college was steadily climbing. She also mentioned the names of some celebrities who had graduated from Westside within the past fifteen years. Apparently sometime after we all graduated, Westside unveiled a Distinguished Alumni Wall of Fame. On that wall of fame was a mayor I remembered from my last duty assignment at Camp Pendleton, California. He was the mayor of the city of Oceanside, California, just outside the base. There were also a handful of NFL stars and US Olympic medalists pictured. It was nice to notice that although the sports program in the athletics department had experienced a seismic explosion in talent, academics were still the centerpiece and heart of the school.