by E. Clay
Remarkably, the school buildings were pretty much as they had been back then, although they had a very different feel. I knew exactly where my old locker was: D119, right next to the side entrance. I optimistically looked for my old friend Jimbo, but he was nowhere to be found. I was wearing my Marine Corps Dress Blue uniform and was confronted by a former classmate who I didn’t recognize. While holding a gin and tonic, she said “Excuse me, what city do you drive for?” Wow, I thought to myself. I politely responded, “CTA—Chicago Transit Authority.”
“Wow, I didn’t know bus drivers wore medals.”
“Only those who work the south side,” I said with a smile.
Immediately, I noticed the different bonds of attachment I had with my former classmates. I had four: teammate bonds, ethnic bonds, girls I dated bonds, and girls I wanted to date bonds. All were unique and distinct. I regressed; it was like being seventeen all over again, but in the body of a nearly- fifty-year-old. Not the best combination. The feelings I had about my classmates thirty years ago, in 1978, were still very much intact in 2008. It was probably because I had never really kept in touch with anyone after I left home to join the Marines. Most of my classmates remembered me, but there were a few who kept calling me Kenneth (he was another Black kid). After being called Kenneth for the third time, I just answered as though I were he.
Another thing that struck me was that many of the students had aged gracefully. I remember thinking, Who comes into full bloom in their late forties? Before we started the tour, the student organizers passed out some awards. There were awards for who had RSVP’d first, who had the most kids (eight), and who had traveled the furthest to attend. That was me.
Chapter 3
Wall of Fame
As the party proceeded down the corridor, I made a detour to the Athletic Hall of Fame. The first picture I stumbled across was of an old friend, Tammy Champion, who had sat in front of me in chemistry. I thought that was a cool last name to have, especially for an athlete. Tammy was no ordinary athlete, though; she was an extraordinary naturally gifted runner. We clicked right from the start because both of our dads were prominent Black pastors in our community. Her dad was a Pentecostal pastor who had very strict standards of holiness. One of the religious conflicts that challenged Tammy was she could not dress out for PE because the uniform exposed her legs. Her father instructed her to attend PE and to participate, but only in her street clothes, which consisted of a knee-length dress or a conservative skirt and blouse. The PE teacher was in a particularly bad position because according to the school policy, all students had to dress out to receive a passing grade. Tammy received an F for her first-quarter grade.
In the second quarter of PE, the students were taught the fundamentals of track. Although she had never run track in her life, she recorded a phenomenal time in the 100-yard dash during practice.
Mr. Black, the boys’ varsity track coach, happened to see her run as he watched from the weight room. He immediately rushed over to Tammy’s PE teacher to check the time. He thought the timing was inaccurate. When Coach Black asked a co-captain on the boys’ varsity track team to race against Tammy to get an accurate time, she beat him in a skirt and in her bare feet. In fact, her time for the 100-yard dash, 11.4 seconds, would have won the state meet two years prior. A couple of members of the school staff decided unofficially to approach her family to allow her to compete in track. From what I heard, that meeting was unsuccessful. As the track season went on, the women’s track coach must have been in knots; no girl in the state so far had recorded a time faster than Tammy’s.
One week before the qualifying district meet, Tammy’s father made a trip to the principal’s office. After being convinced that Tammy might be eligible for a scholarship, her father agreed to let her compete. Her first meet was the district championships held at our sister school, Eastside High. During lunch on Friday, I wished her luck. She seemed quite nervous.
“Tammy, good luck to you this weekend. I know you will do well.”
“Clay, I’m not worried about the running part. It’s just that I’m uncomfortable with the uniform. I don’t like my legs showing where everyone can see them. I’ve been praying on this for a week now.”
“Tammy, God gave you a gift, and my dad says we should recognize God’s gifts.” I wasn’t sure if that was of any help, but it was the only thought in my head at the moment.
I asked her how she did when I saw her on the following Monday in class. She reached into her purse and showed me her gold medal. On the back, it said, “Eastside High District Champion 100-yard Dash.” Two weeks later, Tammy set the state record for the 100-yard dash at 10.9 seconds in the state championships. As of 2011, thirty-four years later, her state record was still standing.
After Tammy won the state championship, she went back to her religious standards of dress and never suited up again. Two races, one state championship…not bad, not bad at all.
The very next picture I came across was of my old friend and teammate Jimbo. I had forgotten how enormous Jimbo was compared to the other kids in school. He had legs like tree trunks and a twenty-two-inch neck. While I was reminiscing about the good old days, a young student passed by and said, “Nice uniform!”
He told me that he was in the Marine Corps ROTC program. I asked him what his fifth General Order was, and he said, “To quit my post when properly relieved, sir!”
Okay, I was impressed—very impressed. I hadn’t learned my General Orders until the second phase of boot camp. We struck up a conversation about sports, and it ultimately led to my showing him Jimbo’s picture. When he asked who Jimbo Pernelli was, I responded slightly animatedly, “Only the best athlete in your school’s history!”
A little debate began, and I then pointed to the four other pictures of Jimbo on the wall. I told the kid, “He played all sports, but wrestling was in his blood.”
The kid began to walk away. After about ten steps, he turned around and asked, “What was it like back then?”
Chapter 4
We’re Movin’ on Up (to Westside)
What was it like back then? I remember 1977 as though it were yesterday. A lot of people remember 1977 because it was the year Elvis died. But to me, it represented the end of one era and the beginning of a new one. Disco was on life support, and rap music was two years away from making its debut. Afros were on their way out, and the shag was making its debut; Gerri curls were just around the corner. Car CB radios had reached their peak, and Space Invaders (one of the first video games ever) would be launched the very next year. It also marked a new trend of Black families beginning to migrate to suburbia, away from the city. I called it a trend; however, I have heard others refer to it as “a crack in the dam.” Fortunately, most families didn’t care one way or another. But then there were those families who cared a lot, but not in a very nice way.
To inflame the issue even more, in the summer of 1977 the State Board of Education mandated a remapping of the school district boundaries to force Westside High School officials into achieving racial balance or risk losing its accreditation. If I told you this was unacceptable to some, I would be understating the resentment that awaited some of the first Black students to enroll back then. I pleaded with my dad to stay at my old school, Eastside High, but he said I was there for one reason only—to get an education!
When I arrived at the bus stop on my first day of school, I was relieved to see a lot of my Black friends there as well. What a relief! I thought. But when the Westside bus came along, none of them boarded— only the White kids got on. The Eastside bus collected the Black kids, and they proceeded in the opposite direction. I looked out of the rear bus window, unimpressed that my friends were not joining me. What my dad didn’t know was that despite the new school boundaries, most parents kept their kids in their previous schools, leaving me to be only one of eight Blacks in a school with a student population of 4,000. I had heard some vicious rumors about some really bad experiences the few Blacks at Westside h
ad during summer school, but they seemed too exaggerated to be true.
As I got off the bus and entered the school campus, I was amazed at how large it was. The campus was the size of some universities I had seen on TV. It had three large adjoining wings, each with three floors and a basement. I began to feel somewhat out of place; it seemed as though I had stepped into a members-only club without a membership. I drew a lot of stares, but they weren’t mean stares; they were more like curious stares. As I approached the school’s main entrance, I saw that there was a red Swastika spray painted on the walkway and a message that read, ‘N-word Beware.’ To be honest, I didn’t know what the symbol meant at that time, but I was all too familiar with the N-word.
I got into fights almost daily at school in between classes, mostly as I crossed the courtyard on the way to PE. I always fought back. I tried not fighting back once, and that didn’t work too well. Not only did I lose the fight, but I hated the idea of someone punching me in the face and bragging about it later. Fortunately, for me, it was pretty obvious that I never started these fights, so I never got suspended. However, school policy was that whenever there was a fight, both parties at least had to be disciplined verbally. For a while there, I was a fixture in the principal’s office.
Chapter 5
Thinking Man’s Sport
While I was having dinner with my family one night, my dad noticed a shiner over my right eye. He said, “Have you been fighting?”
I lowered my head and responded, “Yes.”
“What, at school?”
I just nodded my head.
“Did you fight back?”
“Yes.”
“Good! Always stand up for yourself.”
“Yeah, but it’s hard to fight back when you‘re tackled to the ground.”
My dad sat back in his chair, stroked his sideburns down to his neatly trimmed beard, and paused for a moment. He was having an epiphanic moment. I recognized this look. I was just waiting for some form of fatherly wisdom to be unveiled that I knew would disrupt my game plan.
“Why don’t you take up wrestling? Learn how to defend yourself.”
I really wasn’t keen on the idea at all. I wanted to play basketball instead, but my father had other plans for me.
“Wrestling is a thinking man’s sport; it’s a physical game of chess. Talk to the coach … . You’ll be just fine.”
The next day after school, I headed to the wrestling room, where the wrestlers were doing calisthenics. Among the wrestlers was this giant of a person: he was 6'7" and just under 300 lbs., and he was all muscle. I had never seen anyone that size before. I thought he was an assistant coach, but he was a junior. He looked like the Incredible Hulk, only with long, black, curly hair and brown eyes.
The coach caught me peering into the room and said, “I didn’t know wrestling was a spectator sport!”
There was a sign on the door that said, “Wimps need not apply!” Now that was a challenge I could not walk away from. I immediately signed up, and the next day I went to Coach’s Corner to get my gear. I bought a red-and-white singlet, [iv] a pair of wrestling shoes, and a workout shirt that said, “If at first you don’t succeed…it’s because of ME!”
The wrestling room the next day was like a sweatbox, and the heat was on full blast. I thought it was strange that everyone was wearing extra clothing and plastic sweat suits underneath. I soon found out that everyone was trying to cut weight. Coach put me on the scale and introduced me as the new 145-pounder. Everyone was pretty cool and greeted me like one of the team. The behemoth of a person introduced himself to me as Jimbo (his real name was Joshua).
“I think I’ve seen you before,” he said.
“Really? Where was I?” I responded.
“You were on your back,” he jokingly said. I didn’t have a real comeback for that, so I just mumbled something under my breath and rolled my eyes.
During practice, coach introduced a new move: the fireman’s carry. It looks exactly like a firefighter carrying someone draped over his back. It was a move that wrestlers on the team usually stayed clear of because if you did not execute perfectly, the defensive wrestler could counter you and put you straight on your back. It required perfect timing and flawless execution to make it work. Coach touted it as the “sweetest move ever” because it was a high-precision takedown that often went straight into a pinning combination. I admit, when he demonstrated it, it looked smooth and sweet, but it was way above my level. I think everyone else felt the same; no one ever quite got the hang of it.
The coach also stressed the importance of never grabbing our opponents’ heads when we were in the bottom position. That would create an opening for the offensive wrestler to put us in a pinning combination.
At some point during the practice, I got paired with Jimbo, and we were working on takedowns. Although he was a Goliath towering over me, I tried a move we had learned that day, the duck under. It is a surprise attack executed while both wrestlers are locked up. Basically, the offensive wrestler swiftly elevates his opponent’s elbow just enough for him to duck under and get behind his opponent to score a takedown. I executed it perfectly. The room went quiet, and the coach said, “Great execution, Thompson!” To this day, I have never known whether I earned it on my own merit or if he was just trying to make me look good, but that didn’t matter then. Little did I know that the duck under would be my signature move for the next twenty-two years, including my entire Marine Corps wrestling career.
Chapter 6
Don’t Say Goodnight
One morning before first period, when I had been in school for about two months, I saw Jimbo quickly dart into a classroom at the end of the corridor that was separated from the mainstream classes. I had study hall, so I was not in a big rush. I peeked into his classroom window. It was a Special Education class for students with a range of severe learning disabilities. Jimbo was dyslexic, and he had a third-grade reading level. He also had some behavioral problems, and he sometimes acted out.
While peeping into his classroom, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that there was a commotion of some sort down the hall. A guy, one of the burnouts,[v] was harassing a freshman girl. He had her pinned against a locker, and his hand was cupping her face. She was moving her head left and right to avoid his disgusting and unwanted kisses. She was no more than 5'2" and less than 100 pounds, and her blonde ponytail had come undone. She was obviously distressed, but no one seemed to take notice. Instinctively, I ran to intervene—not to cause a fight, but just to get between her and the guy. Guys with little sisters understand this reaction. I had three sisters ages fifteen, eight and two. I really hated to see this girl overpowered by that punk.
“Leave her alone, man! What is your problem?” I yelled as I positioned myself between them. The guy sucker punched me in the side of my face, and then I really got mad. I pushed him down so hard that he fell on his butt and slid about a foot. He said a lot of expletives, but what I remember most was his last few words: “You are a dead man after school!”
Then he walked away, looking back at me over his shoulder. The girl adjusted her blouse and put her hair back in a ponytail, and then she looked up at me with a frown that soon became a smile.
“Wow, that was pretty brave. I can’t believe you took a punch for me,” she said.
“Yeah. To be honest, I didn’t see it coming.”
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m cool.” I replied.
She regained her composure, took a big sigh, and said, “My name is Sophie, Sophie Polanski. Thanks for what you did.”
I helped her pick her books off the floor, and we both stood, almost in sync. She sighed once more and said she had better head to class. I thought it was so nice when, halfway down the corridor, she turned around and waved at me. After she turned the corner, I replayed the incident in my head. Those words “You are a dead man after school” began to haunt me. The scary part was that he said it as if he meant it.
I
was nervous for the rest of school day; I didn’t even notice that I had yet another black eye. I was pretty sure that idiot who had struck me (his name was Matlock) would be long gone by the time after-school wrestling practice finished (about five thirty). Just to make sure, I called my dad and asked him to pick me up. For the rest of the school day, I hurried between my classes. Jimbo noticed I was not as chatty and friendly as usual during practice, and I think he also saw the bruising around my eye.
“Clay, you all right?” I think he said it twice before I responded.
“Everything is cool,” I said, trying not to make any real eye contact.
After practice, I raced to the main entrance where my dad was supposed to pick me up. There were four burnouts smoking cigarettes outside the door as they waited for me. Dang it! I tried to outsmart them by running to the auxiliary entrance near where we practiced, but there were at least five burnouts there, too. All the other doors were chained shut, and there was no sign of my dad anywhere.
I knew I was going to get seriously bum rushed,[vi] but I was determined to get at least one of them before they all jumped me. I was scared and angry at the same time. As I exited the auxiliary door, all of them put out the cigs and walked toward me with their acne-ridden faces and long, greasy hair. They were all wearing denim jackets. Matlock, the guy who had struck me in the hall, emerged. The next thing I knew, I was surrounded.
“Get on your knees and say goodnight,” he said.
“Why?” I said nervously as I was circling with him at the center of the group.
“Get on your knees and say goodnight.”
No way was I going to get on my knees. I would die first. He pushed my books out of my hands. Before he could repeat himself, I heard a booming voice emerge from behind me.
“Goodnight!”
“What the…?” said Matlock.
“Just me,” said Jimbo as he pushed his way into the inner circle.