Karma Redirected

by Mike Morris

  I couldn’t run with the hosts, so I stood there watching the Hellincrest hoods fall out of the car. All seemed to be covered with blood as they crawled out and began to scatter. I recognized Bubba Brock. Bubba was covered with blood and was having trouble standing. Bubba was kind of a legend in Hellincrest. He attended high school, and although he could not have been 20 years old yet, he looked like he could have been 30. He always seemed to be in need of a shave with dark, scruffy whiskers covering his face. He played defensive back on the county football team for an older age group than my team, and I had seen him deliver possibly the hardest hit I have ever witnessed on a football field. But at that moment, Bubba needed help, so I helped him up. I forgot about my secret rendezvous and helped Bubba walk the few miles back to Hellincrest.

  Sometime after that, I was playing basketball with a few friends at a park near my house. Three very large, muscular guys wearing shorts appeared and threatened us, warning us to get off the court so they could play. They clearly weren’t from Hellincrest, because no one in Hellincrest ever wore shorts. In fact, shortly after moving to Hellincrest and somehow perceiving the “no shorts” culture of Hellincrest, I executed one of my “run away from home” antics when my parents were insisting I wear shorts. Running away from home never worked too well for me because I did it so often. Sometimes I would run away, and when I returned no one even knew I was gone. One time my mom helped me pack.

  Anyway, these big muscular guys were wearing shorts and looking very much like college frat boys. We ran our mouths but were not going to mess with these hulky college dudes. After continuing to give us grief for a while, I noticed these three goons were looking away from us at something sort of behind us, off to our left. I turned to see Bubba Brock standing there, his full-length black leather loosely draped around his lean body. He was somewhat lovingly snuggling his small portable record player – a thing that was unique to Bubba Brock.

  On our behalf, Bubba began to intervene, insulting these guys in such a way that they were soon red-faced and raging. An agreement was soon reached that their leader would fight Bubba to determine who would get to use the court. The ensuing fight was something to behold.

  First, Bubba placed his record player down gently on the edge of the court. He slowly and deliberately looked through a handful of 45-records he carried with him. Seeming very satisfied with his selection, he placed it on the turntable. It was “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch)” by the Four Tops. The music started playing, and Bubba started dancing. As his confused opponent crouched, knees bent, fists up, Bubba danced closer and closer, his full-length leather flapping in time to the beat. Suddenly, blam! Then, blam - blam! Then more blam - blam! In a blink, Bubba’s opponent was bleeding from multiple cuts and Bubba was beginning to spin and sing along to the music. Soon, the frat brothers were dragging their bloodied leader toward their car. Bubba packed up his record player and sauntered away without saying a word to us.

  42

  Straybone

  The one guy I did want on our side in the fray with Boulevard was Roger Strayler. In Junior High School there was no tackle football, so while Yakov played flag football for the school team, I joined the county Boy’s Club team. Roger and I wound up in the same offensive backfield. Jake Sutton and I shared the fullback position, which was mainly to carry the plays in and out from the coach. Roger was the halfback and carried the majority of the running load. He was unstoppable. I learned a lot by watching Roger run from such a close vantage point. Every time he got the ball, it was a war he was not going to lose. He always ran fearlessly and at full speed. Even on end sweeps he never hesitated. Aggressive and never trying to avoid a tackler, he attacked and punished them for attempting to tackle him. Our offense was built around Roger.

  After junior high school, while I continued to play on the county team, Roger tried out for the high school team and made it as the third string fullback. I became the county team’s star running back, using what I had learned from Roger. Although I always endeavored to avoid tacklers, I did run full speed and aggressively like Roger had demonstrated.

  School was let out early to watch our high school’s first game, so we all were watching Roger make his debut. He was one of the smallest guys on the team and sat at the end of the bench as our team began taking a beating from the visiting team. After the first offensive play our first-string fullback was carried off the field. During the next set of downs, a shaken and frightened team could only hopelessly watch our second-string fullback being helped to the sideline.

  Onto the field ran Roger! Most of the students were wondering who he was and started talking about how small he looked. He did seem tiny, but those of us who knew him were excited. On one hand I felt fearful for him similarly to the way I felt when he faced Larry Harris. But remembering his fearlessness and belief in his own invincibility I knew that at least one guy on the field for our team was not going to be playing like a loser. And it happened! Roger started running all over the field. They couldn’t stop him. The whole team started to play better. The tide of momentum was changing.

  After already making a series of long runs, Roger was turning the far corner on an end sweep and looked like he was going to break it all the way for a touchdown. In desperation, a big defensive player reached out and grabbed Roger’s face mask. His head jerked back violently, and Roger went down. From the stands those who had quickly become his fans sounded a gasp and rose from their seats. A sickening feeling swept through the stands. Roger lay there on the muddy sideline without moving. The defensive player hovered over him, and as coaches, referees, and players rushed toward him, I thought again of Larry Harris.

  Suddenly, Roger popped up and feigned charging the defensive player. As the startled player stepped back, Roger turned sharply and headed toward the players and coaches who were running toward him. We all began cheering. Roger went on to rush for over two hundred yards that game and eventually became the leading yard gainer in the state. He was only a freshman! Later that year, he became the state champion in the 100-yard dash, 220-yard dash, and the running broad jump. When I read about epic heroes such as Beowulf and Odysseus I always envision Roger.

  43

  Herding Cowards

  When we showed up to do battle with Boulevard, Roger was with us. We saw the gang from Boulevard at the bottom of the block and began moving down the hill toward them. As we approached, they turned and disappeared around the corner. As we rounded that corner, we saw remnants of the Boulevard gang turning the next corner. We sped up and so did they. Heading up the hill, a flatbed truck loaded with chains and pipes passed us. When it reached the top, the Boulevard gang began choosing weapons from the back of the truck. That didn’t faze us though because we figured we could take them with or without their pipes and chains. Besides, Roger didn’t hesitate and seemed to increase his speed up the hill when he saw the weapons. Any chance we had to doubt ourselves gave way to pursuing Roger. We were like the outgunned Sioux following the great warrior Crazy Horse to victory over the U.S. 7th Cavalry at the Little Big Horn.

  But then something happened which unnerved our band. A convertible pulled up next to us and slowed down to the speed we were moving. A man in the passenger seat was staring at us, and then looking down at something in his lap like he wanted us to look down at it, too. We looked. He was holding a gun and slowly rotating the barrel. The car sped up and headed for the flatbed truck to join the Boulevard gang. The damage to our psyche was done as our courage began to trickle down like running rivulets of dread.

  Jimmy Loance sniveled, “I’d run but I’m afraid nobody will run with me.”

  “I’ll run with you,” Bobby Hicupio assured him.

  Little Hellincrest began a disorderly exodus back down the hill, around the block, and back up the street where we had come. Reluctantly, Roger followed at a distance. I felt responsible for him being there, so I stayed close to him. Except for Dennis Prader who lingered back with us, the rest of Little Hellincre
st was already at the top of the hill as the three of us rounded the corner. Abruptly, we heard wild screaming and looked back to see Boulevard charging us at a full run, waving their pipes and chains.

  Dennis and I started to break into a sprint but paused when we saw Roger halt, do an about face, and head toward the charging horde. When Boulevard saw him coming toward them, they stumbled, stopped, and still brandishing their pipes and chains, unconsciously began to form a tight huddle resembling a frightened herd of cows.

  Roger took a few more steps and scornfully challenged, “Any one of you, come on!” When no one responded, he upped the ante. “Any two of you! Any three of you!”

  Boulevard was frozen. They couldn’t move.

  Roger taunted, “Bring your pipe! Bring your chain! Anybody, come on!”

  A huddle of fearful cows began to compress and shrivel. The lone warrior with the lion’s heart corralled and conquered these boisterous bullies, revealing their cowardly nature. It was like Heracles gathering the cattle of Geryon after Hera’s Gadflies caused them to go mad.

  Like others, I feared being a coward and found authentic courage inspiring. Maybe it was Roger’s courage I held fast more than a sense of responsibility for his safety. Whatever it was, I stood frozen – a witness to a living legend.

  The moment was arrested when the police abruptly arrived. Somehow, my father appeared, and his voice could be heard over everything else. “Mo! Mo! Get over here, now!”

  44

  A Father’s Pride

  Jimmy Loance, Linus Blabcock, and I strolled down 23rd Parkway. It was late, and we were tired. Approaching from the other direction were two creatures from another realm – Woody and Norman. Alarm bells sounded in my brain. We were sharing the same sidewalk with a foreign element we totally did not understand. Woody and Norman were nerds – angry nerds – arrogant nerds! They were a few years older and totally confident in their superiority. To Woody and Norman, we were hoods – blocks – greasers – scoundrels they resented tolerating.

  As we passed, I think I heard Jimmy or Linus say something to them. I was lagging a few feet behind and wasn’t sure. However, as Woody and Norman passed me, Woody snarled, “Punks!”

  Jimmy and Linus didn’t hear, but I did. I took a few more steps before deciding that I could not let that comment pass. I turned and ran after them. I jumped on Woody’s back, knocking him to the ground. From his back, Woody yelled, “Get him, Norman!”

  In an instant, we were in the middle of the parkway throwing punches. I didn’t really think nerds could fight, but these two clearly could. Plus, they were a lot bigger than me. Things were looking a little bleak.

  However, Jimmy and Linus must have realized what was happening and the cavalry was on its way. When Norman and Woody realized reinforcements were coming, they made a hasty retreat. I chased them to Woody’s house where they found refuge. I sounded my normal threats laced with obscenities, challenging them to come back out. Parents appeared and soon so did the police. I promptly found myself in a police cruiser on the way to the station.

  At the police station, as I sat on a bench waiting to be charged for assault, my father arrived. I figured he would be beyond angry, but after he talked with a police officer, he seemed somewhat jolly. As he sat next to me on the bench we could hear the parents of Norman and Woody arguing. Woody’s mother wanted to press charges, but both the fathers did not. I heard Woody’s father shout, “Look at the size of Woody and Norman! Now look at the size of him!”

  Apparently, two large guys being assaulted by one little guy was too ludicrous to pursue. Charges were dropped. On the way home, my father appeared proud of me. I don’t recall any other time I experienced that.

  45

  The Poetry of Love

  Quick and painful – the tragic, tangled twinkling with Janice and Jeanne was but a blister on my snoozing heart – a small spark ignited in a patch of powdery tinder. It did clear out a path and open stuff up for one of those major love links that in point of fact propels people beyond the customary childish crushes into the corridor of conked out, cracked, crushed – but continuing to exist with death-like dynamism and dash – befuddlement.

  A woman – an older woman – a fully grown woman – found me appealing and I fell painfully in love – a condition that results in daring acts and deeds inconsiderate of any former forgotten friends and familiar haunts. When you are out on the baseball field trying to catch a high flying pop-up or fly ball and instead of seeing the ball, you see little stars fluttering about your head, and to the dismay of your teammates, you let the ball flop on the ground in front of you. Or even though you are the leading yard gainer in the league and the game plan is built around you, instead of meeting your obligation to the coaches and your football team, you get busted for staying out all night and miss the game entirely ... twice.

  My mind and body were dedicated to my relationship with this older woman. If my body had to be somewhere else, like school, or sports, or family, my mind stayed put – enthralled and clinging to the overwhelming magic of our clandestine connection. My mind refused or was just unable to make the trip with my body.

  On the basketball court, one moment I would be stealing the ball from my opponent and racing down court, the next moment I would be missing a wide open lay-up. How many times did I do that? Probably less than 10, but the remembrance feels like hundreds. But the real testament to my separation of mind and body was on the track team.

  When we tried out for the team, I could not make myself run fast. Guys who I should have easily beat were beating me. I remember Roger and Yakov, who both became sprinters for the team, laughing at me as I lost sprints over and over to inferior athletes – some who could barely walk, much less run. The coach made me a long distance runner – a two-miler.

  Each day at practice, the long distance runners left the school grounds on a 12-mile run, six miles out, then six miles back. Probably because I get lost so easily, I have an oversized fear of getting lost, so I would desperately stay with them for the 12 miles. This definitely helped me to get conditioned. I placed 3rd at the first meet and 2nd at the second meet, earning points for the team. Of course, I was aware that Roger was winning every event he entered and the points I earned compared to the points he earned were infinitesimal.

  After my initial success in the first two meets, I miscalculated the benefits of conditioning, and somehow figured that running two miles was pretty easy. So, when the other long distance runners would take off on their 12-mile jaunt, I would run with them long enough to turn the corner and get out of the coach’s vision. I would then sit and ponder my great love interest. When the runners came back, I would jump up, run the rest of the way with them, panting and pretending to be really exhausted.

  Cause and effect is precise, and in this case – painfully precise. Our next meet was a home meet – held at our school so the student body would be in attendance. We were made aware that the number one high school two-miler in the state would be competing. Not only that, he was intent on setting a new high school record in the two mile.

  That didn’t really make any impact on me until moments before my event was ready to begin. The captain of the long distance team, Sonny Boyster, called a meeting and gathered all the long distance runners together under the bleachers. He proceeded to give us his best pep talk, a rant about how this guy was coming into our house with the intention to set a new state record. Sonny raged about how outrageous this would be, and how we couldn’t let it happen under any circumstances. He pronounced, “We need a strategy!”

  Strategy? When he said “strategy” I sort of perked up. Strategy in a race? Wow! That’s cool! But soon I drifted off as I sort of halfway tried to check out all the people in the stands, fantasizing that my true love was somewhere in the crowd. Suddenly, I heard Sonny say my name.

  “Mo … Mo … Mickus!”

  I looked up, trying to pretend I had been totally paying attention the whole time.

  “You are the fas
test in the quarter mile. You need to set a fast pace. He will try to stay up with you. That will wear him out. We will run him down and show him he can’t come into Potomac High School and make us look bad!”

  Oh, man! I was on a mission! When we lined up, I looked around at all the people in the stands. Some of them were waving at me and calling out my name. I didn’t realize it at that moment, but my adrenaline was racing at such a rate, it had rendered me insane.

  When the gun went off, I bolted to the lead like I was shot out of a cannon. The crowd cheered, and I deliriously sprinted like I was running the 100-yard dash. Floating around the track, my feet weren’t even touching the ground! I vaguely became aware of my coach running next to me for a moment, yelling. I assumed he was cheering me on like the crowd in the stands. I found out later he was screaming at me to slow down.

  When I came back around to the starting point, someone called out, “Sixty!” I had run the first quarter mile in 60 seconds.

  I continued my all-out glide, feeling no pain, basking in the cheers of the crowd. Again, I could hear the voice of my coach screaming. Again, I assumed he was cheering along with the enthusiastic student body. When I came back around to the starting line, again someone called out, “Sixty!”

  Two back-to-back 60 second quarter miles. I didn’t think about it at the time, but I was on pace for an 8-minute two-mile.

  When I finished the 3rd lap, the voice called out, “Sixty-three!!” Uh-oh, I had slowed down a little. I attempted to speed up. However, a couple seconds into that attempt, a stabbing pain pierced my side! “Ow! What was that? Ow! Ow! Ow!” What was happening? Consumed by this new and unexpected development, I unconsciously began to decelerate.