Memoir: Gross Anatomy of a Life, Circa 1987-88
Rarely does one year encapsulate a person’s entire life. The twists and turns of existence are normally not quite that linked, but bear with me on this walk down memory lane.
I just turned 15 at the start of the ’87 school year. Getting through my sophomore year was not scholastically hard, but this timeframe saw conflicts arise that I didn’t have good responses for as I was just a befuddled teenager. One, was a bully. The next one, a girl I pined for, but reality kept showing I was neither suave enough or assured enough to turn a two-year plus teenage obsession into a date at Pizza Hut, and of course, a movie ending like Eight Days a Week [Can’t Buy Me Love (1987).] The other realities were more personal, more disappointing, but at the time, one didn’t want focus on the choices one should have made.
The bully was an up-and-coming wrestler who was in my English class – what caused the escalation from smartass words to us meeting at DC’s Country Junction for a teenage, middleweight title bout in front of 30 zit-faced, parachute pants wearing, Cure & Depeche Mode listeners, is not abundantly clear. But I got my shit handed to me. I was now 0-2 in my bouts since moving to Indiana, in 1983, when The Police dominated the charts; and didn’t care about teenagers fighting, as long as they obsessively played their songs.
The next bout was much more painful as actual tears flowed after the final bruises were applied to my heart. Julie was The Cheerleader that I had fell for just an hour into 8th grade Advanced English class. It was the first time I’d seen her, even as we were in the same middle school for already two years. This quirk was due to having 2 sections per grade: School 61, 62, 71, 72, 81, and 82. I’d been in 61, 71, and then landed in 82. (The locker bays were separated by School as well.)
We had several classes together – and our names were conveniently close together. Both JPs!
So, from that point on, it was assured we’d become like The Next Karate Kid couple – I would fight! (Ha! Ha!) for her honor! I’d be the hero your dreaming of…We’ll live forever, going together…The Glory of Love!
Yes, mid-1980s, John Hughes films gave delusions that short Hillbillies from Tennessee would land the smart, snarky cheerleader that sat next to me in English. But, of course, my guts at first were frozen. Instead of charming her, I intentionally annoyed her. Of course, for a period of months, I teased her – even as she’d say, “oh, you love me, and you know it!”
I did actually. But 13-year-olds eyes and hearts are fickly operated by their hormones.
I finally did tell her I liked her via the mighty Really-Like-You-Letter-in-the-Locker trick. From that point forward, awkward was a good day. Others knew now. And for the next two years, when I wasn’t asking about her, or discussing her with various, equally-insecure teenage buddies (that got somewhere on the baseball field with their love lives), my tongue and my further like you letters were hardly memorable to her, I suppose.
I finally lost this battle – after the closest I ever got to being on a date with her.
It was drizzling all night at a Friday varsity football game. I normally didn’t go to these games, but as Julie was a JV cheerleader, and it occurred to me, that might be worth the time since there was an after-game, impromptu, fall dance.
After the high school band played La Bamba at halftime, with the rain and wind continuing on, the JV cheerleading squad took a seat for the night. It was getting slightly colder with a cutting wind to boot as my courage (or stupidity) finally pushed me ALL IN on attempts to tame the shrew. (She wasn’t a shrew.)
I offered her my jacket. She resisted. So then, I just tried to have a conversation with her while her cheer buddies chuckled and teased with their eyes a glitter with the mischievous looks of those knowledgeable in how damn awkward it is to make a move in high school on anyone in the socially superior class – that of jocks and cheerleaders.
Nevertheless, I guess she began to feel sorry for me – or listened during the remainder of the game to how others talked, and felt otherwise for this one night.
I took the barbs well from the cheerleaders and jocks alike. Nothing too bad – don’t get me wrong. Still, Julie was more bothered by them than I was. She relented on the jacket, and I went to get us both a hot chocolate, sometime in the 4th quarter as the varsity squad was getting their usual Friday night ass beating.
She asked me if I was going to play baseball that spring. Of course I was! She wasn’t quite warm to me – but we got through the game. Thereafter, she actually stayed for the dance.
As cheerleaders normally bring a small wardrobe and make-up studio with them everywhere, she was no different. Me, I went to the restroom, tried to dry out, looked to clean my teeth by buying some gum, and then combed my hair, though at that point in life, I had so much hair, one could fill several area codes with spotty coverage.
The dance had all the 1980s feel. Lights lower than usual. A gym floor – “multi-purpose room” – with the bleachers on one side, 6 basketball rims on cables, 2 turntables, multiple cassette decks, a CD player stack, manned by a $50-per-hour DJ.
Surprisingly, there was about 150-200 students at the dance. Our school had about 900 total – so good attendance!
Julie came out with her hair up in a ponytail, which was unusual for her, in being the Big 80s. We didn’t talk much, but I did dance with the group of gals (cheerleader ratio above 50%!) that she hung out with regularly. During the slow songs, like Don’t Dream It’s Over or Never Gonna Dance Again by George Michael of Wham!, she would sit down. She wasn’t going steady with anyone – that was the only reason I even got this far.
She didn’t give my jacket back right away after the game. So, she had it on the bleachers next to her bag full of now wet cheerleader stuff.
I made my way over to her during the next slow song, but not immediately. I asked her if she felt better since we got inside – she’d had a sniffle or two outside in the dampness of that late October, northern Indiana night. She smiled rather shyly, “Yes. I’m glad that game didn’t drag on like the Bears always do now.”
“Yeah, totally.” I responded as the next song dropped.
I sat with her for the next couple of songs. No one came near us. We didn’t talk – but, at least for me, we shared the moment in the music – and while I wish I remembered what the DJ played, I don’t.
The rest of the dance moved along fast. I told her to have a good night as she gave me my coat back. And she said, “Thank you, Jason. I’ll see you on Monday.” Her cheer buddies were quiet for once as they stood off to the side.
As it turns out, the next week she started going steady with her future husband, who I didn’t like. (Jealousy, and he was a 6’2” basketball player and cocky as hell.)
As for this one time, in high school, we both survived a damp night, a dimly-lit dance floor, and the social divide that most have experienced, but rarely ends in The Glory of Love.
1988
My father went to prison in February 1988. He landed at Ft. Leavenworth for the next 9 ½ years, though I had no way of knowing this immediately because it had been four years since my last conversation with him.
The last positive (and non-threatening) contact was in the form of a telescope around my 12th birthday. I used it a couple times on a quest to see the rings of Saturn; but later, it was a good coat stand placed in the corner of my bedroom, the only bedroom in the apartment my mom rented for $160/month in 1984. Her bed was in the living room.
Several months past before I was given this news by my mom. She told me in late Spring right before a Babe Ruth baseball game. At the time, I couldn't process the crime – which it was heinous – instead, I just took my anger out on the field.
If there is one place that anger, when controlled, works: it is in sports. As it turns out, I was scheduled to pitch against the best team in the league. Their squad had talent; several of their younger players went to the regional high school finals in 1992. Overall, they didn’t have any “bad players” on the field that day; several played in D1-D2 college programs.
But that day, I found enough anger to channel. I pitched a 7-inning complete game, struck out 15, walked 1, fielded a couple of grounders, and they got one ball out of the infield. Still, we only won 3-2. The luck came when my shortstop, and best friend at the time, Brad, hit a 2-run homer as I scored ahead of it, late in the game.
The raw stats are memorable, as I’d hit double digit Ks only a few other times, but that was the pinnacle of my pitching career.
That summer, I attended Purdue for 3 weeks for a BASIC programming class, staying at McCutcheon Hall. My mom got lucky on getting this done, as it was subsidized by your taxpayer dollars. It was a summer camp for no-stress education and peak socializing. At 6:30 AM, for 3 weeks straight, I woke up to Supersonic by Salt n Peppa. J.J. Fad. The residential counselor on the floor below kicked that tune out every day, and loud.
My first ever roommate in life was Alfredo Portales from Texas. He was a fan of Terrance Trent Darby, and so, Wishing Well and Sign Your Name, were on heavy rotation during that fun time. We both did the BASIC class – but I do not recall anything about that being important. Instead, the most consequential thing for both of us during that pre-college bound, summer school was girls.
There was just enough of them in the dorm on the other side doing what we were doing – roughly 70 guys, 30 gals – and so, we hung out and ate together, as many were from out of state like Alfredo.
It was great introduction to the world most desired when high school has nothing much left to offer. Aside from their intelligence, most were familiar with college through their parents’ own bona fides. From my point of view, they had class and stories, such was the awe I held for a few of them well met, whether it was earned, or not.
I competed in baseball as well. The 15-year Babe Ruth State All-Stars were running at the same time. My mom drove down on Friday night, and transported me back to Hobart, Indiana. Even though I had beaten the best team, just a few weeks prior, I didn’t get any starting pitching duties. Centerfield instead.
When I did get to relieve, in a rapidly deteriorating game, one had the gas, but the control was off that day.
Later, I was approached after the game by a guy carrying a radar gun, and he had the look of a scout, if there is such a look.
“Hey kid!” He matter-of-factly stated. “You were throwing pretty hard today.”
“Too bad I couldn’t find the zone.” I was unpleased as we’d just lost the tournament.
“Well, you were not really off. That ump sucked. You hit 84 on those last three fastballs.”
“That’s nothing.” Not understanding much about speed or scouting at the time.
“No, that’s pretty good for a short lefty at 15. Just need time and work…” he shrugged and surmised.
“Well, I’ll work on it.” And with that, that is the only time I ever talked to a scout.
My final adventure of this year in the life started with a bunch of high school jocks that let me drive them out the countryside to write mean slurs on the pavement outside of another jock’s house (future teammate and 1st basemen on our 5-19, 1990 Varsity baseball team).
“Goose,” was his nickname. For whatever reason, he was selected for this by the fellas, two were his teammates on the basketball team (Mike, Kevin (who dated Julie at one time), Chris, the wrestler, and Brad (who was the RB stud in football as well)).
The words were stupid and childish – and racist.
And I was the getaway driver.
My first introduction to the prisoner’s dilemma then occurred. I didn’t snitch – but the other four squealed pretty quickly.
This was later compounded by my disrespect for the Dean of Students. I told him to “fuck off.” That obtained me a 3-day out-of-school suspension.
From that vacation, and loss of class credit, I went to the movie, Gross Anatomy.* (My mom didn’t mind, openly.)
Like Joe Slovak (Matthew Modine), I didn’t work hard on my studies. Joe was a natural talent – that glided through his med school entrance exams.
But like Joe was to learn, others struggle. With addictions, terminal disease, relationships, pretension and ego, even if they are talented enough to be in the halls of the highest learning. This movie was the right one, for me, at that particular moment in life.
I didn’t care for authority figures – one can easily puzzle out why that was.
I didn’t know if I wanted to be engineer – but it sounded cool, and my mom liked it, so I started that upon entry into Purdue.
I didn’t know what was going to happen next – but I figured I had enough answers or could figure it out through my talents.
At fifteen, life is a rollercoaster of hormones, uncontrollable events, missed opportunities, and the poor-decision making one must figure out, sooner, if possible; later, absolutely. But no one completely does so.
So if reviewing someone else’s dumbassery can be funny, stirring, saddening even, but hopefully, it is not too far off what others came through in their own Wonder Years. The gross anatomy of a life unreviewed is: this set of events will happen again and again until one fleshes out the best ways to act, and more judiciously, react.
Author’s Note*: This is a short memoir. I did go see Gross Anatomy after receiving disciplinary action, though it was for falling asleep in Saturday School; and thereafter popping off during in-school suspension, ultimately getting a 3-day out of school suspension. I did get raked over the coals by the Dean of Students for the event described above.