For the past few years, I have acquired the habit of daily checking the obituaries in my hometown (Up North) newpaper's website. From time to time, people will show up there who I remember - people from the church my family belonged to, parents of my friends, old teachers/coaches, and increasingly in recent years, my friends and classmates. It's always a little bit jarring to see one of my classmates in the obits; we're in our mid-50s now, so collectively, we've got a few miles on us, so to speak, but we're not as old as all that, you know?
Even as far back as when I was in my 20s, though, I remember hearing about a guy who'd been my brother's best friend, and with whom I'd played many a game of backyard football, being killed in a drunk-driving accident. Another guy who I'd known since my grade-school days was run over by a car, just crossing the street on his lunch hour. It does remind you of how fragile, and how precious, human life is.
Whenever I see someone with whom I went to school in the obits, it always piques my curiosity a bit - what kind of life did they have? Did they die of a sudden, catastrophic illness or accident? Or did too much hard living catch up with them (I've known of a few of those, too)? What about their families - their spouses and children? Sometimes, I remember seeing them at a class reunion; sometimes not.
Just recently, as I was doing my regular Up North obit scan, I noticed a 54-year-old woman with the same last name as a guy I'd gone to school with, so I clicked on her name, to see if she might have been related to the guy I was thinking of. She might have been his sister, or possibly married to his brother, or something (and of course, just because she was my age and living in my old hometown, doesn't have to mean anything; people even move up there, from time to time).
But what I found made me sit back and stare at the screen, for a couple seconds. It was Bev, the girl I'd taken to the prom, and who'd left with another guy. It was a very odd sensation, and all the moreso because it was only a few months ago that I blogged about her. I sure don't remember her fondly; the brief interlude in which our paths crossed is mostly an occasion for rueful, or embarrassed, recollection, when I think of it at all. Heck, in describing the story of how she treated me at the prom, I said I wasn't really all that interested in what had become of her. And I really wasn't.
But now, I was finding out, for free, without having to look it up or anything. The obit mentioned her husband, who turned out to indeed be the brother of the guy I'd been thinking of. She had three kids, and her son had a different last name than her husband; in fact, he was 'junior', with the same name as another classmate of ours, who I'd known in passing. So she'd had at least two husbands, and had kids with a guy I remembered. Both her parents are still living, likely in their late 70s or 80s by now.
I'm hard-pressed to account for the odd emotional reaction it provoked in me to hear of her death. In the grand sweep of my life, she's really not all that significant, notwithstanding what happened around the prom. She was never my girlfriend, although for a couple weeks, way back when, I was fairly head-over-heels on her account. I didn't know her all that well before then (if I had, I might not have asked her to the prom), and I had even less to do with her afterward.
But you know, she might have been my First Kiss. I'm honestly not sure, but I can't think of any other likely candidates for the honor. It's a little sad, though, if she is. I'd like to think of my First Kiss fondly; not that she was a skank who cynically used me.
Not that it matters all that much by now, anyway. It is what it is. There's nothing to do about it, one way or the other. And may God have mercy. . .
Showing posts with label high school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label high school. Show all posts
Monday, December 7, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Friday Night Lights, Desmond-Style. . .
I have not spent much space in this blog on regaling you with tales of my athletic prowess of bygone days, and for two good reasons. First, I am all-too-aware of how pathetic it can be to listen to some middle-aged (or older) guy trying to recapture the glory of his younger days, and I don't want to inflict that pain on you, who might still count me as your friend. And second, I just don't have all that much in the way of Stories of Bygone Athletic Prowess. I suppose, in order to tell Stories of Bygone Athletic Prowess, it helps to have actually had some Athletic Prowess, once upon a time. . .
And yet, this time of year, I am always reminded of one particular football game from my high school days; you all would be very kind to indulge me. . .
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In Michigan, for purposes of athletic competition, high schools are divided into four classes, according to enrollment. Class A schools are the largest, and Class D are the smallest. In the northern two-thirds of the state, which includes the town I grew up in, there were only five Class A schools, in my high-school days (there are a few more now), and my school was one of them. Which presented us with a bit of a challenge, when it came to competing against similar-sized schools. Typically, we wound up playing the other four northern Class A schools, maybe a Class B school or two, and then travelling 'downstate' for the rest of our games.
Another thing which we did, to save some travel costs, was to have our JV team play against the varsity squad of a few of the Class C/D schools, of which there were several, within an hour's drive or less of us. On this particular night, I was on the JV squad, and we were playing the varsity of a Class D school about a half-hour up the road.
I was the center for our team (that's the guy who initially lines up over the ball, and 'hikes' it to the quarterback to begin the play). Over the course of the season, the center and the quarterback develop an intimate, close relationship; I'll just say that Molly, and whoever changed my diapers when I was a baby, are the only other people in my life whose hands have spent so much time on that part of my body.
Anyway, before the game, our coaches were reviewing with us what to expect from our opponent that night, and how we were intending to deal with it. Speaking to our defense, the coach said, "Basically, their offense consists of one guy, and his name is Godfrey; they've only got three plays - Godfrey left, Godfrey right, and Godfrey up the middle." So apparently this Godfrey guy was quite a horse.
My best buddy (who was also my backup center) and I, being conscientious fellows, raised our hands, and asked, "This Godfrey - does he play on defense for them?"
The coach paused for a second or two, before saying, "I think he's their noseman, but I'm not sure."
Well, now, the news that Godfrey, who was already morphing in my brain into something out of a bad horror movie - more like Godzilla than Godfrey - might be the noseman - the defensive player who plays across from the center, and who I'd thus stand to spend virtually the entire game trying to block - might be the noseman, but my coach - my coach, who was charged, among other things, with assuring that I be safely returned to my parents after the game - wasn't sure. . . Well, this news suddenly became a matter of grave concern for my young life. Bearing in mind that I was a 14-year-old sophomore, and Godzilla was a senior. He might've been the only decent player on his whole team (as it turns out, he was a Class D all-stater), but he was gonna be my problem for the next 2-3 hours. . .
Our team won the coin-toss, and received the opening kickoff, and then our offense, including me as the center, took the field. And sure enough, there he was. I broke the huddle, turned and trotted up to my position over the ball. And there was this. . . this huge THING there, waiting for me, his malevolent breath panting over my ball. Red glowing eyes stared evilly out at me from inside his helmet, and a three-day stubble adorned his chin. "Senior, hell!" I thought to myself. This guy's a freakin' Vietnam vet, who's been beheading communists with piano wire, up until last week.
"What's your name, kid?" he grunted at me.
Figuring that he was trying to intimidate me, I gave what I thought would be a suitably 'tough' response - "What do you care?"
"I need to know what to put on your gravestone."
I wanted to congratulate him on his wit; you know, "Touche! Good one!" or somesuch, but before I could get the words out, he charged out of his stance and drilled me, sending me ass-over-teakettle about five yards into the backfield, taking out my quarterback as I flew past. The referees blew their whistles and threw their yellow hankies, and duly marched off fifteen yards against Godzilla and his teammates for the Unsportsmanlike Conduct of kicking my ass before they told him it was OK to do so. But the message had been sent, and, you can be sure, received. I was in for the ass-kicking of my life that night; my young manhood was about to receive its sternest test to date.
And, continuing from my first snap, it proceded apace. Godzilla, who outweighed me by something like 50 pounds, and out-meaned me by a much greater margin, whipped me up one side of the field and down the other. I became intimately acquainted with his right forearm, which smashed across the bridge of my nose on every play, within milliseconds of the ball smacking into my quarterback's hands (I should mention here that this was also our first game of the season, and we hadn't yet received all of the best equipment that was on order; so my facemask, instead of being a 'lineman's mask' with a vertical bar protecting my nose, was a simple 'two-bar' facemask, which afforded a space slightly larger than the width of Godzilla's forearm between the edge of the helmet, and the top bar of the facemask. So Godzilla's forearm, which I think was made of weapons-grade steel, or maybe depleted uranium, hammered the bridge of my nose on each and every play, the entire game long; by the end of the game, my nose was approximately triple its normal width).
After the first few plays, I was past the point of trying to block him. On a couple of occasions, Godzilla, who also had the reflexes of a nervous jaguar, was past me, into the backfield, almost before the ball. I only tried to get myself between him and where the play was going, hoping to slow him down a little in the process of steamrolling me. It very quickly devolved into a Rocky-esque scenario of just taking my beating, and staying determined to do what I could, and not quit until the game was over.
And that's pretty much what I did. By the third quarter or so, I was pretty much shell-shocked, and my coach took pity on me and sent my buddy, the backup center, in for a series. But my buddy was 50 pounds lighter than I was (which had something to do with why I was the starter), and Godzilla treated him like a chew-toy. But at least I got a few minutes' respite from the hailstorm, before I had to go back out into it.
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Now, it really was true that Godzilla was virtually the only decent player on that team - I don't think they had a single other player bigger than 175 pounds, much less 200, and these weren't wiry-athletic skinny guys, either. Godzilla was pretty much playing us 1-on-11, and I was designated to absorb the full brunt of his fury.
One of his teammates, the defensive tackle who played the next position up the defensive line from him, was a tall, skinny guy - maybe 6-1 and 145 pounds or so - and as nearly as I could tell, his role on the defense was something like the Heckler. He had a whiny, nasal, high-pitched voice, and every play, as I once again assumed my position and steeled myself for yet another onslaught of Godzilla's rage, he would commence with the performance of his duties. "Center!" he'd yell, in his sing-song, nasal whine, "center, you're gonna get killed, man! He's gonna kick your ass, man! You're gonna get killed!" And he repeated that same song before every snap. Which, in a perverse way, motivated me to keep going. If this skinny dork wanted me to quit, he was having the exact opposite effect on my psyche. And pissing me off, besides - HE wasn't the one kicking my ass, but he was the one crowing about it, and I just wanted to say, "Bring it, Stick-Boy! Let's see how bad you are when it's you and me!"
And so it came to pass that lo and behold, for one play, late in the third quarter (and alas, it was the only such play the entire game), just as I was beginning to question my own sanity for continuing to submit to the every-30-seconds beatings, the clouds parted, and a light shone down from the heavens. We broke the huddle, and I trotted up to the ball, and lo! Godzilla was not there! Oh, Hallelujah! They were in a different defense, and Godzilla was playing a middle linebacker position, a couple yards off the line. And my skinny Yakker was across from me! At that point, I completely forgot what the play was that we were running, or what my blocking assignment was. For one play, my eyes flashed red and glowed. My voice dropped in pitch by at least an octave (even though I said nothing; strange how that worked), as I glared across the line. I snapped the ball and fired out, right through the chest of my erstwhile tormentor. I knocked him on his back, and ran up his chest, on my way downfield to find someone else (preferably, someone not named Godzilla) to block.
The next play, Godzilla was back across the line from me. But the Heckler was quiet for the rest of the game.
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We actually won that game, narrowly - Godzilla couldn't whip our whole team all by himself, but he sure wreaked a lot of havoc by the time he was done. I was able to join my teammates in rejoicing over our victory, even while I absorbed some good-natured teasing over the ass-kicking I'd taken (not unmixed with a sense of relief on their part, that it hadn't been them). Even just by willingly taking my whipping every play, I'd made my contribution to our victory, and my teammates, and my coaches, were duly appreciative.
And, within a week, my nose was even pretty much back to normal. And I got my lineman's facemask. . .
And yet, this time of year, I am always reminded of one particular football game from my high school days; you all would be very kind to indulge me. . .
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In Michigan, for purposes of athletic competition, high schools are divided into four classes, according to enrollment. Class A schools are the largest, and Class D are the smallest. In the northern two-thirds of the state, which includes the town I grew up in, there were only five Class A schools, in my high-school days (there are a few more now), and my school was one of them. Which presented us with a bit of a challenge, when it came to competing against similar-sized schools. Typically, we wound up playing the other four northern Class A schools, maybe a Class B school or two, and then travelling 'downstate' for the rest of our games.
Another thing which we did, to save some travel costs, was to have our JV team play against the varsity squad of a few of the Class C/D schools, of which there were several, within an hour's drive or less of us. On this particular night, I was on the JV squad, and we were playing the varsity of a Class D school about a half-hour up the road.
I was the center for our team (that's the guy who initially lines up over the ball, and 'hikes' it to the quarterback to begin the play). Over the course of the season, the center and the quarterback develop an intimate, close relationship; I'll just say that Molly, and whoever changed my diapers when I was a baby, are the only other people in my life whose hands have spent so much time on that part of my body.
Anyway, before the game, our coaches were reviewing with us what to expect from our opponent that night, and how we were intending to deal with it. Speaking to our defense, the coach said, "Basically, their offense consists of one guy, and his name is Godfrey; they've only got three plays - Godfrey left, Godfrey right, and Godfrey up the middle." So apparently this Godfrey guy was quite a horse.
My best buddy (who was also my backup center) and I, being conscientious fellows, raised our hands, and asked, "This Godfrey - does he play on defense for them?"
The coach paused for a second or two, before saying, "I think he's their noseman, but I'm not sure."
Well, now, the news that Godfrey, who was already morphing in my brain into something out of a bad horror movie - more like Godzilla than Godfrey - might be the noseman - the defensive player who plays across from the center, and who I'd thus stand to spend virtually the entire game trying to block - might be the noseman, but my coach - my coach, who was charged, among other things, with assuring that I be safely returned to my parents after the game - wasn't sure. . . Well, this news suddenly became a matter of grave concern for my young life. Bearing in mind that I was a 14-year-old sophomore, and Godzilla was a senior. He might've been the only decent player on his whole team (as it turns out, he was a Class D all-stater), but he was gonna be my problem for the next 2-3 hours. . .
Our team won the coin-toss, and received the opening kickoff, and then our offense, including me as the center, took the field. And sure enough, there he was. I broke the huddle, turned and trotted up to my position over the ball. And there was this. . . this huge THING there, waiting for me, his malevolent breath panting over my ball. Red glowing eyes stared evilly out at me from inside his helmet, and a three-day stubble adorned his chin. "Senior, hell!" I thought to myself. This guy's a freakin' Vietnam vet, who's been beheading communists with piano wire, up until last week.
"What's your name, kid?" he grunted at me.
Figuring that he was trying to intimidate me, I gave what I thought would be a suitably 'tough' response - "What do you care?"
"I need to know what to put on your gravestone."
I wanted to congratulate him on his wit; you know, "Touche! Good one!" or somesuch, but before I could get the words out, he charged out of his stance and drilled me, sending me ass-over-teakettle about five yards into the backfield, taking out my quarterback as I flew past. The referees blew their whistles and threw their yellow hankies, and duly marched off fifteen yards against Godzilla and his teammates for the Unsportsmanlike Conduct of kicking my ass before they told him it was OK to do so. But the message had been sent, and, you can be sure, received. I was in for the ass-kicking of my life that night; my young manhood was about to receive its sternest test to date.
And, continuing from my first snap, it proceded apace. Godzilla, who outweighed me by something like 50 pounds, and out-meaned me by a much greater margin, whipped me up one side of the field and down the other. I became intimately acquainted with his right forearm, which smashed across the bridge of my nose on every play, within milliseconds of the ball smacking into my quarterback's hands (I should mention here that this was also our first game of the season, and we hadn't yet received all of the best equipment that was on order; so my facemask, instead of being a 'lineman's mask' with a vertical bar protecting my nose, was a simple 'two-bar' facemask, which afforded a space slightly larger than the width of Godzilla's forearm between the edge of the helmet, and the top bar of the facemask. So Godzilla's forearm, which I think was made of weapons-grade steel, or maybe depleted uranium, hammered the bridge of my nose on each and every play, the entire game long; by the end of the game, my nose was approximately triple its normal width).
After the first few plays, I was past the point of trying to block him. On a couple of occasions, Godzilla, who also had the reflexes of a nervous jaguar, was past me, into the backfield, almost before the ball. I only tried to get myself between him and where the play was going, hoping to slow him down a little in the process of steamrolling me. It very quickly devolved into a Rocky-esque scenario of just taking my beating, and staying determined to do what I could, and not quit until the game was over.
And that's pretty much what I did. By the third quarter or so, I was pretty much shell-shocked, and my coach took pity on me and sent my buddy, the backup center, in for a series. But my buddy was 50 pounds lighter than I was (which had something to do with why I was the starter), and Godzilla treated him like a chew-toy. But at least I got a few minutes' respite from the hailstorm, before I had to go back out into it.
-------------------------
Now, it really was true that Godzilla was virtually the only decent player on that team - I don't think they had a single other player bigger than 175 pounds, much less 200, and these weren't wiry-athletic skinny guys, either. Godzilla was pretty much playing us 1-on-11, and I was designated to absorb the full brunt of his fury.
One of his teammates, the defensive tackle who played the next position up the defensive line from him, was a tall, skinny guy - maybe 6-1 and 145 pounds or so - and as nearly as I could tell, his role on the defense was something like the Heckler. He had a whiny, nasal, high-pitched voice, and every play, as I once again assumed my position and steeled myself for yet another onslaught of Godzilla's rage, he would commence with the performance of his duties. "Center!" he'd yell, in his sing-song, nasal whine, "center, you're gonna get killed, man! He's gonna kick your ass, man! You're gonna get killed!" And he repeated that same song before every snap. Which, in a perverse way, motivated me to keep going. If this skinny dork wanted me to quit, he was having the exact opposite effect on my psyche. And pissing me off, besides - HE wasn't the one kicking my ass, but he was the one crowing about it, and I just wanted to say, "Bring it, Stick-Boy! Let's see how bad you are when it's you and me!"
And so it came to pass that lo and behold, for one play, late in the third quarter (and alas, it was the only such play the entire game), just as I was beginning to question my own sanity for continuing to submit to the every-30-seconds beatings, the clouds parted, and a light shone down from the heavens. We broke the huddle, and I trotted up to the ball, and lo! Godzilla was not there! Oh, Hallelujah! They were in a different defense, and Godzilla was playing a middle linebacker position, a couple yards off the line. And my skinny Yakker was across from me! At that point, I completely forgot what the play was that we were running, or what my blocking assignment was. For one play, my eyes flashed red and glowed. My voice dropped in pitch by at least an octave (even though I said nothing; strange how that worked), as I glared across the line. I snapped the ball and fired out, right through the chest of my erstwhile tormentor. I knocked him on his back, and ran up his chest, on my way downfield to find someone else (preferably, someone not named Godzilla) to block.
The next play, Godzilla was back across the line from me. But the Heckler was quiet for the rest of the game.
-------------------------
We actually won that game, narrowly - Godzilla couldn't whip our whole team all by himself, but he sure wreaked a lot of havoc by the time he was done. I was able to join my teammates in rejoicing over our victory, even while I absorbed some good-natured teasing over the ass-kicking I'd taken (not unmixed with a sense of relief on their part, that it hadn't been them). Even just by willingly taking my whipping every play, I'd made my contribution to our victory, and my teammates, and my coaches, were duly appreciative.
And, within a week, my nose was even pretty much back to normal. And I got my lineman's facemask. . .
Friday, April 17, 2009
Dance With the One That Brought Ya. . . Or Not. . .
A couple of my blog-friends, Lime and Cocotte, have recently posted a meme about their high-school days, which has piqued a few memories in me, and a good story or two. So ladies, you may consider this post to be my extended answer to Question #22 - 'Did you have fun at the Prom?' . . .
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I really enjoyed high school. Mostly for the academic stuff - I was sort-of the resident Math Whiz in my class, but really, my interests were pretty eclectic. It was in high school that I started to become aware of all the intellectual wonders that were 'out there', waiting for me to explore. I wasn't an asocial nerd, by any means, but I was never a candidate for Homecoming King, either. My social life tended to center around my church youth group, and the sports teams - I played football and baseball (and I hung out with the basketball team, although I wasn't remotely good enough to be on the team. . .)
I never had a steady girlfriend in high school - at least, not at my school. I met my GF1 the summer between junior and senior years, and we carried on a long-distance relationship during senior year; the following summer, after I graduated, we were able to see a bit more of each other. In my school days, I had one serious crush, on a girl named Cindy, which I'd carried since 7th grade, but since she was going steady with one of my best friends the whole time, I had to keep it pretty much on the down-low. I did go on a few dates, with girls I liked, but nothing ever 'took hold'. Which was a bit disappointing at the time, but in retrospect, I don't feel like I missed all that much (I mean, you know, Molly didn't go to my school, so what was I supposed to do, right?). . .
I think it was my junior year, that a girl named Bev, who wasn't in the youth group, started tagging along with one of the other girls in the group. In early December, the youth group had an activity of some sort, and in the course of the evening, Bev and I wound up together quite a lot. Before the evening was over, I had the distinct feeling that she liked me. Which, if you're 15 and never particularly been liked by a girl, is pretty darned cool. . .
The following week, the youth group had a Christmas Caroling outing, and this time, Bev and I just stuck to each other the whole evening, intoxicated as I was on the sweet elixir of 'She likes me; she really likes me'. We might have even snuck a kiss or two. Or three; I forget how many. A couple times during the evening, while we were briefly separated from each other, a couple of my friends, who'd known Bev longer than I had, came to me, warning me not to get too carried away with her, that she wasn't all that she seemed to be. But, hey - I was in love; what did they know?
In those days, our school had what we called a Winter Prom (I think my kids' school calls it a Winter Ball, but we thought that having two proms every year was cool; besides, in those days, the whole tux/limo scene hadn't gotten all the way Up North yet, so it wasn't like there was a huge major outlay of cash involved). Which, coincidentally enough, was just a couple weeks away, by the time Bev and I got together. So I asked her if she would go to the Winter Prom with me, and she said she would. Which was all sorts of cool, and I was walking on air.
I did my duty and procured a corsage for her to wear, but there was an immediate logistical problem - I was only 15 (I was young for my class) and didn't yet have my driver's license. I explained my conundrum to Bev, and she said no problem, we could double with another couple she knew who were going, and he could drive. Which was just fine with me (greenhorn of romance that I was).
At the appointed time, the other guy (his name was Gary) showed up at my house, and we went to pick up his date, and then Bev (I will confess to having had a mildly-elevated heart rate when I had to slip my fingers inside the neckline of her dress in order to pin the corsage on her). On the way to the dance (which was held at the high school), Gary and his date (I forget her name; call her Laura) sat in front, and Bev and I were in back. I thought perhaps we could renew some of our kissing experiments, but she seemed preoccupied with something or other, and oddly distant.
We got to the school, and grabbed a spot at a table, Gary and Laura on one side, Bev and I across from them. When the music started, I took Bev out for a dance, and Gary and Laura danced right near us. The whole time, Bev was making small talk with the two of them, and, other than the physical proximity entailed in dancing with me, she pretty much completely ignored me. Back at the table, it was more of the same - Bev chattering away with Gary and Laura, while I sat by like a third wheel.
After a while, Bev suggested that we switch partners for the next dance - I could dance with Laura, and she could dance with Gary - so we did. I barely knew Laura, who was in the class above Bev and me, as was Gary, and we didn't find much common ground to talk about.
When the music ended, we went back to our table, but Gary and Bev never returned. I mean, they never returned. After a few minutes, Laura and I were scanning the room, looking for our respective dates, but they were nowhere to be found. Which was odd at first, but quickly moved into 'Annoying', just before Laura and I looked at each other and realized that we'd been had. Which kinda killed the mood for the two of us, after that. I tried to take a 'make-the-best-of-it' approach, and took Laura out to dance a couple more times, but that was a pretty futile proposition.
It also put us in a very awkward spot, since Gary had been the driver for the four of us, and it was apparent that he and Bev had vacated the premises. I didn't have a car, and I couldn't have driven her home, even if I did. It wasn't so bad for me - I only lived about six blocks from the school, so I could walk home - but Laura was kinda stuck, in heels and a prom dress, and she lived on the other side of town. I hung with her while she tried to work out a ride home, and once she did, I said good night and thanked her for such enjoyment as I'd had, and walked home.
And that, my friends, is the story of my Prom. The girl I took to the Prom went home with another guy, leaving me and his date to fend for ourselves. I have been known to use my Prom story to tell my kids not to have such high, lofty romantic expectations of the Prom, so it wasn't a total loss. And besides that, you can't buy that kind of education - I learned volumes about Human Nature (most especially including my own) over the course of two weeks; besides learning that my friends had my back, even when I didn't want to think that they did.
The Winter Prom happened during the Christmas break, so we didn't have to go immediately back to school the following Monday. Which was probably merciful. By the time I saw Bev again, my heart had had some time to heal of its bruises. For her part, Bev picked right back up where she'd left off at the Prom (and, coincidentally enough, where she'd been before I came along) - acting like I didn't exist. Which suited me just fine; if she'd wanted to make all 'friendly' with me, I might have puked in my own mouth. And she and Gary were suddenly an 'item'; which was her plan all along, I suppose. And it was a wiser young Desmond who roamed the halls of Up North High after that. . .
I have no idea what ever became of Bev (and honestly, not to be all snide about it, but I don't feel particularly poorer for that lack of knowledge). I've kept in touch with a few of my close friends from high school, but my parents moved away from Michigan even before I'd graduated, and my occasions to go back to my old hometown have been pretty few.
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I really enjoyed high school. Mostly for the academic stuff - I was sort-of the resident Math Whiz in my class, but really, my interests were pretty eclectic. It was in high school that I started to become aware of all the intellectual wonders that were 'out there', waiting for me to explore. I wasn't an asocial nerd, by any means, but I was never a candidate for Homecoming King, either. My social life tended to center around my church youth group, and the sports teams - I played football and baseball (and I hung out with the basketball team, although I wasn't remotely good enough to be on the team. . .)
I never had a steady girlfriend in high school - at least, not at my school. I met my GF1 the summer between junior and senior years, and we carried on a long-distance relationship during senior year; the following summer, after I graduated, we were able to see a bit more of each other. In my school days, I had one serious crush, on a girl named Cindy, which I'd carried since 7th grade, but since she was going steady with one of my best friends the whole time, I had to keep it pretty much on the down-low. I did go on a few dates, with girls I liked, but nothing ever 'took hold'. Which was a bit disappointing at the time, but in retrospect, I don't feel like I missed all that much (I mean, you know, Molly didn't go to my school, so what was I supposed to do, right?). . .
I think it was my junior year, that a girl named Bev, who wasn't in the youth group, started tagging along with one of the other girls in the group. In early December, the youth group had an activity of some sort, and in the course of the evening, Bev and I wound up together quite a lot. Before the evening was over, I had the distinct feeling that she liked me. Which, if you're 15 and never particularly been liked by a girl, is pretty darned cool. . .
The following week, the youth group had a Christmas Caroling outing, and this time, Bev and I just stuck to each other the whole evening, intoxicated as I was on the sweet elixir of 'She likes me; she really likes me'. We might have even snuck a kiss or two. Or three; I forget how many. A couple times during the evening, while we were briefly separated from each other, a couple of my friends, who'd known Bev longer than I had, came to me, warning me not to get too carried away with her, that she wasn't all that she seemed to be. But, hey - I was in love; what did they know?
In those days, our school had what we called a Winter Prom (I think my kids' school calls it a Winter Ball, but we thought that having two proms every year was cool; besides, in those days, the whole tux/limo scene hadn't gotten all the way Up North yet, so it wasn't like there was a huge major outlay of cash involved). Which, coincidentally enough, was just a couple weeks away, by the time Bev and I got together. So I asked her if she would go to the Winter Prom with me, and she said she would. Which was all sorts of cool, and I was walking on air.
I did my duty and procured a corsage for her to wear, but there was an immediate logistical problem - I was only 15 (I was young for my class) and didn't yet have my driver's license. I explained my conundrum to Bev, and she said no problem, we could double with another couple she knew who were going, and he could drive. Which was just fine with me (greenhorn of romance that I was).
At the appointed time, the other guy (his name was Gary) showed up at my house, and we went to pick up his date, and then Bev (I will confess to having had a mildly-elevated heart rate when I had to slip my fingers inside the neckline of her dress in order to pin the corsage on her). On the way to the dance (which was held at the high school), Gary and his date (I forget her name; call her Laura) sat in front, and Bev and I were in back. I thought perhaps we could renew some of our kissing experiments, but she seemed preoccupied with something or other, and oddly distant.
We got to the school, and grabbed a spot at a table, Gary and Laura on one side, Bev and I across from them. When the music started, I took Bev out for a dance, and Gary and Laura danced right near us. The whole time, Bev was making small talk with the two of them, and, other than the physical proximity entailed in dancing with me, she pretty much completely ignored me. Back at the table, it was more of the same - Bev chattering away with Gary and Laura, while I sat by like a third wheel.
After a while, Bev suggested that we switch partners for the next dance - I could dance with Laura, and she could dance with Gary - so we did. I barely knew Laura, who was in the class above Bev and me, as was Gary, and we didn't find much common ground to talk about.
When the music ended, we went back to our table, but Gary and Bev never returned. I mean, they never returned. After a few minutes, Laura and I were scanning the room, looking for our respective dates, but they were nowhere to be found. Which was odd at first, but quickly moved into 'Annoying', just before Laura and I looked at each other and realized that we'd been had. Which kinda killed the mood for the two of us, after that. I tried to take a 'make-the-best-of-it' approach, and took Laura out to dance a couple more times, but that was a pretty futile proposition.
It also put us in a very awkward spot, since Gary had been the driver for the four of us, and it was apparent that he and Bev had vacated the premises. I didn't have a car, and I couldn't have driven her home, even if I did. It wasn't so bad for me - I only lived about six blocks from the school, so I could walk home - but Laura was kinda stuck, in heels and a prom dress, and she lived on the other side of town. I hung with her while she tried to work out a ride home, and once she did, I said good night and thanked her for such enjoyment as I'd had, and walked home.
And that, my friends, is the story of my Prom. The girl I took to the Prom went home with another guy, leaving me and his date to fend for ourselves. I have been known to use my Prom story to tell my kids not to have such high, lofty romantic expectations of the Prom, so it wasn't a total loss. And besides that, you can't buy that kind of education - I learned volumes about Human Nature (most especially including my own) over the course of two weeks; besides learning that my friends had my back, even when I didn't want to think that they did.
The Winter Prom happened during the Christmas break, so we didn't have to go immediately back to school the following Monday. Which was probably merciful. By the time I saw Bev again, my heart had had some time to heal of its bruises. For her part, Bev picked right back up where she'd left off at the Prom (and, coincidentally enough, where she'd been before I came along) - acting like I didn't exist. Which suited me just fine; if she'd wanted to make all 'friendly' with me, I might have puked in my own mouth. And she and Gary were suddenly an 'item'; which was her plan all along, I suppose. And it was a wiser young Desmond who roamed the halls of Up North High after that. . .
I have no idea what ever became of Bev (and honestly, not to be all snide about it, but I don't feel particularly poorer for that lack of knowledge). I've kept in touch with a few of my close friends from high school, but my parents moved away from Michigan even before I'd graduated, and my occasions to go back to my old hometown have been pretty few.
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