I Want To Fly Jets! Really? My Grandmama Wants To Fly Jets Too!

 

Another IU story, but this time with a little different twist.

Ever since I can remember, I have been fascinated with flying, and I thought being a fighter pilot was just about the bestest thing a guy could do.

The idea of being blown to pieces by a SAM (surface-to-air missile) never entered my mind.

Gregory "Pappy" Boyington, Richard Bong, Francis "Gabby" Gabreski, and Chuck Yeager were all heroes of mine, and I devoured any material I could find about them and their contemporaries. 

The way things ought to be

Charles Lindberg was on my list as well.

So, second year first semester, while I was at IU/Bloomington, I had the brilliant idea to check out their U.S. Air Force ROTC program.

In order to be a fighter pilot you had to have 20/20 uncorrected vision. This I learned at IU ROTC. 

My eyes were/are fucked. 

I could be a navigator, but hell...with my math aptitude? Forget that. 

I could be a refueling boom operator, but that didn't appeal to me at the time. Glorified gas station attendant. 

In the Marines I could shoot the tits off a mosquito at 500 yards. 

Fuck being a pilot! 

Sorta.

Anyhoo...I took the first year class.  I had no idea what I was getting into.

They gave us uniforms, but not much training on how to wear them, customs and courtesies, etc.

The Marine that I would later become would have been amused and horrified at my ROTC behavior whilst in uniform.

We had a few lessons about Air Force history with an Air Force officer as the instructor, but I remember thinking that I could have given a better lecture.

I also remember thinking, "I shouldn't have smoked that bowl of weed before walking over here from the dorm...in uniform.  I can't handle this shit right now."

An officer/instructor once asked me what was wrong with my eyes.  There was nothing wrong with my eyes, because I hosed them down with Visine before I came into class.  I replied something about allergies or having just left the swimming pool and the chlorine and all...

He knew better I'm sure.

I often blew off a ROTC classes, and when I did show up, I was ordered to write an explanation.

(Ordered is funny because I was not obligated to do shit at this point.  I had signed nothing, and nobody was gonna tell me what to do.  Not even me!)  

I said I was running late and I thought it would be rude to barge in and interrupt the class. 

How thoughtful of me, right?  

It was all bullshit of course.  

The real reason was that I had gotten a snoot-full of beer and weed with my buddies back in the dorm, and I blew ROTC class off.

Now, some of you might be saying at this point, "Gawt Damn Zoomie!  You were a gargantuan fuck-up!  Stoned outta yer mind and yer gonna fly F4s and kill commies for Christ?  Nobody's ever gonna even let you get near a pushback tug.  Kill yourself!"

Guilty as charged!

I took the above picture, in 1982, with the same camera my dad used in Vietnam in 1966, where he took the below picture.  It's probably the same F4!

The occasion was an ROTC "field trip." 

We rode in vans from Bloomington Indiana to Grissom Air Force Base near Peru Indiana. 

Then we hopped on a KC-135 refueling aircraft (think Boeing 707) and headed for March Air Force base in California. 

 

On the way, we refueled the flight of F4s. 

Up to that point, I had NEVER flown in an airplane before!

We arrived at March AFB California, got up close and personal with various mesmerizing aircraft, and then settled in. 

By "settled in" I mean I and few buds got into some cheap government subsidized beer...but nothing crazy or outta hand.

One fine California dusk we were gathered outside the barracks smoking and joking when evening colors was called.

"Evening colors" is when the post flag is lowered and "retreat" is played.

At this time, all persons are required to stop whatever they are doing, stand at attention facing the colors or the bugle music, and render a proper hand salute until the bugle music ends.

We never got the memo, and we continued with our shenanigans during colors, so a salty and attentive staff NCO Airforce bubbuh made sure we got the good news.

IU ROTC was very lax, and they didn't really give much attention to customs and courtesies. 

It was, "Here's a uniform. Wear it." 

Very little practical instruction on how to do anything properly. I guess we were supposed to absorb such knowledge thru osmosis or some shit. 

 

The USMC was wildly different. That shit was pounded into us daily for a solid three months. 

Later as a Marine...whenever I was on a base and colors sounded, I absolutely LOVED rendering the proper respect to the event. 

It was an honor and privilege. The history of it, the folks who served and sacrificed before me all came to mind. 

 

I absolutely DESPISED the Marines who "ducked colors." Those are the shit-birds who would run into a building to avoid having to stand at attention for 30 seconds and salute.

Anyhoo...Even with all this glorious immersion into flying and the Air Force, I was still drinking too much and smoking weed.

I was spiraling outta control.

I said goodbye to ROTC, and dropped out of university. 

I had dead-end, shitty jobs making fuck-all-nuthin' for money.

I was getting depressed, and I felt terrible about myself and my current station in life.

I didn't like what I had become, and it was nobody's fault but mine.

I guess the good thing is that I actually realized all of it, and I knew I had to make some changes.

Drastic changes, or I was gonna end up dead or in jail.

I needed discipline and structure.

So I found myself in a strip mall parking lot that contained a multi-services recruiting center.

"Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines!  What a great place to start!"

I didn't have any idea which branch, and didn't care either.  I just knew I had to go.

I wasn't all gung ho, Semper Fi do or die, goodnight Chesty Puller where ever you are.

I sat in my vehicle for quite some time, then I went in.

I looked at a few brochures of all the branches for a few minutes...and I was being totally ignored by pretty much all of them.

While the Army, Navy, and Airforce recruiters were smoking and joking and jerking off, the only guy who bothered to come out of his office and approach me was a Marine.

His name was Staff Sergeant Stanfield.  

I'll never forget him.

He never lied to me.  He told me it'd be tough, and that it wasn't for everybody.  He didn't make any promises.  He said the change would be forever, and he was right.

I signed on the dotted line.  It was November 1983, and I would ship for boot camp in January 1984.

In the meantime, I had one more wrong mistake to make.

Wearing my old IU ROTC shirt...

When it came time to ship, I wore my IU Air Force ROTC t-shirt to USMC boot camp! 

THAT went over real well. 

I was still a moron at that point.

Now, some of you might be saying, "Zoomie!  You can't POSSIBLY be that stupid!  Please say you're joking and you really didn't do that!"

On the contrary.

I was, and I did!  

I actually gave it some thought. 

I figured it would show them that I was a fellow traveler and supporter of the military. 

That I was on THEIR side, and we could be pals! 

 

About 30 seconds after stepping onto the yellow footprints and seeing that nothing ANY one of us recruits did would stop the coming hell-storm, I was clawing at that goddamn t-shirt with my bare hands trying to rip it apart so it wasn't legible! 

 

Mission failed.

Louis Cameron Gossett Jr. is not amused

Anyhoo...

As the plane rotated and went wheels up from Indy to San Diego, I thought of Led Zeppelin and "Going to California."

Spent my days with a woman unkind,
Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine.

 

Made up my mind to make a new start,
Going To California with an aching in my heart.

 

Someone told me there's a girl out there
With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair.

 

Took my chances on a big jet plane,
Never let them tell you that they're all the same.

 

The sea was red and the sky was grey,
Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today.

 

The mountains and the canyons started to tremble and shake
As the children of the sun began to awake.

 

Seems that the wrath of the Gods
Got a punch on the nose and it started to flow;
I think I might be sinking.

 

Throw me a line if I reach it in time
I'll meet you up there where the path
Runs straight and high.

 

To find a queen without a king;
They say she plays guitar and cries and sings.
La la la la

 

Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn
Tryin' to find a woman who's never, never, never been born.

 

Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams,
Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.

Right.

I also thought, "This is my last chance.  If I fail at this, I'm done, and I won't return to Indiana ever again."

Not So Fast Times At Speedway High: Dad Goes Full Beast Mode...Again

It was exactly like this, but completely different.  Maybe.

The year is 1981, I'm a high school senior, and I'm on top of the world! It is my oyster!  I can do anything!  The future's so bright, I need to don a welding helmet!  I'm invincible!

I'm also a virgin. 

Damn. 

Sure, I liked girls. 

Girls are all I ever thought about. But when I was faced with the possibility...nah...pretty positive it woulda been a sure thing...I couldn't do it. 

Sorta.

The plumbing was fine, it was everything else that was fucked up.

In modern parlance, the hardware was good to go, but the software needed some work.

Why? 

I don't think I was ready emotionally or mentally for it. 

My head...the one on my shoulders...would have exploded.

Generally speaking, the following is where I was:

-My mindset was off in La-La Land for sure.

-I have a general WGAF attitude about senior year because I'll have enough credits to graduate, even if I take several blow-off, half-credit classes.

-My main interests my senior year were hanging out with my buddies, beer, weed, rock 'n' roll, kiss a girl if the opportunity arises, and cruising in my bad-ass 1969 Ford Torino station wagon.  

It is called "The Race Car" for obvious reasons.

Heading to Daytona for Spring Break, 1981.

The school swim team I've been on for my fourth year has become a drag, and my performance there has been nothing but lackluster the entire time.  

The only thing I've done that has impressed my head swim coach is to show up for every practice. 

The swim team assistant coach, who is a little weasel, has been workin' my last nerve.

I'll call him Mr. Buckhorn.

Anyhoo...one of my blow-off classes is Stage Craft...which entails much fucking off, cigarette smoking, and occasionally building sets for school plays/dramas/musicals.

My little sister, one year behind me, is in drama club, and she is extremely talented.  She can sing, act, and memorize lines like a pro. 

Unlike me, she's also popular, so there's a possibility of me poaching some of her weird/quirky/cute girlfriends who are also in theater. 

Somehow, my little scheme actually worked, and I attracted the attention of a real-life girl!

I'll call her Fergie. 

Fergie was my FIRST girlfriend.

One of the sets I helped construct for the drama club was covered with various bits of generic graffiti that the audience could see. 

Maybe the set was supposed to be a back alley or something...I don't remember. 

I noticed one of the bits of graffiti was "Fergie + Zoomie." 

How cute is that? 

She must have put that there.

The "Race Car" had bench seats. Most cars back then did. Nothin' better than Fergie sliding over next to me! 

Like the band Cake says, "Stick-shifts and safety belts, and bucket seats have all got to go." 

We dated for quite a while my senior year, and even into my first semester at IU Bloomington and she was a high school senior. 

She was a fine young lady from a good family.

Having Fergie as my first girl friend really made me feel good at the time. I was on cloud nine actually, for quite a while. 

I didn't think it would ever happen. 

"Wow, I have this girl who actually thinks I'm special and worth her attention.  She actually WANTS to be with me, and is enthusiastic about it!" ...a new, strange, and wonderful feeling.

I should have told her then how she made me feel. 

I didn't because I was a clueless, inexperienced kid.

She wasn't just a piece of meat to me. She was special, she was attractive, and I'm pretty sure she wanted to take the relationship further.

Maybe.

I couldn't do it.

She never begged. 

She had too much dignity, and besides, I wasn't THAT good-looking! 

We eventually went our separate ways.

I will always think fondly of her.

###

My little sister, who was close friends with Fergie, told me many years later, "She REALLY liked you." 

I said, "Yeah, I know." 

Sis repeated, "No....I mean she REEEEEAAALLLY liked you!"

Imagine Fergie is Sammy Hagar, and she is singing this to me.  That is precisely how it all played out. Allegedly.

###

So...one fine evening, a buddy from the swim team and I are out cruising in the race car and getting a belly full of beer.

We decide it would be a great idea to pay Mr. Buckhorn a visit at the school auditorium where a school play is being performed.

Mr. Buckhorn is there kinda as a chaperone/security guard to help keep idiots like my buddy and I from getting stupid and ruining everything for everybody.

I have a plan, and if my plan works, I will accomplish absolutely nothing.

I will walk up to Mr. Buckhorn...close enough that he will be able to smell the pungent, vile aroma of stale beer on my breath, and quietly say, "H-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i Mr. Buckhorn.  How are you doing on this fine evening?"

...and that's exactly what I did.

I wasn't loud or disruptive, but I had made my point.

My point was that I was a fucking maroon.

Mr. Buckhorn got the message loud and clear.

The next day I was informed that I would serve a week of in-school detention in a small windowless room with a bored and angry teacher standing guard.

I would only be allowed out of that dungeon for lunch and restroom breaks.

I was also kicked off the swim team.

Nothing happened to the buddy who was with me, because he was smart enough to NOT blow beer breath into a teacher/coach's face.

I informed Dad of the situation.

I had absolutely no idea what happened next would transpire.

Seems Pops went to pay Mr. Buckhorn a little visit shortly thereafter at the high school.

I don't know where the two of them met.  It may have been the school office, the pool, the hallway, Mr. Buckhorn's classroom...who knows? 

I have no idea what words were spoken.

All I know is words were exchanged, voices were raised, and it became physical.

Pushin', shoovin', punchin', wrasslin'...hilarity ensued just like it did almost ten years prior with the infamous baseball incident, and I wasn't there.

I don't know who won or lost.  I don't know if they had to be pulled apart.  I don't know if the police were called.  I know none of it.

Jesus H. Christ, Pops.  Enough.

Thanks, but you can stop doing that for me, Dad.  I don't need it done, OK?

I really didn't care about getting thrown off the team, except for the fact I would not be able to earn my "Varsity Letter."  For some reason, that mattered to me.

Oh well.  I got over it.

Not having to muck around with swimming meant I basically didn't have to do shit the rest of the year.

It was liberating...like a weight had been lifted.

Sour grapes?

Who's to say?

Certainly not me.

I didn't hold a grudge against Mr. Buckhorn.  He was doing his job.

In fact, I encountered him having car trouble on the roadside a few months later, and I helped him.

I told him then that I had no animosity towards him, and that he did what he was supposed to do...help maintain order at the school.

###

I was spinning my wheels in a quagmire of beer and weed, making a mess, and going nowhere fast.

I had no earthly idea what I wanted to do after high school.

I didn't have any passion about attending university, but many of my friends were going to IU Bloomington.

At the last minute, I decided to do the same.  I sent in my application very near the deadline, and I was surprisingly accepted.

I was a fucking sheep and following my buddies, but what the hell else was I gonna do?

Join the fucking Marine Corps?

Please...

The Tunnel and the Beat Down

Here's another anecdote about may father and his youngest brother, and it is family legend.

I'll call my uncle, Paul.  (He was in on IT when it was in its infancy, and also the guy who gifted me the M1 Garand rifle.)  

Obviously, dad was a scrapper. 

A newspaperman like in the movies. Sorta. 

Smokin', drinkin', carryin' a piece sometimes...think Mickey Spillane/Mike Hammer. 

Anyhoo...Uncle Paul was an IT guy, yes, but he wasn't some puny, douchebag nerd with a pocket protector and a slide rule. 

He was dad's size, but in better overall physical condition due to his having two legs that hadn't been turned into mincemeat as a child. 

Smart as a whip AND physically powerful.

And yes...Uncle Paul was a scrapper too! 

So one day the two of them went to a motor car race. 

I think it was the Hoosier Hundred champ dirt car race at the Indiana State Fairgrounds in Indy, and I'm not certain, but we'll roll with that. 

The track at the fairgrounds was a one mile dirt oval horse racing track used for auto racing also. 

Apparently, Dad and Uncle Paul consumed copious amounts of alcohol during the race. 

After the race, they were walking thru a pedestrian-only tunnel that went under the track and allowed fans on foot to go to and from the infield and the outside grandstand area. 

Well, seems as if one unknown dumbass decided he'd take his car thru this crowded tunnel, and may have slightly bumped my father or my uncle. 

I'm not certain of some details, but I figure in my dad's mind he was not going to get hit by a car again, and now was just about as good a time as any to get some delayed payback for the traumatic injuries he suffered as a kid. 

Either my dad or Uncle Paul physically pulled the driver outta the car, and may or may not have administered a beat down. 

Allegedly.

The other brother went over to the passenger side of the car, and was about to serve out similar justice to the passenger! 

When it was discovered that the passenger was a female, that plan stopped. 

I don't think they got arrested, and I like to think they both got a round of applause from the other folks in that tunnel. 

When they got home, dad was really fucked up, Uncle Paul less so. 

I couldn't have been more 6-7-8 years old at the time, and I didn't quite understand what was going on when Uncle Paul helped dad up the stairs and put his drunk ass in bed. 

It was the first time I'd ever seen my old man totally wasted, and it would be the last. 

Kinda harkens back to me falling face first into my plate of spaghetti in front of my kids. That shit never happened again either. 

Now, some of you people might be saying, "Zoomie! Your dad (and maybe Uncle Paul) was a drunk, abusive bastard with anger issues!" 

Meh...

I don't think so. 

Who's to say?

Certainly not me. 

My Friend Tom Fox

Tom getting wrecked by one of my kitties. Note the cigar and iced tea!

It was several years after the dog shooting/Self Defense for Real episode. 

A new guy moved in directly across the street.  I watched him like a hawk, and noticed some things.

He was shorter than me, but built like a brick shithouse.  A tremendous physique, and he was very proud of it.  When the weather was warm, he was always outside fucking around, and off came the shirt.  I thought, "Look at this muscle-headed, steroid-soaked mother fucker.  What a douche."

Jealousy?  Probably.

He had a German Shepherd.  I thought, "Great. Another large dog in the area I'm gonna have to keep an eye on.  I hope Hercules over there has enough common sense to keep the dog restrained, especially after the events of a few years ago."

New guy had a completely fenced-in backyard, but the chain link was only 4-5 feet high, and the dog was NEVER inside the house. The fucking shepherd easily jumped the fence and got loose a couple of times when new guy wasn't home.  

I have much experience with German shepherds, and the dog didn't appear to be aggressive...but I was taking no chances.  Neither I nor my family would be threatened ever again by a loose dog, but I learned a lesson.  I called animal control, and the dog was taken to the pound.  New guy paid a pretty penny to get the dog back, and soon after he installed a taller fence the dog couldn't clear.

A good sign...

It wasn't long before the new guy started on some serious home improvements.  The first one was to replace his gravel driveway with nice new concrete.  That was the last straw, and I saw it as my opportunity to finally meet this dude and introduce myself...and I was gonna do so in my own inimitable style.

Before I even got to his side of the street, my mouth was running.

"Oh, OK.  So I guess you think you're better than me 'cuz you got a cement driveway now and all I got is a shitty gravel one."

He replied with a shit-eating grin, "Exactly!"

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

His name was Tom Fox.  

He was the same age as me.  Recently divorced.  He was a certified master BMW mechanic, and had worked for the same independent, privately owned shop for decades.  

Prior to that, he was responsible for maintenance at a large apartment complex.

He knew his shit.

I met his dog.  His name was Mack, and he was a good boy.  I took him for walks around the neighborhood, and I wasn't afraid of him.  

Incidentally, I never told Tom I was the asshole who called the dog catcher.  What's the point?  Tom fixed the problem.  Why possibly ruin the good thing we got going?

Tom ended up being like a twin brother.  He was part of my family, and he touched our lives in innumerable ways.  I can look around at my home and property and see all kinds of things there that Tom actually touched.  It's amazing what impact this man had on me and my family.

When he saw me in my driveway struggling with an automotive repair, he'd waltz across the street without me asking and lend a hand.  It got to the point where I'd say, "Just point and advise and I'll do the work."

When he saw me carting out to the curb half of my household items ruined by a broken water pipe, he was the first guy to offer help.  Bathroom a gutted wreck? Tom's there.  Kitchen water damaged, totally destroyed?  Tom's there.

One day whilst I was mucking around on the intardweb, I got a call from Tom, but I was slow in answering and it went to voicemail.

When I got around to checking the voicemail, Tom's voice was low, quiet, and childlike.  "Zoomie...can you come over to my garage?  I need you for something."

I thought he was putting me on, but I got up from my desk and started walking across the street.  Just as I got to his side of the street I shouted, "Somebody better be dying!  There'd better be blood!"

As I went up his driveway, I stooped down and saw Tom laying on his back on the garage floor.  I picked up my leisurely walking pace at that point.

There was blood alright!  He had damned near cut a fingertip off with a table saw he was using to build his mom a birdhouse.

He hadn't lost a shit-ton of blood, but my limited knowledge of first aid from the Marine Corps told me he was going into shock!  He was pale, sweaty, and clammy, and not making much sense.

Stop the bleeding/Protect the wound-I wrapped it tight with paper towels and direct pressure.  Told him to hold it tight.

Treat for shock-elevated his legs. Put a blanket or a tarp on him.

Called 911.  An ambulance took him to hospital.  He didn't lose his fingertip.

I saved his life!  I was a fucking hero!  I made sure to remind him of those facts often!

Tom and I in my driveway, doing some incredibly important bullshit!

I learned a lot from this man.  There wasn't much he didn't know, that I did.  Except maybe for guns.  

He was a gun guy, and he knew about what he had, but when he acquired an AR15 from a work buddy, he knew who to ask.  It was new technology for him, but familiar like a well-worn baseball glove for me.  

I was able to give back, and I was happy and proud to do so.

Another way we gave back to Tom was to include him into our family circle.  Holiday dinners, birthdays, summer cookouts.  Tom was always invited, and was always the perfect guest.  He was polite, conversationally engaging, and interesting.

And generous?  

Jesus Christ the man never stopped, and it wasn't just his time, labor, and expertise.  

Christmas meant gifts for the entire family.  There didn't even have to BE an occasion.  He'd give me all kinds of cool shit he bought off the Snap-On tool truck at work...good quality shit that I would use for years afterwards.  

What we offered in return was a homey, family environment he could settle into like a comfy LazyBoy.  Get a nice home-cooked meal...and quality banter from me.

He interacted with my children and watched them grow up.  

My sons were especially fond of him, which made me happy.  It's always nice to have a positive male role model in the mix who is not family.  

The different perspectives can be important.

Tom drank iced tea, always, usually from a gas station fountain. Nothing else.  He didn't drink alcohol.  

I once told him he would be the perfect neighbor if he drank beer.

Tom smoked nasty Backwoods cigars constantly, and would toss the butts into my yard because he knew it irritated me.  I'd say, "Is that where that goes, asshole?"  He'd reply, "Today it is."  

Fuckhead.

One day Tom and I were fucking around...I don't even remember what we were doing. 

I was a little tired and cranky that day, and Tom said something I thought was either stupid or irritating. I don't even remember what he said. 

My reply to him was short, snotty, to-the-point, dumb, and probably not very nice. 

I don't even remember what I said. 

His reply was short and sweet, but not hateful. I don't even remember what it was. 

I just remember his physical reaction. 

He turned and walked across the street back to his house and went inside. 

I went about my day for an hour or two afterwards, and then it hit me like a good snort of scotch: "Holy fuck! I just destroyed a valued friendship by running my fucking mouth without any prior thought!" 

I started to tear up, then I acted. 

I went across the street and knocked on his door. 

He invited me in saying, "What's up?" 

I said with trembling voice and tears in my eyes, "I love you, man, and I value your friendship. I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did. You didn't deserve that, and I apologize. The way you turned and walked away from me...I knew I pissed you off. I'm sorry." 

His reply? "What the fuck are you talking about? I had to poop!" 

Motherfucker!!! 

From then on, whenever either one of us temporarily parted ways, instead of "later dude," we said "gotta go poop now!"

One time Tom related to me an incident at his place of employment...the BMW shop.  Music was playing in the background, and he said a Stevie Ray Vaughan (SRV) song came on.  Tom said one of his co-workers, out of the blue, mumbled, "Stupid helicopters."

(SRV died in a helicopter crash)

From that day on, whenever an SRV song came on and Tom and I were together, we'd say, "Stupid helicopters."

It was legend. 

This kinda thing went on for years, and Tom was officially a member of the unofficial "4th Avenue Mafia." (4AM) 

The 4AM was a cadre of neighborhood men who helped one another and the entire neighborhood.  We looked after each others' properties when away on vacations, and we all had each other's cell phone numbers...and backs.  

If an elderly neighbor needed help, we're there.  

A tree fall down during a storm? 

There'd be three or four guys there with revving chainsaws to clear the mess even before the rain stopped falling.

Snow needed removed from a senior citizen's property?  We're on it.

A stranger acting a fool, driving recklessly? He's getting eyeballed and stink-eyed and the cops called on him if he's REALLY stoopid.

This went on for years, and it was awesome.  We were a team.  The sense of community was palpable, and Tom was a big part of it.

Then, his life changed.  Somehow he got reacquainted with his ex-wife. I won't go into details, but he had always told me that he didn't want the divorce, but I still found it strange he was rebuilding a relationship with her.

Tom was seeing more of her, and less of the 4AM, which is fine...he's a grown up...but one day I flat out asked him, "Are you sure you want to do this?  Do you want to get your heart broken again?"

He said he was sure.  He never stopped loving her.  He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.  He wanted to walk off into the sunset with her.  She made him happy.  He made her happy, they were rebuilding what was once a broken wreck.

And to me, that's all that mattered.  Tom was genuinely happy.

Life goes on.

And sometimes, it doesn't...

Two or three years later, Tom is diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. 

Bad news.  Extremely bad news.

He would not walk off into the sunset with his beloved.

He was given about six months to live, and the prognosis was frighteningly accurate.

I watched him turn yellow with jaundice and basically dissolve in front of my eyes.  

It was the most horrifying and heartbreaking thing I ever witnessed.  

I'd walk across the street to visit him when he wasn't in hospital, and I couldn't keep my shit together.

He said, "I sure as fuck never saw THIS coming."

I told him I loved him.  He told me he loved me.

He told me, "There's a couple of my things I want you to have."

With tears in my eyes I said, "I don't want your shit. I want you."

That was our last conversation.  He died about a week later.

There was a huge hole in my life and the 4AM now that would never be refilled.

To make things even more painful, my employer would not give me a day off to attend Tom's funeral...saying, "He's not family."

The fuck he wasn't...

My youngest son went instead to represent the family.

I was pissed.

Later...I helped his wife clear out some of Tom's stuff.  

I was especially concerned about all of Tom's firearms.  

I knew he kept most of them loaded all the time, and I also knew I was the only one amongst our group who could competently make the guns safe to handle without somebody getting hurt.

I communicated this to all the remaining members of the 4AM, "Please don't touch the guns.  Let me clear them and make them safe.  I don't want to lose any more of you."

Tears flowed as I cleared all the guns in Tom's living room and in his gun safe in his bedroom. 

I hugged his wife multiple times.  She was a wreck, and in shock, but she handled it like a trooper.

Tom's house went up for sale, and it was over a year before it sold.  

A young single guy bought it.  

The 4AM have given the new guy their seal of approval, but I haven't been able to force myself to make an introduction yet.

I'm told he's a truck driver, therefore he's probably a no good rotten filthy bastard!

###

So yesterday I'm out in the driveway in front of my garage, putting spark plugs and wires in my piece of shit 2002 Ford Ranger.  Walkman hardwired into an ancient DeWalt boom box, and a Stevie Ray Vaughan song comes on. "Stoopid helicopters...," I say out loud to myself like a freak.

While doing the plug/wire swap on this sunny Sunday afternoon yesterday, I was thinking that this is exactly the time Tom would saunter across the street, iced tea in hand and a Backwoods cigar in his pie-hole, and say, "Watcha doin'?" ...when it was fucking obvious what I was doing. 

And I'd say, "Oh, just playin' cards."...which is an Animal House reference he would clearly understand.

I kept looking for him to walk up my driveway again.

It never happened.

Goddammit, I miss that guy something fierce.

The 4th Avenue Mafia, doing what they do.

Batter Up! Dad Goes Nuts!

You shoulda seen some of the wild shit my old man did on my behalf when he thought I was being unjustly treated. 

It was epic and legendary! 

There were two incidents where Dad went batshit crazy! 

Ironic part was I was WAAAAAAY in the wrong (mostly) for both of them, and Dad knew exactly what I did to get the reaction I got from a coach and a teacher because, I told him the truth...and he still squared up on some fools.

###

The first incident takes place in 1974ish.  5th or 6th grade, certainly no later than that.

It was our town's little league baseball organization, not affiliated with the public school system I was in, so even boys I didn't know from the local Catholic school played. 

It had two divisions.

Minor League was for beginners and those who had questionable levels of talent.

The Major League was where the cool cats and the skilled jocks played.

I was neither cool nor skilled, and up until that time I had never played in any kind of baseball "game," so to speak, although I had played plenty of games of catch, and I knew how to throw, catch, and field a hardball with some amount of competency.

So, my first year was in the Minor League.  My team was the  Cubs.  I'd say our team was above average, but not the best.  We could contend.

I played right field.  I wasn't an especially notable fielder, though.  There were times when I caught a fly ball and it would bounce outta my glove like it had hit an automotive valve spring, and plop to the ground!  

I would never win a Golden Glove Award.

As far as hitting?  Mediocre at best.  I could get on base often enough, but I never hit a homerun.  The best I ever hit was a triple, but I'd attribute that more to my base running.  I was a very fast runner...known as one of the fastest in my school at the time.

Tradition was that if we won a game, the entire team would get a carted over to the local drive-in root beer stand, Mug 'n' Bun, for a root beer.  If you hit a homer, you'd get a footlong hotdog too!  God, how I wanted that footlong.  I never got one.

Anyhoo...one fine summer day we are playing a game, and our star pitcher is struggling.  It happens.  His name was George.  He was an excellent pitcher, and he threw fire, but he was walking batters left and right, or getting shelled that day.

The other team was racking up runs like no tomorrow, and our coach didn't seem to notice or care.

We really didn't have a bullpen.  If George was having a bad day, we were fucked.

I couldn't take it anymore, so I go up to coach and say, "How's about you let me give it a go?"

It was a patently ridiculous idea.  I had never pitched a game in my life, nor had I ever even practiced pitching.

Coach put me in anyway.  He had given up on life.

I walked what had to be the first dozen batters.  My catcher Eddie, a highly skilled catcher from the Catholic school and a guy who would become a dear friend later in life, was doing wind sprints at the plate trying to corral my errant pitches.

Eddie was getting exasperated, and I was beginning to embarrass myself.

The silence from the small crowd was sometimes interspersed with groans and polite sighs, but coach let me continue.

Hell.  Why not?

Then, I started to get a rhythm.  Timing.  Accuracy.  I started punching out motherfuckers.

It was glorious!

I don't recall if we even won the game, but the Cubs had a bullpen now, and I remember George's reaction very well.  I don't think he was real happy at first, but it didn't take long for him to be gracious and accept the fact that he couldn't carry the team by himself.  

George was a good sport about it. I recall discussing this bit of history with him in high school.  He went on to be a very good player, earning a varsity letter in baseball and probably other sports.

I honed my craft.  I practiced with Dad.  He showed me how to toe the slab, wind up, hold the ball either with the stiches or against, and throw knuckle balls.

On my own, I taught myself how to throw side-armed like fucking Kent Tekulve.

It was epic!

I had found something I was actually good at.

The Cubs wound up having a good season.  I think we were runner-up to the champs, something I would not have expected at the beginning of the season.

The platoon of George and Zoomie was a juggernaut, and something I'll always remember and appreciate.  George was almost always the starter, which was fine with me.  He earned that spot.  I was the dependable, rock-solid closer and finisher if George needed help.  I relished my role.

The battery of Zoomie and Eddie was very effective also.  We meshed perfectly.

I even made it to the "All-Star" team that season, and during the All Star game performed a magical bit of base running on an error that resulted in my scoring the tying run that would lead to our eventual victory!  I also pitched an inning, where I caught a line-drive missile that was heading right for my face! I was a goddamn HERO that day.   Jesus H. Christ! Is this some kinda Disney script?

I looked forward to next year, where I would successfully try out for and make it into the Major League!

Things were looking up big time!

Or were they...?

So, I'm in the Majors now.  I'm a stone cold badass, and I know it.  I'm gonna show the world too.

The beginning of the season was a wet one.  It rained that season every day it seemed.  Multiple practices were cancelled, and I was beginning to wonder if the season would ever start.

It got so bad, I ended up waiting for a phone call from coach as to whether or not there'd be a practice day.

Coaches name was Mr. Crowe.  I hadn't formed much of an opinion on the man yet, because I hadn't seen much of him due to the bad weather.

Mr. Crowe may have had a communication problem, or, I got tired of waiting around to find out if we were having practice or not, so I found something else to do.

Maybe I missed a call. I don't know.

What I DO know is one day I called HIM, and asked when the next practice was.

His reply, "You don't need to worry about practice.  There won't be any practice for you."

I said, "Why is that?  Is the ball field still soggy?

He replied, "No.  You've missed too many practices.  You're off the team."

I was destroyed. What-the-actual-fuck?

I informed Dad of the situation.

I had absolutely no idea what happened next would transpire.

Seems Pops went to pay Mr. Crowe a little visit shortly thereafter.

I don't know if it was during a game or practice, but from the number of witnesses, it was probably during a game!

I have no idea what words were spoken.

All I know is words were exchanged, voices were raised, and it became physical.

Pushin', shoovin', punchin', wrasslin'...who the fuck knows.

Pops was a big guy...6'6" 2fiddy, Mr. Crowe was punchin' WAY above his weight class.

I don't know who won or lost.  I don't know if they had to be pulled apart.  I don't know if the police were called.  I know none of it.  I wasn't there, sadly!

The only thing I knew was that my promising baseball career was finished.

I would never play in an organized game again. 

I was proud, embarrassed, disappointed, and puzzled all at the same time.

Mr. Crowe had a son. I'll call him David.  He was a year younger than me, I didn't know him real well, and I recall him as being a decent fellow.

David and I discussed the incident briefly in high school, I think.  I recall the discussion as being good natured and humorous, "Your old man was nucking futs," he said.

Yes, I know.

Isn't it wonderful?