True Confessions

I nearly died when I was born. My parents took me back to the hospital where I was treated for a problem that persists even now. From this auspicious beginning, my life evolved like others born in the working class of a boomtown thoroughly dedicated to the automobile. I now know that had I been cursed with lesser parents, I’d of died not soon after the doctor’s reddened my tender ass and brought the first yell of defiance.

I was a mischievous child, shackled by poor vision but liberated by an imagination that filled in, willy-nilly, all of haziness and emptiness my challenged soul encountered. Making matters worse, I was cursed with a perpetual frown. Often parents and siblings thought me morose, resentful or just not with it because my straining to see what others took for granted caused a studied frown to mar my otherwise good looks. I grew tired and resentful of having to respond to questions of my well being that I had no reason to anticipate.

Further complicating existence, my lactose intolerance and overly sensitive digestive system caused me to reject my mother’s milk. I had to be nourished in inventive ways as factory generated formulas for babies had not yet graced the earth, at least not the working class areas.

Love may not conquer all but it can save lives. My parents may not have understood my challenges but they worked toward their resolution and never, to my knowledge at least, thought of anything other than ways to make certain that I could survive; no, more: succeed.

The most remarkable moment that I recall from my childhood was the day I was fitted with glasses. Everything that I had imagined became brightly magical. When we left the optometrist office, I nearly fell down gauging the meager distance between the curb and the street. I was reborn at that moment among the fully sighted. It was amazing. Unlike my less challenged cohort, I never once thought of destroying this magic the optometrist had placed on the bridge of my nose. I was free! I was free!

The next defining moment was realized on the pitcher’s mound. My father was a great athlete. I know, I know. You may think this is some kind of delayed hero worship expressed in paternal terms. But his friends confirmed this assessment. They told me that he was denied an opportunity to play in the major leagues because he was a Black man. I can still smell the ash bats, the oil in the glove. I can still see him and a few of his friends sitting around the kitchen table preparing their tools for another baseball game. He told me later that he decided not to play in the Negro Leagues because it would have taken him away from his family and knowing the mettle of the man,I know that he spoke the truth.

Football gave me all I needed. I played from the fifth grade through my sophomore year in college. Fortunately, I won a four year scholarship to Michigan State University where we won two national championships.

But football was a great deal more than that to me. It defined me in good and bad ways. I won’t bore you with the details of my shenanigans but I do want to share with you how this has influenced my writing.

My writing is direct as a linebacker sizing up a running back. Waiting for the moment when I might smash him into the ground and look him in his eyes as if to say: do not come my way again unless you want more pain. I gave people pain freely. My success at violence on the gridiron defined me in more ways than I could have imagined.

I was small for the job that made it even more satisfying.

Now my writing is direct, often unadorned. I enjoy the intellectual musings of John Walter, the elegance of Ed Nudelman, the mystical allure of Minnie, and the spiritual maturity of Amy but I am none of these. Sure, I’ve read many books, studied various languages but all with the agility and forcefulness of a linebacker. It won’t leave me. I am direct and I can be brutally so.

When Ed commented about some of my work being gut wrenching, I had to stand back and look to see what he meant. It’s the linebacker in me; it’s the poorly sighted child finding his way; it’s a writer hoping to connect to something directly without the comforting glow of a studied reflection. That’s all folks. The next time I blitz or red dog, forgive my abruptness of tone but it has served me well and probably saved my life, such that it is.