The Nonconformist
by Ken Cohen
Chapter 4
Precocious
As that first week of high school drifted by, Danny thought about his new friend, Ken the nonconformist. Danny thought him beautiful in more ways than one. But what could he do about it? He didn't dare act on it. Having some kind of sexual relationship with another boy would have broken every rule he'd been taught.
Staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, he tried smiling. Yes, that looks better, he thought, I should smile more. Then he looked at his body. He needed more exercise. He'd done long distance running and played soccer in Greece. He was still running a few days a week but felt he needed more.
One day at lunch he mentioned it to Ken.
"I was meaning to ask. I want to join the Y. You know, some kind of workout routine, and maybe play some basketball. Think you might want to join up and go with me? Take a bus there a couple times a week after school, and maybe on the weekend? And we can run on the streets around here when the weather's good."
"Sure. I was thinking of the same thing. I'll check with my dad."
So they joined the Y together and soon became regulars there.
Danny's English teacher Miss Evanston was young, sharp, confident, and also snarky, sarcastic and impatient.
She told the class, soon after school began, to read a book, any book they chose. They were to prepare book reports. Each would at some point in the next couple of months have to present the book report to the class. Danny read The Dam Busters, which he found among his mother's books. It was history, written shortly after the end of the war, about the British air attack on Germany's Ruhr dams in 1943.
One day Miss Evanston asked a girl named Michelle to read her book report. Michelle's was the first. She stood and began to read.
"The book I read is A Stone for Danny Fisher by Harold Robbins."
Miss Evanston's loud voice interrupted her. "Stop. What made you think it would be okay to do a book report on a piece of trash like that? The book you read is junk. Did you really expect I would let you get away with this?"
Michelle stood there, mouth half open but no words came out.
"What did you think about the conflict between Danny Fisher and his father? What did he want from his father?"
Michelle meekly replied, "Well, um, I think he wanted his father's approval, but he hated his father at the same time. His father was not a nice man. He was a failure. I guess Danny wanted to show him up by becoming a boxer and making more money than his father."
"Did you cry at the end?"
"Well, yes, it was hard not to. It was like Danny wasted his short life and his father didn't care."
"Did it seem like a tragedy to you?"
"Yes."
"Well it wasn't. It was melodrama. A common tear jerker. Cheap gutter fiction. You might just as well have read a Harlequin Romance. You're in high school now, Michelle, we expect better than that. Tragedies happen to tragic figures. Danny Fisher was not a tragic figure. He wasn't predestined to die young, he brought that upon himself. People become tragic figures when they are victims of larger forces beyond their control."
Danny wondered just who was giving this book report. Miss Evanston seemed awfully familiar with Harold Robbins and his novels.
The teacher ended it quickly. "Since you have nothing else to say, sit down."
Many of his classmates seemed shocked. Some talked about it after the class. What exactly did Michelle do wrong? Who is Harold Robbins? It turned out he was a writer of sleazy fiction.
Danny thought about it. It seemed unfair. She didn't restrict what they could read. And it wasn't as though Harold Robbins' books were banned, unlike certain books that actually were banned in the modern democracy called Canada. It's a free country unless you want to read what some prim and proper jerk up in Ottawa or a self-righteous high school teacher in Toronto has decided is immoral.
He went to a book store a few days later and found books by Harold Robbins. The one Michelle read claimed on the cover to be a best seller. So how bad could it be? Why did Miss Evanston decide without warning they couldn't read books like that? Why didn't she say so in the first place?
That was a couple weeks ago. Every day since then, one or two students gave their book reports and there were no repetitions of Miss Evanston's outburst. Meanwhile, Danny had an idea and prepared a second book report he would think about using instead of his original. After all, he had nothing to lose. He had no social life so he might as well have some fun. If she wanted to give him a detention, let her, he would do his homework if he had to stay after school or come in early.
One morning, he and his mother had words before he left for school, so he was already in a bad mood by the time he arrived. Then, at the start of English class, he had a premonition Miss Evanston would ask for his book report. He didn't understand how he knew, he just felt it. And he was in the mood for trouble. He just didn't care. The Dam Busters was ready to go. But he was annoyed with Miss Evanston. There seemed to be some hypocrisy going on with the teacher. He hated the idea of censorship. The way the teacher had rejected Michelle was just that.
So it finally became a matter of principle. What he was about to do, he believed, could demonstrate courage for once. Fairies don't do things like this. He was sure no other student in his school would have the guts to do it. He eyed Nick Carter as he leaned over to scratch his calf, his tight shirt creeping up the bottom of his back baring an inch of pale tight skin, he fantasized what he might see further down there…
"Daniel Stavros, we'll hear your book report now, please."
Her sharply etched voice startled him, he tore his eyes from their little feast. His accumulated anger and resentment ignited something in him. With his heart pounding and barely able to keep a straight face, he extracted the folder with the new book report, stood and began to read.
"The book I read is Fanny Hill, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, by John Cleland."
"Stop!" Miss Evanston screamed it at him. She was staring at him, red in the face, looking super angry. Or maybe blushing from embarrassment. It was all he could do not to smirk. I'm mocking her, he realized, and she deserves it.
When he returned from Greece, he brought home two paperback novels. They were not the kind that drugstores sell. One was called Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller. The second was Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, subtitled Fanny Hill, written in the 1700's by a British writer, John Cleland. He found used copies in an English language book store in Athens.
Both books were banned in Canada. He'd read about the controversial bans a year ago in a newspaper. The fact they were illegal motivated him to buy them, and "smuggle" them past the customs people. He felt contempt for the fact that Canada was a society with so-called high moral standards carefully guarded by the churches, police, and other supposedly respectable people. The authorities wouldn't allow what they considered filth into their country. But they were going to allow nuclear weapons to be stationed on Canadian soil.
He didn't know much about them beyond the fact they were illegal and would only cost him a dollar. That was good enough for him. He selected Fanny Hill for the book report because he'd read most of it. Tropic of Cancer was more difficult to read, he hadn't read much of it yet.
There was gasping and giggling when he read the title. He wasn't the only student aware of the book. He felt calm and in control. The teacher wanted him to stop but he wouldn't, it was too late to chicken out, so almost like in a dream he kept reading, throwing in ad lib comments here and there.
"Miss Evanston," he argued, "I know this book is considered pornography, because of course I read it. But you said we could read any book we chose. There were no restrictions." More giggles. The teacher stared at him. He would never forget it. No one would call him a fairy after this.
He quickly resumed reading: "This book is considered pornography because its main theme is to titillate its readers. Pornographic is different from erotic. In erotic fiction, the story has a well developed plot and characters, there may be humour and drama. It's not written to be just about sex, the erotic passages are there to add interest to the story. Whereas in a pornographic novel, sex is the whole story.
"But there's more to this novel than pornography. It's about a young woman in England during the 1700's, about 200 years ago. Society was divided into classes, and it was hard for people to rise above the class they were born into.
"If you were a child of the upper classes, you would be privileged for the rest of your life. Born into a middle class family, you would only have available to you the kind of education and financial prospects of a middle class family. Born into poverty like over 80% of the population, you could expect always to be poor. Born on a farm, the child of peasants, you would do backbreaking work for all of your short, harsh life. You'd never get an education or even learn to read or write.
"A poor woman trying to escape the drudgery imposed by her social class is a theme of the novel. Fanny Hill came from the lowest class of British society. If she didn't become a prostitute, her choices would be to live in poverty on a farm, or maybe, if she were lucky, spend her life working as someone's housekeeper. She would almost certainly never go to school.
"So she becomes a prostitute and meets a lot of new people, mostly men! (more giggles) And she makes pretty good money doing it. Over time she becomes a wealthy member of the middle class. It was a better fate than most of her impoverished peers could expect.
"The novel's main purpose is to describe sexual acts in great detail, but I think it has literary significance because it's the first known example of pornography published in modern English. Without getting specific, I also think Fanny Hill might have been written as a joke, some of it is very funny. I think the author was quite a smart, upper class individual. Also, there are no curse words in the novel. You might say it was all written with euphemisms, which are polite words substituted for the impolite real words. The language in this novel is clean from start to finish.
"It was the first example of a type of writing that is now showing up in our country, and at the rate things are going, in a few years you'll be able to buy any pornography you like here.
"People disagree about what pornography is. Ulysses, by James Joyce, was banned as pornography for a very long time and still is banned in Britain, but it's now recognized as an outstanding novel. And the British writer D.H. Laurence wrote a novel called Lady Chatterley's Lover which is also banned and yet has received praise as serious literature.
"So pornography in one age may be literary greatness in another age. What one person considers filthy or lewd or vile, other people see as art. It's what's known as a subjective question. There is no objective standard for art, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
"So there is a big difference between pornography and erotic fiction. Pornography might be regarded as junk. Erotic fiction could win a Nobel Prize. But which is which, where you draw the line, is for every person to decide for himself. It should not be left to censors to decide for us. And if you're worried about the minds of young people, let their parents decide what they can read. Thank you for listening to me, Miss Evanston."
It was over. He gave the handwritten report to the teacher and sat down, relieved it was over. He expected she'd send him to the office, but she didn't. Anyway, whew! What a mouthful that was, he thought, I'm glad I got it all out without her interrupting me a second time. Her side isn't the only side. Something Papou taught me: there are two sides to every story.
One student, Grayson Samuelson, gazed at him, mildly amused. Danny had challenged the English teacher's sense of propriety. Standing up to a teacher early in grade ten might seem to most students crazy and pointless. But Gray took note. He regarded this guy as out of the ordinary.
Miss Evanston was no fool. Anticipating that being sent to the office might make him a hero, she ignored him and requested a book report from someone else. Eventually the bell rang and the class ended. Miss Evanston told Danny and Michelle to remain behind. Michelle was smiling and winked at Danny.
The teacher turned to them. "I agree I didn't specify what you could or couldn't read. Danny, you made a good argument and gave an interesting talk. So I will give each of you a chance to read another book, a novel, that has literary merit. Each of you may do another book report on what you read. It's a second chance for both of you. But I will assign the reading."
She turned to a bookcase behind her desk, picked two books and handed one to each of them.
"These are my copies. I expect them to be returned in two weeks, when you both give your book reports. These novels are fairly short, but they're deep, and are considered difficult for the 10th grade level. I feel you're both intelligent enough to read and understand them. You should get started on them today, they're not trivial reading." She handed Danny A Separate Peace by John Knowles. Michelle was given A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce.
They were about to leave when she added, "Oh, and Danny, I think you'll make a good lawyer when you grow up." Then she walked out of the classroom.
Lawyer, Danny thought. Me? No thanks. No way.
Michelle placed a hand on his arm, leaned in, kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you, Danny. I realize we hardly know each other, but I would love to talk to you some time. You know, so we can get to know each other. What you just did for me is, well, I hate to use this word because of the way kids throw it around all the time, but it was amazing, it really was. I think you're really special."
"Thanks, um, I hated the way she talked to you when you tried to do your book report. I couldn't just let it go. What's the worst that could happen? If she wanted to send me to the office, fine. I'm no troublemaker but I hate censorship."
Well, that was something special, he thought, no girl ever kissed me before. Or flirted with me. Why would they? Michelle is nice, I've noticed a feeling of sadness around her, I guess we have that in common. It's real nice she kissed me but I didn't feel anything, not the way you're supposed to feel when a girl kisses you, even if it's just on the cheek. It does leave me feeling great in my heart, though. I don't get compliments very often, especially from girls.
The story of the Fanny Hill book report soon got around. Kids he knew congratulated him. Unlike most school gossip, it was talked about for months afterward, especially by people who knew him.
He didn't follow up with Michelle by asking her out. As pretty and smart as she was, he had no interest in her. He just wasn't attracted to her the way he was to some boys. What he felt was illegal, perverted, all that stuff, he knew it but couldn't help it.
Anyway, he believed any girl he approached would just see a horny unattractive teenage boy looking for sex, just like all the other teenage boys. Sex seemed completely out of bounds. They know we're thinking about it, he thought, so no girl would want to go out with me. And I'm not attracted to them, I'd have to fake it. Why waste my time or theirs? Well, maybe it would keep mom happy.
A few days later, his mother found Fanny Hill in his bedroom. She claimed she was house-cleaning. She must have searched his bedroom for some reason. The book was hidden behind the huge science encyclopedia she bought him a few years ago. She must have looked for a while to find it.
And she obviously read a bit of Fanny Hill after she found it because when he came home from school, she was at the front door waiting for him. She waved the book under his nose as he entered the house, yelling. "Look at what I found in your bedroom while I was cleaning this morning! This disgusting book is filled with the most repulsive language and revolting descriptions I have ever seen! What is the matter with you? When did you get it into your head it is acceptable to read garbage like this? And in your own home, too. What if Mary found this? I can't even begin to imagine how this filth would have affected her."
Huh? he thought. My sister is scared of her own shadow, she never comes in my bedroom unless I invite her. And what if she did find it? She'd love to read it.
"You are revolting," she said. "You've embarrassed and humiliated me. I've tried to teach you right from wrong, to raise you right, and this is what you give me in return? I should call the police, this book is illegal, I don't know how you even found it, it's not even supposed to be for sale in this country."
Embarrassed? he thought. Humiliated? No one else knows about it. None of your friends, not the neighbours.
She threw the book in the trash.
How does she have this power over me? he asked himself. Everything about sex is shameful to her.
There were two months left in grade 10, it was the spring of 1965, 20 years since World War II ended in Europe. In history class they read a chapter about the first years after the end of that terrible war. The chapter began by saying, "In the years after World War II, the Soviet Union became the main threat to peace. In the face of this menace, Britain, Canada, and the U.S. strengthened the solidarity of modern democracy."
Something about this troubled him. Modern democracy? Menace? Sure, he thought, the Soviet Union is an empire of peoples conquered by Russia, a terrible dictatorship ruled by fear in which millions of people have been murdered by paranoid dictators and their sycophants. And at the start of World War II the U.S.S.R. was basically a German ally after Stalin signed a secret treaty with Hitler in August of 1939.
But right now in 1965 in the United States, he thought, millions of Negroes can't use the same washrooms as white people or eat in the same restaurants or go to the same schools and hospitals. They and their ancestors have lived in slavery, misery and poverty for over 300 years. Sometimes the bodies of Negro men are found hanging in trees. Billie Holiday sang a song about that called Strange Fruit. It's not some minor social problem, it's a huge injustice enforced by fear at the heart of the free world. The way I see it, how can they call that democracy? They're still fighting the American Civil War down there.
And what about the British Empire? What gave Great Britain the right to conquer countries and peoples all over the world and tell those people living thousands of miles from Britain who their government should be and how to live their lives? Talk about a menace! And wasn't that how modern slavery got started in the first place, when British and European traders began kidnapping Africans and shipping them to Britain's North American colonies hundreds of years ago? And many of those same African countries are still colonies today in 1965. You call that democracy?
And why did they have to tell us about the oppression of the Soviet Union? Why is it the "main threat to peace"? The Russians didn't invent atom bombs. They aren't the one country that used them. Couldn't they just give us facts and let us decide for ourselves what the U.S.S.R. is like, and why? The Russians were our allies for six months before the Americans entered World War II, we fought the war on the same side, and a lot more fighting and killing took place in Russia and eastern Europe than in all the rest of Europe. They had at least 25 million military and civilian dead in the war, something like 30 or 40 times as many as the U.S., Britain and Canada combined. There wasn't much about that in that textbook. The Russians deserve a lot of the credit for winning the war.
He wouldn't let it go. For the last few years, since he became interested in politics and current events, he had read the newspaper almost every day. The Russians are as afraid of us as we are of them, he thought. I think reading all that stuff and seeing films about hydrogen bombs being tested is how my nuclear nightmares about World War III began.
He sometimes read the letters to the editor on the editorial pages of newspapers. He never actually thought of writing a letter like that, until now. But the way he saw it, that history textbook was pretty bad. So he decided to write a letter to the editor. He was only 15 so he didn't expect them to pay attention, but still, it would be fun to do.
He wrote out the letter, typed it up, found an envelope and a stamp, and mailed it the next morning on the way to school. At least someone will know about that crappy textbook, he thought. He wondered whether anyone would even read the letter.
A couple days later, coming home from the Y he was thinking, I don't have any friends. Well, Ken's a friend, we do stuff together. Maybe I should see if he wants to come to my house one day, he's just been here to pick me up or drop me off.
He wasn't home more than 20 minutes when his mother asked why he never had friends over. He didn't answer her. It must make her feel good about herself when she criticizes me, he thought. She hardly has any friends either. He looked at her so she knew he heard her and couldn't complain he was ignoring her. He didn't know why he had no friends.
He used to have a friend, Calvin, down the street, he recalled. Calvin was a self-confident American whose family moved here from New York a few years ago so their two sons wouldn't be drafted. His relationship with his mother seemed close and warm. There was something a bit girly about Calvin. He liked to dance to rock 'n' roll music with his mom or sister in their house with his friends there, and didn't seem to care what his friends might think of that. Danny vaguely sensed he might be a homosexual. That seemed like a terrible thing.
Danny said nothing to Calvin about it. He'd been troubled about his own sexual nature for a long time. Why did he think of Calvin as girly? Why even care? Why did he feel jealous of athletic boys? Why find them attractive instead of girls? He wondered about stuff like that, but it was all a secret, anyone he might tell would think he was a pervert.
Calvin's family moved the summer Danny went to Greece.
Robert lived near Calvin and was his friend since they were eight years old, but since Danny came home from Greece last year he hadn't seen much of Robert. For years they walked to school together every morning. On Saturdays Danny would sometimes be invited for lunch by Robert's mom. Robert once showed Danny a page from a Playboy magazine Robert found atop the garbage can of a neighbour, a man who lived alone in one of the houses in the next block. Danny was 11 at the time.
"Wow," he said to Robert, "look at how big they are!"
What he saw was a pair of naked breasts which struck him as ridiculous, absurd. Seeing them did not produce any sexual feelings in him. Why would anyone be interested in that, he wondered. It didn't help that the woman had a strange, wayward look on her face.
"I don't want to keep this any longer," said Robert. "I'm worried my mom might find it. Do you want it? I can sneak it out of the house for you."
Danny's initial reaction was to take it, if only to impress Robert. But then he thought of his own mother. "No thanks, I'll have the same problem."
Danny no longer stopped by Robert's house on the way to school, because Robert had trouble sleeping and was always running late. He told Danny he was taking nerve pills called Librium every morning because he got so nervous about school. He was an A student, Danny wondered what he was so nervous about?
Robert last year announced one day he was going to be a lawyer. Then he started arguing with everyone, like a lawyer would.
Danny remembered they once played golf at a par three course. Robert missed a putt by a couple inches, and tapped it in. He didn't count the tap-in as a shot. He claimed that as long as it was a tap-in, it didn't count. When Danny told him how ridiculous that was, that he could miss a putt but it would count as going in the hole because it was close, Robert laughed at him, argued, said something about the law not caring about trivial things, wouldn't accept the fact that Danny was obviously right and Robert was just a plain old-fashioned cheat.
Danny asked him about that stuff about the law and trivial things. Robert said his lawyer cousin told him about a Latin legal phrase, de minimis non curat lex. It means, 'the law doesn't care about trivial things.'
Then he told Danny a little limerick:
There once was a lawyer named Rex
who had very small organs of sex.
When charged with exposure
he said with composure
de minimis non curat lex!
Danny showed the limerick to his Latin teacher, who he suspected of sharing his sexual aberration. The teacher thought the limerick was funny.
One Saturday last fall a few weeks after they started high school, Danny called Robert.
"Hi, haven't seen you for a while. Not since I got back from Greece. You want to go to a movie or do something else this weekend?"
"Hi Danny. No, I have a date with a girl. I'm going out with girls now. I ain't no homo."
He said it scornfully, like a taunt. Danny felt like he had been punched in the gut. There was something in Robert's voice, like he enjoyed making Danny feel like a loser. That was the last time he phoned Robert. He thought about it. Had a date. Why the hell would anyone want to go out with a girl? You have to be all nice and polite and stuff like that. How can you have any fun with a girl? They don't know anything about stuff like sports, all they're interested in is talking on the phone and using makeup.
It hurt, he thought. Like he thinks I'm a homo. How would he know about that? When he told me he had a date, he didn't even suggest going out some other time or anything like that. I got the feeling he didn't want me as a friend any longer. Oh well, he's conceited. I'm not the only one who thinks Robert's a snob, other kids we used to hang around with on our street said the same thing. He thinks he's better than everyone else, always looking at himself in the mirror, combing his hair and making himself look pretty. His mom's always telling him how handsome he is. And he's at the barber every second or third week getting his hair cut to look perfect. Never a hair out of place.
Danny decided he needed a new barber. He should try Don's barbershop one of these days. He heard that Donny the barber is devoted to hair styling, knows everything about haircuts, a true professional. I don't know anything about hair except that I need my hair cut. Haircuts, Buzzcuts, Burrcuts, Crewcuts, to me they all mean the same thing: leave half an inch on top tapered down to a quarter inch at the bottom and sides. That's what I always get.
Barbara called him for dinner. Dad was home. He said "Hi dad!"
"Hi Danny, how are you doing today?"
"Okay."
Mmm, he thought, mom made roast beef, mashed potatoes and peas for dinner. He sit, picked up a fork and used it to try to cut the meat but it was kind of tough so he needed to use the knife as well. He started eating. Then his dad was saying, "Barbara, look at this."
He was pointing to something in the newspaper. Barbara looked. Dad was smiling. He folded up the newspaper, passed it to Danny and said to look at what he was reading.
Danny looked at it, and… couldn't believe his eyes. My letter, he thought, they actually printed my letter! I can't believe this! With my name. With a headline yet! 'Student says history textbook is biased.' He started reading. They printed the letter! Word for word what he wrote, they changed nothing. Unbelievable. And that was really fast, he just mailed the letter three days ago. It didn't seem real, it felt like a dream.
He read the letter from start to finish, then went back and read it again. He felt like celebrating but didn't say anything else. He couldn't look excited, wouldn't let them see how he felt. He didn't know why. He handed the newspaper back to his dad.
"I didn't expect them to print this."
He needed to sound cool. Mr. Cool, that's me, he thought. Yeah, right. Never show your feelings. You never know what they'll throw back at you if they see your feelings. Later I'll cut the letter out of the newspaper before they throw it away, and put it in my scrapbook with my photos, then hide it where mom can't find it. I don't want her to know I'm proud of it.
He kind of wished it weren't like that. But he didn't trust her. He couldn't help loving her, she was his mother, and she taught him a lot of stuff. But he couldn't let her see his feelings, because she would use them to hurt him.
He went back to eating dinner.
The next day, he had history first class of the day. Before everyone was seated, his teacher Miss Rigsby approached him and quietly said, "I saw your letter in the newspaper this morning. I'd like to take some credit for it, but I can't. You have this ability, this intellect, I've noticed a couple of flashes of it in the time you've been my student. I agree with your letter. I never thought about it until now. You're learning to think for yourself. You should consider becoming a lawyer. You have the right kind of mind for it. Let's go back in now."
Hearing kind words from a teacher he respected made a world of difference to him. It was rare to get any kind of praise. Most teachers didn't do much of that, maybe they didn't care. His parents rarely said things like that to him either, he mostly received criticism.
And she thinks I should be a lawyer? Again? Why do teachers think I should be a lawyer? It seems so dry to me, a profession like that.
He remembered his uncle's law office. His dad had taken him there a couple times. Uncle Lewis, his dad's brother-in-law, had been a lawyer since the 1930s. His practice lay along the edge of downtown on a well-worn road called Spadina. The wide venerable street was lined with sundry ancient storefronts, some topped by second and even third floors where lonely looking men sometimes stared from the windows.
Uncle Lewis' office above a small bank branch was up a dimly lit staircase on the second floor of an old two-storey building. Across the road was an old theatre where nearly naked women did striptease shows every night. Burlesque, it was called. He heard that the women, the strippers, had these little things on their titties to hide their nipples, and wore weird girly jockstraps to hide their other parts. Apparently it was sort of okay to show their bare bums, though.
Uncle Lewis' office was panelled with time-honoured oak, the floors were oak planks, the lighting incandescent yellow. It smelled like old wood and pipe tobacco. When Danny was there it was summer and hot. Except in winter, the windows were open most of the time; the city's chaotic noisy squalor drifted in.
Paper was piled everywhere. Stacks of yellowy files full of paper on floors, on the secretary's desk, on the grand old oak desk in his uncle's office. Dusty musty wood bookcases filled with books and more files. Filing cabinets filled with yet more files. The place was a fire hazard. But it had a good side, too: there was nothing minimalist or cold or gray about it. It felt as warm and lively as old Uncle Lewis.
And his crusty uncle sat inside in his office smoking his pipe, drinking coffee, talking on the phone all day, sometimes yelling into it, telling people what to do or else, threatening what would happen if they didn't. The man was fearless. On the door to his office was a frosted glass panel with the words "Mr. Booker" printed on it. Danny thought he kept a bottle of scotch whiskey in the cabinet behind the desk.
He wondered if Uncle Lewis ever sneaked across the street to the burlesque theatre. What would his aunt say about that? Danny figured he must go sometimes. He was kind of neat, a sly old guy who seemed to run half the world barking out orders on the phone from the big chair behind the large oak desk.
And it was Uncle Lewis who used to hold him in his lap and comfort him when he was a little boy, telling him softly not to worry, and how everything would be alright.
That summer of 1965, Danny ran for miles, often with Ken. He'd feel the ground with his feet through his Chucks, the air in his lungs, the sun on his face. He'd gained weight, mostly muscle, and even grew another inch. And he was shaving once a week.
He was at the Y or outside behind the high school with Ken and his school friend Mike regularly for pickup basketball or touch football with some of the other boys he had come to know in grade 10. They were also working out with weights. He'd known Mike a long time going back maybe to kindergarten.
Mike dazzled Danny. Physically, mentally, socially. The boy was confident, unassuming, friendly with everyone. He did well in his schoolwork and on the football field. Physically he was perfect, gifted with a slim, strong body and a sunny smile.
One day in the middle of July, Danny was with a group playing touch football, six on six, at the football field behind King High. Danny, Ken and Mike were on one of the teams. Mike was their quarterback. He was throwing Danny one pass after another. Danny learned quickly. He and Mike were becoming a good pairing.
While they played, a man watched from the sidelines. After about twenty minutes, he approached.
"Hi there. Do you by chance go to school here?"
Danny, standing next to Mike, immediately thought they weren't allowed to be there and were about to be told to leave. But Mike never hesitated. "Yes, I'm Mike, I'm starting grade 11."
"Hi, Mike. Have you ever played organized football?"
"I was on the school's freshman team last year."
"How did the team do?"
"We won one game. To be honest, our coach wasn't very good. I think we had some good players but the team just wasn't organized very well. We only had a few different plays to run but couldn't even run those very well. We only practised twice a week. I honestly don't think he cared very much, I thought we could've done better."
Some of the other boys had gathered around and were listening. The man continued, "I'm Bob Taylor. I'm the school's new head of phys-ed. I'll be starting here this fall and will coach the varsity team. I'm hoping we can do a much better job of things this year. What position did you play on the freshman team?"
"I was the quarterback."
Then he looked at Danny. "And how about you?"
"I've never played organized football, sir. Only touch."
"Well you look pretty good to me. The two of you play well together. I don't know where you learned, Danny, but you play as though you've had some experience.
"If you're interested, we'll be starting practices for the varsity team beginning the second last Monday in August, that's about four weeks from now. This goes for all of you. I know it'll be two weeks before school starts, so this will be strictly voluntary. If you want to come and know anyone else who might be interested, have them come, too. The only qualification is that you be a registered student at King High. If nothing else, it will give me a chance to get to know some of you.
"We'll work out every weekday for 90 minutes starting next Monday at 4 p.m. I anticipate 20 minutes of stretching and running as a warmup, 40 minutes of learning and practice time, and a 30 minute touch game to finish each day."
"Thanks, Mr. Taylor, I'll be there," Mike said.
"Me too," said Danny.
The teacher said, "I have to go soon, so keep playing if you like. Hopefully I'll see some of you next week." He walked back to the sideline.
After they were finished, Danny and Ken started walking home together. "Are you going to try out for the football team?" asked Danny.
"I don't think so. I like touch football, but tackle is a whole different story. I think I want to concentrate on this self-defence course I've signed up for at the Y that starts around the time school begins."
"I remember you telling me you were looking into that. It's something I wouldn't mind trying as well at some point, but one thing at a time, I guess. I would really like to play competitive football if I'm good enough. I doubt I'll make the team, but I'll give it a shot."
In the middle of August, at the first practice, Danny had no trouble staying near the front of the pack as they ran laps with the new coach. Next, they sat in a two-deep circle around the coach while he talked for a short time. They finished up with an hour-long serious game of two-hand touch which the coach watched carefully while taking notes and offering suggestions.
As the two weeks passed before grade 11 began, they started working on actual offensive plays and specific defences for different situations. Danny was there every day.
September came. Barbara baked a three layer chocolate cake for Danny's 16th birthday, as she did every year. She was one expert baker, everyone loved all the fancy desserts she came up with. She could even bake bread. Birthdays were always a chance for her to show off her skills. His parents and Mary sang happy birthday to him. He got a couple nice gifts.
The first day of school fell on his birthday! Grade 11. Happy birthday, young man, and welcome back to King High.
He had to hurry, it was the second day back, mustn't be late. And walking to school with Ken, he had fantasies. Daydreaming about kissing a boy. He was allowed to dream.
He ended up with Miss Evanston for English again. Second year straight. Ugh!
Football practice would be every day after school. So that day he was in the change room after school for the first practice. All the guys who showed up in August were there along with some new faces. Mr. Taylor and a couple of grade 13 guys were measuring everyone and handing out helmets, pads and uniforms.
Most of those trying out were grade 12 and 13 boys. All Danny had ever played until now was touch football with his friends. But the coach seemed to think he would do okay. He'd been playing touch all summer with Mike and their friends, and could outrun most of the defenders, maybe because he'd been running so much for the last year. When Mike wasn't quarterbacking, Danny usually sometimes outran the quarterback's arm as well.
More than 50 guys showed up for the tryouts. Danny had never played football wearing full equipment. He felt weighed down and constricted. The older guys told him he'd get used to it.
Except for the helmet. It couldn't weigh him down because he couldn't put it on. The largest size helmet they had, an extra-large, was too small for his head. The coach tried a second one. "Not a chance, there is no way this will go on your head. I've never seen anything like it. Hang on, I'll get a tape measure."
He measured. Danny had a size 8-⅜ head. The extra large helmet the school had was 7-¾. Mr. Taylor just shook his head. "Danny, I'm 35 years old and I've played plenty of football. I've never seen a head this big. How your poor mom delivered you, only God knows for sure."
"She didn't, sir. She told me they cut her open to take me out, my head was too big."
So Danny went through the practice without a helmet. They didn't do contact work that first day anyway. That would begin the next day.
Mike of course was also trying out. He had quarterbacked the freshman team last year. He'd been after Danny to try out for the team this year. They'd been together in school all the way back to grade one, so Danny knew him pretty well though they were never close friends. They might end up playing together if Danny could make the team.
After the practice, Danny was standing in the dressing room, naked after a shower, twirling the combination lock on his locker, when Coach Taylor came up to him and said, "Danny, I'd like to see you for a few minutes as soon as you're dressed."
Mike was changing next to him. Danny looked at Mike, Mike looked at Danny with one eyebrow tilted quizzically as though to say, what's going on? Danny shrugged.
"Let me guess," says Mike, "you can't be on the team because they don't have a helmet for you."
"That's what I'm afraid of. Oh well," he said with a grin, "I probably wouldn't have made the team anyway. How's that for a rationalization?"
So Danny dressed, and Mike said he'd wait. Danny walked to the coach's office across from the locker room. The door was open so he walked in.
"Hi Danny, have a seat. I made a couple of phone calls, got lucky and found the right person to talk to. There's a company in Montreal that makes the football helmets our board of education buys. They can process a special order for your helmet size. I was told they don't stock helmets that large because there's very little demand for them, but it's no problem to make one your size. He said I'll have it here within a week.
"I'll believe that when I see it, but anyway, before I give him the order, I need to know whether you really want to play football this season. If you make the team, will you quit on me at some point? Or can I rely on you? I don't want to spend money on this only to find out you changed your mind and won't play. It's not likely any player in the future will have a head big enough to need a helmet that size. "
"Yes sir, I want to play. I really do want to play. I love playing football with my friends. I'm tired after today but won't quit. I think I'm in pretty good shape. I made it through today and I'll be here tomorrow. Not like those guys that walked out in the middle today. I want to stick it out and make the team."
"Okay. We'll put through the order tomorrow. It will take probably two weeks to get the helmet but in the meantime you'll do everything except contact work. I'll see you at the practice tomorrow."
What a workout it was. Wind sprints with full pads, he wasn't expecting that.
He was exhausted and in some pain by the end.
The coach said to keep coming to the practices even without the helmet, they would practise every day, and in a couple of weeks the coach would post the roster for the varsity team.
He told his mom he expected to be very hungry for dinner. There'll be no leftovers tonight, he thought. Barbara told him to take two aspirin before he went to sleep, that it would help with the muscle aches.
She was right about the aspirin. He awoke the next morning and looked at the clock, it was after eight, he had slept ten hours. His muscles were sore but he felt better, his energy was back.
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