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| | ������� �������� Harold Connolly |
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| ������� �� ����������� ������� The Journey for Olympic Gold ����� 19 |
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Chapter Nineteen Saturday night with the July, Bostonian humidity hanging like a stagnant wet pall over the city, Steve and I went up to our friend Oscar�s Asgeirsson�s house for dinner. Though he was a year behind us, we got to know Oscar at Taft Junior High School. He also came up to Ringer�s Playground and for a younger kid he could kick a football and hit a baseball pretty well. After Steve and I went on to Brighton High School and I began to put the shot, we practiced in the park where Oscar learned the shot technique. He later became a top shot-putter at English High School. Oscar, whose name was an Americanization of his real first name Asgeir, had straw colored hair, which fell in perfectly straight streams on his face, was the tallest of the three of us, at six feet two, and at 190 pounds weighed about ten pounds less than I did. Having inherited the taciturnity of his Icelandic ancestry, �Osk� never spoke much until he was sure he had something worthwhile to say. The three of us palled around together and frequently were in each other�s homes. After graduating from high school, Steve worked at the Sears and Roebuck warehouse; Oscar had finished his senior year at English High and had a summer job as a dye mixer in a ballpoint ink factory; and I had completed my freshman year at Boston College. Complements of my uncle, Senator Jim, I was working summers for a state traffic engineer surveying roads and counting cars around the state, but on weekends the three of us frequently hung out together. However, things were to change. Oscar had been accepted to the freshman class at Boston College, he was coming out for track to join me in putting the shot, and in five days Steve was off to begin Marine Corps basic training in South Carolina. His surprise enlistment for the Korean War, which had begun only five months earlier, and his imminent departure occasioned Oscar's mother's invitation to dinner, an evening I always enjoyed at Oscar�s house. No one could match Mrs. Asgeirsson�s halibut dinners. She and her husband immigrated to the United States before Oscar was born, and after five years they managed to buy a small red brick house in a pleasant neighborhood. Their goal was to see that their only child received a college education. Oscar had never visited his parents� native land but often talked about the trip. �Some day when I�ve saved the money, I�ll make a trip to Iceland. I�ve got plenty of relatives to stay with. I could even get a job with my uncle who owns a fishing business or with my other uncle who�s the President.� �He�s what?� I inquired, surprised. �The President.� Oscar responded. �President of what?� I asked. �Iceland.� �You�re kidding.� �No, you can check at the library. His name and mine are the same: Asgeir Asgeirsson. Actually, that�s why my parents won�t go back to visit. Sometimes they seem to be real homesick, but they don�t want people to think that they came back only because my dad�s brother became the President.� �Then why do you have to save money for the trip? Why doesn�t your uncle send down a plane for you or something? Or why doesn�t he make your father an ambassador or give him a job at the UN? Your dad wouldn�t need to be gone to sea all the time.� �You don�t understand. My father has always been a fisherman, and that�s what he wants to do. His brother happens to be the President, that�s all. It�s a very small country and everyone knows everyone else.� For our last Saturday together before Steve's departure, we decided to go to the L Street Bath House in South Boston, where we went frequently because of it's great beach. Unfortunately it was an uncharacteristically chilly day for July, not a particularly good day for the beach, very few others around, and the tide was nearly all the way out. Oscar had brought his camera, and we goofed around taking photographs of each other posing like body builders with the new muscles we were acquiring from our weightlifting. �Come on let's hit the beach before the tide goes all the way out,� I called over my shoulder, starting for the surf as Oscar shot Steve's final pose. After a long run toward the deeper water I stopped at knee depth and looked back to see Oscar approaching with Steve in close pursuit. "Let's go deeper,� Oscar said and started to walk ahead of me. "You go ahead. I'll wait for Steve. We'll follow you,� I responded looking back for Steve who was shivering as he slowly approached. By the time he reached me, Oscar was about 20 yards ahead starting to stagger from left the right strangely. � Now what's he up to,� Steve said looking at me with both of us thinking it was some kind of a joke. When it continued and began to look surrealistically real, we ran closer. � I, I can't control myself,� Oscar said as we came up to him and saw a pallor of fear and confusion across his face. Attempting to take some steps, he fell over face first into the water. We quickly grabbed him and lifted him to his feet. He attempted to walk, but his legs were twitching spasmodically; he couldn't control their movement. � I can't control myself,� he repeated. � I don't know what's happening,� he said as we dragged him to the shore, holding him up with his arms draped across our shoulders. Because he was unable to stand under his own power, we set him down on the sand. I put our three towels over him. Now we were all afraid. Steve sprinted up to the bathhouse to get help and something more to put over Oscar to keep him warm. Our clothes were in the bathhouse lockers. The manager of the bathhouse called an ambulance from the nearby Carney Hospital. When they said we couldn't go with him in the ambulance, I gave the attendants Oscar's clothes, name address and home telephone number, but kept his wallet and wrist watch. It was a stunningly shocking and frightening feeling seeing them take Oscar away in an ambulance. We were at the hospital that night with Oscar's mother. Oscar was in a coma; he had had a cerebral hemorrhage. At the Union Station it was hard seeing Steve off to Paris Island. There were about 60 new Marine recruits lined up at attention as three uniformed sergeants loaded them on two train cars. Carrying his little suitcase, Steve boarded the train in his rumpled, white, short-sleeved sport shirt and khaki pants. He appeared apprehensive, though he was trying his best to hide it, and somewhat lost, like a bird venturing from the nest for the first time. There were no tears or sentimental words, but for six years we had always done most things together, and few days ever passed without us checking with one another. It was strange Oscar not being there, and the three of us hadn't brought it up, but we knew that Steve had never been out of Massachusetts, and he was going it alone after a unilateral decision that confounded both Oscar and me because we couldn't imagine Steve in the toughest of the armed services. Oscar and I were on a college path Steve that was not equipped for, but he must have decided he had to do something significant for his future, perhaps something that would impress us. But we knew that Steve was a gentle, sensitive artist. We always figured him for art school, but certainly not the Marines. The day after Steve left, Oscar had surgery to remove the pressure on his brain; but his left side was paralyzed, and he was on the critical list. It was three months before he could take a step; he lost 45 pounds; his enrollment in Boston College was postponed; and he would never put the shot again. For the remainder of that summer I got a new state job as a paper picker, ironically on the South Boston beaches. For sixty dollars a week I walked through the sand along my prescribed route weaving around and about sun bathers, children's sandcastles, and family picnics with my trusty, long, needle-pointed stick, harpooning papers, drinking cups, apple cores, beer cans and cigarette butts. Every time the needle got jammed, I cleaned it into the shapeless sack over my shoulder. As I zigzagged down the beach I emptied the bag into large metal barrels spotted along the way. One morning after covering about a quarter of my territory, I heard someone call my name. I turned to see Matt Boyle, a teammate from the Boston College track team, carrying a large picnic basket and a beach umbrella, plodding his way through the sand, closely followed by a woman and two girls, all carrying blankets and towels. I waved to him, but Matt kept shouting, �Harold! Hey, Harold!� I reluctantly walked in their direction. Matt dropped his cargo. �Let me introduce you. Hal, this is my mother, and my little sister Georgiana, and my big sister Virginia. �I�ve told them all about you.� Matt�s mother, a striking woman with long dark hair streaked with gray, and his little sister, who looked about thirteen, smiled from beaming, bright faces and nodded polite helloes. His older sister asked, �How do you like working on the beach?� And I, in the presence of the most radiant face I had ever gazed upon, was completely tongue tied. In a muted, halting tone, I barely mumble, �Er, ahh, just fine.� I stared at her milky-white complexion, framed by tumbling, shoulder length, dark brown hair, and her eyes, upon which I was completely transfixed, not only because of their sparkling, direct intensity, but also because one was clearly blue and the other brown. From our eyes leveled on each other's, as she stood before me in her proper dark one-piece bathing suit, that in no way diminished her stunning figure, I estimated that she was just about my height �Matt has mentioned your name a few times before,� Virginia continued in a talkative mood, while the rest of her family was setting up their picnic. I wondered if she sensed my awkward discomfort and was trying to put me at ease. �Would you like a drink of lemonade?� she asked. Suddenly I was aware of standing there in dusty chino shorts without a shirt. Fortunately holding the big, unsightly, tar stained, canvas bag marked with black letters �THE PROPERTY OF THE CITY OF BOSTON� draped over my left shoulder made the different size of my left arm less apparent. Though I was learning to tolerate bearing my left arm to strangers, I was very uneasy before this girl. �No thanks. I�m sorry, but I have to get back on the job. The boss will be coming by any minute, and he doesn�t like to see his pickers talking,� I explained, said goodbye and resumed moving down the beach. A week later I met Matt at a summer track meet where we were both competing. He invited me to his girlfriend�s birthday party. �You�ve met Lois, I�m sure. She and her family live in a small apartment, so the party will be at my house Sunday night at seven. Try to come, really. Ginny said she�d like to see you again.� Those words sent me soaring, because I hadn�t been able to stop thinking about her. The following Sunday, embarrassed because it had taken me so long to get there, I arrived at 8:25 and rang the bell of the old-fashioned, asphalt shingled, two story house. Matt opened the door: �Hey, Harold. I was beginning to give up on you. It�s great you made it. Everybody�s having a swell time. Let me introduce you to some people you might not know.� Matt introduced me to about a half a dozen guests; some of whom I recognized from the Boston College campus, before he steered me towards his sister surrounded by four of his college classmates. �And here�s Ginny; you know each other. I�ll leave you with her. Sis, would you show Harold around? Lois and I have had only one dance together all night -- see you a little later.� He quickly rejoined the others. I knew I should say something, but Virginia�s radiance and those eyes again blocked my efforts to speak. She was wearing a close fitting black satin dress, a single strand of delicate pearls, and heels, which made her even taller than I remembered from the beach. The subtle changes only added to her natural beauty. Just as the silence grew painful, Virginia saved the situation. �Matt didn�t think you�d be coming when you weren�t here by eight. Did you have difficulties finding our home?� Her question loosened my tongue �No, that was no problem. It�s just that I don�t have a car and getting here by streetcar and bus took much longer than I expected. I guess I�ll have to buy a car soon - taking buses everywhere seems to take forever and I�m always late.� Someone called Virginia and she excused herself to go change the records on her phonograph. One of the boys started to talk to me about sports and the others drifted away. I was disappointed Virginia left and fell into an obviously mutually disinterested conversation. After a few strained minutes, the guy asked if I was interested in a bite to eat. I told him I had eaten at home; he shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Not quite knowing what to do next, I remained standing off by myself from the main group at the crowded party and began to regret having come after all, when Virginia turned up again. �Why aren�t you dancing?� she asked. �I�m not much of a dancer, that�s all.� I dreaded having to ask her. �Back in high school, in my sophomore year, we had a coed PE unit where they taught us some foxtrots and waltzes.� �Oh, that must have been fun.� �For some maybe but - as a matter of fact, I always used to lag behind hoping the boys would outnumber the girls. Luckily for most of the lessons, I was right, but sometimes the teacher noticed me and pushed me towards a girl.� �Imagine to have to be pushed towards a girl-what a torture!� Virginia was laughing. �You�re too shy. I�d really like to find out how good a dancer you are.� I could never tell her how torturous dancing truly was for me, but she had me cornered. I asked her to dance; and while she started towards the middle of the floor, I fought the recollections of the embarrassments of the high school dancing classes. Every time the teacher prodded me to go over to a girl and ask her to dance, I flashed red. Then after she agreed, which they were required to do, I avoided looking directly at her face and concentrated on the Herculean effort or raising my left arm up sideways, groping for her fingertips with my half-closed, left hand as I reluctantly placed my right hand above her left hip. She, however, had to be the one who finally took my limp hand into hers; and I became very much aware that she knew and either felt repulsed or sorry for me. That burning, humiliating, awkward situation became even more unbearable because of the strain to my shoulder, caused by the unfamiliar position of my arm, but I could never let her know how uncomfortable I felt. I never told my teachers about my predicament and never asked to be excused from the dance course. I did not want to run away from it. I felt if I started to run from problems, I might find running easy, and I would end up ducking everything. Besides, there was the other boy in our class whose right hand was practically a stump. I heard he had lost his fingers under an electric saw, but I never spoke to him. When we exchanged glances I wondered what he thought, and I tried to estimate how many times a day he suffered even greater anguish - certainly every time someone extended the greeting of shaking hands. He had not excused himself from dancing and I wouldn�t either. Virginia waited slightly piqued by my monetary hesitation lagging behind her as we headed for the dance floor. I knew very well, as she did also, that it was the man's polite role to take his partner�s hand and lead her onto the dance floor. Though my heart was racing with excitement that she wanted to dance with me, I was momentarily petrified with fear that once she realized the scope of my handicap this unattainable beauty would withdraw from my life as rapidly as she had appeared. She reached back for my right hand, and with a little tug I was up beside her. As we turned to face each other, I hurriedly wiped my hands on my jacket so they wouldn�t feel clammy, and somehow my left hand gently found its way into her slender, soft right hand. �O.k. Let�s give it a try,� she said leading me through the first few steps before I regained some composure and took the lead on a few steps myself. She seemed to enjoy teaching me; and as I relaxed and got more into it, I was never happier. When I returned home from the Boyles' house, I was in love. I wanted to ask Virginia for a date; but I was too afraid of rejection to call her. She may just have been playing the perfect hostess. Certainly she must have had a steady boyfriend; I had to find out. I thought I�d first get a sense of my chances from her brother. The following week in class I asked, �Matt, what do you think, would Virginia even consider going out with me to the movies?� �Sure she would,� said Matt, �at least I think so.� With Matt�s reassurances, I mustered up the courage to call Virginia. From that first date we began to see each other regularly. Coming home one night late after our fourth date, I found my mother still awake, which was not unusual. I tried to be quiet so as not to awaken my sister asleep in the living room, and I crept into mother�s bedroom, where she was reading in bed, to say goodnight. After seeing Virginia a couple of times, I had told my mother a little about her. She knew about my first real girlfriend, and asked, �Did you have a good time?� She must have seen it in my expression. I couldn�t resist saying, �Mom, I�ve met the girl I�m going to marry.� For a moment she looked at me over the top of her book, and then replied, �Harold, I don�t think so.� Hurt, by what I then perceived as her total lack of understanding, I said, �Good night,� and went to bed. To get from Commonwealth Avenue to Dorchester, I had to take a streetcar, a subway train and a bus. By bus and subway, Virginia and I rode from her home to down town, and after the movie the same route back. After our dates, I returned home to Commonwealth Avenue by bus, a train and the streetcar. Taking out Virginia for two dates a week meant bouncing through 20 different public transportation vehicles. My attention became increasingly directed toward used car lots. Steve�s friend Paul Bruder, a motorcycle and hot rod racer, gave me free of charge, two-weeks of driving lessons, and through the mercy of St. Christopher I passed the driver�s license test. With the temporary driving slip in hand, I took an evening out for a bus trip over to Uncle Jim�s. He knew every used car dealer in Somerville and Cambridge. If anyone could help me get a car, it was Uncle Jim. I had finished my second year at Boston College, had scored some points for the track team in the shot put and discus, and was still striving to find out how much of an athlete I could be. I had no idea what profession I might follow after graduation, but in the back of my mind I remembered my high school English teacher's remark to my mother that she believed I would make a fine teacher. A series of rapidly unfolding, life altering occurrences was sweeping me along: my sister had received a full Scholarship to Emmanuel College, a women's Catholic University in Boston; my father was permanently hospitalized in the Northampton Veterans Hospital; I hadn't yet proved to myself that I was worthy of being called an athlete; I had fallen in love and was thinking about marriage, but first and foremost I needed a car. Copyright � 1999-2002 Harold Connolly www.pseudology.org |