For
those of you who don’t know me, I thought this would be a great introduction. Thanks
to all for your support. The Samaritan’s
Pistol will be released in a little over a year.
GO FORTH AND KICK ASS
By Eric Bishop
My daughter steals the soccer ball.
The opposing defender chases, stabbing with her feet, but she’s overpowered. A
lane opens only my daughter sees. She kicks. The ball scoots through a forest
of uniforms to her teammate’s feet. Another pass to Mountain Crest’s forward
who stands alone facing the keeper. The net whiffs back. The girls jump in
celebration, their arms skyward.
Am
I really this old? Age wrinkles on my
knuckles prove it. Skin that used to be supple now needs daily lotion. I ache
at the end of workouts. Recovery time grows with the years as does my ibuprofen
bill. Good thing my iron gut isn’t bothered by the daily dose of vitamin I. Glucosamine
and chondroitin help, but not today. The echoing aluminum structure covered the
sound of my crackling cartilage as I walked up the bleachers. My seat is above
the tunnel I once ran through on my way to a brand new field.
I was there the day Mountain Crest
opened to students in 1983; shiny new bricks and tile, varnish on the woodwork,
fresh carpet glue in the air so strong it gave us headaches. Unscratched
lockers lined the hallways. Our new shrink-to-fit 501 jeans had more wear than
the building because we had to soften them with a half dozen wash and dry
cycles to get them on or have the crotch buttons work.
I ran through the bleacher tunnel
that first day; helmet in hand after school to football practice. During drills
the mouth-guards forced the air through our noses and with it came whiffs of
freshly mowed grass mixed with the dairy to the north. Whenever we could, the
mouth-guards dangled like pendulums from our facemasks.
“Bonneville High on Thursday!” the
coaches shouted. “Will the first game on this field be a win?”
A few days later, we played. A
junior varsity contest and I was the starting right guard. My teammates red
faces not to mention our fresh scrapes and bruises proved how hard we worked.
We still lost. The coaches berated us first and built us up second. It didn’t
matter then and still doesn’t now. Collisions, violence and chaos, I miss
football.
Has
it been twenty-nine years? Big hair on girls and mullets on boys. Miami
Vice’s bright colors and Don Johnson inspired white jackets over pastel t-shirts.
What was
in the air the night Phil Collins wrote that song? The drum solo at the end
still gives me chills just thinking about it. At least our drugs came from the
ground back then, not brewed in a mad scientist’s laboratory.
Cocaine didn’t stay in Florida. A
contractor I worked for in the summer used to have one of the workers drive him
from the job-site each afternoon.
“Take a break, Eric,” he’d say to me
once a week on my day to chauffer the boss. He’d pile his briefcase and duffle
in the hatch of my Pinto before stopping for a Big Gulp at Seven-Eleven—his
treat. Thirty-two ounces of ice and carbonated caffeine’s not so big by today’s
standards. We’d spend the afternoon going place to place. I’d sit in the car
and he’d run in.
“Checking on a potential Job,” he’d
tell me. The stops took most of the afternoon, and it was better than working.
A few years later the contractor was arrested and the Polaroid developed. Our
unfamiliar vehicles were a shell game for the cops.
Eddie Murphy’s F-bombs made us laugh.
He was destined to be Donkey in Shrek. Bill Cosby was funnier and he rarely
swore.
The sun burned us because the ozone
layer was depleted. The scientific community was united. “Fluorocarbons from
hairspray,” they said, “creates holes in the atmosphere to the north and south.”
The seeds of destruction sewn without
our knowledge as women teased their hair higher. Then someone invented hair gel
and saved the world. Or was it Kelly McGillis wearing her hair down and single
handedly changing the style in Top Gun?
Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw scared us
each night, telling us how the world would implode. Daily words of anger flew
across the oceans forecasting nuclear holocaust. Hollywood bought in and so did the teenagers,
who flocked to the see Arnold as The Terminator.
My
folks had a cement room in their basement. Sandbags could be put in the window
wells the moment the splitting atom turned the cold war hot.
Then a cowboy stood on a wall. He
wore a suit and tie but we all knew he was a cowboy. He stood alone, staring
down the enemy.
“Tear it down,” he insisted and the
world blinked.
Perhaps a week earlier the Gods
convened a counsel.
“The little pieces of energy we gave
them as reality— they’ve learned to break them apart,” one of them said. Was
the cowboy or Mr. Gorbachev listening? Maybe both.
The airwaves brought rock to our
ears. Sammy Hagar couldn’t drive fifty-five and neither could the nation. And
cocaine was the coping mechanism for all of it.
I tasted my first beer in the
eighties and my second and third. A dairy farmer named Oscar taught me how to
cuss while working my teenage ass into the ground. Four days off in eighteen
months.
I repented and had a religious
experience for two years and six days, but I wasn’t counting. Western
Pennsylvania took me in. The rustbelt cities next to slow moving rivers with
tug-boat pushed barges brimming with coal. Occasionally people believed us and
got baptized. An eight-hundred page book changed my life. Which book? My book
is my book. Find your own. It wasn’t the words. It was the elevation of spirit
it gave me for one moment at a specific part. It made the two years and six days’
worth every second. For some, it’s the best two years in life. Me?
Shit.
I should have that fourth beer and
then repent again. Maybe I’ll just work hard like Oscar did and swear all I
want. Near the end of his life Oscar came to church a few times. One Sunday the
speaker told of a man who lived a profanity free life.
“Bet that bastard never owned a hay
baler let alone a dairy,” Oscar said.
I met my All American skier wife at
Mount Hood a few days after returning from Pennsylvania. Cute, curvy, healthy,
a decorated athlete and she wanted to ride up the lift with me. Her blue eyes
beneath the goggles, her heart shaped lips above the palmer glacier in August
of 1988. That same night Vice President Bush told us to “read his lips.” He
wasn’t the cowboy.
Damn shame.
Janilee sat next to me on the ride
home. She was better than me, better than rock and roll, better than skiing or a
month of rock concerts, even better than football or any religion.
We had four daughters. The third is
playing wing today on the turf at my old high school.
What’s turf all about? When did they
replace the grass? Does it hurt when a player takes a digger? I’ll ask my
daughter.
The post-goal, girl-hug cluster
breaks up.
Their smiles infect us in the
stands. We cheer and clap and shout. Our middle age aches forgotten in the joy
of our daughter. The one they said wasn’t good enough a year ago. It pissed her
off. She didn’t swear like Oscar, but she worked like him and came back to make
the team.
I wrote her a letter a few weeks before
try-outs. Pray. Listen. Be mindful of others. It was a religious outing, after
all, where the teenagers had an hour to go read parent letters. Some spiritual
thought went into my words, especially the final line.
“Go forth and kick ass,” I told her,
and she did. Oscar would’ve loved it.
She gives us the thumbs up while
trotting to mid-field. The referee sets the ball on the turf to restart play,
and the whistle blows.