The Eighties: A Bitchen Time To Be a Teenager!

by Tom Harvey

  Our adventures weren’t limited to the inside of my small car, though. Some entrepreneur opened a rent-by-the-hour hot tub business at the base of the Mustang Waterslides in Tulare. He should have called it the “Mustang Ranch Hot Tubs” since use of the hot tubs was discreet and cheap ($8 per hour, per person). Picture that now: by-the-hour hot tub rentals. Gross. Back then, it was a $16 thrill (and we went dutch. How can you lose?). And, who was kidding whom? The guy who took our money and handed us clean towels (at least I think they were clean) knew exactly what was going down behind those locked doors. Sixty minutes later, we’d emerge with bloated, pink skin and semi-permanent smiles on our faces.

  The hot tub portion of the Mustang operation had a short life–in business less than a year. The waterslides, as far as I know, are still there. You can’t have sex on a waterslide, though, can you? Hmm, now there’s a thought.

  Tragedy struck in May when an eighteen-year-old senior, Mark Zaninovich, died in a single car accident. He fell in the cowboy clique in his Wranglers, boots, and handlebar moustache. As the entire school discovered, his sudden death transcended the cliques. Our beloved principal, Mr. Boehme, addressed the school on the intercom system in tears, declaring that written notes would not be necessary for students who missed class due to the funeral. St. Anne’s church was filled to capacity with hundreds of students left to stand outside.

  Mark had been ejected from his four-wheel drive truck in a high speed rollover accident and died of massive head injuries. Alcohol, people whispered, must have been a factor. In an effort not to get caught up in the emotion of it all, I said to David, “Well, that’s what happens when you drink and drive.” He grabbed me by the front of my shirt–his eyes on fire–and cocked his right fist. I held my breath. Finally, he said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about so shut your fucking mouth!” He released me and I stepped back in wide-eyed surprise.

  Fifteen hundred kids wanted to do something to honor Mark and, within a few weeks, money was raised to purchase a memorial bench. The following school year, the bench sat at a busy intersection between classrooms. His name, birthday, and death date, were engraved in the granite.

  For weeks, no one dared sit on the bench.

  Mark’s sister, Paula, provided the picture I am most proud of in two years as a yearbook photographer. The vibe was strong the day I approached the area–Paula sat on the bench engrossed in a textbook, oblivious to the two hundred students and teachers surrounding her in hushed reverence.

  The picture is special for a few reasons: 1) I had color film in my camera and we only had two weeks out of the year to take color pictures for the yearbook, 2) Paula is wearing her varsity volleyball jersey with her last name on the back, and 3) the picture isn’t posed. I burst into the yearbook classroom that day with the news that I had captured the moment–poignant and perfect.

  Word quickly spread that Paula used the bench and other students followed suit. Thanks to Paula, people no longer avoided the bench. Even in death, Mark brought people together.

  He was buried in a Catholic cemetery on a hill south of town, and I used to go there alone and stand in silence over his grave. I never told anyone because he and I had never spoken a word to each other. I felt sad thinking that he was out there all alone.

  Death is tragic and confusing, isn’t it?

  1984 Fun Fact #2:

  After watching him as Gumby and Buckwheat on Saturday Night Live, Eddie Murphy hits box office gold with Beverly Hills Cop. I watched it in the theater, twice.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rekindling my love of football, I discovered that the varsity coach, Mr. Rice, ran a summer passing league. Since the Central California summers are blisteringly hot, this entailed running around in shorts and a T-shirt–learning pass routes and catching passes.

  I discovered something that surprised everyone: I ran the forty-yard dash in 4.5 seconds, second fastest on the team. Every day I showed up to practice, Coach Rice (and his son, the “other” Coach Rice) smiled widely, and nodded their approval–Hell, I’m a varsity football player! I’m the second fastest guy on the team!

  What I didn’t realize was that the coach gladly accepted all-comers–anybody–because he needed bodies. Despite my speed, I was only 5’ 9” and 155 pounds. I hadn’t played since my freshman year, and, let’s be honest, I sucked.

  The program for the first home game listed me at six feet and two hundred pounds. Coach Rice was quite the optimist.

  David and Richie decided to inner tube down the Tule River which ran from the small mountain town of Springville, north of Porterville, through the River Island golf course and into Success Lake. I invited myself along but had to come up with my own tube.

  The Tule River raged from an unusually high snowmelt that summer, and my automobile tube paled in comparison to their tractor tubes. We drove past the country club and parked on the side of the winding road. After a small hike, we stared at the raging river. This was to be no leisurely float.

  We laughed at my little tube.

  “It’s now or never.” I jumped onto the tube and the ice cold current whisked me away.

  Just around the bend, I slammed into a tree lying across the expanse and the tube exploded on a jagged branch. Frantically trying to pull myself onto the tree, the force of the current pulled me lower and lower. Shoulder deep in the frigid water, I looked down at a pool of blood circling under my chin. My bare chest bled from rough abrasions.

  I was stuck.

  The deafening noise of the water rushed around my ears. My feet were caught in a web of branches and debris just beyond the large trunk and I knew that letting go meant I would drown.

  “Help! Help me!”

  Time slowed.

  My fingers began to turn blue.

  The raging force pulled me lower into the river.

  I started to sob in panic, choking on bloody water tumbling over my head. Ice cold water poured into my eyes.

  My arms began to ache. Starbursts flashed in my distorted vision.

  The water was taking me. I was going to drown in the swirling web of debris under this fallen tree. The voice in my mind calmly said, People drown in the Tule River all the time. Today it’s going to be you. Look on the bright side. Your name will be in the Porterville Recorder tomorrow.

  My grip loosened.

  I closed my eyes. The world became dark and quiet.

  The moment was peaceful. I was alone and today was my day to die. My last thought in this life: Mom, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  “I’ve got you!” David screamed, his voice muffled and distorted, a thousand miles away.

  I opened my eyes. David’s wavy, angelic face appeared, surrounded by bright sunlight.

  He was under red streaky water.

  No.

  I was under red streaky water.

  As he knelt on top of the tree, both of his hands locked onto my left forearm.

  “I’ve got you! Don’t let go!”

  He tugged upward and I drew in a large gasp of air.

  I slipped back. With just the top of my head and arms above the rushing water, I was caught in a life-or-death tug of war: My brother versus the strong grip of the current.

  He knelt forward and yanked upward with all his adrenalin-fueled strength. My bare chest ripped across the rough bark as he lifted my shoulders clear of the water. How he didn’t break my forearm, at that odd angle, is a miracle.

  Noise rushed back.

  Pain.

  Cold.

  I sobbed uncontrollably.

  He yanked again and draped me over the tree.

  He yanked again and pulled me to my knees.

  Safe.

  Saved.

  He steadied himself and sat back, exhausted.

  I gasped and coughed for air, spitting blood and pieces of wet bark. My body convulsed uncontrollably.

  “You saved my life,” I croaked. Tears poured down my face.

  He looked at me, expressionless.

  �
��I don’t know,” he smiled, out of breath. “You should see yourself.”

  The entire front of my body was bright red and bleeding. I had bitten my lip and blood trickled from my mouth. My fingers were blue and bleeding. I was a mess.

  “I guess that little tube of yours wasn’t such a good idea after all,” he said matter of factly.

  “You saved my life today,” I sobbed.

  “I thought I lost you for a second.”

  “In another second you would have.”

  This is what had happened.

  As soon as I hit the water, David and Richie knew I was in trouble. They jumped in after me and watched as I was swept away on the tiny inner tube. I hit the tree on the left side of the river, the tube exploded on a branch, and they jumped off of their tubes onto the right bank. As I held on for dear life, David tried to figure out how to cross the rushing water. He ran up the bank, crossed at our entry point, then ran back toward me. By the time he crawled onto the fallen tree, I was just losing my grip. The whole thing took three minutes.

  I crawled off the tree and limped back to the truck. Every part of me hurt. When we got home, Mom just about had a heart attack.

  Wednesday, July 18, was like any other hot day in the valley until every channel began broadcasting the live coverage of a siege in San Diego.

  At a McDonald’s of all places.

  I watched the rampage in shocked disbelief. Bodies and blood, lots of blood, could be seen through the shattered windows of the restaurant. News cameras shook as cameramen jostled for protection behind buildings and police cars.

  Gunfire.

  Chaos.

  Death.

  A SWAT team sniper ended the ordeal on live TV after an hour and seventeen minutes of sheer madness and murder. In all, twenty two people died, including the deranged gunman.

  What became known as the San Ysidro McDonald’s Massacre changed how police departments across the country prepared for such incidents. Trained tactical units with higher power firearms became more the norm than the exception.

  The site was razed and a memorial built.

  1985 Fun Fact #1:

  Coca-Cola changed its formula and launched “New Coke.” Cuban dictator, Fidel Castro, called New Coke a sign of American capitalist decadence. (There’s that word again.) Not that we gave a rat’s ass about what Castro thought, but in less than 3 months we were back to “Coca-Cola Classic.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I mourned the loss of my brother and his friends–they all disappeared via that life changer known as high school graduation. David and Richie and Allen and Eric–and a slew of others–just weren’t there anymore.

  As for my dream of playing varsity football, reality crashed down when the regular players strolled on the field and reassumed their places on the team. Coach Rice moved me from wide receiver to tight end. Not only was I too small for the position at 155 pounds, I was a distant third stringer. I couldn’t block and didn’t know the plays. I was an offensive lineman only on paper.

  Despite getting kicked to the curb at a position I’d never play, I did have a spot on the kick off team. Not special teams, just the kick off team. This ensured the absolute minimum field time as logistically possible.

  It was truly a matter of pride to me–to be on the varsity squad–after spending all summer practicing. Plus, the varsity cheerleaders were more womanly than the JV cheerleaders and, c’mon, that’s important.

  Our first game was at home against powerhouse Redwood High School. We played our home games at the Porterville College football stadium and made the four mile drive in the team bus in uniform. No one said a word. The moment was intense.

  Pregame warm-ups included running routes in front of bleachers filling with students and parents. Working into the rotation of wide receivers, I sprinted thirty yards and stretched out to catch Jack Sussoev’s pass. In full extension, I missed the ball, landed on my head, and rolled in the freshly cut grass. The near capacity home crowd roared its approval. I ran back with the ball, smiling inside my unblemished gold helmet. Looking at the stands out of the corner of my eye–the cheer wasn’t for me, the band had just marched out on the track. Damn.

  The first game glory lasted until kick off. Two positions from our kicker in the middle of the field, my job was to go straight to the ball and make the tackle. In full sprint, I made it fifteen yards before a defender threw his forearm into my throat and I crashed to the ground gasping for air. I scraped myself off the grass and coughed my way back to the bench. It was the only time I stepped on the field.

  Redwood laid the wood to us, 35-0.

  The following Monday at practice while I was on the ground stretching, Coach Rice stepped into my line of vision, blocking out the bright sun. The man spoke a total of a dozen words to me and this is ten of them:

  “I want you to drop down to the JV team.”

  I sat up in disbelief as he walked away.

  Anger.

  Betrayal.

  There was no way my pride was going to accept this demotion. Hell, I had already paid twenty dollars for my customized varsity jersey! The JVs didn’t have their names on their jerseys! The JVs were the opening half of the Friday Night double headers with the Varsity teams in primetime. And, and … the varsity cheerleaders were just more womanly!

  No way in hell I was dropping down.

  For the next two weeks, I pretended the request was a figment of my imagination. Coach Rice didn’t bring it up again and the JV coach never came looking for me (The fact that I flunked out of his geometry class probably had something to do with it).

  Mike Wells, a proud member of the JV team, approached me.

  “Hey, they’ve been calling your name when they take the JV roll call.”

  “There must be some mistake.”

  He looked at me, unconvinced.

  “You know,” he continued, “if you did drop down, you’d be the starting tight end.”

  “That’s nice, but I’m on the varsity roster. I already paid for the jersey.”

  Mike shrugged.

  The next Friday we played at powerhouse Mount Whitney High. At halftime, when it was obvious our winless record was comfortably intact (the scoreboard showed twenty four points and none of them were ours), I approached Coach Rice as we retook the field.

  “Coach, I’m fresh.”

  He walked on, clutching his clipboard, trying to ignore me.

  “Coach, I’m fresh.”

  Not even a sideways glance.

  “COACH, I’M FRESH GODDAMNIT!”

  In its simplest terms, the words meant, Coach I’m not tired, let me play. It also meant, Coach I gave you my whole goddamn summer and I’ve been on the field once after a game-and-a-half.

  Amid the clicks of forty players’ cleats on the parking lot asphalt, Coach Rice stopped and looked at me. Players click clacked around us. It was a look of compassion, a look that said he understood.

  “OK,” he said quietly.

  Late in the fourth quarter, with the scoreboard reading 31-0 and the other team playing their third stringers (and, likely, any kid from any local junior high who wanted to play), we marched inside the ten yard line our one and only time.

  “Harvey, in! Leppert, out!” Coach Rice yelled. Hey, he knew my name after all.

  Leppert had the height at 6’ 3”, but it didn’t matter who was lined up at receiver. There was no way we would pass the ball so close to the goal line.

  Leppert threw a fit. “What the hell? What the hell, Coach? What the hell? What the hell?”

  Coach Rice held up one stern finger and Leppert sulked away, spewing obscenities.

  I ran into the huddle, my spotless white jersey and gold pants the cleanest on the field. My helmet had one little scuff from me intentionally dropping it in the parking lot. My heart pounded.

  “Dive 44,” Jack said.

  I ran out to the far left flank and locked eyes with the defensive cornerback. I nodded as if saying hello but the guy just pawed his foot o
n the ground. He was going to hit me all right. We waited for the snap of the ball.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  I looked down the line to our quarterback. Jack pointed at me frantically. I pointed to myself, You talking to me? It suddenly occurred to me that I was off the line of scrimmage which would have penalized us five yards for illegal procedure. With two seconds left on the twenty five second clock, I stepped forward–making the formation legal–and he ran the dive play.

  At the snap of the ball, my defender knocked me to the ground.

  Our running back, Kenny Mariboho, met a wall of third string defensive players and fell back. No gain.

  I ran back in the huddle.

  “What the hell, dude? Get on the line of scrimmage you idiot!” Jack hissed. He didn’t even know my name.

  Still wide eyed, I nodded. Holy crap, I sucked.

  We ran the play again with the same result.

  We huddled again and I looked over at our sidelines. Leppert paced around, complaining to anyone who would listen. I smiled.

  On third and goal from the two yard line, Kenny finally broke through. Touchdown! Our sideline erupted. Our band played. I was on the field when we scored–the moment was good. When I tried to run off the field, Coach Rice waved me back in for the try. I lined up at tight end and ran into a kid who made no effort whatsoever to block the kick.

  We kicked the extra point and, with five seconds left in the game, tried an onside kick. Since I was on the kick off team, I was on the field a record number of successive plays: five. The onside kick failed. Game over.

  Mount Whitney: 31, Monache: 7.

  Week Three had us back home against a team from Bakersfield, Highland High. I made it on the field twice in the loss.

  Highland: 35, Monache 7.

  After three straight losses with a combined score of 101-14, Coach Rice was pissed.

  “Starting Monday, we will have two practices a day! Before and after school! I want to see if anyone on this team has any heart!”

  We loaded the bus and made the somber drive back to school in silence. Sitting next to Ruben Zamora, I said, “I’m done. I don’t need this abuse.”