by Mick Foley
“Self-conscious, I guess, because you know, everyone was talking about it.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
“I don’t know, a little weird, I guess.”
“Ashamed?”
“No.”
“Then weird how? Try to explain.”
“Weird because . . . I . . . uh, well in a way I guess I was proud.”
“How did you feel today at the game? About your face?”
“I guess kind of cool.”
“And what do you see when you look at me?”
“I don’t know.”
“About my face. Try describing my eyes.”
“They’re really red in your eyeball.”
“And how ’bout under the eyeball?”
“Swollen.”
“Would you call it a black eye?”
“Yeah, two of them.”
“How ’bout my nose?”
“It’s broken.”
“And up here,” he said, pointing to his eyebrow.
“It’s cut pretty bad, probably should have been stitched.”
“Well there you have it, son.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I went over to his house and look what he gave me. Two black eyes, a broken nose, a gash over my eye. All badges of courage, right?”
I nodded my head as if it made sense, but all that I saw was my beaten-up dad.
“Andy, he gave me all these things, but I went over there and took something from him. Understand?”
“No, Dad, I don’t understand.” But part of me did. Understood it too well, and it filled me with dread . . . and pride.
“Andy, when I went over to his house, I took something from him. His will to live. I took it that night.”
November 27, 1985 / Afternoon
A very strange couple of weeks saw Hanrahan’s teaching and coaching career work its way to a pitiful conclusion. First, a team of experts concluded that the Conestoga riot should not entitle that team to their last eight seconds of game time. As a result, the final score remained 12–7, and the Togas had to settle for second place.
Next, a very beaten and battered Henry Hanrahan was placed under suicide watch at Cornell Medical Center as a bevy of witnesses came forth with pieces of knowledge about the coach’s past. In truth, it was mostly old news, but for some reason racial slurs, assaults, and statutory rape charges that seemed to slide off the winningest coach in section history now seemed just a little stickier to the laughingstock of Conestoga.
The principal, it seemed, had been informed of all previous complaints but had done nothing, and as a result was suspended pending further investigation.
Our house even served as a backdrop for some of the proceedings, as an unfailingly polite detective named Riley paid us a visit three days after the game.
“Mr. Brown,” the detective had said, “Mr. Hanrahan claims that you assaulted him, and intimidated him. Is that true?”
“Well I did try to intimidate him,” my father replied. “But I guess it didn’t work out too well, huh?”
“I guess not,” the detective said. “Were all these wounds the result of your visit to Mr. Hanrahan’s house?”
“Yes sir.”
“And why did you visit the home?”
“Because he assaulted my son in his classroom, sir.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It sure is. Hey Andy, come here.”
I showed up, the detective looked at my face and winced.
Tietam said, “And that’s over a week old. Should have seen him when he came home. Any father would have done the same.”
“Yeah, I suppose he might have.”
“Damn right,” Tietam said.
“So then you didn’t assault him?”
“Did that big monster look like he’d been assaulted?”
“No, not a scratch on him.”
“Probably just in his head. You know, his conscience catching up with him.”
“Probably so, Mr. Brown, probably so.”
Thanksgiving came and went without much fanfare, at least for us Antietams on Elston Court. Terri had gone with her parents to a town called Horseheads, which made me think of the first God-father, while I gave thanks and washed dishes at the diner.
Gave thanks for all the wonder that was filling up my days. And thanks for that next day to come, when I’d have Terri all alone. I hoped I would be ready. If our hot-water bill was any indicator, I would be.
I gave thanks too for my father, who hadn’t seemed himself. Since meeting up with what’s her name, he’d been living in a fog. A happy fog at first, it seemed, but with each passing day, his chances for a call seemed to shrink, and he looked a little sadder.
He still had his women, but he wasn’t nearly as loud. And he’d stopped doing his deck. He even bought an answering machine so he wouldn’t miss her potential call.
The phone rang at three on Friday afternoon, the day of my big date with Terri. The one I’d been dreaming about. The one I’d been practicing for.
I heard my dad’s voice light up.
“Yes, this is Tietam, is that you? Oh it is . . . Jeez, I thought you might be gone . . . Oh you’re leaving tomorrow . . . Well what is your name, you left without telling me . . . Holly? That’s nice . . . Yeah, I’m free tonight, what would you like to do? . . . Sounds good to me. Hey I’m glad you called. Yeah, I’ll pick you up . . . Five sounds great. See you then.”
I thought he was going to do a jig right there in our empty living room.
I looked outside as a truck dropped off lumber at our curb and a team of carpenters pulled power tools and sawhorses into our yard. Usually the only hammering I heard was in my father’s bedroom, but on this cool afternoon, with a few tiny flakes of snow floating about, the hammering was loud and the hammering was often in our little front yard, on our small quiet street.
I looked at my father, who was actually now dancing, singing a rendition of “A Holly Jolly Christmas” that would have made Burl Ives scream. “Oh ho, the mistletoe, hung where you can see. Somebody waits for you, kiss her once for me, rin ta tin ta da.”
“Dad, what’s going on?” I said.
“Revenge Andy, sweet revenge.”
“What kind of revenge, Dad?”
“Revenge with a holiday flair. Andy, look outside, at Sugling’s house. What do you see?”
“Lots of Christmas stuff.”
“That’s right, Andy, lots of stuff. Stuff that glows, stuff that lights up, stuff that causes a few cars to drive by, right?”
“I guess.”
“But it’s really just stuff, and stuff is just a fancy word for crap, right?”
“I guess so.”
“Well tonight, Sugling will pay the price. People will be driving by our street all right, but they’ll be driving by to see our house, Andy, our house.”
“But Dad, we don’t even have any lights up.”
“Well, you and me are going to go out now and put two spotlights in the ground, okay?”
“Okay, Dad, but that doesn’t sound very fancy.”
“Andy, I’ll tell you what. You go on your date at what time?”
“Terri’s picking me up around five.”
“Hey same time as your dad. Did you ever think it, Andy, two Browns on the town, at the same time.”
“No, I’ve got to admit that I never did, Dad.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the movies, I think.”
“Which one?”
I had to think on this one. Our elaborate romantic plan had not involved an alibi, and I knew that my dad could detect a lie a mile away, so I just played dumb and told what might be considered a little half-truth.
“I’m just going to go where Terri wants me to go,” I said. Which was straight to her bedroom. Yes!
“Well, Andy, when you come home from your movie, you will get one heck of a surprise.”
And then he was off, bounding up the stairs at a pac
e usually reserved for a coming interaction with a drunk married woman. But this time I heard no bouncing of springs, or banging of headboards. Just Tietam Brown butchering “A Holly Jolly Christmas” as the carpenters banged out a tune of their own.
By the time Terri arrived, darkness was falling and a shell of a building stood on our lawn as our neighbors, including Gloria and Charlie Sugling, stood silently, by turns shaking their heads, shrugging their shoulders, and covering their ears. I asked the carpenters what they were building, but they were apparently sworn to secrecy.
As we drove away, Terri grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard.
“Are you ready?” she said.
“I hope so,” I replied, but even as I said it, the word “ready” triggered a thought. Protection. I didn’t have any. Oh how I wished I hadn’t thrown my three-pack out. Oh what a pimple on the ass of pleasure.
Mournfully I told her. “Terri.”
“Yes, Andy.”
“I don’t have any, um uh.”
“Protection?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry. There, look in my bag.”
I did and was rewarded immediately with the familiar sight of a blue three-pack.
“Where’d you get these?” I asked.
“I drove almost to Binghamton so no one would know me.”
“Cool.”
“I bought a bunch just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case you really like it.”
The moon was full in the sky when we got to her house, and the flakes were now flurries, the first of the year.
“Do they have snow in Virginia, Andy?” Terri asked.
“Sure, once in a while. But never this early. And never this pretty.”
She looked up at the sky, caught a flake on her tongue. “Andy, this night would be pretty if it was raining down turds.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but you wouldn’t catch them on your tongue.”
She laughed and I kissed her.
She said, “Let’s go inside, you can kiss me more there.”
I did, and we did. Went inside and then kissed. On the mouth and the cheek, and the neck and the head. Kissed her until my mouth started to hurt and then kissed her some more. She looked into my eyes, kissed me once more, and said, “Let’s go to my room.”
My heart was pounding wildly as I stepped inside. Anticipation and visions of grandeur played havoc with my senses. My fingers felt electric, at least the ones on my left hand. My legs were weak. My mouth was dry. I closed my eyes and envisioned her. Stepping out of her bathroom, just a few weeks ago, the shirt with the buttons, with no bra underneath. The purest, sexiest thing I had ever seen.
My open eyes proved me wrong. For Terri Lynn Johnson at that very moment, in her green sweater and blue jeans, cast a vision of pure beauty the likes of which I’d never seen.
She turned on a cassette, and I heard Rod Stewart’s rasp singing “Don’t say a word, my virgin child, just let your inhibitions run wild.” Looking back on it now, the song’s a little obvious to be truly romantic, but at the time it seemed perfect. Hell, it still seems perfect.
“Tonight’s the night, it’s gonna be all right, ’cause I’m in love with you, woman, ain’t nobody gonna stop us now.”
No, nobody was gonna stop us now, especially when Terri shut off the lights, leaving only a candle by which to admire her, and said, “Why don’t you undress me, big boy.” Then, “And Andy, take those stupid quarters out of your pocket.”
I took out the quarters, three dollars in all, all minted in 1977, and placed them on her bureau. Then went to work.
I’m not going to claim that I was smooth, but I could have been worse as I lowered her jeans and let her step out, then pulled the green sweater, which I guessed cost more than my dad’s Fairmont, over her head.
Oh my goodness, she wasn’t just wearing a bra and underwear. This was black lingerie, picked out especially for me. Silk. And this woman was going to give me her body, and a memory for life. An honor really. A lifetime honor.
Rod was still singing, assuring me that it was “gonna be all right,” and the candle still flickered, casting sweet shadows that licked at her skin and danced on the walls.
She looked at me and smiled, drew my head to her breast. Kissed my bad ear and whispered, “Now it’s my turn, lay down on the bed.”
I kicked off my sneakers and she slid off my pants, exposing a pup tent that I’d pitched on the way over to her house.
“Andy, I’d like to feel your skin on me, but you can leave your shirt on if you want.”
I pulled it off myself, that “skin on skin” idea being too good to pass on, pigeon chest or not.
Now Rod was singing “spread your wings and let me come inside,” which sounded like awfully thinly veiled imagery to me.
Then I sat up and took the initiative for the second time in my life, and laid her down on her bed.
“Andy, rewind the song and play it again, and we’ll, you know . . . do it.”
Sounded like a pretty good idea, so I hopped up off the bed, just me and my pup tent, and rewound Rod to the proper lovemaking spot. Then turned around and saw Terri looking up at her cross, at the flickering image of Jesus, who had died for our sins. Man, I was dying for one of those sins myself, so to speak.
I said, “Can I take that thing down just for a few minutes?” But by that time Terri was under her sheets, so the son of God wouldn’t see her in her black lingerie. She was crying. And the pup tent was gone.
“Andy, I’m scared,” she said.
“Hey it’s okay,” I said as I rushed to her side. I got down on my knees and I pulled back her sheets, exposing a little girl’s fears wrapped up in big girl’s clothes. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“I’ve never done this before, and I want to, but it’s just a little scary.”
Personally, I thought this was great news. Not the part about her being scared, but about her having not done it. I thought she hadn’t, but she’d never confirmed it, nor had I asked. And even though I would have been spit on and laughed at by any self-respecting horny teenager, I didn’t try to talk her out of the way she felt.
“Terri, Terri, Terri, Terri, come on now, don’t cry. I’m scared too. And I’ll tell you a little secret. I’ve never done it either.”
She laughed right out loud, the sniffle in her nose making it sound extra cute. “Wow, that’s a real shock. So I’m not one of thousands.”
“No, you’re one in a million.” Corny but effective, and straight from my heart.
“What about your foster dad?” She laughed just a little but quickly felt bad. “God I’m so sorry, that was really not nice. Forgive me. Okay?”
“Sure, you’re forgiven.”
“Andy.”
“Yeah.”
“I feel really dumb.”
“Why?”
“Well, I went out and bought condoms, even bought lingerie. I worked out this whole night. And I wanted it so, wanted you to, uh you know, be my first . . . But I just feel so scared, like maybe we should wait . . . just a little while longer. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said.
“But I wanted you so much. Wanted you to love me.”
“I already do.”
The tears in her eyes in the flickering light cast a bright beauty that stays with me still.
“Andy, come here.” She lifted her sheets and patted her chest, and I slipped underneath and she pulled me so close.
“Terri?”
“Yes, love.”
“Can I lay my head here?” pointing to her breast.
“Sure you can, Andy, lay your head down.”
And I did and I loved it, and I told her why. “Right now this feels like the safest place in the world.”
“Then stay there, my love, stay as long as you want.”
And I stayed there for some time while she stroked my hair, and with my head in her bosom, I unearthed my past, leaving no
stone unturned. My mother. Auntie M. My foster dad. Mrs. Delanor. Stolsky and Majors. All the grisly details.
The Rage / 1981
Three for three is a tremendous day at the plate for a major league baseball player. Hell, a guy who averages one hit in every three at bats is considered a superstar. I was three for three. So why didn’t I feel good about it?
I had loved three women in my life (prior to Terri)—my mother, Auntie M, and Mrs. Delanor. All three were dead. I guess, more specifically, all three were dead because of me. So I guess it would be safe to say that I carried a considerable amount of guilt around with me as I graced the grounds of the Petersburg Home for Boys on a continuous basis from August of 1977 until October of 1981.
Yeah, following the Delanor incident in ’77, I was never placed in foster care again. I sometimes blamed Mr. Delanor, and wondered whatever became of that one-eyed prick, but for the most part I blamed myself. Because, after all, I was Catholic, and that seems to be part of what being Catholic is all about. At least that’s how the sisters at the home sometimes made me feel.
The Petersburg Home for Boys was not a place that was conducive to forming deep friendships—at least not for me. Some kids laughed it up and seemed to have a heck of a time there, although if given the choice, they would rather have had parents, I was pretty sure. But as for me, well, I just kind of stayed to myself. Sure, I made the occasional crack that resulted in disciplinary action, but for the most part I just sat around, mired in a sea of guilt, trying to learn about God and making mental lists of what I did and didn’t believe when it came to him.
An orphanage, you see, is not the type of place you want to stay in long. Staying in defeats the purpose, which is, after all, to get out. Get out to foster care, and maybe, if the Fates are smiling on you, even find an adoptive family. But hope for adoption, even under normal circumstances, wanes with each passing year. And my circumstances weren’t exactly normal.
So by the time I turned thirteen, in 1981, I had seen a lot of kids come and go. The ones that remained were the ones no one wanted. Like me. And Richie Majors. And Mel Stolsky.
Majors and Stolsky had become something of a dynamic duo over my last two years in Petersburg. Majors was tall, maybe six three, and lean, with a pockmarked face that spoke of previous acne, and a prominent Adam’s apple that seemed to have a life of its own whenever he opened his mouth. Which was pretty much all the time. His day didn’t seem complete unless he hurt at least one person’s feelings, which he did in a manner that made up for in crudeness what it lacked in creativity. He got away with it, too, for while Richie may not have been the toughest guy at Petersburg, Mel Stolsky certainly was.
