Karma Redirected

by Mike Morris

  Eventually, after resorting to “accidentally” elbowing Leperly in the chops, I drawled with counterfeit coolness, tinted with the slightest tad of disdain, “If the guy don’t want to fight, he don’t want to fight.” Then with a slight toss of my hand, I dismissed Bubba, spun around, stepped hard on Leperly’s foot, and strolled away gallantly into the darkness and away from the lamplight.

  31

  Howdy Doody

  Too many times I have given adversity way too much credit and power. I could easily believe I was a victim, fighting a losing battle with the universe and its secret and not so secret agents. Bobby Andrews was a secret agent, and as far as my weaker natures were concerned, he successfully stopped me from becoming a professional athlete, deliberately destroyed my throwing arm, got me suspended from school, kicked off the county baseball team, and flunked out of P.E. His disguise was creative and effective – a redheaded, freckled-faced character with whom people from my generation were familiar – Howdy Doody.

  After our baseball season ended – the one where Roger didn’t make the team, Bobby’s father selected Bobby and me to represent the Tigers on the all-star team. It turned out not to be an honor but to be a humiliating experience. After pitching every inning of every game during the regular season, by season’s end I had no arm left – and Bobby was just lousy. Bobby couldn’t catch and all of his throws to first from third were short at least 10 feet. At the all-star team practice, with a sore arm, I attempted to make a throw from third to first, which bounced in the dirt about ten feet in front of the first baseman. Bobby, who was also on third and had just made a similar looking throw, flashed his Howdy Doody smile at me as if to say, “Welcome to my world.” I felt like I had just become the best friend to a slug. I overheard a coach crack to another, “If those are the best two players on the team, I’d hate to see the rest.” I wanted to cry.

  What my mother, who attended most of my games, found most disreputable was that Mr. Andrews presented Howdy with the most valuable player award. Of course, my mom felt I was the best player on the team and the most essential to the team’s success – which would be if we had experienced any success. On the other hand, Mr. Andrews thought his son, Howdy, was the best baseball player on the team – and possibly in the world. No doubt, if Mom had been the coach, I would have been the most valuable player.

  I discovered that besides coaching the intramural team on which Howdy and I played, Mr. Andrews also coached the county team for Howdy’s and my age group. After I found this out I asked Howdy how I could try out for the county team. He laughed and in a round-about way said I wasn’t good enough. That put me off for a year. But I knew Howdy was on the team, so they couldn’t be that good. Plus, some of my older friends in the neighborhood were on the team and they encouraged me to try out.

  Everything began great. Howdy and his dad were nowhere to be found. A former coach for a professional team was running our practices. I switched my position to second base. The throw to first was shorter and I was still having problems with my throwing arm. I beat out the other second basemen for first string, and the best players I had ever played with surrounded me. They were all a year older and at first gave me a hard time, but once I proved myself they accepted me. The coach was great and the team looked unbeatable. I knew Mr. Andrews was supposed to be the coach, but since he was not there I forgot about him. I figured Howdy must have given up the impossible – baseball.

  Then an ominous specter was cast. On the way home from practice Linus Blabcock, who was the catcher and one of my best friends, casually mentioned something. He said that while we were running double play drills the coach had commented that if this was his team I would be his second baseman. It sounded like a compliment, so I confidently stated, “I am the second baseman.” Linus didn’t say anything and we walked on in silence. I thought to myself that something was strange about that comment, but like I am often prone to do, I pushed that thought back into the deepest recesses of my brain.

  The next day, after a great practice, our interim coach informed us that Coach Andrews would be at our next practice. “Whoopy-doo,” I sarcastically thought. Well, I should have cried. My baseball life was over; I just didn’t know it.

  When that sorrowful day arrived, we were all in the field when Mr. Andrews and Howdy made their grand entrance. Mr. Andrews addressed the team while Howdy put on his cleats. He explained that Bobby had been concentrating on his school work and that was why he had not been out to practice.

  Duh? Concentrating on his school work? I didn’t even know what that meant. Didn’t we all have school work? I mean we were all in school. I know I didn’t concentrate on my school work, but did that mean the rest of the guys did not, either? Were we merely rotten rubbish, and Howdy was a celebrated, scholarly aristocrat adorning a rabble of rotten rubbish who didn’t do their school work?

  I lacked enough sense to be concerned when Howdy trotted onto the diamond, a grin plastered across his face like he had just eaten something disgusting. He was certainly a prince among rogues. Little did I suspect the end of my baseball life approaching as Howdy clearly headed in my direction. And the outrageous happened. Howdy came within one foot of me, flashed that horrid grin, turned, and planted himself right in front of me, and I still had no clue! I was dumbfounded. I looked at my teammates for some trace, some hint, some sign. But ... heads were hung low; no one would look at me. There was no eye contact with anyone. Then I realized: for the first time at one of our practices we had guests – lots of them – all men – all fathers. Every one of my teammates’ fathers was there. What were they doing there? What was going on? I think at that moment the true Creek Indian in me scorched. I felt like a lone warrior surrounded by the cunning and crafty White Man. I did the only thing I knew to do. I stepped in front of Howdy forcing him backwards. He tried to dislodge me, but I wouldn’t budge.

  “This is my position,” I clearly and firmly spoke. But it was of no use. I heard Mr. Andrews calling me. At first I ignored him and searched for some ally. There wasn’t even a look from my teammates, their fathers, or anyone.

  “Mo, come on in,” Mr. Andrews kept repeating with a little more barren warmth in his voice with each call.

  Finally, after one last fruitless look at my betrayers, I trotted toward Mr. Andrews. “I’m playing second base,” I snapped.

  “Bobby’s our second baseman.” His condescension crushed any possible communication. “You’re going to pitch.”

  “No, I’m not going to pitch. I’m playing second base.”

  “You’re going to pitch or you are not going to play on this team.”

  I glared at him with all the hate I had in me boiling over, my voice approaching a shout. “I can’t pitch. I’m playing second base.”

  “You can pitch, and you are going to pitch, or you can leave now.”

  I screamed, “I can’t pitch! You threw my arm out you...” I launched into a tirade of obscenities, determined that everyone in earshot would be pierced with the pain I was suffering. Then, a sad little boy, a trail of verbal trash following him, left the field alone.

  Additional pain was to come. It turned out that the starting lineup, except for a couple of guys – Howdy being one of them – became the starting lineup for the high school team that won two straight state championships. Although not from Hellincrest, Charlie with the tomato-cannon-arm became their center fielder.

  32

  Payback

  I don’t think I ever had a plan. It was more like an inspiration – a beautiful painting appearing on the canvas of my simple little brain. As I traveled the hallways or sat somberly at my desk, parturition took place.

  Despite attempting to ignore crafty little devils I didn’t like, I noticed that I always passed Howdy on my way downstairs to shop class. At the bottom of the stairwell, he and I would usually pass at the swinging doors. We never spoke. In fact, I always had the impression he was afraid of catching some foul affliction with which I was infected. He sort of suff
ered through this defiled passageway; cringing and dodging as our paths momentarily intersected in his kingdom – school.

  This particular day, I hurried slightly to the bottom of the stairwell, and then slowed patiently, waiting for the swinging doors to open. When Howdy’s head popped through, I hurled my last great fast ball; except, there was no ball, only fist. When it collided with Howdy’s noggin, there was a yelp and his books flew as Howdy fell backwards. I coolly and casually continued on to shop class.

  After a few moments I had actually forgotten about the whole incident when a variation on a very common announcement came over the school’s intercom. “Mo Mickus, report to Mr. Wurst’s office immediately!” I say variation because normally the announcement directed me to Mr. Flem’s office. Mr. Flem was the Vice-Principal. We were all afraid of Mr. Flem. A big, bald, base-looking man, he could beat you with his Beelzebub’s beam. On the other hand, Mr. Wurst, the Principal, was harmless. I felt like it was show time.

  As I entered the principal’s office I spied three spectacles. Howdy Doody sat in the center of the room, blubbering like a baby. Ms. Grates stood rigid, her cold blue eyes thoroughly hating me. Next to Ms. Grates squatted her mentor. Actually, on closer examination, her mentor was standing – a short-legged, stocky, frizzy blonde-hair evil spirit. Instinctively, I checked the evil spirit’s hand for a yardstick. She didn’t appear to be carrying one. I relaxed despite the fact that both teachers appeared to be vibrating. Rage was in the air. I could see it; I think I could hear it in the vibrations. But I couldn’t quite feel it.

  Neither teacher spoke. Only Howdy blubbered. Eventually, Mr. Wurst waddled in and shyly spoke. “Mo, Bobby said you punched him in the face for no reason. Is that true?”

  Well, improvisation burst forth globs. Shock and horror hooded my face. “Oh was that you, Bobby?” I twirled around somewhat frantically and faced Howdy with the most sincere concern I could fake. “Oh man, I didn’t know that was you! Oh Bobby, man, I’m sorry!” Boy was I lying, but it was going pretty well, so I continued to dazzle the majority of my audience – Ms. Grates and Mrs. Swine – with fibbing while completely keeping Mr. Wurst in darkness.

  “Mr. Wurst, Bobby and I are best friends.”

  “Arrgh...ugh...sniff!” A helpless and still blubbering Howdy garbled an assortment of sounds that could only be left for interpretation.

  “Humph!” Mrs. Swine and Ms. Grates were snorting the air and digging in the dirt with their front paws.

  I took a step toward Mr. Wurst and away from the sizzling steam seething from the angry teachers. Dripping with sincerity I soaked Mr. Wurst with false, desperate concern for my friend. “I would never have hit Bobby. I just reacted after the swinging door hit me in the face.” I moved my hand gingerly to the side of my face. “Bobby and I are best friends. We play baseball together. I just swung in reflex. I don’t even know what I hit. Oh, man! I didn’t know it was Bobby. I would never hit Bobby.” What helped marinate Mr. Wurst and also prove my genius for improvisation was the fact that only a couple of days before I had received a pounding to the side of my face in a fight and the effects were still tattooed there.

  Mr. Wurst began peering carefully at my face. He reached out and gently touched the side of my cheek, and I of course, on cue, slightly flinched.

  “Oh I see, Mo. That is quiet a bruise. Are you okay? Has the nurse looked at that? Maybe you better report to her and have her look at that right away. My, that looks bad. You go on and let me know how you are.”

  “Arrgh...ugh...sniff!” “Humph!” Undecipherable blubbering from neither Howdy nor grunts from the steaming teachers could enlighten Mr. Wurst to the truth. I walked from the office. If I had a tail, it would have been wagging.

  33

  Chewowitz

  Not being able to play county ball, I signed up for intramurals and was assigned to Mikey Chewowitz’s team. His dad was the coach. His dad was okay, except he insisted on letting Mikey play sometimes, and Mikey was pretty lousy. I guess that just like Mr. Andrews coached the county team to insure Bobby would get to play, the reason many fathers coach is to make sure their sons get to play. It is really an honorable thing for fathers to do – dedicating all that time and effort for their sons’ wellbeing. However, I lacked any appreciation for that kind of honor. I may have even felt some jealousy. As far as I can remember, my father never saw me play any sports.

  We were an okay team, but the team that dominated the league was a team made up of hoodlums that most adults wouldn’t fool with. Some of my friends were on that team as well as my older brother Leo. Mr. Mash had organized the team and then successfully lobbied to get them into the league. After they began to dominate the league, many other coaches began to begrudge them and complained that it wasn’t fair that Mr. Mash had a hand-selected team to coach. But since it kept some ruffians off the street, they figured it must be a good thing.

  When we played the hoodlums, they were crushing us pretty well when Coach Chewowitz asked me to pitch for a couple innings to finish the game. Even though the rest of the team was struggling, I was having a great game against them – eventually going 4 for 4 with two triples – and my arm was feeling pretty good. I faced 6 batters and struck out 5 of them, Leo being the only one who didn’t strike out. He popped out – to me.

  On the way to school the next day, I was feeling a little annoyed with Mikey. Since we played on the same team, he was kind of feeling like we were buddies and he could hang out with me and walk to school with me. I didn’t have a problem with that, but on that day he did something that was more aggravating than usual. Mikey picked up some dog-do on a stick and started waving it in my face. In anger, I took it away from him, got him down on the ground, and halfway attempted to force him to eat it.

  Well, another call down to the office found coach Chewowitz waiting for me with the vice-principal, Mr. Flem. Of course the coach couldn’t understand why I would do such a thing to my good buddy, Mikey. There was no way he believed Mikey started it, especially after the school administrators filled him in on what a rotten kid I was. Mikey claimed he had swallowed some of it, so he had been rushed to the hospital. I have to try harder to feel badly about that one.

  The next year Mr. Mash recruited me for his hoodlum team. I apparently met all the quali cations, and I was excited about playing for him. Unfortunately, the league, led by Mr. Chewowitz, decided not to allow us to participate in the league and that was the end of that.

  34

  Foxy

  Gym class offered many opportunities for self-expression. Festering within my psyche an appalling putrefied compost pile sprouted and pursued a mechanism and beneficiary or rather refuse heap in which to bestow its fruit. In other words I was looking for someone to dump on.

  I crept silently behind the long line of ice sculptures, contemplating who my victim would be. They all had been frozen by one of Foxy’s blistering harangues and did not suspect that gym class was ready to become the scene of total chaos and some poor unsuspecting soul’s lifetime-worst humiliation. Then I spotted him – Howdy! Perfect!

  As girls lined up on the opposite side of the gymnasium, I made my move. Capturing the bottoms of Howdy Doody’s gym shorts I yanked down hard! Girls screamed, giggled, and pointed at the line of boys standing in confusion. Foxy seethed anger while I raced down the line selectively jerking down the shorts of chosen chums of Howdy. That was no easy task; Howdy didn’t have many friends. So I selected those who could have been his friends if he had any.

  Once the half dozen pairs of shorts nestling around ankles began to be frantically tugged back up by their disconcerted and shamefaced landlords, and the total cataclysmic disorder of the situation was at its climax, Mr. Wrenchall could be heard screaming, “Mickus! Mickus! Mo Mickus!”

  My greatest adversary turned out to be Mr. Wrenchall, or, as he was secretly known to all the students – Foxy. He was the physical education teacher, the basketball coach, and the driving force behind the “We hate Mo Mickus” clu
b for teachers.

  When exactly he developed his intense dislike for me was sometime during the second half of the 7th grade. When I failed physical education, I became suspicious. I was one of the better athletes in the school, holding two school records in track and field, which Foxy refused to post with the rest of the school records. When I asked him why my records were not posted, he snarled, “I’m not putting your name anywhere in my locker room!”

  He may have been angry at the way I used to sneak out of line during roll call and pull down the least expecting students’ gym shorts. The way I loafed during laps, finishing 5 to 10 minutes behind the slowest students may have caused his fury. The jokes I cracked at his expense could have been the cause. But whatever, I was clearly his least favorite student.

  Foxy and I brought out the worst in each other. He singled me out to be the only permanent member of his “jerk squad,” and I singled him out as a target for abuse. Exiled to stand under a certain basketball goal, or off to the side of the baseball diamond, I led the temporary members assigned to his “jerk squad” in heckling or throwing stones at Foxy when he wasn’t looking.

  The real bottomless pit with Mr. Wrenchall occurred after he called me an ignoramus. I had just completed a great imitation of a fool running a lap around the playground in slow motion. It takes tremendous effort, concentration, skill, and stamina to run a half mile in slow motion.