One Good Punch (6 page)

SECTION D

BUSINESS and CLASSIFIEDS

Downtown Renewal Plans Still Unclear

N
O DECISION YET,
just a cold gnawing feeling in my gut and the back of my head. I’m waiting a few more minutes to start my run, until midnight. That’s symbolic, I guess, but of what I don’t know. The opposite of high noon, I suppose, the hour when my decision is due.

I’ll cover my safest nighttime route, basically sticking to the roads on the perimeter of the downtown business area. Plenty of streetlights, even though the city is mostly sleeping.

There’s an icy wind now, but I don’t care. I run the loop easy, along Jefferson to Vine, down past Lackawanna Junior College and the Cultural Center, over past the Observer building, then left one block to Lackawanna Avenue and past Quint’s Army-Navy store and under the overpass outside the Steamtown Mall, beyond the Coney Island Lunch and back up toward the Radisson Hotel. Each loop is a little over two miles. I pick up the pace on the second one and really tear through the quiet streets, feeling the pressure of other runners on my heels, chasing me but never overtaking me.

It feels like midrace, when you’re pushing the pace and daring anyone to follow, knowing that you’ve got plenty left for a devastating kick that will leave them staggering in your wake. For now, it’s a determined, steady drive.

You get in this flow, almost like a trance. I’m in that state now: smooth, fast, deliberate.

And instead of making the left on Vine, I keep going and work my way over to Woodlawn and make the sharp uphill right. I’m tired, and this is the longest, steepest hill in Scranton, but I’m running purely on emotion now, ready to test myself. We’ll see how tough I am.

I’ve quit before in races and in workouts and in other ways, letting myself down any number of times. Losing races I know I could have won if I’d been a little bit gutsier, less afraid of the pain. Or if I’d been less afraid of failure instead of taking the easy way and finishing second or third when the other options were to go for broke and win or go for broke and break, finish fifth or eighth or last but at least knowing that I’d gone for it.

This hill is insanely steep. My quads weigh a ton.

No more playing it safe. I’m running to win this season. No more rationalizing. No more thinking that second best is almost as good as first.

My shoulders and thighs are burning, and I can taste that stew starting to repeat on me, not digested yet, ready to come back up. I’ve only covered a couple of blocks of the hill, but suddenly I can’t run another step. I slow to nearly a walk and stretch my arms over my head. Then I stop.

So maybe I’m not as tough as I thought.

But it’s been a long couple of days. I’m exhausted physically and emotionally. I can lie and get off clean or tell the truth and be screwed out of everything. I’m sweating but feel suddenly cold; the wind is biting my face. I should walk back home, get some sleep. Give myself a break and get this over with in the morning. Start out fresh and be at track practice on Wednesday afternoon. Get my job back. Get tight with Shelly. Be the best I can be.

I walk to the bottom of the hill and stand on the corner. It wouldn’t be fair for me to miss the most important sports season of my life so far. It’s not fair that I’ve worked so hard all winter, that I’m in prime condition and ready for more, and yet I’m putting myself in danger of missing out because sleazy little Joey doesn’t deserve what he’d get if I saved my own butt. Too bad. I’ve worked too hard. I want it too bad. I’ve got too much at stake this season. My last high school track season.

I think back to another final season.

Things were never quite as great for Syracuse after that championship run when Gerry McNamara was a freshman. And in his senior year, things hit a low point. They were only the ninth seed in the Big East Conference tournament, and it looked like his career was going to end on a sour note.

But he nailed a last-second three-pointer in the first round to beat Cincinnati by one, then hit another to force overtime in the quarterfinals against Connecticut. Syracuse won that game, too. Connecticut was ranked number one in the nation at that point.

In the semis, Syracuse came from fifteen points behind to upset Georgetown—with the fans at Madison Square Garden chanting, “GER-ry, GER-ry” through the entire game. Then they beat Pitt in the final. Needless to say, McNamara was named the tournament’s MVP. And again, everybody in Scranton felt like they were a part of it.

They lost in the first round of the NCAA tournament the following week. But McNamara had cemented his legend. We’ll be talking about him around here forever.

My heart is pumping hard, and I feel the sweat turning cold on my face. I feel the heat in my legs and the hard, steady pumping of my lungs. I taste Mr. Onager’s stew, but I also hear his words again, and they are at least as chilling as the wind:
I never recovered as an athlete, you get me? I took that one good punch, and it finished me.

Here’s a race where I quit on myself. District track championships last spring, seeded section of the 800 meters. I’m seeded sixth, but I’ve been coming on strong lately, and my coach tells me I can win. What I have to do is take it out hard and rob the favorite of his kick. Make sure he has nothing left for the final straightaway.

So I go out fast for the first lap, coming through in fifty-eight seconds with him right on my butt. I lead through the first turn of the second lap, still pushing hard and feeling good. But I hit the backstretch and my mind starts taking over, telling me to ease up a bit so I’ll be able to finish fast.

Exactly what my coach told me not to do.
When it hurts the most, start pushing harder,
he said. Do I listen? No. I try to relax, but I realize what pain I’m in. Three guys rush by me as we go into the final turn. That little rest I took is doing me no good at all; I’m tying up and dying. But I know I have it in me to stay with them, to fight back past them and win the race. But I don’t. I give up. I finish fourth and tell myself I did the best I possibly could. But deep inside, I know better.

A car goes by and shakes me out of my daydream. I clench my fists and take a step toward home, then stop again and turn. No more quitting.
One good punch, and it finished me.

I could take a thousand hard punches. I look back up the hill, shut my eyes for a second, and start running as fast as I can.

I’m dying by the time I reach Capouse, but I fight through it and battle my way up to Wyoming, churning my arms and my legs. One mouthful of puke comes up, and I spit it out hard, never breaking stride, cursing at myself to keep moving, to run even harder, to never quit on myself again!

Keep it coming, I’ll just get stronger. Knock me down, and I’ll get right back up. Take away the things I desire, but the desire itself won’t go away.

Getting in trouble—and trying to get out of it—has one thing in common with giving up in a race. You can try to rationalize your way out of it, but the truth comes back to get you. You at least have to be honest with yourself.

Even if you decide to screw the system.

Three East Students Expelled Following Weekend Drug Bust

By TUCKER HAMMOND
Observer
Staff Writer

SCRANTON—Three students were expelled from East Scranton High School on Tuesday following a weekend sweep of lockers that produced a modest amount of marijuana. Four others have been suspended.

City police lieutenant Peter O’Dell said all seven students have been charged with possession of marijuana. The three who were expelled—Frederick Pasella, 19; Lucien Douglas, 18; and Michael Kerrigan, 18—were scheduled to graduate from the school in June. The four students who were suspended are all juveniles. Their suspensions range from three to seven days.

Officials said the drug sweep was part of an ongoing program in which lockers are searched at least once each month. Principal Sonya Davis said the sweeps have been an effective deterrent against drugs in the school.

“The sweeps are unannounced, of course, but I think kids have come to expect them,” Davis said. “I’m actually surprised that we found anything this weekend. The past few times, we’ve come up empty.”

Davis said the three expelled students may be eligible to work toward general equivalency diplomas (GEDs) beginning after their class graduates in June, but they will not be readmitted to any schools in the Scranton district. Lieutenant O’Dell said charges against several other students are pending.

South Side Businessmen Remain Active

O
H YEAH
. I
GOT FIRED, TOO,
so I’ve written my last obituary.

Got a letter of acceptance from Kutztown University this morning. Contingent on successful graduation from high school, of course. Not going to happen.

And track practice starts this afternoon. Coach will have to name a new captain.

I stayed in bed until after my dad left for work and Mom went to the library, just staring at the ceiling mostly. Then I got up and read the paper—I knew the drug-bust article would be there, but it still stopped me cold. I heated some leftover Chinese food in the microwave. Now I’m sitting in front of the television in the living room, watching a rerun of
Bonanza
from forty years ago.

I can hear freezing rain hitting the windows, and I get up to look outside. And I see Joey walking up the hill in the middle of the street, toward our house, hunched over in a big old brown coat, no gloves or hat.

I open the front door and wait for him. He gives me a knowing frown and walks up the steps.

“What’s up?” I say.

“Nothing.”

“You cut school?”

“Yeah. Everybody’s giving me shit about what happened,” he says. “I’ll go back tomorrow.”

We sit in the living room. I give him some paper towels to wipe off his hair, which is dripping from the sleet.

“You want something to eat?” I ask, but he’s holding his stomach. He shakes his head.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I got beat up pretty good.”

“By your dad?”

“No.” He gives me a sharp look like I’ve got some nerve saying that. “Some of my friends from the South Side paid me a visit.” He rolls his eyes. His drug connections.

“Oh.”

“They told me to be sure to bring you their best wishes,” he says.

“Screw them.”

“They just said to keep on keeping your mouth shut and there’d be no trouble.”

“Assholes.”

Joey leans back in the chair and rubs his arm. “They said this was just a sample beating, in case I talk.”

“Just stay the hell away from them.”

“I plan to.”

He stares at the TV screen; Ben and Hoss are confronted by some bandits, guns drawn. “My dad sent you a note,” Joey says, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket.

“You told him what happened?”

“No way. But he saw your name in the paper.”

“So what’s the note about?”

“I have no idea.”

I unfold the paper and read it aloud.

MIKE I dint mention the carrots. Put them in when you add the beer and water. Don’t peel them. And don’t use those little babie carrots. Use whole carrots, washed BUT NOT PEELED. Cut off the ends.

—Gus

“Important stuff,” I say, smiling slightly.

Joey shrugs. “He’s a good cook.”

“Yeah, I know. He ought to get a job as a chef.”

“Your girlfriend called me last night and told me I was a total scumbag for letting you hang,” Joey says.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She said if I had any guts at all, I would have fessed up and got you off the hook…. She’s probably right.”

“Probably. But it’s too late now. I’m screwed.”

He shrugs again. “They would have killed me.”

“They didn’t.”

We sit there quietly for several minutes until a commercial for an online dating service comes on the screen.

“So what are you going to do?” Joey asks.

“I don’t know. Get a job in a kitchen or something. My dad says I can get a GED by the end of the summer and go to Lackawanna for a semester or two, then try to transfer out. But I’ll be stuck in Scranton for at least another year.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

I look at him, but I don’t say anything. He’ll be stuck here for longer than that. Probably he’ll inherit the Onager estate and continue its gradual decline.

He leaves a few minutes later. Who knows where he’s headed?

The freezing rain has stopped, and the sun is already out. I watch TV for a couple more hours, then walk downtown and get a sandwich. I kill time with a cup of hot chocolate at Northern Lights, one of the few hip places in the city. It’s a coffee shop across from the courthouse that has things like poetry readings and folk music on the weekends. Students from the U hang out there and eat biscotti and drink espresso.

I ask the guy behind the counter if there are any job openings. He says he doesn’t think so.

So I walk past the Coney Island Lunch, and I see Joey’s father in there, scarfing down a hot dog.

I’ve got nothing to do. So I go in.

He looks up from the booth and waves at me with the stub of the hot dog. I take a seat across from him.

“So that trouble you were talking about bit you on the ass,” he says.

“Yeah. It sucks.”

He wipes some mustard off the corner of his mouth with his wrist. “You want one?”

“Nah,” I say. “I ate.”

“I’m gonna get another.”

He steps up to the counter to order, then walks back over and sits down. “Your mom and dad pissed off?”

I shrug. I hold my thumb and next finger a quarter inch apart. “The house could burn down or they could win the lottery, and their expressions would change this much. So who knows what they think about this. They hardly said anything.”

“Tell you what,” he says. “If Joey got booted out of school, he’d hear about it big-time.” Then he laughs. “His mom would tear him a new one.”

“Would she?”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know. She finally stopped beating him up a few years ago…. She whacked me pretty good a few times, too.”

“You never hit him?”

“Never.”

“That’s about what he said.”

“It’s true.”

A waitress brings over his hot dog and asks me if I want anything. I’m taking up space, so I figure I ought to get something. So I order a soda.

“Let me ask you something,” he says. “Your dad ever have a real job?”

“What do you mean? He’s a professor.”

“Yeah. I mean, did he ever do anything else? Just wondering. Seems like if you’re gonna teach, you’d be better at it if you did something else first, you know? Got real-world experiences. Played sports, at least.”

I shake my head. “No. He didn’t.”

“Just was wondering. No big deal. Real-world experience means a lot.”

I’m not allowed on the high school campus at all, but I walk over that way around four o’clock. From a block above, I can look down into the stadium and watch my former teammates working out, running 200-meter intervals, throwing the shot and discus on the infield, working on starts and hurdles. I can hear the coaches’ whistles and the high-jump bar clanging to the ground after a miss, and I can feel the pain and the effort as guys struggle toward the finish line or try to propel themselves through the air.

I’d be the best athlete in the stadium if I was out there.

Maybe I’ll run that marathon this fall after all; something to point toward, keep me focused until this is all behind me and I can start competing again for real. When I finally get to college.

But I already feel disconnected. I’ve spent years aiming toward this spring, my final high school track season. It’s like all that preparation has been erased.

“I thought I might find you here.”

I turn and see Shelly walking up the hill toward me with a tight smile. I fold my arms and nod slowly.

“Free at last,” she says.

“Out on my ass is more like it.”

She stands next to me and looks down at the track. “You should be out there,” she says, barely above a whisper.

I nod. She sounds really sad for me, which makes me feel sad for her.

Watching practice from up here feels like one of those near-death experiences you read about, where a guy says his spirit was hovering above a crash scene, watching the paramedics pull his body out of the wreckage.

She looks down at the wobbly sidewalk, old slates pushed up at uneven angles.

I stare at the hurdlers, whacking the barriers with their feet as they strain toward the finish line. “Why’d you stop running?” I ask her. “Competing, I mean.”

“Just didn’t like it,” she says. “I liked it when I was fourteen, but I just don’t have that need to kick anyone’s ass anymore…. The way you do.”

“Yeah. Like I do.”

She starts to speak, then stops. She waits another minute, then asks slowly, “How could you do that, Mike?”

“Do what?”

“Let yourself get so screwed over.”

“What would you have done?”

“
Fought
it.” She looks at me in disgust. “Tell them what happened.”

“I did.”

“You did what?”

“I told them what happened. I bought some joints. They got delivered to my locker. The cops found them. End of story.”

She shakes her head. Her voice is subdued again. “That’s not the whole story.”

“It’s the only part that matters.”

She lets out a sigh and kicks at one of the bumps in the sidewalk. “Mr. Integrity, huh?”

“I gotta live with myself.”

“Stupid.” She spits the word out. Then she starts crying.

I put my hand on her shoulder, and she leans into me. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m stupid. But I’ll get over it. So will you.”

“I can’t believe you let yourself get kicked out of school.”

“School sucks anyway. I’ll survive.”

“That’s great, Mike. Good luck living the rest of your life in
Scranton.
”

She’s got to be kidding me. This is a onetime screwup, not some pattern. “I’m not
that
stupid,” I say.

“I hope not.”

“Would that be so bad if I did?”

“Did what?”

“Stayed in Scranton.”

She slowly starts shaking her head again. “You’re better than that, Mike, and you know it.”

And with that, she starts walking away. I let her go. Maybe I’ll catch up to her someday.

I stand there for a long time, staring at the athletes in the stadium, unable to move from this spot. And I start thinking about what
my
obit might be like, hopefully a long time in the future.

Born and raised in Scranton, Michael attended Lackawanna Junior College for a year before transferring to Lock Haven University of Pennsylvania, where he excelled in cross-country and track and field. In later years, he was a three-time winner of the Steamtown Marathon.

Down on the track, Jay and Rico are leading a pack of runners racing around the far turn. They’re running steady but hard, probably a 400-meter trial. Both of them are faster than I am but not as strong.

He is survived by four successful children and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

If I was out there, I’d be right on Rico’s shoulder, pushing him along the backstretch and ready to make my move, feeling the strain but working right through it.

He was the author of several beloved novels and movie scripts.

If I was out there, they’d be sweating it big-time, not just because of the work but because they’d know I was stalking them, ready to pounce.

He traveled widely and had many friends.

And now, just before the final turn, I’d be bursting past them, kicking it into a higher gear and moving to the inside lane. They’d be straining to stick with me, but I’d be tougher; there’d be no quit in me anymore.

He took some hard shots, but he never, ever gave up.

If I was out there, I’d roar onto the finishing straightaway, opening up the lead, driving hard, capitalizing on all that work I put in this winter.

That’s what I’d be doing.

If I was out there.