SWEET SURRENDER

Certain People Standing in line at a convenience store— not far from New Orleans—I became a pawn in some bigot’s game. I’d met the type, up in Maine, the way life should be... They exist there too.  That big mural of my grandfather’s he had painted on the wall in his woodshop, above the woodstove and piles of sawdust and cigarettes, even taught me to believe it was alright to kill certain people. It showed a Japanese Naval ship being blown up by a United States Navy War Plane circa 1944 complete with flames and screaming bodies. My catholic jesus, my catholic grandfather, my catholic little boy self sat there on winter nights feeding sticks into the fire while the woodsmoke made its way into the new england sky. We produced pine wood derby cars out there, a guitar, clocks in the shape of Maine, and as I watched grampa work, I felt safe. I grew up hearing jokes about spear chuckers and faggots, more light hearted ones about the Portuguese guy's wife. The Jews, the Itali...

Dean’s Game Face  Sometimes on a sticky summer day, I’ll smell the grass, and think of Dean.   Dean, waiting for me at the end of a gauntlet with his big paw ready to slap my balls. Dean, who had a beard and an ATV when he was 12-years-old. Dean at the end of the line waiting for me while I run  head and shoulders down  holding onto that ball so tight  plowing through those bodies and the concussion of pads and helmets, the hands that threaten to the tear the ball free and just when I see the light there’s  Dean’s big hand going for my crotch and a few seconds later— a pain in my stomach. I fall to the ground still holding the ball,  and can still see Dean through my facemask giggling. The coach screams:  “Judas Priest, god damnit Dean, take a lap,” Dean laughing, looking back, as he trots away and I’d get up calling him a mother fucker and the coach would respond, “And you too.” and then Dean would be laughing and we’d running side by side. Dean ...

34 years later and counting— A bonfire, 1987, homecoming night. I'm there tonight, with a bottle of wine. That night, the number had been owned by this really popular wavy haired blonde kid  who drove a chevy truck before country was cool and who’d made  a name for himself in blue and gold. A recent graduate, playing college ball— up in Orono as they used to say. He’d heard I’d chosen the number he’d worn and spotted me. “You think you can live up to that number,” the voice asked,  dead serious, out of the dark and the heat of the burning pallets that warmed the faces  of the people sipping whiskey poured into coke cans.  I looked up and saw him.  Six two. 200 pounds and good looking. “Yeah. Hi. It was my father’s number too,” I said, feeling  pathetic. I was 14 years old. He smiled. “Well, I hope you have a good season,” he said,  and disappeared towards the coaches, the high school principal, and a few booster people on the far side of the fire....