Flagrant Misconduct by E. Clay
That was a defining moment for me, because it killed the blind trust in all adults I had as a kid. This was underscored by the presence of an adult umpire in the crowd who appeared to be egging everyone on. Anyway, I thought that would be the end of it when the men drove away, but I was wrong; the beatings quickly recommenced with a vengeance. I think the crowd felt validated by the actions of the two men in the car and the presence of other adults watching. They were treating me like an intruder. Maybe in their eyes, I was one.
Somewhere in the midst of the ruckus, I heard a faint but familiar thunder gaining in volume with each passing second. This time, hope wasn’t a mirage; the noise I heard was the sweet sound of Jimbo’s Black Beauty not too far away. Jimbo had a high-performance 440-cubic-inch engine, and it had a distinct rumble that you could hear more than a block away. I felt like a distressed infantryman trapped behind enemy lines observing rescue choppers just over the horizon. I was just hoping to avoid serious injury until he got there. The crowd had already beaten Eddie senseless. He was nearly unconscious and was no longer defending himself against the angry mob. Soon I became the focal point of the madness. I could hear Jimbo’s engine red lining as he desperately shifted through the gears, letting me know it wouldn’t be too much longer. Soon, the crowd looked up to see who the speed demon was. I looked up too, and I saw Jimbo speeding up the street. He was coming from the wrong direction on a one-way street, driving like a possessed banshee. Fortunately, there were no opposing cars, but every pedestrian in the immediate area stopped to observe.
When Jimbo saw the melee in the street, he realized Eddie and I were in the middle of it. Jimbo sped up onto the sidewalk, almost running over the crowd. We could hear the tires screech loudly as he slammed on the brakes. I smelled the burnt rubber from his tires. Jimbo sat there in the car for about thirty seconds with the engine running. This confused the crowd; Jimbo’s intentions weren’t clear. Eventually, he turned off the engine and exited the vehicle. Immediately, the beat down ceased (again); everyone was wondering who this larger-than-life person was.
He was not angry or emotional; all he said was, “Eddie, Clay, you all right?” in a calm voice.
I caught my breath and said, “Yeah, but I don’t know about Eddie.” He was lying there face down next to the curb motionless. He was bleeding from his mouth and ears, and both of his eyes were swollen shut.
“Get in the car,” Jimbo said. I managed to get Eddie up off the ground, and we made it into Jimbo’s car. We got into the back seat, rolled the windows up, and ducked down out of sight. I can’t tell you how happy we were to see him in his black Charger. But Jimbo didn’t immediately return to the car. After a minute or so, I peered over the seat to see what was taking him so long. Once the crowd realized he was there to intercede on our behalf, their anger had shifted squarely on Jimbo. They surrounded him in a three-quarter circle, and it was like a standoff for about ten seconds. You could have heard a pin drop, or at least that’s how it felt; my heart was beating a million miles a second in a fog of uncertainty. The same guy who had tackled me circled behind Jimbo, and then things got quiet. In less than a blink of an eye, mayhem erupted, Jimbo mule-kicked him straight into a parked car, without even looking. Two other guys tried to charge him, and he kicked both of them in the groin. Jimbo became a one-man wrecking crew.
There were a few adults in the crowd. One stepped toward Jimbo, removing the belt from his trousers. He got pimp slapped to the ground. When I saw that, I snickered with my hand over my mouth; it was almost comical. But at the same time, it was creepy. It was the first time I had seen someone knocked unconscious with his eyes still open. Another guy threw a punch at Jimbo. Before it landed, Jimbo struck him in the face with an upward elbow strike. In a split second, the mob went from being predators to becoming the prey. It truly was like watching a movie, but my assailants wouldn’t be the benefactors of a happy ending.
I was tempted to say he was out of control, but in fact, he was ever so calm. He showed no emotion whatsoever; it was just as though he were taking out the trash. It was as if he were there but not there.
Jimbo’s herculean strength, combined with his superior reflexes, knocked the guys out cold. After the first few minutes of enjoyment, it stopped being fun. The only thing on my mind at that time was getting home safely. Although those guys were responsible for the bruises that covered half my body, I felt kind of sorry for them; they had no chance. One guy snuck up on Jimbo during the frenzy and hit him from behind with a bat across his back as hard as he could. I winced because I thought that would take Jimbo down. It didn’t. Jimbo turned around as if it were a mere annoyance. The guy dropped the bat and ran in fear. It must have been one of those aluminum bats by the sound it made when it hit the ground. Jimbo chased him down like a cheetah pursuing a wildebeest.
I looked away for a moment. When I looked back, Jimbo was the last man standing except for the fortunate ones who had managed to get away. Jimbo got into the car, started the engine, and burned rubber in reverse. He then put it in first and floored it, leaving his signature tire marks and a trail of white smoke. As the three of us drove off, I saw a white van slowly pull in next to the curb. Two men in their mid-to-late forties jumped out with green duct tape and black rope. I wasn’t afraid then, because I wasn’t aware of their intentions until Jimbo told us on the way home. I eventually told my dad what happened…twenty years later.
Eddie ended up with a detached retina, a concussion, and two fractured ribs. His injuries unfortunately prevented him from completing the remainder of his senior-year wrestling season. I was the lucky one; I was indeed spared. Aside from some bruises, all I had was a bloody nose and a chipped tooth from when I hit the pavement.
The very next day, I thanked Jimbo for bailing us out. He just gave me this look, as if he didn’t know what I was talking about. I guess that was his way of putting it behind him. We never spoke of that day again.
Chapter 10
Stereotypes
After wrestling practice, Jimbo and I usually put in a few extra laps around the track. We always had fun mocking and impersonating our teachers. One of my favorite teachers was Mr. Walsh, who was almost 300 lbs., bald, and about 5'5" tall. He was our physical education teacher. He didn’t look the part, but I liked his enthusiasm and the fact that he always let us play dodge ball for the last fifteen minutes of the period.
One day, when we were in the locker room after practice, Jimbo admitted that when he first saw me, he didn’t know what to expect. I was surprised to find out that he had never met a Black person before.
“So, now that you know me, do I fit the stereotype?” I asked.
“What stereotype?” Jimbo replied.
“C’mon, I’m sure you know a few,” I said with a smirk on my face.
“Okay,okay,Iknowafew.Iwouldn’tcall them bad, though.”
“What are they, so I can enlighten you?”
“Well…like that all Blacks like fried chicken and drink Kool-Aid, and like all Blacks have rhythm.”
“Myth! Myth! Just a myth, I can assure you of that, I don’t even like fried chicken.”
Jimbo also thought that all Blacks had a secret handshake, and that he had seen me do it in the cafeteria. I convinced him it was not a secret handshake, but more like a greeting among close friends that was commonly referred to as a ‘dap.’ For the next fifteen minutes, I tried teaching Jimbo to dap, but like the fireman’s carry, he didn’t quite get it right. In fact, he wasn’t even close. He was unteachable.
* * * * *
During lunch period, I saw Jimbo and called out, “J. P.! J. P.!”
Jimbo looked up and brought his tray to the table.
“What did you call me?”
“I said J. P.! You know, short for Jimbo Pernelli.”
“I kinda like it. I can dig it,” J. P. said. While we were eating our lunch, we sat next to a table of burnouts. Not one peep. I thought that was cool— really cool.
Halfway through lunch, J.
“You can come over to our house for dinner! I’m sure my folks won’t mind—our house is like a boarding house anyway,” I told him.
“What do you mean?” J. P. said.
“Well, with my dad being a pastor and all, our house is like a place where problem kids go when their parents don’t know what else to do. Almost like a boot camp for lost kids.”
“Wow…your dad sounds like a really cool dad.”
“Yeah, he is. I never know who will be sitting at the dinner table when I come home.”
“Okay, so after practice we will go to your house and ask permission.”
“Great—I won’t have to take the bus.” I hated taking the bus.
When we arrived at the front door, my mom was surprised to see me with this gentle giant. He lowered his head and walked in.
“My name is Joshua, Mrs. Thompson, but everyone calls me Jimbo.” I then asked my mom if it was okay for J. P. to join us for dinner.
“Of course,” she said. As I took my coat off, I noticed a new kid watching TV in the living room. I asked who he was.
“Oh, that’s Andre. He’s Deacon Wright’s kid. He’s having a tough time at home. He will be here…just until things settle down. You know.”
Shortly afterward, my dad came home from bible study. While hanging up his coat in the closet, he said, “Whose black ‘69 Dodge Charger is that sitting in my driveway with the 10-foot CB antenna?”
“It’s mine, sir. Do you want me to move it?” said J. P.
“Move it? The Charger is one of the last of the muscle cars. You’ll have to let me have a look.”
“Sure, Mr. Thompson,” said J. P.
“You can call me Reverend T. What is your name, son?”
I introduced him to my dad and my dad responded, “So, J. P., are you staying for dinner?” When we were all seated at the table, my mom walked in with a platter of fried chicken. J. P. winked and smiled at me, and I just rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Immediately, I said, “Mom, let me get the drinks!”
I sprang out of my chair and brought out the iced tea from the refrigerator, leaving the Kool-Aid pitcher behind. My dad said a blessing for the food, and I slightly opened one eye to see what J. P. was doing. Yup, he was praying as well.
“Clay is planning to join the Marines. Have you thought about your future, J. P.?” my Dad inquired.
“You know, Rev. T., I love cars. One day I would like to own a small fleet of cabs.” Then I repeated the rest. “Be your own boss, no tie, know how your day will begin and end.”
My dad defended him, saying, “It’s an honest living. And with the sorry state of cab services around here, I think it would be a great idea.”
J. P. leaned toward my dad and said, “I know I can do this.” I think it was the first time he had ever heard a supportive comment about his aspirations.
“When people meet me, the first thing they ask me is what sport I play,” J. P. said. “I love sports, I really do, but my first love is cars. I could start out just driving and work my way up.”
My dad asked Jimbo whether his idea was a dream or a goal, and J. P. looked puzzled. “What’s the difference?”
“The difference between a dream and a goal…is a plan,” my dad said. To be honest, I was surprised by my Dad’s reaction as well. My Dad always said, “Plan your work and work your plan, and be the best.”
My dad and J. P. hit it off like old pals, talking mostly about cars. They debated about what was the best muscle car ever built. My dad was a big fan of the 1967 Ford Mustang GT 500, and J. P. went on about the 1969 Pontiac GTO, also known as ‘The Judge.’
My dad said that the GT500 would someday become a collector’s car, and if given the opportunity, he would jump at the chance to buy one. My dad owned a 1977 Ford Country Squire station wagon because it was practical. He had once owned a ‘67 Mustang GT500, but he sold it to his brother Winston after my youngest sister Melanie was born.
“So do you have a church home, J. P.?” my dad asked.
“I used to when my mom was around, but my dad doesn’t go to church.”
“I am so sorry about your mom’s passing. It must have been really hard on you,” my mom said.
“Oh, she’s not dead. She lives in Arizona, with her new husband.”
“If you need a church home, you are more than welcome to make ours your new home,” my dad said. After dinner was over, my dad leaned over to J. P. and said, “Now let’s take a look at the motor.”
Chapter 11
Heavy on My Mind
Thanksgiving fell almost one month into the wrestling season. One of my biggest gripes about the wrestling season was that all the major food holidays fell during it: Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Day, January 10th (my birthday), January 14th (my sister’s birthday), and February 23rd (my mom’s birthday). Why not make it a fall sport that lasted from August to October?
Sitting at the dinner table on Thanksgiving during the wrestling season was like being a recovering wino judging a wine tasting. Cutting weight really does hijack your mind. I started out as a 145-pounder, but I cut to 132 pounds because I considered that my optimal competing weight. When I wrestled at 145 for my first few matches, I was competing with guys who normally weighed 160 or even more. During the wrestling season, I found myself daydreaming about food constantly. I would take pleasure in writing out menus for days when I would be able to eat, like right after a match. The Thursday before my Friday match, I would methodically and lovingly prepare my packed lunch for after Friday’s match. It was ritualistic, and I always did it to music. I didn’t do some of the extreme stuff like purging or taking laxatives, but it was not uncommon for wrestlers to have a spit container on them on the day of a match. Most wrestlers I knew used an empty Coke can. Some wrestlers swore that they could spit the last sixteen ounces off their weight. I remember one Saturday, when a match was canceled due to bad weather, I got so excited because I knew I was going to end my hunger strike and gorge myself silly. I began eating my favorite cereal, Captain Crunch. My dad said goodbye as he walked out the door on the way to the cleaners. When he returned about thirty minutes later with his arms full of dry cleaning, I was still eating. He thought that I was still eating my first serving. Nope: it was my thirteenth.
* * * * *
Eastside High hosted an annual Thanksgiving wrestling invitational. In J. P.’s weight division was the fourth-ranked heavyweight in the state, from Westinghouse. His name was Mark Aguillar. Both J. P. and Mark made quick work of their opponents. J. P., however, was looking somewhat fatigued in his matches. When the referee blew the whistle ending the matches, J. P. was slow to his feet. Even so, no one was able to score a single point against him. On the other hand, Mark Aguillar didn’t surrender a point either. He looked impressive. It wasn’t a surprise when both wrestlers ended up in the finals for the championship match. Much hype preceded this clash of gladiators as the two warmed up for their championship match. Moments later, they were ordered to report to the announcer’s table. Both wrestlers approached the mat and briefly stretched as the referee walked onto the mat. The crowd was silenced and eagerly awaited the showdown. The wrestlers shook hands, and the whistle blew. Mark circled J. P. and shot a double-leg takedown at him. J. P. went straight to his back, and Mark got the takedown. That was the first time I had ever seen anyone score a point on J. P., and it shook me. J. P. had seemed invincible before, and it bothered me to have to question my ingrained perception of infallibility. I didn’t know why, but J. P. was struggling big time. For the entire period, J. P. just did enough to avoid a stalling caution. The second period was a draw; neither wrestler scored a point.
At the beginning of the third period, and J. P. was down 2–0. He had two minutes to score at least three points if he was to secure the win and keep his undefeated streak alive. By the time the referee blew the whistl
There were ten seconds left, and J. P. realized he had to do something. He charged Mark and put him in his signature bear hug. Then he squeezed as hard as he could, let out a scream, and drove Mark to the mat with two seconds left. The referee signaled two points!
All the wrestlers on our team jumped out of their seats and pumped their fists in the air. The match was tied 2–2! His streak was still alive—or so we thought. There is a technicality in wrestling: as soon as a wrestler takes his opponent down with his hands clasped, he must let go immediately to avoid a penalty. The penalty called on J. P. was locked hands. The match ended 1–2; it was J. P.’s first loss ever!
J. P. hung his head in disappointment, shook his opponent’s hand, and headed to the locker room. All of us were deflated, but we knew how much the loss would affect Jimbo. It was his first loss of the season, ending an incredible string of impressive victories. On the bus ride back home, he didn’t say much at all. I was also at a loss for words. As my dad picked me up from school, I saw J. P. waiting out front.
“J. P., where is your car?” I asked.
“It’s in the shop. My dad is picking me up.” As my dad and I drive off, I looked through the rear window and began to panic. J. P. was collapsing.
“Dad! Stop!” I yelled. My dad slammed on the brakes. He was furious at me for screaming at him in the car until he saw J. P. stumbling helplessly. My dad pulled the car around, and we managed to get J. P. into the car. He was pale and shivering uncontrollably and violently. I thought he was going to bite his tongue in half. My dad took off his glove and told J. P. to bite down on it. Then J. P. started experiencing shortness of breath. It was a thirty-minute drive to the hospital, and I kept my eye on him in the back seat the entire way. We got him admitted to the emergency room at Loyola hospital. They brought out a gurney and wheeled him away. The whole time, his only concern was that his dad would be waiting at the school for him.