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Table of Contents

1. Acknowlegements

2. Matt the Jock

3. The Princeton Rugby Guy

4. It Seems We're Always Practicing Something In Life

5. Into the Light

6. Fresh Page of a Book (Afterward)

Acknowledgements

Anthony V. Fiumara, Christopher J. Noyes - your dedication is above and beyond friendship and love. You, Antonio and Mr. Noyes are truly treasured. For making me believe, My Mama Rose, Rose Marie Polanco. My sister Jeannie, at an early age you gave me my first typewriter, and myriad tales. A nod to you - Ari, Franciska, George, Heather, Wendy. R.J. Powers, many thanks.

Welcome to Los Angeles, California and Cambridge, Massachusetts and the far stretches of imagination.

This is 1982.

Matt the Jock

Like the lilt of a song, I have only heard once - whose name I do not know, this great desire persists. Like the quest of an Olympian, my aim is fixed.

Land’s End

Crossing the brilliant sky, soaring above the six young athletes standing on the sand; the ball was thrown with might and too high to be brought into play, even so; this did not deter the players from competing to take possession of the football. Their vision almost completely obscured by the unshielded sun the teenage jocks made a scrum for the ball as it completed its descent toward the shore.

“Adolescent pastime at the edge of the world!” Raymond, the team's leader, teasingly shouted - emphasizing his jest with a power-packed hurl of a football in Matthew's direction.

Afternoons on a beach playing football with his team provided Matthew with countless anecdotes. Earlier in the week during an impromptu school assignment, Matthew’s team was the inspiration for a short story. The title of Matthew's two-page story - “An Adolescent Pastime at the Edge of the Earth” – incited Raymond's harmless ribbing.

Waves swirled against the sand as the crew used the tide as an out-of-bounds marker. These closely bound friends tackled and teased one another; they snagged, tipped and tossed the ball; often losing more than one football to the untamed tides.

This was not the edge of the world, but a southern California beach where “Matt-the-Jock”, along with his partners-in-sport practiced for yet another year of games – competitions, which always began in autumn. “Who cares about the boys of summer – the fall is when the real action takes place,” Matthew, at the beginning of his academic year, razzed one of the players from his school's baseball team.

A friendly intra-school rivalry between Matthew and a few fellows on the baseball team began when the school newspaper quoted him verbatim. “If baseball is America's favorite pastime – no wonder we're in so much trouble.” The fact the school reporter, in the same article, poetically wrote of Matthew, “Matt-the-Jock's sporting, with every catch and fling, is like a work of art in motion,” might have agitated the maelstrom within this low-key competition among high school jocks. For certain, the article caused Matthew's close friend and teammate, Erick, to bristle. After all, it was Erick, whom tagged Matthew with the nickname “Matt-the-Jock.” Shortly after the article surfaced, Erick, passing the reporter in a school hallway, mumbled, “Plagiarizer,” under his breath.

“Game time!” Buck, one of the most competitive on the team, playfully splashing Erick and Matthew with ocean water, called out poking fun, “At the edge of the world!”

“Making sense of the origin of Buck’s name is similar to decoding a labyrinth,” Matthew said of his big buddy. Buck’s father - with his love for the classic novel The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn - gave him the name Huckleberry. Buck, whose burly size, even at a young age, commanded respect, barked - “My name is Huck!” to anyone who dared address him as Huckleberry. It was not until seventh grade during a not so friendly competition of tackle football – the name Buck was fixed. “His name is Buck!” Erick declared, slapping Buck on the back – after the match which was their introduction.

Dodging a tackle, Matthew laughed at his own larger-than-life language - with his good-nature he could enjoy the banter almost as much as the intense practice.

There was some exceptional force that surrounded not-so-conceited Matthew. Though he was the shortest in stature of the squad, young Matt-the-Jock’s persona, stood tall. Maybe it was his striking appearance; with looks inherited from his Mother. Her family ancestry a product of pure Spanish blood, with many years washed over since being in the “New World,” combined with his father's ultra masculine features. Certainly, being crowned with a masterful talent for football didn't hinder his elevated teenage status. In either case, separate and combined, in a laid-back style, Matthew possessed these coveted qualities.

Despite all the positive attention allotted him for being a model student and superior athlete - Matthew was still a teenager - complete with young angst and all the questions without answers, explorations to be had, and urges to be satisfied.

Matthew shook the salty water off his curly dark hair, and then brushed a flake of sand away from his deep green eyes; before joining the other young sportsmen to line up for another play. Buck, the most powerfully built of the bunch, uneasily passed the football to Matt, while Thomas, one of the stars of their troupe, attempted to intercept the ball. As ill-thrown as the ball was delivered, and despite Thomas's interference; Matt-the-Jock skillfully completed the play with a superb grab of the football.

“Nice catch,” Lanier, the only redhead and one of the handsomest sophomores in school, shouted out.

“I'll say!” Erick agreed - with a discreet stare in Matthew’s direction - a look only Erick knew was amorous. With a swift glance over his shoulder, Matthew tossed the ball to Buck.

Breaking away from practice mode; the entire team, minus Erick, playfully roared and charged Matthew. Tackling him, they caused Matt to fall into the waves.

Jumping from the water, Matthew's trunks slid midway between his hips and backside, revealing a handsome, perfect tan line around his beautifully shaped bottom. “Show off!” Erick slapped Matt's firm behind.

“What?" Matthew sounded slightly embarrassed, "They slid down, from the water and Thomas and Lanier wrestling me into the …”

“I was talking about,” Erick laughed, “I was talking about your game today – Matt the Jock! But, hey, you have got a lot to show off,” with an exaggerated gesture, Erick pretended he was sizing up Matthew's butt, “back there, too.”

After practice, following goodbyes to their brothers in sport, as was their custom; Erick and Matthew sat alone overlooking the ocean on the highest cliff they could find. Some days they would remain silent enjoying the view, other days they were confessional. Then there were times they would find humor in childish things, only young people their own age would think comical. Laughter or not, together they would see their day disappear measured by the setting sun.

“An adolescent pastime,” Erick forced a casual tone. Then with a warm smile, gazing into Matt's eyes, “It really is an excellent title,” Erick nudged Matt's arm to punctuate his authenticity.

“I'll agree with you – thanks, by the way – only because my grade was...”

“Grade-A? Matt-the-Jock you're not real. I swear! Anything you can't do?”

“Yup, there is. Heck, maybe I'll tell you after next practice.” Matthew had a wistful expression, as his voice became softer with each word, “Or, maybe... never.”

“Listen!" Erick spoke in a peppy voice, "What time should I pick you up for that party tonight?”

“I haven't even agreed to go – yet. I'll let you know - By seven, post meridian, latest. Besides, I have to do, ah…," Matthew's handsome face took on a childlike quality, "I'm a good boy.”

“With a bad-boy streak waiting to be unleashed,” Erick teased.

“I, well,” Not wanting to dismiss Erick's invite, Matt answered as best he could. “I would, have to, sneak out, to stay out that late.”

“See!” Erick exclaimed, adding his usual short laugh. “You do have a bad-boy side. A good boy would never have thought of a scheme like that!”

Parties Fall

Entering the party with Erick, Matthew – with his athlete's instinct, surveyed the room. Matt stopped himself to take in the spectacle, otherwise known as the party guests: Two male college studs in a passionate embrace near the entrance, three college girls, of ambiguous sexuality, with colorfully painted eyes, teased hair, and voluptuous bodies seated on the back of a sofa. However, the sight which beguiled young Matt was two sexy gangster-type Mexicans, more commonly called Cholos. The Cholos, with their bronze, buff arms, butch self-assurance and street-armor attire, were giving one another love-bites on the neck and shoulders. For a moment Matthew had the impulse to joke to his travel companion Erick, “They're not fighters they're biters; I mean, lovers." After shaking off the sight of the Cholos; Matthew found himself mesmerized by the sounds playing over the stereo system. Matthew was literally standing in place until Erick hauled him away from the front door of the house. “We're blocking the entrance,” Erick advised. Matt's first words at the party were stirred, not by the heady scene, but by his fixation with the music. “I've never heard this song, what is it?”

“It's Siouxsie! ‘Christine', come on.” Erick quickly answered, prodding Matthew to an unknown destination in the house. “Susie? Christine? Is that the song or the singer?” With a voice of a child filled with wonder, Matthew persisted, “I need to know; I want to buy it -”

“Don't stress it!” Erick, who seemed unusually rushed and jittery, hurriedly answered. “I'll give you my copy of the album.” Pushing through a cluster of people in the living room, Erick led Matthew closer toward an empty hallway, near a laundry room at the back of the house.

Surprisingly, the two friends ran right into the most conservative, up-tight student from their high school - Megan Wryght. Being rushed away by Erick; Matthew unintentionally abandoned his manners; passing Megan without so much as a “Hi."

“She’s never going to let it go, my rude behavior.” Matthew didn’t bother to look back and see Megan standing at a distance, hands on her hips, snarling. “Everyone at school will hear about this,” Matt shook his head.

“Think she’d admit to being here? Forget her! I wanted us to - want to talk to you about…” Erick spouted, while in transit through the merriment.

“Whose house did you say this is?” Matthew was looking around the room while briskly walking at Erick's side.

“No idea,” Erick quickly replied, while rushing Matthew toward the hallway. “I was invited by, someone, can't remember. But hey, you like the music, right?”

Before Matthew could answer, he found himself standing with Erick in the cramped niche which seemed reserved for the two friends.

Around midnight, the guests were exiting the party; even so, the festive atmosphere was kept alive by those who remained. In the living room, from cheap speakers, came blaring Marvin Gaye's voice singing Distant Lover - loud enough to be heard throughout the house and into the streets.

As if on cue, Tino entered pushing the front door and inadvertently, one male party guest, out of his way.

Tino, like his cousin and companion for the bash, Jeannie, and their friend Harvard - was born in an undesirable area - the wrong side of the tracks - one might say. And Tino had the bold attitude to prove it. Tino mostly dressed in buttoned to the collar, plaid shirts and baggy workmen's pants. Tino's shoes were, not perfectly shined, tonight, and this didn't bother him one bit. Usually, it wasn't until Tino opened his mouth; any hint of his flamboyant nature was evident. His voice, a strong tone, with a hint of his brief time spent in Brooklyn, with his mother's family. It was never his voice, but the things he would say, which drew attention. This evening, Tino wore a white shirt, with the button nearest the collar fastened, along with dark baggy jeans.

“Distant lover!” Tino deliberately sang off-key, “Irma's here! Where's the beer?!”

“You don't drink beer!” Jeannie, with one foot through the doorway, snapped. As she marched in directly behind Tino, she gave him a solid slap on his shoulder. Then, shoved away the perturbed, thrust-away-by-the-door, party guest.

“I can't yell out - Irma's here! Where's the sparkling water?!” Tino, proud of his verbal comeback, wore an expression of triumph.

"Who the frajito is Irma?"

“My drag name!” Tino countered flippantly.

“Your?” Jeannie was not amused.

“You never know – I may have to take on a new vocation – or second job, hard times, Jeannie, hard times.”

“Hard head – Tino,” Jeannie smacked the back of Tino's skull, before confidently walking further into the cheerful setting.

Gathering his bravery, aggravated-pushed-by-the-door guest, approached Tino. Quickly, Jeannie intervened, speaking swiftly and authoritatively, “I will read your horoscope, tarot cards, and prostate exam - you're dismissed." With her last word, Jeannie took Tino by the arm and left the less-than-festive-feeling party guest near the door.

Jeannie, a senior in high school, had an authoritative manner beyond her age. Though she could quip as fiercely as any "queen," she never lost her own personality, and her delivery was affective in her calm, slightly sensual, definite voice.

Tino, like a secret service agent, took his place immediately at his cousin’s right side.

“Cousin Dearest, there has to be something to drink in this habitat, or did Grandma Chuy pack a hip flask for us to share?” Tino forced an exasperated voice, then called out, "A little libation here!"

Ignoring Tino, Jeannie slowly looked around the room. She did not see anyone she was friendly with. “To quote – someone," Jeannie affected a superior theatrical accent, speaking loud enough for those standing nearby to hear her, "If you people are trying to impress me; you are sadly failing.”

Scoping out the room, Tino sent the two Cholos – who at this point had decided to stand pant and shirtless, a mock look of disapproval, as he mouthed, “No shame, no shame, none." When he caught the eye of his ex-boyfriend Martin, Tino made the sourest face possible, before abruptly turning his back to Martin, discouraging conversation.

“Oh good," noticing Tino's brief eye-to-eye connection with Martin, Jeannie could not resist poking fun, "you're ex-boyfriend is here.” Quickly, in a whining voice, she mimicked her younger relative, “Which one?”

“That's not what I was going to say! And that doesn't sound like me." Tino was fussing with his ill-fitting collar, "Furthermore, I'll use that line, about not being impressed when you're not around.”

“Since that is my original dialogue, you'll have to pay me royalties - queen.”

“Are you sure we're related?” Tino coughed, as he haphazardly busted off a button from his shirt.

“The results of the blood tests have not been fully determined. I'll let you know once the results reach my desk." Jeannie cleared her throat, "Oh, and if you and your inamorato get into, one more of your - heated rows, make yourself useful and destroy some of this furniture - it's hideous.”

"Yes, there's a lot of that going around - hideous, I mean."

“That Martin, what did you see in him? He looks like he's been tested on animals.”

“That's not funny! Those poor animals suffer, and it's so mean,"

Tino shook an opened palm, as his rapid-fire voice echoed throughout the room, "Besides, if Harvard heard you say that, he'd get all, well, well, you know, you know.”

“No, no, I don't know. In fact, most of the time, I don’t know what you're caterwauling about."

"Where is Harvard, anyway?" Tino looked around the room, "Is he in one of his moods again?" Tino stood with a hand on his hip, facing Jeannie, "Well?"

"Harvard has been in one of those moods for at least seven years." Jeannie decided she would have some fun, testing Tino's quickness, "Harvard and some made-of-muscle linebacker are barricaded in the laundry room - doing one another's panties.”

"Is that even possible?" Tino exaggeratedly coughed.

"It's possible, but not tonight. I think he's still on the porch, polishing his glasses."

Jeannie had a talent for restructuring clothes and making them her own. Often when making an entrance Tino would narrate, while walking near and around Jeannie, as if displaying a new creation. Tino's, all too frequently used, stunt went along these lines: “With her vintage clothes, tailored to perfection by her Grandma Chuy, along with a few of her own original designs thrown in; updated bell-bottoms, Moroccan bells on the wrist, flashy Mexican patterns used as accents – she garners positive attention. To this gathering, she wears her dark slacks, that fit high to the navel, with over-sized buttons across the waist, vintage nineteen-forty-something-ish shoes, and a jacket with velvet shaved so close it takes some squinting to decipher the material. Her thick, raven-black hair pulled back and bushy. Her make-up understated, with the exception of the crimson lipstick – an outfit sure to command notice. You'll note, as if some aura of supremacy surrounds Jeannie, the party guests will now make way for her entrance.”

This evening, the disturbance during their entrance prevented Tino's predictable ritual. Unknown to the two cousins; entrance into this party would initiate a new friendship, with Matt-the-Jock. A friendship, which would endure and soon be prized by every member of this young troupe.

Like Jeannie, Harvard, her friend since age one, had his own trademark wardrobe, albeit less designed - his look was set. The perennial light khakis worn with a crisp button-down shirt and canvas sneakers topped off by his dark geek glasses. There were a few alterations to his attire. On occasion, Harvard would wear black shiny wing-tip shoes, made from recycled natural materials - heaven forefend he should wear the skin of an innocent animal. Although vintage clothing, unlike Jeannie, was not his specialty, one treasure Harvard would occasionally wear was a second-hand bow tie, found in a used clothing store, with the logo from the Harvard Club of Boston. Tonight, was not one of those occasions, the bow tie rested neatly at home, in his wardrobe.

Both Jeannie and Harvard would categorize their relationship the same, "More than friends; we're family." Alike and dissimilar in so many ways - still Harvard and Jeannie both carried themselves with a confidence and maturity above their years.

Seated at the very corner of the front porch, while all around him a party atmosphere was steady - Harvard sat and read from the paperback in hand. No thank you; I am a Roman Catholic and see a grand display of drama, of much more significance, on any Sunday for free. Even though Harvard was not a Catholic, he would use this self-created line to dismiss invites to, what he called, wasteful engagements. Jeannie was one of maybe three people capable of convincing Harvard to attend, what he called, "pointless events." I promised to accompany Jeannie and Tino. I did not say a thing about joining in on the revelry, with a smart look on his face, Harvard turned the book pages to the next chapter, and gave a satisfied nod.Entranced by the opened pages in his hand, even though he had read them numerous times before, Harvard sat contentedly alone. Two knuckle-heads - unnoticed by the bookworm - stood over him. If this was a cartoon - One of the knuckle-heads would have smoke swirls surrounding him - from with the amount of pot he'd been smoking. The other, a true hanger-on, nervously fidgeted in place and belched to announce their presence. The lead pot-head, in a mimicking tone, spoke to Harvard, "Hey dude, what ya reading?" This drew a huge laugh from his fidgety pal. Harvard, marked the page he was reading with a bend at the top of the page. "The Sylvia Plath Cookbook - Baking Guide," barely looking up at the two, he casually responded. As if it were possible, the knuckle-heads were now even more confused - by Harvard's response. "Oh, yea, right, I think we had that as a class assignment, freshman year," the chief pot-head said, with sincerity. "Yea, yea, I remember." The fidgety follower echoed. As the two pot-smoking-party guest departed, Harvard, with a sardonic grin, returned to his reading.Looking like an advertisement for Beautiful American Youth, the two comrades were standing, backs leaning on opposing walls in the soon to be, infamous passage.

“Thanks for bringing me to this party in the antechamber,” Matthew spoke from his limited repertoire of wise-guy voices,

“You drive me to this house party - the party is out there - we pushed our way through - to be alone – into the smallest possible space – stellar.”

Erick moved closer to Matthew, adoringly; he kissed Matthew on the cheek, then, softly; he attempted to make his way to Matthew's lips. Stunned, Matthew jumped back, deflecting Erick's passionate advance.

“I can't – “ Matthew jumbled his words, responding to Erick's sensual overture, “I don't want - I don't -

I'm not. Erick?”

“Man!" Both hurt and surprised, Erick's voice was sudden, "Matthew. I thought you. This is - Damn! Let’s put this in the safe, please, Matt.”

Dazed by Erick's public display of affection; Matthew stepped back as far as possible within the tiny space. Two thoughts ran through his head: Did Erick's put this in the safe, suggest – I should be mute about Erick being Gay? Did he mean – let’s keep a secret, the fact Erick’s affectionate pass was unsuccessful? The latter thought, made Matthew feel a bit ashamed, especially seeing the injured look in Erick's eyes.

“Matthew? Aren't you?” Erick quickly covered his tracks, “You know I have a girlfriend.”

“And you want me to take her place tonight?” Feeling awful about the entire scene, Matthew made a feeble attempt at humor.

“Man,” Erick mumbled in a barely audible voice.

“Sorry Erick," Not wanting to hurt anyone’s - especially Erick's - feelings, Matthew spoke with empathy. "I'm not sure what to do." After a brief pause, Matthew offered, “You don't have to drive me home.”

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