With Garvey, it's all about "treatment". Gym-rat that I was, over the years I observed Garvey administering minor first aid to his players. He applied pressure to bloody noses and massaged or otherwise manipulated bruised and pulled muscles. In the latter case, some Atomic Balm and an ace bandage were usually employed. I thought nothing of it when he offered to help me with my particular recurring pain: headaches. Although I was too young to play on any team, I got the impression that he liked me and when he offered to rub my head, I was flattered to get his attention in front of the older guys. He instructed me to lie down on the bleacher and rest the back of my head in his lap. He then proceeded to "drain my sinuses" as he had diagnosed the source of my problem. This involved rubbing my forehead and temples and then using his fingers in a squeegie-like fashion to push the loosened mucous down towards the back of my nasal passages where I could swallow it. In addition (and this part was extremely painful) he would apply increasing pressure, with the fleshy portion of his thumb, to my eye in an attempt to force the mucous out from behind my eyeball and socket. More massaging, more squeegie-ing, more thumbing, more squeegie-ing. The thing is, bizarre as it sounds, it worked.
I have a history of headaches. From as early as first grade I had episodes of head pain so severe that I would throw up. Ordinarily that meant an afternoon with my head on my desk or in the nurses office until one of my older siblings could take me home because my mom worked. My third grade teacher sometimes gave me a ride home on such occasions. Several years later, when I was eleven years old, I had a headache. I was in the principles office. We were talking about my being excused for the day but she wanted to call my parents to make sure that I was allowed to go home and be there all by myself. Garvey poked his head into the office and took the chair next to me across from her. He intimated a knowledge of my headache history and let it be known that it was pretty much my own damn fault because if I came to him more regularly for treatment this was avoidable. He convinced her that he would take care of me and assured her that I would be fine.
We got in his car, a new gold Ford Torino, and drove to his apartment which was in a cul de sac nestled between Pine Ave. and Old French Rd. off of Parade St. Blvd. Once there he directed me upstairs to his bedroom where he said I needed to work up a sweat to get the mucous flowing and thereby more easily drainable. It was the next instruction that shook me. Instead of reclining with my head in his lap as had become customary, he now wanted me to take my clothes off. I hesitated. I was scared and confused but here was this man that I trusted, that everyone respected and trusted. He must have seen it in my eyes because he said something like, "Get in the bed and let's get this over with. I don't have a lot of time. I have to get back for practice. If you want me to help you...". He told me to take off my underwear, too. I complied.
He took off his clothes except for his white T-shirt, briefs and dark socks. For years I had stolen glances at the raw, red patches at the base of his neck and hairline that were visible above his collar. I inwardly screamed when he would lean back in his desk chair and, baring gritted teeth, picked at his scalp. What I saw now, horrified me. His entire body was a patchwork of red, scaly psoriasis sores. He didn't seem to notice my reaction. He removed his glasses and reached across the bed and placed them on the nightstand. When he was lying on his back on the bed, he instructed me to get on top of him, torso to torso, face to face. He pulled the topsheet and blanket over the top of us and told me to begin rotating my hips in an oval lateral fashion. I must not have done it right because he put his hands on my hips and directed me. This went on, rhythmically, uninterrupted, for what seemed an eternity before he said I could stop. Then he rolled me over on to my left side and, from behind me, began to rub my sinuses.
Other than our position, this part was no different than any other sinus session. He workrd my head and my headache went away. Or at some point it had. What happened next surprised me. He wrapped his arms around me and pinning my arms to my sides made me struggle to gain my freedom. I struggled. I grunted. I fought. And when I felt a sense of futility, because every time escape seemed near he reasserted himself, I whimpered. He told me that if I quit and didn't break free, he would "rap" me, I struggled until I had no more to give. Eventually, he let me go. He called me weak and told me we'd have to work on it, my upper body strength that is. I dressed in silence and we drove to practice together.
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