Some summers there would be a sort of summer league in which we were more or less expected to participate. Combinations of former, current, and future players would be teamed up. It was a way to make sure you weren't getting rusty, to show your face (and your intent) around Garvey, and for Garvey to keep tabs on you. Sometimes impromptu group practices would be set up and I attended if at all possible. Although these practices were supposedly voluntary, Garvey routinely asked after certain players, and to be absent from too many of these sessions was suicidal unless you were irreplaceable. These workouts usually consisted of a scrimmage of some sort. Anywhere from two-on-two to five-on five. Garvey would pick the teams, although sometimes he let two captains, older guys, pick their own teams, and we generally would play 20 minute periods, the clock running non-stop like in soccer. I didn't mind these practices so much. I had grown to like the relaxed atmosphere, the summertime smell of the stuffy old gym, and the bounce and echo of the dribbled ball on the hardwood floor amidst the squeaks and squeals of sneakers pushed to their limit in the otherwise deserted building. To be here in the summer you were truly in with the "in" crowd.
But there were other practices. More private practices. Practices attended by two, maybe three or four, players. At these sessions we ran various drills. Drills to improve our skills. We would form a line and take turns driving the baseline for a reverse layup. The shooter retrieving and passing the ball back to the next in line. We would repeat this until Garvey said we were done. Then we would do the same thing from the other side of the basket. Right-handed. Then left-handed. Again. And often again and again until he was satisfied. To up the ante, Garvey would set a time limit, usually two or three minutes, and set a seemingly arbitrary goal of twenty or thirty successful shots. We would race to hit the alotted number of shots before time elapsed. If we achieved our goal too easily, he would up the goal or shorten the time. It was not until years later that I realized that the time was kept on Garvey's wrist, and that gave him complete control over the results. We would move from the baseline drill to dribbling drills in which we raced the length of the court, again right-handed, then left-handed. Shooting drills, stationary from the corners, from the wings, the head of the key. My least favorite was the drill in which Garvey stood under the basket and rolled the ball out towards the perimeter. We were expected to chase down the ball and taking one dribble only, launch a successful jumpshot. This drill could be grueling. The more you ran, the more tired you felt and the heavier your arms would get, yet the goal would stay the same, and the time allowed was ratcheted to ensure the need for maximum focus and effort.
So what's the big deal? Just a few drills, right? Well, failure to achieve your goal had repercussions. In slightly larger groups, Garvey tended to dole out laps. At more private sessions the penalty became "raps". Failing got you a "rap". Success could take one away. No mistake about it, this was serious business for the player involved.
When these practices were held at St. Johns, the raps were meted out in a dusty, musty old room in the northwest corner of the gym, under the place where one day the score clock would hang. This room was commonly called "the ball room" because for years it was where the basketballs were kept, along with the dustmops, etc... Well it also did a fine job as a summertime "rap" room. At the appointed time, you would go into the ball room, Garvey would bare-ass paddle you in the fashion described in my previous posts (see "Rap sessions", June 22, 2005) and then you would re-emerge. The other guys simply stood outside, in the gym proper, and waited their turn. If you happened to be the only one taking part in one of these sessions, Garvey sometimes dispensed with the formality of the ball room and paddled you right out in the gym proper.
On one occasion, I came to one of these practices to work out with two slightly older guys. At the time, I was kind of new to this. At one point, one of us brought up the fact that the gym was really hot even though we were already shirtless. Garvey suggested that we go ahead and remove our gym trunks as well. The others did so, seemingly without a second thought. To me, this whole thing seemed rather odd but it wasn't like I hadn't been naked in front of all these same guys many times before, so I followed suit. The sight of us running around performing these drills, in nothing but our jockstraps, socks, and sneakers, was comical even to me. And after a mid-session paddling, playing while displaying our newly acquired hand-shaped welts made the whole scene surreal, if that word had been in my pre-teen vocabulary. In hindsight (pun intended) this was just an excuse for a cheap Chippendale show for a sadistic pedophile. But at the time, none of us questioned it. And that, looking back, was Garvey's magic. He managed to put you in questionable situations, performing acts that became incrementally more and more homo-erotic, one step at a time, all the while passing them off as routine or ordinary, until one day you looked at what you were doing and wondered how you had ever gotten to this point. And not only did one not outwardly question it, as much as I didn't like aspects of it, he made you an active participant in your own abuse, making you believe it was for you own good. I accepted it as the status quo. As kids, I think many of us did. Luckily, graduation provided some distance and a cessation of such abuse for most of us. Unfortunately for some, as Chuck Rosenthal has outlined in his book, Never Let Me Go: A Memoir, the abuse didn't stop here for all of us. And, unfortunately, some of us carry on with him to this day, as adult men, never having broken that manipulative tether, maintaining Garvey's dirty little secret because he has made it our own. But that topic is for another day.
In the end, my skills did improve, but not my standing on the team. I never quite seemed to be able to play well enough. I played better and I played worse. The poorer play drew harsh criticism and reminders that I wasn't doing everything that I could to improve. That I was neglecting a facet of my goal pursuit. With Garvey, our goal pursuit. Ever so bitter the disappointment, I tried harder. My performance seemed to be erratic and sometimes totally out of my control. Only "treatment" seemed to consistently improve my play. I always played better after "treatment". But no matter how hard I worked, the carrot never got close enough for me to taste. It was always just out of reach. I was being manipulated, but I was just too young to know it. I began calling for special practices that only I attended. I asked for them because I needed them, didn't I?
Coming soon: The summer of my discontent
predafile@hotmail.com
