predafile

Penn State 2011 And Mercyhurst 2003: Similar Revelations

2011-11-10T18:09:00.006-05:00

Is it really all that different? Sure, a few of the details are different... and people seem to actually believe these boys. Good. They deserve all the support we can give them. But is anyone truly surprised by this? As long as we allow men like Jerry Sandusky and William Garvey, men in positions of power, to have the opportunity, privacy and access to exert their influence over our children, our children are not safe. Coaches have an unusual amount of power. The children are young, naive and have been conditioned to please these coaches. That some of these men turn this to their own advantage is not surprising. Sick. But not surprising.

My heart goes out to these latest victims. That this continues to occur sickens me.

It is unfortunate that Garvey couldn't be prosecuted and that those in power at Mercyhurst didn't take responsibility and were not held responsible. Let's see how Penn State handles it.

Here he...

2005-11-01T22:24:00.000-05:00

To this point it was just another "treatment" session (as described in previous post, "Ball-handling drills", 8/6/05): Me, naked, and Garvey in only a t-shirt and dark socks, I lie on top of him rotating my hips under his direction. As he has instructed me, I have my tongue in his mouth while simultaneously I roll his testicles in my hand. After a while of this repetitive monotony, he tells me that this activity has gone on long enough. Then comes the upper-body strength/wrestling portion of what has come to be our routine. This is when he would grab me from behind and restrain me and I was supposed to try to escape:

I twist my body around, violently, trying to extricate myself from his grasp. I am tugging at his forearms and wrists, pulling with all my might. Meanwhile, Garvey has wrapped his legs around me from behind and locked them at the ankles making it nearly impossible for me to do much but wriggle and squirm. I'm praying that I can escape and end this. I just want it to end. Please. I just want to go. Pleeeaase. I flail an arm out to the side as I manage to get it free and my hand lands on the far side of the bed. It hits something. Lands in, on, something that has mostly soaked into the topsheet. There is something on the sheet that feels cool, and vaguely damp but… I reach to feel it again and there it is. A portion of the topsheet is wet, but feels like it’s only a relatively small area … and its feel is smooth and somewhat silky... kind of cool... Is that wet? Or what?

Before I can do anything else, I am wrenched back to the middle of the bed and Garvey wraps his arms around mine, again pinning them to my sides. I manage to break a leg free and I throw my weight back towards the far side of the bed. I reach out again to try and feel around for that spot. I am curious, intrigued. It’s different than our sweat… In my mental wanderings, as I try to direct my thoughts away from this place, away from this predicament, to help me get through the seemingly more and more bizarre bedroom antics with this man, I have stumbled upon something. Something weird. Something that doesn’t belong here. The sheets usually get pretty soaked with the sweat that pours off my body during "treatment" sessions. But this is different. It seems specific to one small area, and more concentrated somehow, I think. I only felt it for those briefest of moments. But the texture is different. Different than anything I have ever felt before. It's kind of like mucous, but not... When I manage to get free enough to try and investigate further, it is gone. The topsheet is crumpled up and finding the mysterious damp whatever is impossible.

I don't say anything about my discovery and I'm not sure that Garvey is aware that I found anything of interest or out of the ordinary. But he must have wondered why I kept reaching over there. He would have to be aware that something was there, wouldn't he? If I didn't have anything to do with it, it must have come from him, right? He must know about it. But Garvey doesn't say anything either, which just makes this more and more weird.

When the treatment session is over, he asks me if I would like a shower, and as I always do, I decline. This time, though, he asks me again. Again I say no. I just want to get out of there. Get some distance. Get on with being a kid. A kid with not so much to think about. A kid without so many damn pressures and obligations, that in truth, I just want to get out from under. A kid without so many demands and questions. What was that in the sheets? I wasn’t imagining it. There was something there alright. There was no denying it and of that I was certain. I just didn't know what. And nothing I currently knew was bringing me any closer to answering any of my questions. I was just too young. I didn’t yet have a clue. And quite frankly, I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about Garvey. He troubled me. It all troubled me. And as much as possible I tried to leave it behind any time or way that I could.

As I have said before, I was terribly unhappy about basketball and my involvement with Garvey. I felt trapped. I dreaded my encounters with Garvey, on and off the court. His behavior towards me was so unpredictable, and mercurial, and erratic. Alternating praise with ridicule. Encouragement with derision. Public acknowledgement with indifference. And it seemed to center around the frequency of our activities in his bedroom, or lack thereof. But what could I do about it? How do I fix everything? Get everything to be OK again? Get me to feel OK again? What can I do?

predafile@hotmail.com

Here he comes

2005-10-06T11:36:00.000-04:00

When they see Garvey’s car round the corner from Ash Street onto 27th I imagine that I can hear them: "Here he comes. Heeere hee cooomes." They are all standing in front of the 27th Street doors to St. Johns. Huddled outside, waiting for basketball practice. Waiting for Garvey. When he arrives, late as usual, I am with him, sitting in the passenger seat of his gold Ford Torino. Through the car window I look at the faces of my teammates and the alums that have come to play against us. As we get out of the car, their eyes are on me. I feel every thought, question, side-long glance, and innuendo, racing through their minds and fired out of their eyes. Every comment muttered under their breath. They have no idea how petty and insignificant their jealousies and machinations are. Or the price I pay for my proximity to the king.

As is customary, as we walk up to the front steps, the the sea parts, and Garvey pulls out his keys. He makes a jocular comment or two directed at one or another of those assembled, and as he does so, unlocks the doors to the school and lets us all inside. Garvey makes no attempt to explain my accompanying him to practice this day, or any other day. There is no sign of the intimacy of the activities of just an hour or so ago. He leaves me to my own devices to fend off their stares. I keep my head down and try to avoid eye contact. The scrutiny I feel at this moment is blistering. Noone says anything to me and I don't say anything to any of them. What would I say to them? "I just had treatment. And you know how I always seem to play my best right after treatment. Nothing like a little hip-unlocking, knee-massaging, sinus-draining, strength-building, flexibility-enhancing bedroom session of treatment to bring out the best in my game." Garvey said I played better after treatment. I assumed that I did.

Once or twice I made the mistake of answering a barbed question from one of my teammates by telling him that Garvey was working on my knees or draining my sinuses. When this got around to the rest of the team, older players, or other hangers-on (one in particular), the comments started. The verbal arrows that I was "Garvey’s pet". I was aware of the glances, the nods, the looks; heard the murmurs and the taunts. This one particularly annoying ass would bait me: "You stink anyhow, even if you are Garvey’s pet. So-and-so’s better than you anyway." Kid stuff, but I was a kid. Nevermind that this jerk would never be good enough to play. It still hurt. Wrapped in my secret, I was defenseless. I was literally Garvey's "pet".

Should I tell them Garvey was a family friend? That he came to dinner at our house? That he attended family celebrations like birthdays and graduations? That he gave me a Timex watch with a gold-rimmed face and a black leather band? That for my First Holy Communion he gave me $50.00, far more money than I ever could have imagined? Should I tell them about the clothes? Going to Isaac Baker’s mens’ store? The books and shopping at the The Erie Bookstore? (I remember the titles to this day.) How about the milkshakes and pretzels at Fred’s on 27th and Parade Streets? The roast beef sandwiches at Arby’s? Burgers at McDonald’s? The time he let me sit on his lap and steer his car while he worked the pedals? Or when he was giving me a ride home and we stopped to pick up his "date"? (This was a Mercyhurst woman who it seems, in hindsight, was merely a useful Garvey feint at normalcy, knowingly or not, enabling Garvey to disguise his pedophile activities. And this same woman penned a letter, defending Garvey, to the editor of The Erie Daily Times-News days after the accusations hit the paper.)

Of course I shouldn’t say anything. Or more accurately, couldn't say anything. Not and survive in that environment. And Garvey knew I couldn’t. He had the skills of a practiced hunter and a predator. I was neither the first nor the last, but I didn’t know it at the time. I thought this was just "treatment". But Garvey knew. He knew the value of stalking his prey, luring it in, and isolating it from the herd. Well, he certainly had ingratiated himself into my world, successfully lured me in, and isolated me from my friends and family. While I seemingly reaped the benefits, I certainly was paying the price. As I have said before, I was easy prey.

A serial pedophile’s mastery is in negotiating, manipulating, your silence. Your compliance. Garvey cannot continue to abuse without the help of his victims. He needs and operates under the shroud of silence of his victims. Silenced by Garvey's authority, our own confusion, and the taunts of peer pressure when we are young. And now that we are older, silenced with an added measure of humiliation and embarrassment that we were somehow duped, complicit in our own abuse because we were too trusting and naïve to know better. I have said this before: Garvey has shamed us to silence and shamed us into keeping his dastardly secret. Our continued silence only serves his interests and puts others at risk. Pedophiles are predators. They hunt, feast, and move on. Move on to whom? Some other intimidated young boy. Here he comes.

predafile@hotmail.com

Clouds of hurt; tears toward redemption

2005-09-20T23:35:00.000-04:00

For some months now, I have poured my thoughts, my feelings, and my emotions into sharing with you the story of my abuse. It has been liberating and it has been pain-filled. Each of these posts, particularly those in which I retell the details of my seduction, manipulation, coercion, and physical handling, pulls me... pulls my heart and my sensibilities apart. As I relive these moments, the moments that are my boyhood, I am thrown back through time, through visceral time. The mind of a man dealing with the emotions and the nervous system of that boy.

If you have ever lost a loved one, someone particularly close to you, maybe you understand. Maybe you know that feeling that, when you begin to talk about them, wells up in your stomach and rushes into your throat. Suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, the tears come. You can feel them as they swamp your eyes. Your chest heaves and it all pours out in a gasp that you are unable to suppress. That is what happens when I recount these intimate details of my relationship with Dr. William P. Garvey. It is happening now.

Sure there are times, when I am editorializing, that I punch at the keys as my resentment and anger rush to mind faster than I can hammer the words out. But more often, there are times like now, when I cry, and my chest does heave, and my tears drip down my face, and I gently push at the keyboard, ever so lightly pressing each key because that something, that sentiment that I'm feeling, is mine. A pure unedited response, it is purely mine. And it is precious. And It is so fragile, so hurtful, so sad, that that is all I can do to protect it. To protect me.

I have tried, over the course of the last few months, to begin to deal with this something. This something that was pushed on me. This something that I did not ask for. That I have buried deep inside of me. I can't shed it and I cannot outrun it. The sheer strength and physical nature of my reactions now, decades later, tell me that Garvey did things to me that are so wrong, so powerfully wrong, that he has changed me forever. In ways I'll never know.

I do know this. In my chest, in my heart, I carry a cloud. I carry a cloud that is the pent-up deluge of years of denial. Denial of acknowledging the acts and emotions, dealing with the feelings and doubts, thrust upon me by William P. Garvey. It is a cloud ready to gush at the very mention, or fleeting image. A cloud that heaves and bursts when I talk to you. And after, for a while, I feel better. There is no rainbow but, for a while, there is release. And there is calm.

Please, this is not a plea for sympathy. If anything, it is a statement of understanding... and inclusion. It is lonely in this place. This place of hurt and downpour. The hurt that is my past, our past, and the downpour that is my present, our present, with William P. Garvey. Lonely, yes. I understand. Alone, no.

predafile@hotmail.com

Mercyhurst Board of Trustees

2005-09-18T16:12:00.000-04:00

The following is the list of the Mercyhurst College Board of Trustees that appeared in the Erie Daily Times-News 9/9/05:

Mercyhurst Board
Mercyhurst College has 32 members on its board of trustees. Trustees are elected to four-year terms and can be elected to additional four-year terms without limit.

OFFICERS
Chairwoman of the board
Marlene Mosco
President, PNC Bank, northwest Pennsylvania region
Erie
Elected chairwoman in June 2004. Term expires June 2006 as an officer, December 2008 as a trustee.

Vice chairman
Bruce Raimy
Partner, JGB Consulting
Erie
Term expires June 2006 as officer, June 2008 as trustee.

Secretary
Robert Miller
Chairman, NE Foods Inc.
North East
Term expires June 2006 as officer, June 2009 as trustee.

Assistant secretary
Sister Lisa Mary McCartney, RSM, Ph.D.
Vice president and designee of the Sisters of Mercy, Regional Community of Erie
Erie
Term expires June 2006 as officer, June 2008 as trustee by virtue of office.

TRUSTEES
Mary Ann Baldauf
Director and shareholder, Times Publishing Company, which owns the Erie Times-News
Erie
Term expires June 2009.

Randall Clemons, Ph.D.
President, Faculty Senate, Mercyhurst College
Erie
Term expires April 2007.Serves by virtue of office.

Sister JoAnne Courneen, RSM
Director of finance, Mercy International Centre
Dublin, Ireland
Term expires June 2008.
On leave of absence as of September 2004.

Charles A. Dailey
President, Dailey Enterprises
Erie
Term expires June 2009.

Vernon Dobbs, Ph.D.
Retired director, Erie County Assistance Office,
State Department of Public Welfare
Fairview
Term expires June 2008.

Rosemary Durkin
Attorney, Stark and Stark Law Firm
Philadelphia
Term expires June 2009.

Sister Mary Felice Duska, RSM
Manager, Mercy Terrace Apartments
Erie
Term expires December 2006.

Thomas Gamble, Ph.D.
Chairman, College Council
Vice president of academic affairs, Mercyhurst College
Erie
Serves by virtue of office.

Elizabeth Greenleaf
Mercyhurst College alumna
Meadville
Term expires October 2008.

Myron Jones
Former owner, JET Broadcasting Co.
Erie
Term expires June 2007.

Charles Knight
Principal, Schaffner, Knight Minnaugh & Co.
Erie
Term expires June 2006.

Richard Lanzillo
Attorney and partner, Knox, McLaughlin, Gornall & Sennett
Erie
Term expires June 2007.

F. Brady Louis
Chairman, President's Associates
Mercyhurst College
Retired executive, WQLN
Erie
Serves by virtue of office.

Michael Malpiedi
President, Mercyhurst College Alumni Association
Vice president, NextMedia Radio
Erie
Serves by virtue of office.

Dennis Marin
President and chief executive, Wedgewood Investors Inc.
Erie
Term expires June 2007.

Owen McCormick
President and chief executive, Joseph McCormick Construction Co.
Erie
Term expires June 2006.

Michael McQuillen, Ph.D.
President, Mercyhurst College
Erie
Serves by virtue of office.

Helen Mullen, Ed.D.
Retired administrator, Robert Morris University
Moon Township
Term expires June 2009.

Sister Maria O'Connor, RSM, Ph.D.
Pastoral minister, St. George Catholic Church
Erie
Term expires June 2007.

Gary Renaud
Chief executive, Erie Steel Products
Erie
Term expires June 2006.

William Sennett
Attorney, of counsel, Knox, McLaughlin, Gornall & Sennett
Erie
Term expires December 2008.

Sister Maura Smith, RSM, Ed.D.
Consultant, Mercyhurst Civic Institute
Outreach coordinator, Sisters of Mercy, Erie region
Erie
Term expires December 2008.

Monsignor L. Thomas Snyderwine, Ed.D.
Pastor, St. Luke Catholic Church
Erie
Term expires June 2008.

Doris Stackpole
St. Marys
Term expires December 2008.

Jane Theuerkauf
President, Jane Theuerkauf Designs
Erie
Term expires December 2008.

Frank Victor
Partner, Victor Foundation
Erie
Term expires June 2008.

Barrett Walker, D.D.S.
Retired dentist and private investor
Erie
Term expires June 2007.

Kathleen Zurn
President, Bright Sky Properties
Erie
Term expires June 2009.

predafile@hotmail.com

The Mercyhurst response

2005-09-12T12:34:00.000-04:00

The following letter to the editor appeared in the 9/9/05 edition of The Erie Daily Times-News. You can access it and the accompanying article ("Mistakes were made: Mercyhurst offers explanation of how it handled Garvey probe") via my "goerie" link; keyword: "WILLIAM P. GARVEY". It should be noted that, according to The Times, this statement was not only approved by the Mercyhurst Board of Trustees, it also has the approval of interim president Dr. Michael McQuillen, and Sister Bernadette Bell who is the president of the Roman Catholic Sisters of Mercy, Erie region. With that said, I present the letter:

"The Mercyhurst College Board of Trustees, first and foremost, wishes to make clear our full understanding of the extremely serious nature of the allegations made against William P. Garvey. We are called by the virtue of this institution - mercy - to sympathize deeply with all victims of abuse. The accusations leveled against Dr. Garvey involved actions wholly incompatible with the values we and the college stand for.

Second, we sincerely regret that at times our commitment to those values was not publicly visible and acknowledge that mistakes were made. None of us had ever been through anything like this, and contrary to the surface appearances, this was not a simple, clear-cut situation, especially without the perspective of hindsight.

We had to try to balance competing ethical obligations, compounded by a lack of solid evidence and the fervent denial of the allegations by a respected community leader; to adhere to legal requirements and due process concerns that foreclosed certain options; to respect personal relationships that stretched back decades, and always to oversee and maintain our fiduciary responsibilities to the college. While we understand how others in both the Mercyhurst and broader communities might disagree with the path we have traveled, we hope no one has reason to question our sincerest desire and effort, as a corporate body, to seek the good and right path.

Finally, we wish to clarify the issues that have arisen with respect to Dr. Garvey's position with Mercyhurst College. On Dec. 16, 2004, when he announced his decision to step down as president, we did terminate the investigation into his fitness to serve. Mercyhurst is indeed committed to truth, compassion and individual integrity, but we are not an investigative organization. That is the province of the civil and criminal justice system, not a college community.

On Feb. 23, 2005, Dr. Garvey immediately began a terminal sabbatical and we began negotiations to complete the remaining financial obligations of the college to Dr. Garvey under his existing contract through June 2007 and years of deferred compensation. The college expects to conclude a final agreement within 60 days.

In order to continue its mission of providing a high quality education, the Mercyhurst College Board of Trustees must now turn its full attention to hiring a president. In order for this effort to be successful, we need the wholehearted support of the entire Mercyhurst community. We truly hope that with these explanations and clarifications the Erie community will support our efforts to do so."

I find this statement so woefully inadequate. While sympathizing with "all victims of abuse" there is still no "mercy" for the specific abuse suffered by victims at the hands of Mercyhurst's own college president. Garvey should be terminated unconditionally and immediately. His contract must contain some sort of a morals clause and it should be employed to sever any interaction he has with Mercyhurst. Garvey should be banned from campus and any future school association.

I am still waiting for the "truth, compassion, and... integrity" alluded to by those who put their names to this statement. Release the results of the Palmisano investigation. Better yet, release ex-judge Palmisano to talk and answer questions about his findings.

This letter just rings hollow. It is hard to look forward with so much carnage unresolved behind. It's like trying to build a castle on a garbage heap. It will always stink.

predafile@hotmail.com

Garvey fiddles while Mercyhurst burns

2005-08-28T18:58:00.000-04:00

Skaboojie. Coward. Gutless wonder. For Christ's sake, stand up and be a man.

Over the years, I heard these same invectives hurled at me and my teammates. And now the tables have turned. According to the Palmisano memo to Marlene Mosco and the Mercyhurst Board of Trustees (December 15, 2004) there "appears to be merit" to the claims that the then college president had indeed sexually molested and otherwise physically abused the Rosenthals, Bruce Kennedy (and others) in their boyhood as they claimed way back on October 10th, 2004. "Cumulative facts and other information have come forth which tend to support" these allegations. And, "further, and even more significant, the information gathered in recent days demonstrates that persons - in addition to those identified in the (original) article - will level similar allegations of misconduct against Dr. Garvey." Palmisano is talking about Dr. William P. Garvey, Ph.D., serial pedophile.

Garvey thought he was untouchable. The man who would be king. An Emperor. He thought he could act with impunity and court his little harem of boys. As they grew older, Garvey would find positions for them and assimilate them into the greater Garvey order, primarily at Mercyhurst but elsewhere as well. And noone would or could do anything about it. Well, Garvey may yet turn out to be right. So far, he appears to have come away from this affair relatively unscathed. But, the barbarians are at the gate. Look at the carnage, the shame, the rumor, and the innuendo those close to him are shouldering, whether justly or not, for their loyalty. First, it was Mary Daly. Recently, Gary Bukowski, Mike Fuhrman, and other ex-player's names have surfaced. Jim Barker. Bill Welch. And now Marlene Mosco, Bill Sennett, the Mercyhurst Board of Trustees, and even ex-Secretary of Homeland Security, Tom Ridge are the latest with Garvey's egg on their face. Whatever their relative degrees of involvement, they are his public and private associates, his vanguard. These people are taking the arrows. For Garvey. What about the poor people who, knowingly or not, swore their support of Garvey in the ad that appeared October 17th, 2004, in the Erie Daily Times? Garvey has left them all hanging, holding his honor in their empty hands. And he hasn't the courage to let them know it. He has let them all continue to make fools of themselves on his behalf while he fiddles, appearing on WJET and WICU newscasts pontificating re: Mario Bagnoni's death and legacy. And then there's his involvement on community boards like C-Cubed, The Erie Historical Society... This list is long and his continued involvement is shameful. Meanwhile, Mercyhurst burns. And people and institutions suffer in his wake. What has Garvey said to you folks by means of explanation? This story gets more and more bizarre by the day and I wonder how he can look you in the face? Is he, as someone online has suggested, psychopathic as well?

Forget all that lofty nonsense Garvey fed us about courage and honor. All those Greco-Roman platitudes. Unfortunately, the only Greco-Roman influence on Dr. William P. Garvey is now all too painfully and belatedly apparent. Forget all that crap he spouts about Winston Churchill. What does Garvey's moment of crisis tell us about Garvey? When his "finest hour" came, his defining moment, Garvey's actions defined him perfectly. He tucked his tail and ran. "Retired". A mere day after the appearance of this memo that ex-judge Palmisano felt "compelled" to write, and that according to Ms. Mosco, Garvey never saw. A coincidence? Hmmm. A most "compelling" coincidence. Garvey has hidden behind the trust of the Sisters of Mercy (for Christ's sake), the skirt of Marlene Mosco, the good faith of those who have supported him, and a wall of all-too-telling silence to a host of unanswered questions that are too compelling to ignore, or skirt.

In the end, despite all the posing, lofty aphorisms, and quotes, William Garvey is simply an abuser, manipulator, and sexual predator of boys. A wolf in college president's clothing. In his own words, he is a gutless wonder, a coward, and perhaps most telling of all, a quitter. A quitter of the first order. Will he ever stand up and be a man? ("Drop your pants, bend over, and grab your ankles, Dr. Garvey. Raps or laps?") Men face the responsibilities and consequences of their actions. At least men of honor do. That's what Garvey always told us. It's time for Garvey to stand on his own two feet. Time to admit what he has done and apologize to his victims. All of us. If Garvey does not have the honor, the courage, or the guts to face the truth, why do others continue to run interference for him?

It was all merely an act, a great Greco-Roman act, to get into little boys' pants. Is that what Garvey meant by "Carpe diem"? Seize the day? How does one say "seize the boy"?

predafile@hotmail.com

Resigned (sorry, ?retired?), but not to the truth (photo)

2005-08-22T13:57:00.000-04:00

Resigned (sorry, ?retired?), but not to the truth (Erie Daily Times-News)

predafile@hotmail.com

The Palmisano memo

2005-08-21T10:24:00.000-04:00

Wow! (see Erie Daily Times-News article, "Garvey's Accusers Say Memo Is 'Vindication' ", 8/21/05, via my "goerie" link; search keyword: "WILLIAM P. GARVEY") And with no further ado, the memo:

MEMORANDUM

TO: MRS. MARLENE MOSCO, CHAIRPERSON, and
MERCYHURST COLLEGE BOARD OF TRUSTEES

FROM: MICHAEL M. PALMISANO (his signature appears here)

RE: STATUS OF REVIEW

DATE: DECEMBER 15, 2004

Since November 5, 2004 when the Board of Trustees retained me to conduct a review of the allegations leveled against William P. Garvey, Ph.D. as chronicled in the article published in the Erie Times-News on October 10, 2004, I have coordinated and conducted a review of the various documents and interviews of dozens of persons, including the principals identified in the newspaper article. To date, our team has devoted more than 300 hours to this review.

The investigation remains ongoing and significant information continues to be discovered and analyzed; however, the quantity and quality of such information received at this juncture of our review compels me to inform the Board of Trustees that the allegations contained in the newspaper article appear to have merit. Secondarily, cumulative facts and other information have come forth which tend to support the original allegations. Further, and perhaps even more significant, the information gathered in recent days demonstrates that persons - in addition to those identified in the article - will level similar allegations of misconduct against Dr. Garvey.

I conveyed this information to you on Monday, December 13, 2004 and also to William C. Sennett on Tuesday, December 14, 2004. I now provide the forgoing information in the spirit of our ongoing good faith attempts to keep you and the ladies and gentlemen of the Board of Trustees informed of salient developments in our review in order to arm the Board with the information necessary to preserve and protect the best interest of Mercyhurst College in general and the Board of Trustees in particular.

predafile@hotmail.com

The "Merci"-ad

2005-08-17T21:08:00.000-04:00

On October 17th, 2004, the following ad was placed in the Erie Daily Times-News in response to allegations that Dr. William P. Garvey had sexually molested young men in the Erie area over a period of at least three decades. Below I have managed to reconstruct and finally post the entire text and list of signees that appeared in the newspaper that day.

Former Players And Alumni Support Dr. William Garvey

On October 10th the Erie Times-News ran a story which made serious allegations against one of Erie's most admired community leaders, Dr. William Garvey. Clearly, no one condones the kind of behavior contained in these allegations, and it is a reminder to all of us that the protection of our children is and should remain the most important priority in our community.

We were stunned and disheartened that these allegations were made against a man we all respect and admire, and since the article has appeared, Dr. Garvey has stated unequivocally that the allegations are false, and the trustees of Mercyhurst College have initiated an impartial review and have expressed their support for Dr. Garvey as he continues to lead the College as its president.

Thus far the community has heard from the Rosenthals and one other former player, Bruce Kennedy; and from two "street hustlers". Now it's time to hear from us, former players who played with Kennedy and the Rosenthals, and from other alumni who participated in the athletic program under Bill Garvey's tenure as athletic director.

We have known Bill Garvey as a coach and mentor. We have spent countless hours with him on and off the basketball court, and never has any one of us been treated in the manner described in these allegations, nor have we witnessed such behavior.

Bill Garvey has influenced every one of our lives in ways that will never get reported in the newspaper, ways that are profoundly important to us and to our families, to St. Johns and the Erie community. He raised our aspirations, greatly improved our chances in life, and in many ways is responsible for what we have achieved as parents, as professionals and citizens-- without ever asking for anything in return. We have all benefited from his coaching and guidance and generosity of spirit, all of which have been amply demonstrated in a brilliant career spanning more than 50 years.

Chuck Rosenthal has been quoted as saying that he's not motivated by money. If that is so, we would like to challenge him to donate all of the proceeds of his book, and all the proceeds that any ancillary rights and speaking engagements would generate, to a charity whose mission is child protection. The Bill Garvey we know is a man for whom we have the greatest respect and admiration.

Bill Dopierala, Paul D. Gambill, Marlene Smith, Mary Hoffman, Patty Bielinsky, Kevin Wagner, Tom Hoffman, Vernon L. Gambill, Jr., Jeanne Buettner, Keith Hardner, Dan Bukowski, Jim Sturm, Joe Tarasovitch, Stew Donoghue, Tim Nies, Bob Nies, Mike Fuhrman, Tim Holland, Rick Fessler, Barry Roach, Dave Kosobucki, Mike Buettner, Pat Fuhrman, Joe Fessler, Jim Stevenson, Jack Stevenson, Bob Stevenson, Bob Hoffman, Dan Scully, Jim Nies, John Nies, Jim Tarasovitch, John Chojnacki, Dan Chojnacki, John Maleno, Joseph T. Fries, Dave Cousart, Bruce Chrzanowski, Dan Shade, Tom Shade, Ted Kierzek, Kathi Hoffman, Greg Hoffman, Jane Ross, Cindy Zelenak, Michael G. Hoffman, Glenn Holland, Mary Ellen Lieb, Jim Lieb, Barry Sturm, Jeff Sturm, Bob Sturm, Becky Cornish, Phil Wittingham, Heidi Shrum Patterson, Linda A. Gambill, Steve Wiley, Clifton Dobbs III, Chris Rupp, Larry Feeney, Jim Feeney, Grove A. Blanchard, Jane Fuhrmann Wagner, Debra Tarasovitch, Gary Bukowski, Patty McCallion Ross, Heather Dopierala, Lou Fallon, Gary Wieczorek, Dave Wieczorek, Vince Haibach, Patty Winiarczyk, Leo Bennett, Ted Johnson, Raymond Johnson

I am curious. Who paid for this ad? How were these people chosen and subsequently solicited? Did anyone decline? Who? Why?

This ad appeared in The Erie Daily Times-News (10/17/04) one week after the allegations first appeared in that same newspaper. Since that time, Garvey has "retired" under questionable circumstances, the Mercyhurst College Board of Directors has prematurely terminated the investigation led by ex-judge Michael Palmisano, and any information collected by that investigation has been locked up and denied the light of day. Do you all still "unequivocally" support this man?

Some of my thoughts on this ad are contained in a portion of a previous post (see "At what price silence?", June 28, 2005).

predafile@hotmail.com

Ball-handling drills

2005-08-06T14:11:00.000-04:00

My upper body wasn't strong enough. I wasn't flexible enough. Due to a problem in my hip area, I was nowhere near quick or fast enough. I had recurring headaches that required Garvey to drain my sinuses on a regular basis. And now I had developed occasional toothache-like pain in my knees which Garvey said could be alleviated with regular massage and (you guessed it) more "treatment". I hadn't even made it to adolescence and I was a physical wreck.

The diagnosis of my knee problems was particularly interesting. Tired of continually failing to measure up to expectations, I had finally decided to confide to Garvey that I had been experiencing this pain in my knees. That much was true. He seemed to view it as another reason I wasn't more mobile on the court. I saw it as an excuse. Maybe if I had a legitimate reason for not playing up to his expectations, Garvey would ease up on me. I was tired of not making the grade.

He took me into the lockerroom and sat opposite me. Taking one leg in his hands he proceeded to push and prod at the areas in and around my knee. "Does this hurt?", he asked. "How about this?" I winced and pulled away in response, all the while nodding my head and answering "yes" in short pain-filled gasps. Then he began hitting my knees with the side of his hand in short little chops. He started with an area just above my knee and continued on down until he was mid-shin. With each chop I groaned and yelped in pain. By the time he had moved on to the other leg, Garvey was already telling me bits and pieces of what he thought the problem was and what could be done to fix it. Maybe I had something called shin splints, he said. Maybe I was just experiencing growing pains. Although painful, neither condition was all that serious. The answer for either was the same. My knees needed regular massage with Atomic Balm and "treatment".

What makes this all so poignant is that while I did truly have this pain in my knees, it was more of an internal thing. Like a toothache, my knees would throb and hum with a discomfort that would continue for an hour or two before subsiding. Banging, whacking, prodding or chopping at my knees didn't bother me unless the blow itself was sufficient to cause pain. My knees weren't tender. They just hurt. Nonetheless, every time Garvey looked up at me, I feigned what I believed was the appropriate response. And when I looked into his eyes, I was glad that I didn't notice any signs that he was aware of my attempt at deception. In hindsight, I don't know that his prognosis was any more legitimate than my reactions to his chops. In my youthful short-sightedness I had just given him another reason for me to need more "treatment". If he thought I was faking it, it didn't show or seem to matter to him. "Treatment" was what mattered. And conveniently, though oddly, enough, while the massaging of my knees could be done in the conventional fashion, it could also be incorporated into our bedroom sessions without even deviating from the current regimen.

As last detailed, my "treatment" sessions now consisted of me lying naked, face to face, atop Garvey who would be clad in only briefs, a matching white Jockey brand t-shirt, and dark dress socks, although lately the briefs had come off. We would start with me rotating my hips laterally in an oval pattern. Garvey explained that the rubbing of my knees into the mattress as I moved my mid-section constituted more than ample massage and thereby we could kill two (three, four...) birds with one stone. At first he even went so far as to apply Atomic Balm to my knees before I climbed on top of him. Previously, I mentioned that he had since instructed me, in the course of these therapies, to open my mouth and placing my mouth over his, to rotate my tongue inside his mouth. Until this particular day, this was the point to which this portion of our sessions had progressed. Normally, I would continue in this fashion until he said we were through. Today that changed.

Not long into this episode, Garvey took my hand and pushing it downward, instructed me to gently cup his testicles. Applying ever so light pressure, I was to coddle and tenderly roll his balls in my hand, all the while maintaining the rotating of my hips and the sloppy mouth-to mouth tongue-ing. I withdrew my hand at the touch of his scratchy, wiry pubic hair as it rubbed against my fingers, palm, wrist and forearm. I had never felt pubic hair and, at this time, still had none of my own. He told me to go ahead, and again instructed me as to what he wanted me to do. I just did it. By increments this was getting more and more bizarre. The feel of his pubic hair unhinged me, and touching his scrotum and cupping his testicles was enough to... was too much. A million thoughts were racing through my mind at the same time. Things that had been building inside me were screaming indecipherable messages to me . What were they? Images, senses, touches, smells, tastes, thoughts, feelings, questions, words, phrases... All rushing to the forefront demanding simultaneous attention. Too much data. Too much going on with no reference or place in which to sort it out. But something had changed. Although I couldn't put words to it yet because they weren't in my experience dictionary, something had turned. My feelings of avoidance and uncomfortability around Garvey, were evolving towards repulsion and revulsion. Something nameless but visceral.

My actions were mechanical and unnatural. Trying to focus on one activity, with all these colliding thoughts, perceptions, and conflicting feelings, caused me to forget and interrupt one of the other things I was supposed to be doing. My mind was obviously beyond overload. (His beard grating against my face. The smell of his cologne or after shave. The drool flowing out of my mouth and onto his face. His flaky, patchy skin against me. Escape. What is going on here? The wiry pubic hair. What am I doing here? Keep moving your hips. His scrotum and testicles. The sweat. The heat. When can I stop? The sheet against my back. When can I stop? Where is his penis? Uuuugghhh!) I could not control my thoughts. In addition, I had a terribly difficult time bending and contorting my body to comply with his wishes. Garvey would remind me of what I was doing wrong and tell me to keep up the correct activity. What a strange set of positions and seemingly unrelated tasks I was being asked to perform. I didn't get it. But it was supposed to make me heat up. Get my mucous flowing to aid in draining my problem sinuses. Unlock my hips. Massage my knees. Make me a better basketball player. I continued to perform as best as I could, all the while hoping for the end. An end.

Frankly, I was so focused on what was happening to me and how I was feeling that I had never really thought about what Garvey's stake was. Why did he do this? What did Garvey get out of it? And honestly, at this point, I wouldn't have understood the answer. This was all very circus-like, freak show weird to my young mind, and I had nothing with which to compare it. I was a naive schoolboy. I didn't feel that I had anyone with whom I could talk about it even if I knew what to say. My teammates were increasingly treating me like an outsider, or at least I felt that way, the more they picked up on whatever they sensed was going on with Garvey. I was afraid to tell a teacher because I wasn't that close to any of them, and Garvey was a co-worker of theirs, afterall, wasn't he? He was held (and unbelievably still is) in such high esteem. I should have trusted my parents, but I was afraid what my dad would do. And I did not want to live with the aftermath. Besides, I was still trying to figure out what was going on let alone whether it was wrong. This latest activity had started me finally leaning in that direction but I wasn't sure. About anything. Only my stomach, my gut, knew the truth. And I was starting to listen. Looking for words to unlock and define perceptions. Words to encapsulate feelings. But what if I was wrong? Now I had to think. There was more to my reluctance to participate in Garvey's "treatment" than I understood. Something unspoken was deeply troubling me. The truth was somewhere between my stomach and my brain. My stomach knew. My brain needed to learn something real about the physical nature of sex to put the two together. I was in the initial stages of moving towards a coherent picture and this last encounter had given me a strong push.

Listen. For a young kid, this is way too complex of a situation. The levels of involvement and the degrees of manipulation would drive an adult crazy. As a young boy, I was sad, afraid, and confused by Garvey and our interaction. Very confused. I was becoming more and more quiet. Moody. Withdrawn. Prone to quick bursts of anger that were not my nature. Things were going in directions that before mere months ago I was unaware existed. And now that they were being thrust in my face I was doing my best to make sense of them. But I felt alone. Betrayed and alone. And terribly confused.

predafile@hotmail.com

predafile@hotmail.com

2005-08-02T14:08:00.000-04:00

Want to contact Jack or comment on predafile? Want to say something but you are uncomfortable talking about it in predafile's comment sections? Personally, I prefer to keep as much of this discussion as possible on the published blog site (because I believe it is for the greater good to get this information out), but if you prefer, you can now e-mail me/Jack at predafile@hotmail.com. Your e-mail will come to my private hotmail account, which is separate from this blog. I will try to respond in a timely fashion if it is requested/appropriate. Noone will see your correspondence except you and me. I understand and promise confidentiality and, if need be, your anonymity. Nothing will be published without your permission. No more victims.

The summer of my discontent

2005-07-28T13:38:00.000-04:00

Some of these "me only" summer practices took place in the gym in the basement of Old Main on the Mercyhurst College campus. Garvey had given me his home phone number some time before (I remember that number to this day) and when it became evident that we would be working together regularly over the summer, he gave me the number at which I could reach him at Mercyhurst. I called and a woman I assumed was his secretary, it could have been the switchboard, patched me through to his office. We would arrange for a date and a time for me to come up to the college and work out.

At first, when I would arrive, I came up the stairs to his office to let him know that I was there. Later, he told me to just come into the building and go straight downstairs to the gym where he would come down and meet me at the appointed time. The gym itself was reached by descending the staircase just inside the building's entrance. At the bottom of the steps, you could see what were the last few steps that led you down to the opening to the sunken gym floor that began under the basket at one end of the court. After playing my whole life at St. Johns, which had a wood floor, I was surprised that a college would have such a dungeon for its court, all-girl school or not. Being in the basement, it was dark, with no windows, and had a hard black or dark bluish-purple tile floor, from which the ball dribbled with a dead thud. Definitely not wood. It was cramped, had no built-in seating or room for any other seating to speak of, pillars along the side of the court, behind some of which there were small rooms recessed into the right-hand wall. Hidden behind cheap accordion-style sliding doors, these little rooms housed stacking chairs and the like and this was where I underwent my strength and flexibility "treatment" (see "Carpe diem", June 2, 2005), and paddlings. Needless to say, the acoustics in the gym were absolutely terrible. I had a difficult time trying to hear the instructions Garvey was yelling to me and at times this only added to his frustration.

The practice sessions were similar to those I have previously described. Lots and lots of drills. Driving to the basket from different angles and using alternate hands and releases. Shooting from the corners, the wings, and the head of the key. Foul shots. ("Put more arch on the ball! You're shooting a line drive.", he would tell me, pronouncing the "ch" in "arch" like that in "chocolate".) Dribbling and ball-handling drills where I raced the length of the gym, right-handed, left-handed, or alternating back and forth. Sometimes we used chairs and trashcans to make an obstacle course through which I would weave back and forth. And of course, the drill in which I chased a caromb, or Garvey rolled the ball to the perimeter, and I retrieved it, took one dribble and launched a jumpshot, sometimes going to my left, and sometimes to my right. These practices were similar to the ones that I've already talked about, including goals for the drills, time limits, and "raps" for failure.

I did OK on the various stationary and lay-up drills, but I had considerable trouble beating the set times when it came to ballhandling. The more I pushed, the more I did something stupid like dribble the ball off of my foot. Other times I simply could not get through the obstacles fast enough. On this particular day I quickly racked up three "raps". By the time we reached the drill where I chase-dibble-shoot, I was shot. Repeatedly my shot was off to the side or short. A sure sign of fatigue yet the drills went on until Garvey's disgust with me was such that he abruptly stopped me mid-drill, accused me of giving up, and told me to get off of the floor. He was disgusted with me. I was gutless. Weak. A baby. A waste of his time.

I had accumulated what seemed to me to be an extraordinary number of "raps" despite my effort. Although in reality it was only five or six, I couldn't bear the thought of it. I had worked my ass off and given everything I had until there was simply no more. When Garvey took me behind one of the accordion doors and into the little room for my paddling, and told me to drop my trunks, I balked. I cried. I whined. And I begged liked I hadn't done in a long time. This had been one of the most grueling workouts I had ever had and the idea that I would get beaten for my inability to reach some arbitrary goal, despite the fact that I had worked as hard as I possibly could, infuriated me. I resented it. And I resented him. I resented the power he had over me.

After the first couple of whacks, in anticipation of the crack of his hand on my ass, I straightened slightly to lessen the blow, and he grew furious with me. He had had enough. He told me that I had a choice to make. I could either finish taking my paddling, like a man, or I could end it right here. But if I did decide to end it, he was through with me. No more help, no more headache treatment, no more strength treatment, no more anything. He would cross me off his list and I would be on my own. No more special practices. No more help. No more special consideration. I would have to take my chances just like the rest of "those guys". I didn't know what to do. I saw daylight at the end of the tunnel but the tunnel led away from my dream and all that I had worked for. I certainly wasn't prepared to make such a big decision right there on the spot, despite my immediate feelings. So I reluctantly bent over and let him grab my balls and resume hitting me until he was done. Today there would be no strength or flexibility session but before I left the ultimatum was repeated, loud and clear. I either got with the program wholehearted, meaning regular "treatment" and regular one-on-one practice, or get used to being just another guy on the end of the bench.

Why did I put up with this abuse if it made me so angry and so resentful? Why? I don't know. I was torn. I didn't really understand what was going on. It would be some time yet before I started to put the pieces together. At this point, I was trying to succeed in a gung-ho basketball program and thought that if I went along with Garvey's regimen, unorthodox as it was beginning to seem, I could indeed not only succeed, but truly be something special. That's what Garvey said. He was Dr. William P. Garvey, afterall. As I've said before, the thought of sex, let alone abuse, had not really entered my pre-teen mind. It was not easy to compartmentalize which parts of this program were legit and which were manipulative, or abusive. I couldn't see the picture and therefore couldn't draw the line. I trusted his motives and his intent. If anything, I was questioning my own heart. I was beginning to think, no I now believed, that I was weak. I was too soft . I was a baby. I was thinking that I didn't have it in me to make the most of this tremendous opportunity. To do what I assumed those who had gone before me must have done to reach the point I only dreamed of. I didn't have what it took to be a "money ballplayer". A winner. I started to believe that I was, as Garvey chided me, a loser. It hurt and I didn't know what to do. What more could I do? I had to try harder. I had to.

My teammates, and the older ex-players, had picked up on some things, too. As secretive as I had tried to be about this special attention (fearing this very result), they started to tease me about being Garvey's pet. If they only knew, I thought. About more than special practices. About more than "raps". About "treatment". About "treatment" in Garvey's bed. Now I realize some of them did. There were those who had gone before, and those who would come after. At the time though, it was just me. To me, it was just me.

Coming soon: Ball-handling drills

predafile@hotmail.com

Dr. William P. Garvey (photo)

2005-07-28T13:30:00.000-04:00

Dr. William P. Garvey (Erie Daily Times-News)

predafile@hotmail.com

"Talk" about being the victim!

2005-07-20T13:26:00.000-04:00

To come out and discuss my own abuse may be the single most intimidating and emotionally trying thing I have ever attempted. The emotions attached to the experience of being sexually abused are so strong to begin with, but once one decides to open up and take the issue public, the scrutiny is ratcheted up to a whole 'nother level. The victim ends up having to defend his victimization. His integrity, his honesty, and his motivation are all suspect. No man wants to come forward with a story of his childhood abuse. Noone is proud of it and, contrary to ludicrous statements by some Garvey supporters, noone is getting rich. We come forward, despite the humiliation, because we are compelled as men. Out of some sense of justice that our parents, teachers, and institutions instilled in us. In many cases the very same people who now look at us askance. We look to society for support, to be outraged by this trampling of our innocence. We suffered an abuse that has impacted the rest of our lives and we want to tell you about that. We want to tell you how to protect your children. We come forward to warn you. Yet, so often, our community treats us as pariahs, bringers of bad news, and seeks to discredit us so as not to have to face the reality of the situation. Let's talk about that. Let's talk about how we talk about victims. Let's talk about how, as a society, we mistakenly put the onus on and discredit the victim. Let's talk about why we let the molester off the hook. Let's at least ask the questions. The right questions. The questions that allow the truth to emerge and the abused to, perhaps, begin to feel good about themselves.

Real talk about pedophilia is uncomfortable. I understand. It is hard to imagine anyone more uncomfortable talking about it than I once was. As prominent as it is in the news today, pedophilia is still a taboo topic. When it comes up, people nod their disapproval but they really would rather not have this subject in their face. Don't get me wrong, some people have strong opinions, but the only people really thinking about the sexual abuse of minors are those involved. And to what depth or degree are they free to talk? It's worse than teen pregnancy. Hush, hush. Make it go away. This can't happen here. Well, unfortunately, it does, and it did. Oh, sure, there are rumors and a lot of water cooler gossip, but not serious discussion of the real issue. It's more about pointing fingers and secretly thanking God that it's not their son making these accusations. "Garvey never did anything like that to you, did he, Bobby?" More often than not, for a host of reasons (embarrassment, shame, and public opinion among them), even if Bobby was molested, he says "no". The parents heave a deep relieved sigh and that's it. Topic closed. The perversion in this seemingly innocent way of addressing the issue is that it leads one to begin searching for differences between "them" and "us". The difference between "our Bobby" and that other kid (or man) who is saying these terrible things about such a respected figure. We search for reasons why this terrible thing happened to them, and never could happen to us. Ultimately this leads to a list of flaws in the victim that not only made the victim prone to what happened, but somehow complicit in his own abuse. And that is absurd. The victim is made the victim again. And the abuser is free to abuse.

Rape is a classic case where the victim is often discredited and made to defend herself all over again. Let's look at the rape victim side-by-side with a victim of pedophilia. Both involve less-than-consensual sex imposed upon a victim by an individual with a physical, or other means of, advantage. A common response in the case of rape is that the victim was promiscuous. She dressed provocatively. She was a drunk or "druggie". Even worse, she "asked for it". Recognize the thinking? The problem is that it puts the responsibility for being raped on the victim, not the rapist. I will tell you this: I know no woman who would ever agree that how she was dressed, what she had consumed, or who she had slept with in the past, was akin to forfeiting her right to say "NO". I had little chance to say "NO". I was eleven at the time, and Garvey was my first and only sexual encounter. (Thinking about it still makes my stomach tighten.) I knew nothing about sex and never really thought about it. I had never kissed a girl, nor had I ever ejaculated. I hadn't gone through puberty. My school uniform could hardly be considered provocative. Although I did shower and dress in a communal atmosphere common in athletics, I don't think anyone would characterize such behavior as untoward. I did not use drugs, and I certainly did not "ask for it". I was eleven years old! To the contrary, my fault was that I was too young to say no. While some points of this comparison are almost comical, I believe the basic point holds true. It was no flaw in me, or in us, that caused this to happen other than trusting the wrong man. And we certainly are not complicit in our own abuse. We were raped of our innocence . We did nothing wrong. It's not our fault. Our community needs to see our abuse as something that we were too young to recognize and stop. Something they never recognized and stopped, either. When we talk about it, our aim is true.

Erie needs to realize that we were the victims once and that to make us the victims again is cruel and unjust. The blame, the guilt, and the shame all lie at one man's feet: Dr. William P. Garvey, our abuser and molester. Is it the victims who should have to fend off the accusations? The scrutiny has been misplaced. Let's talk about Garvey. Let's put his actions, his past and his present, under the light of truth. Why did he always choose to work around children? Male children. Did he ever hit us? When, why, and how? Was he ever alone with one of us ? Behind closed doors? What were the circumstances? Did he ever take players to where he lived? Why? How do so many of us know personal details about him like what his place looked like, the phone number, his birthday, his psoriasis? What was the nature of his relationships with his players? How about off the court? Did he ever buy these boys gifts? Take them places? Travel alone with them? Stay overnight? Does he still maintain any of these relationships? Have these men benefited from his largesse? Specify. Does he drink heavily? Has he ever given alcohol to an under-age player? Was it in his home? What were the circumstances?... What will that light reveal about Garvey's integrity, his honesty, and his motivation? We're telling you that he abused us, and he has been abusing your children since the '60s. Garvey's blanket denial and silence do not suffice. They only serve Garvey, the institutions involved, and those who gained from his position. Hush. Hush. His dismissal of the number of allegations, and the corroborated details involved, as related by men who in some cases have never spoken or met, is an insult to our intelligence. Our stories are remarkably the same. They span decades and yet the details are the same. They are the modus operandi of a serial pedophile. Allowing this man to operate as an upstanding member of the community is an insult to his victims. To further try to discredit us, and question our integrity and our intent, is unfair and again, unjust.

To you men who are reluctant to talk about your abuse: I understand. I know it's hard. You are, as I am, trying to come to terms with a very ugly thing that you have tried to keep buried in your past. And the increased scrutiny of coming forward can make it even more difficult for you. For me, keeping quiet any longer didn't work. I've begun to talk with those close to me. The past won't go away. What Garvey did to us won't go away. I think about it every time I'm around St. Johns, Mercyhurst, anywhere he touched. I think about it every time I see his face. Every time I bump into one of you. Every time. Maybe we don't yet control what people think about us. But if we let rumor, ignorance and innuendo stop us, we will always be the victims. If we don't talk about Garvey, we don't give anyone a chance to know the truth. To talk about the truth. And for ourselves to come to terms with, and live, the truth. Do not kid yourself, numbers matter. Your voice matters. Let's take credit for the men we've become. Despite Garvey. Despite the abuse. Let us look at those who would discredit us and force them to admit the truth. Let's talk the truth. You can do it.

predafile@hotmail.com

Summer sessions

2005-07-15T12:11:00.000-04:00

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

Summertime blues

2005-07-08T22:44:00.000-04:00

One afternoon, after a summer workout at St. Johns, a couple of us had accepted Garvey's offer of a ride home. On the way Garvey said he needed to stop by his place for something, and when we got there he invited us in for something cold to drink. When we finally settled in, the three of us were sitting in Garvey's office. It was upstairs in the room adjacent to the bedroom. He was sitting across the room, leaning back in his desk chair, gritting his teeth, lips pulled back tight in a grimace, as he picks at his psoriasis-flaked scalp. He was talking to me and the other player, or I should say ex-player because this guy was probably nineteen at the time. I knew him. I recognized him from years at the St. Johns gym. He had gone on to play in high school, and now some college ball. Garvey held a tumbler containing a cola on ice, while the other, older, kid had a beer and I had a Fresca. As we sat there eating Snyder's hard sourdough pretzels with big chunks of swiss cheese, I noticed the way Garvey was sitting. He had leaned back so that he could use his stomach as a shelf, and that was where his pretzel and cheese rested. He kept his drink in hand and he balanced it on the end of the arm of his chair, but the pretzel and cheese sat on his belly.

We, rather they, were discussing the upcoming St. Johns season. Actually, Garvey was expounding on what he thought the future would hold. The young guy generally just nodded his agreement or added a one-liner agreeing with whatever Garvey had just said. No mistake about it, Garvey had granted this audience and he would dictate the conversation and the conclusions. His feeling seemed to be that it could truly be an exceptional year. The pieces were pretty much in place. Soandso needed to grow a few more inches, and Whatshisname needed to work on his outside shot, but generally things looked good. His spirits were upbeat. He even commented that with a little luck, hard work, and increased grit, I could see limited action. I could play a role. Of course I would have to prove myself more valuable than this one other guy who was older, stronger, and more experienced than me but, he said, there existed a chance. The team still needed work and there remained a lot of fine tuning to be done before next season. The long summer could give me the time I needed to get myself ready. The time to improve myself and jockey for some playing time. He said I had to be ready, because I was going to get my chance, and when the time came, I had better make the most of it because I might not get another. I got the message. Carpe diem, Jack, seize the day.

Garvey's tone, as I have noted, was upbeat and I was reveling in the fact that he was including me in his plans for next season. And in front of this older guy no less. I openly beamed as he went on about the possibilities. I couldn't keep the pride from rushing over my entire face. Every feature bursting. To hear him talking about me this way! To hear him talk about me successfully accomplishing my dream. I could not keep the images of this future out of my head. It was enough to make me giddy. I was in heaven. My heaven. St. John heaven. Garvey heaven.

When I came back to the conversation, they were talking about the summer. Garvey joked about girls and the beach, to the older guy. He admonished him to be sure he at least took a good book to read while he worked on his tan. They laughed that while I was still too young to appreciate the girls, I would know soon enough. With regards to basketball, Garvey said he would be available, and so would the facilities at St.Johns and Mercyhurst, but we would have to call him and make the arrangements. Call other guys, too, if we wanted, but make arrangements to come alone if we wanted to work on specific aspects of our game. It sounded OK to me until he talked about my need to grow taller, and get stronger and quicker. These words struck a familiar chord. Immediately, I understood the implications. The road to this happy future passed through Garvey's bedroom, and more "treatment". Somehow, the sunny sky surrounding my basketball future just moments ago, began to grow ominous and overcast.

I had an uneasy feeling. I felt like like what I wanted was within reach, and at the same time I wasn't sure that I wanted to do what it would take to finally get it. I worked hard. I felt I deserved a shot. I didn't want any more "treatment" sessions but I wanted to be a better player. Garvey said he could help with that. I believed that I needed to show him I wanted to get better. If I had any hopes of playing I had to prove to him that I was serious. That I was doing everything I could to improve my game. To impress him. To get him to play me instead of that other kid. To prove that I wanted it more than that other kid. To show that I was more deserving than that other kid. So I called and arranged for practices. I called to arrange for treatment sessions. I put them off for as long as I thought I could before he would think I was being negligent, then I would call. I wanted to play. He was the coach. He made the decisions. I wanted to do everything I could to impress upon him how hard I wanted this, and how hard I was willing to work. I wanted to impress him. So, after a little less than a week, I called.

Next: Summer sessions

predafile@hotmail.com

At what price silence?

2005-06-28T16:11:00.000-04:00

These paddlings left blazing red handprints on my butt. In the name of privacy I could always close a door for brief periods and hide them from my family. There was no such hiding them from my teammates or the older high school and college-age guys who Garvey encouraged to come back and practice against us. We dressed communally and showered communally. In other words, not only did Garvey, as often as not, trumpet that such-and-such play or behavior earned one of us "raps", but we saw each other go into the music room (which doubled as the visitors' lockerroom) and we saw each other come back out teary-eyed. For days afterwards the recipient of the paddling was forced to publicly display, for all the rest of us, his scarlet welts in the shape of Garvey's hand.

My point is this: few close to Garvey's St. Johns basketball program could honestly claim that they had no knowledge of this abuse. More blatant sexual acts aside, perhaps these players, and others, didn't/don't think that this type of physical punishment is inappropriate or abusive. Maybe these are conclusions reached by boys and never re-evaluated by men. Nonetheless, these impressions are mistaken. Grossly mistaken. Not only is bare-ass paddling of boys, by an adult male (who has been entrusted with their care!) in this testicle/scrotum-holding manner abusive, by definition it is sexual abuse of a minor. Is this the "discipline" to which Garvey refers in The Erie Daily Times-News? This is not discipline. This is abuse. Those of you who are fathers, do you do this to your children? How about you moms? Would you knowingly let someone else do this to your child? This was not part of the implied contract agreed to by my parents when I went to play basketball for St. Johns. And since the behavior described by the Rosenthals, Bruce Kennedy, and others is even more heinous, so beyond "mere paddling", it is not surprising Garvey offers no real response to the allegations. There are no rebuttals, no denials, no words strong enough to erase the handprint of truth.

Some of you former players, and others, placed an ad in support of Garvey in the same above-mentioned newspaper in the days following October 10th, 2004. Given what I have already said, how could you? While in another situation I might applaud your loyalty, your categorical denial of even the paddlings described above renders your entire statement suspect. These occurrences were, and are, common knowledge among us. As for you women and non-players who put your names to this document, how can you possibly claim to be witness to, or have firsthand knowledge of, the events or non-events to which you claim to be privy or have witnessed/not witnessed? Simply put, most of you weren't there. I can only assume your names are there to pad the list. And you ex-players, I saw some of you go to get paddled and I saw the welts. I saw yours, and you saw mine. Others of you, I suspect, were victims of something far more serious. In hindsight, the signs were there. I recognize them as similar to mine. Your support renders your testimonials more than suspect. For all concerned, this ad begs the question of your motivation, past and present.

If you've ever been hit in this, or a similar, manner you know that for days your skin radiates a heat, a burning, a discomfort made worse by sitting or bathing. You don't just forget about it and go about your business. In a sick kind of teenage manner of coping, in the public space that we shared, we pointed and laughed at each other. In private, I was physically and emotionally hurt, humiliated, intimidated, and afraid. My false bravado, and I guess yours, was self-preservation in a peer-pressure-packed environment ruled by a domineering, sadistic, manipulative pedophile who used us against each other. And is using us against each other now. Communal humiliation. Communal shame. Communal silence. Perhaps that was the point of inflicting a public pain that we could not soon forget, not only on our backsides but in our hearts and minds as well.

Those of you who signed the ad: who the hell was Garvey to do this to me, to us? By what right? And why do you still protect this man who did this to us, would do this to our children, and maybe already has, or is? Please ask yourself that question. If you are quiet because you are not ready, or are afraid of the scrutiny speaking out might attract, I guess that I can understand that. Afterall, it took me years to come out in this forum and talk about Garvey molesting me. But even if our current silence is due to self-preservation, it really only serves Garvey's purposes, and we pay the price. We protect this precious secret of ours, never telling anyone, and Garvey goes on relatively unscathed. Doesn't it make you angry?

Unless, self-preservation aside, there is another silence, and this is the possibility that truly disgusts me. I obliquely referred to this above, and that is the silence of those of you who have benefited from Garvey's influence and position in Erie and at Mercyhurst. At what price are you quiet? If you put your name to that ad, as I suspect some of you did, knowing in your heart that the accusations are true, even in part, but because of some favor, job, contract, or appointment, are unwilling to brand him as the abuser and pedophile that he is, shame on you. Garvey owns a part of you. It is you who still wear his handprint. But it's not on your backside. It is on your soul. And that is your real price.

predafile@hotmail.com

"Rap" sessions

2005-06-22T20:29:00.000-04:00

Garvey opened the door ahead of me, ushered me into the room, flipped the light switch, and with his hand on the doorknob, gently pushed the door closed. There was a finality to the click of the door latch as the mechanism caught. A click that broke the hum of the fluorescent lights and brought me back from the clutter of thoughts streaming through my head. Back to my future. Back to the fear and desperation of my immediate future. He told me to take down my pants. All I could think of at times like this was escape. But there was no escape. In the past I had tried pleading, bargaining, crying, or even physically trying to delay him by inching away. None of that worked. He simply crossed his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels while pushing his hips forward, leaning his torso back as he did so. Balancing there, he waited for me. He told me that he would wait as long as it took and that it was better to get it over with. He said that by postponing the inevitable I was only adding to my own anguish. In the end, I unfastened my belt, lowered my pants down around my ankles, and naked from the waist down, submitted. I had learned. Tight-lipped and rigid with a quiet loathing and determination that I had learned from his hand, I accepted my beating.

When I bent forward and placed my hands on my knees, Garvey came closer. He approached and stood on my left side. When he got close enough, he reached out with his left hand and cupped, and then closed, his hand around my testicles. This, he told me, was to keep me from getting a hernia, or otherwise injuring myself in that area, during my paddling. My testicles secured, Garvey ceremoniously drew back his right hand, held it for a moment at its peak, and with a full swing of his arm, brought his open, bare hand hard against my bare buttocks. The first time I was ever "rapped" the resulting "smack" had been unlike anything I had ever heard before. I had never been hit like this and certainly had never heard the loud clap that resulted from such a strong flesh on flesh blow. The pain came swiftly next. I had learned not to yelp, but it was all I could do not to. He was, afterall, a fully-grown man and at the time of this particular incident, I was still a pre-pubescent boy. I could not stop the tears from welling up behind my eyes and they spilled out and rolled down my cheeks.

When Garvey's hand made contact with my ass, he didn't immediately remove it. Instead, he held it in place, and not breaking contact with my skin, proceeded to vibrate his palm and fingers back and forth as if reinforcing and rubbing in the pain for a few more seconds. This done, he counted it out loud. "That's one." Then he dramatically drew back his right arm and hit me again. "That's two." Again. "That's three." I started to reach for my pants and tried to stand up. "No, Jack, we're not done. Your teacher said you're headed for a "4" in conduct for this little stunt. You know what a "4" means. Now bend over." I dropped my pants back to the floor and assumed the position. And again Garvey wound up and swung his arm at me, clapping me on the ass with one last ferocious smack. It seemed to be the hardest hit yet and I lurched forward from the sheer force of his swing. "That's four. And let that be a lesson to you. You want to be a clown, Mr. Hughes? You go ahead and grow up to be a clown. But not around me."

As I have said before, when a young boy barely in grade school I was flattered by Garvey's attention. This is ludicrous but the first time I was paddled, despite how much it hurt, I was vaguely proud of having joined the fraternity of St. Johns basketball players. Garvey's players. In later years, teamed with my more blatant sexual abuse, I recognized Garvey's policy of doling out "raps" for what it really is: trolling for, and cultivating, submissive and seemingly willing young boys for his own sexual pleasure.

The handprints from these paddlings showed blazing red on my backside for days afterwards. I would hide them from my parents and family until they went away. The psychological handprint these beatings, and my subsequent sexual abuse at Garvey's hands, left on me are still there. They may never go away. PREDAFILE is an attempt to heal those wounds. I offer this forum to those of you, who like me, were hit by Garvey, were paddled by Garvey, or were taken to bed and sexually molested by Garvey. Begin the healing. Talk about your experiences. Anonymously if necessary. Take back that part of your past that you have denied and kept secret because of shame or embarrassment. Take back that part of your past, that part of you, that you could never share. Not even with those closest to you. Especially not with those closest to you. That's wrong. Garvey stole something from us. PREDAFILE is a safe haven. A place for us to test the waters as we get in touch with how we feel about the things Garvey did to us, and talk about them, for maybe the first time. A place for us to put our past back together. A chance to put our experiences in their proper perspective and maybe one day let those who love us most love us for who we really are, and help us heal. I offer you my experiences. Maybe, in them, you'll see a part of yourself, and reclaim it.

predafile@hotmail.com

"Rapped" attention

2005-06-18T11:56:00.000-04:00

Long before I ever played on one of Garvey's teams, I knew who he was. At St. John the Baptist Roman Catholic grade school which I attended, he was revered as the coach of the varsity basketball team and a respected member of the parish community. Ditto at Cathedral Preparatory High School for boys where Garvey coached freshman basketball. And also at Mercyhurst College where he taught History and eventually became the college's president. He devised election strategies and advised local Erie politicians such as mayor Lou Tullio and county executive Robbie Robison, and later, mayor Joyce Savacchio and county councilman Gary Bukowski. All of them benefited from Garvey's expertise. (I apologize for any misspellings.) His power and influence were well known. As was his success. "Absolute power corrupts absolutely" and I believe it led Garvey to think he could abuse us with impunity.

When things went well and we played well, Garvey roared his approval and beamed as he looked over his creation. But I also saw Garvey prod, name-call, scream, smack, and otherwise humiliate his players to improve their performance. My performance. His players, me included, quietly accepted this treatment. It was an honor to play for St. John's. An honor to play for Garvey. He was a winner. His methods went unquestioned. But I also watched some of those older players walk slowly, reluctantly, with heads down and shoulders slumped, as they headed off to the music room. They went off to what I initially considered a harsh motivational technique and later, when it happened to me, recognized as the beginnings of abuse and acquiescence, dominance and submission. They were going to the music room to be paddled, "rapped".

As has already been reported by others in The Erie Daily Times-News, the paddling could be for any number of reasons. One way to earn "raps" was to receive a less than acceptable assessment of your classroom behavior. In those days "conduct" was rated on a scale Of "1" to "4", with "4" being the worst possible grade. A mark of "3" or "4" on your report card earned you a like number of raps. Poor grades in academic studies could also earn you raps. And not surprisingly, poor performance on the court could earn you raps that were intended to spur you on to better play. Garvey recognized the motivational power of a very basic human instinct: fear. When he sensed that we, whether singularly or collectively, were afraid of the older high school or college-aged alumni that he encouraged to come scrimmage against us, or even at halftime of a game against another team he thought intimidated us, he told us that if we thought they were something to be scared of, he'd give us something to truly fear: him. At times that meant running laps around the gym for seemingly endless periods. Other times that meant banging your head off of a locker or a smack to the head. Often it meant a trip to the music room and raps. "Raps or laps" was a common refrain. At some point I was paddled for all of the above reasons.

Once in a while one of us would do something, in or out of school, that required Garvey's attention and, as he perceived it, discipline. In one instance, a then eighth grade player, thinking he was unobserved, pinched and twisted the nipple of the breast of one of his female classmates while pleading with her to "gimme some" (if lockerroom scuttlebutt is to be believed re: the quote). His punishment when this was brought to Garvey's attention: raps. In my case I had stupidly penned something silly, perhaps distasteful but by no means profane, that was deemed inappropriate for junior high consumption. One of my teachers had confiscated the material and punished me by keeping me after school. As I had feared, when I failed to show up for practice, my teammates had told Garvey of my predicament and he appeared at the door to my classroom. After a brief discussion in the hallway, the teacher and Garvey reappeared together and I was released into Garvey's custody. I wonder what my teacher would have done had she known what my punishment would be.

Practice was going to start late. And although that was often the case because Garvey was notorious for making us wait outside the school for him to arrive, this time it was my fault. When there were no other teachers or students within sight, he cuffed me open-handed upside the back of my head. "Aw, for Christ's sake. This is dumb, Jack. Really stupid." He led me down the hall to the music room. When we arrived he was further angered by the fact that the door was locked and he hadn't brought his keys. I followed behind him as he led me to the huge custodian storage room at the elbow of the basement. The room was dusty and smelled of the cleaning supplies and floor buffers that were kept there. The air was close and I found it hard to breathe. "Take your pants down, Jack, and bend over."

Next: "Rap" sessions

predafile@hotmail.com

"For Christ's sake, use your head"

2005-06-05T16:15:00.000-04:00

Oddly, the quality, and sometimes quantity, of my playing time at practice was directly related to the frequency of my having "treatment". After recent treatment sessions Garvey seemed much more encouraging, ready with praise, and supportive. If I hadn't seen him in a while, his criticisms, name-calling, and belittling could be withering. In hindsight, I now wonder if I was placed in situations in which I would be more likely to succeed or fail based on the degree to which I acquiesced off the court.

Regardless, as the time since my last treatment lengthened, my game, my confidence, and my self-esteem were suffering. He repeatedly told me I was not strong enough and a step too slow. He would never allude to the treatment in public but the implications were clear: to achieve my goal I needed what only he could do for me, and to do otherwise was sheer stupidity. One of Garvey's tools of manipulation was to appeal to your intelligence, or if you didn't do as he wanted, lack thereof. On many occasions he said to me, "Jack, for such a smart kid, you make a lot of stupid decisions. Use your head. For Christ's sake, use your head." Evidently, in his mind, or more importantly in my own, I needed to link, irrefutably, avoidance of therapy with being a damn fool. I knew I wasn't stupid and I knew I was no fool, but I was too young to understand Garvey's ability to manipulate the situation and his ability to manipulate me to not only choose to submit to the treatment but to have to come to him and ask for it. And ask for it I did.

During one of my more recent trips to Garvey's residence he had told me that besides my lack of strength I also had a genetic trait, which he had noticed in other members of my family, that made me a step or two slower than I should be. He said that my protruding buttocks was symptomatic of a problem that caused my hips to lock up. "Jack, do you know the difference between 'quickness' and 'speed'? You're not terribly fast but you're OK once you get going. What we need to work on are those hips and your quickness, that first step." Oddly enough, he said my body and my problem were common in Blacks. (I wasn't mentally agile enough at the time to ask why, if that was the case, the African-americans that I was playing on the playground and those I watched on TV didn't seem slow or hip-locked at all.) He said that the exercise we performed, when I got on top of him and I rotated my hips, would "unlock" this problem. Yet another compelling reason for more "treatment".

As bizarre as this had all become, in my mind, I still blindly trusted him. I think my first real doubts about what we were doing up in his bedroom came when during one of our sessions, while I was naked on top of him dutifully rotating my hips, he told me to stick my tongue in his mouth and move it back and forth, and around in a circle. He said it would help raise my body temperature faster, facilitating the draining of my sinuses. He pulled the topsheet and blanket more completely up over the top of us as if to reinforce the need for heat. I was reluctant but I did as he said. The sour smell of coffee was on his breath and it tasted worse. His abrasive stubble grated against the skin around my mouth. I had no idea what I was doing. I mechanically moved my tongue back and forth inside his mouth and my drool began to pool where our mouths met and roll down his face. At one point he reached for the sleeve of his t-shirt and wiped his mouth clean. All the while I was still gyrating my hips.

I lost myself in the rhythmic nature of my movements and tried not to think about what was transpiring. I didn't want to think about what he was doing. The answers were not in my experience vocabulary. I was so young I hadn't even really thought about sex. It held no interest for me. Everything I knew was from one-liners the older guys bandied about the lockerroom, and that presented more questions and confusion than information. In lockerrooms everyone pretends to know more than they actually do. The lockerroom is about false bravado not the dissemination of any remotely accurate information. I waited for Garvey to say enough was enough, and eventually, he did. As usual he rolled me on to my left side and moved on to my sinuses. As had become the rule, this was followed by more upper body wrestling, which now included him wrapping his legs around mine and locking his legs at his ankles to make my escape more difficult. And this was followed by the flexibility exercises which entailed Garvey yanking and tugging as he pulled my hands behind my back and pushed against my shoulders attempting to touch my fingertips to the base of my skull.

For the first time Garvey asked me if I would like to shower before I dressed. From that day forward, he would invariably ask and I would always decline. Even though I had yet to sort out much of what was going on or how I felt about it, I knew all I wanted to do was get the hell out of there. I dressed, we got into his car, he drove to my neighborhood and dropped me off in front of my house.

I needed to think. The problem was I didn't know the questions let alone the answers. I did know something wasn't right. I was miserable. Life was miserable. I hated it and I hated myself. Although I couldn't put it into words yet, my heart, my soul, something inside me felt terribly wrong. Deeply scared. Deeply troubled. Deeply wrong. Something about Garvey was wrong. "Use your head, Jack. For Christ's sake, use your head."

predafile@hotmail.com

"Carpe diem"

2005-06-02T14:02:00.000-04:00

Naive as I was, I knew that I did not like the new twist that my relationship with Garvey had undergone. He began regularly directing me to the "music room" after practice. He would stand behind me and pin my arms to my sides or hold me by my wrists, sometimes pulling my arms behind my back. I was to fight against him to gain my escape. Fight I did. As before, in his bed, I pulled, twisted, grunted, and struggled. Sometimes he would tell me that if I couldn't break away, I would be "rapped". I struggled harder. Other times, inexplicably, I would free myself after a relatively short session. I had yet to approach puberty and I was no match for a fully grown man, even one with arthritis like Garvey. I never understood why sometimes he made it so hard and other times it was much easier. I still don't. Invariably, in the course of this wrestling, my towel would fall from around my waist. He would tell me to leave it where it lay and I would continue my session naked.

He began ending these sessions by taking hold of my wrists and stretching my arms behind my back in an attempt to touch my hand to the back of my head. Even at the age of eleven I was nowhere near flexible enough to perform this stretch but time after time we would go through this painful pulling on my arms and shoulders until months later I could finally do it with relative ease. I tell you this to point out that the "treatment" never stopped. It evolved. There was always something.

Perhaps the physical pain was a test, something to toughen me up. Bad as it was the toll these sessions were taking on my soul was much more serious. I hated the grueling contests. I tried to avoid them. I tried to avoid him. Avoid the situations that led to these sessions. I showered quickly and tried to get out of the school before he would come downstairs from the gym to the lockerroom. I left without showering. One day he caught me in the hall and I got a lecture and he forced me to take a shower with only the cold water turned on. He stood watch and would have held me under if I had tried to get out. He'd done it before.

Not long after, I think sensing my attempts to avoid him, he cornered me in the boys' basement bathroom where we showered. I was using one of the two urinals when he came up alongside of me to use the other. "Are you familiar with the saying 'carpe diem'," he asked me. "No, of course not," he answered his own question. "It's from the Latin. It means 'seize the day', 'seize the opportunity'. Mr. Hughes, Jack, you have an opportunity in front of you. I don't do what I'm doing for you for just anybody. You have worked hard for what you've gotten. It's not enough. Do you want to be mediocre? Is that what you want? To settle for mediocrity? We haven't worked on your strength or flexibility lately. You aren't fast enough or strong enough to compete with those other guys out there. Most of them are already going through puberty. Are you going to throw it all away? I don't offer my services lightly, Jack. Make up your mind. And remember, 'Carpe diem'." He'd started to walk away when he turned and said, "And how's your head? We haven't been working on your sinuses, either. Don't neglect them. That'd be a big mistake." He turned and left.

I considered my options. None of them good. I wanted that for which I had worked so hard, and always seemed to be just out of my grasp: to play and to play well. How had that ever come to this?

predafile@hotmail.com

"Treatment": the molesting begins

2005-05-23T11:59:00.000-04:00

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.

predafile@hotmail.com

I am not ashamed any longer

2005-05-19T12:59:00.000-04:00

Some (not all) people are telling me to keep quiet, keep my mouth shut, be careful. They say Garvey is a powerful man, he has influence and resources beyond my imagination. They cite the seriousness and number of allegations against him, from which he came away relatively unscathed. He remains listed on the Mercyhurst directory, draws over $120,000 in compensation while in "retirement" and is still being appointed to civic positions. Barry Grossman, an Erie mayoral candidate, lists Garvey as one of his heroes. It seems, like Richard Nixon after the McCarthy fiasco, he'll weather the storm and he'll be back. My friends may be right but this is too important. Too important for me and Garvey's other victims. Too important for other victims of pedophilia who need the support of a familiar voice. And too important for anyone out there with children. This plague of predation must stop. No more victims.

What these well-meaning people do not understand is that Garvey built me up and beat me up. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, on a day to day basis and a long term basis as well. He tricked me into his bed and abused me. Perhaps worst of all he isolated me from my friends, teammates, and even my own family. He made me feel ashamed of myself. Not him. I didn't realize that until later. Ashamed of myself for wanting something so badly that I believed he really was acting in my best interests. Ashamed that I had been so sexually uninformed and naive that I had no idea what he was doing until it was too late. So ashamed that I couldn't tell my parents or teachers what he was doing to me.

While the sexual abuse one suffers at the hands of a pedophile is debasing, dehumanizing, repugnant, and evil, it is not necessarily the aspect of the abuse that wounds longest or deepest. That is the the scar of manipulation, deceit, and betrayal. The loss of one's self-esteem and confidence. The loss of one's ability to trust. The loss of one's ability to commit. The loss of one's ability to love. Things that take years or even lifetimes to rebuild if ever at all.

This is why I'm writing. To tell those of you out there who like me have lived the self-loathing and pain that comes from the multi-faceted abuse received at the hands of Garvey or any other abuser: YOU HAVE NOTHING OF WHICH TO BE ASHAMED! We are the victims. I freed myself of the physical abuse years ago. This is part of healing myself of the rest.

predafile@hotmail.com

Pedophiles are predators

2005-05-16T04:23:00.000-04:00

Pedophiles are predators. A few hunt like a hawk, swooping down on their unsuspecting prey and carrying them off to a private place where they abuse their victim. These are the highly publicized stories we hear about in the news. But this is not the modus operandi of most pedophiles and not that of the man who abused me. Their approach is more like that of a spider. They put themselves in an environment teeming with prey, spin their web, and wait for the victims to come to them. Is it any wonder that so many of these molesters are parish priests, scout leaders, teachers, or as in my case, coaches? Of course not. These (mostly) men situate themselves in an environment where their needs can most easily be met. The fact that these positions tend to be ones of authority, judgment, confidence, and admiration only facilitates the hunt. This predator grooms its prey right out in the open, with our quiet blessing and good wishes. Unknowingly, we create and help support the very web into which our children are led. This is what happened to me.

My family played basketball. From the time I was in first grade I was a regular at the St. John's gym, watching the older boys practice and shooting around when the opportunity presented itself. When I got old enough, I joined the team. Garvey was the coach and in that arena he was god. He doled out praise and pushed us to excel. He massaged pulled muscles. He monitored school report cards. He took us to Barbato's for pizza parties. He paid for my milkshakes when he saw me at the counter of Fred's on 27th and Parade streets. When the parish didn't have the funds for new uniforms, he bought them with money out of his own pocket. And he won. He won like noone else in the history of our school.

But he could also be very cruel and manipulative. He "rapped" us, as he called his bare-ass paddling, for poor performance on the court or in the classroom. He berated players on the court, calling them a "skaboojie", "lunkhead", "coward", or as in my case, "gutless" or "gutless wonder". He had us stand naked in front of him and others while he commented on our physiques. In those days the showers (two stalls in the boys' basement bathroom) were across the hall from the lockerroom. "Take your towel off," he would say. "Look at Mr. Soandso's legs. See how the thighs are formed. He's bow-legged." On a number of occasions he forced me to stand under a completely cold shower for sixty seconds, longer if I complained or whimpered, because he said I was so over-heated I would get sick if I didn't cool down before I walked home. Yet this is the man I was trying to please. The one who controlled my basketball future. The one who determined whether I would get the chance to accomplish that for which I had worked so long and hard. This position, this doling out of praise and criticism, this meting out of reward and punishment, is the manipulative methodology that gave him so much influence and power. I was eleven years old, had been groomed in this environment for years, and was no match for him. I was easy prey.

predafile@hotmail.com

What's it all about?

2005-05-14T16:40:00.000-04:00

For background on this story you can go to the official Erie DailyTimes-News website (http://www.goerie.com/). There, you can use the search mechanism (keyword: "WILLIAM P. GARVEY") to access a series of articles, beginning Oct. 10th, 2004, that the local paper ran reporting the first allegations regarding Garvey's molestation of boys, the subsequent investigation (which was squelched and never completed or made public), and his "retirement" with pay. I intend to address, in detail, this process and my dismay with the cover-up at some future date.

Other background can be obtained at this blog: (http://www.livejournal.com/community/_gryphon/2162.html). This site features interesting posts commenting on the above news stories, and some ongoing discussion.

Last, and certainly most important, you can read the courageous book that broke this story and documents one man's abuse by Garvey. Never Let Me Go: A Portrait of Sexual Predation by Chuck Rosenthal is available from Red Hen Press (http://www.redhen.org/).

predafile@hotmail.com