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
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
"Talk" about being the victim!
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
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
Friday, July 15, 2005
Summer sessions
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
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
Friday, July 08, 2005
Summertime blues
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
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
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