Dr. William P. Garvey (Erie Daily Times-News)
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
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
At what price silence?
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)