Wow! (see Erie Daily Times-News article, "Garvey's Accusers Say Memo Is 'Vindication' ", 8/21/05, via my "goerie" link; search keyword: "WILLIAM P. GARVEY") And with no further ado, the memo:
MEMORANDUM
TO: MRS. MARLENE MOSCO, CHAIRPERSON, and
MERCYHURST COLLEGE BOARD OF TRUSTEES
FROM: MICHAEL M. PALMISANO (his signature appears here)
RE: STATUS OF REVIEW
DATE: DECEMBER 15, 2004
Since November 5, 2004 when the Board of Trustees retained me to conduct a review of the allegations leveled against William P. Garvey, Ph.D. as chronicled in the article published in the Erie Times-News on October 10, 2004, I have coordinated and conducted a review of the various documents and interviews of dozens of persons, including the principals identified in the newspaper article. To date, our team has devoted more than 300 hours to this review.
The investigation remains ongoing and significant information continues to be discovered and analyzed; however, the quantity and quality of such information received at this juncture of our review compels me to inform the Board of Trustees that the allegations contained in the newspaper article appear to have merit. Secondarily, cumulative facts and other information have come forth which tend to support the original allegations. Further, and perhaps even more significant, the information gathered in recent days demonstrates that persons - in addition to those identified in the article - will level similar allegations of misconduct against Dr. Garvey.
I conveyed this information to you on Monday, December 13, 2004 and also to William C. Sennett on Tuesday, December 14, 2004. I now provide the forgoing information in the spirit of our ongoing good faith attempts to keep you and the ladies and gentlemen of the Board of Trustees informed of salient developments in our review in order to arm the Board with the information necessary to preserve and protect the best interest of Mercyhurst College in general and the Board of Trustees in particular.
predafile@hotmail.com
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
The "Merci"-ad
On October 17th, 2004, the following ad was placed in the Erie Daily Times-News in response to allegations that Dr. William P. Garvey had sexually molested young men in the Erie area over a period of at least three decades. Below I have managed to reconstruct and finally post the entire text and list of signees that appeared in the newspaper that day.
Former Players And Alumni Support Dr. William Garvey
On October 10th the Erie Times-News ran a story which made serious allegations against one of Erie's most admired community leaders, Dr. William Garvey. Clearly, no one condones the kind of behavior contained in these allegations, and it is a reminder to all of us that the protection of our children is and should remain the most important priority in our community.
We were stunned and disheartened that these allegations were made against a man we all respect and admire, and since the article has appeared, Dr. Garvey has stated unequivocally that the allegations are false, and the trustees of Mercyhurst College have initiated an impartial review and have expressed their support for Dr. Garvey as he continues to lead the College as its president.
Thus far the community has heard from the Rosenthals and one other former player, Bruce Kennedy; and from two "street hustlers". Now it's time to hear from us, former players who played with Kennedy and the Rosenthals, and from other alumni who participated in the athletic program under Bill Garvey's tenure as athletic director.
We have known Bill Garvey as a coach and mentor. We have spent countless hours with him on and off the basketball court, and never has any one of us been treated in the manner described in these allegations, nor have we witnessed such behavior.
Bill Garvey has influenced every one of our lives in ways that will never get reported in the newspaper, ways that are profoundly important to us and to our families, to St. Johns and the Erie community. He raised our aspirations, greatly improved our chances in life, and in many ways is responsible for what we have achieved as parents, as professionals and citizens-- without ever asking for anything in return. We have all benefited from his coaching and guidance and generosity of spirit, all of which have been amply demonstrated in a brilliant career spanning more than 50 years.
Chuck Rosenthal has been quoted as saying that he's not motivated by money. If that is so, we would like to challenge him to donate all of the proceeds of his book, and all the proceeds that any ancillary rights and speaking engagements would generate, to a charity whose mission is child protection. The Bill Garvey we know is a man for whom we have the greatest respect and admiration.
Bill Dopierala, Paul D. Gambill, Marlene Smith, Mary Hoffman, Patty Bielinsky, Kevin Wagner, Tom Hoffman, Vernon L. Gambill, Jr., Jeanne Buettner, Keith Hardner, Dan Bukowski, Jim Sturm, Joe Tarasovitch, Stew Donoghue, Tim Nies, Bob Nies, Mike Fuhrman, Tim Holland, Rick Fessler, Barry Roach, Dave Kosobucki, Mike Buettner, Pat Fuhrman, Joe Fessler, Jim Stevenson, Jack Stevenson, Bob Stevenson, Bob Hoffman, Dan Scully, Jim Nies, John Nies, Jim Tarasovitch, John Chojnacki, Dan Chojnacki, John Maleno, Joseph T. Fries, Dave Cousart, Bruce Chrzanowski, Dan Shade, Tom Shade, Ted Kierzek, Kathi Hoffman, Greg Hoffman, Jane Ross, Cindy Zelenak, Michael G. Hoffman, Glenn Holland, Mary Ellen Lieb, Jim Lieb, Barry Sturm, Jeff Sturm, Bob Sturm, Becky Cornish, Phil Wittingham, Heidi Shrum Patterson, Linda A. Gambill, Steve Wiley, Clifton Dobbs III, Chris Rupp, Larry Feeney, Jim Feeney, Grove A. Blanchard, Jane Fuhrmann Wagner, Debra Tarasovitch, Gary Bukowski, Patty McCallion Ross, Heather Dopierala, Lou Fallon, Gary Wieczorek, Dave Wieczorek, Vince Haibach, Patty Winiarczyk, Leo Bennett, Ted Johnson, Raymond Johnson
I am curious. Who paid for this ad? How were these people chosen and subsequently solicited? Did anyone decline? Who? Why?
This ad appeared in The Erie Daily Times-News (10/17/04) one week after the allegations first appeared in that same newspaper. Since that time, Garvey has "retired" under questionable circumstances, the Mercyhurst College Board of Directors has prematurely terminated the investigation led by ex-judge Michael Palmisano, and any information collected by that investigation has been locked up and denied the light of day. Do you all still "unequivocally" support this man?
Some of my thoughts on this ad are contained in a portion of a previous post (see "At what price silence?", June 28, 2005).
predafile@hotmail.com
Former Players And Alumni Support Dr. William Garvey
On October 10th the Erie Times-News ran a story which made serious allegations against one of Erie's most admired community leaders, Dr. William Garvey. Clearly, no one condones the kind of behavior contained in these allegations, and it is a reminder to all of us that the protection of our children is and should remain the most important priority in our community.
We were stunned and disheartened that these allegations were made against a man we all respect and admire, and since the article has appeared, Dr. Garvey has stated unequivocally that the allegations are false, and the trustees of Mercyhurst College have initiated an impartial review and have expressed their support for Dr. Garvey as he continues to lead the College as its president.
Thus far the community has heard from the Rosenthals and one other former player, Bruce Kennedy; and from two "street hustlers". Now it's time to hear from us, former players who played with Kennedy and the Rosenthals, and from other alumni who participated in the athletic program under Bill Garvey's tenure as athletic director.
We have known Bill Garvey as a coach and mentor. We have spent countless hours with him on and off the basketball court, and never has any one of us been treated in the manner described in these allegations, nor have we witnessed such behavior.
Bill Garvey has influenced every one of our lives in ways that will never get reported in the newspaper, ways that are profoundly important to us and to our families, to St. Johns and the Erie community. He raised our aspirations, greatly improved our chances in life, and in many ways is responsible for what we have achieved as parents, as professionals and citizens-- without ever asking for anything in return. We have all benefited from his coaching and guidance and generosity of spirit, all of which have been amply demonstrated in a brilliant career spanning more than 50 years.
Chuck Rosenthal has been quoted as saying that he's not motivated by money. If that is so, we would like to challenge him to donate all of the proceeds of his book, and all the proceeds that any ancillary rights and speaking engagements would generate, to a charity whose mission is child protection. The Bill Garvey we know is a man for whom we have the greatest respect and admiration.
Bill Dopierala, Paul D. Gambill, Marlene Smith, Mary Hoffman, Patty Bielinsky, Kevin Wagner, Tom Hoffman, Vernon L. Gambill, Jr., Jeanne Buettner, Keith Hardner, Dan Bukowski, Jim Sturm, Joe Tarasovitch, Stew Donoghue, Tim Nies, Bob Nies, Mike Fuhrman, Tim Holland, Rick Fessler, Barry Roach, Dave Kosobucki, Mike Buettner, Pat Fuhrman, Joe Fessler, Jim Stevenson, Jack Stevenson, Bob Stevenson, Bob Hoffman, Dan Scully, Jim Nies, John Nies, Jim Tarasovitch, John Chojnacki, Dan Chojnacki, John Maleno, Joseph T. Fries, Dave Cousart, Bruce Chrzanowski, Dan Shade, Tom Shade, Ted Kierzek, Kathi Hoffman, Greg Hoffman, Jane Ross, Cindy Zelenak, Michael G. Hoffman, Glenn Holland, Mary Ellen Lieb, Jim Lieb, Barry Sturm, Jeff Sturm, Bob Sturm, Becky Cornish, Phil Wittingham, Heidi Shrum Patterson, Linda A. Gambill, Steve Wiley, Clifton Dobbs III, Chris Rupp, Larry Feeney, Jim Feeney, Grove A. Blanchard, Jane Fuhrmann Wagner, Debra Tarasovitch, Gary Bukowski, Patty McCallion Ross, Heather Dopierala, Lou Fallon, Gary Wieczorek, Dave Wieczorek, Vince Haibach, Patty Winiarczyk, Leo Bennett, Ted Johnson, Raymond Johnson
I am curious. Who paid for this ad? How were these people chosen and subsequently solicited? Did anyone decline? Who? Why?
This ad appeared in The Erie Daily Times-News (10/17/04) one week after the allegations first appeared in that same newspaper. Since that time, Garvey has "retired" under questionable circumstances, the Mercyhurst College Board of Directors has prematurely terminated the investigation led by ex-judge Michael Palmisano, and any information collected by that investigation has been locked up and denied the light of day. Do you all still "unequivocally" support this man?
Some of my thoughts on this ad are contained in a portion of a previous post (see "At what price silence?", June 28, 2005).
predafile@hotmail.com
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Ball-handling drills
My upper body wasn't strong enough. I wasn't flexible enough. Due to a problem in my hip area, I was nowhere near quick or fast enough. I had recurring headaches that required Garvey to drain my sinuses on a regular basis. And now I had developed occasional toothache-like pain in my knees which Garvey said could be alleviated with regular massage and (you guessed it) more "treatment". I hadn't even made it to adolescence and I was a physical wreck.
The diagnosis of my knee problems was particularly interesting. Tired of continually failing to measure up to expectations, I had finally decided to confide to Garvey that I had been experiencing this pain in my knees. That much was true. He seemed to view it as another reason I wasn't more mobile on the court. I saw it as an excuse. Maybe if I had a legitimate reason for not playing up to his expectations, Garvey would ease up on me. I was tired of not making the grade.
He took me into the lockerroom and sat opposite me. Taking one leg in his hands he proceeded to push and prod at the areas in and around my knee. "Does this hurt?", he asked. "How about this?" I winced and pulled away in response, all the while nodding my head and answering "yes" in short pain-filled gasps. Then he began hitting my knees with the side of his hand in short little chops. He started with an area just above my knee and continued on down until he was mid-shin. With each chop I groaned and yelped in pain. By the time he had moved on to the other leg, Garvey was already telling me bits and pieces of what he thought the problem was and what could be done to fix it. Maybe I had something called shin splints, he said. Maybe I was just experiencing growing pains. Although painful, neither condition was all that serious. The answer for either was the same. My knees needed regular massage with Atomic Balm and "treatment".
What makes this all so poignant is that while I did truly have this pain in my knees, it was more of an internal thing. Like a toothache, my knees would throb and hum with a discomfort that would continue for an hour or two before subsiding. Banging, whacking, prodding or chopping at my knees didn't bother me unless the blow itself was sufficient to cause pain. My knees weren't tender. They just hurt. Nonetheless, every time Garvey looked up at me, I feigned what I believed was the appropriate response. And when I looked into his eyes, I was glad that I didn't notice any signs that he was aware of my attempt at deception. In hindsight, I don't know that his prognosis was any more legitimate than my reactions to his chops. In my youthful short-sightedness I had just given him another reason for me to need more "treatment". If he thought I was faking it, it didn't show or seem to matter to him. "Treatment" was what mattered. And conveniently, though oddly, enough, while the massaging of my knees could be done in the conventional fashion, it could also be incorporated into our bedroom sessions without even deviating from the current regimen.
As last detailed, my "treatment" sessions now consisted of me lying naked, face to face, atop Garvey who would be clad in only briefs, a matching white Jockey brand t-shirt, and dark dress socks, although lately the briefs had come off. We would start with me rotating my hips laterally in an oval pattern. Garvey explained that the rubbing of my knees into the mattress as I moved my mid-section constituted more than ample massage and thereby we could kill two (three, four...) birds with one stone. At first he even went so far as to apply Atomic Balm to my knees before I climbed on top of him. Previously, I mentioned that he had since instructed me, in the course of these therapies, to open my mouth and placing my mouth over his, to rotate my tongue inside his mouth. Until this particular day, this was the point to which this portion of our sessions had progressed. Normally, I would continue in this fashion until he said we were through. Today that changed.
Not long into this episode, Garvey took my hand and pushing it downward, instructed me to gently cup his testicles. Applying ever so light pressure, I was to coddle and tenderly roll his balls in my hand, all the while maintaining the rotating of my hips and the sloppy mouth-to mouth tongue-ing. I withdrew my hand at the touch of his scratchy, wiry pubic hair as it rubbed against my fingers, palm, wrist and forearm. I had never felt pubic hair and, at this time, still had none of my own. He told me to go ahead, and again instructed me as to what he wanted me to do. I just did it. By increments this was getting more and more bizarre. The feel of his pubic hair unhinged me, and touching his scrotum and cupping his testicles was enough to... was too much. A million thoughts were racing through my mind at the same time. Things that had been building inside me were screaming indecipherable messages to me . What were they? Images, senses, touches, smells, tastes, thoughts, feelings, questions, words, phrases... All rushing to the forefront demanding simultaneous attention. Too much data. Too much going on with no reference or place in which to sort it out. But something had changed. Although I couldn't put words to it yet because they weren't in my experience dictionary, something had turned. My feelings of avoidance and uncomfortability around Garvey, were evolving towards repulsion and revulsion. Something nameless but visceral.
My actions were mechanical and unnatural. Trying to focus on one activity, with all these colliding thoughts, perceptions, and conflicting feelings, caused me to forget and interrupt one of the other things I was supposed to be doing. My mind was obviously beyond overload. (His beard grating against my face. The smell of his cologne or after shave. The drool flowing out of my mouth and onto his face. His flaky, patchy skin against me. Escape. What is going on here? The wiry pubic hair. What am I doing here? Keep moving your hips. His scrotum and testicles. The sweat. The heat. When can I stop? The sheet against my back. When can I stop? Where is his penis? Uuuugghhh!) I could not control my thoughts. In addition, I had a terribly difficult time bending and contorting my body to comply with his wishes. Garvey would remind me of what I was doing wrong and tell me to keep up the correct activity. What a strange set of positions and seemingly unrelated tasks I was being asked to perform. I didn't get it. But it was supposed to make me heat up. Get my mucous flowing to aid in draining my problem sinuses. Unlock my hips. Massage my knees. Make me a better basketball player. I continued to perform as best as I could, all the while hoping for the end. An end.
Frankly, I was so focused on what was happening to me and how I was feeling that I had never really thought about what Garvey's stake was. Why did he do this? What did Garvey get out of it? And honestly, at this point, I wouldn't have understood the answer. This was all very circus-like, freak show weird to my young mind, and I had nothing with which to compare it. I was a naive schoolboy. I didn't feel that I had anyone with whom I could talk about it even if I knew what to say. My teammates were increasingly treating me like an outsider, or at least I felt that way, the more they picked up on whatever they sensed was going on with Garvey. I was afraid to tell a teacher because I wasn't that close to any of them, and Garvey was a co-worker of theirs, afterall, wasn't he? He was held (and unbelievably still is) in such high esteem. I should have trusted my parents, but I was afraid what my dad would do. And I did not want to live with the aftermath. Besides, I was still trying to figure out what was going on let alone whether it was wrong. This latest activity had started me finally leaning in that direction but I wasn't sure. About anything. Only my stomach, my gut, knew the truth. And I was starting to listen. Looking for words to unlock and define perceptions. Words to encapsulate feelings. But what if I was wrong? Now I had to think. There was more to my reluctance to participate in Garvey's "treatment" than I understood. Something unspoken was deeply troubling me. The truth was somewhere between my stomach and my brain. My stomach knew. My brain needed to learn something real about the physical nature of sex to put the two together. I was in the initial stages of moving towards a coherent picture and this last encounter had given me a strong push.
Listen. For a young kid, this is way too complex of a situation. The levels of involvement and the degrees of manipulation would drive an adult crazy. As a young boy, I was sad, afraid, and confused by Garvey and our interaction. Very confused. I was becoming more and more quiet. Moody. Withdrawn. Prone to quick bursts of anger that were not my nature. Things were going in directions that before mere months ago I was unaware existed. And now that they were being thrust in my face I was doing my best to make sense of them. But I felt alone. Betrayed and alone. And terribly confused.
predafile@hotmail.com
The diagnosis of my knee problems was particularly interesting. Tired of continually failing to measure up to expectations, I had finally decided to confide to Garvey that I had been experiencing this pain in my knees. That much was true. He seemed to view it as another reason I wasn't more mobile on the court. I saw it as an excuse. Maybe if I had a legitimate reason for not playing up to his expectations, Garvey would ease up on me. I was tired of not making the grade.
He took me into the lockerroom and sat opposite me. Taking one leg in his hands he proceeded to push and prod at the areas in and around my knee. "Does this hurt?", he asked. "How about this?" I winced and pulled away in response, all the while nodding my head and answering "yes" in short pain-filled gasps. Then he began hitting my knees with the side of his hand in short little chops. He started with an area just above my knee and continued on down until he was mid-shin. With each chop I groaned and yelped in pain. By the time he had moved on to the other leg, Garvey was already telling me bits and pieces of what he thought the problem was and what could be done to fix it. Maybe I had something called shin splints, he said. Maybe I was just experiencing growing pains. Although painful, neither condition was all that serious. The answer for either was the same. My knees needed regular massage with Atomic Balm and "treatment".
What makes this all so poignant is that while I did truly have this pain in my knees, it was more of an internal thing. Like a toothache, my knees would throb and hum with a discomfort that would continue for an hour or two before subsiding. Banging, whacking, prodding or chopping at my knees didn't bother me unless the blow itself was sufficient to cause pain. My knees weren't tender. They just hurt. Nonetheless, every time Garvey looked up at me, I feigned what I believed was the appropriate response. And when I looked into his eyes, I was glad that I didn't notice any signs that he was aware of my attempt at deception. In hindsight, I don't know that his prognosis was any more legitimate than my reactions to his chops. In my youthful short-sightedness I had just given him another reason for me to need more "treatment". If he thought I was faking it, it didn't show or seem to matter to him. "Treatment" was what mattered. And conveniently, though oddly, enough, while the massaging of my knees could be done in the conventional fashion, it could also be incorporated into our bedroom sessions without even deviating from the current regimen.
As last detailed, my "treatment" sessions now consisted of me lying naked, face to face, atop Garvey who would be clad in only briefs, a matching white Jockey brand t-shirt, and dark dress socks, although lately the briefs had come off. We would start with me rotating my hips laterally in an oval pattern. Garvey explained that the rubbing of my knees into the mattress as I moved my mid-section constituted more than ample massage and thereby we could kill two (three, four...) birds with one stone. At first he even went so far as to apply Atomic Balm to my knees before I climbed on top of him. Previously, I mentioned that he had since instructed me, in the course of these therapies, to open my mouth and placing my mouth over his, to rotate my tongue inside his mouth. Until this particular day, this was the point to which this portion of our sessions had progressed. Normally, I would continue in this fashion until he said we were through. Today that changed.
Not long into this episode, Garvey took my hand and pushing it downward, instructed me to gently cup his testicles. Applying ever so light pressure, I was to coddle and tenderly roll his balls in my hand, all the while maintaining the rotating of my hips and the sloppy mouth-to mouth tongue-ing. I withdrew my hand at the touch of his scratchy, wiry pubic hair as it rubbed against my fingers, palm, wrist and forearm. I had never felt pubic hair and, at this time, still had none of my own. He told me to go ahead, and again instructed me as to what he wanted me to do. I just did it. By increments this was getting more and more bizarre. The feel of his pubic hair unhinged me, and touching his scrotum and cupping his testicles was enough to... was too much. A million thoughts were racing through my mind at the same time. Things that had been building inside me were screaming indecipherable messages to me . What were they? Images, senses, touches, smells, tastes, thoughts, feelings, questions, words, phrases... All rushing to the forefront demanding simultaneous attention. Too much data. Too much going on with no reference or place in which to sort it out. But something had changed. Although I couldn't put words to it yet because they weren't in my experience dictionary, something had turned. My feelings of avoidance and uncomfortability around Garvey, were evolving towards repulsion and revulsion. Something nameless but visceral.
My actions were mechanical and unnatural. Trying to focus on one activity, with all these colliding thoughts, perceptions, and conflicting feelings, caused me to forget and interrupt one of the other things I was supposed to be doing. My mind was obviously beyond overload. (His beard grating against my face. The smell of his cologne or after shave. The drool flowing out of my mouth and onto his face. His flaky, patchy skin against me. Escape. What is going on here? The wiry pubic hair. What am I doing here? Keep moving your hips. His scrotum and testicles. The sweat. The heat. When can I stop? The sheet against my back. When can I stop? Where is his penis? Uuuugghhh!) I could not control my thoughts. In addition, I had a terribly difficult time bending and contorting my body to comply with his wishes. Garvey would remind me of what I was doing wrong and tell me to keep up the correct activity. What a strange set of positions and seemingly unrelated tasks I was being asked to perform. I didn't get it. But it was supposed to make me heat up. Get my mucous flowing to aid in draining my problem sinuses. Unlock my hips. Massage my knees. Make me a better basketball player. I continued to perform as best as I could, all the while hoping for the end. An end.
Frankly, I was so focused on what was happening to me and how I was feeling that I had never really thought about what Garvey's stake was. Why did he do this? What did Garvey get out of it? And honestly, at this point, I wouldn't have understood the answer. This was all very circus-like, freak show weird to my young mind, and I had nothing with which to compare it. I was a naive schoolboy. I didn't feel that I had anyone with whom I could talk about it even if I knew what to say. My teammates were increasingly treating me like an outsider, or at least I felt that way, the more they picked up on whatever they sensed was going on with Garvey. I was afraid to tell a teacher because I wasn't that close to any of them, and Garvey was a co-worker of theirs, afterall, wasn't he? He was held (and unbelievably still is) in such high esteem. I should have trusted my parents, but I was afraid what my dad would do. And I did not want to live with the aftermath. Besides, I was still trying to figure out what was going on let alone whether it was wrong. This latest activity had started me finally leaning in that direction but I wasn't sure. About anything. Only my stomach, my gut, knew the truth. And I was starting to listen. Looking for words to unlock and define perceptions. Words to encapsulate feelings. But what if I was wrong? Now I had to think. There was more to my reluctance to participate in Garvey's "treatment" than I understood. Something unspoken was deeply troubling me. The truth was somewhere between my stomach and my brain. My stomach knew. My brain needed to learn something real about the physical nature of sex to put the two together. I was in the initial stages of moving towards a coherent picture and this last encounter had given me a strong push.
Listen. For a young kid, this is way too complex of a situation. The levels of involvement and the degrees of manipulation would drive an adult crazy. As a young boy, I was sad, afraid, and confused by Garvey and our interaction. Very confused. I was becoming more and more quiet. Moody. Withdrawn. Prone to quick bursts of anger that were not my nature. Things were going in directions that before mere months ago I was unaware existed. And now that they were being thrust in my face I was doing my best to make sense of them. But I felt alone. Betrayed and alone. And terribly confused.
predafile@hotmail.com
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
predafile@hotmail.com
Want to contact Jack or comment on predafile? Want to say something but you are uncomfortable talking about it in predafile's comment sections? Personally, I prefer to keep as much of this discussion as possible on the published blog site (because I believe it is for the greater good to get this information out), but if you prefer, you can now e-mail me/Jack at predafile@hotmail.com. Your e-mail will come to my private hotmail account, which is separate from this blog. I will try to respond in a timely fashion if it is requested/appropriate. Noone will see your correspondence except you and me. I understand and promise confidentiality and, if need be, your anonymity. Nothing will be published without your permission. No more victims.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
The summer of my discontent
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
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
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