"Treatment": the molesting begins

With Garvey, it's all about "treatment". Gym-rat that I was, over the years I observed Garvey administering minor first aid to his players. He applied pressure to bloody noses and massaged or otherwise manipulated bruised and pulled muscles. In the latter case, some Atomic Balm and an ace bandage were usually employed. I thought nothing of it when he offered to help me with my particular recurring pain: headaches. Although I was too young to play on any team, I got the impression that he liked me and when he offered to rub my head, I was flattered to get his attention in front of the older guys. He instructed me to lie down on the bleacher and rest the back of my head in his lap. He then proceeded to "drain my sinuses" as he had diagnosed the source of my problem. This involved rubbing my forehead and temples and then using his fingers in a squeegie-like fashion to push the loosened mucous down towards the back of my nasal passages where I could swallow it. In addition (and this part was extremely painful) he would apply increasing pressure, with the fleshy portion of his thumb, to my eye in an attempt to force the mucous out from behind my eyeball and socket. More massaging, more squeegie-ing, more thumbing, more squeegie-ing. The thing is, bizarre as it sounds, it worked.

I have a history of headaches. From as early as first grade I had episodes of head pain so severe that I would throw up. Ordinarily that meant an afternoon with my head on my desk or in the nurses office until one of my older siblings could take me home because my mom worked. My third grade teacher sometimes gave me a ride home on such occasions. Several years later, when I was eleven years old, I had a headache. I was in the principles office. We were talking about my being excused for the day but she wanted to call my parents to make sure that I was allowed to go home and be there all by myself. Garvey poked his head into the office and took the chair next to me across from her. He intimated a knowledge of my headache history and let it be known that it was pretty much my own damn fault because if I came to him more regularly for treatment this was avoidable. He convinced her that he would take care of me and assured her that I would be fine.

We got in his car, a new gold Ford Torino, and drove to his apartment which was in a cul de sac nestled between Pine Ave. and Old French Rd. off of Parade St. Blvd. Once there he directed me upstairs to his bedroom where he said I needed to work up a sweat to get the mucous flowing and thereby more easily drainable. It was the next instruction that shook me. Instead of reclining with my head in his lap as had become customary, he now wanted me to take my clothes off. I hesitated. I was scared and confused but here was this man that I trusted, that everyone respected and trusted. He must have seen it in my eyes because he said something like, "Get in the bed and let's get this over with. I don't have a lot of time. I have to get back for practice. If you want me to help you...". He told me to take off my underwear, too. I complied.

He took off his clothes except for his white T-shirt, briefs and dark socks. For years I had stolen glances at the raw, red patches at the base of his neck and hairline that were visible above his collar. I inwardly screamed when he would lean back in his desk chair and, baring gritted teeth, picked at his scalp. What I saw now, horrified me. His entire body was a patchwork of red, scaly psoriasis sores. He didn't seem to notice my reaction. He removed his glasses and reached across the bed and placed them on the nightstand. When he was lying on his back on the bed, he instructed me to get on top of him, torso to torso, face to face. He pulled the topsheet and blanket over the top of us and told me to begin rotating my hips in an oval lateral fashion. I must not have done it right because he put his hands on my hips and directed me. This went on, rhythmically, uninterrupted, for what seemed an eternity before he said I could stop. Then he rolled me over on to my left side and, from behind me, began to rub my sinuses.

Other than our position, this part was no different than any other sinus session. He workrd my head and my headache went away. Or at some point it had. What happened next surprised me. He wrapped his arms around me and pinning my arms to my sides made me struggle to gain my freedom. I struggled. I grunted. I fought. And when I felt a sense of futility, because every time escape seemed near he reasserted himself, I whimpered. He told me that if I quit and didn't break free, he would "rap" me, I struggled until I had no more to give. Eventually, he let me go. He called me weak and told me we'd have to work on it, my upper body strength that is. I dressed in silence and we drove to practice together.

predafile@hotmail.com

I am not ashamed any longer

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

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

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

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

predafile@hotmail.com

Pedophiles are predators

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

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

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

predafile@hotmail.com

What's it all about?

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

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

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

predafile@hotmail.com