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
Friday, July 15, 2005
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
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
"Rap" sessions
Garvey opened the door ahead of me, ushered me into the room, flipped the light switch, and with his hand on the doorknob, gently pushed the door closed. There was a finality to the click of the door latch as the mechanism caught. A click that broke the hum of the fluorescent lights and brought me back from the clutter of thoughts streaming through my head. Back to my future. Back to the fear and desperation of my immediate future. He told me to take down my pants. All I could think of at times like this was escape. But there was no escape. In the past I had tried pleading, bargaining, crying, or even physically trying to delay him by inching away. None of that worked. He simply crossed his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels while pushing his hips forward, leaning his torso back as he did so. Balancing there, he waited for me. He told me that he would wait as long as it took and that it was better to get it over with. He said that by postponing the inevitable I was only adding to my own anguish. In the end, I unfastened my belt, lowered my pants down around my ankles, and naked from the waist down, submitted. I had learned. Tight-lipped and rigid with a quiet loathing and determination that I had learned from his hand, I accepted my beating.
When I bent forward and placed my hands on my knees, Garvey came closer. He approached and stood on my left side. When he got close enough, he reached out with his left hand and cupped, and then closed, his hand around my testicles. This, he told me, was to keep me from getting a hernia, or otherwise injuring myself in that area, during my paddling. My testicles secured, Garvey ceremoniously drew back his right hand, held it for a moment at its peak, and with a full swing of his arm, brought his open, bare hand hard against my bare buttocks. The first time I was ever "rapped" the resulting "smack" had been unlike anything I had ever heard before. I had never been hit like this and certainly had never heard the loud clap that resulted from such a strong flesh on flesh blow. The pain came swiftly next. I had learned not to yelp, but it was all I could do not to. He was, afterall, a fully-grown man and at the time of this particular incident, I was still a pre-pubescent boy. I could not stop the tears from welling up behind my eyes and they spilled out and rolled down my cheeks.
When Garvey's hand made contact with my ass, he didn't immediately remove it. Instead, he held it in place, and not breaking contact with my skin, proceeded to vibrate his palm and fingers back and forth as if reinforcing and rubbing in the pain for a few more seconds. This done, he counted it out loud. "That's one." Then he dramatically drew back his right arm and hit me again. "That's two." Again. "That's three." I started to reach for my pants and tried to stand up. "No, Jack, we're not done. Your teacher said you're headed for a "4" in conduct for this little stunt. You know what a "4" means. Now bend over." I dropped my pants back to the floor and assumed the position. And again Garvey wound up and swung his arm at me, clapping me on the ass with one last ferocious smack. It seemed to be the hardest hit yet and I lurched forward from the sheer force of his swing. "That's four. And let that be a lesson to you. You want to be a clown, Mr. Hughes? You go ahead and grow up to be a clown. But not around me."
As I have said before, when a young boy barely in grade school I was flattered by Garvey's attention. This is ludicrous but the first time I was paddled, despite how much it hurt, I was vaguely proud of having joined the fraternity of St. Johns basketball players. Garvey's players. In later years, teamed with my more blatant sexual abuse, I recognized Garvey's policy of doling out "raps" for what it really is: trolling for, and cultivating, submissive and seemingly willing young boys for his own sexual pleasure.
The handprints from these paddlings showed blazing red on my backside for days afterwards. I would hide them from my parents and family until they went away. The psychological handprint these beatings, and my subsequent sexual abuse at Garvey's hands, left on me are still there. They may never go away. PREDAFILE is an attempt to heal those wounds. I offer this forum to those of you, who like me, were hit by Garvey, were paddled by Garvey, or were taken to bed and sexually molested by Garvey. Begin the healing. Talk about your experiences. Anonymously if necessary. Take back that part of your past that you have denied and kept secret because of shame or embarrassment. Take back that part of your past, that part of you, that you could never share. Not even with those closest to you. Especially not with those closest to you. That's wrong. Garvey stole something from us. PREDAFILE is a safe haven. A place for us to test the waters as we get in touch with how we feel about the things Garvey did to us, and talk about them, for maybe the first time. A place for us to put our past back together. A chance to put our experiences in their proper perspective and maybe one day let those who love us most love us for who we really are, and help us heal. I offer you my experiences. Maybe, in them, you'll see a part of yourself, and reclaim it.
predafile@hotmail.com
When I bent forward and placed my hands on my knees, Garvey came closer. He approached and stood on my left side. When he got close enough, he reached out with his left hand and cupped, and then closed, his hand around my testicles. This, he told me, was to keep me from getting a hernia, or otherwise injuring myself in that area, during my paddling. My testicles secured, Garvey ceremoniously drew back his right hand, held it for a moment at its peak, and with a full swing of his arm, brought his open, bare hand hard against my bare buttocks. The first time I was ever "rapped" the resulting "smack" had been unlike anything I had ever heard before. I had never been hit like this and certainly had never heard the loud clap that resulted from such a strong flesh on flesh blow. The pain came swiftly next. I had learned not to yelp, but it was all I could do not to. He was, afterall, a fully-grown man and at the time of this particular incident, I was still a pre-pubescent boy. I could not stop the tears from welling up behind my eyes and they spilled out and rolled down my cheeks.
When Garvey's hand made contact with my ass, he didn't immediately remove it. Instead, he held it in place, and not breaking contact with my skin, proceeded to vibrate his palm and fingers back and forth as if reinforcing and rubbing in the pain for a few more seconds. This done, he counted it out loud. "That's one." Then he dramatically drew back his right arm and hit me again. "That's two." Again. "That's three." I started to reach for my pants and tried to stand up. "No, Jack, we're not done. Your teacher said you're headed for a "4" in conduct for this little stunt. You know what a "4" means. Now bend over." I dropped my pants back to the floor and assumed the position. And again Garvey wound up and swung his arm at me, clapping me on the ass with one last ferocious smack. It seemed to be the hardest hit yet and I lurched forward from the sheer force of his swing. "That's four. And let that be a lesson to you. You want to be a clown, Mr. Hughes? You go ahead and grow up to be a clown. But not around me."
As I have said before, when a young boy barely in grade school I was flattered by Garvey's attention. This is ludicrous but the first time I was paddled, despite how much it hurt, I was vaguely proud of having joined the fraternity of St. Johns basketball players. Garvey's players. In later years, teamed with my more blatant sexual abuse, I recognized Garvey's policy of doling out "raps" for what it really is: trolling for, and cultivating, submissive and seemingly willing young boys for his own sexual pleasure.
The handprints from these paddlings showed blazing red on my backside for days afterwards. I would hide them from my parents and family until they went away. The psychological handprint these beatings, and my subsequent sexual abuse at Garvey's hands, left on me are still there. They may never go away. PREDAFILE is an attempt to heal those wounds. I offer this forum to those of you, who like me, were hit by Garvey, were paddled by Garvey, or were taken to bed and sexually molested by Garvey. Begin the healing. Talk about your experiences. Anonymously if necessary. Take back that part of your past that you have denied and kept secret because of shame or embarrassment. Take back that part of your past, that part of you, that you could never share. Not even with those closest to you. Especially not with those closest to you. That's wrong. Garvey stole something from us. PREDAFILE is a safe haven. A place for us to test the waters as we get in touch with how we feel about the things Garvey did to us, and talk about them, for maybe the first time. A place for us to put our past back together. A chance to put our experiences in their proper perspective and maybe one day let those who love us most love us for who we really are, and help us heal. I offer you my experiences. Maybe, in them, you'll see a part of yourself, and reclaim it.
predafile@hotmail.com
Saturday, June 18, 2005
"Rapped" attention
Long before I ever played on one of Garvey's teams, I knew who he was. At St. John the Baptist Roman Catholic grade school which I attended, he was revered as the coach of the varsity basketball team and a respected member of the parish community. Ditto at Cathedral Preparatory High School for boys where Garvey coached freshman basketball. And also at Mercyhurst College where he taught History and eventually became the college's president. He devised election strategies and advised local Erie politicians such as mayor Lou Tullio and county executive Robbie Robison, and later, mayor Joyce Savacchio and county councilman Gary Bukowski. All of them benefited from Garvey's expertise. (I apologize for any misspellings.) His power and influence were well known. As was his success. "Absolute power corrupts absolutely" and I believe it led Garvey to think he could abuse us with impunity.
When things went well and we played well, Garvey roared his approval and beamed as he looked over his creation. But I also saw Garvey prod, name-call, scream, smack, and otherwise humiliate his players to improve their performance. My performance. His players, me included, quietly accepted this treatment. It was an honor to play for St. John's. An honor to play for Garvey. He was a winner. His methods went unquestioned. But I also watched some of those older players walk slowly, reluctantly, with heads down and shoulders slumped, as they headed off to the music room. They went off to what I initially considered a harsh motivational technique and later, when it happened to me, recognized as the beginnings of abuse and acquiescence, dominance and submission. They were going to the music room to be paddled, "rapped".
As has already been reported by others in The Erie Daily Times-News, the paddling could be for any number of reasons. One way to earn "raps" was to receive a less than acceptable assessment of your classroom behavior. In those days "conduct" was rated on a scale Of "1" to "4", with "4" being the worst possible grade. A mark of "3" or "4" on your report card earned you a like number of raps. Poor grades in academic studies could also earn you raps. And not surprisingly, poor performance on the court could earn you raps that were intended to spur you on to better play. Garvey recognized the motivational power of a very basic human instinct: fear. When he sensed that we, whether singularly or collectively, were afraid of the older high school or college-aged alumni that he encouraged to come scrimmage against us, or even at halftime of a game against another team he thought intimidated us, he told us that if we thought they were something to be scared of, he'd give us something to truly fear: him. At times that meant running laps around the gym for seemingly endless periods. Other times that meant banging your head off of a locker or a smack to the head. Often it meant a trip to the music room and raps. "Raps or laps" was a common refrain. At some point I was paddled for all of the above reasons.
Once in a while one of us would do something, in or out of school, that required Garvey's attention and, as he perceived it, discipline. In one instance, a then eighth grade player, thinking he was unobserved, pinched and twisted the nipple of the breast of one of his female classmates while pleading with her to "gimme some" (if lockerroom scuttlebutt is to be believed re: the quote). His punishment when this was brought to Garvey's attention: raps. In my case I had stupidly penned something silly, perhaps distasteful but by no means profane, that was deemed inappropriate for junior high consumption. One of my teachers had confiscated the material and punished me by keeping me after school. As I had feared, when I failed to show up for practice, my teammates had told Garvey of my predicament and he appeared at the door to my classroom. After a brief discussion in the hallway, the teacher and Garvey reappeared together and I was released into Garvey's custody. I wonder what my teacher would have done had she known what my punishment would be.
Practice was going to start late. And although that was often the case because Garvey was notorious for making us wait outside the school for him to arrive, this time it was my fault. When there were no other teachers or students within sight, he cuffed me open-handed upside the back of my head. "Aw, for Christ's sake. This is dumb, Jack. Really stupid." He led me down the hall to the music room. When we arrived he was further angered by the fact that the door was locked and he hadn't brought his keys. I followed behind him as he led me to the huge custodian storage room at the elbow of the basement. The room was dusty and smelled of the cleaning supplies and floor buffers that were kept there. The air was close and I found it hard to breathe. "Take your pants down, Jack, and bend over."
Next: "Rap" sessions
predafile@hotmail.com
When things went well and we played well, Garvey roared his approval and beamed as he looked over his creation. But I also saw Garvey prod, name-call, scream, smack, and otherwise humiliate his players to improve their performance. My performance. His players, me included, quietly accepted this treatment. It was an honor to play for St. John's. An honor to play for Garvey. He was a winner. His methods went unquestioned. But I also watched some of those older players walk slowly, reluctantly, with heads down and shoulders slumped, as they headed off to the music room. They went off to what I initially considered a harsh motivational technique and later, when it happened to me, recognized as the beginnings of abuse and acquiescence, dominance and submission. They were going to the music room to be paddled, "rapped".
As has already been reported by others in The Erie Daily Times-News, the paddling could be for any number of reasons. One way to earn "raps" was to receive a less than acceptable assessment of your classroom behavior. In those days "conduct" was rated on a scale Of "1" to "4", with "4" being the worst possible grade. A mark of "3" or "4" on your report card earned you a like number of raps. Poor grades in academic studies could also earn you raps. And not surprisingly, poor performance on the court could earn you raps that were intended to spur you on to better play. Garvey recognized the motivational power of a very basic human instinct: fear. When he sensed that we, whether singularly or collectively, were afraid of the older high school or college-aged alumni that he encouraged to come scrimmage against us, or even at halftime of a game against another team he thought intimidated us, he told us that if we thought they were something to be scared of, he'd give us something to truly fear: him. At times that meant running laps around the gym for seemingly endless periods. Other times that meant banging your head off of a locker or a smack to the head. Often it meant a trip to the music room and raps. "Raps or laps" was a common refrain. At some point I was paddled for all of the above reasons.
Once in a while one of us would do something, in or out of school, that required Garvey's attention and, as he perceived it, discipline. In one instance, a then eighth grade player, thinking he was unobserved, pinched and twisted the nipple of the breast of one of his female classmates while pleading with her to "gimme some" (if lockerroom scuttlebutt is to be believed re: the quote). His punishment when this was brought to Garvey's attention: raps. In my case I had stupidly penned something silly, perhaps distasteful but by no means profane, that was deemed inappropriate for junior high consumption. One of my teachers had confiscated the material and punished me by keeping me after school. As I had feared, when I failed to show up for practice, my teammates had told Garvey of my predicament and he appeared at the door to my classroom. After a brief discussion in the hallway, the teacher and Garvey reappeared together and I was released into Garvey's custody. I wonder what my teacher would have done had she known what my punishment would be.
Practice was going to start late. And although that was often the case because Garvey was notorious for making us wait outside the school for him to arrive, this time it was my fault. When there were no other teachers or students within sight, he cuffed me open-handed upside the back of my head. "Aw, for Christ's sake. This is dumb, Jack. Really stupid." He led me down the hall to the music room. When we arrived he was further angered by the fact that the door was locked and he hadn't brought his keys. I followed behind him as he led me to the huge custodian storage room at the elbow of the basement. The room was dusty and smelled of the cleaning supplies and floor buffers that were kept there. The air was close and I found it hard to breathe. "Take your pants down, Jack, and bend over."
Next: "Rap" sessions
predafile@hotmail.com
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