Tietam Brown (12 page)

November 7, 1985

I was no longer just the kid with the one ear at Conestoga High. Nor was I just the guy who had a girlfriend that was three leagues out of his ballpark. No, on November 7, 1985, I was now the guy who had been beaten up by Coach Hanrahan. Or, as word spread that day in school, “the guy who got what he deserved.”

That at least was the feeling of the Conestoga Togas football team, whose fate in the coming sectional championship lay in the coach's student-beating hands. But to a large group of students, a silent majority, I guess, word spread about the kid who had stood up to Mr. Hanrahan. Who had actually called him a jerk, took a beating for it, but still managed to make it to school that very next day.

Hanrahan's threats of the previous day hadn't left a whole lot of room for interpretation, but I went on with my schedule nonetheless, waiting for the principal, or Hanrahan, or maybe the police to forcibly escort me from the premises.

But the day was flying by without a hitch, and I was enjoying my newfound status as a quasi-celebrity on campus, as well as my status as first-time kisser and first-time breast-toucher. Terri showed up at my locker after second period looking better than ever, and in good spirits until hearing of my father's disastrous dance with vengeance.

By lunchtime, students were taking bets as to whether I was brave enough, or stupid enough, to show up for history. Most bet against me. They lost.

I'm not saying I showed up with any degree of confidence, but at least I did show. I was sweating, but I was there. A history-loving son of a gun, just ready to absorb some learning from Coach Hanrahan, a master of the subject.

I never heard him coming. Don't get me wrong, he didn't sneak up on me and continue his assault, as that sentence might lead you to believe. I just mean that his entrance came without fanfare, without the exaggerated clicking of cowboy boots from way down the hall or his self-led chants of “Togas, Togas, Togas” that usually heralded his arrival. No, in this case, it was just Mr. Hanrahan, his mullet and his muscles, closing the door quietly and saying, “Hello there . . . class.”

The football team, of course, cheered their hero, his rep as a badass having been further sealed by his one-punch knockout of a 150-pound kid. A punch that, apparently, Hanrahan had enjoyed talking about a great deal at the afternoon's practice.

As they cheered, I looked closely for a sign. A sign of struggle. A split lip, a bruise of any kind. Just some kind of a sign that a fight had actually taken place at 272 Quaker Path, instead of a one-sided debacle.

I saw my sign! A bruise, or more accurately a series of bruises, on Mr. Hanrahan. Unfortunately, those bruises were all on his knuckles, which apparently had been injured when my dad hit him repeatedly with his face. Hanrahan's face, however, was without damage. None. Whatsoever. So much for my dad being a boxer.

“Okay, class, let's begin,” Hanrahan said. “Today we're going to talk about Abraham Lincoln's Army of the Potomac, and some of the key battles that they won, including Gettysburg and Antietam.”

The football team laughed, seizing their cue, ready to pounce on Hanrahan's already wounded prey.

He continued, “Andy, I thought that maybe you could help us today, seeing as one of your ancestors fought there.”

I tried to detect the sarcasm, but found none. Tried to detect some type of a trap, but came up with nothing. Above all else, I tried to figure out why in the hell he had picked this day, of all days, to call me Andy.

I looked back at Terri, who gave me a shrug. Looked back at Hanrahan, who addressed me again. “Andy, I had a chance to look over your paper last night, and I think that maybe I was a little too tough on you.”

Actually, a C minus is “a little tough.” A punch in the face goes a little above and beyond.

He continued, “You see, class, in history, there is sometimes more than one side to the story. I hadn't considered another side to the Emancipation Proclamation, but Andy Brown's paper made me think. I thought that Andy might like to speak to the class about his feelings on Gettysburg or Antietam.”

I suddenly knew how the Grinch felt when he puzzled until his puzzler got sore, because when it came to what Hanrahan could possibly be thinking—I was puzzled.

So I puzzled and puzzled, till my puzzler got sore, then said “Okay” and gave the teaching profession a whirl.

“Now I'm not really an expert on the battle of Antietam,” I began, “but I do know that what could have been the North's greatest victory . . . was hurt a lot by General McClellan, who was on the North, by his uh tendency to overestimate the odds against him.”

And for the next several minutes, my presentation continued that way, a stumbling, mumbling collection of facts, put together in an unprofessional but not completely unenjoyable fashion. Sure Clem Baskin shot a few spitballs at me, which prompted a Hanrahan admonishment of “Clem, stop it now” and “Andy's trying to talk,” but to tell you the truth, I enjoyed being the center of attention. Enjoyed the laughter after a horrible joke. Enjoyed being seen as more than just “the guy with the one ear,” or “the guy with the hot girlfriend.” But most of all, I enjoyed looking at Terri looking at me, her smile as warm as a pup by the fire.

“Thank you, Andy,” Hanrahan said. “Let's give him a big round of applause for telling us a little bit about a big battle.”

As the class applauded, and for the next few minutes, too, I watched Hanrahan. Examined him. His mullet—longer than ever. His muscles—bigger than ever. His face—not a scratch on it. Nonetheless, something had changed. I didn't know what, but something had changed.

Friday, November 13, 1985

My dad lay in bed for most of the next week, ignoring my suggestions of seeing a doctor. By the third day, he was showing some signs of being his normal self, and by Friday he was as good as new—his swollen discolored eyes and Silly Putty of a nose notwithstanding.

“Andy,” he said, with more enthusiasm than he had any right to be feeling, “have I ever told you how much I love football?”

“No,” I said, “not one time, as a matter of fact you've told me a few times that you hated it.”

“Oh come on now, kid, hate's a strong word. Football is a very valuable part of our culture, and we've gotta start enjoying it together.”

“Dad, we don't even have a television set,” I told him, while wondering if one of the haymakers Hanrahan had tagged him with had altered his thought patterns. In a way, I longed to hear another of his next-door sex operas, just to check on his body's other functions. He had now gone a full week without a visitor in his room— almost six days longer than usual.

Tietam just laughed. “I'm not talking about watching a game on a damned ol' television, kid, I'm talking about you and me, father and son, supporting our very own Conestoga Togas, tomorrow in their quest for the championship.”

Surely my father had to be kidding. Just show up as father and son to support the Conestoga Togas? We'd look ridiculous, with our matching shiners, supporting a team whose coach had beaten us both up on the same day.

But he was not to be swayed. “Hey Andy, if not for the team, let's do it for your girlfriend. It's the big game, I'm sure she's gonna be cheering her little boobies off.”

I wasn't sure whether to be offended or laugh at how obviously disingenuous my dad was being. So I laughed and got offended at the same time, and said, “First off, Dad, Terri quit the squad, and second, her boobies aren't little.”

“Well hell, kid, let's bring her too,” Tietam said. “Unless you're embarrassed of ol' Tietam.”

“No, Dad, I'm not embarrassed, I just didn't think that you'd want her to see you, like, uh . . . you know, like this.”

Tietam looked down at his boxers, the cow having poked its head out of the barn, and said, “Hey, hey she's
not
going to see me like
this.
I'll be dressed to kill when I support my team.”

“No, Dad, I meant, see you like this . . . beaten up.”

“Oh that,” my dad said. “Yeah, I guess you do have a point, but hey, it's not like we got our asses handed to us by just any Tom, Dick, or Harry. No sir, it was Henry Hanrahan who got us. Two-time all-American, NFL star, winningest football coach in section history. No shame in that, son. No shame in that at all.”

He paused to give a big cheesy smile, and a genuine, honest-to-goodness Arthur Fonzarelli thumbs-up, then gave me a pensive stare. “Andy,” he asked, “why did your girl quit the cheerleading team? I thought she was the captain.”

“Yeah, she was, Dad, she was, but she quit because of me, because of what the coach did to me.”

The pensive look disappeared, and the other guy was back. The guy with the Fonz's thumb. “Hey loyalty—that's good, that's good. I like a girl who's loyal to my boy. Come on now, Andy, give her a call.”

So I did. Called her and invited her on a date with me . . . and my dad, to the championship game. She questioned my sanity but told me that any time with me was a good time, and then asked if my Dad would show up naked. I told her I couldn't guarantee anything when it came to my father.

“Oh Andy,” she said, “I was wondering about one other thing.”

“Yeah, what's that?” I asked.

“Did you think about my diary at all these last few days, about what it said?”

“Yeah, yeah, I've been thinking about it.”

“And?”

“And, I uh . . . think I figured it out.”

“And?”

“And, um what?” I said, trying to sound casual. Actually, I was excited as hell, but my dad was listening and I was trying to be as vague as possible.

Terri interrupted my train of thought by saying, “What do you think about doing it, Andy, about really doing it?”

My heart officially stopped and restarted twice during that sentence, but I swallowed hard and said, “Terri, I think it's going to be the best feeling ever!”

I may have spoken a little louder than I intended, because Tietam Brown turned around and with a voice that sounded as if he had a wiretap on my conscience, said, “The best feeling ever? Whatever might you mean, Andy?”

“Dad, stop it,” I said, in brilliant whining fashion.

Terri laughed. “What is he, psychic or something?” Then, “I'll see you tomorrow. Pick me up around twelve.”

Saturday, November 14, 1985 / Noon

I emerged from my house on Elston Court with perhaps the cleanest penis in the continental United States. Hell, maybe the whole world.

Sure, I'd had to handle my father's ribbing, but I paid little heed because I was confident. Confident that if practice does indeed make perfect, I would be pretty damn close to it when the big day was upon me.

I spent the short trip to Terri's house watching my father sing his heart out to “Copacabana” and hoping that by sheer force of will I could make those fuzzy dice disappear.

“Music and passion were always the fashion at the Copa . . . they fell in love.”

“Dad, who sings this?” I asked.

“Come on, kid, this is classic Manilow.”

“Can we keep it that way?”

“Oh ho,” he laughed, “you got me there . . . Actually I wanted Village People, but it's not here. Nothin' like a little People before a big date.”

“Dad, you're going to a football game—I'm going on a date . . . and please don't embarrass me.”

Just showing up at the game in our condition was going to be embarrassing enough; a father-son team of human punching bags. I didn't need Tietam Brown's unique brand of crude humor making matters worse.

He did his best to assure me. “Kid, believe me, my attention is going to be completely centered on the game. I have reason to believe it's going to be very . . . interesting. The last thing I would do on a day like this is tease you in front of your girl . . . or talk about the four showers you took last night!”

“DAAAAD!”

“Lifting weights in there, Andy? The old clean-and-jerk?”

Mercifully, the car came to a stop in Terri's drive.

“Nice house,” my father said. “Preaching must pay well.”

Hard to argue with that. I hopped out of the car and slowly made my way up the walk, admiring the shrubbery as I went and hoping for the best on a day that had all the trappings of a disaster. I rang the bell.

“Well hello, you must be Andy,” a beautiful woman said. A beautiful woman, early forties, with a face as carefully manicured as the Johnson yard.

“Yes ma'am, I am,” I said.

“Well come on in, Terri will be down shortly,” she said. “Well I'll be, that is quite a shiner you have. Terri said you were in a little scrape at school.”

“Yes ma'am, a little one. Did she say with who?”

“No, Andy, she just said that boys will be boys.”

“Oh.”

“So you're going to the big game, huh?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“We've got to pull for our Togas, don't we?”

“I'll be pulling, ma'am.”

“I do wish that Terri was still cheering. What a shame, pulling up lame with only one game to go.”

“Yes ma'am, it is a shame,” I said. Actually, I was a little surprised. Honesty, I figured out, did not seem to be the best policy in this particular house, especially as it pertained to Terri's boyfriend getting the crap beaten out of him by the beloved coach.

She smiled and said, “That Coach Hanrahan sure has done a nice job with his boys, hasn't he?”

Yes, they are a wonderful group of mean-spirited, bullying, mullet-wearing, steroid monkeys. Actually I didn't say that, but I was sure as hell thinking it. What I actually said was, “Uh, yeah, he sure has.”

Mrs. Johnson then offered me a cup of tea.

“No thank you, Mrs. Johnson. My dad's probably getting pretty anxious in the car about now. He's really looking forward to the game.”

“Your father!” she exclaimed. “Well isn't that sweet, a father and son going to the big game. Well I'd like to meet him.”

My heart momentarily froze. Although my powers of telepathy had failed to make the dice disappear, I called on them once again to make Terri herself appear in front of me so I could spare Mrs. Johnson the pleasure of making ol' Tietam's acquaintance. And I have to admit, I did momentarily, just momentarily, picture this beautiful, demure woman licking my father's ass. She was definitely his type; rich, attractive and . . . married.

Unfortunately, my mental powers were a bit off on that day, as I was unable to make Terri appear before me, but I was able to summon her voice from upstairs. A voice that said, “I'll be down in a few minutes.”

I went out to get my dad.

“Dad, please don't embarrass me,” I said. “And don't hit on Terri's mother.”

Tietam smiled as we walked toward the door. He said, “Andy, I told you I wouldn't embarrass you, didn't I? But as far as the mother, hey I can't guarantee nothin'. Wow they've got quite a few pumpkins here.”

Mrs. Johnson met us at the door with a forced smile that did little to hide her shock and, I thought, disgust. She opened the door and said, “Well hello, you must be Andy's father.”

“I sure am, ma'am, I'm Tietam Brown,” he said, and leaned in and gave Mrs. Johnson a firm kiss on the cheek.

“Well, Mr. Brown, that was nice of you, although to tell the truth, I think a handshake would have sufficed.”

“Yeah well, myself, personally, I try not to shake hands too much, you know, for sanitary reasons. People can be a little gross, right? Like say I was out in the car adjusting my sac and then shook your hand. Well, I'd pretty much be slapping my sac in your hand, wouldn't I?”

I thought I was going to die. I looked at Terri's mom and thought she might die, too. Two deaths at the hands of Tietam Brown's words.

Fortunately, Terri came down, somehow managing to look both wonderful and feminine in a denim jacket, jeans, and work boots, her long wet hair drawn back in a ponytail.

“Hi,” she said. “You must be Andy's father. He said you like to be called Tietam.”

“That's correct, and may I say, Mrs. Johnson, that you have a lovely daughter, and may I say to you, Terri, that you have an exquisite mother.”

“Thank you,” they both said in unison.

Tietam smiled broadly, and for just a second I thought I saw what women saw in him, even with his smashed nose and still horribly swollen face. His smile turned to a sly grin, and he said, “Hey where's Mr. Johnson, I could probably use a man of God in my life.”

“We could all use him,” Mrs. Johnson said, although I couldn't tell if she meant him or, you know,
Him.
“But unfortunately, Mr. Johnson is at a meeting with Billy Graham right now in Charlotte.”

“Really,” Tietam said. “Billy Graham the wrestler?”

“No,” Mrs. Johnson replied tersely, “Billy Graham the reverend.” She paused briefly. “May I ask, Mr. Brown, what happened to your face?”

My dad's eyes, the whites of which had turned red over the past few days, registered surprise. “You mean you don't know?”

“No, but I sure as the dickens would like to.”

“Well Mrs. Johnson, I guess I was spoiling for a fight and I got what I deserved.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, as did Terri. Mrs. Johnson breathed a sigh of indignation. “The Lord tells us to turn the other cheek,” she said, her tone pure holier-than-thou condescension.

“I did turn the other cheek, Mrs. Johnson,” my dad said. “And he punched that one too.” With that my dad burst out laughing, and I guess his laughter was infectious, because Terri and I joined in too. The infection didn't spread to Terri's mother, however, who just glared. Finally, my dad broke the silence.

“Well Mrs. Johnson, as the Good Book says, all have fallen short of the glory of God. I guess I just fell a little shorter than usual on that day.”

“You know your Bible, Mr. Brown—”

“Tietam, please.”

“Mr. Brown, may I suggest that you live its words.”

“That's very good advice, ma'am,” my father said.

“I will pray for you, Mr. Brown. For you and Coach Hanrahan, so that he may make this town proud.”

“Well thank you, ma'am,” my father said as he walked to the car. “I need those prayers . . . and I have a feeling the coach will too.”

With that my father departed the house, climbed into the Fairmont, batted the fuzzy dice for emphasis, cranked up the Manilow— yes I did just write “cranked up the Manilow”—and waved good-bye.

I studied Terri's mother through the windshield as Tietam backed out of the drive. A mixture of puritanical and capitalistic values. Dedicated to God's word and the surgeon's knife. A woman, I guessed, who would not be licking my dad's ass anytime soon.

My father was the first to speak. “I hope I didn't offend you, Terri, with my reference to the Bible.”

“No sir, but my mother offends a little bit easier than me.”

“But I was a little surprised that your mother didn't know about the, uh . . . origin of my face.”

I was surprised as well. Terri must have lied about four times to her mother, which didn't seem to fit in well with the Christian motif of the house.

“I know,” Terri said. “It's just that there are two things that you don't question in our house. God and Coach Hanrahan. I'd like to, but I . . . just . . . can't.”

Tietam laughed. “You just pay attention to the coach today. I have a feeling he's going to surprise a lot of people.”

Terri held my hand in the backseat as we made our way to the big game, as Barry Manilow provided the soundtrack to our own little love story. My dad, of course, sang along. But true to his words, he caused me no embarrassment, the fuzzy dice notwithstanding.

He even gave us our distance as we walked to the field, allowing us a hint of intimacy as the Togas stretched and the band played “Tusk” off in the distance of the playing field on the campus of Cornell.

Amid the pomp and circumstance, Terri leaned in close and whispered into my ear, “How does two weeks sound?”

“Two weeks?” I said, not quite catching her drift. “Two weeks for what?”

“Two weeks until . . . you know.”

“Two weeks? Really?”

“Really.”

She leaned forward and kissed me. I looked at my dad, who gave me a big thumbs-up and a silent, fist-shaking cheer.

The game itself was marked by some rather odd choices on the part of Coach Hanrahan, who was sporting a dramatically shorter haircut for the big game.

Three times the Togas tried to run the ball up the middle on third and long situations. A little strange maybe, but hey, who were we to question the winningest coach in section history?

A punt on third down, however, did raise a few eyebrows, and another punt on second down had the Conestoga fans screaming in anger, a reaction that three quarters earlier would have been unthinkable.

Still, the Togas rebounded, and with the team driving late in the game, trailing 12–7 with only a minute left on the clock, the Conestoga faithful had every reason to believe that Hanrahan would use his mighty arms to snatch victory out of the jaws of defeat.

First and goal for the Togas on the nine and the crowd was in a frenzy. A give to the halfback, who followed a Clem Baskin block for a four-yard gain.

Second and goal on the five. A give to Baskin, who, with chemically enhanced legs churning, lunged to the one.

Third and goal on the one, only eight seconds left. A time-out by Coach Hanrahan, who appeared to have shaken off whatever psychosis was responsible for his earlier gridiron goof-ups. He looked poised and calm, ready to guide his boys to a fourth straight title.

Yeah, the coach sure looked calm. Until he looked our way. At my dad to be exact. At my dad, who amid the hoopla just stood at ease, his hand serenely waving as if he was England's Queen Mother out for a Sunday stroll on the streets of old London. I swear they made eye contact, and I also swear that something happened to the coach. He began to cry. Softly at first, almost imperceptibly, but then harder. Harder and harder, until Coach Henry Hanrahan lay shaking inconsolably in the middle of the Conestoga sideline.

I looked at my dad, who seemed to be savoring some euphoric high. Eyes closed and smiling peacefully.

The whistle blew, but the coach was still down. Delay of game. Five-yard penalty. Fourth and goal on the six, but still the coach could not be helped. His team rallied around their fallen leader, but the 270-pound behemoth, who by this point had assumed the fetal position, was a tough one to handle. Another whistle, another five yards. Fourth down, eleven yards to go, and the Conestoga fans, including an irate, powerfully built red-faced man who I guessed to be Clem Baskin's father, were ready to riot.

But then the coach was on his feet. Still trembling, but on his feet. Tears streaming down, but on his feet. On his feet and waving wildly. Motioning for the field goal unit to take the field. Now I'm no football expert, but even I knew that a field goal couldn't possibly win that game. The team needed a touchdown. So if I knew it, everyone knew it, including the three-time defending champions, who were not all that happy with the field goal suggestion. Not happy at all.

Clem Baskin was the first to show his displeasure—by swinging his helmet full force into the back of Coach Hanrahan's skull. The coach went down, and the Togas pounced upon him like hyenas with protruding foreheads, punching and kicking, striking and pounding.

Clem's father was the first one out of the stands, sprinting with short, powerful strides and diving on top of the pile as if joining a World Series celebration. He then joined the boys in pummeling the coach. I looked around quickly and saw no sign of sad Mrs. Baskin.

And then there were more. Parents and players, and students and police. Some fighting, some breaking things up, entrants all into a very odd version of a new Superdance, boogying away to the sounds of sirens and screaming.

Believe it or not, I felt sorry for Hanrahan. Even after the taunts and hatred and the punch. When I looked at him crying, even before Baskin's brave blast, I saw a defeated man. A hulk of a man, who somehow seemed very small. In a way, I thought, he was kind of like Samson of the Bible, his powers lost without the benefit of his mighty mullet.