A week after my celebrated golfing debut, I was told I was heading to Florida. My grandparents had retired to a house near the Gulf of Mexico and I was to spend the summer. I was packed into the car and we were off without much notice. It was how it was done. I had no desire to leave my world, but what the hay, it would be an adventure. Maybe there would be places where I could roam there.

The ride was long and we were on a schedule. It was a thousand miles there and my father had to be at work on Monday morning.

Travel was right up my alley. I'd never been more captivated by anything. Nights were cool as the lights flipped past, giving a partial view of whatever was there as those lights reflected off the car windows. What was hidden behind them excited me. My attention stayed focused on what was outside of the speeding car.

Florida was sunny. The sand was white. The Gulf waters were green, and that excited me. When you stared out at the Gulf you could see forever, maybe to the South Pole. It was all sky and water and clouds and boats and it was massive.

My grandfather took me out the morning after my father left for home. We went to a diner a mile from the house to have breakfast together, Pop and me. He pushed open the door and announced to a dozen people sitting inside,

"This is my grandson, Dick."

I didn't know these people, but Pop knew them and they knew him. We were served coffee and I felt grown up. I had pancakes. People stopped to speak to my grandfather as they came in or left. I'd never had an experience quite like this one. I knew Pop was glad to have me with him. I hated the coffee but I drank every drop and told him it was wonderful.

This was my first time away from my parents since recorded history began, mine anyway. Summer in Florida was like a cool breeze on a hot day.

There was a tiny strip of beach down at the end of our block that no one used but me. When I was done with breakfast and chores, I went there. It was my beach, my spot, and the languid days drifted by one after another as I baked in the sun and basked in the fresh clear water. I sweat once I stopped moving, I lie on a towel on the white sand and sweat. Each tiny breeze was like a gift from the gods. It was perfect. It was my spot.

I had a designated friend, Avery. He was at Boy Scout camp when I arrived. That was just what I needed, some boy scout to keep an eye on me. Maybe he didn't know about my beach. He lived two blocks from my grandparents, over not up or down.

At the end of the first week, while lying on my strip of beach at the foot of my grandparents block, Avery came tripping down through the bushes and brush that hid the beach from the street.

"I'm Avery," he broadcast. "You're Dick."

Are you sure, I wondered? He was very sure of himself. What if Dick got ate by a whale and I'm just a kid that came here to lie on the towel his grandmother supplied him?

At twelve Avery was everything I wasn't. He was smart and he knew everyone and everything about everyone. He was handsome, popular, and fit in wherever he went. I tagged along wherever he went, because it was what I was told to do.

It was the first time I'd taken up with anyone on a daily basis, but I knew nothing and he knew where the adventures could be had. He nearly got me drowned, took me fishing in the Gulf, where we caught eighteen fish in 45 minutes. I went water skiing with him and his family as well as with him and his friend Joe. I stepped on a stingray-not the Corvette-and barely escaped the barb I felt under my foot when I jumped from the boat. I went straight up and back into the boat, defying gravity while doing it, as the beast turned over to be recognized by all aboard before disappearing to do what stingrays do when they aren't scaring the b'jesus out of me.

I came out unscathed. My twelfth year was a charm in a lot of ways. Even when I screwed up it turned out fine. I got up on water skis on my first try, but once I tired I let the rope pull me forward and bounced my adequately thick noggin on the tip of a ski. It left a bump on my head but nothing to write home about.

It was all fun all the time. I never thought of home or missed my parents. I'd would have just as soon moved to Florida and never gone home again, but being a kid, my options were limited. There was no circus in the area and I didn't know anyone that might take me in, so after two months of bliss, I was homeward bound.

It would never be as bad as it had been. My absence let my parents have a break from me and they were never again as crazy as they once were. I'd stopped wetting the bed in Florida, which tickled them no end, Granny too, although she never mentioned it. The source of my misery and the beatings and constant conflict within my house-all were removed.

Within a week of returning home I was waiting for a school bus to take me to junior high school. Nothing had changed with my brain. I knew that instead of getting past one teacher a year, there would be six or seven. Turning on the charm for one was bad enough. Junior high would require a regular charm offensive if I hoped to pass, but I didn't expect to pass. I hadn't expected to for years, and each year I passed. It surprised me more than anyone.

Seven courses and seven different teachers sounded harsh. I spent the first morning trying to figure out where my classes were. I went early to match up the list on my schedule with the classrooms that lined three wings of a one-floor school. My last class, which I thought was my best shot at success, was gym. I didn't have any difficulty finding the gym, and I tucked my toes up safely on the red line as per instructions. The red line marked the boundaries of the basketball court.

The basketball court filled the gym and Mr. Romeo, the gym teacher, stood in the middle of the court giving us the rules.

Rules? What kind of rules did you need for gym? I was handed a three page list of them. How in the hell could anyone figure out a way to make gym complicated? It was a letdown to learn that you couldn't play ball, run and romp, without rules. Lord knows we wouldn't all want to float away by mistake.

I made every effort to listen to the gym teacher so I didn't run afoul of the rules. One after another he read from the pages. I listened intently, watching him closely, making sure I missed nothing.

That was when I noticed something coming between me and the law-giver.

I stretched to keep Mr. Romeo in view, but the more I leaned, the closer the obstacle came, until there was a little man's face pressed up to my face with our noses about to touch. So much for paying attention. Who was this idiot? Couldn't he see I was busy?

"I know you," he said at last.

I didn't think so. How could he know me, but he could distract me as I gave up trying to pay attention to the man in charge.

"I know you from the golf game I had over at Hillcrest Heights Elementary School. You're the kid that cleaned me out."

Of all the gyms in all the world, why did I have to walk into his?

"You're a pretty good golfer," he said with an air of appreciation I didn't feel I deserved.

"I'd never played golf before," I confessed, still being unsure if he was the little man from the elementary school.

"I know and that's why you're good. You picked it right up. I've never seen anyone pick up anything as fast as you figured out how to putt the ball into the hole."

What do you say to that? I didn't say anything. I knew I was supposed to be listening to that other guy and I was afraid if I missed anything I'd get myself in trouble, but how do you tell an adult to get out of your face?

"My name is Mr. Quattrocchi, but you can call me Mr. Q."

Thank heavens for small favors. I'd have never remembered that other deal. I never heard about any more of the rules, but I didn't need to know anything but Mr. Q. He shook my hand and thus started a relationship the likes of which I'd never known.

Each morning when I arrived at school, my only goal was to get to gym where I'd get my daily dose of 'atta boy' and 'nice job, Charles.' I was to become Mr. Q's golden child.

In the first week they tested us on running, jumping, and climbing. It was all right up my alley. The standing broad-jump had me with one of the furthest jumps. Mr. Q was watching when it was my turn, and he took me off to one side after my first jump.

"Okay, watch me," Mr. Q said, showing me how to rock my weight backwards and then by bringing all my weight forward, holding it until I was about to fall on my face, then you jump, letting your weight pull you further forward.

He watched me watch him the first time and when he came back to repeat it, he took my upper arm as he'd done the day in the auditorium. He shook gently and said, "Watch me."

This had me focused in on him, listening to every word, seeing his every move, and with that he'd found a way to cancel out my malfunctioning brain. I taped everything he told me into my brain.

"Get back in line and tell Mr. Romeo to give you another shot," Mr. Q said, more sure than I was that it was a good idea.

My second jump was the longest of the sixty boys taking gym that day. Mr. Q did a little dance and patted my back when he called me back over to give me what I'd come for.

"You're a natural athlete," he bragged, smiling and looking at me with admiration.

How cool is that?

It's how it was for me in seventh grade. I never dealt with Mr. Romeo no matter what we were doing. I was Mr. Q's boy and Mr. Romeo knew it. I jumped, and ran as good as anyone and better than most. Any time there was anything that took the smallest amount of technique, Mr. Q explained it to me, demonstrated it for me, and let me loose to excel.

Life was good.


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"Gay Boy Running" Copyright © 1 April 2010 OLYMPIA50. All rights reserved.
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