20/20

There are hundreds of times during my life when I saw through the bullshit, but three times stand out.

FIRST TIME:

Little League was played for my parents’ benefit. At the age of seven I was led onto the ballfield for the first time, like a farm animal leaving the paddock. I played well and made the All-Stars every year. I didn’t know what existentialism was, but Little League was an existential experience. There was no team spirit in all those years.

My position was third base. One game, first inning, the lead-off batter hit a line drive that I leaped up to catch. Lots of cheers from the stands. Second batter hit a grounder down the third base line. I made an agile play, snagging the ball and throwing out the runner at first. More cheers from the crowd. Third batter hit a line drive straight at my head. I caught it with a snapping sound. There was a unity of sound from the crowd. I was a hero. I felt like the crowd in the stands loved me.

They call baseball a game of inches. The next inning, every inch went against me. First batter hit a line drive that went over my outstretched glove by an inch. A base hit—a double. Moans from the crowd. The second batter hit one down the third base line just out of reach. A runner scored. The crowds’ moans turned to groans. Perversely, the third batter hit one that actually brushed the tip of my glove as it got by me. I’m not sure how to characterize the noise that came from the crowd. Disappointment. Grumblings. As though they’d been gypped.

I wasn’t a hero anymore. Instead of feeling disappointed in myself, I saw the faithlessness of the crowd.

No team.

No crowd.

Alone on the field.

SECOND TIME:

Art was my favorite class. I’m not sure how I managed it, but in junior year I had art three periods a day.

Biology was also a favorite. Sometimes our assignments required us to draw diagrams.

Our teacher, Mr. Capria was a strange dude. He dyed his hair auburn and wore a suit a size too small, as though he’d gained weight and didn’t have the money to buy a suit that fit. Capria had a penchant for telling bad jokes, and he openly lusted for some of the more developed girls in the class.

One day our homework assignment was to draw a paramecium and label its parts. The most beautiful girl in the class, Patty Jones, and the most personable boy, Dave Wilson, really struggled when they had to create a drawing. They both ended up by my seat and pleaded with me to do the assignment for them. I agreed—maybe I was even flattered they needed my help.

That night I sat at the kitchen table and drew three identical drawings. There was no attempt at subterfuge.

The next morning in the hallway, I passed the drawings to Patty and Dave.

In biology class, we handed in our homework.

A couple of days later, we got the drawings back with our grades.

Patty got an A.

Dave got a B.

I got a C, the lowest grade.

THIRD TIME:

Girls made a romantic impression on me from the age of five. Even so, I was slow to have a real girlfriend. Shyness, lack of cash, a distorted concept of chivalric love, and a reluctance to learn to drive—these factors made me a slow player when it came to dating. This changed in 1970 when I was a senior in high school and I began a relationship with Samantha. Over a couple of months, the friendship grew into a sexual relationship with both of us losing our virginity to each other.

Samantha was a hippy and loved writing poetry. One of her lines stood out: “It was a Rice Krispy day.”

Diamond imagery figured heavily in Samantha’s poems and conversation. She would talk dreamily about having a diamond someday. We were both lower middleclass with never more than a few bucks between us. This talk of diamonds worked on my imagination and my will to make her happy.

I saved my money from my $1.40 an hour job and sought out a shady guy in school who could get me a diamond. Maybe it was hot. Maybe it was glass. But when I met him downtown, we made a deal. I handed over what I had—probably less than $50 bucks—and he gave me a diamond in a huge, clunky setting—a guy’s ring. But it was a diamond.

I presented it to Samantha, as though I’d achieved something great. It was a dragon slayer moment.

She looked at the ring and her mouth turned down. I don’t know if she mouthed the word “ugly” but it was clear what she thought. The diamond made its way back to my hand and I threw it away.

From the memoir in progress Fort Rosarito.