Slide 43

The Slide: My cousin and my great uncle and aunt. I’m in the background.

The Date: October 1964

The Photographer: Unknown

My relatives drove all the way from California to our little town in Pennsylvania. At the time, we were living in State College while my father finished his doctoral studies at Penn State but we drove back “home” on the weekend for a visit. I’d never before met my second cousin Tom and I was impressed. He was only eighteen but had chauffeured his grand parents, Ralph and Julia, across the entire country. The picture shows them standing in front of my grand parent’s home on a late October day. In the background I’m riding a bike. It has big tires, wide handlebars, and a broad seat with long springs. It might be mistaken for a classic vintage beach cruiser. By today’s standards (and at a distance) it almost looks cool. It’s not though.

A closer look reveals that only the front tire is a whitewall. I ran out of paint before I got to the back. The handlebars, spokes and sprocket are not chrome but silver painted. The bike is impossibly difficult to pedal and, most embarrassingly… it’s a girl’s. My mother and aunt rode it when they were kids and then it hung in my grandfather’s barn for twenty years. It is the very kind one would expect to see ridden by a witch in a tornado.

A few months before the slide was taken, I was staying with my grandparents for several weeks while my folks found a place for us to live in State College. It was during that time that I asked my grandfather if I could restore the bike. I wanted to create something different—unlike any other bike in town—and I might have succeeded had I money, skills or tools.

Bikes were important in my town. Nearly every school-aged kid had one. Between the months of May and October it was difficult to open your eyes without seeing a bike. They were parked in driveways, on front walks or porches, inside opened garage doors, lying in ditches, leaning against storefronts and strewn across front lawns. I knew most every bike in town or at least those belonging to kids near my age. On hot summer days there were perhaps a hundred in the racks by the community pool and not a chain or lock in sight. Flying into the parking lot, I’d swing my left leg over the back tire, stand on one pedal and glide up the sidewalk before slamming into the rack. Then I had only to scan the other bikes to know which of my friends were waiting for me in the deep end.

Like most kids my first real bike was a twenty inch. It was bright red—probably from Sears. The natural bicycle progression through childhood was as follows.

1. Ride a twenty inch between kindergarten and third grade. The seat and the handlebars were raised as the legs grew longer.

2. Begin riding a twenty-four inch around fourth grade. The seat was lowered back down on the cross bar to resume it’s slow ascent.

3. A few years later, if one’s genes were tallish, begin riding a twenty-six inch and enter puberty.

I skipped #2, which was preferable to skipping puberty. I kept my little twenty inch far longer than it fit my body. I managed to do so by adding an extra long stem for the seat and adjusting the handlebars straight up. I did it because bike styles were changing right about that time.

For several decades bike designers espoused a “more is more” philosophy. Every bike had fenders with big reflectors. Most had lights both front and rear. There were baskets for the front and wire saddlebags for the back. There were rack carriers with spring clips above each tire. There was a tank between the double cross bars serving no purpose other than looking pretty and adding weight to an already unwieldy design. I don’t know who did it first—don’t know who came up with the idea but about fourth grade we started stripping our bikes down to the essentials. Everything came off right down to the chain guards.

My parents were not thrilled with my modifications. My father said, “I think you’re gonna be unhappy without those fenders.”

“Nah,” I said, “It’ll be fine.”

He almost started to laugh but then held back. “Okay,” he said smiling and walked away.

A couple evenings later, during a Little League game, it started to rain hard—real hard. Our parents sprinted for their cars as we kids scrambled for our bikes and all headed for home. A deluge backed up the storm drains as mud and gravel washed onto the paved streets. My parents passed me on Arnold Ave and gave a greeting beep as they drove by. I would have waved had I been able to see. A shower of muddy water flew off my tires plastering a streak of brown from my butt to the base of my neck. A similar one shot into my face and up my nose. Ten minutes later I pulled my bike into our basement garage.

“Hey you,” my mother shouted down the stairs. “You take those clothes off and throw them by the washing machine. Do you hear?”

I did. I took off my uniform, climbed the stairs and walked naked, shivering through the living room to my bedroom. My father, delighting in the moment, smiled as I walked by but never said a word.

It didn’t matter. I loved that bike. It took me anywhere I needed to go in my little world and it took me there fast. My house was at the top of a steep curving road. It was my launch pad. If I didn’t slow down at the intersections—and I seldom did—I could shoot out my driveway and halfway through town before stepping on a pedal. I had a few close calls but unbelievably was never hurt. None of us were—almost seems like a miracle.

The summer following sixth grade, during those weeks I stayed with my grandparents, I finally outgrew the little bike and asked my grandfather about the old one hanging in the barn. It might seem like an odd request but there were some strange bikes coming on the scene. An older kid in town welded two bikes together, one on top of the other. The seat was six feet off the ground. It took him a month to figure out how to get on. Schwinn came out with The Stingray that same year. It was the coolest bike…ever. During the winter months we all looked at the pictures in the Sears and Roebuck catalogue and by spring a few Stingrays started to pop up around town. It had the distinctive banana seat and the high handlebars and it was the first bike I’d seen with multiple speeds.

I worked on the old bike for two weeks—mostly painting. I also took apart the sprocket and laid all the parts on a newspaper. Then I held my grandfather’s long stemmed oilcan and boink boinked some lubricant on the metal pieces. I put things back together but I think not very well. I didn’t really know what I was doing. Then one evening I rode my creation to the Tastee Freeze to show my friends. I was excited. They were unimpressed—thought it looked stupid. I acted like I agreed with them—like it was all just a joke—but I was disappointed. A couple months later, during my relatives visit, I took it out for a quick spin and realized that my friends were right. By that time I was okay with the truth though. By that time I had a new bike and it was beauty.

My father and I had talked it through. That road in front of our house was great for shooting down but very difficult to climb back up so I hoped to get a bike with three speeds. I wanted The Stingray. My dad had a better idea and he showed me the picture in a brochure. It was what we commonly called an English bike though a company called J.C. Higgins made this one in Austria. A twenty-six inch, it had fenders but it was sleek and clean, painted black with a little white trim and, best of all, it had three speeds. My parents bought it for me. It wasn’t my birthday or anything and I knew they had very little money but they bought it. When I sat on the seat for the first time, stretching my legs to reach the pedals, holding those gummy rubber handgrips, I knew it was perfect.

Like the little red twenty inch, the J.C. Higgins became part of me. For five months out of the year I was on it nearly everyday. Other big “three speeds” began to appear and some may have been better than mine but, for what it’s worth, mine was the only J.C. Higgins in town. I loved that bike.

I remember one August day—a week before tenth grade—my memory seared with detail. It was very hot and my bloodshot eyes stung badly from swimming all afternoon with my friends. Approaching dinnertime, someone’s smoky barbecue mixing with sun and chlorine called me home. I stepped into my flip-flops, threw my wet towel around my neck and headed toward the bike racks. Half a dozen transistor radios, tuned to the same station, blared The Grass Roots through tinny speakers.

Sha- la- la- la- la- la

Live for today

And don’t worry ‘bout tomorrow

Hey eeee ey eeee ey

By that time most of the kids had already pedaled home and the rack was nearly empty. Even from a distance I could see that my bike was gone. I was confused. There was no chance it was stolen. That kind of thing never happened in my town—couldn’t happen. You couldn’t steal my bike and ever hope to ride it. Everyone knew it belonged to me. I heard a friend shouting my name and turned to see him running toward me.

“Strom,” he shouted. “Your bike’s out behind the bleachers by the football field. It’s all smashed up. Somebody threw it from the top.”

“They what?”

“I’m just tellin’ you what I heard,” he said. “Someone threw your bike off the top of the bleachers.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“No, I mean who told you? “

“Hey, I’d rather not say. I don’t want to get in the middle of…”

I was in his face. “What do you mean you’d rather not say? Do you know who did this?”

He paused. His shoulders slumped. He took a deep breath. “Yeah, I think I know.”

As we walked together past the pool, around the gymnasium building and up toward the football field, he told me what he’d heard. By the time we found my bike, we were pretty sure who had destroyed it. Both wheels were pretzeled, fenders smashed, seat ripped, and hand brakes hung from their cables. The bike was ruined.

My buddy helped me carry it back to the rack. We walked past the pool’s chain linked fence where people stood gaping and some spoke soft condolences. My face burned with anger, hurt and deep embarrassment. Everyone stared and I didn’t know what to do. It made no sense. I didn’t have an enemy in the world. “Why?” I wondered. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

We lay the crippled bike by the rack and I considered what I should do next. “I guess I’ll just leave it here for now and walk home.” I said.

My buddy climbed on his bike. “Yeah…sorry.” He pedaled off.

I stood staring at the bent frame. The J.C. Higgins emblem had sheered a rivet and hung upside down. I heard stifled laughter. Turning to see the backs of two older boys passing by I spoke loudly, “I can’t believe you did this.” The words were not aggressive but filled with hurt and confusion.

The bigger of the two turned and shot back. “Did what?”

“Did this!” I said pointing at my bike—anger rising in my voice. “I can’t believe you threw my bike off the bleachers.”

His smaller friend spoke to him. “Come on,” he said under his breath. “Let’s go.”

“Look me in the eye,” I said. “Tell me you didn’t do this.”

The big kid took one step toward me looking me in the eye—but only for a moment. Then quickly turning away and walking off he said, “We didn’t do it.”

At home I told my parents. They were angry and asked me who it was. I said I didn’t know which was mostly true. After all, I couldn’t know for sure. Only the vandals saw my bike flying through the air. I could have told my parents the whole truth but then phone calls would be made and other parents would get involved and I knew I couldn’t prove anything.

It took a long time to get parts to fix my bike but eventually I had it running almost like new. I saw those older guys every day at school. Surprisingly perhaps, I became a close teammate with the big kid—both football and basketball. I actually grew to like him and I admired him as an athlete. He moved away before my junior year. We never spoke about the bike.

Twenty years later I sat at a restaurant table in Orlando, Florida, preparing to entertain a few thousand pastors at their national convention. I heard someone speak my name. I looked from my notes and into the smiling face of my old teammate. Laughing in surprise I stood reaching out my hand but he ignored it and wrapped me in a bear hug.

‘Please join me, “ I said, gesturing toward a seat. “I can’t believe this. What are you doing at a pastor’s conference?” We laughed again.

Then he said, “I threw your bike off the bleachers. It was me.”

I was stunned—not because he’d done it but because the confession came so suddenly after so many years. We sat in silence and he did not look away. “I don’t know why we did it,” he said. “We were just lookin’ for trouble I guess—just lookin’ for something to do. It’s bothered me ever since.” His gaze did not leave mine. Then he said very slowly, “Please, will you forgive me?”

“Of course,” I said. “I think I probably forgave you long ago but yes… I forgive you.” Then he told me the miraculous story about how Life had thrown him off the bleachers but Love picked him up and with new parts put him back together. With that our real friendship began.

I think there is something so right about natural life progressions—you learn to crawl, then walk and eventually—Woah!—you are running! You mess up, then ask for forgiveness, then are restored and set free from regret. You learn to ride a twenty-inch, then a twenty-four and eventually you stretch your body out on a big twenty-six and it feels so good. At that moment, who can say where those two wheels will take you?

Slides 7 and 48

The Top Slide: My sister Sally and me at a wedding.

The Date: August 22, 1959

The Photographer: My father

I am seven years old and I am sharp! “Sharp” is a word I’ve just learned in this context and never before used to describe myself. A couple hours ago, before the wedding, my mother pinned a flower on my jacket. Then licking her fingers and flattening down my eyebrows she said, “Young man you are dapper dandy.” 

I understand why she said it. After all, she’d never seen me in a tuxedo before—what my new uncle Ted calls a “Penguin Suit”. She was surprised and quite impressed with my appearance so she called me dapper dandy. It means that I am very handsome and indeed I am—particularly today as I am wearing white dress shoes… Unscuffed!

Though I appreciate my mother’s comment, my enthusiasm is tempered by the fact that she also made a terrible fuss over how beautiful my sister Sally looks in her flower girl dress. Please don’t misunderstand me. I too am impressed with the dress. It’s pretty big—much like Cinderella’s gown at the ball, and the outfit includes a stylish little crown with a table doily. It is an impressive ensemble though I must say I think Sally herself looks much like she always does. But hey… if Mom thinks that she is beautiful… well… fine.

I am not beautiful though and I’m not dapper dandy either. I am sharp. I know this because before the wedding my new uncle Ted (whose outfit is just like mine only much bigger) looked at me and said, “Whoa Bobby.” He grabbed me by the shoulders and squared me off for a good look. “I gotta say it. You my man are sharp.”

What was I suppose to say? “Oh no, I’m not sharp. I’m dapper dandy.” No… I’m happy to be sharp and proud to be a ring bearer.

I remember well when our Aunt Audrey and her boyfriend Ted asked Sally and me if we would be in their wedding party. By the way, don’t be fooled by the term wedding party. It might sound fun but that’s just so the two people getting married can get someone to come. It’s no party at all. For one thing it doesn’t just take a night. It takes practically a whole weekend. When you join a wedding party you are committing yourself to an evening without friends, sitting in a church and rehearsing for the actual party that happens the next day. And even that one is more like going to church than a party. The whole deal is pretty serious—not a lot of fun. Anyway, Audrey and Ted came to dinner and afterwards they hung out with our family in the front room.

Audrey is our favorite aunt. She is quite beautiful. She has eyeglasses with real gems glued in the corners. I really liked her boy friend Ted a lot too. He has curly hair and is what is called a giant. I knew he’d make a great uncle.

Audrey asked if Sally would be her flower girl and then went on to explain what the job entailed. Sally went crazy with excitement, probably because all she had to do is walk in with a bunch of flowers, stand there for three or four hours and then walk back out again. As long as she didn’t have to pee or pass out she could hardly fail.

Then Ted asked me if I would be his ring bearer. My job description was a bit more ominous. I would be given the actual wedding ring in the ‘best of view” at the back of the church. The “best of view” is a small entry area that my grandpa called the “vestibule”. I think that’s the Swedish. I would need to carry the ring clear to the pulpit in the front of the church—a distance of nearly four hundred yards. To make matters worse, I would not be permitted to touch the ring with my hands but would balance it upon a tiny satin pillow. I am only seven. My knowledge of fabrics is limited but even I know that satin is slippery. I asked for a rationale concerning the pillow but was given none. I sat upon the couch in our living room. Ted sat in a chair on the other side of the coffee table and waited for my answer. 

“I’m wondering about the material on that pillow,” I said. “Why does it have to be satin?”

“I’m not really sure,” he said. “It’s just always satin.”

“Yeah, I understand that,” I said, “but I was wondering if we could maybe use a scratchy wool or burlap.”

“Nope,” he said laughing, “I’m pretty sure Audrey wants the pillow to be satin.”

“Rubber might be nice,” I countered.

“No,” he said, “I think we’ll stick with Satin. It’s already been ordered.”

“How big is the ring?” I asked.

From the other side of the room Audrey held up her hand flashing a band with a diamond setting. “Just a little bigger than this one,” she said.

I didn’t want to say it but I was concerned about the heating registers in the floor just inside the “best of view”. If I tripped, that ring could slide on that slippery satin and fall down in the register. If that happened it would be lost forever like one of my mother’s ear rings and several of my peppermint candies.

“How much did the ring cost?” I asked nervously.

The adults laughed and my mother said, “Bobby, it’s not polite to ask how much things cost.”

“How much do you think it cost?” Ted said.

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe a million dollars?” I said. More laughter from the adults.

My father spoke up, “I’ll tell you something. That ring is worth far more than a million. That ring is gonna cost Ted every bit of freedom he ever had.”

More laughter. I never did find out for sure how much it cost but I’m guessing it was about a million and one hundred dollars.Ted waited for an answer.

“Yes,” I said finally. “I will do it. I will bear your ring.”

Now I’m standing next to Sally on the steps of the church following the wedding. She is still holding her flowers. She did fine considering the little that was required. I on the other hand performed excellently.

Before we walked out the door a lady said to me, “You did a great job young man.” Then reaching for a basket on the back pew she said, “Oh wait… I have something just for you.“ I was excited as I’d not been expecting payment for my services. The lady turned toward me and emptied a napkin full of rice into my hands. I have no idea why.

“Gee thanks,” I said. “You shouldn’t have.”

Sally looks a bit miffed. We walk out the door. Our dad is standing on the sidewalk with his camera. “Wait you two. Hold it right there,” he shouts. So we do and a bunch of other people start snapping pictures too. I’m feeling a bit awkward, trying hard not to spill any rice. It’s okay though. I can handle it because I am sharp.

Fourteen years later I stood at the front of another church and, as always, I was sharp—this time in a polyester brown tuxedo with a yellow ruffled shirt. One could hardly look sharper in 1974. I stood beside the love of my life—a beautiful girl, only eighteen years old. She wore a wedding dress. A pastor asked me a series of questions each one requiring a response. At the end I answered, "Yes. I will." What I meant was, "Yes. I will bear the ring."

It was a far riskier pledge this time around. This ring I would bear whether sick or healthy, rich or poor, whether things were good or bad. I know some who are unable to make such a commitment— afraid to even try. I know others who tried, some for a long while, and then gave up. I don't judge them. It is serious business bearing this ring.

I have done so for nearly four decades and will until the day I die. Years ago I worried that it would slip off my finger. There is no chance of that now. Whenever I remove it (which is seldom) I’m surprised to see how it has left a permanent mark in my skin—how my finger has changed its very shape to hold the ring safely.


And here is the mysterious thing. Every year the ring takes on more weight but every year it is lighter and more joyous to bear.

Slides 89 and 92

The Slide:  Me wearing my basketball uniform in our living room

The Date:  November, 1967

The Photographer:  My mother

            It’s a November afternoon. I’m two weeks into the basketball preseason.  I’m a pretty good small town athlete and a starting forward on my Junior Varsity team.  Following practice we received our new uniforms though to call them new would not be entirely accurate.  The uniforms had been passed from the Varsity to the JV several years before and they were old even then.  I got #44 and I’m happy about it.  I know every player who ever wore that very jersey. Now the jersey is mine.

            I’m sporting white canvas Chuck Taylor basketball shoes.  Though they offer little support, “Chucks” have been the shoe of choice for at least a dozen years.  I remember looking in old yearbooks where my father stood with his team wearing dark shoes—what he called “leather uppers”.  They looked ugly to me and I wondered, “Who would wear leather shoes on a basketball court?”  Answering my own question I thought, “No one. That’s who.”  A couple years later some guys at adidas and Nike asked themselves the same question but came up with a different answer.

            My socks are high and my shorts are…well… very much so. Both are the style of the day.

            The previous year I’d been the high scorer on my team and was proud that the statistic was recorded in the yearbook next to a picture of me. 

 The caption read, “Bob Stromberg, high scorer on the Jr. High team tries for two in a game with Bradford.” I scored one hundred twelve points for the season.  The yearbook failed to note that my teammate, Tom Huffman, scored one hundred and eleven.  The omission didn’t surprise me. Why would it be mentioned? He was, after all, only second highest scorer.  I’d clearly beat him and won the title for myself.  That’s why the yearbook called me, “Bob Stromberg, high scorer…” 

Following our last game (a game in which I’d scored two points and Huffman scored fourteen), he said to me, “I almost beat you Strom!  I measly point!  One little foul shot!”

            To which I said, “No you didn’t Huff.  You almost tied me.  You would have needed two points to beat me.“  I felt bad for him but hey… the bragging rights were mine.  It’s now nine months later and I’m hoping to once again excel. 

            I came home after practice and shouted, “Hey Mom.  We got our new uniforms.”

            “Oh good,” she said.  “What’s your number?”

            “Forty-four,” I said.

            “Well put it on and we’ll get a picture.” Minutes later I stood in the corner in front of the TV.  “Stand up straight,” she said. I did and the flashbulb lit up the room.

            At first glance what appears odd is the picture’s context.  One cannot imagine why I would be standing in the living room in a basketball uniform.  If it were a little league baseball uniform, having just put it on, I might be ready to hop on my bike and peddle to the game.  But there is no natural scenario in which I would wear a basketball uniform in the corner of the living room.  The reason, of course, is because my mother said, “Well put it on. Let’s get a picture.”  I didn’t argue with her because I’d been waiting eight or nine years to put it on.

            Through my elementary years, my father taught at the high school and later became the principal.  Very often, as a little boy, I tagged along with him to ball games.  Even as a kindergartener I knew every player’s name, number and position.  Sitting in the bleachers I watched pretty cheer leaders line up near the locker room doors.  I rose with the crowd as the players burst out, dribbling single file past center court in their satin warm up suits.  I dreamt of being one of them.

            During football season on cold autumn nights, outside under the lights at “away” games, I huddled next to my father.  The smell of hot dogs and cigars mingled in the cold air as the cheerleaders in stretch pants and varsity jackets lined up by the goalpost.  I rose with the crowd as our players in orange and black roared on to the field.  I wanted to be like one of them.  Oddly, even then, I imagined how it would feel if others wanted to be like me.

            Through elementary school and jr. high my greatest goal was to play football and basketball.  It’s all I thought of.  In the autumn we played back yard football every day rain or shine—particularly rain. All summer long we shot baskets on any hoop we could find.

            I began to suspect, early on, that I would never be a great athlete. I didn’t allow myself to think about it much but the truth is, I wasn’t fast, quick, or strong.  Nor did I possess a competitive drive.  These were prized athletic qualities and three out of the four could not be faked.  What I did possess was adequate size for a small town athlete and I had what coaches called “good hands”.   “Good hands” meant I could catch a football if it was close enough to hit me in the head and I could make a basket if I was wide open.  These attributes were good enough to gain a little notoriety.  Following a successful freshman football season I was one of a handful picked to play varsity the next year.  Of course I didn’t play much, but playing on varsity was not as important to me as being on varsity. 

           In basketball, following a good year on JVs, I was the only junior with important varsity minutes.  It was during this junior season that I experienced for the first and last time what if felt like to a star.  In the din of an important game, I sat on the bench with fourteen seconds remaining and heard my coach shout, “Strommy!”  My knees went weak.  We were down by four points with no time-outs and no three-point line. In the final seconds, thanks to my teammates defense and my opponent’s ineptitude, I scored six points.  In slow motion from some inner world, deep in the corner with 0:01 left on the clock, I launched the last shot from my hip… nothing but net!  The following year as a diminishing senior, I experienced what it felt like to know that others wanted to be like me.  

           I was picky about my shoes.  I didn’t like high top sneakers.  They felt clunky.  Unfortunately, due to the threat of ankle injuries, our coaches would not allow us to wear low cuts.  Improvising, I wore two pairs of socks and folded the outer pair down around the ankles giving the shoes the appearance of low cuts.  I took a little razzing from my teammates but I liked the way they looked and felt.  Halfway through the season I went to a freshman game. All our young players sported my sock styling.  I was a basketball fashion trendsetter.

I competed in athletics from as young an age as possible.  Early on I was one of the best in my grade but kids mature at different rates.  Some of the big kids, who were dominant in jr. high, stopped growing and were left behind.  One of my classmates barely made the teams year after year.  Following our junior year, he finally grew into his awkward body and won the coveted “Athlete of the Year” award at graduation.  Another basketball teammate—a year older than I—competed with me for a starting position his entire senior year.  He went on to a big university, made the team as a “walk on” and had an outstanding college career.

I just got a little better each year and held my own.  I wanted to be the star but the thing about athletics is… you can’t fake it.  You either are or you’re not.  And no one needs to wonder.  You just look at the stats.   Mine were just good enough to be lauded by the younger kids.  I was, however, fortunate to play on a football team that won twenty-three games in a row.  A number of my teammates and I received letters from interested college recruiters. The truth is I didn't have the desire or the talent to play college football. However several colleges couldn't tell that from my game films. I should have gotten out when I had the opportunity but I didn't even know how to quit when I had the chance.

I’d invested such a large part of my identity in athletics that I didn’t know who I would be without a ball in my hand.  To make matters more difficult, in my family you just didn't quit.  You didn’t quit anything! You didn't start a game of monopoly unless you planned to finish it. You didn't quit just because the game went six hours. Quitting wasn't fair to the other players. No, you toughed it out. In the first eighteen years of my life (all the years I lived at home), the only thing I remember quitting was Cub Scouts. Even then I'd stuck it out for a whole year.

 I somehow grew up believing that quitters were bad, unambitious people who never amounted to anything, vagrants not worth the cardboard they slept beneath. Take Old Dicky, for example.  Old Dicky our town drunk (who wasn’t all that old), slouched against the town square World War II monument, snoozing away hot summer afternoons.  He was the quintessential quitter.

My grandpa said he remembered Dicky when he was younger.  “Well, I’ll tell you, Bobby, he wasn’t the brightest kid I’d ever met, but he was a nice little boy till he started quittin’.  Quit Little League.  Quit Junior Firemen.  Quit high school.  He even quit work at the bottle plant.  And for what?  Just look at ‘im now.  If that’s not the saddest excuse for a man I’ve ever seen.  Just makes your heart ache.”

And of course I knew you didn’t have to look too far to find other examples.  There was Al Capone and Oswald and that crazy guy who killed the nurses in Chicago.  They probably all quit junior high choir or something.  Quitting revealed a basic flaw in one's character. Quitters didn't have the stuff to stick it out when the going got tough.

I'd wanted to quit a bunch of things, as a kid, but I didn't.  Now I think I should have. In high school I took geometry, trigonometry and calculus. I started to get lost about three weeks into my first freshman term and never found my way out of the confusion. This caused tremendous stress and made me feel intellectually inept. I've never completely recovered. In college I took Math 101 pass-fail, passed by a hair (I have no idea what that is in metrics), and have not opened a math book since. 

And Spanish! Mi Gloria! Why did I have to take four years of Spanish? Why couldn't I have taken two years like some of the other kids? No one spoke Spanish within three hundred miles of my town except maybe my Spanish teacher, and I don't think he spoke it very well. I know I couldn't understand a word he said—which was, for him, a continual irritant.

“So Senor Stromberg.  Apparently you do not think that the Spanish language is worthy of your time. Is this not so?”

I could have said, “No”.  This would have been proper usage in either Spanish or English but I thought it best to remain silent and look straight ahead. 

“Well Rrrrrrrroberto,” he said with a long rolling R—a sound I was unable to even approximate,  “I want you to know that I do not care.  Do you hear me? Look at me Roberto.” 

I thought it best to follow his instruction.

“Mi amigo,” he said, his eyes red, anger seething just beneath the service of his otherwise calm demeanor,  “if you would like to quit this class it is fine with me.  And do you know why Roberto?  Do you know why it is fine with me?”  

I felt uncertain.

“Because,” he said.“ I… really… could… care… less.” 

At this point I wanted very much to ask what the whole class was thinking. I wanted to ask, “Senor Mullins, do you mean that you could care less?  Or do you mean that you couldn’t care less?  You said that you really could care less. I’m concerned that you are perhaps not saying what you mean to say.  If you mean that you really could care less then you still must really care.  If that is the case I would like to ask… por  que?”   If I’d had any fighting, competitive spirit I’d have said it but intimidated and embarrassed I remained silent.

Looking back I realize I probably should have quit Spanish.  I’m embarrassed to say that I sat in that class for four years and still can’t speak a complete sentence.  It’s inexcusable.  After graduation, I should have quit football too.  And I would have, had my coach not said, “Hey we could send some game films out to your college.  You never know.” I would have quit had my hometown paper not written a story about several of us who were seeking scholarships.  I should have quit. But I didn’t know how to let go and move on with my life.  It was too scary at the time. There were too many unanswered questions like; if I quit will I end up sleeping over a heating vent or killing a cop? Will I snooze away summer afternoons against the WWII monument?  Will I have to marry someone in the eighth grade?  Well, yes, probably. Those are the kinds of things that happen to quitters.

My college football experience turned out to be worse than I could have imagined. My first-year-coach, Coach Vader (no relation), was a maniac. You remember Woody Hayes when he went nuts on national TV and beat up one of his young players? Remember Bobby Knight and his folding chairs? Remember Jack Nicholson in The Shining? Remember Anthony Hopkins with his mask and fava beans?  Then you get the idea.  Coach Vader berated us in practice, screaming at us nonstop even during meals, his face only inches from the side of our heads. We awakened in the dark each morning to his voice taunting us over the dormitory intercom. Actually many of us were so nervous we’d never gotten to sleep.

It was so bad that two tri-captains, with distinguished college careers, quit on Friday, five days into the preseason. I only made it to Thursday. I didn't even have the guts to talk to the coach. At 5:30 in the morning, on the way to the field house for ankle taping, I turned around, hopped a Chicago cab, and rode off in the sunrise. The cabby said, "A donde vas?" Of course I didn't understand.

"Take me to my aunts in Brookfield," I said extra loudly presuming that the louder I spoke the better he might comprendo.

We drove for an hour and I began to wonder if my cabby was taking me to my aunt's or taking me for a ride. It seemed as though we passed the same Laundromat quite a few times, though perhaps there was a chain called Ronnie's One and Only Cleaners. Several hours later, he collected a good portion of my summer saving with a big smile and a "Muchas gracias, senor!"

I said the only Spanish that came to mind, "Que sera, sera." At least it was true.  I stayed with my aunt for a couple of weeks until school began. I was a quitter.

In retrospect, I think I did the right thing.  My mistake was to begin in the first place. One plays college football for the love of the game, or at least for the love of the scholarship money, but I played for neither.  I played—if only for four days—because I didn't know how to stop. I didn’t know how to move on with my life.  I didn't know that I could be me without a helmet in the autumn.

Surprisingly, when I quit what I was doing I discovered who I was.  I saw that I could do lots of things and still be me.  I joined the college choir.  I played intramural ball. I studied hard—a new experience.  I even began to understand what I might ultimately do with my life.  Most importantly I figured out that what I am is less important than who.

I do not advocate frequent quitting.  There are things we should stick with—hold on to and never let go.  But sometimes the best thing is to quit what we’re doing, take who we are and move on.

I was a pretty good small town athlete.  One day I put on my basketball uniform and stood in the corner in front of the TV while my mom snapped a picture.  I did it because I thought the picture would represent who I was. I didn’t realize that basketball was just something I did.

           Flash forward four decades.  I haven’t held a football in twenty years—unless it said Nerf on the side.  When we moved into a new home I didn’t even bother to put up a ball hoop.  The boys were grown and gone by then and I didn’t feel like shooting around by myself.  When I was a kid I could not have imagined behaving like this but… here I am—more myself than ever.