Black History Month

Black history month has come and gone. I’ve read my usual books, reflected on the fact that the Civil Rights Movement happened mere years before the start of my life. Which is always shocking whenever I think of it. Anyways, it got me thinking of a few black people throughout my days that mean something to me, thought I’d share.

- Mark Braxton. Or, as he became known in high school, “Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuff!” My first friend ever, we met on the afternoon kindergarten bus. One of the most amazing facts about Mark was that from grades K-6, he had the exact same “Happy Days” lunchbox. Every year our metal lunch boxes would get pummeled by older kids who thought they were being “funny”; getting a new lunch box every year became a back to school ritual. Like shopping for school clothes, or rape. Not for Mark. Somehow, god knows how, his lasted all those years. Will never forget that lunch box. In high school during study hall he helped out the office, going round picking up attendance cards from each class, and by the third day of class the teachers were trained to not fight it, but simply pause the lesson whenever he’d stick his head in the door and be treated to a class-wide chorus of “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUFF!!!” As he worked his way towards your class the noise would get louder, you’d get excited, then after he came to your class you could hear it get quieter with each room further away. A veritable moving orgasm, now that I think of it. Awesome. I haven’t seen Buuuuf since high school - actually, I didn’t see him that much during high school either. At some point he found a new group of black friends to hang out with, and I had become part of my white crowd. Always felt crummy about that, but we were kids, I dunno. Just happened. A side note re: Buuuuf. THE single worst basketball player ever. And I’m not exaggerating. Hell, I don’t know how he even made the team by our junior year. My 8th grade year over 100 kids tried out for the jv team, and I was one of only two 8th graders that made it. Buuuf? Cut. My sophomore year the team was great, won the district (I was playing jv that year, since it became obvious Varsity had no room for my 40 shots a game.) For some reason the next year, if you showed up and were alive, you made the team. Hence, Buuuf. His shot had to be seen to be believed: grabbing the ball with both hands at one hip, he would swing the ball clockwise over his head, releasing it into the stratosphere in a manner, shall we kindly say, haphazardly. The killer tho? You know how great shooters, upon releasing the ball will shout out “good!”? Buuuuf, god bless him, the ball would still be in his hands as he’s winding up his shot and he’d announce “off!” Dynamite.

- Michael Perry. Michael was one of those kids that nobody knew what grade he was in. “Class of 1968-1990.” Starting in 3rd grade he was shaving while driving to school. And by “shaving while driving to school” I mean “he founded the Black Panthers.” Scary dude. But I will always have him to thank for the best reason of reasons: seeing my first naked titties and pussy. No, not his. Sixth grade, back of the bus, __________. Have no idea how he did it, but it became a daily ritual – on the ride home, thanks to Michael asking her to, she’d show us her tits and hairless pussy (this was 1983, pre-Brazilian, people.) First she’d show us her tits, then unbutton her jeans and lower her airplanes and clouds bubblegum drawers. The first Girl Gone Wild. Sigh. Mike, wherever you are, you are remembered fondly. And hey, what young gal wouldn't wanna show her as-yet unfouled nether regions to this cool cat:







- Bobby Baker. Bobby was a senior when I was in 8th grade and was the starting center on varsity. Looking back, at 6’5” he should’ve dominated the entire district, but he was more nice guy than great basketball player. But for some reason he picked me out after watching us (jv) practicing, and was constantly telling me that I was good and should demand more playing time. After every game as the varsity would be warming up he’d come over, shaking his head, “man, that’s crap, you should’ve played tonite” etc. Meant a lot to me. I’ll never forget after scoring the first two points of my career, timeout was called and I skipped/floated on air over to the bench. In the huddle pretending to listen to Coach when there’s a slap no my elbow, I turn around and it’s Bobby, thrilled. Slapped me five. A varsity player walking out in his warmups to speak to a jv player in front of a crowd? I don’t know why he believed in me, but he always made a point to take a minute or so to give me a pointer or two, or to say keep my head up, I’d get to play eventually. I don’t remember ever seeing him again after the season ended. Have no idea whatever happened to him. Nicest guy in the world, hope everything turned out well for him. Wish I could’ve meant that much to someone coming up after me, but I never did. Never learned a thing from Bobby, never meant a goddam thing to nobody else.

- Alonzo Baxter. Great athlete, definitely the best I ever played with. Football, basketball, baseball, all-region in everything. Hit a ball so hard in the tournament our senior year that fucker might still be going. Why he’s here? Quote of all my years: few days before prom, we’re warming up before baseball practice and someone brings up that I had not yet slept with my girlfriend. Alonzo slowly shakes his head with disgust before saying “gotdam it Gregory, (or, as people say it where I’m from, “Gray-gray”), if that girl don’t give it up on prom night you better report her to the Better Pussy Bureau!” What’s more amazing - the joke itself, or the fact that a 17-year old black kid from Tappahannock, VA would have heard about the Better Business Bureau enough to work it into a joke? Or that I haven’t gotten a rim job in 12 years? Hmm.

- Celester Gresham. Celester was about 5’7”, 250 pounds, and I’m pretty sure he invented the jerri-curl. I knew Celester from Day 1 in kindergarten, all the way through. GREAT hitter. Rotten fielder; with his weight the DH was made for him. I remember one game he’s hitting, and he keeps fouling off pitch after pitch. I mean, musta been 20 pinches. Finally from the bleachers came the extremely Southern, extremely drawled-out voice of Mr. Chinn “hey Chubbsy-Wubbsy, the sun’s going down!” Chubbsy Wubbsy! Arkived. Dude could roll outta bed, get a hit. I remember a game against King William, we’re tied up in the last inning and I’m on 2nd base, Celester at the plate. Two outs. Dude gets two strikes on him, it’s all pressure, crowd is hushed. He steps out of the box, looks down at me and hollers for all to hear “don’t worry Gregory, you’re coming home on this pitch.” Then I got picked off. No no no... dude slaps the game-winning rbi on the next pitch. Straight outta the damn movies. Funny thing bout Celester was that here he was a black kid, and he was the biggest metal fan I knew. Would stroll through class every day in his acid-washed jean jacket with “La Guns” and “Bullet Boys” patches. He was telling us all about an up-and-coming band called Guns and Roses while the rest of us were still pissing our Duran Duran bed sheets. Celester was killed in a car crash a few days before our senior year. Will always miss him; Celester is one of those people you cant be sad about, whenever you think of him you think of something funny he said or did and just start laughing. Awesome.

- Kenny Thompson. I went to school with Kenny for 12 years, and not once did I see him in school. His name was always on the roll call, but I never actually saw him in the building. Like a rabbit, no one has ever heard his actual voice. However, if you ever drove through town, even once, guess who you’d see? Kenny. Hell, I thought Kenny had a deal with the teachers: “Okay Kenny, if you walk aimlessly around town for the next 12 years, I’ll pass you.” I mean, look at this kid.








Wasn’t Billy Crystal born to do an impression of him?

- Harold Corbin. I grew up riding with Harold on the bus. All of a sudden, on the first day of school one year he walked onto the bus and he was 6’3”, 220 and ripped. I mean, they invented muscles to give this guy. Ridiculous. And then it turned out he was the fastest dude in school too – he spent several years running track and completely dominating the wrestling team. An awesome physical specimen, but it took til his senior year to be convinced to play football. He showed up about 8 games into the season. We’re 0-8, and things aren’t even going as well as our record might suggest. We were down to 16 players from 40, we got crushed every week and our coach was a lunatic. A few days into the week, and it was an unusually hot day, I mean it was roasting, and Coach decides to run a drill where you line up three yards from each other and basically beat the shit out of each other. Whistle blows, you run into each other and fight til the whistle blows again. Who does Coach pair me with? Harold. Jesus christ. If you were lucky you’d hit one of his pads; otherwise you were subjected to the muscles he had, which were made from a mix of mortar, broken glass and, if my nose was not lying to me, lilacs spritzed with a hint of raspberry drizzle. He’s fucking shredding me, whistle after whistle, sun baking down on me as Harold is rearranging my bones. And by “rearranging my bones” i DON’T mean “whispered Barbara Cartland novels into my ear while dreaming of rainbows and puppies” Over and over. Finally, I fucking snap, “fuck this!” and walk off the field. I fucking quit. Had enough. We lose every game AND I gotta get drilled into my grave by Harold every 30 seconds? Thanks! I throw my helmet and start walking to the locker room. My brother chases me down to let me know that as a baby pussy quitter I no longer qualify for a ride home. Fuck you! Of course, by night time I regretted walking out and the next morning, walked into Coach’s office looking to beg forgiveness. Walking through the door, I stumbled for words and Coach looked up at me. No one says a word for about 15 seconds til finally he breaks into a grin. “I understand,” he said “I wouldn’t wanna hafta tackle Harold’s big black ass either.” The upshot? In his first game of organized football ever, Harold gets the ball on the first play and tears off a run for a 75-yard touchdown, LITERALLY carrying 6-7 dudes with him on the way. We were in awe, I can still close my eyes and see that run. Dudes peeling off him as he strolls to the end zone. “Things are about to change!” we’re all thinking. "We're gonna win games! And soon the Soviet Union will repeal the Brezhnev Doctrine in favor of non-intervention in the internal affairs of its Warsaw Pact allies!!" Of course, what happens? Coach decides to use Harold as a “decoy” the rest of the game. We lose by our usual 48-6. Fucking unreal. We were furious; looking back I can’t believe my brother, who was qb and was the only one with the guts and brains to ever stand up to the coach, didn’t just give the ball to Harold every play, fuck what Coach called. We coulda written a movie about it and called it “Varsity Blues.” Ah well. Needless to say, we never saw Harold on the field again.

And just for shits and giggles, one more of Kenny.













"Nah nah McGruff, stay cool...I got this one. Now, what did you say, motherfucker?