Some stories don’t come together until the very end, with a single moment that connects the dots and somehow makes some sense out of a situation that until then made no sense at all. That’s how it was with one of my favorite stories about my mother, which began with a bang on a warm summer day while she and the rest of my family were out of town, a hundred miles away.
It was 1991, the summer after my freshman year in high school. I was riding my bike to my first summer basketball practice with the varsity team. It had been my dream for years to play varsity and now the moment had arrived. The ride from my house to school typically took ten minutes but I was cruising faster than ever before. I was excited beyond belief to tear it up on the court.
I rode around the western edge of Hoyt Lake towards the twirly bridge that takes you across the highway. Just before the bridge there’s a short, steep hill with a bronze statue of David at the top. As I rode up the hill I stood as I pedaled for extra power. Then, right as I got to the top, the world suddenly went dark. It was a blur, but I still remember that blurry instant like it was yesterday.
A fist came out of nowhere and nailed me squarely between the eyes. I flew backwards and hit the ground hard. I was hurt but I was also too in shock to understand what was going on. Then the punches and kicks started coming from above. There were three guys beating down on me and I could tell they were bigger and stronger than I was. One of them kept pounding me in the head while the others kicked me again and again in the ribs and stomach. I put my arms up like a boxer with the backs of my fists and forearms blocking my head. I curled up in a fetal position. I wailed as the blows kept coming. It was brutal and terrifying.
Then it stopped just like that. All went quiet for a moment until I heard my tormentors hooting and hollering as they ran away down the hill. I stayed down for more than a minute, still bunched up and scared. Then I got up and looked around. It was still the same gorgeous summer night, but I was bloodied now and in a world of pain. My head was throbbing, but thankfully my legs were working okay. I was able to move my arms too, although they ached like hell. So no broken bones, but I hurt all over and didn’t know what to do. I looked around for my bike. Fuck, it was gone. They took it.
This was the first and only time in my life I got a beating like this. I’ve taken my share of licks here and there and even given some too, but I never experienced anything like the ass beating I got at the top of that hill. The shit got totally kicked out of me. I still feel lucky that I was able to stand up and walk away.
This also happened to be the first time in my life I’d been left home alone by my parents, who had taken off a few hours earlier to go camping with my three younger siblings and some family friends. There was no way I was going to miss that first practice, so I convinced my parents to let me skip the camping trip. I was also a responsible and trustworthy guy and everyone felt comfortable with me staying home by myself.
I decided I needed to tell somebody what happened and I didn’t want to be alone so I limped across the twirly bridge and kept limping for another mile to get to school. Remember, there were no cell phones back then so there was no way I could call my parents. The plan was for them to call me that night before bedtime from the campground office.
I arrived at basketball practice a half hour late with a bruised and bloody face. The coach came over as soon as I entered the gym and I told him the story. I definitely couldn’t play and I was too shaken up anyway, so he asked me to sit and watch practice until the end and said he’d drive me home afterwards. I sat in the stands feeling sorry for myself for more than an hour. When I think back on this I’m still surprised and disappointed that my coach didn’t do anything to comfort me.
But at least he gave me a ride home. I got out of the car and told him I hoped to be ready to play in our first game next week. Then I made a sandwich for dinner and went upstairs and collapsed on the couch. Our dog Heidi stayed right beside me and I never felt closer to her. My left arm dangled off the couch and stayed attached to Heidi for the rest of the night, rubbing and petting her. I felt warmth and love. It’s my most beautiful memory of Heidi.
Just before ten o’clock my mom called from a payphone at the campground. She was just planning to check in but I broke down crying as soon as I heard her voice and told her everything. Immediately she said they’d come home but I told her to stay until the morning. I was okay at that point, or at least that’s what I told her, and they were a good hour and a half away and my sisters were already asleep. So we talked it through and my mom made me feel loved and I also reassured her that I had this. We hung up the phone and I got right back on the couch.
For hours I laid there stewing, still scared but with an intense anger also growing inside me. In my mind I rode up the hill again and again. I remembered the big tree at the top on the right side of the trail. That’s where they must’ve been hiding because that fist definitely came from the right side. But I couldn’t remember any other details. I got no good looks at any of the guys. I didn’t know what they were wearing or what they looked like. Beyond knowing they were big and strong because of how hard they hit me, I knew nothing else. I wasn’t small by any means, but those dudes were huge. I was sure of it.
At some point I fell asleep after struggling to settle down for hours. And then I remember waking up pretty late. The mid-morning sun was streaming in through the windows. I had a crazy headache and was sore all over. I sat up and swung my feet towards the floor. One foot touched the ground but the other went straight into a pile of Heidi’s shit. Fuck! Are you serious? I had slept late and didn’t let Heidi out in the morning so I knew this was on me, but didn’t she understand what I was going through?
I don’t remember much else about that day or the days right after. My parents came home of course. And I started to heal and settle back in to the early summer. I also made it to the next basketball practice a few days later.
What I do remember so vividly though is warming up at our first basketball game the following weekend. It was against our rivals, who also had a summer basketball team. The teams hated each other in that special way that goes back generations. It’s just in your blood. The game was outside at a park right next to their school, and the court was new and spectacular with stadium style seating going up probably twenty rows on all sides. When we arrived the stands were packed with fans of the other team. They were loud.
We had a small group that suited up that day, just seven players. And it was actually pretty exciting as the crowd taunted us as we missed shots during warm-ups. In a way, it’s energizing and motivating to be hated like this. We had the opportunity to be the spoiler, of course, and as rowdy as everybody was there was no real fear of anything bad happening.
I stood behind the three point line launching shots, making most of them. But when I missed I heard about it right away.
“BRICK!” someone shouted when the ball clanged hard off the rim.
As the clock ticked down to game time, we walked over to our bench and huddled up. Our coach acknowledged the crowd and told us to play hard and do our best. Summer league games were for learning and gaining experience. This was an interesting lesson because the crowd would be a factor.
I was starting that day. I checked my laces and took a final sip of water and just as I was about to get up and walk towards the center of the court a guy rode slowly past me on a bike. I froze. He stopped near the middle of the court, between the two team benches, and walked up the center aisle to sit with his friends about ten rows up. He carried the bike on his shoulder as he walked up the stairs. He was a big guy, athletic, tough looking. And it was my bike! The same one that had been taken from me as I rode to basketball practice last week.
A panic shot through my veins. Vivid flashes of the punch coming from behind the tree played loud and clear in my brain. I was scared. Did he recognize me? It didn’t seem like it, but that didn’t make me feel any better.
My mom had brought me to the game and sat just above our bench with a few other parents. They were the only ones in the crowd supporting our team. I looked up and saw the guy with my bike laughing with his buddies. Was that the whole crew that beat me up? Which one knocked me off the bike?
I turned towards my mom and our eyes connected. She could tell something was up.
With one hand shielding the other I pointed behind her at the crowd. Then I cupped both hands around my mouth and whispered with big exaggerated lips, “that’s my bike.”
My mom turned and saw it immediately, surrounded by at least a hundred of our rival’s fans. She stepped over the bench and walked towards me and said, “go tell the refs we might need some help.”
Without thinking twice I turned and walked towards the referees. Then I looked back at my mom who was already charging up the center aisle. She got to the row where the guy with my bike was sitting and stared at him. Everybody in the vicinity was now watching her. My mom was the only one standing in the entire crowd and for a second it got totally quiet.
“That’s not your bike!” she screamed.
Then she started down the row, stepping over and pushing past the people between her and the bike. She did this quickly without asking permission. Then she grabbed the bike and headed back to the aisle, putting it over her shoulder as she walked down the stairs towards the court. It was one of those moments when time slows down to a crawl. Everyone stared at her in shock.
By now the refs saw what was going on and walked over to her.
The guy who had the bike a moment before also sat there in complete silence. He didn’t challenge my mom, he didn’t move. He was probably twice her size.
The other parents from our team circled around my mom now too. People in the crowd were talking a bit now, pointing towards her. What was going to happen?
My mom came right over to me and casually said, “let’s get the bike in the car. C’mon.”
And that’s what we did. My mom lowered the bike from her shoulder and handed it to me. Then we walked the hundred yards or so to our car. The other parents stayed with us until we got past all the stands and then watched over us as we put the bike in the trunk and made our way back to the court.
I was very nervous but my mom seemed in control. “Alright, get in there,” she said.
I walked to the center of the court where both teams were waiting for me to start the game.
The crowd was much quieter now than during warm-ups, and they stayed that way the entire game. The guy that stole my bike stayed where he was too, adding a bit of tension to the already tense situation.
I don’t recall much about the actual game that day except that we won. But I’ll never forget what happened just before. I can still see my mom walking down that center aisle with the bike on her shoulder with perfect clarity. On all sides stunned spectators looked up at her in silence. I always knew she was tough as nails but that day everybody else got to see it too.
I rode that Huffy ten speed with special pride from that day forward. And it’s still around, hanging on the same rack in my parents’ basement where it hung when I was in high school.