Reflection of a Hero

By Stan Yocum

Reflection of a Hero is a fictional story told from an older woman’s perspective about her youth and, in particular, about a boy athlete she first met in grade school. She tells her story about the trials and tribulations of growing up and becoming a young adult.

Her personal narrative follows her life from a thirteen-year-old eighth grader until she was in college. It’s reminiscent of what all of us had to encounter, to some extent, as we grow older. The one unique slant in her case is the young athlete that she fell in love with. Her youthful age, unfortunately, didn’t allow her to see the common thread that existed between them.

The highlights of the story might bring back memories of your own past. There are some exciting, funny, and thrilling moments in her recollection, as well as somber times that were also part of her life.

Follow her tale, and possibly you can sit back and remember . . . exactly what it was like!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984574305

Stan Yocum

Stan Yocum is a writer who has written suspense/thriller novels, and also general fiction and love novels. He also raises assistance dogs to help physically disabled adults, children and veterans. He is married, has two daughters, two grandchildren, and resides in Palos Verdes California. Other novels by Stan Yocum: The Price of Admission Unrelenting Nightmare Without You Hostile Takeover Corporate Spy Reflection of a Hero Please visit: www.stanyocum.com

Book preview

HELLO

Okay, to start off, I must tell you that I first became aware of the importance of true friends when the slang words tullies or tullieville were used to reference somewhere far away or a place in the middle of nowhere. By the time I reached high school, America was still a few years away from using the word groovy to describe most everything that was considered copasetic. I’m referring to the late 1950s and early 1960s.

I recently turned seventy-three, and I know in the blink of an eye I will one day look down at my birthday cake and see eighty candles ablaze in a glorious celebration of my good fortune. And I definitely see that as good fortune because there’s something to the phrase my father always said as the years began to mount upon him, It’s certainly better than the alternative. How true, how true.

Oh, please forgive me. Where are my manners? My name is Sara, and I would like to tell you about my youth, most notably my high school and early college years, and the friends I made; one in particular. Some of these friends I still keep in touch with to this day. However, I have to admit that the total number of those friends has started to diminish, and that saddens me greatly.

I often wonder if I spend too much time reminiscing about old times. I certainly hope not, and that it’s a normal process we all encounter as we grow old. And that’s an interesting point. One thing I’ve found out during my life is that you often discover what you think or do isn’t always that unusual, and a number of people think and do exactly the same thing. I guess maybe we humans do indeed come from the same mold.

Sorry, it seems I’ve wandered off track a little, so let’s get back to my original purpose: to tell you about my youth. Now I’ll be honest with you right up front. I, myself, have never accomplished anything that people would consider noteworthy. Certainly not like Marsha Jamison, my best friend starting in the eighth grade and continuing on through high school and college. She went on to win three gold medals in swimming at the Olympics after a stellar collegiate career at Northwestern University. She later became a United States Senator and now tours the United States giving inspirational speeches. She has also written four books. I’ve started a few, but never got past the first chapter. To be honest, for one of them, I only came up with the title: Don’t Lean on Me Brother, I may Fall. Catchy, huh? It was going to be a story about the hypocrisy of all the lip service given to the Love thy Fellow Man doctrine of the late 1960s. It was a stage in my life that I went through, nothing more. I mean I honestly do believe that we should love our neighbor. That’s probably why I never got around to writing what most likely would have turned out to be another one of my single chapter books.

Now let me take a moment and explain my intent. I’d like to reminisce and share with you a very significant time in my life, when I moved through my teenage years and into young adulthood. A time when so much learning took place for me, which I’m fairly certain, is true in everyone’s case. Ah haw! The very point I made earlier. Anyway, it was a time when I first started to find out about life; who I was, how I felt about things, what I believed in, and, most importantly, how I fit in—secretly praying that I did. Also some of the significant moments and experiences I had and the impact they had on me, some that seem as though they occurred just yesterday, knowing all too well that isn’t the case. I’m reminded of that every time I look in the mirror.

That brings up an interesting point. Ever hear the saying: Youth is wasted on the young? I’m pretty sure you have. Well I never understood exactly what that meant until I got along in years. And now, I understand it completely. I told my children when they were growing up, as did my parents when I was, to quit worrying about getting older and appreciate being young. But did they listen, or did I? No. Youth is fleeting and lasts, oh, such a short time. So enjoy it while you have it, something I always tell young people. One day you’ve got flexibility with keen reflexes, and the next … you don’t. Aches and pains that used to last a day or two linger on for weeks, sometimes months. I just love what Mae West said, Growing old ain’t for wimps!

Anyway, please indulge me. Most of what I’m about to tell you I know for fact, because I was there. Other bits and pieces are from other people’s perspectives; people who were either there when it happened or heard about it and then relayed it to me later. Or, given my current state of mind, I may have imagined it or just thought it should have occurred. Whatever the case, this is not intended to be a history lesson. It’s merely a review of my youth and about one very extraordinary person in my life. A person who influenced me greatly and through that influence made me understand how wonderful, yet delicate, life is.

Funny how, now that I’m in my seventies, I can finally appreciate and fully understand how precious those times were. I didn’t then, but, oh, I most certainly do now.

So please, grab a cup of coffee, find a comfy chair, maybe by a fire in the fireplace, and enjoy the journey. Who knows, it may even conjure up similar memories from your past.

LET’S BEGIN

The first time I saw him was in elementary school. I should take a quick second to explain that in my school district, elementary school covered grades 1 through 8, and high school 9 through 12. Now this boy, who had so arrestingly caught my attention, was walking with a bunch of his friends and already, at the age of thirteen, was almost a head taller than anyone else. He was in the middle of the group; all the other boys appeared to be clamoring to see who would be lucky enough to walk next to him.

This was my first day at yet another new school. My parents, well actually my father, was required to uproot the family every so often since he worked in the oil industry. When duty calls, he would say, I must answer. I always wondered: What duty? Just go get another job that won’t require us to move all the time and constantly require me to make new friends. Seemed pretty logical to me, being an eighth grader, and I know my younger brother certainly felt the same. I hated having to move!

As it turned out, we ended up living at our new address for an astonishing twelve years before my father would be forced to move once again. By that time, I was through college and out on my own. But I can still recall, as I stood on the playground that day, how angry I was, wondering how long it would take before I was able to make new friends.

I came to find out later in the day that the name of the boy who all the other boys were gathered around was Sonny St. Cyr. I remember thinking how wonderful his name sounded. I even repeated it to myself a few times, letting it softly glide off my tongue. Did I also mention that he was absolutely gorgeous?

Two days later, while at recess, I found myself scribbling his name on a piece of paper and mine next to it. Then I wrote: Sara St. Cyr. I instantly realized it also glided off my tongue. At that very moment, I realized that we were destined for each other.

That’s when Lucy Kramer came up and saw what I was doing. She grabbed the piece of paper and rushed off to tell the world. I ran after her, screaming for her to give it back. I was so embarrassed, especially when she gave the paper to the very person I begged her not to: Sonny St. Cyr.

He calmly took the piece of paper and studied it for a moment. All the other girls and boys were giggling and thoroughly enjoying my moment of total humiliation. Then Sonny looked at me and said, That’s sweet. Who knows, maybe someday it’ll come true. The giggling instantly stopped. He handed me the piece of paper, then turned and walked away.

I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought about that moment. His kind and thoughtful response to a young girl’s silly infatuation established something that none of us at the time could even come close to comprehending; Sonny St. Cyr was mature beyond his age. In fact, as I would find out over the ensuing years, he was light years ahead of the rest of us.

The one positive outcome that came of that incident was that from that moment on all the other girls looked upon me with reverence in my class. What I suspected at the time, and now know for a fact, was that every other girl there that day held the same fantasy that I did. They just never got caught writing it down. No matter, though, because from then on, I was always referred to as Sonny St. Cyr’s chosen one.

To say I walked off that playground in love with Sonny St. Cyr would be stretching the point. Who at thirteen years old knows what love is? But filled with infatuation; most definitely, envy; that’s a given, in awe; yes, probably, but in love? No, not then. That would come later.

Now, in the late 1950s there weren’t many organized sports for girls. In elementary school, we were never allowed to join the boys in any sport activity during recess or lunch. This was particularly true for football, basketball, and baseball. Girls would sit on the sidelines and gossip, or talk about Elvis Presley and the way he moved his hips, or anything else that happened to enter our minds, which usually centered on the boys we were watching.

But that wasn’t me. I wanted to join in the fun. I loved to run and play catch with a baseball and throw the football with my dad and younger brother. I also shot basketballs at a hoop we had attached to the garage. So one day when the boys were choosing up sides for a football game during the lunch break, my new best friend, Marsha Jamison, told me to go over and join them if I wanted to. So I did.

I want to play, I announced as I approached.

Go away, one of the boys told me.

No, I want to play.

Another boy walked up to me. You’re a girl, he astutely noted. And you’re wearing a dress. So go over there with the other girls and quit bothering us.

I looked over at Marsha and she motioned for me to hold my ground.

Just then Sonny came running up. He wore a big smile; something I would come to find out was a common trait of his.

Now I’d like to take a second and explain just how beautiful his smile was. It was one of those smiles that absolutely lights up the person’s face. I would also discover later that Sonny had an absolutely wonderful laugh, one that was tender to the ear. There was nothing irritating about it, just a mellow sound that communicated how happy he was.

Anyway, back to the playground. Sonny asked what the matter was.

Sara wants to play with us, said another boy named Steve Farlin, who was Sonny’s best friend.

So?

She’s a girl, the astute boy noted once again.

Yeah, I can see that. He took a moment to study me. Then he turned to his friends and said, If she wants to play, let her. Come on, let’s choose up sides, we don’t have all day.

Sides were quickly drawn, and guess who was picked dead last? Yep! You got it. But guess what else? The team I was on, captained by Steve Farlin, ended up winning the game even though Sonny was on the other team. And let me tell you that seldom happened.

The next day, I showed up again, much to the dismay of many of the boys. Once again Sonny was one of the captains and this time he picked me as his first choice.

You picked her over me? one of the boys asked in shock.

Yeah, she can catch the football, you can’t.

This elicited a glare in my direction from the boy. I didn’t care, especially after I caught a touchdown pass from Sonny and we won the game. I had trouble falling asleep that night, replaying the game over and over in my mind and the compliment Sonny had paid me in front of the other boys.

Sonny St. Cyr had picked me over all the other boys because he knew I could catch a football. How great was that?

* * *

As luck would have it, I ended up sitting next to Sonny when my eighth grade class returned from Christmas break. Our teacher, Miss McNamara, allowed us to select our own seats instead of having us sit alphabetically. I always hated alphabetical seating because inevitably I ended up in the far back corner of the room since my last name was Young. I always wondered why teachers didn’t reverse the alphabet once in a while. That way I would sit up front where I wanted to be.

Miss McNamara told us that in high school the teachers sometimes didn’t have assigned seating, so she was going to let us sit wherever we wanted. I discreetly waited until Sonny took a seat near the front of the class and luckily grabbed the desk immediately to his right. Actually, luck had nothing to do with it, did it? Anyway, I acted shocked when I looked over at him.

Are you trying to sit next to me? I asked.

No, not on purpose. I just took this seat because it’s close to the front. But it’s nice you’re sitting next to me.

My heart jumped.

Hey, Sara, he went on, Are you going to try out for the Glee Club?

I nodded. My heart was still racing.

Do you have a good voice?

It’s not bad, but I don’t really think Miss McNamara is going to hold try outs. It’s my guess she’ll let everyone who shows up join, knowing her.

Really, you think so?

Are you thinking of joining?

Sonny gave a shrug. I doubted he would since being part of the Glee Club wasn’t what boys did, certainly not star athletes like Sonny St. Cyr. Miss McNamara had asked a few of us girls to try and persuade the boys to give it a try. She said she wanted to add harmonizing and that was difficult with an all girls Glee Club. However, our efforts at recruiting failed miserably. The boys would laugh when we asked them and say things like, Yeah, right. or Don’t count on it.

In hindsight, I think Miss McNamara was reaching for the impossible, considering that most boys at that age were just entering puberty, so their voices weren’t that much different than the girls. For those who’s voice had started to change, it usually meant theirs would crack on a regular basis, and usually at the most inopportune moment, like when trying to reach that low note to complement the girl’s higher range.

You should come, I said, doing my part at recruiting. It’ll be fun. Miss McNamara told us she really wants some of you boys to join. She also said we may get to travel to other schools and sing for them. Wouldn’t that be neat?

Yeah, that does sound kinda neat.

So will you, pretty please? None of the other boys want to, but if you do then maybe they’ll join too.

Sonny doodled on his desk and gave another shrug. I don’t know, maybe. We’ll see, he said, wiping off the pencil marks with the palm of his hand.

I’m not sure if Sonny St. Cyr ever fully understood the influence he had on other people, certainly not as a thirteen-year-old. But influence people he did. And if by chance he did comprehend his gift, he never let on or took advantage of it for personal gains. It was always for someone else’s benefit. So, that afternoon, when all the girls were nervously assembled in the auditorium for the Glee Club try-outs, in walks Sonny St. Cyr, followed by fourteen of his closest friends, much to the surprise and delight of Miss McNamara.

I would later find out, when talking to one of the boys who joined him that day, that Sonny had come up to them after school and said they should all go and try out for the Glee Club. When everyone resisted such a silly notion, he told them that they should because it meant a lot to Miss McNamara. But the resistance persisted.

Ah, come on, Sonny. Try out for the Glee Club? Singings for girls, not guys, Steve Farlin voiced in protest.

You think so? What about Elvis? Last time I checked he’s a guy. So is Bobby Darin, and Sam Cook.

That’s different. They’re singing rock n roll, another boy objected.

They didn’t start out singing rock n roll. They probably started out singing in their church choir. But it doesn’t matter to me. If you guys don’t want to join, that’s fine. I am.

Sonny took off toward the auditorium; leaving the other boys to ponder what effect their decision not to follow would have on their relationship with Sonny. Chances were it wouldn’t have any effect at all, but they didn’t know that, nor did any of them want to risk finding out.

And that’s how Miss McNamara ended up having the only elementary school Glee Club for miles around that included both boys and girls. That unique aspect alone afforded us the opportunity to travel to numerous schools and sing before other students, faculty, and parents. The attempt at harmonizing failed, though. I’m sure when Miss McNamara heard us sing, she soon realized that getting us to harmonize would be like trying to mix oil and water together.

But sing we did, and in my mind’s ear we sounded wonderful. Although I think maybe the smiles we saw on the adult faces sitting in the audiences weren’t necessarily smiles of enjoyment from the melodious sounds we were emitting, but rather concealed laughter. But, hey, what the heck, we had fun. And I’m sure Miss McNamara did too. For what she accomplished by having young boys join in with their female counterparts on stage was unheard of, and she owed it all to Sonny St. Cyr. But I’m fairly certain she was probably aware of what had happened.

ONWARD AND UPWARD

Graduating from the eighth grade was a momentous occasion. It meant that in the fall I would be in high school. And that meant I was nearly an adult. See my logic?

Sonny showed up at our graduation dance wearing a suit. I’m sure it was his mother’s idea, but boy did he look nice. All of the other boys wore slacks, dress shirts and ties. It was probably a good idea that none of them donned suits since they couldn’t have carried it off as well as Sonny had. It fit him, not from the standpoint of fitting his body, but rather it fit him, as in it looked completely natural on him. Meanwhile, all the girls, including me, were trying desperately to walk in their heels and act as though they were old hat at it.

Now I have to admit, Sonny didn’t keep his suit coat on for long, I mean, after all, he was still a young boy. But for the brief stretch between entering the auditorium until he removed it, he looked … well, so mature when compared to the other boys. He looked like a man—a man among little boys.

It certainly doesn’t seem fair, but Sonny St. Cyr never went through the geeky early teenager stage. The rest of us certainly did. Many girls go through the pudgy stage, including yours truly. Boys are typically rail thin when they enter adolescence, with hollow chests and skinny little arms. I remember wondering how these boys would protect us girls when we grew up? I honestly believed that I could have beaten them in an arm wrestling contest at the time. I certainly ran faster than most of them, and I was wearing a dress when I did.

That’s an interesting point, by the way. The standard dress attire for girls back when I went to elementary school was a dress or a skirt and blouse. In high school it was the same, except by then we started wearing stockings, certainly by our junior and senior years. What you didn’t see were tight jeans, cut-offs, and short-shorts that young girls wear today. But then times have changed. Oh, my, how they’ve changed.

Anyway, back to Sonny. His face and neck were never thin, nor was his body. He was well built and at fourteen years old, his age at the time we graduated, he already stood six feet tall. He looked more like one of the parents chaperoning the dance than a graduating student.

Now the first thing that happened was the boys took their seats in the folding chairs lined up against one wall of the auditorium, while we girls took position on the opposite side of the dance floor. Then everyone sat there looking at each other. A few songs played and no one ventured out on the dance floor. Finally, a few of us girls went out and danced with each other; Marsha was my partner.

After two or three more songs, a few brave girls, instigated by Marsha, went over and asked the boys if they wanted to dance. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that if the girls didn’t initiate the process the entire evening might turn out to be nothing more than a staring contest. Eventually, the boys started venturing forward, and wouldn’t you know, Sonny was the first of the group to come over and ask a girl to dance. The amazing part was the girl he asked was me!

Sure, I said, knowing the other girls sitting around me were green with envy.

Much like everything else Sonny ever did, dancing seemed to come naturally to him. He didn’t know real dance steps, but still he moved easily with the rhythm of the music, and he didn’t step on my feet once. I wish I could say the same. The heels had to go.

Sonny asked me to dance at least eight more times during the evening. I was in heaven, especially during the slow song that concluded our graduation dance.

Are you excited about going to high school? he asked as he held me close.

Yeah, are you?

You bet. I finally get to play tackle football instead of flag football. I can’t wait.

Aren’t you frightened of getting hurt?

Naw, we wear pads and a helmet and all that stuff.

Are you sure you’ll get to play?

I regretted asking the question as soon as it passed my lips. Sonny looked down at me. I was sure I’d insulted him and feared he would storm off the dance floor and never talk to me again. Instead, he smiled and gave me a wink.

I’m pretty sure I’ll play. Not varsity my freshman year, I’m not old enough, yet. But for certain by my sophomore year.

Really?

Yeah. I’ve already talked to the varsity coach and he assured me I’d be on the team. I can play varsity baseball though, even though I’ll only be a freshman.

I looked up at him. How many sports are you going to play?

Three: football, basketball and baseball.

Won’t that be difficult?

Sonny laughed. Naw, I’ve always played all three sports. It’ll be fun.

The song ended and Sonny leaned over and gave me a kiss on my cheek. It’s been fun dancing with you, Sara. Have a great summer and I’ll see you in the fall at Central High.

You too, I said as he escorted me back to my seat.

I swore to myself as I retrieved my shoes that I would never wash my cheek again. As I watched him walk away, I reached up and gently touched the spot where he’d kissed me.

Aren’t crushes absolutely wonderful?

* * *

The next morning, my little brother, Dennis, wanted to know all about the dance. We were sitting at the kitchen table waiting for our mom to cook breakfast. Dennis had just completed the sixth grade and so his eighth grade graduation was just around the corner. He probably wanted to get the scoop on how the grown-up kids did things. I mean, I was two years older with gobs more experience.

So, did you have to dance? he asked.

Yes, I said. Several times, I added to impress him.

Ugh! he cried out. That’s awful.

No it’s not. You’ll dance at your graduation.

No I won’t. I don’t want to get dressed up and dance with girls.

You will by then.

No, uh, uh.

I smiled at him.

Mom, he called out. Will I have to dance at my graduation if I don’t want to?

Not if you don’t want to, sweetie.

See, he said, sticking out his tongue at me.

I stuck mine out at him.

My father entered the kitchen just as the exchange of facial taunts reached a crescendo. My father’s name was Al, short for Albert, and he was the most wonderful man I knew. Unlike all the boys at school, except for Sonny, he actually looked as though he could protect me. His hair was cut short, in what back then was called a crew cut.

The only time I can remember being disappointed in my father was when I found out that he’d received complimentary tickets to Disneyland’s pre-grand opening celebration, but decided not to attend. My mother let it slip out two days after the event. I was speechless. Why would anyone not want to go to Disneyland? The notion was mind-boggling to me. He later explained that it would have been extremely crowded and he would have had to take a day off from work, yada, yada, yada. The amazing thing is that my father died at age 83, never once having stepped foot inside the Magic Kingdom. Unbelievable!

But honestly, that was the only blemish on his otherwise perfect Dad resume. For example, he was big into sports and always included me, a girl—as so adeptly pointed out by the boys on the elementary playground football field—in every outdoor activity he did. I became a sport fanatic. My father took the time to explain the rules and subtle nuances of many sports, including football, basketball, and baseball. I think back now and wonder if he was a good athlete, although he never said anything to me to indicate that he was.

He also introduced me to other sports like tennis and golf and even fishing, although to be honest, I never really cared to fish, once I realized the fish died when out of water. There was also bike riding, camping, hiking, snow skiing, you name it. If it took place outdoors, the Young family did it. We even talked about going hunting, but I decided against that because, like fishing, it involved killing animals. My mother was also included in all our outdoor activities. Oh, did I mention how great she was, too? Her name was Cindy. Al and Cindy; that was how their friends referred to them. But to me, and my little brother, they were just Mom and Dad; the two best parents in the world.

You two keep making faces at each other like that then they’ll stay that way forever, my father mentioned as he picked up the morning newspaper and took his customary seat at the kitchen table.

Her face already looks that way, Dennis said laughing.

You’re a brat, you know that? I retaliated.

It takes one to know one.

Here’s your coffee, my mother said, placing a cup on the table in front of my father. Eggs and toast will be ready in a minute.

Thanks, hon.

Hey, Dad, did you know that Sara had to dance with boys? Well actually, the boys had to dance with her.

Mom, I cried out.

That’s enough, Dennis, she said. Leave your sister alone.

But it’s fun.

It’s not polite, though, my dad said from behind the newspaper.

After we finished eating and cleaning off the table, my dad and I remained behind in the kitchen and talked. I always loved those moments, when my father or mother would spend time just with me. It made me feel special, sensing they had a real interest in what I was doing. Having had children of my own, I now realize how special it was for them, also.

So what are your plans for the summer? my dad asked. Going to the beach everyday?

I wish. Remember, Dad, none of my friends drive yet, so we have to rely on our parents.

That makes it kind of difficult, doesn’t it?

You’re telling me.

Hey, what say I teach you to drive? Then you can drive your friends to the beach.

I can’t do that. I’m not old enough to get my driver’s license yet.

That’s okay. If you don’t get stopped by the police, you’ll be fine.

Are you serious? I said, almost in shock.

There is the problem of getting access to the car without your mom finding out, though, but I’m sure we can figure something out.

I then gave my father a dubious look. You’re kidding, aren’t you?

Me? Have I ever kidded you before?

Just all the time.

He started laughing. Yes, sweetheart, I’m kidding about you taking the car and driving your friends to the beach. But … I wasn’t kidding about teaching you how to drive. Would you like to learn?

Would I! I remember shouting.

That’s when my mother walked in inquiring, Would you what?

Dad’s going to teach me to drive, Mom.

Oh, he is, is he? she said, giving him a wide-eye look.

Yeah. My father taught me when I was about Sara’s age. I thought if she wanted to, I’d start teaching her.

I jumped from my chair. I do! Can we go right now, huh, Dad?

Sure. Go get dressed and we’ll go over to Evelyn College. We’ll use the parking lot behind the stadium. Oh, one thing, though. I want you to learn on a stick shift. Anyone can steer a car. I want you to learn how to drive one. So we’ll take your mom’s car. You okay with that?

That’s fine with me, I said, beaming with excitement.

That bright, sunny Saturday morning was one of the greatest