Hey, You

By Gordon Leech

Gordon Miller is checking over the scores of the baseball games played the night before while reading his newspaper. He is on the bus heading to where he will be getting his colonoscopy, Gordon is a semi-retired sportswriter, divorced with two grown up children.

He lives in a middle-class home with his beloved dog Costello. His life basically existing of an occasional ball game and attempting of an occasional ballgame and attempting to write a novel. His life is otherwise somewhat boring. Except for Friday evenings when he gets together with his friends and bowls. A sport which Gordon loves and is very good at. Although relatively happy with his life Gordon is searching.

Julie Ryan is running down the sidewalk flagging down the bus #44 as it makes it way to clinic. Julie is 25 years old; she coaches the local college girls’ soccer team at St. John’s in Cleveland. She played for St. John’s for four years. She was a standout athlete at the school not in soccer but track and basketball as well.

She lives in a dormitory, a place she knows at home since she was orphaned as a young girl. Her father was killed in a freak accident when Julie was very young something Julie has never accepted. Julie is going to the clinic for a routine mastectomy. Julie gets on the bus and sits down next to Gordon. And by chance a friendship and love affair would begin. The two would embark on an adventure together that will lead to an exciting, funny and loving story that will tug at your heart strings. Two people, one old, one young both searching for the same thing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728346502

Gordon Leech

Gordon Leech is a seventy-one-year-old retiree who migrated to Arizona from Cleveland, Ohio in 2014. He is a Vietnam Veteran who loves sports, reading and regularly participates in his favorite sport-Bowling. In 1973, his mother was stricken with breast cancer and despite a long battle succumbed to the disease. At age fifty-one. His older sister suffered the same fate nineteen years later at the tender age of forty-two. After being invited to his niece’s soccer games, he came away with the realization that women’s sports, although maybe not as rough and tough as men’s sports, are still competitive, interesting and exciting. These events plus his religious beliefs planted the seed to write this novel. He has published another book “Yesterdays Hippies, Todays Yuppies,” in 2012.

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© 2020 Gordon Leech. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/04/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-4651-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-4650-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1 A Chance Encounter

Chapter 2 Game One St Johns Versus Oberlin

Chapter 3 The Bowling Lesson

Chapter 4 Game Two St. Johns’ Versus Baldwin Wallace

Chapter 5 A Date With Vera

Chapter 6 The Bus Ride To Western Michigan

Chapter 7 Game Five—The Big One

Chapter 8 St Johns Picnic

Chapter 9 St. Johns Versus Cleveland State

Chapter 10 St Johns Versus Lakeland

Chapter 11 Tragedy Strikes The Team

Chapter 12 Down To Business

Chapter 13 St Johns Versus Baldwin Wallace

Chapter 14 The Championship Game-God Will Be There

Chapter 15 The Wedding

Chapter 16 Father Tony Speaks

Chapter 17 Julie My Sweet Julie

Chapter 18 Final Tribute To Julie

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I would like to thank my transcriptionists Michelle, who tirelessly and diligently corrected my misspelling and assisted in setting up my paragraphs correctly. Without her I could not have competed my manuscript.

Secondly to my sister Linda Bane and my best friend Ronald Badon, who constantly encouraged me to complete this novel which was two and ½ years in the making.

Thank you all

Gordon

This book is

dedicated to all the cancer survivors and everyone who has ever been stricken by this horrible disease. To all the participants in sports, old and young, male and female who give their heart and souls by playing their sport.

Chapter 1

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

This is a story about two people. A young twenty-six-year-old female soccer coach, Julie Ryan, and a sixty-something-year-old man, that would be me, Gordon Miller. Who met under the most unusual of circumstances? Julie, a former college soccer athlete, who continues to love her game, has decided to pass her infinite knowledge and skills to the next generation of women players. Gordon that would be me, at one time a High School athlete, who now is a retired sportswriter in his waning years, that has turned part-time author. Enough with the introduction, let me tell you the story as it unfolds.

The time is the present an early August morning in Shaker Heights, Ohio.

Ring, Ring, the phone is ringing in Gordon’s two-bedroom Shaker Heights home.

Ok, Ok, damn it, I’m coming, I’m coming, he states as he is heading to pick up the phone.

Hello, he says as he pauses to hear the response on the other end of the phone. It was his younger sister, Linda, calling him to remind him of his eight-thirty appointment at the Cleveland Clinic for that morning.

Remember Gordon, you must be there at eight o’clock sharp, she states.

Yes, yes, he replies. You didn’t eat anything, did you, Linda asked.

Oh, no, no, Gordon replies, how the hell could I eat after drinking a gallon of that crap all night to clean out my colon.

Linda laughs and says, "I guess that knocked the shit out of you, huh.

Very funny, little sis." Gordon replies.

Now, don’t forget, Linda reminds him, that you take the 44C bus to the clinic and I’ll be up to pick you up at two o’clock to drive you home.

Ok, Ok, Gordon says, see you at two. Gordon then hung up the phone, goes into the bathroom looks into the mirror at his aging face and thinning hairline. He thinks to himself, colonoscopy that is for old people not for young, middle-aged, virile men like me. Then suddenly he blurts, out who are you kidding, you’re an old geezer. You’re a has-been athlete that hasn’t worked out in the last four years. He stares in the mirror and thinks, My God; I can’t even remember the last time I got laid. He laughs to himself and says. oh well, at least I am still a great bowler. To which he still was. It was the one athletic achievement, Gordon was still very active at and I must add was very, good at.

Gordon puts on his fall jacket, closes the door to his house, and walks a few blocks to the bus stop. He glances around and notices all the people, executives, young college students, and workers of all kinds, preparing to commute to their job’s downtown. The bus pulls up and Gordon takes the one-step up, puts his change in the till, and proceeds down the aisle. Alas, he thinks to himself two empty seats, no one to sit next to me. I can collect my thoughts and maybe perhaps jot down a few ideas for a book. Gordon takes the seat next to the window and glances out of it. The weather is a little chilly but otherwise a beautiful late August morning in Cleveland, Ohio.

After about three or four stops, Gordon glances out the window as the bus begins to speed away, merging into traffic. Gordon can’t help but see a young girl running at full cantor parallel to the bus. She is waving her hand, deliriously for the driver to stop. As the bus starts to gain speed, the girl seems to shift her gait and starts to catch up to the bus. She begins pounding on the bus door. The driver stops and opens the door. The girl pays her fare, then thanks the driver for Stopping, and proceeds towards the back of the bus. Gordon looks at the girl and guesses her age to be about twenty-five or so. She is very tall about five foot nine inches with a slim build but had the look of a distance runner or athlete. Amazingly, she is not breathing heavy as she takes her seat next to Gordon. She is wearing running pants and a baseball cap, which covered her black hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail.

As she is about to sit down, she bluntly states, Hello, Julie’s my name and holds out her hand. Julie Ryan, she repeated as she shook my hand. And yours, she went on. Gordon, Gordon Miller, I said.

The Gordon Miller, she said, the sportswriter.

The now-retired Sportswriter, I said.

She went on, I thought I just read an article you had written in the Akron Beacon Journal, only a few weeks ago about the PGA tour coming to Cleveland next year.

Oh yes, you probably did, I replied. I still occasionally write for the paper, maybe once or twice a month, specialty articles, significant events, and interviews.

"So, what are you doing now? Julie asked.

Oh, I am attempting to write a book, once I get my thoughts together.

On sports, Julie asked.

Probably, I said. Although I have already written one book and had it published in 1987.

Oh, what was the title, she asked?

Forgive and Forget. Have you read it?

No, unfortunately, I haven’t. What was it about? I started to tell her and then started to laugh aloud. I think I sold all about fourteen copies of the book, eight of them to my family. So now I am trying to get some ideas together so I can write a bestseller," Gordon said as he continued laughing.

Good for you, Julie stated.

I was amazed at this girl that I had just met only a matter of minutes ago, who was enthusiastic and so alive, was lending her ear to an old retired washed-up sportswriter and unsuccessful writer.

And you, Miss Julie Ryan, what are you doing with your life, I asked.

Oh, I coach, Julie responded.

Coach, coach, what, I asked.

The girls’ college soccer team at St. John’s, Julie responded.

Unfortunately, my facial expression gave away my lack of enthusiasm for women’s sports in general. Julie sensed this and said, Oh, Mr. Miller, you’re old school, huh? I sense you don’t think women in sports or women sports, in general, are of any consequence in today’s society.

Well, I sighed, you’re probably right.

I always thought, I was saying when Julie interrupted me in the middle of my sentence.

You always thought, Julie said, that sports are strictly for men. This is a very chauvinistic and old fashion way of thinking on your part, Mr. Miller.

Not so, I said, I’m liberal. I don’t feel women are devoted or physically capable of being athletic. Especially in soccer, a sport, unfortunately, I know very little about, and I presume probably millions of American sports fans, like me, don’t care about either.

You’re kidding, Mr. Miller! Julie heatedly replies.

Gordon, I said. Call me, Gordon.

Where have you been living under a rock? Julie replies. Perhaps, you were pulling a Rip Van Winkle when in 2000 the USA women soccer team captured the American public’s interest as it received the highest TV ratings for a sporting event in history, and the ratings continued for approximately two weeks straight. The nation was captivated as the girls played their hearts out and busted their butts to win the gold medal for the USA. Do you remember Gordon, Mia Hamm, Brandi Chastain, and the rest of the team? The intensity of their play kept all of America riveted to their television sets.

My mind flashed back to the USA women’s soccer team of the late nineties. The women’s top soccer team that defeated an outstanding and talented Japanese soccer team for the gold medal.

To say we are just women, that is well…, Julie interrupted my thoughts and abruptly pulled up her jogging pants and exposed her muscular calves. She went on to say, I run two to three miles a day to develop these strong legs. I couldn’t help but gaze. Julie did have slim, attractive but athletic legs. As she rolled her pant legs down, Julie just looked at me.

Touché, Touché, I responded. I was now determined not to give this girl the satisfaction of winning our little debate. Therefore, I tried quickly to change the subject, so you run two to three miles a day.

Yes, she replied. Where? I asked. St. John’s, I run every day starting at 1 pm sharp rain or shine. Then the girls come out and we train and practice for our upcoming games. You’re welcome to come if you want to watch a real game! Julie responds. I laughed momentarily and chided her slightly.

Girls Soccer, come on, I’m not so sure about that, I said. Julie interrupted me. Girls’ soccer, and what pray tell do you do for sports, Mr. Miller?

Gordon, I said, remember, Gordon. I was thinking suddenly not wanting to lose our friendly debate; I blurted out BOWLING.

Bowling, she screamed so loud that many of the passengers looked at us as if we were in a serious argument. Julie could hardly stop laughing. Bowling, a sport for what, old fat men and women, who sit at the bowling alley drinking beer and smoking, then leave the lanes more out of shape than when they arrived. It was my turn to attack; after all, she was slamming my passion. Young lady! I said. Julie, call me Julie, she said. Touché, again, I said.

Bowling has and takes many skills. Eye coordination, hand coordination, stride, and balance. Although it is true, some people go to the lanes to drink. It provides therapy for old and young people as well. Frankly, it takes skill to master this sport. One I am proud to participate in and that I excel at. I dare you, Miss Julie Ryan, to come and watch my bowling team and try to see if you with your athletic body could master this sport, and as far as it’s physical benefits. I slowly took off my jacket, rolled up my shirtsleeve, exposing my bicep, and did a muscle pose. We both got a big laugh out of this.

The bus continued on its way, and after a few minutes more, Julie asked me, so where are you going? The Cleveland Clinic, I Stated. Oh, anything-serious, Julie replied, or is it any of my business? I hesitated, took a long glance at Julie. I am going for a colonoscopy or better known as the old geezer procedure, I replied. Oh, she said, my assistant coach had that done last year. Pat is her name; she has been my assistant coach for the last three years. She’s great. You’ll get a chance to meet her when you come to our game on Wednesday afternoon. She looked at me with her beautiful eyes. You will be coming to our game on Wednesday afternoon, right?

I guess, I said. I was thinking, I was not going to waste a Wednesday afternoon watching a meaningless girls soccer team; however, there was something about the way that she had asked me. It was just like a little girl pleading with her dad to attend an event she was in. Although I hardly knew this girl, I silently thought, maybe I would go. Then I rethought the situation, hell no, there is no way I am going to a girls’ soccer game.

Then she asked, Are you scared? Not really, I said. but I was a little bit. Well, no need to worry, Julie went on, it only takes one or two hours, and everything will be all right.

Thanks, I said.

The bus was now getting close to downtown. Julie, where are you headed? I asked.

To the clinic as well, she stated. I went on. Anything serious, or is it any of my business?

Oh, I am just having a Mammogram. The doctor found a small lump under my arm, so I am going for a test, she replied.

Suddenly, I became inquisitive. Good, good, I said. I am very familiar with these procedures. Back in the early seventy’s, my mother had to have the same procedure and test, so did my sister in 1992. Things turned out ok, but it’s good to get these things tested early. I lied.

I didn’t want to alarm this wonderful, optimistic girl. Things did not go well for either my mother or my sister, but I am getting way ahead of myself. I will explain later. Are you scared, I asked.

I don’t feel bad. Do I look sick? She asked. No, I replied, no, surely not, anyone who can catch up to a speeding bus certainly isn’t sick.

Suddenly, the bus driver hollered, Cleveland Clinic. We both got out of our seats. Come on, Julie; I said, I’ll walk with you to the front door of the hospital."

Ok, she said. As we entered the building, I looked at the directory on the wall.

That is me, I said, surgery 4th floor.

Where are you going? I inquired of Julie.

I am going to 1A, she replied.

Well, I extended my hand to shake her hand, it has been a pleasure and an honor to meet you, Miss Julie Ryan.

As we shook hands, I felt a funny kind of warmth. For some reason, I did not want to let go of her hand. Nothing sexual it was just a warm feeling of meeting a wonderful, beautiful human being.

Well, I’ll see you. Good luck!

I will see you again, Julie said, right, at 4 pm. St. John’s field. Wednesday. Don’t forget.

Oh, yeah, Wednesday, St. Johns field, 4 pm, I said. See ya.

I walked past a few offices, walked down a corridor to the elevators, and waited for the elevator to arrive. The door of the elevator opened, and I got on and told the young man near the elevator panel four, please. He pressed four, and I thanked him. As the elevator started its ascension, I glanced around at its passengers. A young woman with a baby stroller and a toddler in it, an older man about my age, who I guess was heading to the surgery ward for the same procedure I was about to have, and the young man who had just pushed the elevator buttons that would take me to my destination. However, I couldn’t get the young girl, Julie, out of my mind. I thought to myself how refreshing to meet a young girl who was so enthusiastic about herself and how passionate she was towards her sport. A sport I felt in my sport-writing days I never would have given a thought to write an article about, let alone go and see it. The doors to the fourth floor opened and I walked the few steps to the office reception desk. After the receptionist checked me in, she called the orderly over to process me in.

The young man was around 22 or so and came up with a gown in his hand. He directed me to the changing room and said to strip down, then put this gown on and place all your valuables in this bag. He handed me this laundry type bag. Then he said that I should place your clothes in a locker and bring the bag with me. O The orderly went on that he would be back to get me in about 5 minutes.

I walked into the dressing room and began taking off my clothes. I pulled my pants off and noticed my calves. I reached down and felt them. They were soft, a product of sixty-three years of life I thought. I recalled back to the bus ride when Julie pulled up her pant legs to expose her calves. The thought occurred to me; this girl was in excellent shape. Why was I still thinking about her?

Mr. Miller, Mr. Miller, are you ready? The orderly interrupted my thoughts. I walked out of the dressing room and followed the orderly into a room that said pre-surgery. He pointed me to a bed and told me to lie down, he then got an IV and said he was going to give me an IV solution, and that my Dr would be in to talk to me in a few minutes. As he was getting the needle ready to insert into my right hand, I asked him if he could please set the IV up into my left hand. Sure, he said. Without him asking, I proceeded to tell him that I bowl with my right hand and what a great bowler I was, and that Friday was a big night for my team. He sarcastically laughed and said ok. After setting up the IV, the orderly left.

I laid back and glanced around the room. The room was quite spacious but almost filled. The patients were being wheeled in and out as if it was like a factory production line. The patients who were finished with their surgery had friends and family waiting to take them home. I thought to myself; I sure hope Linda remembers to pick me up. I was thinking about this when a young doctor in surgical attire approached.

Hi Gordon, he said as he greeted me. It was Dr. Timothy Mangan. I remembered I always allowed Tim to call me by my first name ever since he turned seventeen. Tim’s father, Jack, and I were great friends. In our younger days, Jack and I played on the same softball team. We bowled together and spent many a night at O’Malley’s, a local bar, discussing politics, sports, or practically every article I had written for The Journal. Jack lived in a prestigious suburb just outside of Cleveland and me just outside of Akron. I used to pick Jack up from his home when he got home from work since it was so convenient, and we would drive together to our softball games or bowling matches. Sometimes, he would bring his son, Tim, to watch our games. I was quite fond of Tim, although he was not the athletic type. Tim was quite knowledgeable of sports and could give you stats on just about any player in any major sport in the United States.

One day, I was warming up with Jack before our softball game was to begin. I saw Timmy and told him to grab a glove and play catch with us. Jack looked at Tim and said, forget it, Timmy. He then grabbed both of his son’s hands, raised them over Tim’s shoulders and exclaimed to me. Gordo, these are the hands of a future surgeon, not a baseball player!

What a prophet Jack turned out to be. Jack paid to send Tim to Vanderbilt University. Tim graduated with honors in 1998. He served his internship at Cleveland Clinic; once completed, he was immediately accepted on the staff. It didn’t take long for young Tim to become a renowned surgeon. After only five years of residency, Tim now sits on the board of directors. If not for me being affiliated with Tim’s dad, I am sure I could not afford or get his service for this procedure. I thought to myself, how fast he had grown up.

I inquired about Tim’s mom and dad. Tim stated both were doing quite well and that I should drop by the house when I had some spare time. Sure, I said, I would do that. Although despite the fact, Jack and I have been estranged, due to work commitments and schedules, I would call him soon. I made a mental note to do so.

I was feeling very safe and secure, knowing Tim would be doing my procedure.

Well, are you ready, Tim asked.

Ready as I’ll ever be," I said.

Gordon, this procedure is not painful and lasts for one hour. If I see anything in the colon that shouldn’t be there, I will snip it out and send it to the lab. I will give you a report in three to four days. Well, if you are ready, Gordon, let’s get this party started.

The orderly began wheeling my bed towards the operating room. Once we got into the operating room, I noticed an older female in a surgical outfit.

Hi Mr. Miller, I am Jean Fargo, I am going to administer the anesthesia to you, and in a few minutes, you will be in la-la land. Therefore, you will feel no pain.

I looked up from my bed at Tim and started to object. Tim, I don’t like to be put to sleep.

Don’t worry, Tim stated. This is the best way. Trust me, Gordon, it will be easier if you are asleep.

I started to object again when I noticed Tim nodding to Dr. Jean Fargo and she put the needle into the tube to start the drip. I could vaguely hear Tim say, you know Gordon my father once told me that you and he were the greatest of friends. However, sometimes you could be an absolute asshole, and now, Tim went on as he was putting on his surgical gloves, I am going to find out just how big an asshole you are.

Asshole! I started to say as the anesthesia took effect. That was the last thing I remembered before going into as Dr. Fargo said La La land.

Well welcome back, Mr. Miller, it was the young orderly speaking.

What? I said as I rubbed my eyes. We’re done?

Oh yes, he stated. You’ve been done and have been sleeping here like a baby for about twenty minutes.

Wow, I can’t remember a thing.

Oh, that is normal, the orderly Stated. Can I get you some juice?

Sure, I said. Apple or grape? the orderly said referring to the juice.

Apple, apple juice would be fine.

Ok, your doctor will be in to see you in about twenty minutes to let you know how your surgery turned out.

I lay back on the bed. I couldn’t help but look around as the orderlies kept pushing patients in and out of the recovery room. I thought to myself that this colon thing must be important. Hell, look at all these people. I glanced around, and I guessed most of the people in the room were between fifty and sixty years old. Some might be a bit younger and a few a bit older. Some women, some men, some white, some Hispanic, some black, some Asian. Funny, I thought colon disease or cancer has no prejudice. Just as I was thinking about this, the orderly came back in with my juice.

Mr. Miller, a woman, is outside wanting to see you, should I send her in.

Oh, yes, I said, as I thought to myself, excellent Linda was on time I could be home by five or so. As I looked up a very attractive tall girl was walking towards my bed, she had flowing black hair and was wearing a familiar jogging suit. It was Julie Ryan.

Hi Gordon, how are you feeling?

Well, good considering. As I talked, I couldn’t help but look directly at this girl and notice just how attractive she was. When I first met her on the bus, she was wearing her hair in a ponytail pulled tight. Now her hair was flowing, and I think it helped accentuate her beautiful high cheekbones. She had the kind of squinty eyes, you know, the mischievous looking eyes you would see on a young girl right after being caught attempting to steal a cookie from a cookie jar. She had the mesmerizing eyes that could take your heart.

Well, I sure didn’t think I would see you again, Julie Ryan, especially after the macho debate we had on the bus. Where I pretty much bad mouth girls’ soccer.

Julie placed her finger to her lips. Shh, Shh, forget it, as she put her hand into her purse. I almost forgot, she said, I had these tickets, and I thought I would give them to you for Wednesday’s game.

On both tickets were printed August 29, 2011, Oberlin Bobcats versus St. John’s Raiders, at St. John’s field 4 pm. Underneath, I saw the price, three dollars for each ticket. I looked at the tickets again and thought to myself three dollars that wouldn’t get you a bottle of water at most sporting events. I nonetheless took them and asked Julie.

Where do I sit? I don’t see a seat number or box number.

Gordon, Gordon, she said, it is like a high school field you either sit in the bleacher or Stand on the sidelines.

Oh, ok, I said. Is Oberlin any good?

No, not really, Julie said, they are probably one of the weak sisters in our league. No pun intended. As she was about to tell me more about Oberlin College’s team, another female entered the room. It was my sister Linda.

Oh, I am sorry, Julie said. I shouldn’t be in here, I’ll let you and Mrs. Miller be alone, and I will be on my way.

No, No, Julie, I said, and I waved my arm, Stay a few minutes longer, please. First off, this is my sister, Linda. Linda nodded towards Julie.

Linda Roberts, Linda repeated as both women acknowledged each other.

Oh, Linda, I said. This is Miss Julie Ryan; I met her on the bus on the way to the hospital. She coaches the girls’ soccer team here at St. Johns. After talking with her and debating with her about girls’ soccer and bowling, she has come up here and graciously given me two tickets to Wednesday’s game at St. Johns field against the Oberlin Bobcats.

Julie nodded in Linda’s direction, please, Gordon don’t be condescending to me, Julie said hurtfully. I immediately apologized. I could see a hurt expression on her face as she tried to retrieve the tickets back that she had given to me. I snatched the tickets away from her and said, not on your life Julie Ryan; are you taking these tickets away from me. I will be there to critique your game and coaching abilities. A smile quickly returned to Julie’s face and it was almost as if she was relieved and happy to know I, a sixty-three-year-old sportswriter, was going to take notice of her and her passion.

Ok, Julie said, I will see you at 4 pm on Wednesday. She looked at Linda and said, nice meeting you, Mrs. Miller.

Linda interjected, Roberts. The real Mrs. Miller had the brains to leave this old burnout twenty years ago.

I quickly interrupted Linda, and the former Mrs. Miller has been happily living in Tampa, Florida, off my alimony checks since our divorce.

Can we offer you a ride home or something? I asked Julie and then looked at Linda.

Sure, honey, Linda said, we could give you a lift if you need it.

Oh, by the way, I went on as I spoke to Julie, I am so sorry about how rude I was earlier. I forgot to ask you, how did your test come out?

Julie held up a bottle of antibiotics. The doctor gave me a twenty-four-day supply of these; she thinks it is probably just an infection. Then Julie went on that she was to see her doctor in three weeks if the infection doesn’t clear up.

Ah, good, very good, I said.

Sure, we can’t offer you a ride, Julie, Linda asked?

No, No, that’s all right, Julie replied.

I guess your parents are coming to pick you up then, Linda said.

Julie abruptly looked at Linda and said. I don’t have any parents. I will catch the 44C and I will see you Wednesday, Mr. Miller, err I mean Gordon.

Ok, Julie, I will see you then, I said. Julie then left the room.

I looked at my sister, and she looked back at me, as we both said simultaneously, No parents! Just as we were going to start a conversation, Timmy Mangan came into the recovery room.

Well, Gordon, Timmy said, I believe everything went well. Your colon looks clean, I snipped a few polyps and I am sending them to the lab to be analyzed, but I don’t foresee any major problems.

Thanks, Doc, I said. By the way, this is my sister Linda. The two exchange greetings. Linda looked hard and long at Tim.

This is little Timmy Mangan? She said.

Sure, is, I said. She looked back at Tim. I remember when you were this big, as she held her hand about three feet above the floor.

And, you’re a surgeon, my God, she went on, I bet your dad is proud of you.

Yes, the old man is, Tim stated.

I interjected, He wouldn’t be so proud if he had heard what you had called one of his best friends. Referring to the asshole remark, he made right before operating on me. Tim started laughing and got a sheepish grin on his face.

What was all that about? Linda asked.

Ah, never mind, I said.

Sorry about that, Gordon. You know I was only kidding.

I know, I know, I said.

Well, if you are feeling okay, I will get the orderly to wheel you out and you and Linda can be on your way home. He was writing on the prescription pad as he was speaking.

I am writing you a prescription for a minor painkiller, and if you experience any discomfort please don’t be afraid to call the hospital.

Oh, Tim, I interrupted, can I bowl Friday? It is the beginning of the season and the team needs me.

You will be fine to bowl, Tim said.

Ok, thanks, and don’t forget to say hi to your dad for me. Thank him, for me, for not letting you ruin your hands on a softball field twenty years ago. You’re a terrific kid Tim, and even a better surgeon.

Thanks, Tim said.

Tim started writing on the prescription pad that he held in his hand. Here, he said, I jotted Dad’s phone number down on this pad, I am sure he would love to hear from you. I took the prescription and the pad with Jack’s phone number on it and gave them to Linda, who put both into her purse.

Tim gestured to one of the orderlies and told him that, Mr. Miller is ready to go. The orderly came in and I sat down in the wheelchair.

Ok, then. I guess you can be on your way. Call my office in two weeks for a follow-up. Tim hollered. As Tim started walking, he came to a halt and turned around to ask me a question.

Oh, Gordon, as I was coming to see you, I passed by a girl leaving your company. Who was she Tim asked?

Oh, that was Julie, I said. "Why do you ask?

No reason, cute girl," he said as he walked away.

You ready, Mr. Miller, the orderly asks me?

Ready as ever, I said. The orderly wheeled me out to the main floor and into the elevator. Linda followed and got into the elevator with us. As the elevator was descending, I mentioned to the orderly, Dr. Mangan was a pretty good surgeon.

No offense, sir, the orderly said. Dr. Mangan isn’t just pretty good; he is the best surgeon the hospital has. We both nodded at each other with approval. The elevator stopped at the atrium. I got out of the chair and thanked the orderly. Linda and I proceeded to the exit of the hospital.

Linda said, wait here and I’ll get the car. In a matter of about five minutes, she had pulled her green Dodge van in front of the hospital. She opened the door, I slowly got into the passenger seat, and we started driving home. We turned onto Euclid Avenue and we were now on our way. The weather was unseasonably warm for August. Linda put on the air conditioner, pulled down the visor to shield her eyes from the bright piercing August sun. It was sunny but a beautiful Cleveland, Ohio afternoon. As we were driving down Euclid about ten minutes or so, we came to a red light. I glanced out the window and saw a sign, St. John’s College, three miles. As I looked at it, I remarked to my sister.

That’s where Julie coaches the girls’ soccer team.

Oh, yes, Linda Stated. You are going to her game on Wednesday, aren’t you? Well, I said. As I paused for a few seconds and stared out the window, and before I could say anything.

Linda said, You aren’t going, are you?

Probably not, I said as I continued staring out the window.

Oh yeah, that’s right, girls’ sports and especially women’s soccer has no place and will receive no ink in the great Gordon Miller’s sports columns, Linda sarcastically states. I remained quiet and continued to look out the window.

All for the better, Linda said.

What do you mean, I asked.

Well, as cute as that girl was and as nice as she seemed, didn’t she strike you as being an airhead?

Airhead, I said. How so?

Well, you know, Linda said. When I asked her if her parents were coming to the hospital to pick her up, she said she didn’t have any. What is up with that?

She asked as she laughed and gave me a puzzled look. I shook my head from side to side and said, who knows.

Who the hell knows! Dr. Mangan fancied her that is for sure, Linda said. I nodded again.

What was she doing at the clinic anyway, Linda asked. I can’t remember what she told us. I guess her doctor found a small lump under her armpit and wanted it analyzed. A deafening silence settled over the van. Linda’s look became ashen as did mine.

We had both been down this road before, not only with my mother in the early ’70s but also with our older sister in 1992. I could feel the pain settling in the pit of my stomach. My mind took me back to the time when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Back in 1970, doctors and science were not what it is today. After some experimental drugs, chemotherapy, and endless dosages of radiation Mrs. Vera Miller passed away on February 14, Valentine’s Day 1973, at the ripe old age of fifty-one. I remember at her funeral, my older sister, Judy, remarking to my younger sister and me that, mom had undoubtedly gotten the short sheet in life.

Unfortunately, on a warm fall evening in 1992, Judy would be taken by this God-awful dreadful disease at the age of forty-six, a month short of her forty-seventh birthday. It seemed like hours passed by as my mind took me back to those heart-wrenching events. I glanced over at Linda and I could see a few tears rolling down her cheeks. Still hurts, doesn’t it?

Yes, she said, I guess you never, never get over it, but she managed a smile. They’re in a better place now. I nodded my head, although being a confirmed atheist, I didn’t believe her.

My atheism had started in about 1975, but I’ll go into that later. Linda looked at me and said, my dear brother, do you still bear any guilt.

Guilt, I said,

Yes, and remorse for my actions during those times.

Yes, I sure do. I bear a lot of guilt and unfortunately, my conscience will never forgive me for my actions. My mind flashed back to 1971 when my mother was first diagnosed. It was a warm summer evening in June. My Mom and Dad had planned to come over to a housewarming party for my wife of two years and me. Oh, did I forget to mention I was married for a brief time between 1969 and 1974, but that would have no bearing on my Story, so I’ll continue. As my mind was still thinking about my Mom and Dad coming over to our housewarming party, after dinner, I remember Dad and I went into the living room while my wife, Denise, and my Mom stayed in the kitchen to wash the dishes. My father said, Son, I have something important to tell you.

I said okay, Dad but if you need money, I can’t help you. We both kind of smiled but I got this feeling from the look on his face; this was probably something serious. Just before he was about to speak, my wife came out of the kitchen with tears streaming down her cheeks. What’s up, what’s up?

Ask her, my wife said as she ran to my mother, and the two embraced.

It was then my father spoke. Your mom has breast cancer, and it is in the late stages. Time just froze and I became speechless as I stared blankly at my wife and my mom. Surprisingly my mom didn’t seem as I would have expected. I calmly regained my thoughts. I asked her if there was anything that her doctors could do? Well, she said. They have a new treatment called chemotherapy, which I will begin on Monday. Don’t you two worry? I am very optimistic, and I will pray to St. Christopher, who, along with my doctors, will get me through this.

For some unknown reason, I just blurted out. Okay, well, thanks for coming over. I’ll get your coats. Dad had an astonished look on his face. My Mom just looked at me, kissed me on my forehead and said, goodnight, son. She said, Denise my dear daughter, great dinner. Her and my Dad left through the front room door. The door hadn’t been closed for but two minutes when I heard Dad’s car starting outside. I looked at my wife, broke down, and began to cry like a baby.

My mind continued with my memories. I remember visiting my mom at her home for birthday parties, Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was now going through a divorce, and Mom was instrumental in keeping my spirits up despite her problems. She continued to lend me moral support as I went through mine. My Mom was my rock so to speak. Besides, the chemo seemed to be working, and despite her being bald from the chemo, she appeared healthy. We lovingly referred to her as Yul Brenner, the bald movie star from the sixties. In July, we were all invited to Mom and Sad’s home to celebrate Mom’s fiftieth birthday. Linda and her husband, Mark, my younger half-brother, Greg, all the grandkids, and all of mom’s siblings were always there. The party was great fun; we all had drinks and food. Dad brought out the cake with fifty candles on it all the grandchildren sang happy birthday and helped Mom blow out the candles; it was then my turn to take center stage.

I began telling funny stories, and jokes, the whole family was in stitches. Watching the family laugh and mainly, my Mom gave me a great sense of satisfaction, as if I was helping ease some of the pain and mental agony that Mom must have been experiencing. At about eleven-thirty, everybody had left. Dad had gone to bed and just mother and I were in the living room. We talked for about thirty minutes about my upcoming divorce, Dad, Judy, Linda and the grandkids.

Never once did we mention her problems. Finally, I said, well, Mom time for me to leave. I went over kissed her on her forehead and as I did so, she looked me in the eyes and asked if I could do her a favor. I said, sure, Mom. What?

Well, could you carry me to my bedroom and put me in bed?

Sure, Mom, I said, as I remember fighting back the tears. I remember as I picked her up, the beautiful, healthy woman who used to carry me to bed, was now asking me to do the same for her. I lifted her; I couldn’t help but notice she couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred pounds tops. I knew at that moment that my time with her was limited.

Through the next seven months, I remember I only visited my Mom three times. This is something I never will forgive myself for doing. The first time was in October, she was at home, and I came over at about ten o’clock in the morning. I walked in; Linda was there. She and Judy had alternated taking care of mom on every other day basis. About time, Linda said to me. She’s been wondering where you’ve been. I opened the door to my Mom’s room and saw her lying on her back with her rosary in her hand and she was praying.

I said, Hi, Mom. She smiled and waved for me to come to the bedside. She reached out and grabbed my hand. I leaned over and kissed her. It was painful, as I looked at her. I thought to myself this isn’t my Mom. We talked for about thirty minutes as she fell in and out of sleep. Finally, I said, well, Mom, I guess I better get going. She looked at me and said, Gordon, before you go, I want you to know I understand, I understand and forgive you, now go home and get back to school. Mom was referencing to me taking journalism classes at the local university. Good-bye, she said as I left. Don’t forget to say a prayer for me, she said as I closed the door.

I walked into the kitchen, and my sister said in a low voice. Was that all that hard to visit your dying mother. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Don’t you even care?

I looked Linda in the eyes and said, Screw you, Linda!

I went out, got in my car, and drove away. As I was driving home, thoughts were running through my head. What is wrong with you, I thought? Why won’t you visit your Mom?" Certainly, I cared; I remember agonizing over this many times late at night and making promises to God, of how I would change my life if he allowed my mother to live. I can even remember praying to God and St. Christopher asking them to please pass my Mom’s pain and especially her mental anguish to me. Linda was wrong; I cared and loved my mom more than anyone knew. I think I could not bear seeing my mom, my rock crumble before my very eyes.

The second time I went to visit mom was at St. John’s Hospital in January. Linda and Judy had been begging me to visit, both stating the time was getting close and I wouldn’t have much time left to visit her. I got to St. John’s hospital; it was about two-thirty in the afternoon. The elevator arrived on the third floor and I exited the elevator, turned to my right, and walked a few hundred feet. I stopped in front of the door to room three sixteen. I peered in through the window into the room and I saw a young priest kneeling at my mother’s bedside. She and the priest were holding hands as they prayed. I watched through the window, my heart was aching, and I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I watched the once strong woman who was now only a small remnant of what she once was praying with a priest to save her or forgive her of all her sins to a God who I was now beginning to doubt, despite my Catholic upbringing seriously. I turned down the hallway and left the hospital.

The last time I saw my mom was on February 13. Now shared an apartment with a good friend, Alan, as we both attended Cleveland State University. I remember we were both sitting in our living room drinking a beer and studying. It was about eight in the evening when the phone rang. Linda said two words to me, Hospital Now! She then hung up. I started shaking and running my hands through my hair. Oh, God, I said. Oh God, I said again. I think my Mom is dead, or she is dying. Al Benson was my best friend in college, a compassionate person; He was a great athlete and a great listener when I laid my problems on him. He always had a word or two of wisdom for me and he usually ended his conversation with Don’t worry things will work out.

Wash your face and comb your hair. I’ll get the car. The car pulled around the front of our apartment building and I jumped in and closed the door. Al put the pedal to the metal on his sixty-four Chevy SS. The hospital was about thirty miles from our apartment. I think we got to the hospital in about thirty minutes; Al dropped me off in front of the hospital. I ran through the emergency room doors, bypassed the elevators, and ran up three flights of stairs to the third floor. I opened the door to the hospital corridor and walked quickly to room three sixteen.

Outside the room in the waiting area were a few of Mom’s grandchildren, my two sisters, a priest, and my Father. I greeted them all. I could see that everyone in the room was aware of the inevitable. After about five minutes, Mom’s doctor and her siblings, my two aunts, and my uncle came out of her room. Her doctor then waved for us to go in. The curtains were drawn around her bed; it was very dark in the room. The only light being, a small night light above her bed, I looked at Mom as she lay in her bed. Her body was a mere fraction of what it once was. As Mom came in and out of consciousness, she reached her hand out to us. My sisters and I held her hand and she pulled us all close. She made us promise never to forget her and she told us she loved us and then stated, you can all leave now. I won’t die tonight; it will be tomorrow. We kissed her goodbye and we all departed the room.

The doctor then waved my Dad and the priest into the room. I briefly talked to my sisters and told them to call me if anything new developed and I left. Al Benson was waiting downstairs in the atrium. We went through the emergency room doors. His car was parked just outside we got in and left. On the drive home, I remember Al trying to comfort me with small talk as he could see I was about to become unglued. We got home to our apartment, sat down in the living room and began talking. I was on the verge of totally breaking down. Al got up and went into the kitchen. He came back with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. Al poured each of us a drink, we raised our glasses and Al made a toast to Mrs. Vera Miller. We then proceeded to get drunk. Al Benson was a great friend in a time of need.

The van was still heading home for what seemed like hours, but it was only a matter of minutes. Linda noticed I was reminiscing as I blankly stared out the window.

My mind continued to think back to the significant day of my Mom’s death. It was February 14, the day after my visit with my mom. I woke up at about eight-fifteen in the morning, still a bit hung-over from the night before. I went into the kitchen. On the table was a note from Al. See you at school later if you need me, I’ll be here and don’t worry things will work out.

I had a cup of coffee and was getting ready to go to school. I remember going out to the car and starting it up. I pulled out of the parking lot and began my drive to school. As I was driving towards school listening to the radio and thinking of last night, I suddenly had this overwhelming hot flash, my body seemed to go limp and I could feel my heart racing at a very rapid rate. I pulled into the nearest gas station; I remember glancing at the clock on my radio. The time was ten o five in the morning on February 14th. I ran into the gas station, pulled some change out of my pocket and asked the attendant if he had a payphone. He nodded and pointed to a payphone just past the bay where the mechanics were working on cars. I quickly deposited the change into the phone. The noise from the electric drills used to change tires was so loud, so I held one hand over my ear and pressed the other to the phone, ring, ring, St. John’s Hospital the operator answered.

"Hello, I Stated, I would like to request the status of a patient you have been treating there. She asked whom, and I gave her my Mom’s name and room number.

Oh, she stated, your sister arrived about an hour ago, she is up in your mom’s room. I’ll ring the room for you.

Ring, Ring, my sister, Linda, answered the phone, without any hellos

I said, Linda, this is Gordon is everything okay? How’s Mom? Linda replied, everything is all right Gordon.

I repeated, "how’s Mom?

A pause came over the phone. Then Linda stated, Mom died, Gordon. She died at 10:10 this morning. I hung up the phone. I thought I would break down and cry, but I surprisingly felt a great sense of relief.

Silence engulfed the van as it continued our voyage. I kept looking out the window as my mind was reflecting the year 1992. I won’t go into detail but as my mind flashed back, I can remember the phone call I got from my sister Linda. She told me my older sister had been stricken with the same dreadful disease that had claimed our mother some twenty years earlier. Despite the modern-day medicine and chemotherapy, my sister’s breast cancer was in its advanced stages. We talked for an hour or so. I was close to Judy, but probably not as close as I was to Linda. As I hung up from my conversation with Linda, I immediately called my older sister Judy and after speaking with her for about a half-hour, I told her to hang tough and I would be by to see her in a few days or so. A promise I would regretfully never keep. Somehow, I could not bear to think of her being terminally ill. I remember her calling me one afternoon; she was telling me over the phone how she hated the chemo, that it made her dizzy, and she was giving up.

She said, "Gordon, if this is the way I must live, then too hell with it. I encouraged her to stay tough; I remember telling her, please don’t give up on yourself. That was my last conversation with Judy, my older sister. On October 5, 1992, she passed away at the tender age of forty-six.

I remember crying when she had died. It was strange the magnitude of her death didn’t affect me for almost one year. I remember it was a hot fall evening. I had gone to bed early at about ten o’clock. Suddenly at about midnight, I unexplainably woke up shaking and in tears. My thoughts were racing back to my youth and all the wonderful times I had with this beautiful person, Judy. I thought I was having a breakdown. I ran to the phone and called my younger sister, Linda. I remember after she answered the phone her saying, why the hell are you calling me at one in the morning?

I can remember telling Linda; it’s Judy, please help me. I can’t deal with her death. Linda and I talked for about two hours that night. She reassured me that I would get over these feelings, she told me once she read a medical journal that sometimes the grief of someone dying that was close to you doesn’t take hold or manifest itself for a long time, and probably the true magnitude of losing my sister had finally revealed itself. I asked her, Linda, I feel so guilty about not taking more time to visit or comfort her. She told me not to; Linda explained that she understood, especially after our mother’s death that is how I dealt with a crisis. She knew I suffered deeply by myself and once again I couldn’t bear seeing this beautiful human being ravaged by this dreadful disease. She then said, you’ll be okay. I said thanks, Linda. She reminded me to call her if I needed to. Okay, I told her, and thanks.

Beep, Beep. It was the van beeping at a slow-moving car in front of us. Damn Sunday drivers, Linda muttered. You all right? Linda asked as she looked at me.

Sure, I said. I was thinking back to, you know.

I know, she said. We both were. The van approached the corner of Euclid and Warrenville. Linda made a left turn, almost home now, she stated.

Almost home, I repeated. As we approached, the next intersection Linda put on the turning signal to make a left turn. We made a quick left, then another sharp right turn down Ganel St. Eight houses down the Street, we came to my home.

Well, we’re home, she said as she pulled into my driveway. Oh, look who is out in the front yard.

I tried not to, but I could not avoid looking at my neighbor’s front yard. It was Vera Larson. Now, Vera Larson was a widow of about seventy-five years old. She was a lonely older woman who I regarded as a woman who had to have her nose in everybody’s business. She could tell you who was getting married, or whose kids were in trouble, or who had recently died, in our neighborhood. Although I liked Vera, I tried to avoid her. I regarded her as the bearer of bad news. I even referred to her to some of my friends as Dr. Doomsayer. Occasionally I would pick groceries up for her or items from a store. She would always ask me to come over for coffee or tea in the afternoon. She would ask me to attend church events and she once asked me to go to a senior citizen dance; I declined each time. I made up a story that I would be out of town that weekend. I remember after bowling that Friday night, I went home with my best friend, Bill, and spent two nights with him so that I wouldn’t have to go back and face Vera Larson. I remember Bill telling me, why Gordo, I believe the old spinster has a thing for you. I knew Bill was right. Vera was not unattractive or anything, she was about five foot four inches tall and had a pretty nice figure for a woman approaching eighty. I imagine, in her day, she was probably quite a looker! I couldn’t imagine going to one of the social events with her. Her idea of coffee, tea, and cookies contrasted with my idea of a shot, a few beers and a night at the local bar. Although she was probably only ten years older than me, she struck me as a woman in her seventies acting like she was ninety. Me, on the other hand, I felt I was early sixty going on forty. Nonetheless, Vera was a good God-fearing woman who I liked and could count on to watch and feed my dog, a bloodhound named Costello named after a middle linebacker who I watched play for the Cleveland Browns when I was in my teens.

As the van pulled into our driveway, Vera Larson was waving. Linda and I waved back to her. The van pulled to the back past the bushes and freshly cut shrubs that separated our two back yards. I could hear Costello yelping. He was on the back-patio porch awaiting his friend and master. The van stopped in front of my two-car garage, which had a basketball backboard hoop attached to a pole adjacent to the garage.

I used to go out and shoot for about a half-hour during the fall and summer months. Usually, when I had a few friends, over, we would all go outside, I’d turn on the skylight, and we would drink a few beers and shoot hoops, sometimes making a small wager or two on who was most proficient at free throws. Ah, alas, but not anymore, I was sixty-three, too old to play; after all, basketball was reserved for the younger generation. About once a week or so a few of the neighborhood kids would come over and ask me if they could use my backyard to play pickup games. I would let them. I would flip the skylight switch on for them, so if they decided to stay late, they could. I reminded them, however, not to make too much noise, or God forbid no profanity. I pointed to Vera Larson’s home as I warned them, so please follow my rules of