The Clemente Spell: A Novel

By John DeFelice

Everybody loves a good murder mystery, right? Well, unless it happens in your family. 

Johnny Paul wanted to be a professional baseball player when he grew up, but he was tossed into a world of chaos after he learned his family was living under a curse as a result of a dark, hidden secret.

A classic story of the battle between

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Apr 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685562595

John DeFelice

DeFelice, a lifelong Pittsburgh Pirates fan, is the author of The History of Segregated I. M. Terrell High School, Fort Worth, Texas. He holds a bachelor's degree from West Liberty University and a master's degree from Texas A&M Commerce and has been teaching high school for twenty-nine years.He resides in Saint Francis Village, Crowley, Texas, with his wife, Rene. They have been married for forty-two years.

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Trilogy Christian Publishers

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Copyright © 2022 by John DeFelice

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Cover design by: Cornerstone Creative Solutions

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Rights Department, 2442 Michelle Drive, Tustin, Ca 92780.

Trilogy Christian Publishing/ TBN and colophon are trademarks of Trinity Broadcasting Network.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Trilogy Christian Publishing.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Trilogy Disclaimer: The views and content expressed in this book are those of the author and may not necessarily reflect the views and doctrine of Trilogy Christian Publishing or the Trinity Broadcasting Network.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-1-68556-258-8 (Print Book)

ISBN 978-1-68556-259-5 (ebook)

"And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit whom he has given us." (Romans 5:5)

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

There have been many godly men in my life who collectively gave me the opportunity to paint the color of my dream. I discovered that phrase while reading the book Reading Lolita in Tehran by Iranian author Azar Nafisi. The phrase originated when a painter friend of Nafisi was telling her about her progress from modern realism to abstraction. She said reality had become so intolerable, so bleak, that all she could do now was paint the color of my dreams. In my novel, when I faced the same bleakness at the thought of giving up baseball, God sent a messenger to explain to me what I needed to do to paint the color of my dreams.

The three men who helped me do so in life were Father Richard Beaumont, our priest at St. Bartholomew Catholic Church, Sid Baker, my first bible study teacher, and Seth Gatchell, a neighbor who is now pastor at Pacific Church in Irvine, California. May God Bless the souls of Father Beaumont, Sid, and continue to bless Seth.

It was Sid who first introduced me to C. S. Lewis. To this very day, I never tire of reading his works. While watching the movie Shadowlands, the story of his life and conversion, I cried for the first time since my tears were swallowed up by the Spell when I was seven. I must tell you that I haven’t stopped crying at movies ever since. When Seth was a neighbor in Fort Worth, he served as a role model for what it meant to totally surrender to Christ.

A special thanks to George Sidiropolis, author of Murder Never Dies. His book helped me bring to life an encounter I had with Paul Hankish, the subject of his book. He explained to me that according to court records, Pittsburgh Steelers owner Art Rooney was a gambling associate of Hankish. It helped me solve a lifelong mystery of how a friend’s mom was able to obtain Steeler season tickets from Hankish.

I am indebted to the baseball and pro football reference.com websites for providing the statistics used throughout my book. A special thanks to Frank Muzzoppapa, a classmate of my mom and author of the book Penowa. His book and our telephone conversations helped bring my family’s past to life.

I don’t think I would have been able to trudge through my childhood past if it wasn’t for the lyrics of Kevin Parker of Tame Impala. Parker, who has written extensively about his relationship with his father in many of his songs, has been my personal counselor for years. It is as if he knows the emptiness I sometimes feel inside and understands what it like to be haunted by your past. In the song Lost in Yesterday, he advises,

And you’re gonna to have to let it go some day.

You’ve been digging it up like Groundhog Day.

If it calls you, embrace it

If it haunts you, face it.

Thank you, Kevin Parker, for your advice, but you, of all people, know how hard it is to let it go.

I am indebted to Daniel Metroka, who did the initial editing of my manuscript. Daniel trudged through my multi-layer narrative with patience and encouragement. I don’t think I could have been able to reign in my writing and give it the form that was needed without his assistance.

A special thanks to Brad Patton and Allison Dyer from Trilogy Christian Publishing for guiding me through the publishing process. Thanks to Doug Thurman for the initial graphics design for the book cover and to Ted Otterson for letting me use his Hawaii sunset picture.

Finally, I’d like to dedicate this book to my dear friend Mark Parisi, who went to his eternal rest before the book was published. Anyone who knew Mark knew his remarkable talent for bringing past memories to life. I relied heavily on Mark for helping me reconstruct my playing days for the East Wheeling Pirates. In July 2020, on my trip home, seeing my mom for the last time ever, I met with Mark as well. On a Thursday night, we sat in my car rental in the parking lot of Patsy’s in Elm Grove, eating pizza and reminiscing like we always did on my trips home. After I moved to Texas in 1978, I think I got together with Mark every single trip that I made home after my relocation. That Thursday night, we said our goodbyes, and later that night, he passed away from complications from diabetes. He will be sorely missed by all and will always be a part of the color of my dreams.

Chapter One

To say I stumbled out of the starting gate would be accurate. Because of my loving parents, I spent the first four years of my existence burning the candle at both ends. They succumbed to a toxic blend of American consumerism and Italian superstition to prepare me for life on Earth.

105 South Thirteenth Street sat unassumingly on a small incline off Pennsylvania Avenue, the main thoroughfare in my hometown of Weirton, West Virginia. Inside our small but comfortable redbrick home, the voodoo my parents regularly practiced on me after my birth stunted my physical and emotional development. Their failed laboratory experiment doomed me to tumble from the end of the assembly line to the ground in a state of disorientation. I was forced to begin my journey as a fat little Italiano, Schnickel Fritz, who couldn’t walk until well into the second year of my life. I was shoved from the nest, left to wander the world aimlessly, like Frankenstein’s Monster, a fellow innocent victim of misguided parenting.

Despite what my parents had done to me, until not long after my seventh birthday, life was perfect. I was born into a loving family that was living the ultimate fairy tale American dream. My dad was a partner in the DeFelice family Pontiac car dealership, and my mom always made my favorite Italian dish, Gnocchi, whenever I begged her to. However, before God placed me under the Spell, I was helplessly at the mercy of my parents.

Instead of breastfeeding me like she did my older brother Les, my mom stuffed a plastic baby bottle into my eager and wanting mouth. It was filled with a foul-tasting potion that was concocted by men in dark glasses, wearing long white lab coats, somewhere at the other end of the radio dial. Day after day, I squirmed, I kicked, I cried as I tried to spit it out. My rebellion against my mom’s inadvertent attempt to poison me grew stronger each day. My body’s attempt to reject what I was being force-fed became violent. My screams grew louder, and my twisting and turning attempts to escape became more animated. After nearly a year of torture, my mom finally took note of my struggle.

I think there’s something wrong with Johnny Paul, my mom told my dad. His face turns red, and sometimes his body shakes when I am giving him his bottle. They took me to our family doctor, who determined I was allergic to not only my formula but to milk as well. He advised them to start feeding me with goat’s milk.

My new organic diet brought me relief, but the damage was already done. Whatever was in that space-aged baby beverage had caused my body to bloat up like a beached baby whale. It’s a miracle I was ever able to fight off the effects of earth’s gravitational pull and walk upright like my fellow Homo sapiens. Whereas my breastfed brother was healthy and strong, besides my baby obesity, I was weak and always sick as a result of my culinary cuisine.

To add insult to injury, my parents were convinced I was possessed by a baby demon. It was their duty and responsibility to carefully follow their Italian Exorcisms for Dummies: Step by Step Guide Book to free me from eternal damnation. The drama unfolded one day while I was playing with my brother on the living room floor. Suddenly, they made the horrifying discovery I was picking up toys with my left hand, a revelation that deep within my young soul, a seed of evil had been spawned by Lucifer himself. They knew they had to act quickly and decisively to prevent their second son from possibly growing up to become a criminal or maybe even the Anti-Christ.

Their collective gasps nearly sucked all the air out of the room. Grimacing with fear, they flew across the living room towards me, screaming, Noo, noo! Like a base runner trying to steal home headfirst, my mom lunged and reached me first. My dad caught up and hovered over me with a terrified look on his face. He was panting like a surgeon in scrubs who had just scrambled, franticly, to prepare himself for emergency surgery. With his scalpel raised, he watched intensely as my mom gave my left hand a swift, stinging slap. I screamed while he stood ready to cut the evil out of me if he felt my mom was not up to the task. She didn’t let him down. With the rhythm of a Shakespearian sonnet, each of her ensuing lashes was in perfect harmony with her crazed, shrilling demand, No…no…no…no!

Her ruthless Roman scourging sent me into shock, causing me to black out. My young brain was unable to process what was happening to me. As I slowly regained consciousness, my surroundings came back into focus. Through foggy eyes, I saw my mom stuffing the toy I was playing with into my right hand. As a grand finale, for the concluding couplet of her sonnet, she raised her hand to the ceiling and gave my left hand a final, resounding slap. Noooo!

Owwaaagh! I screamed. The combination of the terrified looks on my parent’s faces and my brother’s hysterical laughter was traumatic. My crying and tears meant nothing to them. No one did anything to try to comfort me.

My parents performed this voodoo every time they caught me using my left hand instead of my right. Day after day, every time I grabbed something with my left hand, they slapped me and forced it into my right. My pleas for mercy fell upon deaf ears, and my tears were invisible to them. Apparently, nothing was going to stop them.

My dad’s participation in these medieval rituals is puzzling to me. After I was born, he had already broken Italian tradition by naming me John Paul, after him. Everyone called my dad Johnny and me Johnny Paul. In Italian families, traditionally, the firstborn son is given the father’s name. Giving me his second-born, his name was an inkling of his deeply repressed rebellious nature that would later blossom.

My mom and dad both grew up in the coal-mining town of Penowa, near the West Virginia-Pennsylvania border. Their parents had migrated there, with half of Italy, to try and escape poverty. My mom’s family was doing okay until my grandfather died from black lung disease when my mom was only nine years old. My grandma was left to raise six children by herself, so my mom spent most of her life in poverty until she married my dad. I can easily understand how she would hang on to Italian superstition and tradition.

Meanwhile, my dad’s family rose out of poverty after my grandfather’s mechanical abilities enabled him to rapidly advance in the coal company. His sister, my Aunt Ellen, became a schoolteacher and his brother, my Uncle Bob, started a car dealership after he returned from serving in World War II. My dad became a partner in the business after he graduated from high school. After spending his entire life relatively well off, you would think he would have become enlightened enough to shed traditional Italian superstition and move into the modern age.

However, for some reason, he took this left-handed Italians need not apply thing seriously. I was a clear and present danger to the family, and he felt it was necessary to stay united with my mom in their crusade to save not only our family but perhaps the world from me. They were determined to do whatever it took to make sure I wouldn’t join the forces of evil and profess my allegiance to Satan. They knew that in Italy, left-handed children grew up to become criminals and ended up in prisons or went mentally insane and were sent to institutions. Together, as compassionate and caring parents, they were not going to let their little Johnny Paul follow in the footsteps of those unfortunate, left-handed souls in Italy and grow up to become schizophrenic mass murderers.

I soon discovered there was no sanctuary from their voodoo in any room in our house. One evening, at dinner, I was sitting next to my dad. After we prayed our blessing, I made the mistake of picking up my fork with my left hand. My dad glared at me and salivated before pouncing on me like a lion. He flew from his chair and gave my hand a swift backhand, causing my fork to fly clear across the dining room into the adjacent kitchen. It ricocheted off the hard surface of the kitchen floor, making a loud, clinking sound. It continued its rattling and clattering song and dance across the room. Its aria pierced the silence created by my dad’s aggressive behavior.

My mom and brother sat emotionlessly around the kitchen table as my fork finally came to rest. My brother normally laughed uncontrollably at my exorcisms, but he sat in silence in response to the angry, crazed look on my dad’s face. While my mom and brother sat frozen like statues, my dad continued to glare at me as I sat in disbelief at what had just transpired.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, my mom nonchalantly wiped her mouth with her napkin and scooted her chair backward. It made a screeching sound that echoed throughout the silence of the dining room as she stood up. She walked into the kitchen and picked up my fork without saying a word. After washing and drying it, she walked over to me. Looking straight through me, she put my fork on the kitchen table next to my plate and slid it slightly toward my right hand.

Her action created a spark: memories of weeks of pain inflicted on me raced through my mind and caused the fingers of my right hand to begin to slowly crawl toward my fork like a spider. Inch by inch, my right hand crept towards my fork. I picked up the utensil without making eye contact with my mom. When it was firmly in my grasp, her poker face was suddenly replaced by an evil smile. To my surprise, she proceeded to reward my compliance in an odd way. Without saying a word, with the strength of Superman, she gave my right hand, fork and all, a death grip, almost fusing them together.

Owaaagh! I moaned with a little added dramatic flair.

A few moments later, my mom asked my dad, Johnny, can you call Capito and see if we could get Johnny Paul in to get his shots? I did not think that sounded good. Apparently, she was disappointed at her attempts to steer me away from the forces of evil. So, she must have decided to take a more drastic measure to finally eradicate whatever little left-handed tendencies remained in me by getting our family doctor involved.

Sure, we need to get that done, my dad answered. Should be able to get in before lunch tomorrow.

Capito was our family doctor. He was one of my dad’s customers. My dad was efficient and always got things done. The next morning, around ten o’clock, he called home to tell my mom he would be home in about an hour. My anxiety skyrocketed as I thought about the shots over and over.

My dad was always organized and punctual. Sure enough, just as the clock struck eleven AM, he pulled into the driveway and honked his horn, announcing his arrival.

Your dad’s here; let’s go, my mom announced.

Oh, great, I’m so excited. I can’t wait to get my shots.

You look worried, my dad said when I got into the car.

Worried? I was terrified.

Relax, shots are no big deal, he said. It’s just something that has to be done.

During the short drive, I tried desperately to dream up a plan of escape, but unfortunately, I ran out of time. We reached Dr. Capito’s office, which wasn’t far from where my dad worked. The parking lot was full, so he pulled by the entrance and stopped. Go check-in, and I’ll find a place to park, my dad instructed my mom. When we got inside, the waiting room was full, and there were no empty seats. We walked up to a glass window, and my mom told the woman seated at the desk, We’re here to get shots for my son.

Mrs. DeFelice? she asked.

Yes, my mom answered.

Hi, Dr. Capito told me you were coming. She got up from the desk and walked through a door that led to the waiting room. Here, follow me, she said, motioning for us to follow her. This immediately drew a chorus of moans and dirty looks from the room full of people in their chairs. One woman said loudly, Hey, that’s not fair; I been waiting for almost an hour!

The nurse led us to some chairs and said, Have a seat; Dr. Capito will be right with you. While we were waiting, my dad joined us, then about five minutes later, Dr. Capito emerged from a room with an elderly woman. He told her goodbye and then turned to where we were sitting and said, Paisano, it’s good to see you. He gave my dad the traditional Italian greeting by kissing both of his cheeks.

Thanks for getting us in, my dad said.

Anything for you, my friend, he said while motioning us to follow him into the examination room.

Dr. Capito was heavyset with coal-black hair that was slightly balding. He could pass for Al Capone’s brother. He had a cigar, smoldering in ashtray on a counter. He took a few puffs on it while he was looking at a folder. Then he put his cigar back in the ashtray. Sensing my anxiety, he lifted my chin with one of his big, fat hands and said, Hey, it’s no big deal; it’s just something that has to be done. He turned around and reached into a cabinet and pulled out a tray that had three long needles.

I gasped and began to squirm, trying to recall if I remembered seeing if Dr. Capito locked us in. He placed the tray on a table near where I was sitting. He turned to my mom and dad and asked, "He is right-handed, isn’t he?"

They looked at each other and, after a moment of silence, my dad answered, Right-handed.

In response to their hesitation, Dr. Capito said, "Oh, I get it, one of those situations. We just have to do what we have to do. It’s the Italian way of life."

He began rolling up my left sleeve and said, His left arm may be a little sore for a day or so, but that’s okay since he uses his right hand. Then he added with a smile, He’ll probably grow up to be ambidextrous, and he’ll thank you for that someday.

Amphib-dextrous! What’s that? What are they going to do, turn me into a frog?

After Dr. Capito rubbed my arm with a cotton ball that had smelly liquid on it, he said, You’re going to feel a little sting.

I survived, but I was certainly glad to get out of that place. It had been a traumatic experience to discover what lengths my parents were willing to travel to prevent me being left-handed.

So, this is how the game is going to be played. This is war!

Within all living creatures, there is an evolutionary defense mechanism divinely created to protect prey from predators. The brain instinctively exercises its God-given mission of survival of the species. Millions of years of evolution came to fruition in me during this time. Deep within me, a call for Red Alert beckoned. Defense shields were raised to maximum power, and I began to plot my counterattack.

After days, weeks, and months of torturous left-to-right hand combat training, I was finally broken. However, my struggles strengthened me, and I emerged as savvy as an overweight juvenile Sumo wrestler. Eventually, besides avoiding pain by using my right hand instead of my left, I reversed my misfortune by devising a little vengeful game. It brought me great pleasure to taunt myself by grabbing things with my left hand, only to switch nonchalantly to my right hand before my parents reached me.

My game worked perfectly. However, it took every ounce of my energy not to burst out in laughter at my victories over my oppressors. I celebrated in silence to avoid the risk of blowing my cover. It was passive-aggressive behavior at its finest.

My mom continued to be easy pickings for this game, but, unfortunately, things didn’t work out so well with my dad. When I switched what I was holding into my right hand, he would still slap my left. He was determined to beat any trace of evil out of me. Even though I had my poker face on when I played my game, my dad, somehow, was able to rain on my parade. I chalked him up as a defeat and concentrated my energy on my mom for entertainment. Eventually, though, I got bored with playing my game.

As time went on, the memory of my former life as a left-handed child dissipated into thin air without a trace. It was as if I woke up from a dream one morning, and I was right-handed. Tragically, however, it didn’t take long for the effects of my dexterity re-education and rehabilitation to fester. This started out with me getting bored with my game. I soon found myself getting bored with everything. I would be playing with a toy, and suddenly, I would lose the satisfaction I got when I first started playing it. That satisfaction would be replaced by an intense feeling of frustration. It was the birth of a vicious circle of emotional imbalance.

When I found a toy that caught my attention, I would pick it up with my right hand, and my brain would begin to tingle. I would play with the toy for a while, but then, like clockwork, my euphoria would dissipate, and I would get bored. The tingle in my brain would be replaced by feelings of anxiety. I moved from toy to toy with the same result. I was trapped in an endless cycle. Something was wrong with me.

When you clasp your hands together, you will find that one of your thumbs will naturally rest over the other. For me, my left thumb naturally rests over the right. When I switch and place my right thumb over my left, my brain ignites a shockwave throughout my body, like hearing someone scratching a blackboard with their fingernails. When I reverse positions, the sensation immediately ceases. You can perform this exercise and experience what I felt each second of my waking days until the Spell descended on me and helped recalibrate my young brain.

Like the curving of spacetime causes a collapsing star to give birth to a black hole, my parents had, unknowingly, unleashed the effect of tampering with the evolutionary design of my cerebral cortex. Yes, something was terribly wrong with me. My nutritional deficiencies and forced hand switching soon led me to develop a cognitive deficiency.

Many children my age at the time, like the future King of England, George VI, began to stutter due to hand-switching forced upon them by their parents. Fortunately, there is therapy for those poor souls to help them overcome their stuttering. Thankfully, I didn’t begin to stutter, but there is no known cure for the condition I developed.

Clinical researchers in Denmark have identified my disability as ITISBS, intermittent involuntary spastic brain stuttering, or simply brain stuttering. Brain stuttering causes the brain to deviate from its normal sensory patterns. In victims like myself, the condition is manifested when the brain is forced to search for the correct motor response instead of its evolutionary conditioned reflexes. It cannot immediately perform normal, involuntary, millisecond responses when exposed to outside stimuli. In the brief ensuing lag time, the victim of forced hand-switching first appears to be clueless and then experiences a period of intense exhilaration, giving them the appearance of hyperactive behavior.

During those periods of cluelessness, like a Navy SEAL wearing night-vision goggles, the brain is forced to scan the depths of its grey and white matter before it can execute even the simplest of tasks. My parent’s eradication of my God-given left-handedness forced my neurons to play a game of ping pong between the right and left sides of my brain before they could relay the correct response to my body. As the neurons are calculating their response, the delay causes the dopamine they carry to continue to be produced by the brain and accumulate. When the neurotransmitters finally respond to the outside stimuli, the excess dopamine within the neurons is released, causing the brain to tingle. After a short period of time, the level of dopamine returns to normal. The body sinks to a state of anxiety as it is denied the heightened level of dopamine. Thankfully, the brain automatically begins to produce the previous heightened level of dopamine after it is exposed to new stimuli.

However, the cycle is repeated with each new stimulus that the brain is exposed to, and I was forced to endure a non-stop rollercoaster ride within my mind. I was grateful for bedtime when my brain could rest, although because of my disability, I experienced an array of vivid, colorful dreams. They were actually quite entertaining. My bed would carry me through clear, blue skies as I observed the towns below, nestled within green forests and crystal lakes.

The next morning, however, the dopamine freight train was back on track carrying me through another day through the clouds and through the valleys. In effect, my parents turned me into a little dopehead.

Albert Einstein was aware of the effects of hand-switching. It is believed that he was born left-handed but taught himself to write with his right hand out of pure curiosity. He soon discovered a new energy was released within his brain because of his actions. His experience helped unleash the creative thought process that led to his quantum theories.

However, Einstein understood the potential negative consequences of tampering with God’s natural design for the universe. In fact, Robert Oppenheimer, the Father of the Atomic Bomb, had read in Einstein’s journals that the genius compared the effects of his hand-switching to the potential catastrophic outcome that could occur as the result of splitting an atom. Thus, Oppenheimer knew that splitting the atom could unharness an unlimited amount of energy that could be used to fuel our nation or could possibly lead to the extinction of our planet.

Both Einstein and Oppenheimer could have explained to the world why so many children stuttered after they had their eating utensils fly across the room for picking them up with their left hands. Unfortunately, they were preoccupied with either studying the curvature of light or building nuclear bombs.

Besides my restlessness and my inability to stay focused, I was left to suffer from, perhaps, the biggest manifestation of my forced hand-switching. That was my excessive talking. Talking was the perfect road map for my mind to navigate the convoluted super-highway in my head. My brain tingled when I talked and calmed the chaos in my mind. The more I talked, the dopamine increased proportionally, like a train moving down the tracks, gradually gaining speed until it was totally out of control. I was, in effect, addicted to talking.

Those researchers from Demark discovered a cure for stuttering due to forced hand-switching but have remained unable to crack the code to solve my affliction. After I was struck by the Spell, my excessive talking got worse. Because of the euphoria of the new world that the Spell led me to discover, I really had something to talk about. I would talk to anyone who was willing—or forced—to listen.

I never got a lot of personal attention from my parents. I wasn’t as if they didn’t love me; it was just that they were preoccupied most of the time, with my brother, that is. "Leslie Paul, stop that! Leslie Paul, put that down! Leslie Paul, get off that! Leslie Paul, get over here!

I found their circus act rather entertaining. The joke may have been different each time, but the punchline was always the same. My brother’s uncontrollable temper was easily triggered whenever he didn’t get his way or was asked to do what he didn’t want to do. It’s hard to find words to express how much energy he possessed. He wanted to be a race car driver when he grew up, and that’s how he led his young life. He had one gear, and that was fast.

Because of his type A+ personality, it is easy to understand why he exploded, although to call what I observed tantrums would be an understatement. Sometimes what I witnessed terrified me.

I questioned some of the methods my mom used to bring my brother under control. We should have had a sign in our house that read:

DANGER: HIGHLY COMBUSTIBLE MATERIALS PRESENT.

AND IF YOU GET TOO CLOSE TO THE FIRE, YOU ARE GOING TO GET BURNT.

I think the heart of the problem was that my mom never really understood how much my brother hated his name. He thought Leslie sounded like a girl’s name. That’s why everybody besides my parents called him Les. My mom never grasped the reality that calling him Leslie Paul when he was having one of his moments was like pouring gasoline on a fire to put it out. My dad, on the other hand, had another method of dealing with my brother. He was faster with his belt than a western gunslinger. He knew you had to fight fire with fire.

Once, while we were playing, I learned a valuable lesson I would never forget. I made the mistake of mimicking my mom, and I said, Leslie Paul, stop that. Boy, did I pay the price for that. Witnessing the dragon’s smoke and fire coming from his fully blown nostrils was traumatic and left a lasting impression on me. I had witnessed his temper countless times before, but it was the first time it was directed at me. From that moment on, I decided I would never cross him ever again. I started following every one of his commands without question. They weren’t really commands, though; they were more like polite requests. Do you want to…? He always knew how to turn on his charm to get me to go along with his plans.

It didn’t matter what the request was; my answer was always, Sure. Saying no, or I don’t think so were never words I had the courage to verbalize. Admittedly, there were times when, from a deep corner of my brain, a voice would awaken, wanting me to say, "I don’t think we should be doing that. Fortunately for me, those thoughts were easily overruled by the part of the brain that controls recollection. The memory of his reaction to me calling him Leslie Paul" was firmly ingrained in my mind.

Because of my disability, I also had difficulty thinking for myself. I got used to my brother thinking for me. Sometimes I had trouble deciding on what clothes to wear. That conditioned my mom to just hand me clothes to wear, which made my disability even more severe. It was as if I was helpless. That’s why I always did what Les wanted me to do. The upside was that when I listened to his plots, I became overcome by the tingling in my brain, making it easy to follow along and carry out the assignments I was given by him. I have to admit, it was dangerous work, and the consequences for getting caught were severe.

I was never jealous of the attention heaped on my brother by my parents. I was satisfied that he always included me in his schemes. Of course, my blind allegiance to him led to me sharing the countless whippings from our dad as a result of our (his) escapades. However, the thrill of following him along the edge of the jagged cliffs of life far outweighed the punishment dished out for our crimes.

Loving parents are no doubt essential to your emotional well-being, but nothing could ever replace the bond between brothers. I thought I had the best big brother in the whole world. I knew he would always be there for me.

Because of my parents’ preoccupation with my brother, I spent a lot of time playing by myself. I didn’t mind, and I enjoyed my independence. I began to focus on the beauty of the world around me. When I found something that interested me, my brain would continue to tingle when there wasn’t anyone else around to interrupt my chain of thought. The ability for me to manage my disability began to flourish after I discovered the magic that lay just beyond the steps of our back porch. After all, it was right there in my backyard that the Spell would descend on me and change my life forever.

Just when I was getting used to the institutional neglect heaped upon me by my parents, I received a devastating uppercut to my jaw that sent me spiraling even deeper into isolation. What happened next began a new chapter in my life that made my time in my backyard even more essential to my emotional survival.

A lot has been written about the perils of being a middle child, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened after my baby sister was born. One day, my parents brought her home from a place they called the hospital As usual, I had to rely on help from my brother at bedtime to understand what was going on.

What is a hospital? I asked.

A hospital is a place where birds called storks fly from heaven to earth and deliver babies to parents from God, he explained.

Oh, I responded, pretending to understand, not wanting my brother to think I was slow. What does deliver mean? I asked.

Mm, well, you know, like the mailman delivers our mail every day.

Oh. I paused for a few seconds. How long does it take for a stork to fly from heaven to the hospital?

Nine months, my brother answered without hesitation.

My brother is sooo smart, I thought. Nine months? That sure is a long time.

Yep, he replied.

Hmm, okay. Kinda like Santa Clause brings us presents at Christmas? I asked.

Something like that, my brother replied.

Do you think it takes nine months to make it here from the North Pole?

Oh, no, Les replied quickly. The North Pole is a lot closer than heaven.

That makes sense. I had more questions, but I was getting sleepy. Well, okay, thanks. Goodnight.

Goodnight.

I don’t think I could ever survive without Les. I think he must be the smartest person on the planet, I thought as I drifted off to sleep.

When my parents brought my baby sister home from the hospital, they told Les and me that her name was Regina Kay. Pretty soon, everybody in our family started calling her Jeanie.

Jeanie was a bundle of joy, but I soon came to the realization that my new baby sister sure was getting a lot of attention from everybody. Along with my parents, Les seemed to be mesmerized by her. He was constantly asking, Can I hold her? or Can I give Jeanie her bottle? Of course, my mom always gave in to his requests. So, it wasn’t as if my sister was taking their attention away from him because he was always in the mix. When I would make the same request, however, the answer was usually, You’re too little, or Maybe, when you get a little bigger.

Yeah, right, she’ll be in college by then.

Before my baby sister was born, I already felt like I was left out in the cold by my family. Now, I felt that after the stork delivered Jeanie to the hospital and my parents brought her home, the stork must have grabbed me and dropped me off in the middle of the Arctic Circle on his return trip.

Jeanie and I grew close. It was a little different than the bond between my brother and me. Whereas Les was strong and invincible, I viewed Jeanie as fragile and in need of delicate handling. It was pure heaven when I got time to spend time with her.

However, what I began suffering from was a textbook case of middle child syndrome. Overnight, I became invisible to my parents. My mom spent most of her time bouncing back and forth between Jeanie and Les. It was either Leslie Paul, stop that, or time to feed Jeanie or change her diaper. There was no escape from my non-status in our family. Fortunately, I learned to be content in my own little fantasy land in my backyard. I would crawl around for hours in the dirt, where I was surrounded by a world filled with worms and countless species of insects. I kept busy naming them just as Adam did in the Garden of Eden. My parents were devout Catholics, and we went to church every Sunday. In the greatness of God’s design, I am thankful I was taken to church each week because it was there, I would eventually learn about the saving grace of Jesus Christ. At church, I absorbed all the Bible stories I listened to there and tried to apply them to the world around me. However, they sparked many questions in my ever-racing mind, and due to my isolation, I was forced to decipher their meanings on my own. I was content with solitary confinement, but I soon found out there was a special day made just for me.

Chapter Two

Johnny Paul wake up, I heard my mom say as she gently shook me. Do you know what day it is? I began to stir, but the sun was gleaming through my bedroom window, and I was partially blinded for a moment. After I yawned and rubbed my eyes for a few seconds, I mustered up enough energy to answer her.

No, I’m still sleepy, I answered before closing my eyes and rolling over on my side so I could go back to sleep. I had no idea what she was talking about.

She continued to shake me, saying, Wake up, sleepyhead, wake up.

I opened my eyes again, shielding them from the bright morning sun, and saw that my mom had the biggest smile and was making faces at me like a clown. Even though I wanted to go back to sleep, her silliness made me smile as well. That still didn’t stop me from whining.

Mom, what are you doing? I asked. Her look became serious, and she paused for a few seconds, then suddenly grabbed me and started tickling me.

It’s your birthday, it’s your birthday, she shrieked. It’s your birthday, it’s your birthday. Then she hopped on the bed and pretended to wrestle with me while she tickled me more and more.

Stop, stop! I begged her.

It was August 4th, 1960, and my mom, in her silliness, was telling me it was my fourth birthday. It didn’t take too long to realize that my birthday would turn out to be the greatest day of the year. Sure, Christmas was great, but everybody got presents. I would discover that my birthday would be the one day of the year that was dedicated solely to moi.

Les had started school, and my mom juggled her parenting duties with Jeanie to heap tons of attention on me all day. It was incredible to receive so much attention from her without having to endure the Vick’s Vapo Rub; she drowned me in when I was having a bout of bronchitis. It was like everyone was celebrating my own personal Christmas and I was the only one getting presents. Well, my dad did give Les a plastic bag that had a thin, wood glider plane that he opened and assembled for him. Obviously, his past experiences with my brother’s tantrums must have taught him that he had to give him something to keep the tiger within him tame. I didn’t mind that small hiccup since I knew I was the clear winner that day. All in all, the day was a great success for me.

At bedtime, I asked Les, When is your birthday?

October 25th, he answered. I can’t wait!

When is October? I asked.

In two months, he answered. My birthday is in actually 82 days.

Based on the day I had today, I could understand why he couldn’t wait for his birthday. As I was drifting off to sleep, I began to wonder if I was going to get a glider plane on Les’s birthday. I sure can’t wait for October to get here. Little did I know that when October would arrive, I would have something happen to me that would have a lasting effect on the rest of my life.

Besides waking up on August 4th, 1960, for my fourth birthday, I found that I was waking up to something else. Because of my disability, after my fourth birthday, my curiosity about the world beyond my backyard was awakened. In my mind, I began to analyze my surroundings and wonder about everything. My mission to explore the world was sparked due in part by my Aunt Ellen, my dad’s sister. She was a teacher and gave me a book for my fourth birthday. It helped instill a love of reading for the rest of my life.

Johnny, Paul, it’s important for you to understand the importance of reading books. You know, by reading a book, you can travel around the world and even explore the whole universe without ever having to leave your room.

My brain began to tingle like it had never tingled before. I can travel around the world and even explore the whole universe without ever having to leave my room. Those words continued to echo throughout my mind.

After my fourth birthday, I had plenty to occupy myself whenever my parents were busy with my brother and sister. I had my backyard paradise, and now I had my books. However, I thought it was rather amusing how quickly things went back to normal the day after my birthday. It was almost as if my birthday had never happened. After getting all that attention from my mom the day before, the next morning, I ran up to ask her a question with all my leftover enthusiasm. Mommy, what… I didn’t even get the chance to finish my question before she abruptly cut me off. Johnny Paul, honey, I’m busy right now. Why don’t you go outside and play?

At first, I was disappointed, but I immediately began to perk up at the prospect of what I might discover in my backyard. I think a new mentality of skepticism and sarcasm was born within my mind. When I reached my backyard, my first thought was, Yeah, right, my mom is going to help me with reading my books.

In any case, I remained quite content with playing outside and reading. However, even with those two joys in life, the endless cycle of boredom continued. One of the side effects of my disability was my impatience with the mundane, ordinary pace of life. My brain was always seeking new stimuli to jumpstart my interest.

Fortunately, I discovered a cure for my affliction on TV. One night after dinner, my dad was watching TV and fell asleep on the couch. When the show he was watching was over, I was getting ready to change the channel when some words caught my attention.

You’re traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That’s the signpost up ahead-your next stop, the Twilight Zone! Then this creepy music began to play, and all kinds of crazy pictures appeared on the screen. The music ended with a crazy squeaking noise and something that sounded like someone was playing the bongos super-fast. Wow, this is great! The show was kind of scary and nothing like I had ever seen on TV before. However, I thought about it the whole week, and I couldn’t wait until it came on again on Friday night. When Friday night finally came around, the man on the screen didn’t disappoint me.

There is a fifth dimension beyond which is not known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area we call the Twilight Zone.

Seconds later, my dad walked into the living room. As soon as he saw what was on, he said, You’re too little to be watching that. He walked to the TV and turned it off.

Aww, can I at least watch something else? I asked.

No! he said decisively. That was the end of that. There was no negotiating with my dad, ever. However, I decided to figure out a way to watch the Twilight Zone whenever I could. I had to enlist the assistance of my brother, the master of getting all things done, regardless of what we were told not to do. My parents went out with friends on the weekends quite often. My dad was always schmoozing with his car-buying customers, and we were left with babysitters. They were never a match for Les, so I got a healthy dose of the fifth dimension, and after my dad mysteriously began to have to work late on the weekends, Les and I had free reign over the TV on Friday nights. As a result, my addiction to science fiction flourish.

October finally arrived, and Les was super excited about his upcoming birthday. At night at bedtime, I asked him long before it was his birthday.

Two weeks, he answered. I can’t wait.

Me too, I said. I mean… I stumbled because he looked confused at my excitement. After all, it was his birthday. I tried to shake off my excitement because I was pretty sure he had no idea I had been looking forward to the possibility of getting a glider plane like he had gotten on my birthday. The truth was I was as excited as a dog anxiously awaiting the scraps from the kitchen table.

A little over two months had passed since my birthday, and I was resigned to the fact that it was just me and books and the paradise in my backyard. I honestly thought things would never change, and I would always remain nearly ignored by my family. I was dying for some attention from them, and I was about to find that is what it was going to take.

October is usually cold, but it had been unseasonably warm all week. When I woke up that morning, I was excited to find out it had rained overnight. That was good news because, after a rain, the backyard was always teeming with worms and other crawling creatures. After breakfast, I rushed outside and began exploring. It didn’t take long for me to make a startling discovery. My backyard had been invaded by giant ants. They weren’t the normal ants that I had seen before. No, these ants were so big that I became convinced that they had to be from another planet. I tried to scoop up some wet dirt and build a fortification so that I could question them, but my attempt to imprison them was futile because of their number.

There were so many of them it was impossible for me to contain them. I decided I had to change tactics and go on the offensive. I followed the trail of alien ants leading to my yard, and I discovered they were coming down from a tree in our neighbor’s, the Zatezlo’s backyard. As I watched the giant ants march down the tree trunk and continue their attack into our backyard, it hit me,

They are alien ants. They left the mothership and rode the rain down to the tree in the Zatezlo’s backyard.

I rushed back to our yard, and I was more determined than ever to capture them of question. Laying belly down in the wet ground, I tried to scoop up as mucg mud as I could to build my fortress. No matter hard I tried, many of the giant alien ants were able to escape over the walls of my make-shift prison. I decided my only option was to imprison as many of the extraterrestrial invaders as I could. I was locked into the task when in the canyons of my mind, I heard my mom calling me, Johnny Paul, it’s time for breakfast.

I hated to leave my project but admittedly, I was starved.

I’ll be back, I told my prisoners. You’re not going anywhere.

As soon as I got in the house, my mom screamed, Johnny Paul, you’re soaking wet.

Get out of those wet clothes now; you’re going to get sick, she said.

I changed clothes, and I didn’t even make it through breakfast when I started coughing. It started out with just a few small coughs, but before long, they were uncontrollable, and I could hardly breathe. My mom then did what she always did when I broke out with a bout of bronchitis. She smothered with me Vick’s Vapo Rub and sent me to bed. Throughout the rest of the day, I tried to break free from sleep but to no avail. I ended up spending the whole day and evening in bed drifting in and out of sleep.

With all that time in bed, there were plenty of dreams to go along with all that sleeping. My dreams were always quite vivid. However, on the night of October 13, 1960, my dreams deviated from my normal journey through the blue skies in my bed. As I dreamt, I sensed something unusual going on in the world outside my bedroom window. I could feel something new, something good, something magical was happening. A soft, gentle breeze passed over our house and danced with the trees in the hills that surrounded our city. The magic carried flowed through our attic and crept into my room, caressing my face, causing me to smile as I lay there asleep.

As I slept, God planted the seed of the supernatural strength full-stop He knew I was going to need to carry the heavy load I would have to endure for the rest of my life. In His omnipotent benevolence, He knew that in three short years, my world would come crashing down, and my family would be destroyed. When I would wake up the next morning, the Spell that God had placed me under would give me the power and strength to survive.

When you are young, as the world around you slowly comes into focus, you listen to the tales of the army of characters that await in magical places to appear at their appointed times to perform their tasks. Like a sponge, you soak up stories about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and your own personal guardian angel. They come from heaven and from other faraway places like the North Pole. Your journey to enchanted forests where toys, animals, and even the trees can talk. Your imagination soars, stoked by tales of dragons and magic beans that grow stalks that grow beyond the clouds.

Confronted by evil in most of the stories, you must make a choice. Will you stay strong or collapse and give in? Witches dispatch sorties of terrifying, flying monkeys that try and capture you and enslave you in a castle, high on a mountain top surrounded by dark clouds. Some cast spells, freezing the land into an endless winter, or send the princess into a deep sleep for one hundred years.

Fortunately, these stories all have happy endings, with good triumphing over evil. Every Thursday night on TV, Beaver’s mom and dad always rescued him before the show ended, and it was time for bed. You have seen images of all the champions of good in books, on TV, or in movies, but you have never seen them in real life. These comforters leave behind proof of their existence in the form of gifts under the Christmas tree, Easter baskets, and even money under your pillow. That evidence bolsters your belief in the tales you are told. In church, you learn of God’s love for you and how his army of angels will protect you from the bogeyman who dwells far below your bed in hell. You are conditioned to believe that the world is perfect and there will always be someone there for you to rescue you in your time of need.

What I would soon discover in my