Spread Your Wings

By Louis Tabor

The inner city of Baltimore was not what I had pictured in my dreams. The streets were filled with hoodlums, with violence, and they were filthy. Who knew-even murders might have been committed on Washington Street. This was not the place for a kid from the suburbs who loved playing Cowboys and Indians. As my dad called, I knew we were here for good in our new old row house. Thus begins the new novel from Louis Tabor, a story inspired by his own childhood in the inner streets of Baltimore. The narrator is a young boy names Fuzzy Duncan, aged twelve, who has to move to the inner city with his parents and brothers for economical reasons. The city is nothing like the neighborhood the Duncans moved from. The boys will have to adjust, and quickly, to survive. As the weeks pass, Fuzzy sees, hears, and does things no twelve-year-old could possibly be prepared for and finds himself and his personality changing. Whether it is learning about city life from the shoeshine boy, picking peaches with the snakes, swimming naked with the girls, or talking trash to prisoners, Fuzzy Duncan will produce a happy grin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644242452

Louis Tabor

Born on April 16, 1944, in Shamokin, Pennsylvania a small coal mining town. Grew up in the inner city of Baltimore, Maryland, and lived there for approximately twenty years. Received an athletic scholarship from the University of Baltimore and attended graduate school at the University of Pittsburgh and The Wharton School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania. Majority of education was in marketing and finance. Was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army as a Platoon Sergeant during the Vietnam War. My business career included working as a General Manager for AT&T, President of Litton Network Systems, and Chief Operations Officer (COO) for Virginia Transfer Corporation. Presently retired living in Murrells Inlet, South Carolina for the past twenty-two years. Has been married for 58 years and has a deceased daughter and one granddaughter. Loves playing golf, working in the yard, and being active in his church. Other published books are "Spread Your Wings," "Thunder in the City," "Challenges of the Heart," and "Times of Courage."

Book preview

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Spread Your Wings

Louis Tabor

Copyright © 2018 Louis Tabor

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2018

ISBN 978-1-64424-244-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64424-246-9 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-64424-245-2 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Dream to move comes true

Living conditions a nightmare

Neighborhood of violence, crime, and alcohol

Shoeshine boy delivers message

Way of the street, the only law

From cowboy to hoodlum

2 by 4 equals juvenile court

Boys’ club provides new world

Passion for hitting people

Nickname for life: Fuzzy

All-boys school

Drawing lines: friends versus enemies

Big trouble for Fuzz: school fight

Defense by Dad

First football game

Altar boy / choir boy mess-ups

School grades improve

Love for competition

Lonely championship

Establishing Little Italy connections

The dream girl

Serving out probation

Discovering neighborhood hottie

Challenge of CYO dances

Exploring Dominic’s Lounge

To touch or not to touch

Peep show

Baby Huey breaks wrist

First female rejection

Sister Pierre introduces lacrosse

Basketball ends on championship celebration

Beer party at CYO dance

Caught at Dominic’s Lounge

Meeting Audrey Hepburn and Jayne Mansfield

Another great escape

Loss of Brothers at St. Michael’s

Seventh-grade class goes on strike

Revenge at shortstop

Planning summer escape

Coal mining hills of Pennsylvania

Welcome to the world of adults

Meeting the Miller harem

The coopie hole: ghost or story

Naked quarry swimming

Thrones Meat Market crew

No kiddie baseball for Fuzz

Big stick

Mrs. Bergetti: image of Sophia Loren

Working at the coal mine

Kid plays with Meat Market crew

Pride of Poland

The Paul Bunyan of Shamokin

Hiding the accident

Karen patches up Fuzz

Aunt Rita meets the quarry

Playing ball with the big boys

Big-city Windmill versus Country Figure 8

Connie’s Bar celebration

Finally down in the mine

Big Bertha drill

Left behind

Ma and Pa Kettle’s funeral

Snake peach-picking

French kisses: the meaning of life

Big trouble in Harrisburg

Cobbles Amusement Park

Karen’s feelings exposed

Lap ride

Illegal driving

The affair

Exploration of the Coopie Hole

Aunt Clara’s clan

Mine shaft tumble

Hiding evidence never works

Big sex tease

Flying female shorts

Dummy made hero

Speed, speed, speed: NFL cleats

A friend for life

Open door for Karen’s dream

Roller-skating party turns sour

Farmer boy meets roller skate

Dirty old men

The windmill pitcher

Uncle Tommy blows into town

Karen’s plan

Tommy, the charm machine

Karen gets shot at future

Polish house party

Uncle Tommy leaves

Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary

Prisoners’ jeers and cheers

No no-hitter

Motel party

Winning Meat Market crew

County fair

Tongue education

Family visit

Karen and the doctor’s nephew

Sissy’s Polish wedding

The dance floor king

Almost sex

Dumping Chris

Karen expresses true feelings

Return to Baltimore

Going-away party

Chris and the quarry screwup

Final night with Karen

Back in Baltimore

Same old stuff

Mom notices big change

Dreaming of Shamokin life

Reunion at the street corner

Maturity setting in

Mariono welcomes back adopted son

Forbidden betting parlor

Mom’s concerns

Every mother’s dream girl

Disaster date

Family freeloaders

Disappearing act

Hot dog bait and life

Nuns can be beautiful

New neighborhood girls

Captain Fuzzy

Work and responsibilities

Mother-and-son heart-to-heart

Consulting advice

Linda Harris has potential

One-year reflection

Life surprises

Chapter 1

Nightmare

For several years, I had looked at the night lights of Baltimore City from my second-floor bedroom window and imagined what a great place that must be to live in. Well, here we were, my two brothers, my parents, and I, driving to our new house in the heart of the city. For the last eight years of my life, we had been living in the suburbs, where our house was nestled in a post–World War II community. The neighborhood was filled with young couples who had young children. This was a true paradise for a growing young boy like me. The street we lived on was located up the road from miles and miles of woods. This area served as the playground for most of the kids in the neighborhood. Cowboys and Indians, army battles, and even Tarzan with a homemade rope swing were the games we played. My brothers and I spent many hours wandering these woods. However, living here was not always fun for me, because as the freckled, redheaded middle son, I was always the one that caught the Do this, do that from our parents. Almost thirteen now, I had more responsibilities than most teenagers since both our parents worked full-time jobs. Watching my little brother, Chris, was my charge five days a week, and the only time I really got to myself was playing on the Little League Baseball team. I looked forward to the new excitement ahead in the big city.

As we crossed over the Hanover Street Bridge, which led into the city, my elusions of this great place began to disappear when I saw some of the rough-looking people who walked the streets of Southwest Baltimore. Their clothes were ragged and dirty, and the streets were filled with trash and empty liquor bottles. I knew this could not be the place of my dreams and that there must be a better neighborhood ahead. Who could tell?

Dad encouraged us to get out of our old, beat-up 1949 Ford and go into the house to look around. I immediately determined that I wanted no part of this place and just sat still while the others moved out of the car. My brothers seemed excited, but they had never had my dreams, and this was not the place in my dreams. We needed to go back home!

In a threatening tone, Dad said, Get out of the car, Louie, and get your ass in the house. Now!

I could tell he meant business and I would not be able to sit for a week if I ignored his request.

As I walked into the house, it felt like I was in a long narrow box. All the rooms looked about six feet wide with very high walls that ended in what looked like a curved ceiling. The main floor ran straight through the entire house; it reminded me of a long bowling alley. The thing I really wanted to see was the backyard, where I would spend a lot of my time, as I did at our old house.

Cement!

The whole yard was nothing but cement. A kid from the country’s nightmare. And where there was some dirt, there were big old thorny rosebushes. Whoever heard of playing Cowboys and Indians on cement? I could just see Roy Rogers hiding behind a rosebush so the outlaws couldn’t shoot him.

I hated this place with a passion already.

Everyone ventured upstairs while I was heading back to the car, but of course, Dad would not allow that. I had to participate in the glorious experience with them.

The second floor was scary enough with its dark hallway and door after door, but at least my parents would be on the same floor if any of those crazy-looking people from outside happened to get the wrong house one night.

Then the bomb hit.

My bedroom was on the third floor!

I wondered what other little surprises they had in store for me before the day would end.

As I made my way up the winding steps, I could see that all the windows in the back led to the roof—perfect for thieves and murderers. Who in their right mind would leave their kids up here? This place could burn down before I could ever make it to the first floor. Oh god, my dream had really become a nightmare now! Just then, everyone started running to the front window because the moving van had arrived. Great. We were here to stay.

Dad suggested that my brothers and I take a walk around the neighborhood so we would be out of the movers’ way. I almost asked him for a gun to take with us so we would make it back safely, but since I could outrun both of my brothers, I figured I could get away before them. Jim, whom we called Junior because he had the same name as my dad, was five years older than me. Junior was our stepbrother from Dad’s first marriage. His mother had died from a brain tumor when he was two, and he was always passed around from one relative to another until Dad finally married my mom. Junior was a wiry-brown-haired teenager about two or three inches taller than me. We had nothing in common. He loved hunting and killing animals. On a number of occasions at our old house, I would follow him into the woods and unset his traps to prevent the animals from being caught.

On the other hand, Chris, my younger brother, was a huge kid for seven years old and the biggest crybaby you had ever seen. His plum face and crew cut brown hair were an indication of his lightheartedness, and he would just go along with anything and everything I wanted to do. I think, in about another year, he’d grow to be as tall as me. I’m sure he now weighed as much as I did already.

The main street in front of the house was a one-way, two-lane street with traffic so heavy you thought it was a highway, not a residential street. Tons of trucks and smoky buses filled the street, and the parked cars were so old and beat-up that they needed to be in the junkyard. Some even had more than one tire missing! As we moved up to the intersection light at Lombard Street, I took note that each one of the four corners had a bar on it, and together the smell of alcohol was so great you could probably get drunk if you stood there long enough. Walking around the corner, we saw a small grocery store, a big old church, and a side street with smaller houses than ours. As we ventured along, we saw kids playing in the streets. They all looked like the Bowery Boys from the movies, except that their language would not be permitted in the movies. By the end of our walk, we determined that this was a real rough neighborhood and not like anything we had been used to in Brooklyn Park.

Just as we got back in front of our house, some kid across the street kept yelling over, Hey, punks, go back where you came from! We don’t need any more assholes around here!

Junior, Chris, and I wanted desperately to go back to our old home, but we knew we were doomed to spend the rest of our lives on Washington Street.

As we settled into our new home over the next few weeks, I did not wander far from the front steps for fear of my life. This was summertime, and school was out, and so was meeting new friends, except for the hoodlums who lived on our street. In particular, the one across the street who kept calling us names and saying he was going to kick our asses up and down the street. We overheard several of the other kids call him Butch, so we thought that was his name. All the kids on the street seemed to me like they were twelve or thirteen going on twenty-one. Most of them smoked cigarettes, carried knifes, and cursed all the time. Not one of them knew anything about Cowboys and Indians or movie heroes like Hopalong Cassidy or Tex Ritter. How could I ever fit in when I had nothing in common with these city rats?

One day, out of nowhere, Mom suggested that I go to Patterson Park, which was about four blocks away, where I could play Cowboys and Indians with the other kids who liked trees, hills, and green grass. This sounded more like what I was looking for, and I just knew there had to be kids like me around here somewhere. So upstairs I went to prepare myself for the new adventure and my new friends-to-be. I put on my diamond-studded cowboy shirt, my bright-red cowboy boots, my authentic ten-gallon cowboy hat, and of course, my two six-shooter guns. As I came downstairs, Mom said, Howdy, Tex, and I knew I must look like a real cowboy, like in the movies. Mom said, Be careful and be back before suppertime.

Be careful, I thought. What’s the need? I have my six-shooters with me!

I headed up the street ready for an afternoon of fun for the first time since I arrived in the city. About two blocks from my house, a kid about a head taller than me jumped in front of me. His clothes were all raggedy, he was dirty, and he was carrying what I thought was supposed to be a shoeshine box. He looked me up and down and finally said, What the fuck are you supposed to be?

A cowboy. C-can’t you tell? I stammered.

Hell yeah! The city has tons of cowboys, steers, and queers. You look like a big sissy, a mama’s boy!

Then out of nowhere, he jumped me and wrestled me to the ground while punching harder and harder each time at my face, which made me cry in a hurry. As I was crying and screaming for help, he was taking my clothes off—everything but my underpants, including my socks. He finally got tired of hitting me because he was laughing so hard. As he picked up my clothes and started to leave, he yelled, You better grow up really quick, or the city’s going to eat you up! Picking myself off the ground, I noticed that people were standing around, just watching. Nobody offered assistance or showed any concern. It was like this happened every day and no one got involved; it must have been the way of the city streets.

Walking home in my underpants, all beat-up and still crying, I promised myself this would never happen to me again. If tough was what these people wanted, I could guarantee them that they would have to deal with one little hard-ass redhead named Louis Duncan from here on out.

Fortunately, when I got home, nobody was there, so I cleaned myself up, dressed, and made out like nothing happened. Of course, when Mom got home from the store, she wanted to know what happened to my face, not being aware of the other bruises on my ribs and back.

I fell down a steep hill at the park.

Well, be careful the next time.

Without a doubt, she would never see Tex again.

I don’t know if my family could see the difference in me after that day, but I became a whole new person from head to toe. I started watching the hoodlums on my street, particularly the older ones in their late teens. I studied how they fought, how they talked, what clothes they wore, and how they gained the respect of the street kids. The one thing I always noticed in a fight was that the kid that threw the first punch always won and it was always square in the face, followed by a kick to the balls, which must really hurt, because they all fell down after the combination.

The day had finally come when I had to test my observations. The kid across the street, Butch, had continued to badger us since we had moved in, and today he came across the street to flex his muscles and to let us know who was boss of our street. Butch always looked like he just got out of bed with his wrinkled clothes, the same ones he wore every day. Although he was a little taller than me, he was thinner and his body odor was stronger than what his body strength looked to be. As he walked slowly toward us, I could see Chris’s eyes light up with fear. Then I yelled at him, Go back across the street, where you belong!

As he approached us, with his hands on his hips, he yelled in my face, Make me!

With those words, he quickly received the punch-and-kick combination I had been studying. For a split second, as he fell to the ground, I felt sorry for him, but then I jumped on him and pounded at his face before getting off him. Butch got up and ran across the street with blood all over his face while crying like a baby, with his duck-ass hairdo flying in all different directions. Looking around, I could see all the kids in the neighborhood watching, and then Chris started to jump all over me in the excitement of victory.

From that day on, I became a hoodlum and the kid to fear on Washington Street.

Fighting became second nature for me, and I was considered a real badass. I was determined to look the part by dressing and acting like James Dean, with the dungarees-and-white-T-shirt image. I started working out in my backyard and used an old Army duffel bag filled with rags to punch, and I worked on different combinations. Many times, I thought I was Rocky Marciano, the heavyweight champion of the world. In addition to my training, I began working with Dad on the milk truck every Saturday, and by lifting heavy cases of milk, I developed my upper-body muscles. After three convincing fights, all easy wins, my reputation started growing throughout East Baltimore, and most kids within a two-mile radius knew who I was. Some kids paid me a quarter a week to protect them, an extra fifty cents to stand up for them face-to-face with their enemy, and a dollar if I had to actually fight. The protection money plus the three dollars I received for loading and delivering milk started to build up. I became very independent and did not ask my parents for anything. They had five mouths to feed and bills to pay on a milkman’s salary. We were not poor, but I knew my parents did not have money to throw around on junk for us kids.

It was then I found myself becoming a thief.

The first time it happened was when Mom sent me to the grocery store for some ground beef and hamburger rolls. After I paid the clerk and he bagged it, I walked back down the aisles like I forgot something and put a bag of potato chips and two cans of peaches in the bag I already had. I walked out of the store saying, See you later, while the clerk waved goodbye to me. It was easy. I just took little things like that from the grocery store and dime store, nothing big, but it all fit the mold of becoming an enemy of the law. It became evident that the local police patrolman, who walked our neighborhood beat, had his eye on me, and when something in the neighborhood went wrong, he came knocking on our door. Dad was never home—he was either working or in the bar after work—so Mom was the one who spoke to the police. She would always tell the policeman that it could not be her Louie because he was always working around the house.

My mom came from a Polish immigrant family with four brothers and a sister. She was used to boys getting into trouble. Her maiden name was Alma Jansowski, and she was seventeen years old when she married Dad to help raise his four-year-old son. She had long auburn hair and was a beautiful woman, but she always spoke her mind and didn’t take shit from anyone. I don’t know if she honestly believed what she told the policeman. She might have been just covering up to keep me out of trouble, like she did for her brothers.

I had developed a little gang over the last month, and even Butch was in it. We started stealing hubcaps and selling them to the teenagers who had cars. The hubcaps were cheap at five bucks apiece. Sometimes we even took orders for special types and cruised the streets until we spotted a car with the type we needed. My life became nothing but unlawful acts, and it started to get rougher because I was starting to move in on the old hoodlums’ turf. I thought that maybe I should start carrying a knife for additional protection.

And then came the biggest day in my life.

It changed me forever.

One day in August, I decided to go swimming at the public pool in the park. It would not be long before Labor Day, when the pool would close. Mom said it was okay since she had to take Chris to get new shoes. In fact, she gave me twenty-five cents to get into the pool. So off I went, and just as I turned our street corner, heading to the park, three colored boys jumped out in front of me, and the biggest one said, Give us all your money, or we’ll beat the livin’ shit out of you, white boy!

I only had a total of a dollar and a quarter on me, but I wasn’t giving them anything without a fight. We were by an old condemned house, and to the left I saw an old piece of two-by-four lying in the street gutter. I said, Boys, are you sure you want to do this?

What you going to do, cry for Mommy to help you, white boy?

As they began to laugh, I made one big aggressive motion, picked up the board, and hit the nearest kid first, right in the head. As he was falling, I saw the other two coming at me, and I nailed one of them in the head as well. The third kid took off running down the street. The other two lay motionless on the sidewalk, with blood streaming down their faces. I just stood there. I thought I had killed them. I could not believe what I had just done, and before I knew it, two police cars arrived with their sirens blaring.

The police officers were all over me before I knew it. They wouldn’t even listen to me; they just handcuffed me and threw me in the back seat of their car. Then the ambulance arrived to take the two boys to the hospital. As I sat in the police car, I knew I was in deep, really deep, trouble.

I waited about two hours in a holding area at the police station before Dad got there. Boy, was he pissed! They released me into his custody and told him I would have a hearing in juvenile court in two days. By the time we got to the car, I thought my dad was going to kill me, but instead he was very cool and asked me what had happened. He listened very carefully to my story and asked a few questions to clarify things in his mind. He didn’t like the part about me hitting the kids in their heads with the two-by-four, but he understood that I was defending myself. Maybe the situation was helped by the fact that I told him about the shoeshine boy when I was working on the milk truck one day. Dad was a very smart man, but life had dealt him a lot of bad hands, including losing his first wife at a young age and being sued for everything he owned after he fell asleep behind the wheel of his car and hit a man. I can’t imagine how that felt, to have to start over with nothing. He was a good, honest man who took his medicine and moved on with life. I trusted him, and I knew he would do everything he could to get me out of this bad situation.

When the day of my hearing came, I was really scared. I must have gone to the bathroom twenty times before going into the courtroom. Walking through the big oak doors, I expected to see this clean, organized place of justice. However, it looked more like the Baltimore City Zoo. The court was jam-packed with people in all the benches and standing around the walls. Small kids were jumping on the seats and running up and down the aisles. Even when the clerk called, Order, order in the court, nothing changed. Finally, the clerk and two policemen checked to see which people had to be in court, and the others they threw out. It took them about fifteen minutes to clear out the courtroom and get everybody seated.

Then the judge came into the courtroom.

The judge was a large, fat old guy that looked like he hated his own family. After taking his seat, or throne, he began to hear cases. They were for robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, and many other types of crimes. The judge gave one kid about my age two years in reform school; another, he decided the kid would have a jury trial. At this point, I was almost about to throw up when the clerk called our case number. The two colored boys came forward with their heads bandaged and acted like their mothers’ little angels. The first to testify was a police officer that I didn’t remember. He told the judge that the two colored boys and another boy had been going around the neighborhood stealing from kids and he had four other kids who had identified them. When I heard that, all I could think was, Thank you, Lord, I’m off the hook! Then the judge asked me to tell my story. I did, with a few lies here and there—nothing big, but a little extra to make it really sound like total self-defense. After the judge heard everybody’s lies, he came to his decision. The two colored boys got six months’ probation plus a good knock on the head that the judge felt might knock some sense into them. Then he turned to me and, speaking in a deep voice, said, Mr. Duncan, you have only been in our fair city for two months, and I understand you already have quite a reputation in East Baltimore.

My eyes got big, and my stomach was making some strange sounds.

He continued by saying, If I let you go scot-free, you will be back in my courtroom in a few months with something more serious. Therefore, I am assigning you to the Salvation Army’s Red Shield Boys’ Club for the next six months. You are to participate in youth activities at the boys’ club a minimum of three days a week starting tomorrow. And, Mr. Duncan, if you do not follow my order, you will find yourself in our juvenile home for boys. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr. Duncan?

I answered, Yes, sir, only because I wanted to get the hell out of that place right now. So out of the court Dad and I went, but I kept wondering what this Salvation Army bit was all about.

The next day, after Dad got home from work, we drove up to the Red Shield Boys’ Club, which was about six miles from our house on the other side of the park. A short old man named Utz Tzaniger greeted us at the door. I thought, What a crazy name. The only Utz I knew was the potato chip maker. He seemed pretty nice, and he knew all about me from the judge. I guess he and the judge were buddies or something like that. Mr. Utz, as he preferred being called, talked about all the activities and sports the club had to offer and then asked what I was interested in doing. My wiseass response was, Nothing!

What about playing football? The team is just starting up this week.

I don’t know much about football. We play catch in the street, that’s about it.

Then he said something that really got my attention. You know, in football you get to knock people down. I understand you’re good at that. Only in football you do it with your body, not your fist.

This sounds like a good idea. How do I sign up?

Tomorrow at four o’clock in the old part of the park, you see the coach. His name is Glenn Adams. I will tell him you’re coming. And be on time.

With that, Mr. Utz wished me good luck and said that he would be seeing me around. Oh no, just what I needed, another cop to be my guardian angel for the next six months.

The next day, as I started the walk to the old park, I could not believe I was doing this. I left at around three thirty and figured I had plenty of time to be there by four. Well, to my surprise, the walk really was about a three-mile hike, which got me there well after practice had started. So I was late, no big deal was my attitude. I went over to a kid standing on the side of the field and said, Hey, who is Glenn Adams?

The kid pointed him out, and I slowly strolled over to where he was standing.

Are you Glenn Adams? Mr. Utz told me to look you up.

He gave me the once-over and then ran up to two kids on the ground, saying, Look at the fly of his pants, and when you hit him, lock your arms around him. You got it?

The kids nodded, and he said, Try it again!

Then he walked back to where I was standing and looked me up and down again.

You must be the tough kid Mr. Utz called me about. Duncan or something like that.

Glenn Adams was a very strong-looking man with muscles coming out of his cheekbones. He was about six feet tall, with crew cut hair that stood up like a porcupine in front. His voice was deep and carried an authoritarian tone. He definitely was a no-bullshit kind of guy, and he even made me a little afraid of him.

Yes, sir, I’m Lou Duncan.

What position do you play?

I had no clue what he was talking about, and further more, I really didn’t care. I responded with, I like to hit people.

We’ll see, Mr. Duncan, we’ll see!

At that time, the team was doing a one-on-one tackling drill where a runner ran with the ball and the other guy tried to tackle him. Pretty simple, I thought to myself. Just then, Mr. Adams, who notified me that he preferred to be called Coach Glenn, called me over and explained the drill. Like I was some dummy! Then he said to me, Don’t get upset if you miss tackling him. This boy, about to run the ball, is a good player, and everybody misses tackling him. Besides, you don’t have any equipment on, so you might be a little afraid of getting hurt.

The next thing I knew, he had blown his whistle and the other kid started running. Just then, I fixed my eyes on the fly of the runner’s pants and put my head down and went full stream into him. And down he went. As I was getting off the ground, the other kid was lying there screaming in pain, and all the coaches were running over to him. Then one of the coaches said, Somebody call for an ambulance! How could this be? Not even here a half an hour and in trouble again was my thought.

Since the fire station was right across the street from the park, the ambulance got there in a hurry. I heard one of the ambulance guys say, His leg is broken. Be careful moving him. We’ll take him to Baltimore City Hospital.

Hospital—does that mean back to court for me? Now, I started to really get scared, and my heart was jumping out of my chest.

Just then, Mr. Adams came over to me and said, Great tackle!

I was stunned as he kept patting me on the back.

You’re going to be my middle linebacker!

Of course, I had no idea what a linebacker was at this point.

As we continued to practice after the ambulance left, I kept making tackles, but I think some of the kids just fell down when they saw me coming. However, I had to admit, I was having fun.

When practice ended, Coach Glenn called me over to his car and gave me a helmet, shoulder pads, and a practice jersey. He smiled at me for the first time and said, Good job today, Louie. See you tomorrow. And don’t be late!

This was a good day, and I knew this game of football was good for me.

As I continued to practice, I began to meet kids that lived near me and we started walking to and from practice together. These were good, tough kids, not hoodlums. They were all respected in the neighborhood, and nobody gave them any shit. A couple of them became my best friends, and we grew very close during the last weeks of August. Lewy Callhoun, whom we called Chief because he was a full-blooded Indian, and Bobby Zaloni, a little Italian, had been playing football for a long time, and they began teaching me everything they knew about the game. They reminded me of Mutt and Jeff in the Sunday comic strips, because Lewy was about five feet eight inches tall and Bobby very short at four feet five inches or so. They were a funny sight to see walking down the street side by side.

As the days followed, I was really getting good, and the coach made me an offensive tackle and, on defense, a middle linebacker. This was probably the best time I had as a kid, and all I could think of night and day was football.

After practice one day, before school started, Coach Glenn called Chief and me over to his car and said, Get in.

Where are we going? was my immediate question back.

You’ll find out shortly. Just get in the back.

We drove two blocks around the corner from the park, and he pulled up in front of a barbershop. Coach Glenn was grinning from ear to ear.

Gentlemen, those duck-ass haircuts of yours are going to be history in the next half an hour.

The coach had been telling us for days to get a haircut because our long hair kept falling in our eyes. We told him it was our loose helmets, but he didn’t believe us for a minute.

We then walked into the barbershop. Coach Glenn knew the barber and said, Howard, give them the buzz treatment.

Before we knew it, we were sitting in two barber chairs and our hair was falling on the floor at a rapid pace. When I looked in the mirror, my head was almost bald. Chief and I went from having cool duck asses to shitty, bald baby asses. When we finally left the shop, Coach Glenn kept rubbing my bald red head over and over. Then he announced that he was going to call me Fuzzy. Still in shock from the sight of my head, I couldn’t respond, but when I looked in the mirror of his car, I could understand why. My head looked like a Fuzzy Peach.

From that day on, I became Fuzzy Duncan for life.

Chapter 2

Different Direction

The first day back to school is never any fun, especially when you are starting a new school. As I dressed in the school’s navy blue pants, white shirt, and blue tie, I bet that nothing but sissies went to this school. Since I was going to be a professional football player for the Baltimore Colts, I really wanted to go to a school for linebackers. You can’t learn that in books. As I kissed Mom goodbye, a mother thing, and grabbed my lunch bag, I headed up the street and around the corner to Saint Michael’s Catholic School. My brother Chris was not with me because Mom took a couple hours off work this morning to get him situated in his class. I think she did this because she knew he would do nothing but cry and the school would send him home.

Around the school, the kids were hanging out before the bell. They were giving me nasty looks, and some were even bold enough to point. I was not sure what they were saying, but when I gave them a dirty look, they all quickly turned their heads in the opposite direction. I went into the school and found the mother superior’s office, where I was supposed to report for my class assignment. The mother superior was one ugly woman. She looked like a long-nosed opossum with glasses and who would bite you if you opened your mouth. So I just sat there in silence, listening to her. After about ten minutes of reading me the dos