Skylar: A Story About Bullying

By Dale Fox

If you have never been bullied at any time in your life, then Skylar is probably not the book for you. On the other hand, if you or someone you know has experienced bullying, then Skylar is a book you will enjoy, and in all probability, will be able to relate to.

As a young boy, Skylar went through a great deal of torture at the hands of other children. Not only did he have the burden of being persecuted by others, but he also had to deal with the fact that he was the youngest son of a legendary high school football coach. In addition to being forced to deal with that reality, he also was a younger brother to the most popular minister in town.

Skylar realized that he and he only would need to make the necessary changes in his life to become a different person. So he learned how to fight—sort of. He also learned how to better relate to others as he traveled through life. He became a popular teacher in his adult years.

What he didn’t count on was the fact that he would fall deeply in love with a young lady who would unintentionally place his life in jeopardy. She was married to a belligerent man who was possessive of her yet filled with hate toward her and everyone else.

What would Skylar do when faced with the option of running away or standing up to the ultimate bully? Would he find the incredible weapon of prayer helpful in this difficult situation?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098090753

Book preview

1

He was so insecure he even entered the world backward. As a toddler, he was so frightened that his only source of security was his mom’s lap. He never left that as his home base until the time he was cast directly into the first grade with no preschool or kindergarten experience. In 1960, preschool was practically unheard of in Cookeville, Tennessee, and kindergarten was mainly for rich kids. He set a record that still stands to this day for the Park View Elementary school and probably for all schools in Putnam County. He managed to cry at some point every day during his first six weeks of school. His brother Paul was in the eighth grade in the same school and had to ask his teacher if he could go out and tend to Skylar because Skylar was standing outside of his brother’s classroom during recess and sobbing while the other children were playing. As his fears were clearly manifested in every aspect of his life, it didn’t take long for other children to sense that they could treat Skylar Cortland about any way they wanted, and he would do nothing about it.

It seems that as long as mankind has existed, bullies have also, or at least bully wannabes. Even in the beginning of time, Cain bullied and murdered his own brother. What makes someone want to pick on and mistreat someone else? Surely, in Cain’s case, it would be his jealousy toward his brother and perhaps some anger toward God; but why do some folks want to just lash out and hurt others? It was something Skylar Cortland wondered about almost on a daily—no, an hourly basis.

By the time he entered the horrifying eighth grade, his life was an emotional torture rack. In his nightly prayers, he often asked the good Lord to come again in the skies and just end this terrible old world. He often wished that something really bad might happen to him at school, and then he would not have to live another day on this earth. Why couldn’t the bullies just go on and kill him? In some ways, they already had. What difference would it really make if they just went a bit further and finished the job?

He needed some help. But who does a thirteen-year-old boy talk to in 1967? What would he say if he did talk to someone? He couldn’t talk to his dad. His dad was Jim (Pope) Cortland. He was a legendary football coach in Cookeville, Tennessee. He had taken a lifeless, purposeless, absolute disaster of a high school team and had turned them into a state powerhouse. In 1967, there were no designations of teams 1 through 5A in the state of Tennessee, but if there would have been, Pope would have won repeatedly in his level. Pope was tough and unyielding. Skylar felt like his dad would have stood a good chance against the devil himself if they would have squared off. Who knows? Maybe they had. Why couldn’t he be more like his dad?

Many people thought that Skylar’s cousin, Truman, should have been Pope’s son. Not only was Truman (barely a year older than Skylar) not afraid to fight, he seemed to invite any kind of brawl that came his way. Skylar was convinced that Truman would rather fight than do almost anything as long as the fight wasn’t in the water. Truman was afraid to fight in the water. No one knew why. Roger Helms and Truman had squared off one day in the Park View public swimming pool in Cookeville. Roger said to Truman that he was ready to fight. Truman challenged him with a retort of, You just name the place!

Roger said, What about right here?

Skylar was listening to their conversation, and he remembered his cousin Truman saying with a high voice far too high for a fourteen-year-old boy, In the waaater? Skylar remembered smiling when he heard his cousin’s plaintive cry. But anywhere on dry land, Truman was more than ready to mix it up with almost anyone.

One day, Skylar did work up his courage and approached his dad about the bullies and what he should do about them. His dad simply said, You gotta stand up to ’em boy. I wish you were more like your cousin Truman. Ha-ha, the other day, he was talking about whipping a boy bigger than him and whopping his head against the flagpole several times. Eh, me, that boy ain’t afraid of ’nuthin. At that point, Pope grinned and sort of turned his head and focused on nothing with a faraway look that seemed to suggest that he was turning over in his mind what it would be like to have a son like that. A son you could really be proud of.

Talking to his mom, Sally, was equally frustrating. She was what they called a poor baby mother. Sally Goodun his dad called her. She had no solutions for any of Skylar’s problems, but she felt sad about them as if pity were a solution in and of itself. I hate that those boys pick on you, honey, I wish they wouldn’t do that. Poor baby. A lot of good that type of advice was.

Skylar’s older brother, Paul, was so busy he didn’t have time to talk. He had married at the age of eighteen (he was seven years older than Skylar) and already had one child with one on the way. He was a successful minister with a growing and demanding congregation which, along with his family, seemed to occupy his every waking moment. His approach to ministry was identical to Pope’s approach to football—all-out pedal to the metal. So Skylar was alone. All alone. Or at least it seemed that way to him.

Skylar was very self-conscious about his physical appearance. His outward appearance put a whole new meaning to the word awkward when people talked about the awkward age. The best compliment he ever received about his looks came from a senile relative who glowingly stated that he looked as purty as a hog. Now who wouldn’t like that assessment? That statement was made in the presence of his Aunt JoAnne. It seemed to call for a response, so not wanting to lie, she said, Uh, well, he sure is growing. Yes, growing he was. Eating was the only joy he had, so Skylar had grown to be about as round as he was tall. His little fat face, also round, was covered with blotchy red freckles. Being left-handed sure didn’t help either because it seemed to make him even more awkward in a right-handed world.

Torment began for Skylar the moment he boarded the bus that picked him up on Lone Oak Drive. It seemed that everyone on the bus was bigger than him—taller, at least—and smarter. One of the high school boys who happened to also live in his neighborhood would typically greet him with, Boy, you are sure an ugly-looking booger, ain’t you, Skylar?

Another older kid might follow that comment up with, He ain’t just ugly, he’s a fat pig too.

Someone else would say, Yeah, ha-ha, a real double threat guy.

Yet another would join in with, Hey, and he’s short too, so he’s really a triple threat guy. And on and on the insults would go.

Skylar said nothing. What could he say? What could he do? Crying would only invite more insults. Besides, his dad said that a real man doesn’t cry; he just does something about whatever or whoever is bothering him. There are only two kinds of people in this world, Pope would say. Criers and doers.

After exiting the bus, his persecution would continue in the next venue: his school. When teachers weren’t looking (and usually. they weren’t), boys would break pencils over his head or slap him hard on the back of his head. In Physical Education class, one of the favorite things the older boys loved to do was to corner him under the bleachers and spit on him from the top. As much as physical torment hurt him, the words seemed to hurt more. Kids would write ugly poems about him or draw ugly pictures of him and place them on the wall when the teachers weren’t watching.

Life for Skylar was a veritable hell on earth. But he kept on praying. He attended church with his mom and dad every service, even Wednesday night Bible Study. The Wednesday evening service was sometimes called prayer meeting, but Skylar didn’t remember praying too much on Wednesday nights, mainly just Bible study. Skylar was like the rest of his family in one way for sure: he loved the Bible. He was continually taught that prayer was the solution to every problem. His preacher would thunder out from the pulpit that we should pray without ceasing! So he prayed. What else could he do?

It would be safe to say that Skylar could not have endured his life much longer if the good Lord wouldn’t have heard and answered his prayers. He didn’t remove the bullies from Skylar’s life, no more than he removed the poisonous snakes from the Israelites in Numbers 21, but he did allow Skylar to experience puberty. Skylar grew taller; not basketball playing tall, but at least he wasn’t persecuted about being short as much. The biggest difference in his life was his strength. It was far above average for a boy of his five-foot-nine-inch height. His shoulders got much broader, and people starting comparing him to his dad. He liked that. It sure sounded better than Skylar C, the rosy red freckled freak! He actually joined the football team and became a decent offensive lineman in his freshman year as he played for the Cookeville Junior High Raiders. Go, Raiders! Go, Skylar!

In his PE class, his teacher, who was also an assistant football coach under Skylar’s dad, introduced boxing into the world of the young fourteen-year-old boys. He paired off the twenty-eight boys in the PE class. The boy who Skylar had to fight was Bryan Lane, a bully who had been a thorn in Skylar’s side practically since the first grade. Bryan was big and tough. He had the bluff on practically everyone. Aw, right, this is my lucky day. I get to kill Skylar C. Any last words, boy? Bryan glared at him with a look of disgust.

All the fear came back. Skylar was once again a little round boy just ready for the whipping. His face was fiery red with embarrassment and humiliation. He thought about asking his coach if he could just sit out the boxing part of PE. Bryan could sense his fear and thundered out, Aw, look, look, I believe he’s about to cry. Could someone call Daddy and tell him his little girl is crying?

Skylar would never forget what happened next. His PE teacher, Ralph Dickson (who had known Skylar all of his life), came over to him and whispered in his ear, Skylar, you’ve been running from bullies since elementary school. If you don’t stand up to this idiot now, you will never stand up to anyone. I swear to you that if you fight him, you will do fine. Please trust me. I’m here. I’m your friend. Nothing bad will happen to you today. Fight him. Fight him hard, okay?

This was the first time someone had not only challenged Skylar to stand up to a bully; it was also the first time someone had guaranteed that everything would turn out fine. When Skylar looked into the reassuring eyes of Coach Dickson, he almost felt like he was looking into the eyes of God. The coach couldn’t really look into the future and guarantee a victory, yet somehow, he seemed to have done just that. Coach Dickson put the gloves on Skylar’s hands. Bryan had already put on his own gloves and was standing a few feet away, just waiting. He spit on his gloves. No one knew what that was supposed to symbolize. Then he motioned for Skylar to come on and get what Bryan was going to give him. A good beating in front of his ninth-grade class, that was what.

But today was different. No one knows for sure what happened to Skylar that day, but it was a day that changed his life forever. When Bryan threw his punch, it looked to Skylar like it seemed to take forever to reach him. He easily blocked Bryan’s punch and smashed him on the nose with his left hand. Bryan looked at Skylar with a sadistic grin like a fox looking at a chicken. Oh, I’m gonna kill you, boy! he yelled out. He wildly threw his next punch, and Skylar never even bothered to block it. He calmly waited for Bryan’s fist to fly by and then rattled him with a quick left/right combination that made him look like he had been a Golden Gloves ringer someone threw into the freshman class to demonstrate boxing. Next, he strode into Bryan the bully and popped him repeatedly anywhere on his face he wanted to. He threw a powerful left hook that once again caught Bryan on his nose, and when his fist pulled away, blood started gushing out of both nostrils of the former Bryan the bully.

His last punch put Bryan on the floor. He stood over him and heard himself say, Is that what you wanted? Who’s the little girl now? Come on, get up! He said a few more things as well since he was quite caught up in the moment.

Bryan struggled to get to his feet, not so confident now, and Skylar waited for him to throw the next punch. This was getting fun now. Skylar faked with his right and then rung Bryan’s jaw again with his left. It was like hitting a punching bag. A sharp uppercut smashed Bryan’s already bleeding nose and sent him to the floor again.

Coach Dickson was laughing so hard his sides hurt. He could not have loved the scene more that was going on in front of him. Laugh at a kid like that in today’s world, and you would face a lawsuit, but in 1968, it was entertainment at its finest. Coach was guffawing loudly, so talking was out of the question. Instead, he held up his hand to stop the fight. Then he threw a towel at Bryan Lane and told him to go to the locker room to clean up. Bryan was trying to hurl meaningless threats at Skylar as he walked away, blood gushing, totally defeated, fighting back tears. Not being known for possessing incredible sympathy at the plight of anyone, especially Bryan Lane, one of the boys in PE class, Ray Daughtery, yelled sarcastically at Bryan as he skulked away, Hey, Bryan, I think there are more napkins in the girls’ locker room if you need ’em! When you come back, can you teach us how to fight? Boy, you are good!

The entire PE class broke up with laughter, including Coach Dickson. Ah, 1968. What a time to be alive! No worries about ISIS, just the Great British invasion. Vietnam was a big negative, but life was really good for most people in America all in all. Skylar just smiled and said nothing. He never had felt so good in his life. He knew that his life would never be the same.

Somehow, though, it got even better at that moment. His dad, Pope, had dropped by to get Coach Dickson to order some football equipment for him and had entered seconds after the fight had started. He stood back and watched his son perform like a pro boxer in the ring. A hush had fallen over all the boys when he had walked into their midst, just like it always did when the Pope appeared. He walked over to Skylar and tried to control his emotions. In his best stern voice, Pope said, Better not let ye mom know you was fightin’ and what you said to that boy. I think you may have cussed a little bit, probably not enough to go to hell over. Hee…ee.

Reckon I did as well as Truman would have done today, Dad? Skylar said.

Pope grinned and said, Truman? I don’t think I know who you’re talkin’ about, boy. Don’t know no Truman. Not today. Eh, me, gonna have to get you under control…tiger. Ha-ha. When he used the word tiger, he sort of fired it at Skylar and pointed his finger like a gunshot. It felt good.

Things were much better between Skylar and his dad from that day forward. Skylar would often daydream about how wonderful it was going to be to play football for his dad. It wouldn’t be long now. He was in the ninth grade. Next year, he would go to the new Senior High School on the eastern edge of Cookeville—PCSHS (Putnam County Senior High School) or Pushacus as it was nicknamed. He would be playing under the great Pope as his dad was called. He would become a Cookeville Cavalier. No one seemed to know what a Cavalier actually was (maybe a British knight or soldier or something to that effect), but it sure was an honor to be one. They wore the flaming red jerseys, and they were serenaded by the entire student body as the team that would be displayed on pep rally days with the fight song which began, Let’s give a cheer for the Cavaliers, help them along their way, onward to victory, we will win again today!

Skylar wanted to be a running back, not a linebacker. He was tired of just blocking so that the quarterback would have more time to throw the ball or blocking so that some other person, not him, could run the ball. He knew he could be a great running back if given the chance. He could see it now, the ball being either handed off or pitched back to him, and then just watch him go down the sidelines, breaking tackles, heading toward the end zone. His favorite daydream would be something like this. It was the fourth down on the opponent’s thirty-yard line, five seconds left in the game, time for one more play. The ball is placed securely into his waiting hands. He is hit a record number of nine times by would-be tacklers, but they can’t stop him.

On the sidelines, his dad is yelling out as loud as he can, Go, boy! Take it home! That’s my boy! That’s my Skylar!

He crosses the goal line and is swarmed by jubilant fans and players. The fans would be chanting "Skylar! Skylar!

His dad would come running out to him and would say, Skylar, I am so proud of you! Certainly, he wasn’t the only young boy who had these kinds of daydreams, but surely, no one felt them with any greater passion than did he.

2

His relationship with his dad was getting better and better. He had reached that age in his life when young boys are actually able to converse with their dads on more of an adult level. At fourteen years old, life is filled with many things, and there are some things one is afraid of at that age—I suppose every age—but most of those things you sort of keep to yourself. Thunderstorms caused no small fear inside of Skylar when he was alone. He kept thinking that the next lightning flash would slice through their home on Lone Oak drive and burn it to the ground. They (whoever they were) said that happened to Ronny Vaughn’s house.

Boys Skylar’s age didn’t know about insurance to replace homes or about the almost impossible odds of something like that type of flexing of mother nature’s muscles actually happening. Storms were just plain scary to him. But when his dad was home, he had no dread of them whatsoever. So when Pope was home, and a thunderstorm was brewing, Skylar would say, Dad, let’s go out on the front porch and watch the storm!

Sally Goodun was never very chummy with that idea, but Pope would say, Oh, why not? So he would sit out there on the covered front porch with his dad and watch the lightning flash and hear the thunder roar. When the thunder rolled at practically the same time the lightning strike occurred and it would seem particularly close, he would peer over at his dad to see if it concerned him, but Pope never seemed bothered. He offered the explanation that all dads since the beginning of time had done with their children listening for how long the thunder sounded after the lightning struck. See, the storm is going away, buddy bud, okay? All storms eventually go away.

Pope loved the Lord. He loved church too. He served as an elder in the Church of Christ where they all attended. He taught a Bible class every Sunday morning. Pope was known as the non-cussing coach. None of his players nor his family had ever heard him use a bad word at any time. He could yell, and boy oh boy, did his face get red, and he sure could exhort his players to perform their best, but he did it all without bad language. He would have a prayer with his teams before and after each game. He never once prayed for victory, but he always prayed that no one would get hurt and that all would perform at the best of their ability. After the game he would thank God that all the players on both teams were unharmed.

When the Cavs played at home, he would ask God to give the other team a safe journey home, and when they played away, he would ask for a safe passage home, as he called it. He loved praising God as being a God who does all things well. His prayers always ended with, And Lord, when you are finished with us here, we ask for a peaceful crossing across the chilly waters of Jordan and into your waiting arms. He always mentioned in his prayers that God would help them all eventually to be able to go home with him some day if they would trust and obey him.

On one of those front porch occasions, Skylar asked, Dad, why don’t them storms bother you?

Pope looked at him and said, Well, son, I love nature. Them storms are nature talkin’, you know. God is reminding us of who He is. Nature is God’s second book. The Bible is His first. Storms out here are a lot like storms that we go through in life. I know you have gone through some storms and you will go through more. But let me tell you some words to a song that have always blessed me. It’s called ’Till the Storm Passes By,’ and was written by a feller named Mosie Lister back in ’58.’ Pope then quoted the words of that beautiful hymn to Skylar.

Skylar didn’t remember much about the song then, but he loved the chorus:

Till the storm passes over, till the thunder sounds no more

Till the clouds roll forever from the sky, hold me fast,

Let me stand, in the hollow of thy hand,

Keep me safe till the storm passes by.

Pope then said, "You keep that song in your heart, son, and don’t forget it. I promise it will serve you well your whole life. You know you probably won’t always have me, but you will have it." His prophecy came true far too soon.

Pope Cortland loved to smoke. He began smoking when he was a teenager and continued it after he became either the first or second volunteer for the military (no one knew for sure) from nearby Jackson County and enlisted during World War II. He never smoked in front of his football players. He felt that it displayed a lack of self-control, and he didn’t’ want them to see that in him. But he smoked at home. Perhaps that was a bit of a hypocrisy coming through. I guess we all have a little hypocrisy in our lives somewhere. He smoked while he sat in his recliner, when you could get him to sit, that is. He smoked when he was planting tomato plants, beans, corn, cucumbers, and watermelons in his garden in the summer, and he smoked when he was doing any form of an outdoor chore.

In 1969, the United States was just beginning its stern opposition to smoking in earnest. Prior to that, the smoking advertisements were some of the most attractive come-ons in the world of advertising. Winston tastes good like a cigarette should. That was one of them. Skylar’s cousin, Truman (when he was fifteen), would go waltzing around the house, singing that jingle all the time until one day, his mom said Truman, why are you singing that Winston song all the time? Have you been smoking?

Truman had never thought of denying that he had been smoking. He confessed to it and got a pretty good whipping from Aunt Janey Sue, his mom. She told Truman’s dad what he had done, but Uncle Finis, Truman’s dad, never said much. It was hard for him to say much since he smoked five or six cigars daily himself. And then there was the Marlboro man. All the boys in Skylar’s neighborhood secretly envisioned themselves as being the Marlboro man. What a cool guy he was. Tough, good-looking, leathery, not afraid of anything—he apparently loved driving cattle home at sunset and rewarding himself by puffing on a Marlboro. Nothing can go wrong ’cause we’re goin’ home, goin’ home.

But the world was changing. The surgeon general, whoever that was—no one seemed to have ever met him, and he never appeared on TV or anywhere else—had apparently gotten upset about the damage that smoking was doing to people’s lungs and all other parts of their body. Skylar’s neighbor five houses down, Tim Ealy, said that the surgeon general was just some surgeon that the president chose to be the surgeon general, just like he said they did with the unknown soldier. Tim had previously explained to Skylar and others that the unknown soldier was a soldier who volunteered to be killed so that he could be in the tomb marked for the unknown soldier. Being dead with no name listed on one’s tombstone didn’t sound that appealing to Skylar, especially the being dead part, but he had to admit he admired that soldier’s courage.

Skylar wondered about the veracity of Tim’s story, but Tim reassured Skylar and the others that countries and soldiers do that all the time. It’s a great honor, Tim said. Anyway, this surgeon general (Was he in the Army or Navy or where did he serve as a general? No one knew) decided to write that he was warning people about the hazards of smoking on every pack of cigarettes. For Skylar’s cousin, Truman, and his brothers, this enhanced the excitement of smoking as it did in most American teenage boys. His brothers, Danny, a.k.a. Jamup (they called him Jamup because he seemed to be able to take every situation and make it a bit of a worse jam), and JD took up smoking as a result of Truman.

Pope didn’t know the surgeon general either, but he knew that the surgeon general and an ever-growing number of people in America disapproved of smoking, but he smoked anyway. His dad, Garlan, would harrumph at the smoking warnings as he sucked on his Pall Malls, the ones he would have left, that is, after his grandchildren (including Skylar and Truman) had ransacked his dresser drawers and had stolen cancer sticks from open packs of them. Pa Garlan was always complaining about how his cigarettes kept getting away from him, but he didn’t know how.

In Cookeville, that brand of cigarette was pronounced Pale Mells back in the late ’60s. Pa Garlan would tell of ol’ Mudcat Jackson and Boody Stafford who had smoked all their lives and had lived to be in their nineties. Pa Garlan liked to see himself as a wise prophet instead of an uneducated Jackson county boy, and he said, One day, you know, I bet they will try and keep a man from smoking in certain places. That’s when I’m movin’ out of this country, bunch a low-down Communists.

To Pa Garlan, the worst thing anyone could be was a low-down Communist. If he had been called on to define one, he couldn’t have to save his life, but he just knew they were low-down. Pope would nod in agreement with his father, but deep down, he was beginning to form a new opinion about smoking. A negative one. Sadly, he formed it too late.

It started out as little red pimple looking things in the roof of my mouth, according to Pope’s description. He would have Sally Goodun to come into the bathroom and look at his open mouth in the bathroom mirror. The pimples gave way to a deepening redness accompanied by some irritation of that area in his hard palate. Eventually, that area in his mouth evolved into a sore that would not heal. He decided to break down and go to his doctor. This was the first time he had been to a doctor since he was examined by a military doctor when he had entered into the Army.

His doctor was an older physician, and his medical philosophies were molded by old-school thinking. He probably had never even heard the term squamous cell carcinoma or melanoma. He didn’t even tell Pope to quit smoking. His only solution was to prescribe some medicines that he said would make things better. Only they didn’t. Pope eventually decided that perhaps he needed to see a younger physician and get a different perspective. When young Dr. Ralph Cooper examined Pope’s open mouth, he simply said, You’ve got cancer. I’m going to send you to Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville for cobalt treatments.

Cobalt treatments were designed to kill cancer cells. Unfortunately, they did damage to proximal healthy tissue as well. In ’69, the battle against cancer was very young. Radiation, chemotherapy, and the ability to diagnose and treat cancer would come more into vogue later, especially in places like middle Tennessee.

It was a warm day in the middle of April when Skylar saw his dad’s blue Chevy pull into the driveway around 4:30 p.m. He had gotten accustomed to his dad’s doctor’s appointments and had expected Pope to tell him that his doctor was going to try out some new medicine on his Pope’s sore mouth, which was by now very well-known throughout the Cortland family. It was talked about by almost everyone in Pope’s clan. Causes and solutions were presented by Pope’s brothers and sisters and certainly by Pa Garlan.

Usually, when Pope would see his youngest son, he would smile and call him by whatever name would come to his mind. If he had been listening to the news on the radio, he would call him the name of whoever was in and on the news at the time. Once, he called Skylar Pompidou after George Pompidou, the French prime minister who was currently in the news. Chief, Superguy, Tarzan, or any other name he could think of would be his way of greeting his boy. Bud or buddy bud was his favorite moniker for Skylar. When he watched football with Skylar, he would have fun with the names of the football stars and teams and so forth. The 49ers are my team, he would say, ’cause they won’t even play another down unless they gain forty-nine yards every time.

The legendary Bart Starr, quarterback of the Green Bay Packers, was nicknamed Mike Starr by Pope. He called Roman Gabriel, quarterback of the Los Angeles Rams (years before the franchise moved to St. Louis and eventually would move back again) John Gabriel. Pope was always so much fun to be around, and his entire family considered him the life of the party.

Today, though, Pope looked grim, very grim. Skylar, uneasily hoping for a good response, asked, What did the doctor say today, Pap?

Pap was the latest entitlement he had given his great dad because Huck Finn had called his dad that, and that seemed like a catchy way to address one’s dad, even though his dad and Huck’s literary dad were certainly nothing alike. Skylar would never forget Pope’s response. Nothin’ good, bud, nothing good. He, uh, thinks I’ve got cancer.

And just like that, Skylar’s world shattered in front of him like the window in their living room had shattered eight years ago when he had thrown a shoe at his brother after they had gotten into an argument. His brother ducked, and the shoe went through the living room window. It seemed like that one-piece window shattered in about a thousand pieces. That was Skylar’s life now: a thousand pieces.

3

They called it The Bullet. Skylar wasn’t sure if that was its real name or not. But it was " the ride at the Putnam County fair. The fair occurred at the end of August every year and was the last joy-filled event in a young Cookevillian boy’s life before the prison sentence of public school began just after Labor Day. Armed with a ten-dollar bill, twenty if your family was rich, fifty if they were filthy rich, you entered into the bright festive world of barkers, ring toss—Take your best aim and win one for your girlfriend"—weight guessing, questionable shows involving dancing young ladies, haunted rides, haunted houses you walked through (if you dared), wrestling bears, believe it or nots, cotton candy, pizza, hamburgers, French fries, hotdogs, and funnel cakes. They thronged one’s way as the celebrant waltzed through the midway and out to the grandstands which featured horse shows.

Ladies and gentlemen, make your horses canter, make your horses canter. Mule pulling, greased pig contests, and fairest of the fair events. Every year, The Bullet stood proud and tall above the midway and just seemed to dare anyone who might think they had the bravery to climb into its gaping mouth. The Ferris wheel, roller coaster, scrambler, and the rock-a-plane were nothing compared to The Bullet. Proud boys who had survived it would show total disrespect to those poor souls who just didn’t have the gargantuan courage it took to actually purchase a ticket with sweaty or clammy hands and enter into the line of death which led to its cockpit. Surely, NASA used this ride to train astronauts. No one enjoyed the bullet; they merely survived it. During Skylar’s thirteenth summer, he had actually worked up his courage, bought a ticket, and boarded the ride of all rides. Selling tickets for the ride known as The Scrambler that summer helped him some on his courage. It gave him extra spending cash as well because Sally Goodun had spotted him a twenty to spend at the fair.

At the end of the week, he would collect an incredible twenty-three dollars from the forty-hour ticket selling week he and his cousins endured (four fives and three ones). You could take one hour off from your carny job if a reliable person relieved you. His brother, Paul, was kind enough to do that for Skylar on this Thursday evening, and he knew this had to be his night for The Bullet. Now or never. His classmate, Doug Wells, had become a celebrity that summer, just because he sold tickets to The Bullet. There were actually twelve bullets on the huge wheel which loomed up into the sky, but there was only room for four victims/occupants in each chamber—two in front, two in back. You didn’t have time to worry about the pitiful specimens who sat back to back with you. If they survived, they survived. Hopefully, you had a comrade to join you in the seat next to you. Because Skylar had no one, and in an effort to fully load The Bullet, the ride operator selected a boy two years older than Skylar to be his copilot in the cockpit.

The young lad proudly announced to Skylar that he had ridden the Bullet many times and that it didn’t bother him at all because he wasn’t afraid of anything. He further remarked that a kid Skylar’s age probably shouldn’t be on this ride and that Skylar probably wouldn’t make it. Thanks a lot! On this fateful night, Skylar had entered the danger zone. His first thought was, Why, oh, why did I ever think I could do this? When he thought about his friends who had ridden this ride, not that he had many, none of them impressed him as having more than the brains of a small dog. He furtively looked around for signs of blood that must surely be smeared around the padded dashboard with the fake instruments and other areas of the death capsule, but there was none visible.

His philosopher classmate, Tim Ealy, who had spoken with pseudo brilliance regarding the surgeon general also pontificated regarding The Bullet. He said, Some have died on that ride, but they clean up the blood every time it happens so people don’t know about it.

He winced with fear at Tim’s words, and then it dawned on him that if no one knew about it, then how did Tim know about it? It reminds one of the remark that comedian Quido Sarducci would later make regarding UFOs. He said something to the effect that UFOs often spray people who see them with something that makes them forget that they saw the UFO, and so if you think you have never seen a UFO, you probably see them all the time.

Anyway, The Bullet lived up to its horrifying billing. Skylar was turned end over end as the ride made its rapid Ferris wheel on steroids type vertical and ridiculously rapid rotation. It began with a clockwise rotation until all who were going to be sick at their stomach had emptied their funnel cakes. Instead of mercifully ending, it would teasingly stop, and then it would then go counterclockwise for the same number of rotations. Skylar glanced over at the super cocky two years older cosmonaut who was imprisoned in the capsule with him. He had terror in his eyes, and his face had turned a rather ghastly pale. His heroism was shamelessly gone now as he screamed at the top of his lungs, "Let me off this ride!! Stop the…ride!" His copilot tried to scream his loudest as their chamber of horror flew past the ride operator so that perhaps the operator might take pity on him.

Skylar saw the ride operator flit by him on one of those rotations, and he appeared to be talking to a blonde-haired girl and wasn’t even looking at the ride. To add to the horror, the individual bullets (one of which contained the cartridge known as Skylar) were spinning around counterclockwise in their chambers on squeaky metal rods and axles thrown together mere hours earlier that week by individuals whose relatives surely would later be interviewed for the roles of extras in the movie Deliverance.

Finally, the nightmarish ride was over. He was still alive! His pale-faced embalmed-looking ride companion stared at him with daggers in his eyes and struggled to say, Breathe a word about this and I’ll kill ya. He then exited the ride without making eye contact with anyone. From now on Skylar would be known as the boy who rode the bullet. He could talk about it with the calm assurance of a fighter pilot who had flown missions in World War II. He never rode it again.

But on this fateful day, he would ride The Bullet a hundred times if it would take away the words his dad had just uttered: Nothin’ good, bud, nothing good. He thinks I’ve got cancer. Skylar knew very little about cancer other than the statements people made from time to time regarding that disease. Often, he would hear someone refer to another someone who was ate up with cancer.

In 1969, not much could be done to help a cancer patient. So Pope traveled to the Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville, Tennessee, and was given cobalt treatments. On many of these occasions, Skylar would go with him. Skylar didn’t know about cancer, but he sure knew about his dad. He was totally confident that cancer just didn’t know who it had gotten a hold of (pronounced holt of in Cookeville) when it attacked Pope Cortland. Unfortunately, cancer turned out to be an indomitable opponent in Pope’s life. If it could have been an opposing football team, Pope would have analyzed it and unraveled its weaknesses. He would have found a way to neutralize its strengths and to have communicated to his players that cancer was just another opponent that would fall victim to the Pope machine on its way to another perfect season.

But cancer had plays Pope couldn’t analyze or stop. It was the running back who was strong enough to pulverize an entire defensive front four and trot easily to the end zone. Defensively, it was like facing the steel curtain of the Pittsburgh Steelers every day. It was a force that no offensive strategy could analyze and move. It proved to be an unyielding foe.

Pope underwent a disfiguring and debasing surgery in the fall of ’69. As Skylar traveled with his family to Nashville to see his dad, no one told him what to expect when he saw him. Pope’s face was covered with bandages, giving him only some eyeholes to peek through. Skylar went to the back of the hospital room and started sobbing. It was a scene he would never forget. Cancer 7, Pope 0. But it was just the first quarter of this battle. Pope would surely come back.

Skylar would often think about close games his dad had coached in that he had either seen or heard about throughout the fifteen years his dad had been head coach of the Cavaliers. He remembered his dad being criticized two years earlier for allowing the Gallatin Green Wave to be put on the Cavaliers schedule. The Green Wave were a force to be reckoned with throughout west, middle, and east Tennessee. There isn’t much of a north or a south in Tennessee. If travelers from another state said to a loved one in Tennessee, We went through southern or northern Tennessee, the loved one would usually laugh and say, Let me know where that is.

Pope’s getting a little uppity, some were saying. Pope’s gonna get his liver handed to him. Pope is in over his head now. We’re gonna be humiliated. And on and on the wise guys sallied. Like Kenny Chesney’s song, The Boys of Fall would later state, The old men will always think they know it all.

At halftime of that game, Skylar was thinking that the naysayers were right. The Green Wave had marched into Cookeville, looking like the Green Bay Packers and playing somewhat like them too. They held a 24–0 lead. The two announcers calling the game on the great WHUB radio station (reaching all of Cookeville and sometimes distant areas like Sparta, Tennessee) were overwhelmed as well. Yep, Gene said, those boys from Gallatin are sometimes called Green Bay instead of the ‘green wave’ ’cause their uniforms look like the Packers.

Yeah, that’s right, Gene, said Eldon, those Packers sure were a great team under their coach. Guy Lombardo.

After a few seconds of silence, Gene said, Uh… Eldon, I think his name is Vince Lombardi, but you sure are right. Gene and Eldon were legends in Cookeville. Their pictures are displayed in memory to this day at the famous Hooper Eblen center at Tennessee Tech.

No two boys who heard Pope’s halftime locker room speech/sermon would tell you the exact same story of what was said, but one boy said that years later, if you rubbed on the walls of the locker room, some of Pope’s words were still lodged there and would be repeated. The gist of what he said was, You boys ain’t being beaten by the Green Wave. You are losing to a team that stupid people have told you that you can’t beat. You are going to be around a lot of stupid people as you go through life, and you can listen to them and never do anything. They will tell you that you ain’t smart enough or good enough or strong enough or brave enough. You listening! You can’t do this or you can’t do that, those wise guys will tell you. You can listen to ’em if you want to. Or you can stand up to stupid people and let them know that you and only you will decide what you can or can’t do! You can do anything you want to do! Are you listening to me? The Green Wave are out there for us to take if we want to. It comes down to what you and no one else decides to do!

Players would later say that if Pope had asked them to run through a brick wall, they believe they could have done it that night. Years later, forty-year-old former players of Pope would talk about his speech through tear-filled eyes.

In the second half, the Cavaliers’ defense mercilessly targeted and attacked every player who even looked like he belonged to the Green Wave. Their running backs ran like they were told that their moms were being held hostage at the goal line and would be shot if their sons couldn’t break free and rescue them. The wide receivers caught and nestled the ball into their arms like the football held TNT inside and would explode and kill everyone in the stadium if it touched the ground. Their QB, Randy Hamlett, threw completions and ran, threw and ran, and literally seemed to be two steps ahead of the frustrated Gallatin defense the entire second half. The Green Wave were little more than a trickling brook as the fourth quarter wound down.

Pope’s Cavaliers scored twenty-eight unanswered points and held the mighty Gallatin team scoreless in the second half. Final, 28–24, Cavs. Gene and Eldon stayed on the air an extra hour that night talking about the game and how they knew the Pope would come back in the second half. He was playin’ with them in that first half, settin’ them up for the kill, said Gene. That’s right, Gene, said Eldon. He sure was. How ’bout them Cavs?

Skylar couldn’t wait to show his dad the Herald-Citizen sports headlines the next day which read, In Pope We Trust. The subheading read, Is he the greatest high school coach of all times? The obvious pretext was Oh, yeah, he sure is!

Pope’s face wrinkled into a frown when he saw that, and he said to Skylar, Son, don’t pay any attention to silly things like that. People love you when you win, and they don’t like you when you lose. When you hear something about you that sounds too good to be true, it probably ain’t. And always remember, games never stay won. Oh yeah, his dad would beat that old cancer, just like he did the Green Wave that night, no doubt. But cancer didn’t follow any known rules in Pope’s life. It cheated. Day after day, Pope grew weaker. He had no appetite, and the sparkle which had always characterized his life was replaced by dead-looking eyes, a doll’s eyes, as it were. And there was the relentless pain. Meds might back it off for a while, but then it would come back, stronger than ever.

Skylar prayed and prayed. He knew of no other weapon to use in fighting against his dad’s nemesis. He had always been told about the power of prayer. He had been told about all the things that had come true because of prayer. He knew that if David could kill Goliath and if Moses could part the Red Sea and if Jesus could do all the marvelous miracles he did, then surely God would get rid of his dad’s cancer. Sadly, though, every day in Pope’s life was better than the next day. By late December, he needed round-the-clock care.

Sally Goodun was who Pope wanted to attend to him in the wee hours of the night. Uncle Austin had brought Pope a bell he could ring when he needed attention. Usually, when the bell rang, it meant he wanted more of his high-powered pain medicine about an hour or two before he was supposed to take it. On some occasions, when his mom was totally exhausted, Skylar would take her place and go and tend to his dad. On one occasion, a Saturday night as it turned out, around two in the morning, Skylar was sitting in his dad’s room after Pope had taken his meds. After about twenty minutes, Pope said Ah, I’m not hurtin’. That’s the first time today, bud.

That’s great, Dad, that’s great, Skylar said, his voice choking up. He turned toward the wall, and the tears flowed. But he didn’t want Pope to see.

His dad’s voice broke the awkward silence. Bud, are you crying?

I’m just happy that you ain’t hurtin, Dad, Skylar said. That’s good. That’s really good. It was then that Pope said something to Skylar that he would never forget.

Bud, he said, "you are strong. Much stronger than you can even imagine. I know that ’cause I’ve made a living reading boys’ characters, and I can usually figure out what they’re made of. So I know what I’m talking about. I know you can deal with what I am about to tell you. I’m not gonna make it, okay? They caught this cancer thing way too late. So you need to think about getting ready for what is going to happen next. I’m gonna die purty soon. You can handle it, bud. I know you can.

Now I don’t want my death to scar and ruin your life. Ain’t no need of that. And I don’t want you to take it out on God neither. This ain’t God’s fault. It ain’t nobody’s fault, really, except mine. I should have never smoked them old cigarettes. You’ve got to help your mom. She will fall apart after this. So you have to be there to help her. Remember how you whipped that Lane boy in gym class? Well, you did that because you stood up to him. You are going to be called on to stand up to a lot of bullies as you go through life and in a lot of different ways. Don’t run like a coward. Fight for the things which matter the most, son. Choose those things carefully and fight hard for them. And never forget the good Lord. Never take your eyes off of him. You see what I’m saying, bud?

Skylar nodded his head and said, Yes, Dad. But it would be years later until he would fully appreciate the words his dad had spoken to him that night.

Fifteen-year-old boys in middle Tennessee were largely ignored by adults in 1969. Their every little whim and desire being the mission of shallow and shortsighted parenting goals would come later. Dr. Spock or Mr. Spock, anyway, the one who was not the Star Trek guy, who had spewed forth his pseudo-philosophy of how discipline could hurt little spoiled, bratty, overly catered to children and ruin their little sensitive egos had not taken its toll yet. The belief that children had to win some award for every effort they ever made in any type of sport or endeavor would come later as well. Meaningless games where no score was kept was unheard of. If you won, you won; if you didn’t you lost. The villains on the opposing team who had defeated you would taunt you by saying, Hey, losers, better luck next time or Sorry, that’s just how the cookie crumbles. It was good for you. It helped you to toughen up and grow up. You weren’t branded as a loser; you just weren’t the winner. Nor were you collected by overly indulgent parents and rushed over to McDonald’s to compensate for being overlooked by those terrible prejudiced people who cheated you out of being number one.

Skylar once played in what was called the t-shirt league. It was a baseball league formed during the summer for children not quite old enough for little league baseball. At the end of the season, the kids who were good ball players were allowed to keep the jerseys that had been issued to them. The sponsor Skylar played for was called Brown Realty. He was given (or so he thought) a nice-looking purple jersey that ironically said Brown Realty on the back. The brown jerseys had already been selected, equally ironic, by Green’s Drugstore. At the end of the season, Skylar was forced to turn his jersey in because, frankly, he stank at baseball. So he walked home a mile, barebacked that day. That’s just how it was.

You never asked for much as a kid growing up in the sixties. Speak when spoken to by an adult, do what you are told, be seen and not be heard. Many