Dirty Laundry (Don Henley)

It was a dark and stormy night. Dad was working late. Wendell studied for AP Biology in the Florida room, Skipper did her spelling in the dining room and I glued stickers onto a geography poster with my mom paying bills feet away. Then the doorbell rang. Mom said, “April, could you get that?”

Knowing I was chosen because I was closes to the door, I got up to get it. The doorbell rang about ten more times. Either they were selling something and there was a prize involved or this was a lunatic. Standing on the front porch, soaking wet was the prized lunatic herself, Mrs. Tolanco, the most obnoxious of all the Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawk Football Booster mothers. A former Whiskey Rebellionette twirler, her senior class voted her ‘Most Divine.’ These days, she resembled the late drag queen Divine.

Opening the door I said, “Hi Mrs. Tolanco.”

Barreling past me and knocking me over like her son Frankie did an opponent on the offensive line, she said, “Wendelin, Gracie, I need a lawyer!”

As I got up, she still ignored the fact she knocked me over. Mom came running out ruing the day she asked me to answer the door, “Judy, I understand you are upset, but Wendelin isn’t home right now.”

Mrs. Tolanco said, “Grace, no can do. We need to sue in big court!” She held up a copy of The Hawk Wing, The Whiskey Rebellion High School newspaper. The headline read, “Blackhawks, Lady Hawks and Rebellionettes Get A Failing Grade by Sandra Angelina.”

Under the article was a picture of a girl who looked like Emily Dickinson The Belle of Amherst joined Sonic Youth with a by-line read, “Sandra Angelina wants to snuff out the patriarchy and write the great American novel.”

Mom said, “Okay Judy, I know you are extremely upset but I need you to calm down and take a few deep breaths. She’s an angry teenager. You know how tough it is to be that age.”

Mrs. Tolanco said, “Well wait until you read what she wrote. The Whiskey Rebellion Women’s Club asked me if it was true. It was about a boy shoving a baseball bat up another boys…”

Mom held up her hand, “Judy, please calm down.”

Mrs. Tolano said, “My Frankie plays football, works part time at the plant store and volunteers with our church to help the shut in at the end of our block with her grocery shopping and yard work. We have a few Rebellionettes and Lady Hawks who are a part of the youth group too. These are good kids and I won’t have them slandered!”

Wendell came running out, “Mrs. Tolanco, you okay?”

Letting it spray like Tammy Faye she said, “NO! Do you know this rotten Sandra Angelina?!”

Wendell said, “Yeah, she’s a weird chick who wears all black and writes death poetry.”

Mrs. Tolanco said, “A ha! The motive here is bitterness and revenge. She couldn’t make The Lady Hawks or the Rebellionettes. Maybe one of the guys wouldn’t date her. Or better yet, she’s a LESBIAN!” The way she said lesbian was louder, angrier and more punctuated than anything else.

Skipper poked her head out of the dining room, “Mrs. Tolanco, I don’t mean to be rude but I am trying to study.”

Mrs. Tolanco screamed, “ I AM BEGINNING TO DOUBT YOUR FAMILY’S COMMITMENT TO BLACKHAWK NATION!”

Mom walked over to the door and opened it, “Judy, I think you need to go home, get some sleep and if you still have legal questions call Wendelin in the morning.”

Mrs. Tolanco threw The Hawk Wing on the ground and made a dramatic exit out the door. When she was gone we let out a collective laugh. I said, “Wow, Dad’s gonna love that.” Dad hated Mrs. Tolanco.

Wendell said, “Oh I’ll bet. Frankie’s a nice guy, too bad his mom’s a freakshow.”

Mom said, “How do the guys feel?”

Wendell shrugged, “I’m ignoring it and the more level headed ones are too. But some of the others are pretty pissed. Anyway, I got to get back to studying.”

Later that night, I read the poison pen piece. Despite the hype it was a badly structured angry skree. Sandra Angelina alleged The Blackhawks and The Lady Hawks and Rebellionettes by extension were bullies who engineered a cheating ring and subjected underclassmen to violent hazing. She was correct. The previous year there had been a cheating ring involving some football players and a few Rebellionettes and Lady Hawks serving as inside people. And bullying had been an epidemic on the football team too. The violent hazing incident where the baseball bat was shoved up the butt happened as well. The only problem, it was last year. The players, cheerleaders, and Rebellionettes involved had graduated, and the coaches were fired so aside from a fact checking issue, there was nothing to be done. Matthias, while far from perfect, was zero tolerance for bullshit on the field or off.

Sandra did have some points I agreed with. Yes, the women’s sports and smaller teams fell to the wayside with little to no publicity for their events, but Whiskey Rebellion was in Steeler County so football was king. The glossy program sold at the home games raised enough money for a new weight room. Sandra claimed the football team kept other athletic teams out. Under the previous coach, the football players intimidated smaller, weaker students out of using the weight room. As far as I knew, Matthias’s squad didn’t behave this way, but Wendell and his teammates were the ones who primarily used it.

When I was finished, I handed Skipper the article. As she read it Skipper said, “Two words: spell check.”

Skipper, despite being grade levels ahead in math, was a terrible speller. I said, “That means a lot coming from you.”

Skipper shrugged, “Only someone of limited intellect would get mad at this like Mrs. Tolanco.” We both burst out laughing.

For the next week, Mrs. Tolanco blew up Dad’s phone demanding the boosters take The Hawk Wing to court. When Dad told her she had no suit, Mrs. Tolanco started a petition demanding The Hawk Wing be shut down. Gaining traction, she began to put pressure on Coach Matthias to approach the administration about disbanding The Hawk Wing.

Coach Matthias, who didn’t like Mrs. Tolanco but wanted to do damage control, approached Mrs. Callahan, The Hawk Wing sponsor, to clear the air. Smooth as sandpaper on a bed of nails Coach Matthias said, “I have no problem with the rest of weird kids that write. But that filly that wears black ain’t no good.”

Mrs. Callahan was indignant, “She has a name and it’s Sandra Angelina. Remember it.”

The two began to shout at each other. Hawk Wing staffers jumped to Mrs. Callahan’s defense. Blackhawks that were in the vicinity saw a Blackhawk down and aided their embattled coach. As the air filled with insults, threats and profanity, the school security guard tried to break up the shouting match gone wrong but failed. The long suffering vice principal Mr. Johns had to assist. When he was ignored, Bo the Janitor, a Vietnam vet with PTSD, jumped in.

As they were being separated, Coach Matthias vowed, “This is a day that will live in infamy! Blackhawk Nation has declared war!”

Mrs. Callahan replied, “Good! Because we not yet begun to write!”

That was the start of what would go down in history as The War of Words. The day after the first shots were fired, Mrs. Tolanco arrived at Principal Cicero’s office with her petition. What she didn’t count on was that Mrs. Angelina, angry her daughter’s locker had been vandalized with the word “CUNT” written in red nail polish, was also waiting to talk to Principal Cicero. The mothers got into a screaming match. When they tried to punch each other, school security had to separate them, escort them out and ban them from school property. Meanwhile, The Hawk Wing, previously ignored, was now flying off the shelves as sympathy for Sandra Angelina and her cause grew.

In what became known as The Battle of Dodge Ball, some Lady Hawk cheerleaders had informed Sandra that she cease and desist, “or else your time at Whiskey Rebellion High School will be hell.” Sandra refused. These same cheerleaders, who were in her gym class, this was Aztec Ball Court where it would be a fight to the death. Dodge balls became deadly weapons. However, what the cheerleaders didn’t count on was members of the women’s volleyball team, who were glad Sandra spoke up for them, would jump to the unathletic girl’s defense. Spikes were fired, resulting in several bloody noses. Volleyball players and cheerleaders were taken to the office, and in all six people were suspended.

Next was The Battle of the Band Room. What started it is not known, but a Rebellionette twirler and a flutist fought over the truth of the Sandra Angelina article. The baton gave the Rebellionette an advantage, but wielding a flute proved to be far more dangerous. The band director, aghast, separated the girls who continued to fight even as the principal suspended them both.

The penultimatum was The Battle of the Stairwell. Several Blackhawk football players had taunted Sandra in the hall with the usual round of insults that included, “Bitch,” “Rug Muncher” and “Tampon Eater.” The hockey team, which Sandra’s cousin Rudy belonged to, were lying in wait in the stairwell ready to pounce to defend her honor. When the time came they jumped three guys in Blackhawk letter jackets. The only problem was, these weren’t the three Blackhawks who had been taunting Sandra but three different guys who were not only at the wrong place at the wrong time, but were actually trying to stay out of The War on Words entirely. Seeing their fellow Blackhawks in trouble, others close by jumped in. Size wise, football guys had the advantage, but the hockey guys lived to get bruised, bloodied up and would not go down. In a match that was a draw, twenty students were suspended.

The War on Words soon spilled down into Constitution Middle School. It made clique divisions more divided and poured salt in wounds that were fresh, especially since several of my classmates had siblings who were suspended because of their participation in the conflict. Like Wendell, I was trying to stay as far out of this as possible, but it was becoming harder and harder as everyone demanded you pick a side. Trying to dodge the draft, I was on my way to lunch when Coach Douglass, my reading teacher and Coach Matthias’s second in command, poked his head out of his classroom, “RL Stine, do you got a minute?” That was his nickname for me because I was always writing something.

I said, “Sure Coach, wassup?”

Coach Douglass, who towered over me said in his thick West Virginia accent, “I don’t know about you, but this War on Words has gotten out of hand. Coach Matthias doesn’t want to call a truce which I think is a mistake. Where do you stand?”

I said, “I stand by the side that wants to stay out of it. No offense.”

Coach Douglass said, “But this is why I need your help. You’re kind of one of us because of Wendell but you are one of them because you are a weird girl who writes. Any ideas?”

I was being backhanded but I was being called to service, “Coach, you got to meet them at their level. Get a player to write a respectful rebuttal.”

Coach Douglass said, “How about Wendell? People like him and he’s smart.”

I said, “Ask him.”

Coach Douglass said, “Matthias is pretty adamant on this war. RL Stine, make him think it was your idea. Remember, Blackhawk Nation is counting on you.” I was charged with saving a country that didn’t exist. To quote the great Nancy Kerrigan, “WHY ME?!?”

That night, as Dad was working late again and Mom was running errands I pitched the idea to Wendell. He said, “Absolutely not! In the War of Words I am a conscientious objector.”

It was a reach but desperate times called for desperate measures, “Wendell, Blackhawk Nation is counting on you.” Then I told him about my conversation with Coach Douglass.

Wendell said, “I was afraid he would do something like that. A lot of the guys are getting into trouble. It sucks because some of them are really nice but people are just so angry that they are starting stuff or getting sucked in by other people starting stuff. It’s not fair. Yeah, some of us were jerks but a lot of us study, make the honor roll and just want to mind our business.”

I said, “Then put that in your editorial.”

Wendell said, “Eh, you know I hate writing.”

Skipper, who was feet away suggested, “Wendell, you like to draw, do a cartoon.” Wendell was a great artist and doodled frequently when he was bored.

A smile crossed his face, “Great idea, Squirt. I’ll do it in study hall tomorrow.” Then we both gave her a fist bump.

Wendell created a cartoon entitled "Don’t Box Me In." On one side it had the stereotype of a Blackhawk football player bullying kids, cutting class, cheating and partying until the wee hours with his friends. On the other side it had the same Blackhawk football player and his teammates helping special needs students, studying hard and having both his coach and mother remind him about work/sports/life balance.

"Don’t Box Me In" was a hit with everyone. Impressed, Mrs. Callahan offered Wendell the gig as Hawk Wing cartoonist which he glady accepted. He also got an unlikely new fan, Sandra Angelina. Away from the front lines she confided in Wendell that she was sick of The War on Words but some of the more overzealous Hawk Wingers were pressuring her to keep fighting, even though at this point it was a giant shitshow.

The two decided to negotiate an armistice. Wendell approached Mr. Napier, his guidance counselor who moonlighted as the football announcer about plugging the women’s sports and the smaller teams during the home games. Mr. Napier not only thought it was a great idea, but was embarrassed he hadn’t thought of it himself. The women’s volleyball team especially enjoyed the new publicity, and during their championship season found the stands packed. Smaller sports also took out ads in the glossy football book to show their appreciation, but also to let the town know that football players weren’t the only Blackhawks.

In return, Sandra talked Mrs. Callahan into apologizing to Coach Matthias. As an olive branch, Coach Matthias offered to do an exclusive sit down interview with Sandra where he consented to being recorded and didn’t dodge the hardball questions. Coach Matthias didn’t deny the cheating and hazing incidents happened, but they were under the former coaching staff. He explained because the former players had been so out of control, the team had gotten a deservedly terrible reputation that he was working to change. Coach Matthias explained that unlike the coach who came before him, he stressed that both athletics and academics were equally as important. And while the previous football teams had excluded people from the weight room this wasn’t going to be the case when he was around. Yes, the football team had raised the money to build the new weight room but all students, regardless of what sport they played, and even those that did not play a sport, were both welcome and encouraged to come work out.

Several Lady Hawks and Rebellionettes wrote editorials apologizing for their roles in The War on Words, but felt dragged in because they resented being stereotyped, but also the boogeyman of peer pressure played an active role. Hawk Wing staffers and people who were on the other side respectfully rebutted, saying they too were sorry, but they resented being ostracized and treated like a second class citizen in their own school. Together, the different voices had an honest conversation about bullying, peer pressure and labels. The Hawk Wing issue, entitled Cliques, won state wide Quill and Scroll prize.

Sandra Angelina went on to attend Sarah Lawrence. After she graduated she freelanced with Mother Jones reporting on crisis pregnancy centers and the conditions of women’s prisons ruffling even more feathers before she opened a socialist bookstore. She recently self-published her opus, “Toppling The Patriarchy.” While not quite the great American novel, it is a hit with the social justice crowd. I’m glad she’s finding her muse. I just hope she uses spellcheck.

Like my writing, check out my books on Amazon

Stagger Lee (Lloyd Price)

Sal’s Italian Too was ready for the annual Blackhawk Banquet. Decorated in black and orange, a long table was set with a buffet and next to it was a cake that had a Blackhawk decked in a football uniform and a Lady Hawk dressed in a cheerleader outfit. Usually held before the first scrimmage in the high school cafeteria, it was the first time the event was a white tablecloth affair.

Our dad, the Whiskey Rebellion Football Booster treasurer, was responsible for this magic. Using his background as a tax lawyer, he balanced the budget and used his power of persuasion to get Sal to close the restaurant for the evening and let The Blackhawks use the space for free. In return, Sal’s Italian Too got a courtesy full page ad in the glossy football program and a mention by the announcer during every home game of the season.

Unfortunately my dad was late because a deposition had gone longer than expected. The food was going quickly, so my mom pre-fixed a plate and sent my younger sister Skipper and I get some tin foil to cover it from the kitchen staff to keep it warm. (Really it was a one person errand but Skipper decided to tag along).

After obtaining the tin foil, we passed Suzette Winklebleck, the varsity cheerleading coach. Her jet black hair swooshed as she walked along swinging her hips. Suzette, as she insisted on being called by her girls, had been head cheerleader at Whiskey Rebellion herself. Try outs for the squad were a mere formality as she always selected girls who who’s family members she shook pom poms with.

There was one loophole for anyone who didn’t have The Old Whiskey Rebellion connection. Every summer, Suzette conducted a week long clinic at the high school where she taught “Lady Hawk Fundamentals.” Like a good role model, she could be seen smoking by the bleachers before camp. Our mom had put Skipper and me in it a few summers before in case we wanted to cheer. At the end of the week, Suzette explained to our mom that Skipper and I weren’t “Lady Hawk material.” We were relieved.

Suzette passed us on heals that were too high to walk on and in hot pink outfit so tight that she hung out like a Pillsbury biscuit waiting to pop. Greeted by her husband Cort, a long suffering and non-descript man, she gave him a cringeworthy kiss.

Skipper, who was ten and tested genius level said, “Those shoes defy the laws of physics. She could fall and seriously injure her head.”

I said, “That would imply there was a head to injure.”

Skipper said, “Maybe she already has. That would explain impractical outfit.”

We arrived at the table and handed our mother the foil. Suzette swooshed by, swinging her hips so wide she nearly hit our brother Wendell in the head. Wendell said, “What an obnoxious safety hazard.”

Mom said, “I’ll tell you what’s obnoxious. The Lady Hawk Boosters don’t donate, don’t plan and yet we have to invite them.” The controversy at the planning meeting for The Blackhawk Banquet had been the budget. My parents, who were doing most of the foot work and realized that they could cut the cost significantly by not inviting The Lady Hawks who never made a monetary donation. The Old Whiskey Rebellion faction was up in arms because this was the way it had always been. Mom and Mrs. Renninger got into a shouting match with my dad and Mr. Renninger had to separate them. After seeing he wasn’t going to get much support, Dad caved. Mom was still bitter.

Suzette swooshed by again. Mom said, “She’s Old Whiskey Rebellion alright, because she is too old to be wearing that outfit.”

Our dad arrived. Feet away from our table, Suzette was hitting on several Blackhawk football players. She flipped her hair and laughed as Cort stood helplessly by her side. Between bites my dad said, “Jesus God almighty! Doesn’t she know this is a family event? Even the girls at The Jefferson Lodge have more sense and decorum.” The Jefferson Lodge was the local strip club in town. Some of the more illustrious Whiskey Rebellion alums danced there.

The lights dimmed and the banquet began. Coach Matthias began to speak in his thick West Virginia accent, “Thank y’all for coming tonight. A special thank you to Wendelin Brucker for gettin’ Sal to cater this event!” Dad proudly stood up like an actor who had won an Oscar and the room rewarded him in kind.

Matthias said, “GO HAWKS! LET’S GET FIRED UP!” Like a tent revival, the room was in a frenzy. Coach Matthias said, “Now I ain’t a thinkin’ man or a talkin’ man so I will bring Coach Stephens.” Relief hit the room as the tall, dark and handsome dream boat of a JV coach approached the mic. The women all silently drooled.

Coach Stephens said, “Now, I would like to introduce the first award, Hardest Worker. This young man only became a Blackhawk this year. He didn’t know the game but he learned it and over the summer improved his bench press and speed. I am pleased to present The Hardest Working Blackhawk Award to Wendell Brucker!”

Tears of joy streamed down Mom’s face as she took photos. Dad beamed with pride. The Blackhawk players chanted, “BRUCKER! BRUCKER! BRUCKER!” Bashfully, Wendell took his award. Speaking softly behind the mic he said, “Thank you Coach, my teammates and my family. Go Hawks!” The room applauded, kindly acknowledging this shy kid who didn’t expect to win.

Wendell got fist bumps from his fellow Blackhawks as well as The Lady Hawks. When he sat down, Skipper and I flashed him a thumbs up. Dad said, “Son, your public speaking skills suck.”

Wendell said, “Dad, I didn’t know I was going to win.”

Dad said, “Growing up, I didn’t have the same advantages as you. Remember that.” Wendell angrily shoved food in his mouth and looked away.

Coach Stephens then said, “Now I present to you, team captain of this year’s Blackhawks, elected by uniamous vote by both his teammates and coaches, Kyle Latham!”

Kyle ran up to the stage with his blonde ringlets bouncing. Like a rapper at a concert, he stood onstage and made the raise the roof sign with his hands. Then he yelled, “Go Hawks! WHOOT! WHOOT!”

Unmoved by the fact Wendell was intentionally ignoring him, Dad pointed to Kyle, “Wendell, now that’s how you command a crowd.”

Kyle jogged back to his seat. Mrs. Latham, who was at the next table, took my mom by the arm, “I don’t know what the hell that was. We made him practice his speech at home!”

Mom shook her head empathically and said, “How about this, we combine Wendell and Kyle and create the perfect kid.” The two women laughed.

Coach Stephens said, “This next young man has been a leader on the field and off. He also overcame adversity but kept going. It is my pleasure to present The Blackhawk Spirit Scholarship to Matt Eichenbrode.”

The room cheered loudly for several minutes. Matt Eichenbrode was inarguably the nicest kid on the team. He had gotten to know Wendell because they both volunteered with Circle of Friends, a group that had lunch once a week with special needs kids at school. On the fence about whether or not to play football, Matt swayed the tide and talked Wendell into becoming a Blackhawk.

This past spring, Mr. Eichenbrode, who drove a truck for Steel City Beer got into a fatal auto accident during a flash flood. Mrs. Eichenbrode worked as a book keeper and Matt worked part time as a landscaper, but that wasn’t going to be enough as he had three younger siblings at home, one which was special needs. In response to the tragedy, The Blackhawks had a fundraising drive for The Eichenbrode’s. Our family, as well as every other Blackhawk and Lady Hawk family, donated.

Because he had lost his own father as a teenager, our dad had gave the Eichenbrode’s a free legal consult. He didn’t practice accident law, but a shark of a colleague owed our dad a huge favor because he had gotten him out of a jam with the Feds. The shark, grateful he wasn’t in prison, got the Eichenbrode’s a huge settlement. The money, while it did not bring back their father, helped solve other problems like paying Mr. Eichenbrode’s burial costs and saving their home from foreclosure until the life insurance kicked in. To thank him, The Eichenbrode’s had sent a huge flower arrangement to our house last week.

As Matt walked to get his award Dad said, “Part of the reason I was late was this kid stopped me to shake my hand and thank me personally, AGAIN.” Then Dad yelled, “GO MATTY!”

Giving Coach Stephens a man hug and taking his award, Matt said, “While my dad can’t be here tonight, I know he is looking down thanking each and every one of you for helping us out. Being a Blackhawk is being a part of a family. Every time I lace up my cleats and step on the field, there is always an obstacle but I always have my team behind me. That way, I can turn a negative into a positive.”

Matt went on, saying he was inspired by his work with Circle of Friends, the team trainers and the hospital staff who tried to save his father after his traumatic accident to help others. With the $500 reward from the Blackhawk Spirit Scholarship, Matt aspired to go to St. Francis University, major in physical therapy and continue his playing career with The Red Flash. When Matt finished, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house and he got a standing ovation. Dad beamed. The Blackhawk Banquet was as close to perfect as could be.

After Matt went back to his seat and the applause died down, Coach Stephens introduced Suzette. Wobbling in her too high heels, Suzette said,

“Hi Everyone. Quick story. This summer, I saw Matt at the beach.”

I whispered to Skipper, “Beach?! After the last few months he’s had? Is she insane?!”

Skipper shrugged, “Maybe she got her summers mixed up.”

Suzette said, “So there Matt was, shirt off, pecs out and a huge bulge coming from his speedo. And then all of a sudden a potato fell out and landed by his feet.” Mom put her hands over Skipper’s ears. The room gasped in WTF horror.

Al Pender, who was perpetually on JV yelled, “HIS DAD’S DEAD! LEAVE HIM ALONE AND PUT SOME CLOTHES ON, YOU SAGGY, FUGLY BITCH!” Usually no one liked Al, but now he had become the conscious for the room as jeers and obscenities filled the air. Mom’s hands were glued to Skipper’s ears as she shook her head in annoyance. Dad’s eyes were fixed in their infamous death stare. The Blackhawk Banquet had gone off the rails.

Suzette laughed and did a tone deaf hair flip, “C’mon, it was just a joke!”

Wendell said, “Sal’s probably not having us back next year.”

A big, bass voice thundered, “GET OFF THE STAGE YOU FREAKIN’ MORON!” Glancing over, we realized it was Sal himself! Taking his large arm, he threw a piece of half eaten Blackhawk cake that landed several inches from Suzette just missing her. Panicked, Suzette screamed.

I said, “Yeah, because Sal will be in prison for killing her.” Dad gave us both the shut the hell up look and we did.

In an attempt to save the evening, Kyle sprinted to the stage and took the mic from Suzette, “Blackhawk Nation, my first duty as your captain is to order you to stop the violence now. We are better than this!” When we became a country I did not know, but slowly the room began to quiet down.

Matt walked up to the stage joining Kyle. He said, “Guys, thank you for having my back. Until now it’s been a great night. Let’s step over this and make it a great night again. Go Hawks!”

Coach Matthias stood up and took a turn at the mic, “Latham, Eichenbrode, thank y’all for making sure the Titanic didn’t hit the iceberg. Now sit down.” Kyle and Matt obeyed. Coach said, “Next to heckle, I don’t care who y’all are, will have to run. That’s not a threat that’s a fact. And Winklebleck, don’t go out for Saturday Night Live.” The room broke out into a much needed laugh break that lasted for an entire minute.

When the laughter died down, Coach Matthias smiled, “Now that’s comedy!” Then he gave the mic back to Suzette.

The evening went on with the Blackhawks giving The Lady Hawks a mix of hostile silence and weakened claps. Embarrassed, The Lady Hawks grabbed their awards and ran. When she was done, Suzette grabbed Cort by the arm and quickly wobbled out the door.

As we left, Mrs. Renninger approached us. Having been a Lady Hawk cheerleading captain herself, she now had three sons who were Blackhawks. Her blonde hair in a bob and her pearly whites flashing she said, “Wendelin, Gracie, you’re right. This is for the boys. The Lady Hawks can embarrass themselves on their own dime.”

Dad said, “Cindy, what she did to Matt tonight was appalling.”

Mrs. Renninger’s said, “Yup. They’re our neighbors. Skip and I organized the meal train for Nadine and the kids after Walt was killed. Between us, Suzette was never really Lady Hawk material. The only reason she got to be captain was because mother was coach. She couldn’t even do a straddle jump.” As we digested this useless information, Mrs. Renninger turned to Wendell, “Congratulations sweetheart. Welcome to the Blackhawks.”

Wendell said, “Thank you, Mrs. Renninger.” Then the perpetual busy body marched away.

When she was out of sight Mom said, “I still don’t like her.”

Dad said, “The night she got into it with your Mom I thought Skip was gonna have to give her a rabies shot. So much for Old Whiskey Rebellion.” Then he took Skipper’s hand and off we went.

Mrs. Renninger took her marching and circulated a petition demanding Suzette Winklebleck be removed. Suzette, in order to save her job got her mother, friends and former Lady Hawks to write letters in support explaining it was just a joke that was taken the wrong way. Suzette was soon to learn the key to good comedy was timing, awareness and knowing your audience. The schoolboard agreed she was batting 0-3 when they sided with the petitioners and fired her.

Suzette Winklebleck was replaced with Senorita Marianne Jonestum, a Spanish teacher from the middle school with a fake tan, fake eyelashes and a brief career as a swimsuit model in West Virginia. Reforming The Lady Hawks from within, Senorita Jonestrum selected her squad based on merit rather than politics. Eager to make amends , Senorita Jonestrum and The Lady Hawk Boosters helped plan The Blackhawk Banquet the following year and made a sizeable donation to cover costs. Sal, happy that Suzette would never be returning, gladly invited the team back where they have been holding the annual event ever since without incident.

Matt Eichenrode had a standout senior season with the Hawks and was admitted early decision to St. Francis. He continued to make magic on the field with The Red Flash and off where he graduated with honors. Moving back to Whiskey Rebellion, Matt now owns and operates the very successful Eichenbrode Physical Therapy where his wife is the office manager. Carrying on family tradition, his twin sons both play for the Mini Blackhawks in the Pop Warner league.

Eichenbrode Physical Therapy takes out a full page ad in the glossy football program every fall. In the center of the ad is a picture of Matt, Coach Stephens and Coach Matthias from that infamous Blackhawk Banquet. Getting the last laugh, Matt has this message for perspective clients, “Physical therapy is turning a negative into a positive. An injury might feel like you just found a potato on the beach. It’s unexpected, but once you peel back the layers, with the help of your team you can do anything.”

Gangsta's Paradise (Coolio)

The JV game was a bloody grudge match. A win in triple death overtime in the freezing rain redeemed the fallen The Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks who had lost the night before. The fire, my mom’s chili and Van Damme in Blood Sport with our newly purchased cable were a well earned Saturday evening reward.

Wendell was in his glory because his last minute sac cemented the victory. Coach Stephens, the easy on the eyes head of the JV guys, was so impressed by Wendell he called Coach Matthias and the two agreed, Wendell was worthy of a promotion to varsity punt return. This was the cherry on top of a great week where Wendell, who had been training his body for two years now, broke a squat record in the weight room, one held by powerhouse junior Vince Davis.

Then the doorbell rang. Skipper and I, the only ones even remotely awake, jumped up to get it. Standing at our front door, good looking with the inflated sense of self to match was Mac Buzzinski otherwise known as Buzz. At the beginning of the season, Buzz, like Wendell, had been on JV. When a senior starter broke his leg during practice, Buzz, who was next in line for the wide receiver spot, took his place by default. While he was talented, Buzz’s ego was already bigger than the state of Texas.

What made this visit even more bizarre was Wendell and Buzz hated each other’s guts. Aside from the fact Buzz was a chronic jagoff, about a month ago at a Booster Club Meeting my dad the treasurer, and Buzz’s dad the secretary, got into a shouting match over the budget that would have escalated into a fist fight had their rather embarrassed wives not pulled them apart. Memorable insults include Mr. Buzzinski calling my dad, “An out of touch shit head in a suit,” and then my dad responding by saying, “Oh yeah, well you’re a Goddamn cement head yum yum asshole,” in reference to Buzz Senior’s work as a contractor. Little Cement Head, my dad’s nickname for Buzz, tried to even the score by jumping Wendell in the locker room. Wendell, who wasn’t as fast as Buzz but was much stronger, gave him a bloody nose and knocked him down. While Buzz was the clear cut loser, Coach Matthias acknowledged it was a punk move on Buzz’s part and made both parties run after practice.

Looking out into the driveway I saw Buzz’s car was running, Biggie blasting from the stereo. Knocking on the window like a prisoner was his younger brother, Jeremy, who was autistic and barely verbal. Their parents, after IEPS, court dates and other actions, were victorious in getting Jeremy mainstreamed into public school, and were especially successful in advocating for him to get speech therapy. While the success of the speech therapy for Jeremy was limited, Mrs. Buzzinski, who was a salt of the Earth woman and had gotten to know the system all too well, wanted to help families like theirs. Attending law school part time and graduating last year, she recently opened a legal practice where she advocated for the rights of disabled children. How she lived with Big Cement Head and Little Cement Head was a mystery.

Coach Matthias, despite his gruff nature, taught adaptive gym and was actually good at it. Seeing Jeremy’s hyper focus and attention to detail-side effects of being on the spectrum-as assets, he promoted the young man to equipment manager. Loud noises and too bright lights sometimes made Jeremy meltdown on the side of the field, but the pads and cones had never been so organized. Coach Matthias rewarded him with a Jersey that said Baby Buzz that Jeremy wore with pride. For all his faults, Buzz took Jeremy just about everywhere he went, going out of his way to make him one of the guys.

I opened the door. Buzz said, “Wassup?! Wendell in da crib?”

Skipper and I exchanged a glance as we both visibly tried to translate. Buzz lived on the other side of town, and usually the varsity starters watched game tapes on Saturdays at the high school which we lived three blocks away from. That would explain why he was in the area, but Saturday practice would have wrapped hours ago. Skipper pointed to his rolled up pant leg, “You run the risk of hypothermia.”

Ten years old, Skipper had recently tested as gifted and with good reason. I not only noticed that but the pink bandana which was beyond explanation just like everything else. Buzz said, “Lil Shawty, it’s for my dead homies.”

I said, “No man rocking a pink babushka should use homies in a sentence, ever.”

Buzz said, “Strawberry Lane Crew in da house! Did I stutter?! I ain’t playin yo. Get Wendell.”

I could tell Skipper was as dizzy as I was from this brief encounter with Buzz. We called for Wendell, who was at the door within seconds. Skipper said, “I know you punched him but he is clearly still experiencing head trauma.”

Wendell said, “No, that’s the way he always talks.”

Skipper and I ran back to the TV room, but my mom, now awake, ran upstairs to investigate. Within a minute, Wendell yelled, “Stay away from my house and my sisters you fucking idiot!” Then he slammed the door.

Walking down the stairs, my mom, who was barely five feet tall, said to Wendell, “You stay away from him. He’s a bad kid. It took me nine months to form you. Then twenty four hours of labor. The fetus was in distress so it was an emergency C-section with two weeks recovery. It has taken me nearly 16 years to get you to this point. I will not let a moron with too much leisure time screw up your life in 16 seconds!”

My dad, now completely awake and pissed off said, “What the hell was that?”’

Wendell said, “Nothing, can we just watch the movie?”

My mom said, “Tell him, or I will.”

Wendell said, “Buzz got into it at Eat ‘n’ Park with some of the players from Joyce Kilmer last night after the game. They challenged him to a rumble and he wants me to act as an enforcer because he’s impressed with my strength. And he’s calling his gang The Strawberry Lane Crew because that’s where he lives. They couldn’t even throw down with the Sesame Street Gang.”

I said, “They wear pink bandanas.”

My dad said, “ No doubt Little Cement Head’s mouth got him into this.” Kilmer, one town over, was poorer and more rural than we were and their kids were always getting into fights.

My mom said, “I don’t like him. If he comes here again, I am calling the police.”

My dad said, “His mother’s gonna put a stop to all of this, you just watch.” Then he turned up the volume just in time for the Kum Met Te.

The following Friday, Skipper and I were selected to give the team food after the game, a plumb gig for younger siblings. That night was especially sweet because The Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks had defeated Clairsville, our most bitter rival in an away game, for the first time in over a decade. Wendell had also made his varsity debut on punt return and impressed Coach Matthias.

Vince Davis, the team’s only black player, a bigger quiet kid, approached. Just as he was getting his food we heard, “YO! YO! Wassup my brotha!”

Vince groaned, “Buzz, you are worse than a concussion and I am not your brother.”

Buzz said, “I am just speaking the language of your people, Homie.”

Vince shook his head, “That is really racist and ignorant, even for you.”

Buzz said, “Hear me out. The Strawberry Lane Crew could use your services as an enforcer and I could act as an agent for your talents. You see, we thought of Wendell Brucker for the role but as we know he is a WWIIIIIMMMPP!!! You are much stronger than he is.”

Vince said, “He broke one of my records and I still have three. What’s your point? Besides, I was there. Your big mouth got you into this, and now you are gonna have to dig yourself out.”

Buzz looked like he had been hit in the head with a hard object, “Man, don’t be a fool. Unlike Brucker you can roll legit my brotha!” Vince laughed, “Your dumb ass pink do rag wearing crew is about as legit as MC Hammer after bankruptcy. Ken Doll, I hear Barbie wants to throw down. Oh, and Brucker’s sisters are here. Keep talking…”

Vince took his food and made his exit. Buzz turned to Skipper and I, “Shawties, I was just playin….just so you know.” My dad, who coordinated the food distribution, gave Buzz a look of death which made him run to the bus. So much for being a real OG.

Buzz was determined though. The following week, he recruited three other players for the Strawberry Lane Crew. They were Franco Diamond, a third string lineman who dreamed of being a cage fighter; Jim Hanks, a big lug who often was a bench warmer due to academic ineligibility; and Al Pender, a JV wide receiver known for his profanity ridden outbursts usually cost the team yards. Buzz’s recruits, meeting in his parents garage, received initiation, aka being punched in the face by Jeremy who was surprisingly strong. Buzz assured, “Yo, the speech therapy failed so he won’t talk about official gang bizzznizzzz.”

The Strawberry Lane Crew dawned their pink bandanas, causing anyone who saw them to roll their eyes. My mother and Skipper were horrified at

Jeremy’s role, but my father, Wendell and I found a strange comfort that Buzz was including his learning disabled brother in his illegal aspirations making him an equal opportunity employer. However, laughter ceased when a date was set for the rumble, Friday night after both Whiskey Rebellion and Joyce Kilmer had their perspective games. Al Pender, the most unbalanced of the group, blabbed that he had access to guns and was bringing a few to the fight. My mom, now extremely distressed told Wendell he was to stay away from Buzz, and if The Strawberry Lane Crew tried to approach him in any way to let her know so she could call the police.

The Friday of the rumble steadily approached. Wednesday morning, two days before the main event, I found myself running late to third period as my social studies homework had fallen to the bottom of my book bag. Sprinting to the door, I saw Coach Douglass, Matthias’s second in command and my reading teacher poking his head out of his classroom door, “Brucker, you got a minute?”

The bell rang, “Coach Douglass, I am already late. Can I talk to you before lunch? It’s in three periods.” Mr. Regent, my social studies teacher, was a stickler and hated tardiness. A lecture would be coming if I didn’t step it up.

Coach Douglass said, “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Old Regent and I’ll write you a hall pass.”

Entering Coach Douglass’s class, I wondered what was wrong? Was my Charlie Skadaddle diorama not up to snuff? That had been last weekend’s project and Coach was very particular when it came to our dioramas. I said, “Coach, I tried my best. I write, I don’t draw.”

A mountain of a man, Coach Douglass said, “Brucker, your diorama was fine. Did Mac Buzzinski visit your brother two weeks ago and ask him to be in his street gang? I need you to be honest.”

My heart began to pound. I didn’t want to answer because I feared any answer might get poor Wendell, who was working hard, in trouble. Coach Douglass said, “Mrs. Davis came in here this morning pitching a fit because she heard Al Pender running his mouth and asked Vince who told her everything, including the fact that Wendell had been approached, too.” Mrs. Davis was the middle school nurse. A no bullshit woman, I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that one.

I said, “Yeah, it was last Saturday after the JV won against Jumonville where Wendell had the sac. Wendell told Buzz to buzz off and that he didn’t want to be involved. Is Wendell in trouble?”

Despite the fact Wendell had told Buzz no, I didn’t know what version of events Coach Douglass got, “To answer your question, no. Wendell is in no trouble at all. Look, I don’t know all of the details, but Jeremy went with the guys to Eat ‘n’ Park after the game and something triggered a meltdown. Apparently Buzz had words the week before this went down with the kids from Kilmer and they said something about Jeremy that night. That’s how this all started. You know how Buzz is when it comes to Jeremy.”

Buzz was unlikeable most of the time, but the fact he was willing to become a gangster to preserve his brother’s honor said a lot. So I had to give credit where credit was due, “Well they should have left his brother alone. That wasn’t right, Coach.”

Coach Douglass said, “I agree, but a street fight isnt the answer. Now I appreciate you being honest. Here’s your hall pass. Not a word about this to anyone, okay RL Stine.” RL Stine was Coach Douglass’s nickname for me because I was always writing something. I took my hall pass and off I went.

That night, my dad had a function for a Democratic candidate he was endorsing at Sal’s Café, the upscale Italian eatery in town. We were meeting Wendell after practice, who would be showered and dressed, and then planned on heading over and meeting my dad there.

Pulling up in the mini van in front of the high school, we waited for Wendell. On the practice field across from us was Buzz running along with Al Pender, Franco Diamond and Jim Hanks. Coach Matthias supervised from the hill while Coach Douglass assisted down below on the green. My mom rolled the window down so we could listen. Coach Matthias yelled in this thick West Virginia accent, “Well if it isnt the Pink Ladies of Whiskey Rebellion High!”

Franco Diamond threw up. Jim Hanks screamed, “Coach, let him stop! He’s sick and stressed!”

Coach Matthias said, “Not as sick and stressed as he’s gonna be in prison when Big Bubba is coming for him!”

Al Pender screamed, “Fuck you! Fucking Buzzcock! You said your retarded brother coudnt talk!”

Buzz went to punch Pender. Coach Douglass pulled them apart. Coach Matthias said, “Y’all better believe he talked well enough to tell me about your stupid street gang! Pender, that is thirty more laps for you for speaking disrespectfully about a member of my staff who contributes more than any of you maggots! And Buzz, thirty more for exploiting your brother!”

The now defunct Strawberry Lane carried out there sentence when suddenly, Mrs. Buzzinski materialized. Dressed in the power suit and heals that had lawyer written all over it, Mrs. Buzzinski said, “Malcolm Alexander Buzzinski, you and I are going to have a little talk.”

In the truest OG move over, Mrs. Buzzinski marched on the field, grabbed her son by the ear, and he let out a high pitched scream that broke the barrier of sound. She said, “I had a very important deposition today, and I was interrupted when Mrs. Davis paid me a very angry phone call.”

Buzz pleaded, “Coach, I have thirty more laps, right?”

Coach Matthias let out an evil laugh, “Boy, there are some things worse than prison or hell. That is why I am releasing you to the custody of your mama!” Sadly, the show was interrupted when Wendell emerged from the locker room in his suit ready for dinner.

On our way to Sal’s, Wendell said that Coach Matthias noticed bruises on Jeremy’s hands during gym class. Concerned, Coach asked what happened. Apparently the speech therapy worked better than anyone thought, because Jeremy revealed the existence of the Strawberry Lane Crew, the date and time of the rumble, Al Pender’s plan to bring a gun and how he was afraid his big brother would get hurt.

Coach Matthias, incredulous, called his colleague at Joyce Kilmer who was not only outraged about the planned gang fight after his game, but that his starters had bullied a learning disabled student. They too were being punished in kind at that moment. Needless to say the rumble was cancelled. Of course my dad loved the fact that he had called it all along.

Aside from living with the fact his mother busted up his street gang, Mrs. Buzziski said no more gangsters paradise and decided mama would knock him out. In an effort to put her son back on track, she signed him up for a Scared Straight Program and Campus Crusade for Christ. Inspired by the minister he worked with and the inmates he encountered, Buzz went on to become a football star at a Division II school and then entered the seminary. Getting a dual degree in social work, he ministers to at risk youth and he is assisted by none other than his brother, Jeremy. The good news is, Buzz got out of the life. The great news is, he gave me an epic story.

Like my writing? Visit me at AprilBrucker.TV or buy one of my books on Amazon.

A Country Boy Can Survive (Hank Williams Jr.)

It was Monday night, the first official tailgate of the season. Friday would be the first official game of the season. The late summer air buzzed with insects as country music blared from the stereo. Down the hill, the marching rehearsed their half time show.

Enjoying the sights and sounds, my younger sister Skipper and I loaded our plates with ribs and other fixins from The John Wayne Diner-a western themed restaurant that always catered the booster events. Decked out in our black and orange-the school colors of the Whiskey Rebellion Blackhawks- we were in our glory as we were among the cheerleaders and football players. Wendell had begged our mom not to dress us up as he was a mere undersized sophomore and didn’t want to be picked on by the upperclassmen. All was forgiven when a busty blonde cheerleader named Tracee Yanowski said to Wendell, “Your sisters are adorable!” It was official, Skipper and I had arrived. We were on the A list with the rest of the heroes of the fall.

The event had one villain, the new coach, John Ezekiel Matthias. An import from West Virginia, he was already butting heads with the boosters and the season had not yet begun. A lot was riding on this tailgate. Everyone seemed to be ignoring the drama and having a good time. That is, until Coach Matthias decided to turn off the country music to make an announcement. We all breathed a sigh of relief because we couldn’t hear a song about a broken heart or a broken pickup one more time. Standing by coach were Douglass and Stephens, two former players of his that served as Matthias’s assistants. Both were gigantic boulders and Matthias stood in front of them, half their size, like a red neck mob boss.

Douglass was my reading teacher down the hill at the middle school. This in itself was ironic as Douglass had misspelled several words on the blackboard-public school education at it’s finest. Stephens was a tall, dark drink of water that all the ladies lusted after. I whispered to Skipper, “I get first dibs, I’m older.”

Skipper, three years younger and often light years smarter said, “With the advancements in cloning we could both have one.” We both high fived at this compromise as the cheerleaders silently swooned and the lonely, long married booster mothers snuck a peak.

Then Coach Matthias began to speak in his thick West Virginia accent, “I just want to say I am proud of these boys for all the work they have done this summer when they could have been going after fillies, sitting on their butts or playing those doggone video games. We are going to win this Friday. Now let’s get fired up!” Everyone clapped. This was nice.

Confused, Skipper said, “What’s a filly?”

I said, “I think it’s a female horse.” The look on Skipper’s face was priceless, but I had a copy of Black Beauty to back me up.

Coach Matthias continued, “I realize things have not been so good with the boosters. And I know I ain’t the most diplomatic of fellas, but I got a fundraising idea everyone can be excited about cause we need new equipment. It’s called Cow Pile Bingo.”

My dad, who was elected booster treasurer because of his taxation background raised his hand, “Coach, what is Cow Pile Bingo?” Everyone nodded, relieved my dad had asked because out of all the parents, he got along the best with Coach.

Coach Matthias said, “Wendelin, glad you asked. Cow Pile Bingo is when you get a cow in the middle of the field and bet on where it is going to poop. It’s a lot of fun and the winner gets a lotta money. Now let’s get fired up!” Coach Matthias raised his hand expecting applause but instead what he got was dead silence.

Rochelle Kelly, the beautiful red headed cheerleading captain and current senior class secretary said, “Eww Coach, that is animal cruelty!” The cheerleaders nodded in agreement.

Douglass said, “Now ladies, I know it sounds gross, but it’s how I learned my numbers growing up. It’s an effective teaching tool.” Last week, Douglass had told our class in addition to reading he was also certified to teach math. The visual as well as that other information made me worry for the future of the youth of America.

Mr. Latham, who’s son Kyle was on the starting line, was head of the math department in the district. A former football player himself, he tried to be diplomatic, “Coach, I admire the enthusiasm of you and your staff, but this is not how the kids learn math in this district.”

My mom raised her hand, “Coach Matthias, I think it’s great you want to raise money for the team and we know you care, but in our district we have a grounds staff that our tax dollars pay for that manicure the fields. We don’t even let dogs go on there because it destroys the green where the boys play. Cow poop produces trichinella.”

Douglass said, “Trica……waaa?!”

My brother Wendell, known as the brain of the team, raised his hand, “Coach Douglass, it’s a bacteria from animal poop…..”

Kyle, who acted as Wendell’s surrogate big brother/guardian angel on the team made the sign for Wendell to stop talking. Wendell shot a look of anger at our mom. It was official, she had ruined his tailgate after all and his nightmares about being on JV forever were about to be a reality.

While my mom and Mr. Latham tried to be supportive with the no sandwich, Mrs. Andrekis who’s son Tom was starting kicker, went in deep, “This is Whiskey Rebellion High School, not the film Deliverance.”

Mr. Andrekis, who was clearly whipped by his overbeating wife said, “Coach, c’mon, where would we get a cow anyway?”

Tom, wanting to keep his starting position said, “Mom! Dad! PLEEAASSSEE!!!”

Mrs. O’Shea, who’s son Ryan was the starting quarterback, rolled her eyes, “Coach, can we discuss this when we aren’t eating?”

Mr. O’Shea, who was an intolerable blowhard said, “Coach, Whiskey Rebellion is a blue ribbon school. Most kids here go to college, they don’t work in the mines like you did growing up.” Ryan, horrified and also wanting to keep his starting position, let out an audible groan.

Coach Stephens, with his million dollar good looks decided to help out, “I understand ya’ll are alarmed because this is out of ya’lls comfort zone. But this is an event that could help the less fortunate. When it’s over, we can kill the cow and donate the meat to the families that need it.”

Mr. Capalano, who was booster president, famous for his vanity plate CAPS and had a son Bobby who was second string center said, “Coach, the boosters and the coach always worked together. You have no interest in that. You have completely gone rogue.”

Bobby, ever the suck up who wanted to get off second string said, “I am all about cow bingo or whatever this is. It sounds great!” Then his cheerleader girlfriend Ashely Grant punched him in the arm and Bobby bowed his head in defeat.

Coach said, “I have no idea what rogue means but Cow Pile Bingo is a hit where I come from.”

Mrs. Andrekis said, “Where you come from is West Virginia where our church’s kids went on their last mission trip.”

Coach was now furious, “Y’all think I might be crazy, but when I came to this district ya’lls boys were about as prepared for action as Bambi’s mother was in the first ten minutes of that movie!”

Suddenly, all hell broke lose. Mrs. O’Shea, blitzed out of her mind, took her plate of ribs and threw it at Coach, “YOU ARE A DISGUSTING BARBARIAN! GET OUT OF OUR TOWN!” As the ribs hit him in the face, Matthias stood shocked. Cow Pile Bingo might have been a hit in Coach’s old district, but it was sure as hell a miss here.

For the next few days, everyone in all of the grade levels talked about what was known as Bambi-Gate. The story morphed so many times that in one version the coaches and parents even got into a food fight. Skipper and I, because we had been witnesses, became minor celebrities for the week because we saw the train wreck up close and in person. Later that week, as I was telling the umpteenth person that there was no coach/parent food fight, Coach Douglass asked to see me. I said, “Am I in trouble?”

Coach Douglass said, “No. I just am curious, where do you live?”

The question was weird, “Why, Coach Douglass?”

Coach Douglass said, “I always see Wendell walking home after practice and figured it had to be somewhere close.”

I said, “Up the hill on Foxtail Road three blocks from school. Ours is the one with the ivy and flowers.”

Coach Douglass changed the subject, “You know Coach Matthias didn’t like it when Bambi’s mother got shot. His daughter always cries at that part.”

I said, “Yeah. But I also get what he was trying to say. The team was pretty unprepared and we got eaten alive last year. Welcome to The Whiskey Rebellion School District where parents are drunk on themselves.” Coach Douglass laughed. Cow Pile Bingo had been a horrid idea, but we both agreed that seeing some of these booster parents who were hard to take lose their proverbial shit was entertaining.

That night, I rushed to complete my homework while helping my mom and Skipper cook the porkchops when the doorbell rang. Skipper, who was setting the table was too far away to get the door, and Wendell, who took double math that fall because he had tested up a year, had not one but two big tests. My mom said, “April, would you like to get that?”

I said, “Do I have a choice?” This was a running gag between my mom and me.

She said, “No.”

I said, “Dad is gonna be home in a few. We can just pretend we aren’t home?”

The doorbell rang again and now it was followed by an urgent knock, “April, if it’s a band kid tell them we will take two hoagies. If it’s a religious nut tell them you are Catholic. And if it’s a serial killer, scream.”

Making my way to the front door, I didn’t see a serial killer but saw the next worst thing, Coach Matthias. Standing there, despite the rain and the typical cold snap of early September, he was still in his gym shorts and t-shirt that said “Coach.” While I pitied the man for being in the inclement weather, I also didn’t want Bambi-Gate under my roof.

Grudgingly I opened the door and said, “Hi Coach….”

Coach stepped into our foyer, “Your daddy home?”

I said, “Not yet.” Then I called to Skipper and my mom, “Coach Matthias is here!”

My mom ran to greet coach with a smile like she wanted to kill him, my dad for volunteering to be booster treasurer and then herself, “Hi Coach, what can I do for you? Sorry the house isn’t a little cleaner.”

Coach said, “Don’t worry Grace, I grew up on a hog farm and live with a two and four year old. But I’m glad I found the place. Coach Douglass told me April said the one with the flowers and the ivy.” I turned bright red. Maybe he couldn’t spell but Coach Douglass had totally just punked me hillbilly James Bond style.

My mom shot me a look of death. I shrugged, running up the stairs and pulling Skipper with me who said, “I wondered how he knew where we lived.”

Wendell, who had circles under his eyes from studying, emerged from his room, “Girls, am I hallucinating or is Coach Matthias downstairs?”

I said, “He’s downstairs. Want to go and say hi?”

Wendell rolled his eyes and shook his head no, “Not really.” After Bambi-Gate, the team had been forced to do an ungodly amount of physical exercises as punishment for the unbecoming conduct of their parents.

Skipper said, “April told him where we lived.”

Wendell said, “You’re stupid. Big surprise. Because of Mom, I had to run extra laps and had a week that made the Hanoi Hilton look like a dream vacation. Now we have Bambi-Gate under our roof because of you!”

Angered, Wendell sneered inches away from my face. I said, “Hey jagoff, Coach Douglass saw you walking home. He asked if we lived close to the school because he always saw you walking. He’s my reading teacher. What was I supposed to do, huh?!”

Wendell sputtered, “Oh yeah…..you still brought Bambi-Gate under our roof.”

I said, “No, you did. He’s your coach. You’re the one who wanted to play.”

Wendell rolled his eyes, “No, Dad wanted me to play!” It was true, our father was living vicariously through Wendell, another reason he accepted the position as booster treasurer, “This is all his fault and I hate Mom, Dad and YOUUUU!!!!!!” He then walked in his room, threw his math book across the room and began to punch his pillow. So much for studying.

The garage opened. Dad. Skipper said, “Dad’s home. Now you both stop it before we all get in trouble.” Wendell and I sighed. She had a point.

From upstairs we listened. My Dad said to coach, “A beer?”

Coach said, “Nah, the wife would kill me and mine wears the pants when I’m home. Wendelin, I ain’t no Einstein like your boy Wendell, but I know we need to raise money and I know I need to work with y’all. I want to make this right. I moved my family up here for this job.”

My dad said, “I think you meant well, but cow poop and food and Bambi’s dead mother werent a good combo, especially for some of these folks.”

Coach said, “Clearly they ain’t hunters.”

My dad said, “Coach, I know it looks bad but you need to see the forest for the trees. You have a lot of strengths, like Coach Stephens. He’s single. Why not have an auction where women can buy a date night with Coach Stephens?”

Coach said, “I like that. He likes the fillies and the fillies like him.”

My dad said, “Would he be up for it?”

Coach said, “He will be. I’m still his coach.”

It was settled. That Friday night, the auction for a date with Coach Stephens was a success. Not only did it raise five thousand dollars, but it was one of the highest grossing events in booster history. Miss Renreski, a lonely science teacher who had just gone through a terrible divorce, was the winner. The two would have a tumultuous cuffing season romance and would break up the following spring when Mrs. Renreski left him for Mr. Topper, a tech ed teacher who had lost his left thumb in an industrial accident.

The team would win that Friday night as well as the rest of the season. Coach learned to work with the boosters which made him the ultimate hero of the fall. And no one spoke of Bambi-Gate or Cow Pile Bingo ever again.

For more on me go to AprilBrucker.TV,and to buy my books go to Amazon. xoxo

All Fired Up (Pat Benatar)

When fall comes in Western Pennsylvania, it means one thing, football season. In the rest of the country, football is a sport but in Steeler Nation it is a religion. The South Hills, my particular area, known as “The Quarterback Cradle,” produced some of the greatest stars the gridiron ever saw such as Joe Montana, just to name one of many. Behind ever great player is a great coach, and often that coach comes with a great big personality. Case in point, our very own John Ezekiel Matthias.

For years, I saw Matthias’s antics up close and in person as my brother Wendell played for him throughout high school. My mom cursed Matthias as Wendell slaved, training his body to get faster and stronger only to be continually banished to the hell of JV on Saturday mornings and then promoted to the purgatory of Varsity special teams his junior year. As revenge, my mom put Matthias’s picture in her ice cube tray in an attempt to freeze his soul to make him a more compassionate human being. Things changed Wendell’s senior year when he was finally awarded a much deserved starting spot on the defensive line. Happy he finally had the chance to prove himself under the spotlight, Wendell became one of Matthias’s best players that season, shattering strength, speed and tackling records.

Wendell shined in the classroom, too. His top notch academics and athletic prowess earned him a spot at Brown University as a chemistry major, but also on their Brown Bears football squad. The local paper did a story on the future Ivy League athlete. Coach Matthias was quoted as saying, “The kid is an example of a role model that never gives up. Always worked hard in that weight room. He was real smart but I thought he wouldn’t amount to much a player. I’m just as surprised as you are that this is happening.” My mother was thrilled. NOT!

You see, our district got Matthias by accident. Before Matthias, Coach Stoltz had been our town’s long time head coach and long time embarrassment. Stoltz, who’s signatures were his beer belly and his clipboard, gave an interview to a local news outlet where he said several questionable things about Jewish people. After getting a letter from the Anti-Defamation League, the district was forced to publish a public apology in not only that news outlet but every one in the area. In addition to being a bigot, Stoltz was an asshole who bullied players, favored the kids of booster officers going as far as to take bribes from said parents so their kids could start, dating several mothers of players at a time and bragging when these women got into fights over him. While this was all terrible, the racism, sexism, anti-semitism and xenophobia was not what did him in with the administration, but the fact we were one of the lowest ranked teams in the conference. After a no win season, the school board decided it was time to put Stoltz and his outdated opinions out of a job.

Many of the active booster parents, happy with the nepotism despite the team’s poor record, hoped one of Stoltz’s lackies would succeed him as head coach. Candidates included such classics as Coach DiCarlo: Super Catholic who had his photo taken with Mother Theresa and mentioned it in every conversation ever, Coach Marian: Remedial math teacher who waxed nostalgic about the days when public school teachers could beat their students and of course Coach Link: Loveable cigar chewing gambling addict who spent time either dodging a bookie, any one of his three ex-wives or any of the strippers he was currently dating. The school board was between a rock and a hard place, they wanted fresh blood but there was none to be had. So they resigned themselves with the fact this was the best they could hope for.

Then a dark horse entered the race. Hailing from small town West Virginia, Coach Matthias arrived at the interview in a loud pick up truck. Stepping out in a suit and tie, Matthias pitched himself to the schoolboard in his trademark back country twang, “I aint the handsomest man or the smartest man, but I will work hard and get these boys to win! Let’s get fired up!”

Fired up they were because Matthias was hired on the spot. Matthias immediately got to work, cleaning house and replacing the old staff with his former players. (The running joke became that Wendell and the players started a West Virginia to English dictionary to understand what their coaches were saying to them). The days of booster nepotism went too, as Matthias started the players he felt earned it by hard work and talent. When parents protested, he told them how he felt of their offspring, favorable or not. When Matthias heard of players not doing homework or behaving badly in class, an epidemic that had gone unchecked in the days of Stoltz, he made them run laps until they puked. Needless to say, academic eligibility and behavior were no longer a problem. Suit and tie became required wardrobe to school on game days as well as for travel to away games and off season camps. Skeptics soon became believers when our town had it’s first winning season in about a decade. Together, as a community, we adopted Matthias and his battle cry, “LET’S GET FIRED UP!”

Always high octane, Coach Matthias was prone to superstition, especially during football season when we were playing Clairsville, our most bitter rival in the conference. One brisk October day, on the week of the game that determined which teams advanced to the first round of the playoffs, the door to my gym class burst open. Standing there, as if he crawled out of Army of Darkness with something cradled in his hand, Coach Matthias declared, “CLAIRSVILLE DID THIS! THEY WILL HAVE BLOOD ON THEIR HANDS FOR KILLING OUR BELOVED MASCOT!”

As our teacher Mrs. Mason turned down our aerobic dance music that served as a strange soundtrack to see what the fuss was about, several of the female students shrieked. Glancing towards Coach Matthias, I saw he was holding the carcass of a dead black hawk! Coach stood, undaunted that the corpse of our school mascot was crawling with bugs. Mrs. Mason, the tall beautiful, universally liked former swimming star who had several records in our school’s pool that had yet to be broken said, “Coach, while I realize you are upset this is extremely unsanitary. You should really consider washing your hands!”

The class nodded in agreement at her attempt of sanity in this insane situation. However, Mrs. Mason’s best efforts were an epic fail as Coach said, “I aint gonna wash my hands of the blood of our slain mascot! Clairsville is goin’ down! This is MURDER!”

Mrs. Mason got a FML look across her face as she struggled to maintain her diplomatic smile. Colleen O’Grady, a red head who attended regular meetings of the anime club said, “Coach, I think you should look at all the facts before you accuse Clairsville of murder. In AP Bio, our teacher was saying sick animals die in nature all the time. The hawk could have very well died of natural causes.”

What Colleen said was probably correct and was extremely well meaning, but she didn’t know Coach Matthias which meant she didn’t know when to shut up. Coach Mattias said, “THAT IS BIBLICAL BLASPHOMY RED! ONE MORE WORD AND YOU’RE ON THE CLIMBER!” The climber-an exercise machine in the weight room-was Coach’s favorite form of punishment. He would make offenders go for an indeterminate amount of time depending on the infraction but also his mood.

Justin Gurrecca, a skater boy who had a very visible crush on Colleen said, “Coach, it’s just a game. It’s not about winning but about having fun, right?”

Coach screamed, “Wrong answer, boy! Are you STUPID?! TO THE CLIMBER WITH THE BOTH OF YOU!”

Colleen, who had never gotten a detention let alone a tardy ever, began to cry. Justin glanced at Mrs. Mason for help. Coach continued to hold the dead black hawk undaunted. Mrs. Mason said, “Okay, no one is going to the climber because we still have 15 minutes left of my class. And you know what the principal would say about sending someone who’s not on the football team to the climber. You agree, right Coach Matthias?”

Coach seldom listened to anyone, but Mrs. Mason’s father and husband were his hunting buddies and she was his wife’s best friend. Coach knew if he went any further it would be a very unpleasant evening at home. It was common knowledge Mrs. Matthias wore the pants once Coach stepped foot off the field. Grudgingly, he nodded in agreement. However, he was not ready to give up just yet, “Brucker, you’re smart. What do you make of this! What is the cause of death of this animal?!”

Seeing the desperate glance from Mrs. Mason and knowing the balance of the situation rested on my shoulders I approached Coach Matthias and the dead black hawk, “Coach, while my findings are inconclusive without a complete autopsy, I feel based on the evidence, timing and motive that the hawk was murdered by Clairsville.”

Coach nodded, “See Brucker, I knew I wasn’t crazy. Tell Wendell hello from me when you talk to him.”

“Will do,” I said heading back to my spot as Mrs. Mason flashed me a thumbs up sign.

Coach jogged out the door, dead bird in hand but none in the bush, “SEE, I KNEW IT! WE'RE GONNA MAKE CLAIRSVILLE PAY TOMORROW NIGHT! NOW LET’S GET FIRED UP!”

Mrs. Mason attempting to restore order said, “Alright everyone, this has been an exciting class but now it’s time for our cool down.” That night, I relayed the story during Wendell’s evening phone call to the family from his dorm room. Via speaker phone Wendell said, “Wow, guess it’s good to know some things don’t change. I’m just glad he wasn’t trying to keep it in the locker room to surprise the team with like he did the dead rat.”

We all made the silent agreement to move on because some stories are best left untold. My mom said, “I will admit it took a while, but I love Coach. He’s right, Clairsville murdered that hawk. I know it!”

My dad said, “Come on, Grace. That’s just crazy. I’m sure the animal died of natural causes, or maybe one of his assistant coaches shot it by accident.”

Wendell said, “Could be. Coach Douglas always told us because he had a farm as a kid, when there was nothing in the refrigerator he sometimes killed dinner.” Coach Douglas, one of Matthias’s assistants, taught English at the middle school down the hill. The irony was he was barely literate himself.

Skipper, my impish 13 year old sister who was regarded as a young Sheldon before there was such a show said, “While his enthusiasm is to be admired, Coach Matthias could have come in contact with bacteria that could not only caused severe neurological issues that led to impaired cognitive function but ultimately killed him. The Blackhawk was in a state of rigor which means the post death pathogens were present.”

My dad said, “I don’t think that’s an issue. Cognitive function is limited for Coach Matthias as it is.”

My mom said, “But April is the hero for giving the right answer. Props for that.”

I said, “Nah, the hero is Mrs. Mason. She kept two people off the climber. She deserves a metal.”

That Friday, Coach and his squad battled Clairsville on one of the coldest, rainiest October nights in Western Pennsylvania history. Going into triple death overtime, our mud caked boys beat Clairsville by a surprise touchdown earning them a spot in the playoffs. That Monday, as Coach did his victory lap in our gym class he said, “That black hawk wasn’t murdered. Just like Jesus, he died for our sins but granted us salvation with that final touchdown and gave us a victory!” We just nodded and agreed. No one likes the climber, right?

Coach went on to have the Blackhawk, who spent the weekend in his deep freeze, stuffed and mounted in his office. Until his retirement, he was the winningest coach in school history and one of the most respected in the conference.

I had forgotten about Coach and this story until years later, I was trying to clear up some writers block while drinking my coffee on my back porch. Out of no where, I saw a Blackhawk fly overhead and squawk loudly in my direction. He was saying, “GET FIRED UP!” So in I went to write…….

Goldfinger (Shirley Bassey)

In ninth grade, right before Christmas, Mr. Angle decided to take the theatre arts class on a field trip. We were going downtown to The Byham Center to see the matinee of “a real play.” After that, it was back to school. For weeks, my friend Mikki and I had been plotting our adventures, but alas, true to form she picked that week to get mono. As I dreaded the long, friendless trip I thought, “Damnit, Mikki, your timing sucks.”

Aside from being the coldest day of the year so far, the play was a real bust. The acting was great, but the plot was unremarkable. It didn’t help that I sat near David Gehring-lacrosse co-captain- who spent the whole play snoring. Not only was it annoying, it distracted from the theatre going experience for the rest of us.

Last year, my brother Wendell had been forced to tutor David at the behest of the lacrosse coach. Wendell described the lost cause by saying, “When I look at David, I know somewhere, a village is missing their idiot.”

The reason the Theatre Arts Curriculum had inherited David was his parents-painfully aware their souffle didn’t rise to the top-were trying everything they could to change their son’s friend group. This past summer, David had been busted smoking weed with the lacrosse team in Simmons Park-where all good things happened in town. After a trip to the magistrate and probation, David’s parents, worrying for their son’s safety and salvation began their mission to save him by bringing him to their mega church’s youth group. The Teens For The Testaments had a conversion program. For every new convert, Teens For The Testaments got a point and with enough points got a pizza party at the end of the month. Helping this cult fill their quota, Teens For the Testaments welcomed their newly converted wayward reprobate with open arms.

Another reason David was in theatre arts was his girlfriend, Bethany Kensington: Abstinence Queen Bee. The reason being was The Teens For the Testaments did plays and concerts to teach people about Jesus and she wanted David and his “movie star good looks” to be ready for his big role. Bethany was hard to take even on a good day with her big, vacant smile, scarecrow skinny frame, brown hair pulled back into a bun and crucifix front and center. Making it her mission to convert her classmates regardless of how much it made them uncomfortable she said, “Jesus has called me to save people and save people I will.”

Unlike David who risked not graduating, Bethany already knew what she wanted to do with her life. She had already applied early decision to Grove City, a Christian college where students had to sign a pledge not to have pre-martial sex, could be expelled for homosexuality and the parents of perspectives had to be interviewed to make sure they came from a Godly home. Bethany said, she wanted to, “Bring Christ to the pagan children of Africa.”

While Bethany, who viewed David as a project, could not have been more different than her boyfriend they agreed on one thing, instead of celebrating Halloween, the devil’s holiday, they had exchanged promise rings. Taking the abstinence pledge in front of their pastor and youth group, they swore to wait until they were married to have sex.

As we walked out of the theatre and boarded the bus, snow fell. I was being introduced to a new sensation, being genuinely pleased to return to school in time for math. Taking a seat close to the front of the bus I thought, “Damnit Mikki, your timing sucks.”

Turns out Mikki wasn’t the only one with craptacular timing. Taking the seat behind me was Alyssa Clayton, school super tramp. Alyssa had badly dyed jet black hair and skin that was an alien orangish color courtesy of Alta, the local tanning salon that was the home of the rest of the super tramp crowd. I could tell Alyssa dreamed of Miami Beach on this Pittsburgh winter day where the mix of snow and rain fell from the sky, but was she aware those dreams could give her skin cancer? Alyssa wore jeans that were three sizes too small, a shirt that could have probably fit one of my baby cousin it was so tight and frosty lip gloss. I felt a smell hit my nose and began to cough. Then I realized it was Alyssa’s perfume. Before we got on the bus she had snuck a cigarette and this was how she was going to disguise it, a scent so strong she could have killed a small animal. Alyssa’s sexual exploits were always the subject of rumor and intrigue. Or as it was said, “Alyssa Clayton was in bed all weekend but didn’t get much sleep.”

It would only make sense that Alyssa was a super tramp as her mother was known as the most super, duper tramp of the town. Mr. Clayton, a former school administrator, was known as a conservative hard ass. Her mom was the opposite. Darlene, who had her children and their friends refer to her by first name, a questionable parenting decision that negated all boundaries, taught yoga and pole dancing, carried healing crystals and made her children meditate daily. While the coupling was strange, their older son Eric was a star swimmer and got a full scholarship to Ohio State. When Eric went away to college, Darlene began to feel the pangs of empty nest and realized that she had fallen out of love with Mr. Clayton and had been in love with her son’s swim coach, Mr. Rendell, all along.

Apparently Mr. Rendell, the twice divorced men’s coach with a winning record and even more winning toupee collection, felt the same way. The two began an illicit affair that went on for months. However, they were busted when they were discovered after hours when Bob the Janitor, afraid the school had been broken by unruly teens, followed protocol and called the police. What Bob the janitor and the cops discovered was not unruly teens but Darlene and Mr. Rendell doing some very X rated dry land exercises closeted in the kickboard room.

Angered that he had been cuckolded, Mr. Clayton was merciless during the divorce. Darlene, citing what she termed years of emotional distress, attempted to retain my father so she could begin her life with Mr. Rendell. Darlene and my father had creative differences: he wanted paid and she wanted him to work for free. Suffice to say, it seemed the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

As the last of the students came on the bus I heard a voice say, “Is this seat taken?” It was David Gehring, my most unfavorite theatre ruining peroxide bottle blonde.

Alyssa said nothing as David slid in. When the bus pulled away David said, “What you think of the play? I thought it was lame.” How would you know, Sir? You slept through the whole thing!

Alyssa said, “It was alright, I got out of my math test. I’m failing anyway.” Eye roll, of course she was. Wendell was tutoring her now too. While she was another lost cause she was a better student than David. Then again, who wasn’t?

David said, “The entire show, I kept dreaming of you on top of me.” David remembered his dreams, nice. Too bad he couldn’t remember to dream quietly.

Alyssa said, “What about Bethany? Didn’t you exchange promise rings? You can’t have sex or even talk about it and stuff, right?”

David said, “Nah, that’s more her thing. My parents just make me go to that weirdo cult because I got busted smoking weed with the guys. But you see, the Promise Ring…..we haven’t been keeping the promise if you catch my drift.” Holy mother of God, Jesus take the wheel!

Alyssa said, “That doesn’t sound like Bethany.”

David said, “Nope, the God girl is a front to keep her parents happy. Bethany’s a nympho. I went to her house when her parents were gone and she answers the door naked. Before I can talk, she just tackles me. We did it in every room of her house. She even nicknamed my dick 007 because he’s the spy that loved her.” I faced front pretending not to listen but wow, this was some good scoop. Bethany Kensington, the ultimate God girl, was a slut on the low. Move over, Super Tramp, you have been dethroned.

Alyssa giggled, intrigued. David continued, “We didn’t just do it there but in the pew of the church one day after youth group and in the hot tub.”

I didn’t want to bring up the episode of Seinfeld about shrinkage as Alyssa giggled again with that familiar, super tramp giggle. David said, “Those church chicks are off the chain. I am telling you. But I am sick of her and those church weirdos. I want someone like you. I am settling for someone with a flat chest but what I really want is someone like you because a man needs something he can grab on to.” Bethany Kensington was irritating, Alyssa was a super tramp who was currently suffocating me and David had destroyed my theater going experience. I wanted to vomit. Alyssa giggled again as David said, “I could just eat you out if you so desire. Do you want my digits so we can get down?” Sigh, now I knew who and what she would be doing this weekend. David and Alyssa then exchanged numbers.

Cheating was trashy but so was Alyssa. David deserved garbage. These two were a perfect match. However, Bethany being a slut on the low was something I couldn’t keep to myself for too long. Gosh, I could not wait to tell Mikki! The promise ring had been promised, and the promise had been broken. Oh what tangled webs we weave. As I exited the bus I thought, “Damnit, Mikki, your timing sucks.”

The next day on my way to third period, I saw a crowd gathered in a circle in the hallway. This could only mean one thing, a fight. The day was young and had been rather uneventful and Mikki was not back to school yet. Risking a tardy but wanting to see what dumpster fire was taking place, I inched my way in to get a peep.

In the center of the circle was Bethany Kensington. She had tears streaming down her face, and David on the defensive, “Baby, you know Alyssa is a lying slut just like her mom.”

Bethany said, “Maybe Alyssa hasn’t accepted Jesus Christ into her life and her mother broke the commandment about adultery but she was one of my best friends in middle school and is still a good person which is more than I can say for you! And lying is against the Bible too!!” While I didn’t agree with Bethany on practically everything, it was clear those tears streaming down her face were real and the tales David told about her being a slut on the low were vicious fiction.

David said, “Baby, c’mon….you know I love you and took that abstinence pledge for real.” Sigh, as a silent witness I knew he had not.

David moved into hug Bethany but she swatted him away, “Liar! I told you how important this was for me, for us, and you agreed! When you tried to pressure me, I told you I wanted to wait until we were married because that was what God would want and you said you loved me and understood! Instead, you lie and tell everyone I had s-e-x with you because you were mad I wouldn’t put out as you guys say. And what…..you claimed I named you THING!!!! 007! You broke a promise to God and now you will have to think about where you want to spend eternity!”

I disliked Bethany most of the time, but I understood her anger because David’s behavior had been wrong. As revenge for her not putting out he had lied about them breaking their abstinence promise to sound cool and then tried to cheat with Alyssa. When Alyssa turned on him, he tried to use Alyssa’s sexual history and her mother’s infidelity as weapons. Bethany was right. David was a jerk face.

Bethany was now angry. Her voice being replaced by that similar to the possessed Linda Blair from The Exorcist, “MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON YOUR SOUL!”

David, trying desperately to control the situation said, “C’mon, Baby, you sound crazy.”

David was about to learn the 13th commandment, thou shalt not call an upset woman crazy. Winding up, Bethany decked David right across the face with the hand that had her promise ring and knocked him down. Impressed by her right hook, the crowd applauded. The promise was broken, and now the promise ring had become a weapon. David fell to the ground knocked down by Goliath sized rage. Hell hath no fury like a God Girl scorned.

As David lay whimpering on the ground it became apparent that Alyssa might have made some mistakes but she was never trash. He was. Instead of sleeping with David and creating a situation that resulted in a catfight she told her former middle school friend the truth and now the real villain lay on the ground suffering. However, I felt like trash for judging Alyssa as badly as I did, especially without knowing her. The peanut gallery of our peers had determined her reputation, but her character was pure gold.

Bethany, victorious, wiped her tears away and made a dramatic exit like a boxer who had just won a prize match. Sure, her beliefs were outside of the realm of my understanding, but she wasn’t letting David pressure or humiliate her which I respected. On her victory walk, Bethany received high fives from people who shared my sentiment and were also surprised she had that much of a swing, myself included.

The bell rang and the portly history teacher, Mr. Donotelli, who doubled as the JV football coach said, “Okay everyone, break it up. Get to class. Show’s over.”

David, who was still on the ground said, “Mr. Donotelli, she cold cocked me on the hand with the promise ring. That thing is gonna leave a scratch. Send her to time out or my parents will sue.”

The students who were dispersing booed David, and Mr. Donotelli said, “Son, you are lucky that is all you got. The way you have been running your mouth if this was my sister, you wouldn’t have any teeth. Get to class.” David and his injured pride picked themselves off the ground and skulked away.

I finally spoke to Mikki that night who’s health was on the mend. She said, “Damnit April. Is it just me or does my timing suck?”I told her it did, but she could make it up to me by getting back to school pronto as our was more rife with drama than an English countryside on a BBC murder show.

After Bethany dumped David, she received the happy news she had been accepted early decision to Grove City. Not only did she thrive at Grove City, but met her future husband and married him shortly before graduating. The two became missionaries that traveled around the globe before settling in Texas. Bethany voted for Trump, is pro-life, anti-vaxx and Christian home schools her four kids. I would tell her that her views suck on facebook but I have seen her right hook.

Alyssa, with the aid of my brother Wendell’s tutoring, brought her math grade up from a D to a C. She graduated from high school, got her cosmetology license, moved to Ohio and married a biker. Alyssa, by all appearances on facebook, looks like she mastered hair dye and the proper use of the tanning bed, now owns a full service salon that is highly rated. She looks happy and I am glad, because it makes me feel good when okay people are happy.

As for David, he ended up playing lacrosse at a party school who’s name escapes me, flunked out and pretty much fell off the map. I don’t know if David still calls his dick 007, but unlike David, Bond was a true gentlemen. Taking his martini shaken and not stirred and always getting the girls even at the peril of the security of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, he knows a true spy never lies let alone kisses and tells.

That’s all folks.

Visit me at AprilBrucker.TV

Alana Petridge

Everyone has encountered one in their lives, someone you need to watch your back around. I was still new to comedy when I met mine. Alana Petridge was the real life version of Reese Witherspoon from Election, except she had pitch black hair. However, it was the same manic smile and the same façade that secretly bubbled with evil underneath.

In the unairconditioned basement of an open mic where most dreams go to die, Alana was convinced hers were being made. Sweat dripped all over our bodies as terrible punchlines were being slung from the stage. This was in fact the first layer of hell.

We were soon transported to the second when Alana Petridge marched onto the stage. Her huge smile showing off rows of pearly whites, she stated she was from Oyster Bay, graduated from Boston University, and was working at MTV with dreams of being on SNL. Translated, she was a nauseating cliché and she hadn’t even started her act. Next she began what was her act, a series of jokes that involved drawings on a poster board. Some jokes were okay, others were lame.

As she did her bits, I noticed the first signs of laughter from the catacombs. Looking over I saw a tribe of people dressed in white, WASP refugees from the Hamptons. Then it clicked, Ms. Desperate had brought her entire family. Yes, it was mom, dad, a reluctant brother and sister, and her grandparents. Mom was filming this disaster. I told myself not to be so hard on her. My parents were far away and maybe I was just jealous.

After the show, I decided to introduce myself as she was another woman, and maybe very lost. I walked over to her and the WASP refugees and said, “Hi, I’m April, good stuff.” It was a half-truth, some of it was decent.

“Alana,” she shook my hand in a way that felt like she was snapping it off, “Listen, do you book shows?”

“No…..”

“It was nice meeting you,” she said, big fake smile flashing. This encounter confirmed my instincts, steer clear.

Over the next month, I crossed paths with Alana at least twice a week. She brought her WASP refugee entourage dressed in white, and they always sat through the shitty open mic sitting silent until their princess took the stage. Alana always did the same routine, never varying, which meant she wasn’t writing. Each time she always re-introduced herself hoping I was booking shows, and each time I would curtly remind Alana we had already met. Finally, she got the message, I had nothing for her therefore I was no use to her.

Alana was vocal about wanting to find management and soon found it in the arms of none other than my ex Isaac Rabinowitz. A trust fund kid, Isaac was fulfilling his lifelong dream of opening a comedy club he christened The Universe. His father, a real estate mogul, spent a small fortune on billboards to attract big name talent. Isaac, a self-proclaimed impresario, was dipping his fingers into talent management, his first client being “the beautiful and talented” Alana Petridge.

As I saw the social media post, I marveled at both Isaac’s hubris and the ability to think with his dick. The fact she thought he was going to make her a star and the fact he thought he could were the funniest thing either of them had ever done. In the time I had dated Isaac, he had run a theatre company into the ground, managed to alienate every woman he ever encountered, and every joke writing instinct he had proved to be completely and utterly wrong. Isaac couldn’t even manage himself, oh what a gas.

The Universe opened, and despite the musing of big names the only headliner was Alana Petridge. Each night, she did 30 minutes, 5 which contained the tired bit with the picture board, and 25 written by Isaac. Comedian friends of mine told me tales of the utter horror and bloodshed that occurred onstage. I will say part of me delighted in this trainwreck, because these were two people I disliked immensely.

In the early fall I got my chance. Isaac, eager to make amends for all the crap he pulled when he was busy messing with my head, and as an olive branch offered me a spot on a show at The Universe. Despite our tricky past, Isaac had always cheered me on when it came to reaching the next level with my comedy. Plus again, I wanted to see the trainwreck for myself, so I confirmed the spot.

The night of the show The Universe was packed. Planets painted on the walls with glowing decals of stars lined the room. Sure, Isaac was Isaac but I had to admit I was impressed. The emcee was a skinny Jewish kid named Bobby Greenbaum who warmed the room up and they were ready to go. He sat in the back with my friend Paul Thompson, a cynical divorcee turned comic, and myself.

“They are great,” I said.

“Oh, crowds here are always.” Paul said.

Overhearing us, Bobby interjected, “That is until…..”

The three of us tried to muffle our laughter, “That bad?”

“I would rather spend time with my ex wife than see her do comedy,” Paul said. Wow, that said a lot. Paul’s ex wife had tried to run him down with her car.

“I call her Tel Aviv because it’s the only place where anyone could bomb that bad,” Bobby said, as he then turned to give the comic onstage the light. As Bobby ran to the edge of the stage, I could see Alana on Isaac’s arm like a Dollar Store Christmas Ornament, glaring at us. I flashed her a fuck you smile in return. After all, I wasn’t the whore no one could stomach.

My name was called, and the set was insane. May Wilson went off script and flashed the audience. They were drunk and off the wall, but it was helluva fun. Bobby gave us the light and we were sad to go. He gave me a pat on the back and whispered, “Get ready for Tel Aviv,” and then made an exploding sound.

Reluctantly, Bobby took the stage, “Ladies and gentlemen, your headliner has been on MTV. Please put your hands together for Alana Petridge.”

Paul whispered, “MTV. I didn’t know it became a TV credit when it was just your foot.”

“Then you could use that Subway Commercial,” it was true, Paul’s foot was in a Subway Commercial. It helped get his SAG card.

Alana started her set. It was 5 tragic minutes of the poster board and drawings. Without her band of WASP refugees dressed in white, the jokes got pity laughs. From there, she went into the material Isaac wrote and then was greeted with awkward silence. I didn’t know what was worse, the fact she was tanking or the fact it wasn’t even with her own material, “If you’re going to blow someone, blow someone funny,” Paul said.

As this big wet abortion went on, several audience members began to leave, always a bad sign. Finally, one super drunk dude who I loved during my set yelled, “Hey Baby, show us your tits like that puppet did! That would be funny!”

“I had no idea the puppet tits were funny,” I said to Paul.

“Puppet tits are always funny,” We both tried to muffle our laughter. Upon hearing this, Alana looked at the audience, tears in her eyes, and then burst out crying and ran offstage. Everyone looked at each other, baffled as to what the hell had just happened. Then suddenly we all burst out laughing because we were apparently sick and unsympathetic fucks.

The drunk yelled, “Now that’s funny!”

Barely out the door Alana countered with, “FUCK YOU!” which made us all laugh even harder.

As Darlene the waitress was dropping checks she passed us and said, “Good, that girl’s such a pain in the ass.” Damn, when the waitstaff doesn’t like you that says everything. Stick a fork in her, she’s done.

Walking out at the end of the night, I heard Alana screaming to Isaac, “You promised to write me jokes! Your jokes suck! Just like sex with you!” Damn, Isaac was who he was but this was way harsh.As she continued her assault on Isaac, I passed.
Alana, full of venom screamed, "And fuck you April Brucker! You and your unfunny puppet drained the crowd and ruined my night! If it wasn't for you, I would have had a good set!"
Looking at her, May Wilson in suitcase, I said, "Tomorrow, I hope to be funny, but you Sweetheart, will still be shrill and obnoxious." Then I gave her the bitchy smile matched with the bitchy wave and departed into the night.
As I walked away Alana yelled, “I HATE YOU APRIL BRUCKER! I HOPE YOU DIE!”

The next morning I woke up with a message from Isaac apologizing for Alana and telling me he had severed all ties with her. I told him not to worry, things happen, and I looked forward to performing at The Universe again. Days later, the buzz on social media was that Alana’s big time lawyer father was suing Isaac for both sexual harassment and breach of contract. The suit was ultimately thrown out of court, because Isaac’s brother was a big time lawyer, too. While The Universe Comedy Club would stay open a while longer, Isaac retired from personal management forever which was for the best.

After that, Alana went off her birth control, entrapped a successful writer, and tricked him into marrying her. Everything went bust after that, and the divorce was a shitshow. From there it was radio silence until I decided to look her up on facebook.

Alana is living with her parents back on Long Island. The aging stick didn’t just hit her hard, it beat her to a bloody pulp. She, her family, and her son are all dressed in white, smiling as a group of WASP refugees happy in their hive. In another post she announced after a long break and a lot of therapy she wants to return to comedy. Part of me wanted to encourage this, because I wanted a sequel to the shit show she had given me for free so many years before. Than I thought nah, the world has enough depravity and sadness as it is.