The Roach

Where I spawned decades ago, the school athletic officials wearied of the larger public schools whipping up on their stunted brethren. So, they created a league called The Big Six to pit the heavyweights against each other statewide. In typical bureaucratic fashion, the logic defied understanding, since there were more than six schools in the league.

We didn’t care. It meant road trips deep into the state, with unlimited meal privileges at a Howard Johnson’s on the turnpike.

That is, we didn’t care until we were matched up against Altoona. The skinny was that they were all inbred, Jethro Boudine-sized farm boys who weren’t even enrolled in grade school until they shaved. In all fairness, I later learned that they had been told we were South Philly gang members, with rap sheets longer than our switchblades.

Nonetheless, we approached the clash with some degree of trepidation. This was not us.

As we pulled on our pads, the adrenaline started to pump and boastful shouts echoed off the metal lockers. This was us. Then, it abruptly fell silent.

Three towering pillars stood before us in Altoona colors, impaling us with malignant stares. The silence wore on. Okay, this was the psych-out. Who did these goobers think they were trifling with? We returned the glares.

Without taking their eyes off us, each produced from behind his back a live chicken. At least, that’s what we thought they were. We were city boys.

Okay, so you got birds. What of it?

The stillness was broken only by fitful clucks and wing flaps. Then, on cue, they each twisted off a bird’s head. Then, a leg. Then, a wing. Then, they spiked the bloody remains at our feet.

Okay, now you’ve got our attention. Eyes widened and I could sense my teammates rock back on their heels. Literally.

Everyone except Roach, who strode forward and defiantly stood in front of the largest invader. He was 180 pounds of chiseled sinew, generously upholstered with black, curly hair.

I don’t think I grew up with anyone who didn’t acquire a nickname along the way. In Bob’s case, the sobriquet was dubbed in Mr. Nick’s biology class. Mr. Nick was telling us how all creatures evolved, with the exception of the cockroach, which hadn’t evolved an iota in millions of years. We turned in unison to look at Bob. From that point forward, he was known only as Roach. He seemed to enjoy it.

The colossus in front of roach smirked. Bob looked around the room until his eyes fell upon the urinals. He strode over to one and extracted the soggy deodorant wafer from the bowl. Returning to his post in front of the ogre, he re-established the eye lock. Without breaking it, he inserted the wafer in his mouth and chewed fervently.

Now the wide eyes were on the other face. They beat a hasty retreat. Roach threw up and we went out to thrash Altoona 27-6.

No, I don’t see a lesson in this. But sometimes, when I’m standing in front of a porcelain edifice and notice the wafer in the bottom of the bowl, I fondly muse that Roach is out there somewhere, rising to the occasion. I just hope it’s somewhere far away.

Yes, another moldy high school saga. My excuse is that I have a reunion creeping up and the nostalgia is enveloping me. I appreciate the understanding of those readers who can relate. To the rest, the back of my hand.