November 22, 1963 — art by Jacob Yeates
This is a story about when I realized that I was going to die. No matter how rich or powerful, no matter how good looking I was, how pretty my wife or children were, no matter what, I was going to die. If all this sounds too serious I suppose I should point out that this story is also about something more important than death – high school pep rallies.
You remember high school pep rallies. Adolescent group therapy, when all that sexual repression and hatred for authority was allowed, even encouraged, to be released in a froth of socially acceptable school spirit. All our malice toward and principals and teachers was transferred to a more faceless enemy, inmates in some other educational prison who were at the same time rattling bars and gnashing their own teeth, both groups being primed for the Friday night Roman circus known as high school football.
Looking back, I can understand how Hitler rose to power. Even in America, at least when I was sixteen, we were all Nazi youth, ready to serve the local Horace Mann auxiliary.
I went to Happy Valley High, just outside of Fort Worth. We were the Happy Valley Rebels, eight hundred boosters of the big Blue and Grey. Happy Valley was only a few years old, a single brick monument on twenty flat acres which we were supposed to grow into. Today there are five buildings squatting on the grass. As well as being Nazis we were all pioneers, inflated by the sense of potential that any new frontier offers. We had big plans for that twenty acres.
This particular Friday we were getting ready for the last pep rally of the season. Happy Valley did not have a great football team, not even a good one. Six and four was a championship season for us, but there was always consolation in this last game. It was against our traditional rival of two years, the Haltom Buffaloes, whose colors were black and orange. Haltom was an old school that was being phased out of the district. Until our stadium was built we had to share the “Buffalo Pit” with Haltom, alternating Fridays home and away.
Our pep rallies were rituals. Sitting in home room, we would wait for Mr. Billy Russell, the principal, to announce over the intercom in his greasy voice: “All right, boys and girls, let’s march to the gymnasium in an orderly fashion. Remember, we are Rebels and we’re proud of it. Don’t spoil the pep rally for your classmates by being rowdy.”
Mr. Russell wore glasses that were half plastic and half metal and his hair looked like he painted it on his head every morning. One of the few things that everyone agreed on was that Mr. Russell was a jerk. Ten years later he would be fired when Winnie Putter, the Latin teacher, caught him masturbating in the teachers’ lounge.
Even Mr. Russell couldn’t spoil that particular day. As we started to file out of class we heard a solitary drum down the hall.
Rat-a-tat-tat – - Rat-a-tat-tat
Danny Poldurd was going to lead us into the gym. Poldurd, with his quarter-inch crewcut, was the best drummer in the world, at least he was for about three songs, all of which sounded suspiciously like Dixie. We all loved Poldurd, even though we gave him a lot of grief about his name.
As we got into the gym everybody broke into a run for their favorite spot in the bleachers. Mine was on the top level in the far corner. As soon as burst through the door we got our first surprise. The band was there, as usual, and they struck up Dixie as usual. What was not usual is that they all had on uniforms like Poldurd. We went crazy.
Clapping and yelling, we knew this was going to be the best pep rally ever. All those uniforms made us forget how low-rent our band was. Those people had to drink Clearasil for breakfast and eat Noxema for lunch, and there was more metal in their teeth than in the trumpet section. None of the was over five foot three except George Key, the flute player, who was 6’9” and weighed 135 pounds. Wendell Bennett, the Drum Major, had a speech impediment. But with those uniforms they would have shamed the Army of Northern Virginia.
I raced up the bleachers to get my favorite seat in the top corner farthest away from the band. It was the spot for all perennial malcontents. I liked it because I could sit next to Walter Dewitt, the first anti-hero I ever knew even though I didn’t know it then. Dewitt liked it because it allowed him to do or say anything he wanted. There were so many people packed cheek to cheek between him and the floor, as well as always having his underlings around him, that he knew Mr. Russell would have to wait until after the pep rally to catch and reprimand him.
Nothing was sacred to Dewitt. When we were sophomores he gave me and goofy Ralph Moon some Kotex to wave whenever the pep rally sang “I wish I was in the land of cotton.” Everyone agreed that Ralph was mentally retarded but there was no excuse for me. I got paddled for that and had to apologize to the Dean of Girls, who was kind enough to explain to me certain mysteries of the female sex. But I never revealed Dewitt as the real culprit. For that we were friends.
As we got started Poldurd took his position under the goal post opposite the band. He was also under a gargantuan Rebel flag that was unrolled at the climax of the pep rally. Until then he stood at attention and beat his drum. Even when someone was delivering a speech he would still be lightly tatting away. Dewitt said Poldurd did it to keep himself awake.
With a special drum roll, Poldurd gave the band its cue to start the school fight song and everyone stood up. Even Dewitt, though he never sang. As the last note ended the band slid into On Wisconsin and pandemonium erupted. Almost everyone had little Rebel flags they waved as we all stomped on the bleachers and sang “On Big Valley.” Through the doors the cheerleaders charged in doing cartwheels and waving their pom-poms. Even today, whenever someone mentions the Shaker Sect I immediately think of a school for cheerleaders.
The head cheerleader was Marilyn French, the second most beautiful girl in the school. She always led us in the Blue-Grey cheer. One side of the gym was Blue, the other Grey. The Blue side would yell Blue and then the Grey side would yell Grey, alternating back and forth with an appropriate increase in the decibel level. Always implicit in Marilyn’s coaxing was the veiled promise of sexual delight. Arms raised, breasts heaving, bare legs kicking and splitting. Marilyn, as every erect male in the bleachers knew, would rip off her clothes if only our volume would rise to the occasion. But like all the girls, she never delivered.
After a few cheers to loosen everyone up and get the blood circulating we were ready for the grand entrance of the Happy Valley Dixie Belles, Sixty-nine sparkling nymphets posing as a precision drill team. This was my favorite part of the pep rally. As the band played Swanee the Belles strutted in with arms akimbo and eyes shining. I loved them because they were the only girls in school allowed to wear really short skirts. With white gloves, white cowboy hats and boots, a silver sequined form fitting top and red underwear barely covered by the most micro of blue skirts, the Belles were the first inspiration I ever had for group sex. Just the thought of all those perfect legs. As they marched in Dewitt would yell “The Divine Sixty Nine” and Mr. Russell would write something in a little notebook he always carried. It usually meant another trip to the office for Dewitt.
Pep rallies were thus important because they were the only time we were allowed to openly stare at unwrapped female flesh. Even if it was only half unwrapped, it was enough. We followed every undulation of a hip or twitch of a perfect round rump. Always about halfway through each pep rally Dewitt would grope around like he was blind, claiming that his eyes were burned out by gazing directly at the thighs of Marilyn French.
The pride of the South properly stirred, it was time for the entrance of the real stars—the football team. The band struck up the theme from Spartacus, the plebeian mob stomped and yelled, and the Dixie Belles got down on their knees and formed what Dewitt called an Indian Pelt line for the team to walk through. Then the Happy Valley gladiators marched in led by Jeff Kinney and Doug Bone. They always wore their new Levis and grey jerseys with blue numerals. These were the biggest, strongest, meanest people in the world to me. I envied their self-confidence. Dewitt said he envied my naivety. Dewitt didn’t envy; he resented. He especially resented their success with girls. If anyone was initiated into the sacred order of garter belts and bras it was the football team. A lot of us were convinced that each football player’s penis was so big he had to tape it to one leg to keep it in his pants. When we got to college, that myth was narrowed to include only the black athletes.
After the team was seated in its special section in the bleachers the main events of the pep rally could begin. First, the speech department classes would perform comedy skits that were never funny.
As usual, we applauded the effort since there wasn’t much imagination to cheer about. But then the unexpected happened. Into the gym right on the hardwood basketball court raced a real live horse. A real horse! As Dewitt was quick to point out, there was an unwritten rule that the only animals allowed in school had to wear a uniform. This horse was named Bugle. It was sometimes at the game itself, safely on the cinder track that bordered the field. Inside the small gym Bugle looked almost Trojan. On his back was George Key carrying a rifle. Bugle, spurred on by Key, began chasing Bruce Flowers around the gym and we all lost our minds again. The speech class had finally surprised us.
They had also surprised Mr. Russell. Not having expected a live horse, he didn’t at first react to all those hoof prints that were being pressed into the gym floor. When he woke up he did the worst possible thing. He began chasing Bugle who was chasing Flowers who was genuinely scared to death. It seems that nobody had told him about his equine co-star. We loved it. Especially when Jerry Cook came running out with a snow shovel and broom acting like he as looking for horse turds. Around and around, like the three stooges, Bugle, Bruce and Mr. Russell were off to the races. Then Bugle stopped and unloaded a pile for Jerry Cook. Dewitt, my first atheist acquaintance, rolled his eyes and said something about an act of god.
The team spokesman was Captain Jeff Kinney. All the girls loved Kinney and his Adonic face. That by itself was enough to make Dewitt hate him. I hated him for a more specific reason. His steady girlfriend was Jenny Bulova and Jenny Bulova was the reason Marilyn French was the second best looking girl in school.
I never heard Kinney’s speech because I was too preoccupied staring at Jenny in her pink dress. Dewitt punched me in the ribs just in time to hear the final speech, the one by head coach Theodore Grimsby. If George S. Patton and Woodrow Wilson ever had a baby it would have been T. Grimsby.
I tuned in on Grimsby just as he was finishing.
“…will be a test of values, a test of our determination, a test of our willingness to sacrifice. These young men have paid the price, not just for themselves, but for all of us. And so tonight’s contest is more than a game, it is a test of wills. This team is ready and I hope you are too.”
A moment of reflective silence and then Doug Bone burst out with a Rebel yell that would have rubbled Jericho.
Dewitt nudged me and pointed to Marilyn French. I turned to salt. Every time she bounced around her skirt flew up to reveal that her underwear had slowly crept up to expose almost two inches of genuine cheek. The firm edges of her buttocks flashed in and out of sight with maddening regularity and the lower half of my stomach begin to ache.
It was time for the climax of the pep rally, the unveiling of the mammoth Confederate flag directly over Poldurd. Size is always inspiring and the Stars and Bars was three times larger than the American flag in the front of the building. When it came down we were all supposed to sing Dixie for the last time and then file out to lunch. It was almost noon and everyone was near collapse anyway.
As the band struck up Dixie Jeff Kinney pulled the rope that would let the flag unravel. Down it came to reveal a sheet pinned across the middle, a white sheet which carried a very personal message in orange letters: REBS SUCK
Freeze frame: the band sounded like a record whose needle had been abruptly lifted. Jeff Kinney stared. Marilyn French had her pom-poms straight over her head. Eight hundred mouths moved without a sound coming out. All of us knew that the forces of Evil had won, had sneaked into the midst of our celebration to ridicule us.
There was complete silence except for one person. Standing directly under the flag, Poldurd was still beating his drum, oblivious to a mute audience. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was almost as if we were mocking ourselves.
From then to eternity had lasted only a few seconds but we were all helpless. We wanted to erase the moment and begin anew, but Poldurd was still chaining us by his mindless drumming.
Dewitt finally saved us: “Poldurd! You pud! Get your head outta your ass!”
Free at last, George Key ran over to Poldurd, who by this time had looked up. Hopping on Key’s shoulders, Poldurd ripped down the sheet and thus guaranteed himself membership in the Happy Valley Hall of Fame. The band found its needle and the South rose again. Everyone began yelling “Beat the Buffaloes” in earnest and even Dewitt got the words right. Poldurd was yelling about Haltom having to eat the sheet or something that sounded like sheet. Our adrenalin was pumping again when Dewitt began yelling for a snake dance.
It was the perfect suggestion. We jumped all over ourselves to get out of the bleachers down to the floor. Everyone formed a single file line by holding on to the waist of the person in front of them and then we began weaving around. Poldurd, wrapped in his sheet, was the leader.
I knew that one of the reasons Dewitt called for a snake dance was that it was the best way in the world to get a cheap feel off a girl. Put your hands on her waist and then let them slide up or down in the confusion and excitement. Dewitt was a master. So I couldn’t believe my luck when the end of the line was in front of me and I was zeroing in on the waist of Marilyn French. I knew that under that short skirt were a pair of semi-exposed buns. My hands took control of my body and were leading me to paradise when Dewitt stepped in between us and planted his palms where mine should have been. Sometimes I hated Dewitt more than other times.
It could have been the end of a perfect friendship, but then I felt two warm hands grab my waist. I turned around to see Jenny Bulova. I was being touched by Jenny Bulova. I had nothing in life left to look forward to. Never looking back, I marched out with the rest. The music was bouncing off the walls and we were singing and weaving through the halls of Happy Valley. It was perfect.
Just past the textbook storage room I dropped out of line. I was dizzy and hot, and very happy. I watched Jenny hook up with Dewitt and pass me by. But I didn’t care. I had her first.
Alone in the hallway, I noticed for the first time how polished and clean the floors and walls were. Even the paint smelled fresh. I began to walk slowly down the hall touching things. Just outside the nurse’s office I pressed my face up against the cool brick. It made the throbbing in my head go away. I was sixteen years old and in love with a building – a place. I knew this was the best and brightest of all possible worlds and I belonged to it. So did Poldurd, and Dewitt, and Bone, all of us. Looking into an empty classroom, chalk dust floating in the air, I knew I was blessed with infinite potential. But that potential could wait. Happy Valley was going to take care of me for another year. I was surrounded by solid walls that kept the future out. The pep rally had been the best ever and the game that night would end a perfect day.
It was November 22, 1963, and we never played that game. Instead we all stayed home to watch television.
I teach in college now. Dewitt always told me I would never get out of the classroom. I have been telling this story for several years. At first, my students were passionately affected because they could remember what they were doing while I was at my favorite pep rally. But soon my students will not have even been born when I was sixteen, so a discussion of communal experience will eventually become simply a discussion of history.
The students are polite now, but mostly indifferent. I no longer tell them about Dewitt crying. Instead, I find myself talking about a horse that never existed.
Still, I do not believe that any single moment accounts for how you feel or is the only reason for an outlook on life. All the moments add up. We all went through a long process of education that began in a single moment. Some, like Ralph Moon and Jerry Cook, went to war (Ralph Moon was really a boy named Larry Mohn; he went to Vietnam. All that remains of him is a name on a marble wall in Washington).
Others, like Bone and me, went to college. I don’t know what happened to Dewitt.
I would like to see him again, to see what he believes in now, but it probably won’t happen. As for myself, I do know that I no longer believe in superlatives, nor in absolutes. I have been told that that is the beginning of wisdom, but I am not so sure.
Larry Baker is an Iowa City writer. He shook hands with John Kennedy on the morning of Nov. 22, 1963, and then went back to high school for a pep rally.