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The Slate Dogg Express
5/20/05
by DJ

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all doing direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
English novelist (1812 - 1870)

This quote has been forever branded into my subconcious mind, for it describes my high school experience with such eloquence and truth. It's all the backdrop one needs to know what my middle school and high school life was like. This quote is fresh in my mind because the other day I took a stroll down memory lane and went by my high school to visit old teachers and faculty that still anchor the pantheon of knowledge known as Martin Luther King High School. I met my old ball coach, walked on the soccer field (where many gridiron classics have been set) --editor's note: see DJ's column about Clay's football skills here--, sat in the lunchroom, saw some old teachers, and looked at old photos. It was quite nice, quite nice indeed until the one thing that could bring back horrible, chilling memories of embarassments past arrived. One man who if he possessed the will to destroy my life with one story could. I saw him. Down the hall, in a Scorcese like moment, he appeared, and I swear he had smoke around his feet, or it could be that my pupils were dilated to the point of small saucers. I was taking in prism after prism of blinding illumination. Mr. Keene Slaton the art teacher and middle school soccer coach loomed before me. Sweat raced from my every pore until I felt like a saturated sponged. Swamp ass instantly set in, then he spoke:

"Mr. Harrison, hey man how's it goin?" he inquired, eyes glistening with wonton rememberance.

I froze. I froze in taint quivering rancid terror. Everything tasted of sulpher and arsenic. There was a searing pain in the base of my brain where terrible memories are stored, like a hot branding iron was two inches from my neck. All I could do was muster "Fine, and you?" and something lame about England and Spain before skulking away into the mist, like a silverback evading a poacher.

Let me take you back to 8th grade. We were at soccer practice about two miles from the school on a field we usually did not play on. Our soccer field at MLK consisted of broken glass, cement hard dirt cakes, and patchy grass, so this was a welcome respite from our usual tetanus riddled battlefield. Practice was nearly over and we were finishing up a scrimmage. I was deftfully handling the ball about to cremate it into the upper left corner when a vicious and illegal slide tackle was doled out Amanj Alexander, who came from goalie to punish my transgressions. Amanj Alexander was the brother of the toughest kid in our school (his brother Omed had played six years of soccer without ever owning shin guards) and was both tough by association and based upon the fact that he had had facial hair since he was seven. My knee was hyper extended and I lay there in excruciating pain, wailing. What happened next almost ruined my life.

Mr. Slaton ran over in his short royal blue Umbros, asking if I was OK and if I could walk. Imagine a bowlegged Robin Williams crossed with William Shatner with a stigma of dubious sexuality hovering over you, bulbous tightie-whities in view from my less than desirable position. (God give me the strenth; help me continue...) I said no and he then scooped me up like a newborn pup and flipped me into piggy back position and proceeded to jog me back to campus. His taut muscles were cagey and strong. Through tears of rage, embarrassment, and pain I glanced back as we bobbed up and down on the way back to school, my testicles griding against his sweaty back to see my "friends." Among them stood Clay, leading the way (in two years I would verbally disembowel him for wearing a pink shirt but then it was only me riding on Keene Slaton's back) doubled over and immersed in laughter and jeers that rolled over the very plush flora and fauna that I wished I was 6 ft under. I think I even heard a construction worker whistle. The only other sound was heavy breathing and the seemingly deafening pitter pat of his size 8 cleats clanging off the pavement, rythmically and smooth. But let this be known: I was not wailing and crying out as a certain member the the hippo staff remembers. We got back and iced it (I declined a massage of my leg) and what ensued the rest of my life as a M.L. King Royal was heart-wrenching. The brace and crutches I used the next few weeks could not heal the deeper pain and anguish I was feeling, and was about to endure. I worked years to build up my self-esteem from this incident. Amongst my circle, my ride on the "Slate-Dogg Express" was deemed the most embarrassing moment anyone of us had ever witnessed. I whole-heartedly concur. Excuse me I must go.....