(Diary Entry #l. Written during the six hour drive to Simsbury, NY--home of Billings, 8/20/89)

Last Day on the Job

Yesterday was my last day of work in the summer of 1989. I walked along the deck of the pool as the sun glared off the water.  The sound of tennis balls popping off of rackets on the nearby tennis courts was almost drowned out by the innocent play of the kids in the tennis club’s pool. I sat down in a raised lifeguard bench, chewing gum that lost its flavor an hour ago. I began basting my nose with tanning lotion. Though the pool rippled with the waves created by a hundred people, my attention was elsewhere.

        Patty strutted calmly toward my bench. As usual, she looked beautiful. The classy one-piece that she wore accentuated the cleavage separating her large, firm breasts. Her long, summer-blond hair danced about her shoulders as an early fall breeze blew casually across the deck. I really dug her shit. I had a thing for her ever since I met her freshman year. Damn, four years later, and I still had wood every time I saw her. She was just that kind of girl.

I watched her every move from my perch. It was easy to do without her knowing. I had those mirrored Oakleys on.

        "You excited to go to Billings tomorrow?" she asked in a sensual voice.

        "No, not really," I lied, trying to be cool. "How about you?"

        “I’m sort of scared about Penn State. It’s so big, and I love my friends at home, and it’s so far away, and what if I don’t find anyone there I like?" she babbled. She was obviously just as nervous about going away to school as I was.  I found that almost shocking. Patty had always seemed so secure in high school, though I’ve found that you can never really tell about some people. Sometimes the most secure people on the outside are the most insecure on the inside.

        Anyway, her friends were all friends with my friends, and our clique was the largest and most popular at Wilshire High School. We were the backbone of the school’s social life, sports teams, and student government.  I often wondered how WHS would survive without us.

        "Don’t worry, Patty. You’ll do just fine." I tried to comfort her, though it wasn’t because I gave a shit. I just wanted to get in her pants. I became aroused, thinking of her without the one-piece on. I figured, like I always figured, that if I showed some sensitivity, I might be able to get some off of her. It never worked though. She was into those "bad boy" kind of guys. I asked her out so many times I lost count, and she always turned me down.  She told her friends that I was too nice for her.  If she only knew…

        "Are you scared at all?" she asked.

        "No. I’ll just go with the flow," I lied. I was nervous as hell.

A Cat, a Condom, and a Clitoris

Last night I saw my girlfriend for the last time. Well, I guess you could call her my girlfriend. Frankly, we weren’t all that close but we had a sort of mutual agreement. We would see each other three nights a week, nothing more, and nothing less.  We were addicted to sex, but we both hated the relationship thing. Maybe we were turned off by it or something. I don’t know.

Anyway, I got to her house and she took me in to say "hi" to her parents. She looked damn good. She has the tightest ass in Connecticut, and her breasts…forget about it…perfect fucking tens!

        "So, Warren, are you all packed and ready for school?" her father asked. He had always been cool to me since the first day I met him. I think it was because I was such a great guy compared to Amanda’s last boyfriend, a six foot two, two hundred and twenty-pound steroid monster. Her dad hated him because he was the epitome of a "bad boy". I hated him because he wanted to kick my ass for dating Amanda.

        The funny thing was, Amanda would have stayed with that dickhead forever if it wasn’t for the sex between them. She told me that he never let her assume the superior position. He had something against a girl on top of him. She couldn’t deal with that so she broke up with him. She dug me because I would let her have the top whenever she wanted it. Hell, it was no skin off my back. As far as I was concerned, I was always open to letting the girl do all of the work. She liked that. And besides, he never gave her an orgasm. I never didn’t.

        "Yeah, I guess so, but I must say I’m a little scared leaving Amanda alone to fend off all of those college guys," I chuckled, looking at Amanda. Her cat rubbed against my leg. I felt a little uneasy.

        I used to screw Amanda in her basement. Her parents never bothered us, except, one particular time I was a fucking idiot, and I threw a used rubber in a trashcan. The next day Amanda called me up all hysterical and shit. I guess her cat rummaged through the trash that morning and got the rubber caught in his teeth. Unfortunately, her father found the troubled cat first, and, as a result, banned Amanda and me from going in the basement for the rest of the summer.

        "I think if anyone should worry, it should be my daughter. With all those cute girls up at Billings, you’ll go crazy," he snickered. I couldn’t help wondering if in his mind, at that very moment, was an image of the poor cat and a sloppy rubber.

        "I have to admit that I’m a tad scared about going off to such a competitive environment. I sometimes wonder if I’m really the Ivy League type," I confessed to Amanda’s mother.

        "Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine." She was a nice lady, but what a typical thing to say. "We will definitely miss you, Warren,” she added.

        "If everything goes right, I should see you around Thanksgiving," I said, nudging Amanda for an immediate exit. "Take care, Mrs. Mills, and remember to vote for me for President in 2020."

        I then shook Mr. Mills’s hand very firmly and said good-bye. I grabbed Amanda squarely on the back of the shoulders and playfully directed her out the door. We drove off in my dad’s Saab and had sex in a parking lot at the Country Club.  I often think of Amanda when I jerk-off. I know that’s rude to say, but it’s true.

FRESHMAN YEAR…

(Diary Entry #2.  Late night entry after the first day of Freshman Orientation--8/20/89)

Family Drive

This morning my mother woke me up. It was time to go to college.  My mom, dad, and sixteen-year-old brother, Jon, accompanied me on the six-hour trip from Wilshire, Connecticut, to Simsbury, New York. My parents kept blabbing about their college experiences--the exams, parties, all-nighters, football games, and shit like that. I got bored. I dealt with it by staring out the window for three hundred sixty minutes and intermittently jotting some things down in my diary.

The Arrival

We finally arrived at "our" destination. I should say "my" destination, but I think my parents were more excited about the whole thing than I was. It was as if they reached the zenith of parenthood. Like they were watching their first son enter the confines of adulthood on that very day. I don’t know.

We began the unpleasant task of unpacking the car. I managed, amid the chaos, to take a long look at my new home, O’Connell Hall.  It was a modern building, but very plain. It almost looked like an urban housing project--large, four stories, and very square. The only things showing its relevance to the academic world were the thick strands of Ivy growing on the walls.

Parents and fellow freshmen hustled about with nervous energy. Everyone was carrying footlockers, stereo equipment, suitcases, furniture, computers--hell, you name it. Everyone was sweating like demons too. It was hot. The sun was strong.

An orientation counselor led us into O’Connell Hall.  We followed him down a hall on the second floor. Boxes, bed mattresses, clothes, computers, posters, and other objects littered the hallway. It was chaos.

We approached my room, and it suddenly occurred to me that I would meet my roommate in a matter of seconds. I talked briefly with him a week ago. He seemed all right, but he definitely had different interests than me.  He lived in upstate New York. In the Lake Placid area, I think. He played the violin and liked faggy-style rock like New Order, Depeche Mode, The Cure, and Joy Division. That was all I learned from our conversation, so I had some anxiety about meeting him. After all, I must have heard a hundred or so roommate nightmares over the summer.

Roommate from Hell

I opened the door to room 217 and walked inside. My parents and Jon trailed behind me.

The first thing I saw was my roommate, Frank, behind two older people, obviously his parents.  What a fucking sight!

He stood about five foot eight, and weighed 120 pounds with a very slight and girlish frame. His hair, jet black, protruded from his head in a wavy way even though he heavily greased it. He wore a black leather jacket with those faggy zippers all over it and black cheesy jeans. His black suede shoes had those stupid shiny silver buckles. Overall, he looked like a serious femme. Before I even said one word to him, I wanted to change roommates.  The kid really sucks.

"Hi. You must be Warren," Frank said, shaking my hand. He had a very fishy handshake. The kind where you go in with a strong grip and their hand practically crushes into dust. Not only that, but the kid talked with a slight lisp. I hate that shit.

"You’re correct. And you must be Frank?" I restrained my urge to be obnoxious.

The reason I’m so prejudice against guys like Frank is that they don’t deserve to hang out with “The Man”, and I am The Man. I’m the standard for coolness.  If someone is any different from the good-looking, cool, athletic, charismatic, and intelligent kid I am, then, quite frankly, they are nothing.

I have this theory. I figure the best way to see all your accomplishments in life (or rather, just how popular you actually are at the end of it all, because, quite frankly, to be loved is the essence of success) is to die and then see who shows up at your funeral. I first thought of it when a good friend’s mother died during my freshman year of high school. She was a very popular woman, and when she died it was really evident.  There was an hour line just to see her body at the wake! Everyone was there. Her ghost must have been floating around that funeral parlor thinking, "Damn, I was really something! Look at how many people loved me!"

I know if I died right now, I would have hundreds of people show up for my funeral.  They would come from all around. I am a kid who touched many people through sports, school, friendship, student politics, and my family. I’m "The Man", and there is no stopping me. I’m king, and only people like myself are worthy of having it all.  ’Nuff said.

Anyway, Frank then said, “Yup,” and the painful introduction was complete.

"Cool," I said.  I searched for something else to say. "Well, I have to go down and get the rest of my stuff. I’ll be back shortly." I left the room.

"Boy, Warren, you got a real winner in there," my brother observed, laughing. My father seemed to agree with Jon’s assessment.

"Jon, that’s not nice. I’m sure Frank is a fine person,” my mom suggested. I had to question her sincerity.

I felt like shit.  I mean, I always dreamed of having one of those best friend type of roommates--the kind I could do everything with. I never expected a fucking faggot.

My father said that his freshman year roommate was also a disaster.  He explained that the awkward situation added to the overall learning experience. His attempt to comfort me didn’t work.

I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT A LEARNING EXPERIENCE! I don’t want some faggot, fishy hand-shaking, buckle-booted guy sleeping in the same room as me.

Long Lines

After the move-in, my father took me to register for classes. We were standing in line with a bunch of other clueless freshmen and parents when my father recognized one of his old fraternity brothers.

"Patrick Miller, how are you?"

“Holy cow! Warren Bransford, how are you? It’s been fifteen years since I last saw you," the other man exclaimed. "Is this your son? And is he following the old man’s footsteps?"

"Yes, this is him, Warren Jr., a second generation Billings student," he replied, grinning. "Warren, say ‘hi’ to Mr. Miller, an old fraternity brother of mine."

"How are you, Mr. Miller? Nice to meet you."

"Guys, this is my son, David." Mr. Miller was so proud of his kid. You could just tell.

I shook David’s hand. He was a good-looking kid.

"He is going to take after his pop and give freshman football a try this year," Mr. Miller added. He was strung out with parental glee.

"Wow, you were recruited by Billings to play football? What position?" I asked.

"Quarterback. Although I wasn’t actually recruited. They watched some of my game tapes and concluded that I was too small to play here," he replied modestly.

"Yeah, but this boy you’re looking at was an all-state Pennsylvania quarterback. He broke just about every passing record at his high school. These Ivy League coaches just don’t know what they’re missing," Mr. Miller explained, patting David on the shoulder.  Though the words his father used were boastful, his tone was modest. It didn’t seem that he had the asshole qualities of a father who pressed his son too much. I was always analyzing that kind of shit. I knew too many kids who were fucked up because of their parents.

"So does that mean you’re just going to walk on?" I questioned.

"Yeah, although I’m still debating it. The freshman team has their first meeting tomorrow night, and I’m going to go and see what it’s all about."

"What about your boy? Is he going to follow his old man’s footsteps and play some ball?" Mr. Miller enthusiastically asked.

"No. Warren was a soccer player. Though Billings did recruit him for swimming, and he should be beginning that in October." My pop didn’t show any disappointment as he talked. He was a great man in that respect. He never pushed me into anything I had no interest in, even though he played both football and lacrosse at Billings, and I played neither at any level. Although, I must admit, football always intrigued me. Especially now. I’m addicted to lifting weights. I feel like I always have to prove my masculinity. I have to be tough. Hell, that was why I quit the golf team last year, even though I was the captain, just so I could throw the javelin for the track team. Golf is just too much of a pussy sport. Throwing the javelin’s manly. It’s not like I question my sexuality or anything. It’s just that I want to be seen as a tough kid. Being a "bad boy" is in, and, though I never can actually be one, I always try.

"That’s fantastic! Billings has a top-notch swimming program,” Mr. Miller responded.

"Yeah, but I’m not sure if I’m up to swimming ten months a year. My senior year really burned me out. Collegiate level swimming requires a much higher amount of dedication," I explained, slightly depressed. I felt bad saying that because it sounded like a cop out. My dad has heard me say it many times, and he understands. He has always said that the decision was up to me, and he would support whatever I did.

"His high school coach really overworked him last year.  Warren is a good athlete and played different sports year round.  It was hard for him to get in a pool more than four months a year. His swimming potential was unlimited, and he beat most year-round swimmers in the state, but his coach pushed him harder than he should have. Warren was in the pool twenty-two hours a week. It was too much," my father explained. I thought to myself that I couldn’t have said it any better.

"Well, Warren, regardless of whether you play a sport here or not, I’m sure you’ll have a great time," Mr. Miller promised.

"It’s too bad the old Gamma Phi house is no longer here for you and David. You guys would have been legacies," Mr. Miller added, staring at my father. They both shook their heads in disappointment.

It really sucks that the house got booted from campus. I hate the fact that I’ll now have to pledge at another fraternity.

A half-hour later, we got to the front of the line and did what we needed to do. David and I exchanged phone numbers. He also had roommate problems, and, like myself, was happy about making a new and acceptable acquaintance.

Pondering My Niche

My conversation with Mr. Miller and David today really made me wonder about college athletics. I have been playing organized sports year round for twelve years, and I never stopped to think what life would be like without them. The notion of being just like everyone else always scared me, and it still scares me now. I want to stand out in a crowd, and athletics are a way to do that. Billings is a new challenge to my "Never be average" rule. Instead of standing out in a school of sixteen hundred, like WHS, I have to place myself ahead of some ten thousand students. That’s fucking tough!

The only way I can do that is to play a sport—and not fucking swimming.  I hate that shit—not golf or soccer either. Those sports are for pussies. I need something rough and tough...like football.

Goddammit! I’ll play football. That is the only way to stand out. I never played, but I’ll go for it anyway. How hard could Division l-AA football be? Billings football isn’t exactly Notre Dame or anything.

However, now that I think about it, I do have several things handicapping my mastery of the sport. I stand a mere five feet ten inches, if that, and weigh a soft 175 pounds. In addition, the only sport I played at WHS that required running was soccer. I was good but not all that fast. Hmm...no speed, no experience, no height, and no weight—fuck it! I’ll play anyway.