My wish was seemingly fulfilled when a very good idea popped up out of nowhere.  One afternoon I looked out the window.  A young man named Steve lived across the street.  At the moment he was lofting golf balls from his front yard over a busy street onto the tree-lined campus of a nearby school.  With perfect accuracy, Steve hit each ball 100 yards across a street known as Woodhead.  This made me very curious.  There were five houses between Steve and Lanier Junior High.  How did he avoid hitting house windows and passing cars? 

Steve was my idol.  A senior at Lamar High School, he was four years older than me.  I had personally observed his prowess with women.  On New Year's Eve four months ago, Steve had thrown a lively party at his house.  The weather was mild, so Steve and 25 guests spilled out onto the front lawn for champagne and the New Year countdown.  I watched their revelry from my window in the darkness.  Noticing Steve had more women hanging on him than ornaments on a Christmas tree, I was eaten alive with envy.  Steve was the closest thing to a smooth operator I had ever seen.  What would it take to be like Steve?

Recently I had begun thinking about dating a certain St. John's girl in my upcoming Freshman year.  I knew my chances were slim and none, but it didn't hurt to fantasize a little.  I concluded St. John's girls were so far out of my league it was ridiculous.  These young ladies were future debutantes while I occupied a socioeconomic status roughly equivalent to Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady.  Then I took another look out the window.  Hmm.  What was Steve's secret with women?  On a whim, I decided to go say hello to him.

Steve was a tall, good-looking guy who had always been friendly to me.  Steve's golf exhibition provided a good excuse to visit.  Walking across the street, I stood politely and admired Steve's ability.  He knew I was there, but did not acknowledge me.  He just kept stroking away.  I did not know a thing about golf, but I could see Steve was really good.  Shot after shot landed 100 yards away onto the giant front lawn of Lanier Junior High.  I was impressed with his precision.  One hook or slice and he might broken a neighborhood window, but Steve didn't look worried.  For that matter, a mistake might strike a vehicle on the busy street.  Again, Steve wasn't worried.  There was so much loft in each shot that an accident seemed unlikely. 

Finally Steve stopped for a break.  When he turned to say hello, I asked, "Steve, aren't you worried you will break a window or hit a car?"

With a smile and a touch of arrogance, Steve replied, "Nah.  I am very accurate and very good.  Right now I am pretending to hit the ball over a tree to save a stroke on a dogleg."

"What is a dogleg?" I asked.

"Normally a fairway is a straight line, but some holes are set at a 90 degree angle guarded by trees.  If I can loft a shot over the trees I can save a stroke.  Since many golf matches are determined by one shot, it is a real advantage to practice this skill.  By the way, did you know I've been given a golf scholarship next year to college?"

"Really?  Where?"

"Trinity University in San Antonio."

"Wow, good for you, Steve."

Noting the hero worship in my eyes, Steve grinned broadly.  Just then he noticed two more balls nearby, so he made sure to hit them as well.  I think this time he was just showing off.  I watched Steve practice with new-found respect.  To be honest, I had no idea golf scholarships even existed. 

"Hey, Rick, why don't you come with me and help retrieve the golf balls?"

As we walked across the street to Lanier, I asked Steve what made him decide to take up golf. 

"Back when I was a freshman, I overheard some guys at Lamar brag about how good they were at golf.  Before he died, my father had taken me to play golf twice and I enjoyed it.  So I asked these guys to tell me more.  They were on the Lamar golf team and suggested I try out.  I wasn't very good at first, but I definitely had raw power.  The coach liked what he saw, so he let me hang around.  We practiced at the River Oaks Country Club down the street from Lamar High School.  I liked hanging out at this fancy country club because I got to meet some wealthy businessmen.  I was happy when a couple of them took an interest in me.  Even better I ran into some good-looking rich girls on the golf course.  When they began waving at me I was hooked.  Every day I practiced golf with a passion and it paid off.  I made the starting golf team as a sophomore.  Now I am the best player in school."

"Don't you have to be a member to use the River Oaks golf course?"

"Not if you're on the Lamar golf team.  My coach has an understanding with the head golf pro.  Besides, 9 of the 12 guys on the Lamar team are also club members thanks to their fathers.  Haven't you heard the joke?  They say 'River Oaks' is the only street in Houston with a country club at either end."

"I'm not sure I get the meaning."

"Lamar is the public high school option for all the River Oaks rich kids who aren't smart enough to get into St. John's.  The idea is that Lamar is so soft academically that no one lifts a finger.  That is why they call it a country club.  Personally, I envy you.  I wish I could go to good school like St. John's."

Steve envies me?  I had never heard that before.  "Guess again, Steve.  Consider yourself lucky to go to Lamar.  St. John's has turned me into a hermit.  No one speaks to me anymore because I'm the poorest and most boring kid in school."

"Really?  I had the same problem my Freshman year at Lamar.  Why not go out for the golf team?  That's what I did.  Getting on the team really broke the ice."

"Well, for one thing, I don't play golf.  Besides, what good would that do me?"

"You would be surprised.  Golf has been my ticket to ride at Lamar.  It's a rich man's sport and it gives me an in with the rich kids.  Now that I'm the best player, I am BMOC."

"What does BMOC mean?"

"Big man on campus.  It doesn't matter that my mother and I aren't exactly rolling in dough.  Why should my friends care?  People like me because I'm cool.  My buddies invite me to all their parties and I meet their rich girlfriends.  Some of those girls end up preferring me.  They don't need my money, they got money of their own.  What they need is prestige.  They like walking down the hallway with the high school golf stud at their side.  Right now I am dating a girl who lives in River Oaks.  She could care less that I am not rich.  Hanging out with me makes her look good.  Makes me look good too.  I owe it all to golf."

"Are you serious, Steve?  Or are you teasing me?  Your story seems a little hard to believe."

Steve laughed.  "I am actually serious.  For the past four years, the better I get at golf, the easier it is to get the prettiest girls to go out with me.  I do very well for myself.  You should learn to play golf."

Recalling the flock of women surrounding Steve at his New Year's Eve party, I took him at his word.  I had never met a more confident guy in my life, so I regarded Steve like the second coming of Hugh Hefner.  I was at a complete loss to figure out how I would ever get a St. John's girlfriend.  Golf was out of the question.  However, Steve's claim that high school girls like to date guys who excel at sports had given me an idea.

With Freshman year around the corner, I wanted to begin dating.  Steve lacked a father and his mother struggled to make ends meet.  That meant Steve was in the same position as me.  Nevertheless, the procession of pretty girls to his house when his mother wasn't home suggested a boy did not need to be rich to date pretty girls. 

Given my awkward social status, dating St. John's girls was bound to be an uphill struggle.  It did not help that I was tongue-tied talking to the Über-confident girls in my class.  I was an okay-looking boy, attractive enough to receive the occasional smile.  However, I was far too shy to make a move without further encouragement.  And, sorry to say, so far I had not received further encouragement.  It was not easy being the underdog.  That said, I did have one advantage.  I was tall for my age and athletic.  Based on Steve's advice, if I could excel at sports, I might just catch the eye of a pretty classmate. 

Due to my blind eye, Football was out of the question.  Too violent.  However basketball was a possibility.  I had gotten on the bad side of the basketball coach by quitting the 8th Grade basketball team.  However I could try again in the 9th Grade.  My lack of peripheral vision in the blind eye was going to be a problem, but maybe I could overcome it.  It was definitely worth a try.  Basketball was my passion.  I was tall and strong plus I had a powerful incentive to improve.  From that moment forward I practiced every day after school.  Lay-ups, jump shots, hook shots.  No one at the neighborhood playground could beat me.  I was good, very good.  Better still, with summer around the corner, I would practice two hours every day.  Filled with optimism, I was certain my Basketball Project held great promise for Freshmen year. 

Age 14, SEPTEMBER 1964, START of the 9th grade

MY FIRST and only DANCE LESSON
 

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

MY mother hates pimples
 

The 8th Grade was very difficult.  All kinds of things went wrong, but the worst part was being forced to live with a taxi driver named Neal.  I despised the man and resented my mother for allowing him to stay despite my objections.  Fortunately Neal left in August shortly before school started.  Now it was just Mom, me, and Terry, my dog.  Now that the ordeal was over, my mother and I tried to reconcile.  Here at the start of the 9th Grade, Mom had a steady job and her man-chasing ways were in temporary hibernation.  Now that Neal was gone, I felt safe enough to leave my room at night and speak in civil tones with my mother.  Imagine that.  Sometimes we even watched TV together.  All was quiet on the home front and I was happy.

However, there was one small problem.  Like many teenagers, I was susceptible to that scourge of childhood known as pimples.  My mother hated pimples with a passion.  Unable to look at them without frowning, she decided to do something about the problem.  Starting in August, twice a month Mom would invoke her pimple-pop ritual.  Sterilize a sewing needle, empty the pus, cleanse the wound with a clean cotton swab soaked in isopropyl alcohol.  Mom's procedure worked just fine.  The 2 or 3 pimples would dry up overnight and the blemish would be gone the next morning. 

It was now Sunday night in late October.  Basketball try-outs were scheduled for Wednesday, so I told my mother how excited I was.  As we spoke, Mom took a look and decided it was time for my next pimple treatment.  The previous 5 attempts had worked well, so Mom considered herself an expert.  I objected strenuously because the procedure was so yucky.  I said the problem wasn't that bad, so why not just leave it alone.  My mother disagreed.  Since we were finally getting along, I decided to let her have her way.  Whatever she was doing, it had worked so far, so I cooperated.  Mom got out her sewing needle.  After sterilizing it with a match, she started to merrily pop away.  After she was done, Mom finished her handiwork by cleansing the open wounds with isopropyl alcohol.  Mom smiled at her excellent job.

"There," she said, "looks great.  Everything will be healed in the morning."

I nodded thanks, then went to bed dreaming of basketball and dating.  This coming week was important.  Basketball try-outs!  I could barely wait.  Once I got noticed, maybe I would get a smile or two from the girl I had a crush on and see my hard work this past summer pay off. 

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

CRISIS
 

"Gregor Samsa awakens one morning to find himself transformed into a monstrous giant insect.  Shocked by Gregor's inexplicable and quite startling transformation, Gregor's father drives him back into his room.   Too horrified to look, the family keeps Gregor locked away.  His sister Greta is the only one willing to bring him food, which Gregor will only eat unless it is rotten."   -- Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka

The moment I awoke the next morning, I immediately knew something was very wrong.  My face was burning like crazy.  In addition my face felt mysteriously swollen.  The swelling stretched the skin on my face so tight that I was having trouble moving my jaw properly. 

I was scared.  What was wrong with me?  I raced to the mirror and screamed in horror.  Oh my God, I had the face of a monster!  I do not exaggerate.  I actually looked like something from a horror film.  Overnight, my face had ballooned to twice its size.  My face was covered ear to ear with dozens of angry red pustules.  I was so hideous, I screamed bloody murder.  This bizarre experience was reminiscent of a key passage in Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis. 

"Gregor Samsa awakens one morning to find himself inexplicably transformed into a gigantic insect."

However, there was one major difference.  Metamorphosis was the work of someone's twisted imagination.  My condition was not a dream.  It was not a nightmare.  My condition was alarmingly real.  Imagine the insanity of the moment.  At 10 pm last night I was a good-looking boy.  When I awoke in the morning, I was a hideous monster.  There is no exaggeration in my description.  This is exactly what happened.  You have my word.

"Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans." -- John Lennon

The Epic Losing Streak had begun.