Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

Wednesday: the basketball tryout
 

As I put on my gym clothes to prepare for try-outs, I had two areas of uncertainty. 

First and foremost was the lack of peripheral vision caused by my blind left eye.  I knew from playground experience that I could play four on four half-court without a problem.  However, looking out for blind-side picks or behind-my-back cuts was a serious problem when I switched to five-on-five full court basketball.  With so many moving parts to keep track of, would I be able to adjust?

My second problem was Coach Brockman.  He did not like me.  I had met him in the 8th Grade.  Coach Brockman was one those 'my way or the highway' types.  Due to my tendency to argue when he gave me an order, Brockman did not like my attitude.  Nor was he pleased to discover I had no concept of team play.  Once the ball hit my hands, it stayed there.  I would either shoot immediately or dribble till I found an opening.  I had absolutely no concept of passing the ball to someone with a better shot.  Why should I pass the ball when I could shoot better than anyone else on the team?  Me, myself, and I.  Let's face it, I was a selfish player who had problems with authority.  If someone asked nicely, I was a puppy dog eager to please.  But if someone barked an order, I turned defiant.  On the other hand, Brockman could see I played fierce defense and had a deadly shot.  He tolerated me as best he could.

Perhaps we could have ironed things out, but I quit the team before the season started.  I was angry when my mother refused to pick me up after games at night.  "Ride your bike home.  Or ride the bus home."  Would it hurt the woman to come watch?  For that matter, every other boy on the team had a parent willing to pick them up, so why did my mother refuse to help?  I was so infuriated by her attitude that when the coach barked at me the next day, I lost my temper and quit.  Terrible decision, but my pride refused to let me apologize. 

So now it is the 9th Grade.  Coach Brockman was not happy to see me try out, that was obvious.  But he didn't say anything, so here we go.  Let's see how much my blind eye would hinder me.  Twenty minutes into practice, I got my answer.

One of our first drills was the three-man fast break.  The idea is for three players to move the ball down the court by passing the ball.  Dribbling is not allowed.  After a rebound, Player One passes the ball like a hot potato to Player Two as he runs down the court.  Player Two passes the ball to Player Three on the wing who should be close enough to the basket to lay the ball in without a dribble. 

In this drill, I was Player Three.  Given that I only had one eye, I had to alternate between looking forward where I was going or looking left at the man with the basketball.  Just as I turned my head to look forward to my right, Player Two zinged a pass with plenty of steam on it.  Just my luck the ball was headed face-level on my blind left side.  Having glanced to my right at the worst possible moment, I never saw the ball coming.  Bam!  The ball hit me square on the left side of my face. 

Ordinarily this would not have been a problem.  It is not pleasant to be hit by the ball, but the pain goes away quickly enough.  Not this time.  By a coincidence of the highest magnitude, the basketball struck my swollen face with great force.  The blow knocked me off balance, but I did not fall.  Nor was there much pain at first.  I was just a bit dazed.  However, ten seconds later there was an explosion of pain in my face. 

Why the delay?  My guess is every pustule on the left side of my face had been compressed by the blow and it took the infected pustules ten seconds to retaliate.  Retaliate they did; the pain was searing.  My face felt like angry fire ants were biting me in 40 places.  Overcome by powerful stabs of burning pain, I grew weak and stumbled to my knees.  To my astonishment, the pain continued to increase.  Fearing I might pass out, I decided to lie on my stomach face down.  I covered my face to hide both my shame and my agony from prying eyes.  When my face was still throbbing at the 45 second mark, I became really scared.  Even then it didn't stop.  When the pain reached one minute mark, it seemed like my horribly infected face intended to burn for eternity.  With no end in sight, tears welled up in my eyes, part from pain, part from this dreadful feeling of futility.  My life was spinning horribly out of control and I was having a hard time keeping control of my feelings.  Please, I begged, don't let these boys see me crying.

Everyone crowded around trying to understand why I was in so much pain.  To them, I had received a glancing blow from a basketball.  No big deal, certainly not worth falling to the floor.  So why was I writhing on the floor and grabbing my face?  They had no idea what was wrong.  What was I supposed to do, tell them I had been knocked senseless by a lethal pimple detonation?  I could not decide what hurt worse, my face or my pride.  Sick over this degrading humiliation, I did my best to hide my face so people could not see the tears.  It took every ounce of self-discipline to avoid grabbing my face with my fingernails and begin ripping my skin away.  I wanted claw my face to a bloody mess.  Anything to get rid myself of this accursed leprosy. 

As I lay there, one thought dominated.  This is truly the last straw.  Seriously, if someone had handed me a gun, I would have used it.  That's how bad the despair was.  Thankfully after a minute and a half, the pain began to ease.  I was still woozy, but at least I could stand up.  Full of shame, I stumbled towards the locker room.  A couple boys followed me, including Tom, the boy who had thrown the ball.  You know what?  These guys were nice to me.  If I could just lick this horrifying acne problem, I bet I could make friends with them.  That gave me a fleeting ray of hope.  Just before I entered the locker room, Tom asked me to explain went wrong.  Seeing how guilty he felt for hurting me, I told him about my blind eye.  However I avoided mentioning the role the acne had played.  Tom nodded, said he hoped I felt better, then went back to practice.  At the time, it never dawned on me that mentioning the blind eye was a serious mistake.  We will save that story for later.

I was glad that Tom left.  Right now I preferred to be alone.  Entering the locker room by myself, I sat down on a bench and buried my blemished face in a towel.  Mercifully, the pain had subsided to a dull ache.  The agony was over, but now what?  Was there any hope for me?  I went to the nearby mirror and gasped.  The left side of my face was glowing neon red from the injury.  I had so many pimples I could not bear to look at myself.  No wonder everyone was shocked by my appearance.  I felt so hopeless.  I was not sure I could play again until this problem cleared up.  Struggling with overwhelming despair, what did the future bode?  Right now it looked pretty grim. 

My basketball coach was nowhere to be seen throughout the ordeal.  Brockman did not speak to me when I was down nor did he come see me in the locker room.  Feeling abandoned, I wondered why the coach had ignored me.  I seethed with anger when I realized his absence was likely deliberate.  Brockman must have guessed my blind eye had caused this problem.  Last year he had warned me several times that some sort of blind-side accident might happen.  I seethed in the knowledge that he was probably pleased to see his prediction come true.  He never wanted me here to begin with, I was sure of that.  I suspected he did not check on me for fear that the slightest encouragement might give me reason to try again.  No doubt he preferred I quit and solve his problem.  He didn't want a handicapped player on his team and he certainly didn't want a ball hog with a bad attitude.  Sitting alone on the locker room bench, I was beaten.  I did not have the courage to go back to basketball practice, so I left.

As I rode my bike home, I cried my heart out.  Filled with bitterness, I made a silent vow that I would be back soon and show this jerk of a coach what I could do.  Utter Nonsense.  Who am I fooling?  Tomorrow?  Next week?  Wishful thinking.  I had a serious infection that was going untreated and the infection was growing stronger by the moment.  If anything, the basketball accident may have exacerbated the problem.  This had been a very cruel moment.  All those dreams, all that time spent practicing at Cherryhurst Park was down the drain.  No one had even seen me shoot the ball today.  They would never know how good I was.  But what difference did it make?  I was just now beginning to realize I was facing the worst crisis of my young life. 

FOOTBALL, CHESS, ACHILLES & basketball
 

So what was I to make of this long-distance basketball strike to my infected face?  I suppose a professional basketball player might be able to replicate an identical 30-foot pass on the run, but we are talking about a teenage boy.  I think Tom would be hard-pressed to repeat that kind of accuracy.  When a Coincidence stands alone, it risks being referred to as 'just a Coincidence'.  As it turned out, the basketball strike coincidence did not stand alone.  Two mysterious coincidences had taken place my previous school year.

In the 8th Grade, we learned out that Kern Tips was coming to St. John's to promote his new book titled 'Football-Texas Style'.  Every boy in my class was nuts about Southwest Conference football.  Since the University of Texas Longhorns were the current national football champion, Kern Tips was certain to share inside stories of this celebrated event.  The 8th Grade boys were in a tizzy.  If given a choice between Kern Tips or Santa Claus, what does Santa know about the Longhorns' chances to repeat next season?   Every day at lunch for the next week, all talk concerned the upcoming lecture and buying a copy of this highly coveted book.  Since I was a huge fan of the Longhorn football team, this book really caught my imagination.  Only one problem.  The price was steep, $20, a lot of money in those days and far beyond my grasp.  I did not have an allowance and my mother was too broke to spare that kind of money.  As it turned out, they had a 'one book' free raffle for everyone who attended.  I won the raffle, a 200-1 lucky break.  Mr. Tips signed my copy.

Serious

Neal was so upset he could barely muster a lame retort.  "Oh, go to hell!"

I had a sudden inspiration.  "Uh, no thanks, Neal, I just came from Hell.  Haven't you heard?  The Devil has been giving me chess lessons."

The moment I saw Neal turn pale, I grinned with delight.  Neal had handed me the perfect way to drive a stake through his heart.  My improvement was so preposterous, Neal did not know what to think.  He wracked his brains for a plausible explanation, but it was no use.  For the rest of the day Neal walked around slamming doors and muttering to himself.

Poor Neal.  No doubt he wondered what I had been doing alone in my bedroom all those hours.  Well, tough luck for Neal, he never had a clue what my secret was.  Instead Neal began to stare at me like I was Damien from The Omen.  Seeing how much it bothered him, I refused to explain the circumstances.  I guess he got spooked by my supernatural improvement. 

Just before he left for taxi duty that night, I heard Neal and Mom arguing about something.  Neal was very upset.  The next day, Neal moved out.  I had slain the dragon with a chessboard.  My mother even thanked me once he was gone.  When she said good riddance, I smiled.  Checkmate.

Serious

I did not begin keeping a written track of my Coincidences until 1970.  As of 1964, the total was low enough to be stored in memory.  Ever since my father gave credit to my Guardian Angel for saving our lives when I was 5, I had kept an eye out for anything that seemed out of the ordinary.  Unfortunately, Events 3 through 9 were more of the 'Suspicious' type, the kind of coincidence that can be ignored depending on your mood at the time.  However, the probability of the football book and the chess book had been so remote that I had rated them 'Serious'.  I felt the same way about the precision strike on my blemished face.  I questioned the long odds of the basketball hitting me in such a sensitive place during try-outs. 

Tom had thrown the pass from 30 feet away.  Considering I was a moving target running at full speed, I bet Tom could not hit my face again from that distance if I gave him 100 tries.  Furthermore he had to throw that pass at the exact moment I turned my head away from him to make sure where I was going.  Otherwise I would have seen the ball and caught it.  This had been a very strange coincidence.  It was also a very rare coincidence.  Basketball is my lifelong passion.  Given the vantage point of over 70 years, I can report this was the only time I was ever hit on the blind side of my face by a basketball.  In other words, a 'once in a lifetime' occurrence.  Pretty long odds, yes??

The direct hit from long distance reminded me of Achilles, my favorite Greek hero.  His death was caused by a poisoned arrow that struck his heel, the only place where he was vulnerable.  As a boy, I scoffed that an arrow shot from a hundred yards away could have such accuracy.  Today I wasn't laughing any more.  I finally had something in common with my hero.  Although Paris was given credit for the fatal shot, it is said the god Apollo had secretly guided the arrow.  Given what had just happened to me, at the moment the Mythological explanation made a lot of sense.  Did a Hidden Hand guide that basketball to my face?  It seemed preposterous, but at the same time so did winning the football book and finding the chess book by accident.  I had a sneaky feeling an unseen hand was responsible in all three cases.

Serious

Age 14, October 1964, 9th grade

Thursday: a visit to the dermatologist
 

After I got home following the basketball accident, I called my mother at work.  I told her I could not take the burning pain or the humiliation any longer.  Something had to be done.  My mother said she would make an appointment for tomorrow.  Quite frankly I could not understand why she had waited so long.  Money was not the reason.  My father was responsible for all medical bills.  Not just that, the last time I got sick she called the doctor immediately.  Her behavior made no sense.  I stayed home on Thursday.  My mother picked me up late in the afternoon and took me to see the dermatologist.  The moment the doctor saw me walk into his office, he gasped. 

Dr. Spiller immediately whirled on my mother.  "When did this happen?" 

When my mother told him last Monday, a look of anger crossed his face. 

"Mrs. Archer, this is Thursday.  Why didn't you see me sooner?  This is a very, very serious condition that could cause Sepsis.  Not only that, each day you waited will add three months to the treatment.  This condition might take a year to get under control." 

My mother paled.  So did I.  "Dr. Spiller," she asked, "what is Sepsis?"

"Septicemia, also known as Sepsis," he replied, "is a very serious condition.  Sepsis is caused when bacteria enters the blood stream and poisons it.  It is the body's most extreme response to an infection.  Sepsis that progresses to septic shock has a death rate as high as 50%, depending on the type of organism involved."

Dr. Spiller paused for a moment to let his words sink in.  "Your son was fortunate his condition did not lead to Sepsis.  Furthermore, the delay allowed the infection to spread.  You had no business waiting so long."

When I heard that, my heart began to beat wildly.  I had no idea how dangerous my condition was.  Not only that, the thought that this might last a year was devastating.  I had hoped this was a temporary condition and that I could return to basketball next week.  Feeling scared, I whispered a question.  "Uh, Dr. Spiller, can I play basketball with my face like this?"

Dr. Spiller shook his head.  "Absolutely not.  You have a very serious condition that requires medical treatment.  Until we get this thing under control, you are going to have to forget about sports."

At the point the doctor began to interrogate my mother.  Given his lousy first impression, Dr. Spiller was surprised to learn how careful she had been.  In his opinion, my mother's treatment was medically sound... sterilized needle, isopropyl alcohol, clean cotton swabs.  I actually agreed with him.  What my mother had done to cause the problem had worked to perfection on five previous occasions.  Each time, my face had cleared up in the morning. 

My mother asked the same question I was about to ask.  "So what went wrong?"

Dr. Spiller replied, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Archer, but I don't know what went wrong.  This story does not make a lot of sense.  I will do some research and maybe I will have a better answer next time.  If forced to guess, the isoprophyl alchohol missed some infected areas."

Now I asked a question.  "How long will it take for my face to get back to normal?"

Dr. Spiller shrugged.  "Six months, a year.  What you have is very serious.  You should have come in sooner.  Like I said, every day you waited added three more months to your recovery time.  Your acne condition is so severe it will be very difficult to control."

With that, I felt an indescribable sense of rage and helplessness.  I glanced at my mother who refused to make eye contact.  She knew she should have brought me in on Monday morning.  Instead she was over in the corner dying a thousand deaths from guilt.  A lot of good that did me.  Too late now.  I spoke up. "Dr. Spiller, you said this was a fluke.  What do you mean by that?"

"I won't go so far as to say what happened to you was impossible.  Clearly it happened, so it must be possible.  But like I said, this does not make a bit of sense.  Assuming what your mother has told me is accurate, the isopropyl alcohol should have done the trick.  It is a powerful antiseptic that kills viruses and bacteria.  When I treat acne, I use it myself as a disinfectant and it works very effectively.  I do not understand what went wrong, but I will give it some thought.  In the meantime, we need to begin treatment."

Dr. Spiller handed my mother a prescription for tetracycline and told us to come back in a week. 

Two thoughts were dominant in my mind as we drove home in silence.   One, I doubted I would ever forgive my mother for waiting four days to take me to the doctor.  Two, I had a nagging feeling that my life had taken a serious turn for the worse.  Sure enough, I was right.  I was well on my way to Rock Bottom for the second time.  However, we weren't there yet.  The worst was yet to come.