Day #1:  Las Vegas to Price Utah

Something had been calling out to me for months. Without words, it had been speaking to me from places where I had not yet been. Its calling was strongest during moments of greatest distraction with its pull becoming so unbearable that my only choice was to finally release myself and let go.

This morning, I would start my trip. I would revisit again roads that I hadn’t been down in over eight years. Now part of my wandering DNA, they had been calling out to me from their distance to return because it had been entirely too long.  Too long since I had returned to the part of myself that only they kept safe and too long since my path had been sanctified by what only they could teach. I now needed to go in a direction that only they knew.

I left the city of stolen dreams by way of Interstate #15 north. Southern Utah, from St George to Price, was over 105 degrees as I climbed toward the higher elevations in search of myself.  The great heights along the Rocky Mountain’s spine have always been the launch pad where my spirit has been set free and my story then told. Through the heat and the dust of a mid-summer desert afternoon, I felt a new chapter inside of myself being born.

Rt# 89, through Panguitch and Salina was ridden mostly in a dry rain.  I know it sounds contradictory but at over one hundred degrees, the rain hardly made it to the road surface. On contact, it instantly evaporated and then like everything else that I needed to cast off, it was gone. No trace of ever having been there.  Nothing left to either remind or deceive. It fulfilled its duty without intrusion leaving only its story and memory behind.

     There Are Worse Things Than Being Like A Dry Rain  

The rain mirrored my spirit today, as I tried to get comfortable inside the meaning of this trip.  This tour would have nothing to do with what was happening along the sides of the road or in the towns I would stay in at night.  This trip would be about the road itself and only the road.  If I couldn’t see what I searched for from within the white lane-lines of its border, then it held no interest for me now.  I cared only for what the road would reveal, as it took me to places only it knew I must go.

I Stopped At No Shops Or Museums Along Its Edges, Only To Stare Out In Wonder From Inside Its Magic

As I merged onto Interstate #70 the sign read Freemont Junction and State Road #10 only sixty-three miles ahead.  It was just 1:30 in the afternoon. I still had more than two hundred miles in front of me until I would reach Price Utah my destination for the night. It was a new town for me and one that I’d always detoured around before.  It sat on the edge of the Book Cliffs and just to the South of the Ashley National Forest. Those details were only incidental now — incidental to the fact that this town lived at the edge of where the great dinosaurs roamed.  Their bones were all buried here, and to all true believers their spirits still roamed these hills.

For the entire ride north on State Road #10, I felt their presence.  Almost greater in their extinction than when they had roamed free, the sounds that came from the distant canyon walls reminded me that they lived on in our imagination … or was it more than that.  Native America knew who they were long before what they were was ever discovered.  Paleontology was painted on the outside of Tee-Pee walls long before the Smithsonian or the British Museum were ever built.

The Canyon before me was shaped eerily like a T-Rex. as I passed through the small Utah town of Huntington. The rain had now stopped, but the sky was still flodded with clouds.  Feeling prehistoric in my heart, but joyous beyond words, I entered the old mining town of Price Utah. As I passed by the Welcome to Price sign, its non-Mormon culture felt warm and inviting.  And as I pulled into my first motel for the night, I realized that I was no longer alone.

Day #2:  Price Utah to Tetonia Idaho

In Price, I unloaded the bike and took the small wooden chair from the room and placed it outside on the walkway in front of where the bike was parked.  I still wasn’t that hungry, so I decided to read for a while. My mind would not surrender to my spirit, so concentration was hard. After trying for fifteen minutes, I gave up and let my imagination wander, because even though stopped and parked for the night, the road still refused to give up its control. The sun was just starting to set behind the Wasatch Mountains as the first perfect day was now coming to an end. The El Salto Café on Main Street killed my hunger until morning, and in less than ninety minutes I was asleep with the recent memory of escape still driving my thoughts.

I awoke to bright sunshine like only the Rockies can deliver.  I decided to forego breakfast and answer their call while taking my chances for food somewhere further down the road  Rt #191 through the Ashley National Forest was lined with canyons on both sides, and I saw within their reference a new picture of myself. It was one of renewed purpose, where the restlessness I had brought with me now faded away.  I was thankful to the Canyon Gods for their acknowledgement and their blessing, and I made it all the way to Vernal before I even thought about food.

In Vernal, I felt the gentle reminder of having been down this road before. I had old friends on both sides of its direction and a past and paid-up membership into what it tried most to hide.  Like a cracked mirror, the broken road surface reflected back in distorted truth what only it knew and what over the many years and aging miles it had taught me so well.  Rt #89 merged into Rt #10 and then finally into Rt #191. They were a trinity of past and future revelations and promised that what I would now learn would be more than just a confirmation of what I had seen and been taught before.  What I now understood became completely new within the context of the moment, and within the reoccurrence of that moment — I became new again.

The road promised but often concealed; its perimeter was just an illusion that distracted from all directions ahead. I wound the motorcycle through its gears as I crossed the Utah line into Wyoming with the great Flaming Gorge Reservoir filling all that I saw and even more of what I felt.  As I circled the eastern banks that were created by the gorges enormous dam, I heard its voices call out to me again. They reminded me of what happened here when my one eye was still closed, and my vision was trapped within its spiritual ecosystem and scattered across its wide expanse.  I knew better now. I was reminded again that beauty often masks what the truth tries hardest to conceal.

Here, Flaming Gorge sits as another striking example of how the power to enlighten has also been the power to corrupt.  The animals in the Green River were stolen from to create economy and convenience for those hundreds of miles away, and they have not been paid back.  The Dams standing water pool has lowered water temperatures and affected the entire valley. It has severely hurt native species of fish, and it has emptied all sediment from the lower Green River. Masked by its beauty, there has always been a hidden sadness behind its awesome power.  Every time I pass through here I have felt its remorse, and it has forced me to re-question again what has been built in the name of progress and change.

Today was different for me though, as all I could do was smile. I was lost in the understanding of what this Green River Valley said to me in the quiet of a Thursday afternoon — and in thoughts that would allow no interloping or negative intrusion.

This road carried within it the meaning of both directions … the one I had just left behind and the one that called out for only me to hear.  From these great heights, I looked out far to the east and across the panoramic horizon. I realized for the first time that what lay in front of me now stretched beyond any physical ability I might have to see or any one man’s ability to ever know.

I bypassed Jackson and took the old trapper’s route from Granger to Sage.  Rt #30 through southwestern Wyoming still hid within its landscape the voices of matters still unsettled. And in both Lakota and English I heard again of the broken promises that were made. The chanting increased as I felt Grand Teton in the distance ahead. The voices of the ancient ones reminded me that only with their permission would I travel safely and alone.

Rt #89 went deep into the Swan Valley where I picked up Rt #20 north.  The voice of the great Chief Joseph called out to me promising that beyond Rexburg my burden would once again be light, and my friends would all know that I had returned.  I detoured and spent the night in Tetonia with the great Teton Mountain Trinity guarding my sleep — while protecting my dreams.

Over chicken fried steak at the only restaurant in town, I assessed my progress realizing that direction alone, and not destination, would determine my success. I slept soundly inside the vibration of another day’s travel, knowing that who I was when I left Las Vegas would never be known to me again.

I dreamt that night of the historic Indian migrations and the paths of the great buffalo herds as they provided both direction and all life.  I heard the chants of the hunters, crying out from among the dancers at the fire, to the great Wakan-Tanka. Their spirits coming together for what the hunt tomorrow would retell again.  In that retelling, the spirit and the substance of all Indian life would be brought together.  It was an eternal story about what was happening then and in the dreams of the ever faithful what could happen again.

When riding it again, the mystery within the road is set free. It again becomes alive — living inside a dream that each moment unfolds.

  The Mystery Beyond The Asphalt Once Again Comes Alive

Day #3:  Tetonia to Cody

With every mile that I travelled north, my load got lighter and unburdened. With each horizon and turn, my vision amplified the possibility of what the road had always known. It gave back to me again what was always mine for the taking having kept safe and protected what distance and poor reasoning had oftentimes denied. The fog north of Tetonia blurred the road-sign to Rt. #32 and Astoria beyond.  Rt. # 32 is an Idaho back-road of some renown. Used mainly by the locals, it should not be missed as gentle passage through the Targhee National Forest — a woodlands that is both dense and encroaching.

Yellowstone lay ahead, and even through the tackiness of its West entrance, its magic called out strong and clear.  Like the Great Canyon to its south, the world’s greatest thermal basin demanded something of all who passed through piercing even the thickest of human veneer with a magic of sight and sound that only it could provide.  Most who entered were left only with awe and inspiration as reminders of what they saw.  Those who could feel with their eyes and see through the sounds and smells of an earlier time were the very few allowed to leave in real peace. Their parting gift was in knowing that no invitation would ever be needed to return, and that no new beginning would ever leave Yellowstone far behind.

The Northeast Entrance at Tower Junction had the mighty Buffalo Herd waiting for me as I turned left on Rt. #212. In the knowing glances they gave as I passed by, I could feel their permission granting me a one-way pass to Cooke City and the Beartooth Highway through the clouds. A large male wandered out in the middle of the road to block my forward progress making sure I took the left turn in front of him and the one that led out of the park.

Something once again had been sent as guardian of my direction.’  I’ve learned not to hesitate or question why when this happens just to breathe in deeply while offering thanks for what still lies ahead.

I saw my bikes reflection in the eye of the Great Bull. I wondered what he must make of me as I slowed to within five feet of where he stood vigilant and defiant in the middle of the road.  His statuesque presence was a reminder of the things that only he knew about this Park and those questions that still remained unasked within myself about why I loved it so.

Yellowstone taught me over thirty years ago that I would understand the questions only long after the answers had appeared to deceive.  Lost in the southern end of the Park in1980, I asked the spirits of the mountain to let me make it through the night.  The motorcycle’s electrical system had shut down and the weather had become severe.  I had no choice but to walk out for help having no camping or survival gear to weather against the coming storm. It was late September in Grand Teton, and it looked like December or January to an easterner like me.

It was then that I first heard the voice, the one that would take years of listening to hear clearly and understand.  In the blowing wind, I barely saw the geese through the flying snow landing on Jenny Lake. I thought I heard ripples coming from the Gros Ventre River as they cut around the newly forming ice. I couldn’t help but think that, just like me, the geese had also stayed too long at this dance.

The sun was now completely gone behind Grand Teton, as the new voice inside of me said: “Keep going, it is not much farther.” It was just after that when I saw the lights from the distant Crandall Studio shining out through the aspen trees.  They filled me with coffee, called for a trailer, and provided a lost traveler shelter for the night.  What they never knew, and couldn’t know at the time, was that I wasn’t lost —not from that afternoon on …

                                  And Not Now 

The next morning, there was more than eight inches of fresh snow on the ground. Without knowing where my bike was, it would never would have been found covered in a thick blanket of September snow.  Two animals had visited my motorcycle earlier that morning. The Ranger said he couldn’t be sure, but the tracks that led from the high ravine “looked VERY GRIZZLY.” But then again, he said: “It could have been a large black bear”. Uncertainty had now taken on that term in my life, as I realized that what we wished for was in most cases more important than what we had.

Very Grizzly Is A Term I Carry With Me Every Time The Park Calls

Yellowstone had disrespect for any calendar other than its own.  In the past, it had snowed on all 365 days of the year …

        And Like The Gift Of True Prophecy, Will Again    

Cooke City was in bright sunshine, as I entered from the West side of town in mid-morning. The road I would take today would not be just any road. Rt. #212 was the Beartooth Highway, and it crossed the greatest heights that a man and machine could travel together.  I stopped for gas and listened to what the other travelers who had recently come down were saying. Had they been able to release from the pull of the mountain as it faded in their rear-view mirrors, or like me, were they forever initiates into a natural world that would never fully be explained? If they were lucky, the lost explanations would serve as portals to a deeper understanding not only of what the mountain taught but of themselves.

The most insincere revealed themselves in the preponderance of their words.  The quiet ones were the only ones who interested me now, and I had too much respect for the reverence they were showing the mountain to question or to ask what their newfound knowledge could not explain.  I looked up again and saw what could not be seen from down below.  Her true image was harbored in the deepest parts of my soul from a time when I traveled over her at night on my way from Red Lodge — headed West.  It was a time when I had no business being on the mountain at night at all.  No business, except for one inescapable truth … the Mountain called!

With A Full Tank Of Gas And A Heart Just Above Empty, I  Started My Climb

Beartooth Pass, more than any other mountain crossing, embodies the meaning of the road.  Rt #212 not only holds within itself two states, but it connects the real to the unreal, and separates the weak from the strong, while combining the past and tomorrow within the reality of today. Its crossing redefines life itself in the majesty of its eternal moment, never letting reference or comparison mask what it is trying now and forever to say to you.  To those who it changes — it changes them completely and forever.

To the rest, who only leave breathless but as before, they must carry their shame with them. It is them and not the mountain that has failed. The very top of Beartooth Pass plateaus for over a mile. It is big enough in its unveiling to hold all lost spirits and re-infuse them with the promise they had once made to themselves. I took my hands off the grips and reached upward toward the low hanging clouds. I wished to be connected, as they were, to all that was ephemeral while at the same time being attached to something this real. As the lights of Red Lodge Montana appeared in the distance, the voice of an ancient Beartooth Spirit was alive inside me. The admission fee that was paid so many years ago, with that snowy night crossing, was now a lifetime pass to what only its greatness taught and to what our many years together have now blessed me to know.

 ‘The Darkness On That Snowy June Night At Her Summit Taught Me Once And Forever About The Power To Choose’

 

There was not a single motel room available in Red Lodge, so I headed south through Belfry to Cody Wyoming. I reminded myself that this also was a beautiful ride and one that called out to me tonight with its own secrets to tell. It was not quite dusk, as the beauty of the Elk Basin washed over me in twilight, and the rocks along the canyon walls took life, as they sent out messages that I would carry for another time.

Rt#72 had true mystery within it but being overshadowed by the Chief Joseph Highway, it never got the praise it deserved … But on this night, we would join as one, as we traveled the descent into Park County together. The Goldwing and I were caught within the safety and the blessing of a new direction, and we counted only three other cars during the sixty-mile ride across the state line.

In darkness I pulled up to the Irma Hotel — the centerpiece of a town still unsure of itself.  Like the man who founded her, Cody Wyoming stood proud but confused. It was a paradox of what the West was and what it was supposed to have become. The image of itself dimmed in the flickering streetlights, as the ghost of William F. Cody patrolled the catwalk of the hotel named for his beloved daughter.

The desk clerk said: “Welcome back Mr. Behm, it’s always so good to see you; how was the road?” To that question, I lied as usual and said: “Fine, it was clear all the way,”wishing for just once that I could have explained to the non-traveler my true feelings about the road.

Knowing better of that, I walked up the 150-year-old stairs to my room on the second floor. The one they always gave me, and the one that Bill Cody stayed in when he was in town.  As I eased down into his large 4-poster bed, I stared up and into the fourteen-foot-high tiled ceiling above me. I thought to myself one last time about how lucky I was.

I then saw in the light shining from under my door once forgotten parts of myself dancing from every corner of where I had just been …

As The Footsteps Of A Restless Colonel Walked The Board Slats In The Moonlight Outside My Room

That ulcer

in his 

consciousness

bleeding

to be heard

A canker

of a 

muted past

abscessing

every word

 

Cold sores

of detention

that fade

but never

cure

A virus

of his 

hopes and dreams

recurring

— untoward

 

(Septa R5 Train: May, 2024)

Remembering

what you want to say

Forgetting

what you don’t

A writer’s choice

is zero sum

You will

until you won’t

 

Considering

that time well spent

Brings on

its just desserts

Consciousness

the poet’s form

Twice forward

— once reversed

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)

The manhood

of a nation

marching in the breeze

Chasing what

the dead have wrought

taunting its reprieve

 

Caught within the voices

of forgotten

yesterdays

The winds of war

but nine days off

— as mothers kneel to pray

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)

Chapter 13: An Uncertain Trail  

Cutty was once again headed down a trail with an uncertain end.  He didn’t feel good about the riders ahead or what their true intentions were.  Jimmy had said: “They are probably cowboys from the Bar Circle T Ranch,” but he had only been guessing.

He charged up the rapidly darkening trail…  

The only thing he was sure of was that he was forever duty-bound to a code that had taken him captive so very long ago.  It never mattered the circumstance or the odds of success.  When her voice called—and his honor was once again at risk—everything else became subservient to his sense of duty.

It had first called his name in Central Park over twenty years ago.  He had been hunting pirates behind a pond, on the east side of the park, when the message was first handed down.  It was delivered in the scream of a young girl coming out of a small cave on the far side of the pond.  

As the bats flew out of the cave, all of the other boys ran.  Cutty never wavered, as he covered his head and charged.  Inside, was a defenseless seven-year-old girl who had wandered away from her nanny.  Cutty covered her with his jacket and led her back outside.  As the other boy’s heckled and jeered, he never stopped or even looked their way.  That young girl’s name was Miss Shepperd, but Cutty had heard the nanny call her Destiny—Destiny Shepperd.

Cutty was now riding his five-year-old horse at a full gallop and the white sweat from the horse’s withers had covered his trousers.  His knowledge of tracking was enough to tell him that the shoe prints were becoming more pronounced the further west he rode.  He was gaining on them.  

Five miles later, there was less distance between the front and rear hoof prints of the riders ahead.  They had slowed down.  They were now either cantering or walking their horses. Cutty decided to get off and walk his horse until he was sure.  He knew his horse could use the rest, and he needed the quiet to be able to hear what might be up ahead.  

He walked for twenty minutes, as the tracks in front of him became fresher and fresher.  There was no doubt in his mind that the riders ahead of him were walking their horses too.  

It was now late into the evening, and he thought he heard voices coming out of the trees ahead.  As he edged closer, he could smell wood smoke and hear the sounds of a fire.  Cutty knew the other mounts would smell his horse in the night air before he got much closer.  He decided to tie his horse to a tree thirty feet off the trail.  He had learned from the Gurkhas in Nepal how to move soundlessly through the brush.  He held his sword close against his body, as he advanced through the dark.

The trail started to enter a deep ravine.  At the bottom, he could see five horses all tied together.  Fifty yards past the horses was a raging fire.  These men were not worried about being seen.  Cutty listened for voices as he moved past the horses.  The sounds that he heard in the night air were emboldened with inebriation.

                                               These Men Were All Drinking

“Good,” Cutty said to himself.  “A drunken adversary is only half the threat that he is when sober.  This adjusts the odds a little more in my favor.”  Still, Cutty wasn’t going to take anything for granted.  Five drunken cowboys, if that’s what they were, could still be a lot for him to handle. 

He checked the cylinder of his Colt .45 to make sure it was fully loaded.  He didn’t want to repeat the mistake he had made when rescuing Adrian on that hill in Portugal.  After chasing the Basque Assassin, Bakar, through the hills above Lisbon, he had forgotten to reload after shooting at him and several of his men. 

He was sorry now that he hadn’t asked Jimmy for his Colt, Model M1902.  It would have given him eight rounds in case the six in his Colt .45 were not enough.  The Colonel had always told him that, … “In direct confrontations, there is very little chance to reload.  Most fights are over by then.”

The M1902 was a semi-automatic pistol developed by John Browning for Colt in 1902.   It was an improvement on an earlier design.  The military version had a square and lengthened grip frame allowing it to carry an additional round in the magazine.  It fired eight rounds of .38 ACP from its six-inch barrel.

With his Colt .45’s capacity of only six rounds, Cutty would have to be deadly accurate with each shot.  

                         DEADLY ACCURATE IS WHAT HE HAD BEEN BEFORE!  

As he came out of the woods and passed by the horses, he tried to move quietly so as not to startle them and give himself away.  

The lead stallion whinnied as Cutty brushed by him in the dark.  The noise was loud enough to arouse two of the men and they came to investigate.  Cutty moved further off into the shadows until the men were satisfied that the horse had only been reacting to a small animal in the brush.  The two wobbly figures mumbled to each other as they walked back to the fire…

“We’ll teach that filthy redskin a lesson about wandering this far off of the reservation,” the bigger of the two said.  “His body will only strengthen our story about the missing cattle.  When we get done with this running iron he’ll wish we had killed him when we killed his horse.”

All five men were now seated again around the fire and passing two bottles of whisky back and forth.  There was no sign of Not-Many-Prisoners anywhere.  Cutty said a prayer that he was still alive.  Based on what the one cowboy had just said, he was pretty sure that he was.

                                                               But Where ?

A running-iron was a free-handed branding tool that allowed the cowboy to create a design of his choice on the animal with its hot glowing tip.  Unlike the forged designs of most branding irons, the running-iron allowed the brander to change, or go over, an existing design making it a favorite tool of rustlers throughout the west.

Cutty circled around the ravine to get closer to the fire.  The five men had continued to drink, and their words got louder as their attention span’s diminished.  As the sparks danced in mock adoration …

                                                 Cutty Started To Plan

 

Chapter 14: Right Toward The Fire

He looked down at the gleaming brass on his blouse.  As an afterthought before leaving home, he had stuffed it into his satchel.  He wasn’t sure why, but he thought that maybe—just maybe—it would be useful in some way.  The buttons were now alive in the distant glow from the firelight.  They would appear as multiple sets of eyes coming out of the dark. 

Cutty looked intently at the five men as they continued to pass the two bottles around.  Their faces were greasy and unwashed, and they sat with a demeanor that gave away their intentions.  They were among the lowest of men …  

                                These Men Hadn’t Seen A Washtub In Over A Year

Cutty remembered back again to his cowboy friends in Abilene and Dodge City—they looked nothing like this.  They had been righteous and straight, and their posture and speech only reinforced their true makeup.  They were nothing if not respectful of those around them and totally dedicated to their craft.  Cutty appreciated that. Their loyalty to the ranches they worked for equated to his unwavering commitment to a life of duty and honor.

                                       Those Men All ‘”Rode For The Brand”

He had developed a kinship and brotherhood with those cow hands back in Kansas, and he had made himself a promise to one day go back and visit them again.  He knew as he made that promise to himself, going back was something he had never been able to do before.  He hoped  this time it would be different.

“All right, who’s going first?” Cutty heard from the cowboy seated at the far end of the fire. “Who wants to put the first mark on that filthy redskin?”  

“I’ll do it, Jack,” said a man seated ten feet to his left.  “I’m going to burn a dark groove right between his two beady eyes.”  

“OK, Pete; you and Bill go get that stinking Piegan.”

At this point, Cutty had not seen Not-Many-Prisoners, but he knew he had to be close.  The two men walked toward where the horses were tied and within five minutes were back.  Each man had Not-Many-Prisoners by an arm, and the Piegan Elder was slumped forward and struggling to walk.

                                           Cutty Had Walked Right Past Him

“I don’t think he liked being tied to that horse, Jack.  He about pitched a fit when we cut the ropes and took him down.  Bill gave him a good jolt to the head with his Peacemaker to get him to behave.  I don’t think he’ll give us any more trouble.” 

“Good, you and Bill tie him to those two small cottonwoods over by the water.  Then we can let the real fun begin.”

                              Some Of These Outlaws Were Carrying Colt .45’s

Cutty couldn’t believe that he had walked right by Not-Many-Prisoners when he had entered the ravine.  “How could I have missed him so close in the dark?”

Not-Many-Prisoners had been tied cross-saddle to the biggest of the five horses.  It had been the fourth one back as Cutty passed by in the dark.  After tying him to the saddle, the outlaws had covered him with a canvas tarp making him impossible to see.  It also made it almost impossible for him to breathe.  

Not-Many-Prisoners was lucky to be alive.  Had Cutty been able to see and untie him, it would now be two against five and they would still have had the element of surprise working for them.

“I wonder if Not-Many-Prisoners knows I’m here?  He may have heard me as I walked by, especially when that lead horse whinnied, and has kept quiet to protect me.  Or, he may have been in such rough shape, that he missed me entirely.”

Cutty wasn’t sure of Not-Many-Prisoner’s mindset but he was sure of one thing …he didn’t have much time.   As the vile, and now drunk, outlaws tied Not-Many-Prisoners to the cottonwoods, Cutty hurried back to the horses. 

He quickly and quietly untied them from each other—he needed to make a statement.  The cowboys were still drunk, and a drunken man’s imagination often gets the better of him.  He was hesitant to do it, but he felt he had no other choice…

                                               He Unholstered His Colt

 

 

Chapter 15:  A Different Brand Of Justice

The horses had been bound together with a technique that Cutty had never seen before.  They had all been tied to a forty-inch branch that allowed them to move freely and graze without getting tangled.  It lowered down as they fed and then rose when their heads straightened back up.  

Cutty vowed to remember this for the future.  It provided for both security and a limited amount of mobility.  It had been invented by the Cheyenne and was used extensively throughout the southern plains. The Colonel had been right when he said: “The Native Americans are noted for their prowess in stealth and tactics.” 

Cutty untied the horses from the branch, and—with three of the reins in his right hand and two in his left—started to walk them slowly toward the fire. 

He knew his next move would be costly, but he needed to create as big a diversion as he could.  It would only leave five shots in his Colt, but the effect would be worth the bullet, at least that’s what he hoped. 

                                       He Reminded Himself About Hoping Again

The Colonel had warned Cutty repeatedly about hoping.  “Wishing for a certain outcome is not worth the mental effort you will put forth.  Keep your attention focused on the task at hand.  That will afford you the best chance of success.”

Cutty slapped the lead stallion on its rump as he fired his Colt up into the night sky.  At the report of the gunshot, all five horses took off toward the fire like they were being chased by the underworld god, Hades.  Entering the mouth of the ravine, there was not enough room for them to go around and avoid the fire.

                                            They Charged Straight Through 

The horses charged across the fire as the five cowboys looked on in drunken horror.  There was smoke and flying embers everywhere.  Two of the cowboys at the far end stood up and tried to run but were trampled by the horses before getting very far.  The lead cowboy, Jack, managed to get to his gun before leveling it in Cutty’s direction and firing.  

Cutty redrew his Colt while dropping to one knee.  He sighted his big .45 and fired before Jack could get off a second round.  The bullet went straight through Jack’s right shoulder causing him to drop the big Peacemaker as he fell back away from the now-scattered fire.  

Cutty picked up Jack’s gun and ran toward where Not-Many-Prisoners was tied.   As he cut his restraints, he handed him Jack’s gun saying: “There are five shots left in the cylinder.  Here’s six more rounds in case you run out.”

They both turned to face the startled cowboys who were now crawling through the dirt trying to make sense of it all.  With a KIAI that none of these rustlers had ever heard before, Cutty advanced.  One by one, he grabbed the men and threw them face down onto the dark ground.  He then yelled to Not-Many-Prisoners: “Tie them up with their hands behind their backs.  I’ll tie the one that I shot after I check on his wound.”

                               The KIAI Had Been For Not-Many-Prisoners Benefit

Cutty checked on Jack’s shoulder.  It was bleeding profusely, but it was a clean wound and the bullet missed any bone or cartilage as it passed through.  Cutty grabbed the bandana from around Jack’s neck, dirty as it was, and wrapped his shoulder.  “This will help to stop the bleeding,” Cutty said.  “Keep pressure on it with your other hand.  It’s better than you deserve, but you might just live if you keep it from bleeding out before you get to a doctor.” 

Jack had been staring at Cutty’s blouse as he doctored his wound.  “So, you some kinda government agent?” Jack asked, as Cutty started to walk away.

“I’m a Major in the United States Army here to investigate charges that rustling has been taking place on government land.  I can see now that the rumors have been true.  In addition, you were getting ready to commit capital murder.  I am ordering you, and your men, to stay here until my detachment comes back to pick you up.

If you’re not here when they arrive, they will hunt you down like the wild dogs that you are.  I need to get this Indian Scout back to headquarters. We know who you work for and what you’ve been doing.”

                                         “You Are All Under Military Arrest”

Cutty tied Jack’s right hand to the top of his other arm. He knew he had just stretched the truth, but he wasn’t above doing that if a man’s life hung in the balance.  He looked across the scattered but still burning embers.  

Not-Many-Prisoners had a look on his face that Cutty had not seen from any of the Piegan Elders before.  El Cristo had been the first to look at him that way when he had mortally wounded his son, Elligretto, in Seville.  His expression transcended the present moment—as it acknowledged Cutty’s immortal warrior spirit. 

Not-Many-Prisoners ran into the darkness in the direction that the horses had just gone. In less than ten minutes he was back with all five of them in tow.  “How was he able to find them in the dark and to have done it so quickly?” Cutty wondered.   

Horses, when frightened or startled, will often run for miles without stopping.  He was sure when he fired that shot from his big Colt, those five had been both.  The Colonel’s assessment about Native Americans—a breed of men Cutty had only met once before in Abilene—rang true again tonight. 

At West Point, Jimmy had been masked in eastern tradition hiding the best parts of himself.

                              Cutty Jumped On The First Horse As He Yelled   

 

 

Stalking every dream

calling me from sleep

A Yeti of the frozen night

I drove the pitons deep

 

Climbing over hope

belaying every wish

The tracks it leaves — perdition bound

  to wander in the mist

 

(Haverford Pennsylvania: May, 2024)

There was a loud KNOCK on the rectory’s back door.

Father Frank Kerin had been sitting at the rectory’s kitchen table reading the newspaper.  He was a young priest having just finished seminary only last June.  It was a late August Sunday afternoon, and he had just come back from visiting the sick at the local hospital. He was totally engrossed in the sports section of the paper when he heard it again.

This time the knocking was louder and more persistent. The housekeeper did not work Sundays, and Father Frank was alone in the big house.

He got up and walked through the kitchen to the enclosed back porch where the door was located.  Looking through the venetian blinds he could see that the person knocking was a woman.  As he opened the outer door, he could also see that she was quite large, appeared to be in her mid-sixties, and she was holding something rolled up in her right hand.  She had a menacing look on her face and Father Frank thought to himself … I hope she doesn’t hit me with that.

Father Frank opened the screen door and greeted the woman. She said: “My name is Florence Atterbury and I’m looking for Father Greenlee.”  Father Frank then introduced himself: “Hello Madam, my name is Father Frank Kerin and I’m new to the parish. I just graduated from Seminary in Cincinnati Ohio and have only been in Rosemont (Pa.) for a few short weeks. Father Greenlee is out for the day, is there anything I can help you with?”

The woman stood in the doorway for a long silent moment looking down at the floor.  When she finally did look up at Father Frank, she said: “Father, I think I’d like to sit down.”  Father Frank escorted the woman back into the kitchen and sat her down at the table.  He then asked her if she would like something to drink.  Mrs. Atterbury said: “No thank you”and laid the newspaper she was carrying out on the kitchen table.

It was opened to section C, and the lead article was about the abuses of drinking and smoking in America.  The editor was linking both with many of the maladies that plagued our country and was trying to connect the effects of drinking and smoking to lives of total ruin and debauchery.  There were pictures in the article of men in Philadelphia’s bowery, and women in a local nightclub, with cigarettes between their fingers and a cocktail in their other hand.

The caption underneath said, ‘The Beginnings Of A Dead End Life.’

Mrs. Atterbury said she was livid and upset over the fundraiser that the church had just held in the school auditorium. Beer and wine had been served, and men — and some women —were seen smoking outside the front doors where the event was taking place.  She also said, that “anyone with half a brain knows that once you start smoking it leads to alcohol and then most likely to harder drugs and possibly even to a life of crime.  Your life is ultimately ruined and beyond saving and you are eventually condemned to a life outside the Church.”

The good woman went on for over ninety minutes lamenting the ramifications that a life involving tobacco and alcohol would entail.  She also said that she was “going to put her foot down with Father Greenlee about future events at the parish and that no alcohol should ever be served.”  When Father Frank explained to Mrs. Atterbury that there was wine at the Last Supper, and it was turned into the blood of Christ, she just said: “Father, really, that was just for God himself and the Apostles.  You don’t really think that applies to the rest of us, do you?”  Father Frank took one more shot at explaining to her the story of the Wedding Feast Of Cana, but again, it fell on deaf ears.

Mrs. Atterbury finally got up and as she left she pointed her big index finger right at the middle of Father Frank’s chest.

“Father, you mind my words, this smoking and drinking are going to undo all the good work my women’s auxiliary has done for the past twenty years. If it continues to go unchecked, it will spread through our elementary school and ruin every child in it.  It only takes one bad apple you know …”

As Mrs. Atterbury walked out the back door, Father Frank thanked her for coming.  He then walked slowly back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.  After taking out a bottle of Budweiser he sat down, lit up a Chesterfield, and leaned back in his chair.  He just couldn’t help but wonder …

                               

                                          What Was Hell Going To Be Like? 

The woman in the blue Chevy said: “Just five dollars please,” as I pumped two more dollars of Sunoco 260 into the aging four door sedan.  As she paid me and then left, I looked at the Croton Chronograph Watch on my wrist that I had gone into hock for last fall.  5:15, SHOOT!!!, I only had 45 minutes to jump on my bike and make it the fifteen miles back to West Philadelphia to class.

I was taking night courses at St Joseph’s College (St Joseph’s University now), and my first class started at 6:00 p.m.  Why? I asked myself again did I always cut it so close?  Deep inside I knew the answer, but I told myself it was because I was a good employee.  I had been pumping gas and renting U-Haul Trucks at an Arco gas station in North Hills Pa. for the past two years. The station was open till 6 p.m. every day, and it seemed I never got out of there until after 5.

It was owned by a good friend of mine, Bob, whom I had met in Ocean City New Jersey while living in the rooming house that he and his wife Pat owned at 14^{th street} and Asbury Ave.  Every day at five o’clock, Bob would yell out to me on the gas island — “time to leave!” He knew how long the ride was back to school during rush hour and that I never seemed to get out by 5.

The real answer as to why I was always late was that I liked the challenge. I loved the ride through the small section of Fairmount Park and then the river town of Manayunk always trying to get back to my apartment at 54^th and Woodland Ave in the Overbrook section of Philadelphia before six.  54^th and Woodland was right across the street from St Joe’s, and I would literally race into the driveway in front of my apartment house, drop the bike’s kickstand run inside to change and then head for class.  Many times, I would not even change out of my Arco jumper (uniform) before heading over to campus.  I often didn’t have the time.  I wondered what some of the other people, especially girls, must have thought of the strange aroma that I brought to the class on the nights when I didn’t change.

                                           To Their Credit, No One Ever Complained

I had always secretly wanted to road-race motorcycles, and this twenty-minute ride both to and from work every day gave me a chance to indulge my fantasy. Tonight, I would be cutting it very close and not even have time to stop at my apartment.  I would have to park under the tree in front of my classroom building and run up the stairs to the third floor and do it all before six o’clock. It was an advanced Philosophy class, Ethics and Morality, and the professor, Dr. Larry McKinnon closed the doors promptly at six.  If you were late, you didn’t get in — no exceptions!

I raced through the park on Bells Mill Road and hit the cobblestone hills of Manayunk with 15 minutes still left on my watch.  I then raced up City Line Ave and caught only one red light as I saw the lights of 54^th and City Line straight ahead. The light was yellow as I leaned over hard and made the left turn on 54^thSt. I raced up past the basketball arena and turned right on Woodland Ave. I would normally have gone straight a half block to my apartment, but I had cut it too close and didn’t have the time. I pulled up in front of the Villiger Building, chained my bike to the tree I always used, and ran for the stairway door around back by the track.

This building had no elevator, so it was up two flights of stairs to the top floor and then left down the hall to where my classroom was the one farthest on the right.

As I rushed through the back door of Villiger, the first flight of stairs was blocked.  An elderly man with a Gulf Oil Hat on was struggling to pull his son in a wheelchair up the 26 stairs.  He had the entire stairway blocked, and I had less than two minutes to get by him and into McKinnon’s class.   His son in the wheelchair was in really bad shape.  He was in a total body brace that went clear to his head, and as he looked down at me, I heard him say: “Hey Moose, grab the front, and we’ll both make it to McKinnon’s class before he shuts the door.”

With that, I grabbed the small front wheels and lifted, as we both carried the wheelchair up the two flights of stairs to the third floor.  We entered the hallway just as Dr. McKinnon was shutting the door.  The kid in the wheelchair yelled out, “Wait for us Doc” as we raced for the closing door.  I took the handles of the chair away from his dad and pushed the chair inside.  We had made it but not any too soon.

I wondered to myself if McKinnon would have denied entry to this kid who had been stricken with polio if he had arrived just two minutes later. It would have taken at least that long if his dad had tackled those stairs alone.  I parked his wheelchair next to my desk on the far left as the professor started his lecture.  When it was over, I pushed his wheelchair outside to where his dad was waiting.

“Ed Hudak,” his father said, “and this is my son Eddie.  Thanks so much for helping us up the stairs. I got out of work late and had to race home to the Northeast section of Philadelphia, pick Eddie up, and then race back down here to get him to class.”  Mr. Hudak worked at the Gulf Oil Refinery in South Philadelphia.  To leave work at four o’clock and get all the way up to the Northeast, pick up his crippled son, and then race back down to West Philadelphia made the little twenty-minute jaunt that I did every day seem like child’s play.

His son Eddie then asked me where my next class was. “Dr Marshall’s ‘Rational Psychology,’ I told him” as he said, “mine too, you can push me over there and my dad can go to the student union and get something to eat and rest for a while.”  School had only started last week, and somehow I had missed seeing this crippled kid in both of my classes.  He told me he had seen me though because of the strange jumper I had on and the helmet I carried into class.  When he told his father about me his dad said: “That kid must work in a gas station and be paying for school himself.  Cut him some slack if he doesn’t look real presentable on those days when he’s late.”

Eddie and I finished both classes together and I got ready to push him back outside.  As we passed the vending machines on the first floor, I told him that this was where I usually stopped to have dinner before going home.  He asked me, “What’s your favorite?” and I told him, “the Dinty Moore beef stew.”  The machine had three different varieties and that was usually all I had until breakfast the next day.  Eddie said he would like to wait while I ate and that his father would be fine outside for a few more minutes.  He seemed to know something about our new relationship that would take quite a bit longer for me to discover and sort out.

                                                 Eddie Always Seemed To ‘Just Know’

I asked Eddie what his major was, and he said Literature, and that he had been a student here for almost six years.  Again, I wondered, how could I have missed him in that wheelchair with someone always pushing him to where he needed to go?  I hoped I hadn’t refused to see him in his diminished condition with my eyes always looking away.  These kinds of things always bothered me, and I was squeamish around handicapped people, especially children. My mother had volunteered at the St. Edmond’s Home For Crippled Children in Rosemont for many years, but I was still uncomfortable when I saw those kids, not much younger than I was, in wheelchairs and leg braces.

                                                Eddie’s Condition Was Much Worse

The only thing handicapped about Eddie was his body. His mind and spirit were stronger than any five, so-called, normal people.  His father had made sure of that.  His dad had been racing from work to home and then to school for almost six years devoting whatever spare time he had to what his son wanted to accomplish.  He would drop Eddie off at class and then, most nights, go sleep in his car in the school parking lot.  Many nights, the temperature in that parking lot was below freezing, but this sixty-year-old man NEVER complained.

                                           Who Was Really Handicapped, Eddie Or Me?

As much as I marveled at how well Eddie did in spite of being disabled, his father amazed me even more.  He was like so many heroes that we never hear about standing off in the shadows so that someone else can thrive.  After I finished my stew, I pushed Eddie outside to where his dad was waiting.  He shook my hand and said: “Son, without your help tonight, we’d have really been in a terrible fix.”

                                                                   He Called Me “Son”

As I watched him wheel Eddie back toward their car in the parking lot, I pushed my long hair back and pulled my helmet over my head.  The chinstrap I left unbuckled on these short rides because it always got tangled in my beard.  I rode the two short blocks back to my apartment with the sight of Eddie and his dad burned into the front of my psyche.  I knew I had witnessed something special tonight, I just didn’t know yet how special it truly was or would then become.

Now, I had an entirely new reason for getting to school on time.  I was not going to let that diminutive older man pull that wheelchair up those stairs one more time — not if I could help it.  I was never late again for the rest of that semester, as Eddie and I became fast friends with he and his dad even visiting my apartment on more than one occasion.  I became a real master at pulling that sled of his up the stairs, and we often got help from other male students as we made the climb.

Eddie told me in confidence one day that I had been good for his dad.  I thought he was referring to the physical exertion I had save him, and Eddie said: “No, it’s more than that. My dad has never liked anyone with long hair and a beard, and he told my mother the other night that you were the first.  He then went on to say that maybe it was just hair and that he shouldn’t let things like that bother him anymore.”  I was both flattered and gratified that he saw something in me, something that I still may not have seen in myself.

Mr. Hudak had been a World War 2 veteran and participated as a Chaplain’s Assistant in such major conflicts as D-Day and The Battle Of The Bulge.  His Jeep had sunk in deep water during the D-Day landing, and he and the Chaplain had to swim two hundred yards to shore amidst enemy fire.  He was a great man in the tradition of all great men who provide unselfish and heroic service while asking for nothing in return. In many ways, I secretly wished that he had been my dad too.

My father had also been in World War 2 as a Marine and fought many engagements in the South Pacific.  He was a hero to me, but the difference between my father and Mr. Hudak was, my dad loved me, but he didn’t seem interested in my life now.  He didn’t approve of my studying Philosophy, and he couldn’t understand why I hadn’t chosen a more conventional career path like the sons of so many of his friends.

                     In Ways I Couldn’t Understand, I Think I Embarrassed My Father

What my dad didn’t know was, that underneath the long hair and beard, my beliefs were a little to the right of Attila The Hun. Unfortunately, we never had a serious conversation where he could have discovered that.

The semester finally came to an end and the Christmas holidays were now upon us.  It was cold weather to be riding a motorcycle but, when that’s all you have. then that’s what you ride. On the last day of class before break, Mr. Hudak pulled me aside.  “My wife Marge and I are having a little party next Saturday night, and we’d like you to come.”  Everything inside me was trying to find an excuse not to go, but all I was capable of was shaking my head yes and thanking this great man for the kind invitation.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to meet his family. It was that I literally had nothing to wear and only the motorcycle to get me there.  My entire wardrobe consisted of two pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, and one beige fisherman’s knit sweater that I had bought at a local discount store.  I still hadn’t worn the sweater, and the tags were still on it.  I kept telling myself I was saving it for a special occasion.  Well, what could be more special than meeting Mr. Hudak’s family. The afternoon of the party I removed the tags from the sweater and ran down to the Laundromat and washed my newest jeans.

Eddie had told me that the get together would start around seven, but I could arrive anytime I wanted.  As I pulled the motorcycle up in front of their brick row house, I looked for a place to park the bike where it wouldn’t stand out. I already looked like a child of the sixties, and the motorcycle would only give them something else to focus on that might be misleading.

My fears were totally unfounded as I walked through the front door.  Mr. Hudak greeted me warmly, as Eddie yelled out in a voice all could hear: “My buddy Kurt’s here.”  My buddy Kurt! Those words have stayed with me and have provided sustenance during times when I thought my life was tough.  All I had to do in those moments was think of Eddie and what he and his family had been through, and my pity party for myself ended almost quicker than it began.

                                                             “My Buddy Kurt’s Here”

No sooner did I wave to Eddie than Mrs. Hudak came bouncing out of the kitchen.  Literally bouncing! This tiny woman of 5’1’’ came bounding across the dining room floor and immediately reached up and threw both of her arms around my neck.  She squeezed hard and it felt good.  It was real and she wanted me to know that.  Eddie had also explained to me how physically strong his mother was. It was the result of having to carry him up and down two flights of stairs from his bedroom to their recreation room in the basement below.  She did this several times a day.

I don’t know how high the heat was set to in their house that night, but I had never felt so warm — or accepted.  To an outsider like me it even looked like love, which I was to find out shortly is exactly what it was.  I wanted to take my heavy sweater off, but I had nothing on underneath but an old t-shirt.  Mrs. Hudak’s name was Marge, and she was from an old Irish family named McCarty. When she first saw me earlier, after I had removed my jacket, she said: “What a lovely sweater, shorin it tis.”

                                                                        It Felt Like Love

I spent that night getting to know everyone, and in no time felt like one of the family.  At ten o’clock the guests started to leave and Marge took me into the kitchen.  “Can you stay a little while longer, because at eleven there is someone who I want you to meet?”  I said sure, as she fed me more cake and cookies telling me that they were baked special by the evening’s mystery guest.

At eleven fifteen the front door opened with an “I’m home,” coming from a young woman’s voice.  As I stood up, a flash of white turned the corner and entered the kitchen.  There in her finest nurse’s regalia, stood Eddie’s younger sister, Kathryn, who had just finished the evening shift at Nazareth Hospital in North Philadelphia.

“WOW, WAS SHE SOMETHING,” is all I could hear myself saying as she took her first look at me.  “So, this is the guy I’ve heard so much about huh,” she said as she walked to the refrigerator.  “Based on my brother’s description, I thought you would have been at least ten feet tall.”  Mildly sarcastic for sure, but I was smitten right away.

Later, I heard her on the phone with someone who sounded like her boyfriend.  They seemed to be fighting, and I sensed from the look on her dad’s face that they weren’t crazy about him either.  He said: “I hope it’s over,” and in less than a minute Kathryn came into the living room with tears in her eyes.  As she ran up the stairs to her bedroom, you could hear her say, “What A Jerk!” I prayed she wasn’t referring to me.

Her mother ran up the stairs after her but before she did, she asked me not to leave.  Ten minutes later she came back downstairs and said: “You haven’t finished your cookies and cake in the kitchen.”

Marge was right, and I really wanted to finish them, but I was now starting to feel uncomfortable and in the middle of something that wasn’t for me to see or hear. Not wanting to seem rude, I followed her back to the kitchen table and sat down as she refilled my glass with milk. “So, what are your plans for the holidays,” she asked, as I wolfed down the sweets.

“Oh, nothing much,” I said, “just schoolwork and my job at the gas station.”  “And how about New Year’s Eve she asked?”  “Oh, nothing planned, probably just go see my grandparents and then watch the ball drop on TV in my apartment if I make it till twelve”.  “Why don’t you ask Kathryn out?” she said, as her eyes twinkled? I thought I must have been hearing things and looked baffled, so she repeated it again…

                                                 Why Don’t You Ask Kathryn Out?

This kindly woman, from this great family, was suggesting that I take their pride and joy daughter, Kathyrn, out for New Year’s Eve.  I didn’t know what to say. “Why don’t you think about it?  I’ll bet the two of you would have fun. I think based on tonight she is now free for New Year’s Eve too.”

I was literally in shock and not prepared for this.  I had recently broken up with a long-term girlfriend who I had dated all through high school and college.  I had convinced myself that I needed a break from girls for a while, and now here I was faced with dating Mr. Hudak’s only daughter.  In a few minutes, Marge walked out of the kitchen and Kathryn walked back in. She was now dressed in her pajamas and robe. If I had been smitten before, I was totally taken now.

I knew the first thing I said might be my last, so after a long pause I uttered: “So, I hear you’re not doing anything for New Years Eve?”  Not the best ice breaker as she yelled out to her mother: “Mommmmm, what did you tell him.”  Her mother didn’t answer.  I said again: “Kathy, please don’t take it the wrong way, I don’t have a date for New Year’s either.”  She looked at me for what seemed like an eternity, that in reality lasted for just a few seconds, before saying: “And just where do you propose we should go, Mr. Wonderful?”  Thank God I had an answer.

                                                           The Ice Had Broken

“Zaberers,” I said: “They’re open twenty-four hours. They have dinner and dancing and then a big show right after midnight.”  “Zaberers, huh,” she said, as she looked at me once more.  “All right, you can pick me up at eight.” With that, I didn’t want to push my luck.  I thanked her parents for the wonderful evening and wanted to say good night to Eddie, but he had already gone to bed.  That was what Marge was doing on her second trip upstairs — what a woman!!!

                                                        What A Woman Indeed!

Kathy and I had a great time on that first date on New Years Eve. All we really talked about was her father and about how hard he had struggled to keep the family together and how lucky he was to have found a woman like Marge who was the love of his life.

Kathy and I were engaged to be married just nine weeks later on March 5^th,, and then married that fall on September 22^{nd 1974}.  I was now a real part of the family that I had admired from afar.  Kathy and I had two children, and Marge and Ed were the best grandparents that two kids could ever have hoped for. They were lucky enough to see both of their grandchildren grow into adulthood and attend their college graduations. They were also able to proudly attend the wedding of their oldest grandchild, our daughter Melissa.

We lost Ed Hudak, my father-in-law, my guardian, and my friend, last December, and the world has been a little less bright with only the memory of him here now.  In many ways, he was the best of what we are all still trying to become, and his spirit remains inside us during the times of our greatest need.

For me though, I’ll never forget the time of our first meeting. That late September afternoon when I looked up those stairs at St Joe’s and not a word needed to be said. Here was a Saint of a man doing what real men do and doing it quietly. With humble dignity, his spirit reached out to me that day and filled an empty place inside of me with his love.

Now, forty years later, that same spirit occupies a bigger and bigger place in my life. From somewhere deep inside my soul it continues to live on, and I know for as long as I can remember — it will never let me go.

                                            And I Called Him … ‘The Chief’

The mind

its own place

be it heaven

or hell

 

The soul

but a bucket

to empty

or fill

 

Goya

a madman

DaVinci

extolled

 

Sharing

a genius

they fought

to control

 

Bleed out

the poison

death waits

to reclaim

 

Or memory

gets buried

and darkness

— remains

 

(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)

The coach signaled timeout and called the team to the sidelines.  There were eight minutes left in the biggest game of their lives, and they would be playing for three minutes with a severe disadvantage.  They had committed a succession of penalties within a span of less than 60 seconds, and they would now be playing without three men on the field.  In lacrosse this is referred to as ‘Man Down.’

Usually it’s only ‘One Man Down,’ or at the most, ‘Two Men Down,’ but few watching that day had ever seen a team go ‘Three Men Down.’  This meant that their star goalie T.J. Braxton was only going to have three defenders in front of him instead of the usual six.

T.J. had been playing great, but he now had to play for two minutes with three men missing in front of him and then the third minute still missing one. It was going to seem like an eternity.  The coach looked over at T.J. and he was standing off to the side by himself not wanting to either look or talk to anyone during the intermission.  The coach understood this behavior because he had been a goalie himself and decided to leave T.J. alone — totally immersed within his own thoughts.

As they did the cheer to break the huddle, it was for their goalie …”1, 2, 3, Go T.J.”  What would happen now brought more pressure than any goalie should ever have to withstand. Even going just ‘One Man Down’ would in many cases result in a goal for the other team.  Going ‘Two Men Down’ almost ensures the other team a goal, and anything beyond that just puts your goalie at the mercy of the shooters on the other team.

               And Tonight There Would Be No Mercy To Be Found

T.J. already had 18 saves up to this point with only half a quarter left to play in regulation. Saves are when a goalie either blocks or deflects an offensive shot from the other team. He had only let in three goals all game, and the score was tied at 3-3.

Pennhurst was a powerful public school with large and fast athletes.  They had not been playing lacrosse as long as T.J.’s private (all-boys) school, Haverland Academy, but their natural athletic ability and inner toughness were making up for any experience lost.

T.J. would have to defend his goal missing three men in front of him for two minutes and then missing one man for the next sixty seconds.  It was his team’s possession coming out of the timeout, and it was all they could do being so shorthanded to even get the ball across the mid-field line.  The coach’s tactic was not to shoot the ball now but to stall and to try and take as much time off the clock as they could until they could get more players back on the field.  T.J. stood rock solid in the center of the ‘crease’ in front of his goal and looked squarely at the goalie at the other end of the field. The ‘crease’ was the large circle surrounding the goal that no offensive player from the other team could enter. He seemed to not be following the ball and his coach wondered what was going on inside his head.

Playing goalie is 80% mental, and he was hoping his star goalie wasn’t going to have a melt down when his team needed him the most.  T.J. would normally be very active inside his own goal shouting instructions to the defensemen in front of him and trying to best position them for the oncoming attack.

                           Something ‘Seemed’ Different Tonight

T.J. had entered a new zone, one that he had never been in before, and one that only he could understand.  As Haverland’s lead attackman charged the opposing goal, the ball fell out of his stick. It was immediately picked up by the opposing goalie and ‘cleared’ to a midfielder standing outside and to his left.  The midfielder made one more pass to an attackman, and the ball was coming T.J.’s way with only three defenders in front of him to help stop the charge. The ball was again passed to one of their senior captains and their strongest midfielder.

He juked left as he faked a pass and then as he cradled the ball wildly, he headed straight toward T.J. in the goal.  When he got within fifteen feet of the goal he stopped, set his feet, and with a violent and twisting motion fired an overhand shot across his right shoulder at the ground two feet in front of where T.J. now stood.

T.J. was now eighteen and a half and had been playing goalie since he was seven years old.  He had seen and defended almost every kind of shot and from every angle in those eleven years. He had just never had to do it before with almost no defense in front of him.  As the shot left the midfielders stick, T.J. reacted.  He took two steps forward and was able to scoop the ball out of the air at ankle height before it was able to bounce off the ground. Bounce shots were more difficult to save, and his accumulated instinct and experience allowed him to get this one and at least for now keep the score tied at 3-3.

T.J. ran behind his own goal toward the end line. With the ball in his stick he was trying to take time off the clock.  Only one opposing player chased him, and he was able to do a 180-degree spin, avoid that player, and run back out in front of his goal.  He then cleared the ball, the entire length of the field, to a midfielder standing in the far left corner.  T.J.’s team had the ball within thirty feet of the opposing goal with only two minutes left to run in penalty time.

T.J.’s offense decided it was time to step up and play big.  They managed to take a full minute off the clock with uncanny passing until the referee finally called stalling and gave the ball back to the other side.

As the ball came back in T.J’s direction, two of his penalized players retook the field.  They were now playing with only a ‘one man down’ disadvantage and for only sixty more seconds.

The opposing team set up in a perimeter in front of his goal passing the ball from man to man and then behind T.J.’s goal in an attempt to unbalance a still weakened defense.  As the ball went behind the net, T.J. rotated inside the crease never taking his eye off the ball.  He thought they were setting him up for something sneaky because his fundamental blocking skills on normal shots were so strong. More than anything he didn’t want to give up a cheap goal, and he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out that his suspicions had been correct.

As they passed the ball back and forth behind his goal, an attackman turned and tried to lob the ball over the back of the goal, and T.J.’s stick, to an opposing midfielder who was charging the front of the goal from about twenty-five-feet away.  They were hoping to catch T.J. mesmerized in what was going on behind the net and then reverse field and go in the one direction no one ever expected — over the back of the goal.

It didn’t work!  As the ball left the midfielders stick, T.J. jumped high in the air and intercepted the pass in the shooting strings of his goalie stick.  He then spun around and ran directly to the out of bounds line to his right. It was beyond the defensive box, and he stood there waiting for someone to challenge him.  He was again trying to take precious seconds off the clock to get his team back to full strength. Although a goalie, T.J. was the fastest player on his team and that speed was like money in the bank to a team that was struggling and in trouble with time running out.

He managed to get the penalty down to twenty two seconds before he finally dished the ball off to another long stick defender and then quickly moved back in front of his goal.  That defensemen got across midfield just before another penalty would have occurred for not advancing the ball.  With only seventeen seconds left on the penalty, the offense passed the ball to the four corners looking for a man who was ‘hot’ (open) who could take the shot and finally break the tie.  With only three seconds left in the penalty their best attackman, John Erasmus, took the ball in his stick and with his left hand fired a side angle shot at the right side of the goal.  It was a great shot, but their goalie made a heroic save. He was also a senior and had transferred into Pennhurst two years ago from a Lacrosse powerhouse school in northern Maryland.

With both teams now at full strength, the ball went back and forth for the final five minutes with very few shots taken at either end.  The ones that were taken were weak and from great distance, and both goalies easily picked them up and started the ball going the other way.  Each shot was critical now because the game was tied with time running out.  Possession was more important than losing the ball to the other team by taking a poor shot.  As the lights shone brightly high above the scoreboard, time ran out in regulation.  The game would now go to sudden death overtime, and it would become about the strength of the face-off men and how hot each goalie was going to be.

           It Was Now About The Face-Off Man And The Goalies

In sudden death, the first team to score wins!  No second chances here it’s do or die time, and everything is amped up to an entirely new level.  Many times, the winner of the face off at midfield wins the game because everything is geared towards that one shot, and the pressure on the opposing goalie is tremendous.  Unless the goalie can isolate himself in a ‘zone of invincibility,’ the chances of blocking a shot in overtime due to a lost face off are not very good.  Just like in the NFL, where the coin toss often determines the winner in overtime, the face-off is like that coin toss only with skill and not luck determining the winner.  T.J. thought back to all the coaches and mentors that had brought him to where he was standing tonight.  They were all somewhere up in the stands, and they were all living and dying with him tonight in the goal.

                  T.J. Decided That Tonight It Would Be About Life

The Captains met at the middle of the field as the referee explained the rules of sudden death.  All who were listening thought that the term was aptly named.  They shook hands again and ran back to the huddles on their respective sidelines.  Both coaches gave their overtime strategies to their teams, and they did one more cheer before retaking the field.  Both face off men walked slowly toward each other at the center mid-field line and stared each other directly in the eye.

The physical disparity between the two players at mid-field was huge.  Haverland’s best face off man, George Arle, was 5’6’’ tall and 160 lbs. Pennhurst’s face off man, B.J. Radford, had been an All-State quarterback on the football team and was 6’3’’ and 225 lbs.  Although Lacrosse was not his primary sport,  he had played it for the last four years and by anyone’s account he was a ‘stud player.’  The skill in taking face offs is unlike any other in Lacrosse.  It’s more similar to recovering a fumble in football or picking up a loose five-dollar bill dropped on the floor in Penn Station in New York.  It’s uncontrolled mayhem with the skill to do it only evident to those who have been there. And it’s those players who know painfully well what it takes to win the fight for the ball.

Although T.J.’s face off man George had had a good season, he always struggled against players that were that much bigger than him and usually lost the ball.  The ref. positioned the ball between the two boys sticks who were both crouched down and ready at mid-field.  The whistle blew, and George lost the ball as B.J. picked it up and charged right over George’s left shoulder.  He was headed in a straight line right toward T.J. who was standing fixed and ready in front of his goal.  B.J. passed the ball to a midfielder who kept it only a second before passing it to an attackman who was off to the right of the goal.  The attackman looked to his left and faked a pass to his right.  He then spun around and with all his might fired a bounce shot on an angle from the right facing side of Haverland’s goal.

T.J. stepped forward, scooped the ball up on the first bounce, and in one fluid motion flipped the ball out to a defenseman on the left perimeter. This player cradled it inside his long stick as he took off down the sideline and across midfield.  The defenseman made a pass to a middie on the extreme other side of the field who then passed to an attackman. This man ran around behind the net and came out on the other side in front of the goal, shot the ball, but it went wide right.  The other team was closest to the ball when it went out of bounds, so it was Pennhurst’s possession, and it was coming back T.J.’s way.

Their goalie cleared the ball left to a long stick defenseman, who in turn made a long pass directly to an attackman, and the ball was once again in the oppositions stick less than thirty feet from the goal T.J. was defending.  This attackman had no intention of passing.  He put his head down and charged straight ahead toward T.J.  As his coach was screaming at him to pass, and it the midst of five defensive players, he fired off a shot.  It came at a side angle, and, with all of the players surrounding the shooter, it was hard for T.J. to see the ball come off the kid’s stick.

When T.J. finally did see the ball, it had passed the head of his stick, and he was just able to get a piece of the ball with the bottom of his shaft. It was just enough to deflect the ball upwards and over the goal and into the chain link fence fifty feet behind the crease.  On instinct alone, T.J. ran after the ball and being closest to it when it went out of bounds, he picked it up in his stick and slowly walked forward. This gave his midfielders time to transition back up to the other end of the field.

T.J. was living on borrowed time.  Making one save in overtime was huge, but making two, and one with only the shaft of his stick to save it all, was stretching the limits of whatever luck the team had left.  T.J. easily passed the ball to an unguarded defenseman who ‘walked’the ball up-field and then tossed it to a midfielder just in front of the offensive box.

The offensive box is the restrained and shorter ‘boxed-out’ area right in front of the goalie and where most shots are taken, and most goals are scored. The midfielder made a pass to his left to an attackman, who tried to make a long looping pass across the face of the box, but it was intercepted by one of the oppositions long stick middies and passed quickly to another midfielder as it transitioned back again towards T.J. This time the ball was coming straight at T.J., and it had taken less than five seconds to get there.  His team was not set yet and this charge could be the end of it all.

T.J.’s team had been caught napping in an uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty.  Pennhurst’s top midfielder again had the ball, and he was charging at T.J. who had only two players set and not the normal six in front of him to play defense.

Surprisingly to T.J., this player then made a pass to the extreme right corner and that attackman ran behind T.J.’s goal giving his defense more time to reset.  This player then made a pass to the left side, and it was once again in the stick of their best midfielder, Matt Makritis.  Midfielders, or Middies, as they’re often called are many times the best athletes on the team.  They have to play both offense and defense and run the entire length of the field while their shift is on. Makritis was a high school All-American, and he was charging at full speed toward the left front facing side of T.J.’s goal.

                                   T.J. Was An All-American Too!

T.J. was also an All-American and had recently been on the front cover of ‘Inside Lacrosse Magazine’ and featured as the #1 player coming out of High School Lacrosse that year.  He thought to himself that all of that press would be meaningless if he allowed this shot to go in.  The opposing midfielder continued toward the crease unguarded, got within ten feet of the goal, and fired point blank at T.J.  No fancy bounce shots or behind the back this time.  This shot was straight at T.J.’s head, and from less than ten feet away. T.J. caught the ball in the fat part of his goalie sticks net.  It didn’t stay there though.  The power of the shot caused it to come out of his stick, in what is referred to as a rebound, as it rolled ten or twelve feet out in front of the goal.

A second midfielder then picked up the ball, and not lifting it from the ground, fired a shot right back at T.J. This was more like a golf shot than a lacrosse shot, and T.J. struggled to see from which direction the ball was coming.  As the ball came back at T.J. at a severe angle, headed toward the left backside of the net, he stretched his body out like a goalie in the NHL.  Doing a full split in front of the net, he was able to get a piece of the ball with his right cleat and deflect the ball off to the left side of the goal. As the ball rolled harmlessly toward the far side of the endline, the referee blew his whistle.  The first three-minute overtime period had ended.

                They Had Survived Sudden Death For Three Minutes

Both teams huddled tightly with their coaches and trainers.  This time though, T.J. didn’t leave the crease at all.  He was leaning against the goal with his back turned to the field. It was almost as if he was talking to someone you couldn’t see and totally immersed in a world of his own.  There are several times in a man’s life that define and underline not only who he is, but who he will then become.  This was one of those times for T.J.

                                               And He Knew It

Both teams wearily took the field.  The pressure of an extremely tight game, and then surviving one overtime period, had taken its toll.  As the face-off men bent low and readied for the ball, T.J.’s back was still facing the field.  When he heard the whistle blow he spun around and it was like someone twice his 6’2’’ size was playing goalie.  He seemed to fill the entire net with his presence and there was an ‘aura’ coming from him that surrounded the entire defensive end of the field.

Once again, George lost the face off to the All-State quarterback and star midfielder, B.J. Radford.  This time however, the look on B.J.’s face was different.  Although fairly new to Lacrosse, inside his chest beat the heart of a champion.  He almost stepped on George as he picked up the ball and headed straight over the mid-field line and directly at T.J.  This senior captain had no intention of passing, and he was going to ‘ice’ the game for his teammates and fans.  B.J. was not known as a great shooter but more for his defensive skills. He was a great athlete though, and this charge was not to be taken lightly by anyone on the defensive end of the field.

                               B.J. Knew This Was His Moment

Without stopping or setting his feet, he raised his stick above his head and shot the ball toward the right corner of the net at over ninety miles an hour.  T.J. saw this one all the way and caught the ball in his stick.  He then ran out of the goal and passed B.J. who was still coming his way as he charged past him and headed straight down the field.  T.J. was out of the defensive box and headed toward the mid-field line.  He was looking at nothing in front of him except the opposing goalie who was now staring at him with an incredulous look on his face inside the opposing crease.

Everyone there that night had their mouth’s open in awe.  No one expected the goalie to ever make the final break, and no one watching had ever seen a goalie possessed with such speed.  The other team was in awe too and just kept watching him run. They were all guarding open men who they were sure T.J. would eventually pass the ball to.

                                               He Didn’t Pass

When he crossed the midfield line, the fans went wild and stood up.  One of his midfielders had the presence of mind to stay back behind the midfield line so that an offsides wouldn’t be called.  In Lacrosse, you always need at least three men back plus the goalie in the defensive end.  Once T.J. crossed midfield, one of the midfielders had to stay back.

T.J. approached the offensive box in front of their goalie with only one thing on his mind.  He had been acutely watching this kid all day and he had noticed one thing.  This was a fundamentally sound and ‘play up’ goalie and one would who would rise to the occasion when the heat was on.  He had transferred into Pennhurst only two years ago and based on his great skill, he had gotten them this far.  He had one weakness though that T.J. had observed — he couldn’t handle the off-speed shots, especially over his left shoulder.

The left shoulder is opposite the goalie stick’s head if you’re right handed. In his case, the only weakness that T.J. had seen,

other than his struggle with off-speed shots, were those directed high up and left.  Like a changeup in baseball, the off-speed shot often confused the goalie’s timing and could cause him to over or under react at just the right time.  T.J. continued to charge the goal.

By this time, two defensemen from Pennhurst were running from both sides to get to T.J. before he could shoot, but his speed was too much.  As he approached the crease from the right side, he raised his stick above his head.  He threw his lower right elbow at the goalie as if executing a shot.  His stick-head never moved, but the goalie bit on the fake.  He waved the head of his stick high right and then easily lobbed the ball over the Pennhurst goalie’s left shoulder.  The referee blew the whistle — the game was over —and T.J.’s team had finally won.

The other goalie dropped to his knees and then put both hands on the ground in front of him.  T.J. went over and picked him up saying: “You may have lost on the scoreboard tonight, but you never gave up. I’m proud to have played against you.”

Haverland had just won the State Championship, and most watching said it was the greatest goalie performance at any level that they had ever seen.  T.J. was voted ‘Most Valuable Player’ of the game. In the fall, he would be off to a top 10 Lacrosse University where he would major in Criminal Justice and take his goalie skills to an even higher level.

T.J.’s coach told him after the game that you can play lacrosse for your entire lifetime and never be able to play or recreate what you just did.  His future college coach, who had been in the stands watching, came down on the field and put his arm around T.J. after the game and told him the same thing.  He went on to say: “T.J., I had my whole speech ready before you went into overtime.  I thought I might have to come down here and tell you that although you lost — you lost really well.

   T.J. Did Not Want To Believe That Losing Well Was Really Possible!

“You had made all those heroic saves throughout the game for your team, and if you had to lose, it would have been a great way to do it.  The only problem with my prepared speech is that you didn’t lose. As I watched you in the goal with your back turned to the field as the second overtime period started, I said to my assistant coach Dave, who’s over talking to your folks, that our new and future goalie is in a zone that few can ever get to.  He will not be scored on again tonight.  Tonight, and for however long this game lasts — he is truly invincible. And I don’t believe I’ve ever used that word to describe a player before.”

Many years passed and one day T.J got an email from his old high school coach.  The coach told him that once again his school, Haverland, would be playing for the State Championship and he wanted to run his pre-game speech by T.J. before his boys took the field.  It was short and to the point.  What he wanted to tell the boys was: “It wouldn’t be the number of players on the field but who those players were and what was coming from inside their hearts that would make all the difference.”  He then went on to tell the story of T.J. in the State Championship Game that took place over ten years before.

Some of the boys had heard the story, but all were in awe listening to the emotion and passion in their coach’s voice as he retold the story again.  It was like replaying that game with the current Haverland players and right before the most important game that most of them would ever play.

Haverland won the State Championship again that day and many of the boys said that it was the pre-game speech about T.J. and his team’s overtime victory that fueled their desire and commitment to make it happen.  It was also a close game, and with two minutes to go the score was again tied. Five times during the game they had gone ‘one-man’ down but had only allowed one goal to be scored during those five uneven possessions by the other team.  Haverland was then able to strip the ball from their opponent twice in the final two minutes and convert both into scores — ending the game at 7-5.

Along a lonely hallway in the back of Haverland’s new athletic center hangs a plaque with the story of that night so many years ago.  But to T.J., and all the members of that legendary team, the thing that hangs highest — is their refusal to lose.

The possibility of being invincible would stay inside T.J. and all who were there to watch him play that night. He learned that at the end of the streak where luck ends, sometimes you    have to enter that zone …

                                         And Just ‘Will It’ To Happen.

 

Kurt Philip Behm