"Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light
Wind was blowing, time stood still
Eagle flew out of the night
He was something to observe
Came in close, I heard a voice
Standing stretching every nerve
Had to listen had no choice
I did not believe the information
I just had to trust imagination
My heart going boom boom boom
"Son," he said, "Grab your things, I've come to take you home."
To keepin' silence I resigned
My friends would think I was a nut
Turning water into wine
Open doors would soon be shut
So I went from day to day
Tho' my life was in a rut
'Till I thought of what I'd say
Which connection I should cut
I was feeling part of the scenery
I walked right out of the machinery
My heart going boom boom boom
"Hey," he said, "grab your things, I've come to take you home."
When illusion spin her net
I'm never where I want to be
And liberty she pirouette
When I think that I am free
Watched by empty silhouettes
Who close their eyes, but still can see
No one taught them etiquette
I will show another me
Today I don't need a replacement
I'll tell them what the smile on my face meant
My heart going boom boom boom
"Hey," I said, "You can keep my things, they've come to take me home.""

"Well, okay," I mumble to myself, "it's just a song." Standing, on crutches, at the shore of a lake located near the university I'm attending, attempting to brush tears away, I feel the tear at my heart that always happens when I hear this song. The song is pouring out of the speakers of my car parked just up the bank. I had been injured working on a road construction crew in early June while earning money for grad school and I was attempting to carry on at school and attend physical therapy to mend my legs. It's mid-October and I've just begun using the crutches. The accident had broken my hip in three places and the result of being immobilized for almost four months is the atrophy of my thigh and calf muscles and the contraction of my hamstrings and Achilles tendons. Therefore my halting first attempts at walking without crutches are on tiptoe. The physical therapy regimen is designed to build up the muscles and stretch out the hammies and the Achilles. And it is fucking agony. The past four months have been. Shit, truth be told, the past six years have been. The best thing to happen in the last couple of years is Stephanie, and right now, we are on the outs.

Actually, I'm on the outs with just about everybody; my parents, my brothers, my hometown, life itself. The fact of the matter, though, is I am enjoying the self-pity. Man, am I a freaking martyr or what? And I take a perverse pleasure in it.

What I do not take pleasure in is this physical therapy and that black Nazi bastard therapist Clyde. I can tell this guy is a sadist. The exercises I like (the easy ones), he hates. The ones I hate (the painful ones), he loves. In fact, he loves it most when he can actually make me cry, either from pain or frustration. And when he does the deep tissue massages on my hamstrings and Achilles, well, sometimes I have to be physically restrained from going for the fucker's throat. He likes to laugh at me, too, when I threaten him with injury or call him exquisitely profane names. He always says, "It's a good thing for me you're legs are fucked up, because you couldn't catch me if you needed to pound my ass, much less if you wanted to. So be a good little white boy and just take it, okay?"

God, I hate that son of a bitch.

But that's not the cause for the tears right now. Right now, it's because you crossed my mind again, and I thought I had finally put you behind me a couple of years ago. The first couple of times I heard "Solsbury Hill" I realized that it made me sad. Of course this was while I was laid up and I thought it was because I was hurting or the pain medication or boredom. Tonight, I realize it's because of you. It's that part about, "To keepin' silence I resigned. My friends would think I was a nut. Turning water into wine. Open doors would soon be shut. So I went from day to day. Tho' my life was in a rut. 'Till I thought of what I'd say. Which connection I should cut. I was feeling part of the scenery, I walked right out of the machinery." Man, this is not what I bargained for, I had to leave it behind or I'm not sure I would have survived. Shit! Another song I'm going to have quit listening to. I came out here for a little peace and solitude, and now this.

I search the cloudless night sky for Castor and Pollux, but it seems I've forgotten where to find them.

If there is a quintessential small East Texas town, Cranston is it. I think some people would call it quaint. I think a more accurate description would be parochial, even though we don't have any Catholics around here. That's a joke. Cranston sits about midway between the two largest cities in Texas, Dallas and Houston. Yep, the middle of nowhere, that's Cranston, about five miles past the jumping off point. The name of our little city comes from one of the founding families. Main Street has stores on one side, a green space and railroad tracks on the other and two stoplights. Home to about 2,000 souls, give or take.

Most folks here farm, ranch or work at the small steel mill. In fact, the steel mill located here in the mid-60's because this was one of the most economically depressed areas in the whole United States they could find. Low labor and manufacturing costs, you know. It's not a steel mill like they have in Bethlehem, PA where they make rolled steel or ingots flowing, glowing red hot out of furnaces straight from a Baptist kid's nightmare of what hell must look like. Mostly, they produce structural steel for buildings, but we call it a steel mill. From what I understand, the mill saved our little one horse whistle stop from becoming, well, a ghost town.

You see this part of Texas has a long and storied past. Not far out of town, there is an old Spanish mission that was established by the Franciscans in the late 1500's or early 1600's, I forget which. They, the Franciscans that is, had come here to convert the locals, consisting of the Caddo, Comanche, Kiowa and Karankawa Indians, to Christianity. How successful they were is lost to history, but the rough little wooden building they built for worship still stands, carefully restored and preserved by the State of Texas. People from Georgia whose fortunes had been lost in the American Revolution came here in the early 1800's, and emigres from Louisiana who had become unpopular with local authorities came also. That's my heritage. There is an historical marker about 15 miles out of town that marks the grave sites of some of those early settlers who were massacred by the local natives, Comanche I think. Perhaps there is a clue there to the Franciscan's success in their conversion efforts.

My family has been here since before Texas became a republic in 1836, when it was a part of Mexico. One of my grandfathers owns land that was originally granted to his family by the Mexican government. It was several thousand acres at that time, now dwindled to a scant 750. It had been a working cattle ranch until 1964, when all but the 750 remaining acres, was sold. The rest is leased to other farmers and ranchers for planting crops like peanuts, watermelons or corn, or running cattle. There are several natural small lakes on the land, so it provides some pretty good hunting and fishing too. My grandfather had been quite the successful businessman in his time, owning a grocery store, cotton gin and the ranch. Cotton, in this area, is a business that has been in decline for decades, so the cotton gin was the first part of his little empire to fall away. The base of the economy that built East Texas, agriculture and ranching, has dwindled and deteriorated since the Great Depression, a period of time the old folks around here talk about as if it were still the present. All that stands at the ranch now are some dilapidated houses where the men, mostly black men, who worked the cattle lived, some wells and a little cabin that we kids use when we hunt. The cabin is kept in pretty good repair because there are quite a few of us who like to go hunting.

Kids around here are brought up just about the same way children have always been raised in this part of Texas; knowing about the land, hunting, self reliance and with an almost innate sense of our history. In fact, I think I was riding horses before I could walk. My buddies and I have been going on camp out weekends since we were 11 or 12 years old. During the school year, one of our moms would load up 6 or 8 of us on a Friday afternoon and take us out to someone's grandparents place in the country, us kids with our sleeping bags, knapsacks, canteens and shotguns, and then retrieve us from our little expeditions on Saturday evening or Sunday afternoon. No one ever worries about us getting lost or shooting one another because we've all been taught about the land, points of reference and to respect the killing power of firearms. We know to keep the muzzles of our shotguns pointed to the ground when walking, to lay the gun on the ground when crossing a fence and to know where our friends are before opening fire on anything. In the summers, when we aren't working, hauling hay or watermelons, these little treks can last 4 or 5 days. The fields and woods of this country are crisscrossed with many creeks, small and large, which we fish in, bathe in and draw water out of to boil and drink. In fact, it seems hot June days are made precisely for walking through these woods in search of squirrels, rabbits or larger prey, until we are just about ready to pass out from the heat, then finding the nearest creek, the water always cool and moving fast, stripping down and sluicing the sweat and dirt from our bodies, and thus refreshed, resuming our little safari. In the fall, the fields are full of goat weeds that the mourning doves love to feed on in the early afternoon. In the evening, after they have eaten their fill, they rise up, making their little stuttering calls, and fly, like a dusty gray cloud, to find water with which to slake their thirst. The small migration leads to some great dove hunting. This fact makes the many creeks and lakes on my grandfather's land a very attractive killing ground for my friends and me.

Well, enough of the local color and history. Life around here today, in late August 1971, revolves around two-a-day football practice and tryouts for varsity and junior varsity teams. School will start after Labor Day weekend and those of us who are playing football have to get ourselves in fighting trim for the coming season. Most boys around here stay in pretty good shape, but nevertheless, two-a-days are always torturous. Morning and evening practices are full of calisthenics, contact drills, blocking drills, wind sprints, running bleachers and learning plays, all in full pads. In short, these practices are this 16 year old's worst physical nightmare. The second day is always the worst, because all of your muscles feel frozen in place after the first day's exertions. In reality, day three, four, five and six don't get much better. Early practice begins at 7:00 a.m., so I spend from 6:00 - 6:30 a.m. in the shower, the water as hot as I can stand it, trying to get some range of motion out of my screaming for mercy biceps, triceps, pectorals, abdominals, thighs, calves and other muscles I wasn't even aware I had. This pisses off my older brother, John Mark, because I always manage to get into the shower before he gets up so he gets less time in the shower, unless he just barges in and forces me out, which he has been known to do. John is a senior this year, and he will be the starting quarterback unless he is struck by lightning, or worse, he injures his knee again. I should make the varsity this year as a sophomore, mainly as a tight end, since John has been working with me in the off-season on blocking and pass catching. Having grown to almost 6'4", and about 195 lbs. won't hurt anything either. I am the biggest kid in the family now having outgrown all four of my brothers. My oldest brother, Matt, is in law school, and James and David, numbers 2 and 3 respectively, are in undergraduate school, two years apart. John and I are the two left in high school, and John will be gone to college after this year. All my brothers have been excellent athletes, me a little less so. What I have in size, I make up for with lack of speed and agility. However, Coach Wilkins, says I have a talent for being around the ball, so beside playing tight end/half back, I will probably get a shot at playing linebacker on defense as well. In a school as small as Cranston, most of the boys have to play both ways, offense and defense.

Since this is the fourth day of two-a-days, morning practice today will be taken up with full speed offensive and defensive scrimmages. At about 6:45, I am dressed and ready to head over to the field house to dress out for practice, and John is still in the shower. I go to the shower and rip back the curtain and announce to him, "Come on, pussy, if we're late, Coach will give us both swats for holding up practice and I, for one, do not like swats."

John mutters, "Fuck you, you little dickhead."

I immediately think of a sterling rejoinder. "Nice, real nice. Do you kiss mom with that mouth?"

About five minutes later, we're jogging over to the field house and John asks, "Have you seen the new kid, Phillip, from Dallas? He's been working out with the varsity and man, is he fast for a white boy? He's a freshman, and a big 'un at that. I'd say about 6'2", 180. Coach is talking about starting him at tailback, wingback or wideout."

"Yep," I say, "I've noticed, it would be hard not to with Coach going on about him. You'd think he was fucking Jim Thorpe."

"Okay," John answers, "now who's having problems with the filthy fucking adjectives?"

"It's just everybody's heard what an outstanding player this guy is, and how he's going to start as a freshman, blah, blah, blah. Nobody starts as a freshman. I mean all this kid needs is an 'S' on his chest. He's probably one of those kids with a late birthday and that is why he's big for his age. My opinion and welcome to it." To which John answers, "Well, I started as a freshman and from what I understand, he's a June baby like you, emphasis on 'baby."

"Well, okay, we all know what an incredible talent you are. The rest of us are in awe. Can I hold your jock, you incredible pain in the ass?"

John dips his shoulder and drops me with a clip behind the knees sending me ass over teakettle in the dirt on the road to the field house. He rolls, gets up, shifts into third gear and hauls butt. I'm left in the middle of the packed dirt road, muscles protesting and I shout at his back, "All right, asshole, now you will pay." And I think I mean it.

I am the last guy in the door and Coach Wilkins gives me the skunkeye when I walk in. I grab the nearest wall, try to blend in with the paint and sort of crab walk to my locker. I change out to my pads, practice jersey and pants and sit down with the rest of team for the usual chalk talk that precedes practice. Coach outlines what we'll be doing this morning and says the first string offense will be running full speed basic plays against the second string defense. So far, I haven't been practicing with the first-string offense, but Coach has said that may be coming soon. I have been filling a lot of time at linebacker so I'll get to knock heads this morning. Personally I like hitting more than I like getting hit, but then again who doesn't? Out on the field, we go through the basic warm ups. This involves the incredibly tedious calisthenics; push-ups, sit-ups and various stretching drills. When we are done, Coach Wilkins has his offensive assistant, Coach Atkins, huddle up with the first string offense. Coach Douglas, the defensive coach, gathers his second team troops and goes over the defenses we will be throwing at these guys. First play, John Mark breaks the huddle, offensive lineman peeling out first and assuming their stances. The backfield consists of John Mark at quarterback, Phillip Stecker, the new kid, at tailback and Mason Thomas at fullback. As he approaches the center, I notice John lick the tips of the fingers of his right hand. Pass, I think, he always does that when there's a pass. It is a good thing to be the quarterback's brother, especially since I know his every unconscious tic better than he does. I am playing strong outside linebacker, and the defense has me covering the outlet receiver coming out of the backfield. I move back a couple of steps to get a head start on getting into coverage. John goes under center and surveys the field, and his eyes rest on me for a moment. He glances quickly over his right shoulder to locate Phillip and, suddenly, I think, a quick hitter off the right side, toward me. John barks out the signals and then on the second hut, and I've guessed this one correctly also since he always seems to go on two, the ball is hiked and the center, Junior Short fires out directly at the defensive guard in front of me. Offensive guard Mike Loving takes the right end and Mason heads right for me. I shuck his block, and move into the hole almost at full speed just about the time Phillip does, my facemask smacking him in the chest. I wrap him up, pinning his arms to his body, the ball flies out of his hands as I drive with my legs and plant him back first on the turf. He makes a satisfying "Ooof" when he hits the ground. God, I love this game. Out of the corner of my eye I can see John diving on the loose ball and taking a good shot from the middle linebacker. Cool, very cool. Getting up, I look at Phillip and say, "Welcome to Cranston, buddy." To which he says nothing. Coach shouts at me, "Good hit, Luke." Yes, yes thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps I should take a bow?

About six plays later, John decides to go back to this play since it worked so well the first time. Again I shed Mason's block, God, he is so easy to play off of, and move to the hole. This time Phillip makes a feint inside, then a quick move outside. He extends a stiff arm catching me right in the front of my helmet, I reach and grab his shoulder pads at the neck opening, he shrugs his shoulders and accelerates, moving out of my grasp and for about 15 more yards before the safety brings him down. And he does this rapidly, very rapidly. Perhaps it won't be such a bad thing to have this kid on our side. After practice, I shed my uniform, grab a couple of towels from the equipment cage and head for the shower. I get the water as hot I can stand it and step under it. Shit, even the water hurts when it hits my body. I don't think I'm ever going to feel normal again. Of course, as I recall, I felt this way last year during two-a-days. I stand motionless, almost supplicant, under the streaming, scalding water as it drives the fluid needles into my aching anatomy.

"Nice stick out there," somebody says to my left.

I turn slightly, wiping the water from my eyes with both hands, and notice it's Phillip at the neighboring showerhead. It's hard to hear someone approach when your head is under water.

"Yeah, I thought so too." I allow, grabbing the soap and beginning to lather up.

"Are you going to be starting on defense?" Phillip asks.

"I don't know yet, but it looks like I'm going to get at least a little bit of time on both sides of the ball this year."

"Well, you seem to anticipate the plays pretty well."

I am not about to let anyone in on my little secret of divining John Mark's tendencies, especially since it makes me look good on the field so I dodge his observation. "What can I say, some days it chicken, some days it feathers, ya know?" A humorous aside from me, I must admit. To which Phillip says, "What?" Since I do not have time to explain East Texas colloquialisms to my new urban teammate I just go with, "Oh, never mind."

Walking from the shower with Phillip tagging just behind, Coach Wilkins shouts at us as we exit, "Don't forget to step into the disinfectant trough as you leave the shower, guys." This thing is like a moat; you would have to get a running start to leap over it if you wanted to avoid the dreaded Betadine footwash. And I am not in the mood for the long jump today. Phillip and I slog through the rusty looking liquid, avoiding the potentially deadly athlete's foot one more merciful day, and head to our lockers. I lay a towel down on the bench in front of my locker and sit. Phillip moves away from his locker and lays his towel down by me and plops down beside me.

"So," he says, "please tell me what people do for fun and diversion around here."

"Most leave town." Man, I am killing myself today, I should do stand up.

"No really," Phillip asks, "What do you guys do for entertainment?"

"Weeell, you can go to the movies in Stackford, about 25 miles north of here. Sometimes, we sneak off to the bootleggers and buy beer or something stronger and go out to the country and have little parties. And then there is always hunting."

"Bootlegger?" Phillip asks with a puzzled look on his face.

Apparently Phillip does not understand the concept of a dry county. "Yep, here in Cranston no alcohol is sold, but if you know the right people and for the right price, you can get what you need in that department here in our little town." Grabbing my other towel I begin to dry my hair and then the rest of me.

I look over at Phillip, his eyes downcast, as he studies his feet and diligently dries between his toes. He looks sort of like he's lost his last friend. I hope this kid is done growing, because if he isn't he's going to be able to play whatever skilled position he wants to. In fact, if he bulks up a little, he could play anywhere. Plus he is a handsome kid, brown hair, brown eyes, a longish nose and strong jaw. He will be competition with the girls too. I mean it's not like I have a hump on my back or anything, but I think this guy makes me look sort of troll-like.

"You know, Phillip, I could show you around town, kind of give you the lowdown on what we do around here, if you want. Do you hunt?"

Phillip looks over and gives me this big open grin. "What kind of hunting are you talking about? Deer hunting, bird hunting, what?"

"Phillip, I have been deer hunting exactly twice in my life. The second time I went, I was sitting in a deer stand in about 30 degree weather at 4:30 in the morning, with my nose running, dripping and freezing on the barrel of my rifle, and I thought to myself, 'Self, there are about a thousand other places I could be that would be infinitely more fun than this', so, no, I don't deer hunt. I prefer bird hunting, primarily dove hunting. There seems to be a little more skill to it, plus the weather's warmer during dove season and you get to walk around. So, do you hunt?"

"Yeah, in fact, I do like to dove hunt. My father especially likes to go down to South Texas in October."

"Well, you know the season opens here in September, the week before our first football game. My grandfather has a cabin out on his land we use. We can go out the Friday the season opens. It's a great place to hunt."

"All right, that sounds good."

About this time, John Mark approaches, towel around his waist, dripping from the shower. "Well ladies, what's the word? You guys were the regular glimmer twins out there today, makin' plays all over the field."

I look up at him, trying desperately to come up with something appropriately sarcastic to launch at him. "Thank you, Johnny, but we couldn't do it without your firm hand on the rudder, or wherever it is you keep that hand of yours."

Phillip snorts a little laugh and John looks at him as he would a particularly nasty mess on the sole of his shoe. "Freshman," John announces, "are not allowed to laugh at lame ass jokes, especially Luke's." With that, John moves away to his locker, into the swirl of boys, some entering and exiting the showers, others in various stages of dress and undress. The field house, by this time, has reached that stage of maximum humidity created by the combination of a hot August morning, about 50 boys overheated by two hours of practice and showers running, steaming at full blast. A fog is beginning to descend from the ceiling.

I stand, finish drying and begin to put on my clothes. "So, Phillip, why don't you come by this afternoon and we'll show you around, you can get the lay of the land and you'll see that while Cranston is excruciatingly boring, fun can be had."

"Well, I don't drive so I can't drop by. No license yet," Phillip says.

Man, this guy is just hopeless. Cranston is so small everybody starts driving about the time they can see over the steering wheel and fuck the license, but since I already have mine there is a solution at hand. "Well, how about I come by your house around 2:00. Since practice starts at 5:00 that will give us plenty of time to see everything around here twice. Where do you live?"

"My dad bought the old Parker place."

I know right where it is. Of course I know right where everything is in Cranston. "All right, I'll see you at 2:00. Be ready to be amazed."

"How about the hunting?"

"It's a done deal. All we have to do is sort out the details. Not to worry."

I was finished dressing, so I go to find John and head for home.

"Adios, Phillip. See you after while."

Phillip smiles and gives a little half wave and I see John heading my way. We move off to the exit and head out the door. It seems we are always jogging here and on the way home, it's like a crawl. Man, I still hurt all over; I would have to die to improve. No conversation on the way home, we are too exhausted to speak, and no illegal blind side blocks from my shithead brother either.