GOING OUTSIDE A NOVEL By GREGORY J. BEAVERSON A Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of the Graduate Studies Division of Ohio Dominican University Columbus, Ohio in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the Degree of MASTER OF ARTS IN LIBERAL STUDIES JULY 2011 To Wendy, for whom I do all good things. And for Dad. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thanks go to both sides of my family, the Beaversons and the Sullivans, for parts of the stories here. A special thanks to my parents, Roger and Brenda, who chose to raise Sheri, Derin, and me in Rural Ohio, where I’ve always been proud to say I’m from. I want to express my appreciation to Dr. Ann Hall, a great editor and advisor, whose patience for my writing knew no bounds. Thanks also to Dr. Ron Carstens and Dr. Martin Brick for their careful review and suggestions. And thanks to my wife, Wendy, and our two wonderful children, Emily and Henry, for just being them. TABLE OF CONTENTS 1 – Like Father, Like Sven .............................................................................................1 2 – The Athlete ............................................................................................................13 3 – Mrs. Gleason’s Underwear ....................................................................................23 4 – Bill Fuller, USMC ..................................................................................................27 5 – Pork Chops and Homemade Noodles ....................................................................31 6 – Uncle Theodore ......................................................................................................39 7 – Teaching Eddie ......................................................................................................47 8 – Funnels and Glove Drawers ..................................................................................61 9 – Pass The Ball .........................................................................................................73 10 – Old Barns and Cemeteries ...................................................................................87 11 – The Hospital .........................................................................................................91 12 – A Woman’s Touch ................................................................................................97 13 – Paths ..................................................................................................................101 14 – The Closer ..........................................................................................................109 15 – Going Outside ....................................................................................................117 GOING OUTSIDE by Gregory J. Beaverson Beaverson 1 Like Father, Like Sven Phillip had the speed but not the passion. His first track season ever had come down to this: he was the fourth man in the mile relay on the combined seventh-and-eighth-grade team. The event included four of the fastest, most determined guys on the whole track team. It mixed speed and stamina in an all-out sprint once around the track for each runner. He was sure about jumping. He could do the long jump and hurdles with ease, his coach encouraging him to do more and jump farther—higher. But running, the running that didn’t require jet-fast speed like the 110 meters, he wanted to do that. That kind of running was more challenging and more girls seemed to be watching during those races. He wanted that midpoint where he wasn’t just a dumb fast guy but wasn’t a distance nerd, either. His ego and his ability had both landed him on the half-mile relay—if that wasn’t challenging enough—and the mile relay. That race could make or break a guy. Phillip had closed his eyes as he waited for the baton, the shiny aluminum cylinder that was passed among teammates between laps. That’s what made the race a relay. If the baton was in a guy’s hand, he was running. Phillip was on deck and he pictured the handoff in his mind like so many times before. George, Kenny, Smith, and Phillip always walked around the track before meets, practicing in slow motion. They passed the baton to each other methodically as they walked, getting the rhythm, feeling the metal. Phillip was pretty sure they just did it for attention. They must have looked good out there in warm-ups doing their thing, Phillip thought. They were the best-looking middle school mile-relay team around. The track meet was a small invitational at Riverside High School, a rival of Phillip’s school, Grovemont, in the West-Central Ohio Athletic Conference. The outcome determined seeding for the first round of the conference meet, and Phillip’s team knew it all too well. The coach hammered it into their young heads all the time: “You guys are good, but you’re better than this.” He told them all season that if they stuck together, they could be the best in the state when they got to high school. That seemed like an eternity from then. High school is far away to a pack of middle-schoolers. 1 Going Outside Phillip stood there beside the Riverside guy in the second lane. Behind them, Smith was keeping up with his counterpart as they came around the third turn. Smith had a habit of pumping his arm and jerking the baton as he ran to catch an opponent. He was the team’s comeback guy and Phillip was the one who had to maintain the lead and win. Phillip was the finisher. He was the closer. The crowd was loud. Parents and girlfriends and a few teachers from both schools lit up the small track with their excitement. Phillip had noticed the crowd’s movement toward the track during the second lap. The people gathered at strategic points from inside and outside the track and cheered on the boys as they raced. It fueled them to run faster and dig harder. The old dirt track was well worn and the boys tore around it quicker with every juvenile feminine voice they heard. He wasn’t even running yet, but Phillip started feeling it in his chest. He calmed his breathing to control it, but the anxiety wouldn’t go away. The officials were reminding the boys about the handoffs and that there were ten yards within the assigned lane to complete them. It may have been the boys’ first year, but there was a collective rolling-of-the-eyes by all eight of them. They were sports guys, and thirteen years old or not, the rules had been explained at the start of the season and they knew how to run a mile relay by then. One guy commented with arrogance: “What is this, amateur hour?” Phillip watched Smith overtake his opponent on the final straightaway. He couldn’t tell how far ahead Smith was, but the crowd became even louder as he and the Riverside boy stretched it out down the line. With the crowd’s loud reaction, Phillip thought it could have been the end of the race. An official yanked his arm and pulled him into the first lane. Another pushed the Riverside guy he was about to race into Phillip’s old spot in Lane 2. The boys took their ready positions with the left leg forward and bent and the right leg back and straighter. Both held the right arm back and looked over the right shoulder. Phillip didn’t look in his opponent’s face. He had only glanced and saw the number on his track jersey. He was racing Number 11, and he wondered if it was that guy’s number all year like in football or if they just threw on whatever clean jersey fit them from a pile in the locker room before the meet started. Either way, Phillip didn’t want to see the number on the Riverside guy’s jersey after that. If he saw the number, that meant he was behind. 2 Beaverson Smith was moving. He pumped his arm so fast that the flash from the shiny baton was almost distracting. Phillip couldn’t remember Smith moving so fast. He drew closer. “Go!” Smith yelled at Phillip thirteen yards away. Phillip took off at the same time he heard the Riverside guys with their command. They practiced it a thousand times that season, maybe more. Take off with the right hand open and behind, palm facing up, awaiting the feel of the metal to wrap the fingers and thumb around. “Concentrate on running,” the coach would say. “Your takeoff is more important than the baton. The feel of the metal should be an instant reaction for your hand like shutting your eyes when a bug flies in your face.” And it worked. Phillip felt the baton in his hand and brought it forward as he chugged his arms. The thumb and fingers had wrapped around it instinctively and he really hadn’t even thought about it. He burned around the first turn and resisted looking or feeling for the presence of his adversary. He knew he was back there somewhere, assuming the handoff went well. It seemed like such a simple action, but some teams just didn’t know how to do it, or they folded when they were under pressure like that. Passing the baton is what made it a real team event, and Phillip loved that about it. The second turn came into view and he heard him, Number 11, coming up behind. Phillip had spent his speed early in races before, only to get tuckered out and lose his energy at the end. He kept on, just fast enough, but conserving what he thought he’d need. The turn passed and Phillip could hear 11 getting closer. The crowd noise diminished on the back side of the track and he began to hear the footsteps. They were heavy, tapping footsteps. Size elevens on Number 11, maybe. The back straightaway looked long. The two ran toward the lengthy concession stand on the visitors’ side of the football field, inside the track. Phillip could see the giant head of a pirate with a three-cornered hat probably painted by some art class ten years ago. He and Number 11 were having it out on their way to the pirate. In red and blue, Phillip could see “Riverside Pirates” painted below. Why wouldn’t they paint it above the head so people could read it? Focus! More heavy footsteps and serious panting approached. Though farther away, Phillip heard the crowd get louder. The Riverside crowd. Number 11 must have been on top of him as they came to the pirate building.