When I walked into the locker room, I saw Stanley Jackowski, pinned in the corner. He was wet and naked and vulnerable... fresh out of the shower after gym class. He was covered with nasty red welts and the five guys "snapping" him with their towels were like jackals on a fresh carcass. Sometimes, High School - like life - can be pretty cruel. He was screaming... begging them to stop... as they continued to snap - and taunt - and laugh. It was early on in our Freshman year and Stanley wasn't having much fun. To this day, I'm not sure why, but this freshly minted thirteen-year-old, waded in to protect Stanley, a kid I didn't really even know. I further don't know for sure why they stopped, but I'm grateful they did. Whatever the reason, after a few tense moments, they backed off.
Now Stanley, by high school rules, was very un-cool. He was not blessed with the kind of looks the girls chased after. He'd never make the cut in sports. His clothes were out of style and never fit. He was too loud and his laugh... well, his laugh, kindly put, was irritating at best. Nearly everyone picked on him... and I'm quite sure his high school years were miserable. For my part, I "adopted" Stanley and ran interference for him, as best I could. Please understand that this was a small minority, but Stanley took the heat for four years. Most of my friends treated him just fine. Senior year we got some help... Crockett transferred in from Oklahoma - a displaced football player at a basketball school. He had a big heart too, and didn't like how Stanley got treated either.
Last Saturday night, FPCHS (Flagler Palm Coast High School) graduated the Class of 2007 down at The Ocean Center. Like at every high school graduation, since mine in 1963, I watched the procession intently. As the 668 students made their way to their chairs, I wondered, "How many "Stanleys" are in this class?" "How many of these kids "endured", rather than "enjoyed", their high school experience... at the hands of cruel and dispassionate classmates?" Being a teenager is tough enough, as they struggle to establish a credible identity. I'll never forget what my then seventeen-year-old son, Zach, said to me: "Dad, it makes me crazy... because sometimes I want to crawl up in your lap like when I was little... and sometimes I just want you to leave me alone." Wow! I wonder what Stanley thought about at night... when he was alone... in those hazy moments before sleep came.
Well, some years went by after graduation and I never saw Stanley around. I took an unsuccessful first stab at college and then drove a fork lift truck in the factory for a couple of years. Viet Nam was heating up. Some of the guys grew their hair and burned their draft cards. Some of the guys cut their hair and joined the Army, Marines, Air Force, or Navy. My namesake, Uncle Frank, was in the Army in WWII and was killed in the Battle of the Bulge. I grew up staring at his posthumously awarded Bronze Star for bravery and his Purple Heart, displayed in a case on my Gramma's wall. I joined the Army to "see the world"... and I got to see Viet Nam, up close and personal. I served with the 196th Infantry Brigade and the 39 years that have passed since then have been tattooed with those memories.
So in 1969, I came back home for a visit. Only those who have been in a foreign country... in the craziness of combat - where rules are few - can understand the surreality of "coming home." And while there, the phone rings, and it's Stanley. "Hey, Stan, man it's been six years. How are you?" "Frank, they told me you were home from Nam' and I'd like to see you." "Sure, man, how about Waple's Bar tonight at 8:00?" "Sounds good. See you there."
I got to Waple's early and saw that a lot had changed in my town. I surely didn't get a "hero's welcome," except for Stanley, that is. I didn't recognize him at first. His head was shiny and bald and his features swollen. "Brain cancer," he said. "They tell me I've only got a few weeks." We talked for a long time and what he told me was life-defining. He told me that high school was a living hell for him... and that I was his only friend. He told me that it was important for me to know that, before he died. He wanted to thank me (and Crockett) for watching his back... That was a long time ago, but the memory is fresh. Here's to the "Stanleys" of the world. Do you know one? If so, go now... and do what you need to do.
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