Category: Memories

The Kiss

“The best kiss is the one that has been exchanged a thousand times between the eyes before it reaches the lips.” Anonymous

She was a 4.0 in the classroom and a 9 outside it. Ginger was a pleasant shock to the eyes, a fashion model like figure on our college campus. Light curly red hair, big round blue eyes, lightly freckled face, the girl next door but with a bit of a flirty attitude. Her looks and personality reminded me of the actress Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night. Petite, always dressed smartly and perfectly coiffed, she was a classmate in a literature course during my sophomore year of college. She served as my visual and mental distractions to the monotone lectures about Beowulf and early European writers. She was the type of woman that I would hope to marry after I graduated college, worked my way up in a corporation and became CEO. 

Content to admire her from afar in class, our initial interactions involved some class discussion repartee but no social conversation. Maybe I could impress this young lady with my brain or knowledge of literature? But even though I was in a class with her, I never felt that I was in her class. She possessed a maturity, style and aura outside my area of expertise. I was simply content to see this vision of beauty in class twice a week for 90 minutes.

However much to my surprise, she made the first move for a more social introduction early in the semester. One morning as I studied alone at a long table in the bowels of the campus library, she dropped her books and coat on the chair next to where I was sitting. “Mind if I sit here?” she asked. I pushed a chair out so Ginger could sit, “Not at all, I quickly replied.” I would have pushed aside loaded bookshelves so she could sit next to me. Usually first conversations are a break in period with periods of silence. But we conversed easily, like old friends. She wasn’t stuffy or put on airs. She exhibited an interest in what I had to say and a wicked sense of humor. I do admit that I spent most of my time listening to her. It was a very comfortable beginning to what was a three year casual friendship and unusual relationship. 

Ginger had plenty of male admirers on campus and she regaled me with stories of her dates that were usually very lavish (theatre, concerts and expensive dinners.) She also had dreams of being in the theatre or singing professionally. Many of her suitors were from the law school who could afford her extravagant tastes. Every now and then, she would introduce me to another beau who would follow her around campus carrying her books. Her admirers came and went. 

I understood Ginger’s allure but I avoided the siren call of Scylla. The truth was that in terms of personality and social confidence that, in college,  I was much more like “Flounder” than “Otter.” (Animal House devotees will understand my reference).

During our friendship, she never called me by my first name. She would call me Poli Sci (my major), Clapton or some other nickname. I think she got the idea from watching Love Story where Ali McGraw called Ryan O’Neil’s character “Preppy.” During the summer, she sent me postcards and letters from vacation resorts where she had been staying that were addressed to Poli Sci with my home address.

There were times where she genuinely amused me with her concern. She once sat in the bleachers and watched me play a spirited pick-up basketball game in the college gym. I was the only white player among the 10 players. In one of the time-outs, one of the players asked me, “Is that your girlfriend?” Fearing he would approach her and not knowing what her reaction would be, I lied and responded “Yes.” He elbowed me and smiled, “Damn fine lady.” I wish! After the game, she came over and whispered to me, “Weren’t you afraid?”

Another time, I was playing volleyball outside the college center. It was a cold afternoon but I took my coat off in order to play more comfortably. She ran on to the volleyball court at the end of a point with my coat, shook her finger at me and yelled “Are you crazy, it’s 30 degrees. You’ll get sick. Put your coat on!”

I often wondered if she saw me as a challenge. I never expressed to her or displayed any interest about a date or upgrading our relationship to being more than friends. I never showed jealously from meeting any of the guys she dated on campus. Ginger liked to tease me. She found me too quiet and gently criticized my quiet social life. She would see me sitting with a coed in school and ask me later, “Is she your girlfriend? I’d answer, “No, she’s just a friend.” “Like me?”, she’d ask and I’d tell her, “No one is like you.” 

The truth of the matter is that I feared if I pursued her or answered the call of Scylla that I would lose her just like the other guys on campus who dated her. I was content to keep things the way they were.

Until one day a few weeks before our graduation…

Sometimes I would sit with a collection of her girlfriends and my friends in the College Center before class as she held court. I usually had my head in a book or newspaper and listened half heartedly to her conversation. Sometimes her voice would grow very soft and she’d smile in my direction. That’s when I knew she was saying something teasing about me. On this day, I heard her girlfriends giggle while looking in my direction. So I asked Ginger what was so funny. Her answer changed our friendship but ended a stalemate on how we may have truly felt for each other. 

Ginger replied, “I was just wondering, “what it would feel like to get a kiss from you?’

Ah, a shot across my bow! I know I was initially embarrassed. Normally she would say things to get some type of reaction from me and I would usually roll my eyes, shake my head and ignore her jibe. But this came across as a challenge I could not duck. Time was running out. Exams would start soon and so would our opportunities to see each other.

I tried to play it cool. I got up from my chair, went over to her and whispered, “Ginger, can I see you outside?” She slowly got up from her chair as her friends laughed and chortled “Uh-oh.” I held the doors open for her and found a quiet spot around the corner of the College Center. She stood with an amused smile and her hands by her pockets. “Your question deserves an answer,” I began…

I slowly moved in front of her and softly grabbed her hands. “School is almost over. We should satisfy our curiosities that we have left at school. Life is too short to have any regrets. I want you to have an answer to your question.” She listened quietly with a mischievous smirk on her face and a tilt of her head, almost daring me to act. So our three year dance led to this moment.

I pulled her closer to me. She showed no resistance, no hesitation. I half expected her to laugh and walk away. She didn’t. Time stopped. The world stopped. I was totally present. I felt the warm sun on my right cheek. I felt the softness of her hands, noticed the curve of her mouth, smelled her hair and a soft scent of perfume. Birds stopped chirping or I stopped hearing. The din of noise from the college center was white noise.

I moved my left hand behind her shoulder squeezing her closer. I leaned towards her, closed my eyes, and gently brushed her lips with mine and then kissed her. The actual kiss lasted maybe five seconds but I still feel the experience 45 years later. I released her lips and noticed her eyes were still closed as if she was evaluating her experience and her lips were a bit pursed as if she might be expecting an encore. When her eyes opened, a sly smile greeted me. She was silent but her smile seemed to express she won a small victory. I gave her hands a quick squeeze and then let them go. 

About a month later, I saw Ginger for the last time at the conclusion of our graduation ceremony. I did not have a chance to catch up with her before the ceremony as we had different class and exam schedules. We missed having our yearbook picture taken together. She quickly introduced me to her parents and I noticed that she seemed to have another prospective beau waiting for her. Our good-byes were brief. I had hoped that I could still see her but those hopes were dashed when she mentioned that she was relocating to the Midwest with her family. She hooked my arm, squeezed it and pulled me close to whisper “Good bye and Good luck.” She then turned to wind her way through the throng of graduates and their families to slowly walk away. I sadly watched her go about three steps when she stopped and turned around. She had one surprise left. She moved back slowly to me, grabbed my left hand, pulled me close and touched my cheek with her right hand.  She then ran her index and middle fingers gently over her lips, smiled, winked at me and whispered “I’ll miss you, Eric.”

My Early Sportscenter Moment

Every athlete or performer, no matter their level of skill, has an experience or challenge that was memorable. My moment came at Whitman baseball park in Camden New Jersey. I did not hit a winning home run; I did not pitch a no-hitter; my challenge was much more personal than athletic.

My father died suddenly about three months before. I saw my parents headed out the door late night to attend a Valentine’s Day party. The next morning, I awoke to find my house crowded with somber faces of family and neighbors. An uncle gently informed me that my father had passed away. I later found out that my father had experienced chest pains, went to the hospital but died in the waiting room. My uncle now told me that I was “the man of the house.” Pretty heavy message for a 7 year old boy! My grandfather who had lived in the house had died the year before. I now lived with a grandmother who spoke very little English, a mother who did not drive and did not work and a three-year-old sister.

Fast forward about three months and you found this shy, skinny and small boy playing shortstop in PACC minor league baseball. I had promised my father the previous year that I would go out and play Little League baseball. Even at age 7, I wanted to live and play as normally as possible. I learned one thing from my father. Don’t run away from challenges. He once saw me run from a kid who was looking for a fight. I thought I made it safely to my fenced backyard. However my father told me that I had to face the kid or face his belt. I faced the kid. I think our “fight” was a draw.

My baseball coach announced that he wanted to see our parents and families at the next game. My mother had no interest in sports and though I saw my uncles, aunts and cousins on occasion, I did not extend them an invite to the game. I was getting used to doing things on my own.

I don’t remember a lot about the game itself. I do remember that we had a much bigger crowd watching us play and that the coach was very happy to see how his players were being supported by their families. My mother did not drive and was not interested in sports. I was not particularly troubled that no one came out to see me. I was just happy being on the field with the opportunity to play.

In between innings, my coach asked me if anyone was here to see me play. I shook my head no. The coach knew my father and was aware of his passing. The coach and I had never really had a conversation about my father’s death. He had seen me walk home alone at times and offered to drive me home.

I don’t remember what inning it was or the score but I saw the coach speaking with the umpire and then strolling to the mound speaking to our pitcher and taking the baseball from him. He gestured for me to come to the pitcher’s mound. I figured that he was going to provide me some strategy or where I should be positioned. Instead, he placed the baseball in my glove and told me i was going to pitch.

I was both confused and panicked. I had never pitched before. “ Why are you asking me to pitch?”I stammered. I was perfectly content to avoid the spotlight and continue to play shortstop. The coach rested his hand on my shoulder and said “I knew your dad” and looking up at the sky, “I know he is watching and I want him to see you pitch.” I hated when anyone made a fuss about me about my father’s death. I did not want anyone’s pity and I did not want any special favors.

The coach walked back to the bench and I stood alone on the pitcher’s mound. The umpire asked if I wanted some warm up throws and I nodded nervously yes. I can’t remember how close my warm-up throws work to home plate. The distance between the pitcher’s mound and home plate seemed like the distance between two goal posts on a football field.

The crowd of parents along the fence became silent. Normally there is chatter by teammates to encourage the pitcher. My teammates were silent adding to my discomfort. As I finished my warm-up, I did hear one woman whisper from the crowd, “That’s the boy whose father just died.”

I felt like running away again. I did not have to worry about getting hit by my father’s belt. I yanked my baseball cap down to cover my eyes. I felt alone. I felt the same pressure when I went back to my second grade class after my father was buried. Trying not to look scared, trying not to show emotion, trying not to cry…

A batter came up. I took a deep breath, toed the rubber, and tossed the ball towards home plate. I don’t remember how well or badly I pitched. I just remembered that I did not run away and that if my father could see me, he would be proud that I overcame my fears and that part of him was standing on that pitcher’s mound.