Frosh

Milford

Nineteen hundred and fifty two – new house in the ‘burbs and I begin my adventures in the recently constructed Milford Mill High school ( I never knew if there was really a “mill” anywhere around). Grade nine – I am a pimply faced freshman with raging hormones. Clearasil (can they sue me for saying this?) was a joke. At best it made the disgusting red zits an unsightly brown. I was jealous of the few lucky kids that somehow escaped the horror of deadly acne. Once again, poor mom to the rescue. The latest cure from the dermatologists was “X-ray treatments” which subsequently has been determined to be a leading cause of skin cancer. I, of course, was willing to try anything. It, too, was a joke and did no more than help pay for the Doctor’s kids’ college tuition. I was left with a permanently discolored face. Look closely. By the time I figured I should sue the bastards they were all dead and gone. I have the greatest sympathy for all the adolescents past, present, and future that live thru puberty’s epidermal nightmare. (With a tip o’ the cap to the Intelligent Designer – was this agony really necessary?)
My first week in classes was punctuated by my displeasing my English teacher, Mr. Varney, thereby earning a rude introduction to “uplifting” poetry. My punishment was to repeatedly write the entire poem “Invictus” by William Earnest Henley. That’s the one that ends “I am the master of my fate: I am the Captain of my soul.”
Being relatively tall for my age had the advantage of appearing desirable to the sport coaches. I was assigned the position of first base in baseball. I was a big target, but catching and throwing the ball left a lot to be desired. Likewise, as the “center” in basketball, I could often get in the way of opponents shots, but my own attempts to get the ball in that tiny hole were mostly fruitless.
Coinciding with the appearance of a face full of zits was the sudden desire to appear attractive to the opposite sex. Where had all those babes been all my life?