Part One: Entry 21
I pull up in front of the Cellini house, a big barn-shaped thing oddly placed at the back of a cul-de-sac in an otherwise typical Garden Grove neighborhood.
“You guys got a football don’t you?” I ask Mark after walking in the house.
Tracy Randall, Judy Cellini and Mark climb into my car where Robbie Blount sits messing with the tape player. We head off to pick up Ricky Risler, Mark Onack and John and Bill Coine. Jeff Cellini, a cousin from Illinois follows in his white two-door sedan Ford Cortina. We also go out of our way to Santa Ana to see if Kerry Martinez of Shattered Faith wants to join us but he declines.
“Hey..., dude,” I glance in the review mirror at Mark. “Fuckin’ didya hear about the Arceneaux’s?”
“Uh..., no,” he shakes his head.
“Their dad went all fuckin’ nuts on ‘em and kicked ‘em out after that party and then moved to L.A. They’re in San Clemente now. Jenkins is at ‘is mom’s and Frank’s stayin’ wherever.”
“Fuck.”
We stop for two twelve-packs of Miller as we near Bolsa Grande High School. I drive to the back of the campus. I park next to the football stadium which is perpendicular to the 22 Freeway. I twist the cap off of a beer as Mark and Robbie toss the ball around. Then we divide the players up with me, Ricky, Onack and Robbie on one team and the rest on the other.
We line up to kick off at the forty-yard line and Robbie punts the ball. John fields the kick around the twenty-yard line and races up to the fifty before Ricky runs him out of bounds. On first down John hands off to Jeff Cellini and Robbie tackles him for a three yard loss. On the next play John still at quarterback dumps the ball across the line of scrimmage to his brother Bill who scoots quickly for a first down before Robbie pulls him to the turf. Next play, John scrambles from the passing position running downfield gaining a good twenty-some yards ending up around the seventeen-yard line. Two plays later he finds Jeff in the end-zone whom I’ve given too much space making contact with him just after he catches the ball.
When we get possession of the ball Robbie is quarterback. On first down he connects on a screen pass to me but Mark is immediately on me taking my feet from beneath me. We give the ball up on downs shortly thereafter. Soon John and company are up 12-0.
After the kickoff we start at the twenty-three but once again are unable to convert a first. Whenever I am involved on a play, I don’t know if it’s the beer I had before kickoff or rustiness, but I am unable to get my old ‘sandlot’ legs back. I feel like a helpless novice when eluding a defender or trying to make a tackle.
On the next set of downs John’s team continually runs Mark up the middle for yardage. He gets no less than five or six yards with each carry. We retreat slowly backwards and soon we are backed up inside of our twenty.
“We’re gonna give the ball to Mark again,” John announces, laughing, after walking up to the line of scrimmage on first and goal. Mark blasts up the middle into the end-zone.
On the ensuing kickoff I field the ball around the forty and sprint ten yards up the left sideline. As Mark closes in on me I instantly switch my field to the right. Escaping, I blow past John and Bill who follow Mark. I turn up field again and outrace Jeff to the goal line spiking the ball in the end-zone just like a pro. I arch the width of the end zone past a group of Vietnamese teenage immigrants who stand watching us from behind a fence at the back of the southern end of the stadium.
On the next possession for John and company, we are finally able to make a solid defensive stop and Mark punts the ball to us.
We’re at the forty-seven yard line. On first down at the quarterback position I hand the ball off to Robbie. He blasts up the middle for fifteen yards where the skinny but quick Jeff downs him. The next play, I drop back to pass and John is instantly in my face. I roll to my right then sprint upfield for twenty-five yards to the twelve-yard line.
Robbie hikes the ball to me and I hit Ricky on a quick slant pattern only three yards over the line of scrimmage. He sprints untouched into the end-zone where the Asian kids still take in our ballgame.
We decide to take a beer break and join Judy and Tracy who’ve downed a few of the Miller’s while watching the game.
“You girls know of any good parties tonight?” I ask as we rest on some benches near the front of the stadium’s aluminum bleachers.
“Tracy’s supposed to get directions to some parties, but we don’t know if they’re jock parties or whatever,” Judy responds.
“Your boyfriend’s band’s playin’ the Cuckoo’s Nest tomorrow, right?” Ricky asks Judy.
“Yeah, with the Dickies.”
“Why are those kids walkin’ over here?” Robbie nods toward the male members of the Vietnamese spectators. They’re walking diagonally across the field towards us.
“What the fuck?” Mark notices that the group seems to be taking an aggressive stance as they march in our direction.
Then Ricky walks towards them carrying the ball in a peacemaking effort. We notice that they’re armed with implements of various sorts.
“You guys wanna play?” Ricky holds the ball out. Tracy screams as a hammer swings within an inch of Ricky’s head.
“You guys wanna fight or run?” Mark asks. None of us are able to answer this question in our confusion. Then everyone except me ends up dispersing in the direction of the freeway.
While the others scatter, I backpedal up the bleachers. I’m armed with four empty beer bottles which I plan to use as ammunition.
“They’ve got a gun!” someone yells.
I’m up near the top of the small stadium. I look down as the members of the gang approach the grandstand. I can see one of the guys carrying something small in his right hand.
I freeze and listlessly drop the bottles and start stepping slowly down the benches.
“Bam, bam..., bam, bam,” the bottles hit corrugated aluminum that runs beneath the seating. The empties roll down the incline as I descend slowly in a fearful stupor. When I step off the stands onto ground I am immediately surrounded by four of the youths.
“Why are you guys doing this?”
“You hit me,” one kid comes back.
A teenager standing a good foot and a half shorter than me holds a .22 caliber pistol in his hand. I can see part of a bullet sitting in the chamber. The gun is quite small, chrome, with imitation ivory on the handle.
“You last week..., in P.E. class hit me in face...remember?”
And it is obvious to me these guys are out for revenge.
“I don’t go to your school,” I answer.
Another short teen standing near me hits me hard on the side of the head with the kind of stick a gardener might use to train up a young tree. Instantly I’m running. Heading in the only direction I can towards more gang members. I’m passing the bleachers on my left. There is a four foot chain-link fence on my right separating me from the field and the oncoming attackers.
I take a quick look behind me spying the kid with the gun. He’s running a little ways back. While running he crouches down a bit. Looking at the gun, both hands on the weapon he tries to cock it. I forget about him and adrenalin kicks fully in as I blast the length of the stadium. I concentrate on nothing but pure speed. More stick wielding gang members approach. Several of them connect directly, hitting me firmly on the temple as I pass them.
“Thud, thud..., thud,” in succession the blows land opening a gash. I offer up a quick prayer and envision my parents watching the report of my death on the evening news.
It doesn’t take me long to outrun the kids and arriving near some classrooms I immediately dial 911.
Soon the police show up and all of us make our way to an area near the front of the school.
“Okay you say you were playing football, then where is the ball?” one of the cops asks, to which Robbie and I merely laugh.
“What did you do to provoke them?”
“Nothin’! We were just playin’ football!” I raise my voice a bit.
The officers are still skeptical about the innocence of us punk-rockers. Then after we all answer a few more questions, Robbie drives me to the hospital to get my head stitched up.
Photo by Cirrhosis Aguda