Let me tell you about Donnie Blane. I met Donnie in little league in 5th grade. We were teammates in the Heritage’s Dairy major team. In 4th grade I loved baseball. I wasn’t very good at it. But I loved it just the same. The dream of one day being able to hit a home run, or making that hero play to win the game was a driving force in my love for baseball. But like I said I wasn’t very good.
Donnie never let me forget that. And I don’t mean in the way a friend chides you for being colicky terrible at a thing you love. I mean in a malicious sociopathic way that an older might try to destroy the dreams of a younger one to see what kind of damage he could do.
Donnie and I weren’t friends. I wouldn’t call him an enemy since I never really felt like I could challenge him on any level physically, and his mental game (bullying wise) was far greater than anything I’d yet experienced.
Once he spit in my face after a strike out. And told me that if I struck out the next time I was up he’d fuck my sister. This is what a 5th grader told a 4th grader to intimidate him. I didn’t even now what it meant to say that about my sister (who was a year younger than me). Looking back I wish I could travel back in time to make him eat his words.
Another time there was an end of the year pool party at one of the other player’s house. Donnie tried to drown me. Like put his foot on my back underwater and held me down. John K (another teammate) stopped him. I got out of the pool choking and cough up water. The other boys were watching. I wasn’t going to let them see me cry or tell on someone. I shrugged it off, as most kids likely would. I was at a party after all there was cake and it was summer time. Frankly, I couldn’t be bothered with this jerk.
That same night we set out to play jailbreak. I was fast then. This was 6th grade now. I was a little bigger but still not much muscle wise. During the game, which spread out through the neighborhood, I grabbed Donnie. “1-2-3 You’re my ma–oooof.”
If you didn’t guess that “oooof” was a punch to my gut. It knocked the wind out of me. Donnie didn’t apologize, or run off, he stood over me to examine his victim. Then walked away. Walked.
Once I’d gotten to high school I wasn’t playing Little League anymore. Five or six little league trophies later, the real kind, for first place, I realized I was a pretty decent fielder, but frankly wasn’t much into team sports anymore. I also wasn’t dealing with Donnie that much. But we had a class together. Algebra I. Donnie was a year older and had already failed it once.
I’m not a Math nerd. I say Math nerd with a lot of respect to those who are. I was into story more than I was into number. This class was alphabetically seated. Donnie Blane, Zac Clark, girl I had crush one who’s last name started with C. And so on. Donnie had direct access to his mark again.
This wasn’t the only dickhead I dealt with during my high school career, not even the only one in that year, or that day. But Donnie was the only one that got me everyday.
How’s that?
Who has the time to bully someone everyday?
I submit to you that a bully finds his time. For Donnie it was pretty easy. Making time was as easy as making me do his homework and demanding that he cheat off me for tests. Needless to say I got pretty good at algebra. But it didn’t make me feel very good. I hated him.
I can’t say I had the last laugh, but I did get a shot in a couple times. There was a mid-term. It was open book. The teacher Mr Burr wasn’t the world’s most attentive instructor. Donnie’s copying my paper and I’m showing him the answers. I got every answer wrong… Like EVERY ONE. I was a solid B student for the first marking period. Bright enough that every answer wrong would have to set off alarms. I finished with the essay question, Donnie was on his own for that. I just wrote, “I need to talk to you after you grade this.” On the space allotted.
Long story short, Mr Burr Let me take the test again. Donnie failed that semester and I got a little bit of my dignity back. The bullying did not stop though.
Flash forward to the summer before my senior year. Donnie managed to graduate. I was working in the comic shop by now. Settling into a group of actual friends. I hear through the grapevine that Donnie was killed in a drunk driving accident. I can’t remember if it was him or if someone else was drunk driving.
“Ding dong the witch is dead.”
That’s how I reacted to this news. Donnie was well liked, for some fucked up reason. A lot of people were pretty upset. I heard a lot of “he’s an angel now.” And “He’s in a better place.” Man, if there’s a higher power, I’m sure that’s not even close to true. I hate myself a little for feeling that way, but I have to think that the karmic wheel spun that day. Donnie’s name was changed because I’d hate for someone to read this and then it get around to his friends, family and such. They might not have known the bastard the way I did. And I’m sure losing your son once 15 years ago still haunts you, there’s no need to have them find out that he was pure sadistic evil as well. That said, it’s shitty to think that if he were here in front of me right now, the only think I could muster up to say is, “I’m glad.”
I promise you that this story ties into the previous one I’m setting you up for a lot. I fell pretty hard when I got banned you won’t feel it if you don’t get the whole thing. This story took place between 1991 and 1998 I started playing during 1995. Next week I’ll go back to Magic, but socially I needed you to see this part of me.
Zac Clark, Durdlemagus