Clancy Boys
So I just got the latest Tom Clancy thriller, Against All Enemies, and before I pour myself a glass of ice-cold Coke, head to my favorite furniture on “my terrace,” light a stick, prop my legs up, and devour the book, I rummaged through my old stack to look for an embedded bookmark I left—a piece of T-shirt, or whatever, tag. Tucked between the pages of a dusty paperback copy of The Bear and the Dragon is an old photograph. The old-fashioned sheen of the photo paper is almost gone. I recognize it immediately. Two boys on long-sleeved shirts walking toward an ominous old fort. From the nine-o’clock shadows and knowing that that fort faces roughly south, I know that it’s a mid-afternoon stuck in eternity.
Those two boys.
How could I write this without sounding uncomfortably bromance-y or, God forbid, Brokeback-ish?
Lemme try. You see, in those days, the pseudo words/adjectives previously mentioned did not exist. There were only friends, gang, brothers. And you were either one of the boys or, uh, girly. Those two boys sunt pueri pueri, pueri puerilia tractant. Whoa! Fr. Rector would be mighty proud that I remembered that Latin idiom! I can try and translate it, and if I can’t do it, there’s always Google. So here goes nothing: “boys are boys, and boys will be boyish.” Or something. I leave it to you to figure out if I just Googled it.
There were thirty twelve- or thirteen-year-old boys on that first day, a day that smelled of equal parts adventure and anxiety. First day the boys would walk away from the comfort of their mothers and the firm hands of their fathers into the much more-firm control of the potters, priest-formators to be less vague. Four of them boys were from some relatively far-off town. Three of the four knew each other and hung out together back in their old school. The fourth was a bit of a stranger and had an even stranger name. He had a determined walk, head forward, arms keeping stride, and shoulders evenly squared. It somewhat resembled a brutish stallion—or pony, in those days—that knew where it was going and wasn’t at all afraid. That stride earned him a peg as a leader. And when it was called of him, he did lead well. Mustang or not, you wouldn’t need bridle and bit to tell him where to go. He’ll take you there. In basketball, he possessed the same equine strength and drive that earned him the nickname. He had a fast staccato way of talking, but he struggled in Latin. And like that other kid, he sucked in Math, big time. He was all right in English though, and would write love letters to girls using the name of one of King Arthur’s knights. That was his sense of humor. It flowed easily around him, and his laugh was easy, hearty. He kept a level head though, his red emotions in check. His anger burst in public only but once. And when it did, everybody knew to keep more than two arm’s length away. Top man, as the Brits would say.
Two of the three discovered that he was from the same town they were from and told the other boy. This other boy now, I don’t quite know what consistency he was made of. He walked with a bit of an uncertain and hesitant gait, like a teetering pole, as if he’s not entirely sure if he has to go this way or that. Has, not will. He had tears in his eyes when his ma and pa walked out of the minor seminary’s porta mayor that first day, but he turned smiling and excited for what he thought was freedom. Freedom, my ass, poor ignorant kid. That excitement quickly turned sour on the succeeding days, especially on those quiet and breezy siesta times when he’d crawl in his blankets, despite the noon sun, trying to hide his crying and softly mouthing, “Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama . . .” He tried to be tough, that kid. Still does, and is wont to emulate guys with that I’m-a-tough-guy-so-you-can’t-touch-me-no-matter-what attitude. Hence the occasional irreverence and the rebel look. Sometimes it’s just a look. But sometimes, too, a terrible fury takes over that he becomes so tough he won’t even notice he’s already mortally wounded.
But, yeah, later on, the thirty dwindled. Some walked away themselves, needing the familiar scents of their homes, or not totally agreeing with the priestly scent. Others got themselves into trouble, academic or disciplinary, revealing certain properties in the clay that made the potters shake their heads. Thirty became twenty-five, and twenty, and eighteen in the final year.
Early on though, by their second year, those little-boy groups that freshies huddled themselves in were gone. The whole class rolled as one terrible mischievous monster. They chased girls together, evaded potters’ ire together, and did those other tasks and joys that boys normally had—still together. Yep, even that thing you’re thinking of right now. But really, those boys clenched their fists in the air in victory and glory as one. They also suffered silently or in howling, not as individuals. Essentially, they grew up together. As freaking one.
But just as an army is made up of corps, divisions, regiments or brigades, battalions, companies, platoons, squads and fire teams, the boys too operated as fire teams from time to time. That little teetering kid who tried to be tough as nails rolled with the level-headed one who was once a stranger. I think that was because they discovered books and stories and heroes together. First, Robin Hood came up strolling. Then Ivanhoe rode by. By the time they met Jason Bourne, it was clear that they’d work in tandem. When they shook hands with John Patrick Ryan, they were full-fledged smart operators. Rules that this pair of miscreants broke did not seem broken to the potters. Not a whiff of their exploits ever reached the sniffing noses of the potters. Well, save for that huge SNAFU. But that was just the other kid trying to be tough again. He burned the whole class in the process. That’s another story for another day though.
Those two boys were always hungry. So much so that when the school’s fruit trees became heavy with their load, they would indulge them. There were the caimito, which others call the star apple, the santols, the green mangoes, even the occasional coconuts. Recreation hours were the most time they were hungry. Allowance dough wasn’t all a-plenty. When it was all but gone and “reinforcements” were taking their easy times, that fourth boy would not lose his sense of humor. I think he invented that seminary joke, “You wanna know why my mother’s not sending me money? She thinks I’ve got a parish now to feed myself!” And when they couldn’t scrounge enough pennies from the pockets of old laundry for a quick bite at the canteen, the caimitos saved their scrawny bellies.
Recruiting two other classmates, they’d attack the trees. The “irreverent” kid climbed them—he had that love even then. He’d drop big ripe ones down one at a time to the “knight” kid who stood under the tree. He’d then roll each down to the grass. The caimitos were ever-greens, not the purple ones, so they were hard to spot. When they’d gather enough, and by enough I mean “enough to fill a big picnic basket,” they’d all retreat deeper into the back grounds and gorge up. But whenever one boy heard a whistling tune up the hallways, he’d do three calm claps. The boy in the tree would then know it was time to get the hell down like a scared cat. Once down, he and the catch-and-roll kid would engage in casual banter, a story prepped ahead of time. The whistler would, well, whistle still toward the baths, the clapper innocently jogging out to the grounds. The groundskeeper or the potter would see nothing. Clean little thieves.
The mangoes, those were easy. The fruits would be in bunches and so numerous, the branches would stoop toward the gutters. After lights off, a sly cat with a plastic bag and a cutter would climb down the windows, wrap the fruit bunch in the bag, and cut right off the branch. Smooth. They’d munch as much as much they could take well into the night. The santols, a different tack was needed. They’d be scouted first on an innocent afternoon walk, and just after supper, in the cover of dark, during that free time allowed to roam the grounds before a bell would herd them to study period, the fruits would be plucked by feel and memory. Easy. The young coconuts were snacks and Gatorade on weekend groundwork, but often a priest was there to oversee the work, so they’d swallow their hunger then.
I think that on a vacation, I could recount each little adventure those boys sailed on. When we’re stuck in an island, those stories could see us through. Somebody who can write better can do a book about it perhaps. Just maybe.
Not everything they did was pure mischief though. They’d have been caught eventually if that was all they did. But I like to recall those silly little rule bending more than the others. It was just plain fun.
But those boys, they were brothers right down to the bone. They stood alone together. Currahee. Friendship’s fire-tempered worth was forged in those halls. And when I hear or read Shakespeare’s St. Crispin’s Day speech—“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers”—I think of that bond between those boys’ band. King Henry V was talking about them even then. Yes. “For he to-day that sheds blood with me / Shall be my brother.” They were and are blood brothers, those kids. They’re men now, or at least trying to be. On different paths, they try to lead lives as well as they know how. The boy whose laugh starts out with a sniggering neigh is a priest himself now. The other one is still trying to be tough. Poor guy.
Sometimes when their little bell-ringers and schedules allow, those two and the rest of their brothers visit their old stomping grounds and spend a night or two raising tall glasses for the good ole days, clapping each other in the back in encouragement for the days yet to dawn.
I have a little bit of personal tradition before I read a new book. I leaf through its pages and just take in that, well, book aroma. But before I do that and write my name on the first page, I raise an imaginary tankard. Here’s to you, brothers of the Brotherhood of Evil Conspirators. Ut unum simus. And here’s to you, ’Nox, old friend. Here’s one for the Clancy boys!
BENEDICAMUS DOMINO!
