Gone to the Wolves 1981 - 1982

donuts, penitentiaries, & pocket change

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Cheyney
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Rawa natural condition; uncultivated, a person who is not trained or is without experience: dumb as a box of rocks.
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June 1981 - I'd just arrived at the Greyhound bus terminal in Chester, Pennsylvania, after enduring a ten hour bus ride from Hampton, Virginia. At the time of boarding that bus, I was five days removed from driving 2,700 miles across the country from Los Angeles. 
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It all happened faster than a Las Vegas wedding. My mother had remarried, again, and decided to resettle my younger brothers and I, again, from Southern California to her hometown in Southeastern Virginia; to me, the move felt like the plot of the Beverly Hillbillies in reverse. There'd be no Dixieland for me, thanks. I'd come to Pennsylvania for two reasons; to get out of the South and to select, and enter, a college. And this is where the next episode begins.

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Continued...
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Back and forth...
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West bound (1968) 

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My mother moved my younger brother and I from Media, Pennsylvania to Southern California in 1968 when I was four. My mother was fearless; she drove the entire distance across the country alone while my brother and I took a flight. Media was a real life Mister Rogers neighborhood; a quiet, tree lined, Philadelphia suburb with trolleys and good schools where most everybody had the same haircut. There were few hints in that environment for a kid my age to fully grasp the concept of race.
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Conversely, Southern California was dynamic; a populous, trendy, melting pot with nice beaches, warm weather, and a strong sports culture. Naturally, as I became older, I gained a better feel for my surroundings. From junior high school onward I was bused to schools on the other side of town where, I discovered, good ol Mister Rogers no longer welcomed me to his neighborhood. I spent thirteen eventful years in the Los Angeles area growing up and finishing my K through 12 school years; then, much to my dismay, the very next day after my high school graduation ceremony, my mother up and married a Virginian.
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The history of the American South is well documented; thus, my no go verdict had been easy to come to. At one time, Richmond (VA) was the capital of the Southern Confederacy; that alone was enough for me to avoid the place. Throw in the assorted infamous footage of Civil Rights troubles and, for me, living in the Old Dominion was a non-starter. Both of my parents were born in the South and I'd visited their hometowns once or twice over the years; after those visits, I understood why they left. I hadn't spent much time in the South but I'd built up an aversion to the place.
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East bound (1981)


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Richmond Daily Dispatch (1865)


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.Post-Civil War cityscape - Richmond, VA (1865)




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Victorious Union troops at the former Confederate "White House" - (1865) 
in Richmond (VA) at the conclusion of the Civil War.
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A monument to a losing Confederate General
is unveiled in Richmond in 1890.
 


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A 15-year old girl endures a taunting mob - (1957)
  while on her way to school in Charlotte, North Carolina.
A family friend, Dr. Edwin Tompkins, accompanies her.
The same dynamic would play out throughout the United States
for many years to come.



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My grandmother Estelle - (circa 1965)
Newport News, Virginia
When I was very young I thought the black & white photographs in my mother's 
 old photo albums depicted ancient history. I actually believed the people, and the objects, in the photographs were colorless. Naturally, because of this, I came to the conclusion that the entire state of Virginia was, 
literally, a "black and white" place 
where everything was still in the past 


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Another "ancient" photo of my mother in her teens (circa 1958)
Newport News, Virginia



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June 1981 - Hampton, VA - Just before dawn I boarded a Greyhound bus bound for Philadelphia. That's it, that was my number one priority; get the hell out of the South as fast, and as far away, as possible. As the bus rumbled past Old Hampton square towards Interstate 64 the streets were deserted. Not one business was open; not even the liquor store. My mother had, unceremoniously, dropped me off at the bus station and left so I assumed she, like everyone else in the South, was already sleeping. For me, that was just more evidence that Virginia was uninhabitable. 
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Leaving Dixie (1981)

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Northern Virginia

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At dawn I woke to the drone of the bus engine with a blur of Central Virginia landscape outside my window. By mid-morning, as the bus approached the Potomac River, the scenery evolved; the hue of the surroundings went from mid-summer green to a blend of concrete grey and rust. Statuesque structures appeared on the horizon and a towering monument loomed; Washington D.C. lie before me.
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Once the bus crossed over the 14th Street Bridge into metropolitan D.C. things suddenly became lively. I'd flown across the country many times but it was my first time travelling long distance on a bus. Surprisingly, I enjoyed seeing things from up close; although, I couldn't relax entirely because the fellow sitting two rows behind me had been talking to himself since boarding in Richmond; he was barefoot and clutching a duck hunting decoy against his chest. I sat sideways with my back to the window so I could watch him. The Greyhound traveling circus would make brief stops in Washington D.C., Baltimore, and Wilmington (DE), before continuing on to my destination.    
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The sights...
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Washington D.C.
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The old Greyhound Station - Washington D.C.

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Metro Northeastern commuters

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Delaware
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Sun Oil Company - Marcus Hook, PA 
My father worked here as an Accountant in the mid-60's



When the familiar refineries and suspension bridges of the Delaware River Valley came into view I knew I was getting close to my destination. It would be my third tour of the Philadelphia area; I was born there and lived in the nearby suburb of Media when I was very young. I'd also spent half of the sixth grade living there with my father and his second wife (stepmother 1.0). A couple years had passed since my last visit, so I was hoping the old "unwanted stepson" dynamic had finally wore off. I thought I understood my stepmother's feelings but I didn't realize she'd be there waiting for me at the Greyhound bus terminal ready to resume hostilities.
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Despite the long-running subplot my mission was to select, and enter, a college; I had more questions than I did answers but that was my predicament. Since my junior year in high school I'd limited my college applications to West Coast UC schools so I was already behind the eight ball. Obviously, applying to schools in the eleventh hour is inadvisable but that was the hand I was dealt. I knew I was in a pinch so I hit the ground running.
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I kicked the tires of a handful of local Philadelphia area institutions but quickly discovered my options were few. Long story short, I enrolled at Cheyney State College; right down the road from my father's Glen Mills neighborhood. Having finally settled on a school I was relieved; although, any four year learning institution with a football team would have sufficed. Those days, I made my decisions with a 17-year old's foresight. Like most knuckleheads, I knew everything, and nothing, and would retain the majority of my lessons the hard way. To me, what mattered most was, I'd be splitting my time between the classroom and the gridiron as I always had.
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Hampton vs Howard (1915)
The gridiron was my happy place


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For me, the world beyond the college gates was an unknown entity and my numerous adventures in it would greatly affect me. Thanks, in no small part, to getting my first car during freshman year winter break my unofficial campus for the next few years would include the metropolitan Northeast and extend southward beyond the Mason-Dixon Line.
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The big campus


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Regarding human relations, I was a naïve seventeen and had just finished high school; aside from dealing with high school coaches and teachers I was raw. Thus far, my development had been forged between the gridiron and the classroom with very little else; I was equally fearless and ignorant. What I lacked was more than what any one academic institution would be able to provide and my, much needed, lessons would commence before even setting foot on a college campus.
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Unwelcome...
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After a lukewarm greeting at the bus terminal "stepmother 1.0," AKA "the queen," ordered me to put my luggage in her trunk. She exuded the warmth of a scarecrow. I understood; I was on her turf again. As I sat there in her passenger seat, still dazed from the ten hour bus ride, she informed me of her household rules: "No visitors and don't use the washing machine." I knew not to ask questions. Then came the haymaker; I was told, if I didn't have a job within two days I had to go back to Virginia. 
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Upon arriving at my father's residence I noted the lush green lawn; it had been two years since my last visit. It was mid-afternoon so my father was away at work. The scene typified modern suburbia with a split rail fence and a leaf filled swimming pool. There was a doghouse a bit forward of the backyard tree-line and a German shepherd sat in front of it facing the woods. The dog didn't seem to notice, or care, one of his owners had just arrived.  
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The other four-legged tenant was a frowning cat. I can't remember what the breed was; just that he seemed oddly unsociable and always wore a mean expression. Apparently, the cat was only using my father's house as a forwarding address because it would routinely disappear for days at a time. I noted, the demeanor of the resident animals was in contrast to the setting. Something was amiss.
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In an attempt to establish better relations between "the queen" and myself I proposed to her I could do my own laundry and was, summarily, rebuffed. She made it clear I was less than welcome no matter how unobtrusive I strove to be. It seemed, nothing short of my disappearance from her household would please her. I remember being told to put all of my dirty clothes into a chute that led to a laundry room in the basement. The following day, all of my clothes, both dark and light, were returned to me in a new shade of pink.  
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The mission...
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The queen's edict for me to find a job within a couple days weighed heavily on me; I took this quite seriously and felt she'd like nothing better than the sight of me standing at the bus terminal with all my belongings and a one way ticket out of town.
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"If you don't have a job in two days you have to return to Virginia"



My image of me, without a job, returning to Virginia in defeat
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Day one, I was given access to a ten speed for job hunting and a list of rigorous outdoor chores to do; my father's home was on a large wooded lot so there was always something to be done. Most of the chores were seasonal; things like picking up dead branches, scooping leaves out of the pool, and cleaning roof gutters. I remember, it seemed they'd saved years' worth of leaf related work for me because it, obviously, hadn't been done in a while. I actually enjoyed working out in the yard, especially, driving and operating the lawn mower. Since finding work was my number one priority, I always did the chores early, well before sunrise. My father lived in a subdivision hidden in the woods of Glen Mills about one hour west of Philadelphia. Those days, Glen Mills was mostly farm and dairy country. I'd soon learn why younger folks often leave rural areas for bigger cities. 
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In my hunt for employment I cycled for many miles in every direction over hilly, rural, terrain with very few prospects. Even gas stations were scarce in Glenn Mills those days. After searching everywhere within ten miles of my father's neighborhood without success I was given one way rides, by car, to places further away; my father did the honors, dropping me off with a bicycle near commercially developed areas on his way to work in the mornings
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I was young and had no experience looking for a job beyond the level of a concession stand worker; my job hunting strategy was to show up, present myself, and just react to the situation. I knew not to rely on job applications, exclusively; I was hoping to make an impression. My method for selecting my targets was nuanced. I'd start out by analyzing a particular building and its surroundings; if I could imagine myself working in that environment I'd enter the building and introduce myself.  
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I recall cycling eastward on Route 1, in the direction of Philadelphia, one day looking for work. As I rode along, I noticed a unique building that my father, he knowledgeable of all things significant, had pointed out to me many years ago on the opposite side of the highway; it was the Franklin Mint. The mint's architecture was distinct from the surrounding buildings in every way. As I stood there, roadside, I tried to envision how I might fit in; I imagined the mint was staffed with a dozen or so portly, bespectacled, men, each of whom resembling Benjamin Franklin. At seventeen years of age, I felt the printing of currency and minting of coins were sacred processes; however, upon realizing I wasn't pudgy, or white, I got on my bicycle and went home.
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The Franklin Mint


 
My image of the workers in the mint
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Me in 1981
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I continued my, increasingly, desperate hunt for work. I was highly motivated because I loathed feeling that I was, in some way, at the mercy of someone else; which, ironically, is the very reason I'd gone through so much trouble to get out of the South. I'd experienced being stifled by my surroundings before and, naively, thought moving to, what I thought was, a more "enlightened" part of the country was the solution; silly me. Those days, I couldn't fully comprehend the complexity of American society, or life in general, and was making, relatively, important decisions based on my own limited knowledge; but, I digress.
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One morning, my father gave me a ride to a stretch of highway just outside of the nearby borough of West Chester. If I remember correctly, it was my third, or fourth, day in Pennsylvania so the stakes were high. That morning, I noticed my father seemed to have been "pep talking" me, as if preparing me for some sort of mission; he had an arsenal of old timey tales he'd use to try to motivate me, or anyone else who cared to listen.

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"When I was your age I had to walk ten miles in snow in blizzard conditions to get to school, and most of the distance was uphill"  
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Since I was trapped in the car with my father I just looked out the window, surreptitiously, memorizing assorted landmarks along the route. Every so often I'd glance rearward in an effort to remember landmarks from a homeward perspective. Suddenly, my father pulled over onto the road shoulder and ordered me out the car; the morning traffic roared past as I went to the trunk and removed the ten speed. When I shut the trunk my father accelerated away, kicking dust and gravel in my direction; and he hadn't said a word. It would be the first of many pre-meditated sink or swim situations my father put me in, and, as usual, I found my predicament to be maddening and humorous.
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"Fend for yourself, son"
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My father had always had a peculiar sense of humor so I suspected he'd spun his wheels and left me in the dust on purpose; I imagined him, watching me in his rear view mirror, laughing to himself as I got smaller in the distance. From that day on, I was never able to gauge my father's intentions; knowing him, that's exactly how he wanted it. 
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There I was, standing on the highway shoulder in an unfamiliar place with a bicycle; I surveyed my surroundings and the pickings were slim. Not far from where I stood was a donut shop. So, what was my first job in Pennsylvania in the summer of 1981? Donut Maker at Dunkin Donuts in West Chester (PA). I can't remember if I actually met the queen's deadline for having a job but it bought me some time. As second in command in his household, my father celebrated by purchasing a new dress for himself.
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Dunkin Donuts 
West Chester, PA
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My daily donut production projections 
factored in eating one out of every twelve I produced
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A captive audience...

The Delaware County Prison


Having satisfied the queen's get a job or hit the road ultimatum, I was relieved; although, there'd be more hurdles to come. For now, I faced a grueling bike ride through the rolling hills of Delaware County in midsummer heat. I wasn't sure of the way home so I'd have to go on instinct. Unbeknownst to me, I'd have to pass in front of a women’s prison on Cheyney Road. I knew about the men's prison there because it was huge and the security lights surrounding it illuminated the area beyond the fences. I had no idea there was a woman's prison, probably, because it was small and sat so close to Cheyney road; although, if I would have known, it wouldn't have made a difference. My fate had already been sealed by the gods of irony and chaos. I'd survived through years of dodging bullets and cars in world class traffic on a motorcycle in Los Angeles, and yet, after three days, I was about to become a victim, on a rural two lane road, on a bicycle in Pennsylvania cow country. Apparently, the women in the prison had nothing better to do than gaze out their cell windows all day and count the occasional car; unless, a young man on a bicycle were to happen along.
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I remember riding the bicycle home from West Chester the same day I got hired at the donut shop. I noticed I was approaching the prison complex so I was relieved to know I was heading in the right direction. Just as I passed in front of a nondescript two story building on my right a raspy voice bellowed "Look!! A man!!" Immediately, a dozen or so disparate voices started yelling anatomically male specific vulgarities from the building's upper windows. I was alone on the road so I knew I was the target; although, for a moment I got confused because the screaming seemed feminine but some of the voices were husky and mannish. 
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Embarrassed from being verbally stripped in the middle of a public highway, I panicked and my feet slipped off the pedals causing me to crunch my man parts on the bicycle frame; which, naturally, caused my tormentors to howl with bawdy laughter. Their profanity was creative and precise, and whizzed past me like small arms fire. Finally, after having pedaled well beyond my assailant's maximum hollering range, it dawned on me what had just occurred; I'd, inadvertently, ridden into a "passersby kill zone" for men.
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Hostile territory
The Delaware County prison complex
Cheyney Road is in the background on the right


Without an alternate route to use to go home it became a daily game of cat and mouse between me and the inmates. Each day, as I approached the prison my heart rate would quicken and the inmate's catcalling maintained a freshness as if they'd been rehearsing. It was me against a jail full of, maybe, women; at stake, eight seconds of titillation and shame.
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"Look, there he is!!"
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........."Hey boy!!! Come here and let me @%##!!!
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A low altitude flight through hostile territory  

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Over time, I developed tactics to lessen my chances of taking "incoming" during my subsequent flybys. Every afternoon, as I approached the prison I'd crouch to lower my profile; then I'd set the ten speed's gears for maximum acceleration. Upon hearing the lookout's yell, I'd accelerate to warp speed; a typical encounter was over in seconds. I continued to speed past the women's prison the entire year, even after I got a car.
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A day in the women's prison...
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....1:00 pm
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"Do you see him?"
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...................................."Not yet"..

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..........2:20 pm
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"It's already 2:20, he should be along any minute"..
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............."What are you gonna yell today?"........
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"I dunno. I'm thinking about it now"................

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The site of the old women's prison
 It's no longer there but the parking lot remains in 

the foreground just to the right of the intersection; I passed
 in front of it going from right to left.
The men's prison is still there in the background.

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Hustling for pocket change...
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My other part-time job that summer was digging graves and cutting grass at a cemetery in nearby Concordville. I got the job through my training partners, the Irving brothers. The Irvings were a local football clan known for excelling on the gridiron. There were three Irving brothers; "M" was my age and, like myself, was preparing for his freshman year at West Chester State. M's older siblings, "J" and "L," played on Wideners' 1981 Division III National Champion runners up team. In addition to the cemetery, their father owned a variety of local businesses and he shuffled us around to shore up whatever his little empire needed; I even helped paint a bar he owned.
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Tailback (#29) M. Irving 

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I recall working a funeral one day for Mr. Irving as the person responsible for lowering the casket. At the time, I'd never attended a funeral so I was nervous. My task was straightforward; all I had to do was turn a lever at the appropriate time to lower the casket. Right on cue, towards the end of the service, I lowered the casket with the deceased's family solemnly looking on. As the casket entered the tomb it somehow became stuck. Mr. Irving gave me a silent signal to stop lowering the slightly tilting casket as the deceased's family stood by unaware with heads bowed.
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At the conclusion of the funeral Mr. Irving told his son, M, and I to climb down into the grave and adjust the casket so the tomb's lid could be shut. As M and I climbed down onto the casket the lid suddenly popped open at which time M and I flew from the grave.
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My other job
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In August of 1981 I quit my summer jobs to start football camp at Cheyney. My college life had officially begun; although, by the time classes started my pockets were in a state of chronic emptiness. My first semester, I was classified as a commuter student so I didn't get a meal ticket and I wasn't allowed in the cafeteria. That meant I was on campus from in the morning, when my father dropped me off, until the evening after football practice having only eaten lunch. Those days, I had breakfast at home and I can't remember what I did for lunch. Luckily, my friends helped out by smuggling food out of the cafeteria for me.
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Because of my stepmother's decree for me "not to affect anything in her house" I wasn't permitted to go home, even if she was there; unless, my father was at home. My father's home was five miles from campus but I had to wait at the college gate for him to retrieve me on his way home; he typically arrived around 7 o'clock. This situation was untenable. Later, after acquiring a car during winter break, I moved into a dormitory. 
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Cheyney State College 

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The Franconia incident...
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Spring 1982 - During my college days I often road tripped with just enough cash for gas and food; if an emergency were to occur, and they often did, I was up the creek. I remember one episode when a college teammate and I were on our way back to Philadelphia after a Spring break trip to Hampton (VA). It was a seven and a half hour drive one way and happened to be my last trip passing through the congested Virginia-Washington DC area; I'd yet to discover the much shorter way, via Highway 13, through the Eastern Shore.
My co-pilot was L.C., who, like me, was a freshman on the football team. L.C. and I had been cruising north on Interstate-95 a couple of hours and had just entered Alexandria (VA) when my car started to lose power. Immediately, I cut across three lanes of traffic to the closest exit. Just as I started down the exit ramp my engine cut off completely. 
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Present day Franconia Texaco 
Located just off of Interstate 95 in Alexandria, Virginia
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As I repeatedly attempted to start the car L.C., a 6’3” 230 pound former All-Public League Defensive End from West Philadelphia, started sobbing. Tears streamed down his face as he whined how he never should have left Philadelphia and the prospect of being stranded in Northern Virginia. Initially I was stunned; then I got angry. I'd witnessed L.C. demolish ball carriers in devastating fashion on the football field; and yet, there he was, not even two minutes off the trail, going all to pieces.
Eventually, I managed to get my car to a nearby gas station. Within minutes my car is in the garage with it's hood open; a mechanic enters the lobby and informs me I need a fuel pump and the damage is fifty bucks. Between L.C. and I, we had just enough cash for gas and a few hamburgers. Having identified the problem I did what came natural; I called both of my parents collect from a payphone. The preferred order was to call my mother first because she was more sympathetic, especially, if there was an eminent aspect of danger. It's important to note, when dealing with mothers explanations don't require many details; fathers, on the other hand, should only be dealt with as a last resort.
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My mother lived in Hampton (VA), and my father lived in Glen Mills (PA), and both places were equally distant from Alexandria. Not to worry though; surely, one of them would work their parental magic and the repair bill would, magically, disappear. This was, undoubtedly, the perfect solution; and to top it off, I wouldn't have to pay for the phone call.
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Lady luck wasn’t with me that day because neither of my parents answered the phone. After an hour the new fuel pump was installed and I still hadn't been able to contact them. Entitlement anger is a funny thing; after numerous unsuccessful collect call attempts I cursed the operator and L.C. started to cry again. I fumed, imagining, somehow, my parents knew about my predicament but just weren't answering their phones. I visualized my father, relaxing at the kitchen table and enjoying a hoagie sandwich while ignoring the phone ringing on the kitchen wall.

.When your parents won't answer the phone



Sometimes, the best way to help
 someone you care about is to do nothing...
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For two hours, I anxiously shuffled, back and forth, between the service station lobby and the phone booth outside while L.C. just sat on the curb contemplating a homeless life in Northern Virginia. It started getting dark outside and the service station staff were cleaning the shop which indicated closing time was near. That's when I came up with a plan; I'd offer my new boom box (radio cassette player) I’d recently received as a birthday present to the service station manager in lieu of cash. 
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"Low mileage and still in the box"
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In what would prove to be one of the more ad-libbed, and desperate, sales presentations ever witnessed, I unboxed and demonstrated the features of my boom box for the Manager and his staff. Three middle aged white guys stood by patiently as a 18-year old black kid delivered a spiel on the benefits of having a boom box in the garage; the deal was by no means a slam dunk. Apparently, recognizing an opportunity to rid himself of small fish, the Manager agreed to accept my boom box and L.C. and I were on the road again.
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The wanderers...
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Ferdinand Magellan (1480 - 1521)
Discovered a shortcut from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean
bypassing the tip of South America 


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Yours truly (1964 - still rolling)
Discovered a shortcut from Philadelphia (PA) to Hampton (VA)
bypassing the congested Metropolitan Washington D.C. area



Another benefit of my, recently acquired, car was that I was able to make some decent pocket money with it. Since I was one of the few athletes who remained on campus on weekends who owned a car a few of the more enterprising fellows in the athletic dorm recruited me as a bootlegger. My hustle was to drive my associates, out of state, to nearby Delaware so they could purchase large quantities of beer and transport it back to campus. We wolves weren’t going to let any old blue laws stand between us and a good time. The Dorm Director even helped unload the beer from my trunk; that was my first lesson in the power of the kickback.
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Philadelphia's Franklin Field
where I played
 in my first college football game

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1970 Chevy Chevelle
My first car; initially used as a shuttle and beer runner
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Cheyney State College - Established 1837
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My other transportation hustle was providing shuttle service for my teammates to nearby cities on weekends. For fare I accepted cash, gas, and food. I don't remember there being any efficient mass transit that served the school. Being I had no reference for what is considered normal car usage I just operated it as if it were a time machine; I put gas in it, dialed up a destination, and went. I probably put twenty thousand miles on that car during the spring semester alone.
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By the time basketball season rolled around my shuttle had become the preferred mode of travel for athletes to watch either of Cheyney's nationally ranked basketball teams play away games; my clients would reserve their seats weeks in advance. Since I was offering top flight service it was always a package deal including my own food and expenses. I must have driven the corridor between Washington D.C. and New York City a half a dozen times.
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The Pep boys
Manny, Moe, & Jack were a beacon of hope for
automotive do it yourselfers
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Because of my chronically low cash flow I often did my own car maintenance; it was hit and miss at first but over time I was able to handle most repairs. My Chevelle had a small block V8 so everything was pretty straightforward. My only limitations were lack of tools and my own inexperience. Consequently, I often worked on my car in Pep Boy's parking lots; it made perfect sense. If I got stumped, or needed a special tool, I'd just walk over to Pep Boy's garage and consult with the professionals. My freshman year, I replaced many automotive components myself; things like starters, alternators, and water pumps. Later, after transferring to Hampton Institute, I started doing my own engine swaps.
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<HOME>
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The wolves...
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My freshman year, I played football at Cheyney State for Coach Andy Hinson; it was his third season at the school. Right away, I noticed his bold character; it would be my sixth year playing football and I'd just begun to realize the game was full of characters. Coach Hinson was, alternately, gruff and humorous and seemed to yell just about whatever popped into his head. He always carried an electric bullhorn and, if you missed a block or dropped a pass, he'd put you on blast with it. "Boy, you ain't block nobody!!" at full volume from up to sixty yards away.
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Cheyney Stadium
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Cheyney Training School Football (circa 1919)
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A pack of  Wolves (Circa 1982)
Standing from left: Chilly B., ***** ? , T. Ricketts, ***** ?
Kneeling: (#3) R. Fulton, (#22) ***** ?
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As a freshman, I immersed myself in football; for me, the game was religion, the field the pulpit, and the coach the preacher. The first time I met Coach Hinson was the summer of 1981 when I came to campus to introduce myself. I walked in his office and a handful of coaches were just sitting around. When I inquired where I could find the Head Coach the room suddenly went quiet. As I stood there, awaiting a response, everyone eyeballed me suspiciously; Coach Hinson was on the opposite side of the room reclining behind his desk. 
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At the conclusion of the meeting, as I exited the building, I noticed a blue Eldorado parked front and center in the parking lot; there were other cars out there but the Eldorado occupied three parking spaces. I remember thinking, the positioning of such a car could only mean one thing; whoever owned it was the boss.  
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Years later, I'd learn, the Camden (N.J.) native, Hinson had been an All-American linebacker (1952), two time team captain, and one of the winningest football coaches ever at Bethune-Cookman (1976-1978). The following spring, during a Spring break visit to Virginia, I stopped by, Hampton Institute Football Coach, Ed Wyche’s office to talk about transferring to Hampton. When I mentioned that I'd played at Cheyney, he straightened up in his chair and said “Oh, you’re one of Hinson’s boys."

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Andy Hinson (circa 1952)


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Recognized HBCU
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The tools...
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...with all due respect. 
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My experience at Cheyney went well beyond the classroom and the gridiron; I was exposed to a campus full of young adults from all over the country, each with a bit of influence. I played most of one season there and remained at the school through the second semester before transferring. 
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I don't recall the assistant coaches' names but could probably remember their faces; after having so many coaches through the years one tends to get names and faces mixed up. You never forget the teammates though.


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The state of HBCU football 
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The Characters...
there's always that one guy

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Most of the guys on Cheyney's football team were from the Northeast; places like Pennsylvania, Delaware, New York, Connecticut, and New Jersey. Hinson also had a small contingent of Floridians on the roster; I was the lone Californian. The late Andre "Pahokee" Waters (CB), a sophomore from Florida, who went on to have a long career with the Philadelphia Eagles, was also on that team.
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As always, the characters on the football team were numerous; there was a five foot, 340 pound, nose guard called “Gut” who could fill the “A" and "B" gaps at the same time, P. Barry, the super senior quarterback from Brooklyn’s Boy’s High, who had to be pushing thirty, and a running back known as “Will Kill.” Nobody actually knew where Will Kill came from; he seemed much older than the rest of us and had the temperament of a war veteran. He just showed up one day at a team meeting, stood up unexpectedly as one of the upperclassmen was talking, and informed us all “If any one of you mother f___kas f___ks with me I will kill you.” …Thus the nickname.
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I had a couple nicknames: “Charlie White because of my running style and my being the only Californian, and “Michael J” because of my curly hair. Apparently, only West Coast and southwestern brothers were sporting Jeri curls and long hair those days. Most of the East Coast guys had close cuts and slept with stockings on their heads; sometimes, they'd put hair pomenade on at night so they could have wavy hair the next day. On the football field, some of the team comedians would poke fun at my long hair by tugging it in the huddle and moon-walking whenever a play called for me to get the ball. 
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"Billy Jean left, on two"
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One afternoon, my father stopped by football practice unannounced to watch. Nobody knew who he was as he stood quietly on the sideline; he was wearing a dark suit and tie and, for some reason, seemed to make everyone nervous. Perhaps, the players feared he was an undercover cop and the coaches thought he was an IRS agent. I remember laughing to myself when one of the guys edged over to me and asked "who's the dude in the suit?
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"The dude in the suit" (Mid-1970's)
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At practice I got a share of the reps at tailback and somehow emerged as one of Hinson’s favorites; he seemed to get a kick out of me being a little guy that ran hard. After only a month I earned the starting tailback spot in a pre-season scrimmage against the University of Pennsylvania. 
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Cheyney had numerous running backs; although, after I transferred to Hampton I found out it was normal in college to have a dozen or so tailbacks on a roster. Some of the other backs were: W. Tolbert, "Drip" (Atlantic City N.J.), D. Braxton (Paulsboro N.J.), a tall guy from Philly's Northeast H.S., a brother from Delaware, "Will Kill," M. Stovall, and a hard running freshman from Brooklyn who'd always try to spin out of tackles. Tolbert, Stovall, and Drip were all upperclassmen, and everyone, aside from the unpredictable "Will Kill," was a contender.
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I was the typical young freshman. I remember getting mad during a scrimmage because I didn't get any carries. I played but the coordinator didn't call any running plays while I was in the game and the rotating tailbacks thing was new to me. I felt betrayed so I disappeared for a few days until one of the older players tracked me down and hauled me into the coach's office. Looking back, if I would have had another year's experience I might have done some things differently.
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It never occurred to me, the coordinator might have had a game plan or was looking out for my well-being; I'd just recovered from a concussion I sustained while attempting to run over a defender at practice. I popped up after the collision, jogged to the huddle, and the sky turned pink. After practice I couldn't remember my locker combination so they had to cut my lock off. I was fast and exciting to watch but I only weighed a buck sixty after a big lunch. My weakness was that I had a 17-year old's patience. Alas, hindsight is twenty twenty. Anyway, after losing faith in the organization I had my eye on the door so I decided to try another school. 
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Those days I wore the magic Ponys

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The old site of Cheyney's practice field
Like the football program it is no longer there


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Choices, Choices...
lucky to have em'

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Cheyney's historic Carnegie Library
Dedicated in 1909 and I never set foot in the place
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My methodology in choosing a college started out differently than it ended up. Initially, I was prepared to go to school on the West Coast until learning at the last minute, my mother was planning to move to her hometown in Southeastern Virginia. Consequently, my parents decided they didn't want their 17-year old son living on the West Coast alone. Fair enough.
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My family and I packed our belongings into a rented moving truck and set out on the long, three day, journey to the East Coast. My mother and her new husband, aka "new dad 3.0," drove the moving truck and I drove the family van. My passengers were my two younger brothers, the family cat, and a fish. 
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Three days, and 2,700 miles, later we crossed our journey's symbolic finish line; the James River Bridge. Immediately, I was uneasy in the Southern environment; it seemed to me, we'd left Los Angeles in 1981 and arrived in Virginia sometime in the early 1960's. I remembered experiencing a childhood trip to Virginia from Philadelphia when I had the very same feeling. Apparently, my brother's pet fish was upset about leaving the West Coast too; during the journey eastward it committed suicide by jumping out of its tank in Las Vegas
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The finish line
James River Bridge - Newport News, VA
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Back to ol' Virginia
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We'd hardly unpacked before I boarded a Greyhound bus bound for Philadelphia. My stay in Virginia was a brief five days. All due diligence regarding local exploration on my behalf was neglected. Though uncertain of my future I never even considered staying in Virginia. Having grown up in the multicultural melting pot I imagined the West Coast to be, I wanted nothing to do with the South; I'd held this opinion since the age of four.
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I had a strange concept of life in the South
I'm not sure where I developed these images


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Need support?  ...Talk to "the family"     
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"So, you wanna go to college?"
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In my mind, attending college was a given just as high school seemed to be. As far as I was concerned, I was destined for the "thirteenth grade" and beyond and my trajectory was as preordained as an East Coast sunrise. Since my junior year in high school I'd taken the requisite steps to gain acceptance into California "UC" schools but, by the time I stepped off the bus in Philadelphia, I was shooting from the hip. Not to worry; I figured, an eleventh hour acceptance into a, yet to be determined, institution of higher learning was simply a matter of showing up and making it happen through force of will.
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I was young and inexperienced and probably could have used some seasoned advice; that's what happens in the absence of shared generational wisdom. Without it, everyone starts from zero; which, is understandable if you look at my family's history. It seems, I come from a long line of "the hard way" learners. As far as football goes, I was going to play wherever I went. Nothing could stop me from entering the school of hard knocks.
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As the drama of the summer of 81' continued to unfold I conducted a whirlwind campaign of gathering inane college data and stalking (football) coaches. Lack of time, missed deadlines, and my unfamiliarity with various institutional requirements quickly emerged as additional hurdles. Though sufficiently motivated, I was naïve about how society worked and had little idea what I was up against; I was so far behind I had to "catch up" before I possessed the typical amount of misinformation to purge; it would be many years before I realized there could be a difference between one's own perception and reality. 
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My parents stood by nervously as I tried on colleges as if they were new shoes in a department store without so much as glancing at a price tag. In a pitiful twist, I wouldn't realize HBCU's existed until showing up for Cheyney's freshman orientation. My ignorance was understandable though. Thus far, I'd been raised and educated in a cultural bubble so I had a woefully inaccurate view of the world; although, because of recent developments, I'd already begun to see the light. Henceforth, for me, institutions of higher learning would all be considered equal; just as long as their campuses had tree lined courtyards and buildings made of faux stone masonry.
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They all looked the same...
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University of Pennsylvania
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Cheyney


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Temple
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Swarthmore


Ultimately, Cheyney and I were drawn to together. Like a bimbo and a wealthy old geezer, we needed each other; the school in need of a financial infusion, and myself in need of everything. I had no idea of the numerous costs associated with getting a college education; although, if I'd known what I was really up against I probably wouldn't have set sail in the first place. There are times it's better to be stupid. 
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My parents came up in a different era and they endured things I never had to face. They both told their fair share of hard luck tales but they never spoke about their time college. Perhaps, previous generations are less inclined to speak on such things. Years later, after they both passed away, I'd discover my parents were honor students and they only made things look easy, having cobbled together a patchwork of scholarships and local support to get through college.
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Going into my freshman year it was a combination of my parent's sporadic generosity (a bus ticket and free room and board) and grants that put me in the collegiate starting blocks; I even took out one of those low interest loans the good folks in financial aid were throwing around.
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"Just sign right here Mr. Billups" 
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My parents were conspicuously mum about helping me any further than the college gate so I had to read the tea leaves. What I experienced heading into my first semester made it crystal clear; the filet mignon that had been direct parental support throughout my k through 12 school years was about to become bologna.
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Go south young man...
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Hampton Institute

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A mere four months into my freshman year the winds of circumstance shifted. It had become apparent, my stay at Cheyney would only last one year; a mix of family dynamics, athletic ambition, and my own instinct were the deciding factors. The evolving situation put me back on a southward course; towards Hampton Institute.
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My parents graduated from Hampton in the early 1960's. To add to the irony my mother had taught math at Cheyney when I was very young; and presently, she was teaching at Hampton. Though I knew it was for the best, I was reluctant to leave because my world had expanded greatly. I was set to return to Virginia, a place I'd previously deemed uninhabitable; yet, another lesson gained from off the syllabus.
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The Freshman tour...
where the rubber meets the road
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Philadelphia

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After my first and only football season at Cheyney the college experience just continued to roll on. Though my days at Cheyney were numbered, I had a lame duck semester to complete. The life changer for me was getting my first car, a used 1970 Chevelle, during winter break while visiting Virginia. Those days reliable cars could be had for as little as five hundred bucks or so. Henceforth, I became the road warrior logging many miles on the turnpikes and thoroughfares of the northeastern corridor. I probably spent more time looking through a windshield than I did in a classroom my second semester.
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I'd been raised mostly on the West Coast so everything about the northeast was foreign to me. During holidays I'd chauffeur my friends and teammates to their hometowns where I'd sample the local fare. We'd cram into my car and road trip at the drop of a hat; places like New York, Washington D.C., and as far north as Connecticut. We even made the long journey south to Virginia. The trips weren't always practical or planned; its just, we were young, gas was cheap, and ATMs were everywhere.  
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Philly cheese steaks and hoagies

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South Street, Philadelphia
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The Standard Theater on South Street in Philadelphia (1915 - 1930)
At it's peak it served as a showcase for local performers and
musicians. 
It was demolished in 1957

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The Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel on Route 13
Portal from the metropolitan Northeast to the South.



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Cheyney...
The little school that could hoop

Cheyney Basketball
During the 1981-82 basketball season both of Cheyney's basketball 
teams were ranked among the top programs in the country.
 The Cheyney men competed in NCAA Division II 
and the Lady Wolves played in NCAA Division I.

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The Lady Wolves & Coach Vivian Stringer (1982)
Against the odds they made it to the 1982 NCAA Final where they came up short against the Louisiana Tech Lady Techsters. Two years later (1984) the Lady Wolves would reach the NCAA final four again under Coach Winthrop McGriff before falling to Tennessee.   

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Cheyney's campus is in a somewhat rural area so on the weekends many students evacuated the campus to nearby cities. There wasn't much to do on campus so the athletic few who remained often spent their time trying to hold down one of the precious few basketball courts in the two gyms. Both the men's and women's basketball teams were national powers at the time and, the women's team in particular, would mix it up with anyone, including football players.
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One would have to step up one's game when going against the Lady Wolves; I can vouch for that. One evening, after dinner, some teammates and I went against some of the Lady Wolves in the smaller of the two gyms. I remember getting an offensive rebound down low in the paint. With my back to the basket, I faked as if going for a short jumper high off the glass (I knew who was behind me). The young lady guarding me went up and slapped both hands at the mid point of the little square on the backboard as if to pin my shot; then, after I didn't shoot she hovered there, next the rim, as if baiting me. I pretended to be unfazed and passed the ball; her shoe skimmed my ear as she returned to earth.
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Click here for Sports Illustrated article
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The Cheyney men's (NCAA Division II) and women's (NCAA Division I) basketball teams were ranked one and two, respectively, in their divisions at one point during the 1982 season; those days, I was unaware the men's team had won the 1978 NCAA Division II National Championship. My freshman year (1982), the men were top ranked nationally with Coach John Chaney at the helm (until they ran into that buzz saw UDC team featuring Earl Jones and Michael Britt; I was there and it was not pretty). Coach Chaney, like football's Hinson, was a distinguished Bethune-Cookman alumnus and, as a player, led his team to the 1953 SIAC Conference basketball title; as a coach, he’s probably better known for what he accomplished after his time at Cheyney, at Temple University



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Cheyney Wolves vs UDC Firebirds (1982)

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The Lady Wolves were coached by Vivian Stringer. Mrs. Stringer went on to accomplish just about everything humanly possible coaching women’s basketball. After leading the Lady Wolves to the 1982 NCAA Division I final (a loss to Louisiana Tech) she went on to coach at the University of Iowa (1983-1995), and Rutgers University (1995-2022). Mrs. Stringer is the only college basketball coach in history to take three different teams to the NCAA final four (Cheyney 1982, Iowa 1993, and Rutgers 2000, 2007). 
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There's a lot to be gained watching acclaimed coaches go about their business; it’s often the, seemingly, little things that distinguish them. Mr. Chaney was my tennis teacher and Mrs. Stringer taught my swimming class. I recall noting, Mr. Chaney's highly animated demeanor in front of the bench during games of pacing, moving furniture, and gesturing wildly was exactly the same in the classroom. Consequently, nobody talked or asked questions in his class; we were scared.
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John Chaney
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Vivian Stringer

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 Click here for more about both Cheyney basketball coaches


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Basketball games were a big event on campus those days. We’d pack into our tiny gym and watch the Lady Wolves (led by V. Walker, R. Guilford, Y. Laney, S. Giddens, and D. Walker ) make traditional Division I basketball powers look silly. Cheyney was a difficult venue to play in basketball because we, the partisan crowd, were right on top of the visiting teams; there always seemed to be an "us versus the world" vibe at that small school.
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There were plenty of firsts for me that year; among them, getting pulled over by police with their weapons drawn while chauffeuring my teammates to their homes (in Philadelphia) for the weekend, sliding off a snow covered road into a ditch in my car while returning to campus during a snowstorm, being flat broke and wishing for a pizza delivery after moving into the dormitory. It was also at Cheyney where I first tasted the college student’s elixir of happiness, beer; the rest is history. One year with the wolves was enough for me so I headed south.
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...one year among Wolves.
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