Gone, But Not Forgotten

It does not seem that long ago, but it has been almost 70 years since I first met the “Bowl”. The Bowl. Every boy at Sacred Heart, our Catholic grammar school, had a nickname. Michael Bowles was his given name, and it took several weeks in our fifth-grade year before I learned about his secret.

  I remember it was in the middle of a typical Indian Summer when I first met Michael. The familiar warm breeze gently moved over the valley as if my mom had just covered me with a soft blanket on a cool evening. The smell of stewing tomatoes from the cannery down the street added an additional comfort level at this time of year. It was the first week of school. My parents thought I had mixed emotions about my expectations. Not really! All I was concerned about was how I fared with my buddies. There was one new boy in class. He was a small, scrawny boy whose desk was across from mine. Whenever I looked over at him, he smiled like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. His eyes looked huge behind those thick glasses he wore making the rest of his body seem so diminutive. I considered him to be a novelty, finding myself looking at him periodically throughout the school day. And each time I looked at him, there was that same broad smile.

  I never formally introduced myself to the “Bowl”. Ten-year-old boys never do. It is usually just a flick of the head acknowledging the other kid. Maybe you mutter your name after that, maybe not. But Michael was different. When the recess bell rang, he got up quickly and was at my desk instantaneously.

  “Hi, I’m Michael,” his broad smile trying to outdistance the enlarged eyes behind the glasses.

  “Hi, Michael, I’m Ron,” feeling slightly defensive. “They call me ‘the Count’.

  He seemed disinterested in my nickname, but more concerned about what we could play at recess. I suggested we could join the other boys and play football.

  “Nah, I can’t play football.”

  I had questioned why he could not play football, but he would not tell me.

He seemed very shaken as if his pet canary had just died. That huge smile left his face as he turned from me and slowly walked out the classroom door. The rest of the school day had been strained for me, having decided not to look over at Michael at all.

  I did not see Michael the rest of that week, or the next few weeks. I agonized because I felt bad for not agreeing to play with him that one recess. But more importantly, where had Michael been? Each morning at class I would look over at his empty desk, wondering what had happened to him.

  It was the middle of October before the “Bowl” showed up at school. He didn’t walk in like the rest of us at the beginning of the school day. Rather he was accompanied by his mom right before recess. Mrs. Bowles was quietly chatting with our teacher, Sister Rosario, as Michael took his seat. I glanced over at him and there was that all to familiar smile of his. Feeling relieved, I grinned back at him. After a few words were exchanged between the two women, Michael’s mom headed to the door. She seemed to be sniffling into her handkerchief as she left. Michael seemed unconcerned about his mom, but rather happy just to be back in class.

  The bell rang for recess. My classmates and I had a big football game planned. I remember hustling out the classroom door and into the playground with a football in hand. Some of the boys passed me as I tossed the ball in the air.

  “Wait for me, Ron!” a distant voice called out behind me.

  It was Michael trying to catch up to me. In his outstretched hands he had a Basketball.

  “Let’s shoot some baskets,” Michael yelled out.

  “Bowl, it’s not basketball season. It’s October! Time to play football. The guys are waiting, it’s a big game.

  One of the boys screamed out to me to hurry up. I looked at the boys then turned to look at Michael. His eyes are transfixed on me with that big smile of his.

  “Ah geeze,” I mumbled, tossing the football to the boys eagerly waiting.

“Go on and play without me.”

  I glanced back at Michael who had an even bigger smile. He tossed the basketball to me. I felt uptight about the situation, but I knew it was something I needed to do.

  Michael attempted to make a basket with the ball, but his throw barely reached the bottom of the net. He tried even harder the second time, but the shot wasn’t much better. He then seemed to be tired.

  “Watch me, Bowl. See how I use my arms to push the ball?” I made the basket.

  Michael is still trying to catch his breath. The smile has long left his face.

  “Let’s sit down for a short while,” I suggested.

  Without hesitation, Michael walked to the bench alongside the basketball court and sat down. I joined him, bur glanced over at the boys playing football.

  “Where have you been the last few weeks,” I asked still looking over at the boys playing football.

  “I have been sick and quite tired. That’s the secret I haven’t told you about,” Michael replied as he looked down at his shoes. He raised his head slowly to look back at me. “I have cancer. It’s in my lungs.”

  I was stunned. I knew a few things about cancer. My grandma died from it. I had an uncle with a cancer where they had to remove part of his jaw.

  “Does it hurt?” I queried. “Are you going to die?”

  “Yeah, it hurts a lot sometimes. Other times I have a hard time breathing. Not sure about dying. No one said anything about that. I can’t play football because of my lung problem.  

  I was lost for words. I became nervous, looking away trying to figure out what to say or do.

  Michael intervened again, “I had two surgeries. I may have to have another soon.”

  There was silence. I couldn’t even hear any of the kids yelling in the school yard.

  “Hey, you want to feel the bandages from my last surgery?”

  “Wow, can I?” I responded. I looked around to be sure no one was watching me as I was about to touch Michael.

  “Run your hand up and down my back.”

  I did so. “Damn, Bowl, that’s a lot of bandages!”

  Michael lunged forward slightly from feeling the pressure of my fingers. I apologized for hurting him.

  He glanced over at me and said,” Why did you decide to play with me instead of your friends?”

  “Waddaya mean? We are friends too, Bowl!

  Michael’s smile returned. He then asked me an unusual question: “You got a girlfriend?”

  We both giggled.

  “Me, a girlfriend? Nah, I just wanna play sports and catch pollywogs down at the creek. What about you?”

  Michael let out a funny laugh, something more of how a chipmunk would sound. “Not me! I live by the words of Hopalong Cassidy: I am a straight shooter”….In unison, Michael and I scream out”…because we don’t drink, swear, or kiss girls!”

We both laughed. I then coaxed Michael to take one more shot before the end of recess.

  I handed him the ball, “Okay, Straight Shooter, let’s see you make this one.”

  In one motion, Michael took the ball, shot it and made the basket. Both of us jumped up and down, laughing and yelling, until he became short of breath once again. I rushed to him, but he assured me he was ok.

  The bell rang, so we began our walk in silence back to our classroom. Michael clutched the basketball as if it was a prized possession, still smiling about the basket he just made.

  He turned his head to look up at me and whispered, “You are my best friend.”

  “Friends forever,” I whispered back.

  The comforting Santa Ana wind gave way to the cold, dark winter chill. I never did see Michael after our shared moment on the basketball court. Two days after shooting baskets he was rushed to the hospital for an emergency third surgery. Michael did not survive the surgery.

  I never forgot about Michael especially when I later played on the school’s basketball team in the seventh and eighth grades. It felt right for me to dedicate each game to him.