BREAKFAST WITH BUTCH

Scott F. Deem

Description

First and foremost Breakfast with Butch is a roller coaster ride of crash and recovery. After 28 years of marriage, Seymore "Butch" Busczkowski's life has been turned upside down and lies scattered in pieces around him. With no plan and no clue, Butch finds unexpected support from an old friend. Together they sort through the emotional carnage of Butch's situation- deciding what to keep and what to discard as Butch assembles his new life plan. Breakfast with Butch is the story of men being men, guys being guys, and friends being friends. No excuses, no apologies...just the way it is. Ladies: for all the times you have wondered, "What's up with guys?" prepare to be pleasantly surprised. Guys: for all the times you have thought, "Hey, give me some credit." This is the story for you. So pull up a chair, fill up your cup, and prepare to enjoy Breakfast with Butch.

Informations

• Publié par: Toplink Publishing, LLC
• Date de parution: 11 janvier 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781950256105
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Breakfast with Butch
Scott F. Deem


Copyright © 2019 by Scott F. Deem.
Paperback: 978-1-950256-09-9
eBook: 978-1-950256-10-5
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Printed in the United States of America


Contents
Acknowledgem ents
The Begin ning
Chicago, 1962
Chicago, South Side, 1971
Summer—Denver, Colorado— 1976
Growin g Up
The Demise—Denver 2005
Moving Out
Summertime B lues
Melt down
The Letter: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
Once in a Blue Moon
D-I-V-O-R-C-E or N -O-T
Catc h Up
T ango
Urban Hikers, Philadelphia, and Fall
Hiding from the Holi days
Holidays, Ready or Not
New Year
Material Th ings
Embrace Adver sity
Down in Fl ames
The Return of the Urban Hi kers
Pull the Tri gger
Su mmer
D-I-V-O-R -C-E
Movin g In
Conspi racy
En core
About the Au thor


Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to Butch, friend and inspiration. This story is fiction, based mainly on imaginary events. I have taken artistic license, but some of it really happ ened.
I thank Butch for being strong enough and brave enough to let me tell this story. I hope it helps him and others enduring a similar chall enge.
I love you, man.
The author wishes to t hank:
Jesse McKean of Mountain Books for his help and guidance. Kira Ruybalid and JoAnn Henderson for typing and sup port.
Jo Anne M. Colton and Kristen Moeller for advice. Mark Ruybalid and Joey Ruybalid for cover p hoto.
Aileen Grayce, MA editor sup reme.
And most of all my patient wife and best friend, Jill.
In memory of John Earl Fisher, who never got to rea d it.


The Beginning
Chicago, 1962
T his story begins in the far south suburbs of Chicago during the summer—August actually—of 1962, on the hottest, most humid and ridiculously nasty month in the Chicago calendar. Not the ideal time to engage in any outdoor activity, but here I am at high school football tryouts. Not just tryouts but two-a- days: one workout in the morning and another in the after noon.
Between torture sessions we gorged ourselves on A&W Root Beer and burgers—which would later be deposited on the football field sidelines. Like I said, this was nasty. Despite the unbearable heat and demanding drills, I am as excited as a young boy can be. I have a big advantage over most of the freshmen because I have already played Pop Warner football for two years, so I am officially a stud. I play offensive and defensive halfback. I can run, I can fake and I am fast, fast as the wind. I can score; I catch passes, I return punts and kickoffs. You name it … I can do it. It all comes natural to me … just give me the ball. So now here I am. The big time … my destiny. We are freshmen, and the coach is looking for a few “studs” to play up on the JV. Such an honor, such an accomplishment, and it’s all I want. That and to be able to go home and tell my dad … yep, you were right, Dad—hard work pays off. I mad e JV.
We ran drill after drill; no water, no rest. The Spartan approach to football in 1962. It was God-awful hot and God-awful humid. We played in the God- awful dirt—no grass for freshmen. We were maggots; we didn’t even deserve dirt. “Now get in there and hit somebody.” That’s all I heard, “Get in there and hit somebody.” Coach stood off to the side, arms folded, new baseball hat, chrome shades like the warden from Cool Hand Luke . He even had a toothpick stuck in his mouth and a clipboard in his hands. He hadn’t said much; didn‘t have to. His steely presence created an overwhelming aura of importance—at least to a star-struck fres hman.
He let the upperclassmen put us through the drills and torment us as they saw fit, and then he finally spoke. “Gentlemen,” he growled like a junkyard dog, “You are supposed to be football players, but you play like sissies, like quitters, like losers. I am not looking for sissies, quitters, and losers. I am looking for fighters, hustlers and winners. If there’s even one of you who thinks he can play football here, for me and with them”—he pointed at the upperclassmen—“then show me now !”
He tossed the ball to the upperclassmen and said, “Bulls in the ring. Last drill, last chance.” They had us form a circle and then chose two people—a ball carrier and a tackler—to come into the center of the ring. One of the real football players—i.e., the upperclassmen—would play the quarterback. He’d say, “Hut one, hut two, up.” The ball carrier would explode from the three- point stance, take the handoff, and run straight ahead into the collision with the tackler. Mano-a-mano. Best man wins. We went time after time until there were only two of us left, and we were barely left. Many had puked, and they sat off to the side. The rest formed the circle around us, hands on knees, breathing hard and dripping sweat like rain.
It was down to me and one other kid. He was about my size but really skinny. He had never played football before but had a natural gift and was the toughest scarecrow on the field. He clearly feared nothing and no one.
The coach walked into the middle of the circle and stood between me and Scarecrow … his mouth was a tight line, and he growled so soft and low we had to lean in to hear him. “Three more carries, three more tackles.” Throwing the ball to me, he said, “You carry.” Turning to Scarecrow, he said, “You tackle.” We lined up and went a t it.
I hit Scarecrow so hard the first time, he fell over backward, cursing and flailing, in the dirt. He spat out blood as he got to his feet, and he moaned, “Fuck you, asshole.” I trotted back to my position, another day at the office, but my vision was off and so was my bal ance.
The second time, Scarecrow went for a head fake. I spun through his arms … free again, I thought, but somehow he got me from behind and slammed my head into the ground. We both went down in a tangle of arms and legs, and I heard the coach laugh. Scarecrow cursed and kicked the dirt; he got up first and muttered something, maybe, “C’mon” or “asshole.” I wasn’t sure what. In fact, I wasn’t sure of anything except we had to go at it one more time.
The third time, I went directly at him again. I gave him my best straight- arm Heisman Trophy move and pushed his head down. He collapsed into the dirt. Touchdown! Thank God!
Scarecrow lay there for a second and then got to his knees. I offered him my hand but he turned his head and spit out something (was that blood?) and got up on his own. We stood there, face–to-face, dirt, sweat, and effort our common bond.
I said, “Hey, good job,” hand still offered. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Seymore, Seymore Busczkow kski.”
“Seymore?” I mused, “See More Booshkowski? Really? Can I call you Sey more?”
“Only once, and then I have to kill you.” He spat a gain.
“Okay.” His look said he might be serious. “So what do I call you?”
“Who says you call me anything? Who says we ever speak a gain?”
I thought, Geez, what an atti tude.
But again, his look said he might be serious. “Well, I don’t know, I just want to know your name. What’s the big fuckin’ deal?”
“No big deal. My brothers call me B utch.”
Butch, I think. That’s good. “Okay then, Butch. My nam e is—”
He raised his hand to stop me. “I know who you are.”
“You do?” How cool, I thought. He’s heard o f me.
“Yeah. You’re Asshole,” and with that, he punched me in the arm, hard, and trotted away off the f ield.
“Hey,” I yelled, “I’m not an asshole … you’re an asshole.” I ran to catch up to him, which I did because I’m fast as the wind, and when I did, we just kept running side-by- side.
Our conversation went something like this:
“I’m not an ass hole.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not. You are.”
“You are.”
And on and on an d on.
When I got home that day, I told my dad I made the JV team, me and another scarecrow kid; to which he smiled and said, “Congratulations, hard work pays off.”
“Yeah, and I made a friend, too.”
“Really?” My dad smiled a gain.
“Really. He’s the toughest kid I ever met, and his name is B utch.”
Butch and I went our separate ways after our first year of high school. I transferred to a football powerhouse, but Butch and his team created a football powerhouse. I never grew much bigger, but Butch grew to be a big boy—a bona fide, “Big 10” college football player, six feet, three in