Butters
When we stepped out of the locker room and into the gym, there was little sound. We went from a prison of yells, squeals, and laughs into a weird tense silence. The only sound is that of a single basketball hitting the floor. There’s a pause and it happens again. Mr. Butters, Don Allen Butters, the short, strong man in front of us with the blue t-shirt and the white letters – A little DAB will do you – pressed onto the back, stood at the foul line at the far end and continuously made free throws. We never saw him miss. The class left the locker room one, sometime two, at a time and quietly went and sat on the bench against the back wall and faced Mr. Butters.
We stayed quiet until he spoke. “Today, Boys”, (bounce; swish) he started, “we’ll be playing some basketball.” (Bounce; swish.) We knew that. and we knew we’d be doing that for the next month. “In the last 20 minutes,” he continued, “You’ll have to do the ‘flex-arm hang’.” This was part of the Presidential Fitness Challenge and we’d be using the girls’ locker room. The three shower bars were perfect to get all 20 of us though the test in the shortest amount of time.
Butters paused. Someone was talking. His nostrils flared and he lashed out. He did this once in awhile – less often than you might think surrounded by generally unruly eighth grade boys, but his discipline was well known. “Murphy,” he roared, his voice breaking at the low end. “One more word and we’ll play catch.” Oh this was our favorite – Butters had a regular parade of these things – what were they? Anger routines? “You stand up and take this ball. Throw it at me as hard as you can.” His voice twisting. “I’ll catch yours. Then it’s my turn (full volume and then softer to end). And you won’t catch mine.” Routine as this was, we felt it and Murphy turned sheepish. He felt it too.
Mr. Butters could do a lot of things really well. He could shoot foul shots, yell at kids, and make a joke, and get us on task faster that anyone on the planet. “Ok Boys,” he’d say, “line up for Basketball.” We really liked how he counted us off rather than pick team captains. No one liked the captains picking teams – especially 13-year olds regularly picked in the second half. I actuality liked basketball and was pretty good at it – especially shooting. But I was 13 and nervous and there would sometimes be girls watching and I never knew whether it was okay to dribble without a travel or a double dribble being called, so I’d pass it whenever I was unlucky enough to have the ball come into my hands. If I just passes or shot, I wouldn’t have to dribble at all. This was especially hard around mid-court when there was clearly no reason to do either.
I started on the floor and was anxious because Butters had not yet announced who was shirts and who was skins. He must have known, we figured, that most of the kids were especially nervous about having to stand in the middle of the gym without shirts on. Especially on days, like today, when the girls were playing basketball on the other side of the gym. My luck doesn’t run deep today. “Skins,” Butters says and points to my side.
The ball only bounces my way twice while I’m on the floor. The first time in a passing situation, so I did it smoothly. The second time was when I was in the clear and had an open mid-range shot. I sink it. Butters blows the whistle, raises his arms, and it’s the next shift.
On the bench, Terry Morales says to me, “I have those same bumps on my arms.” I look where he’s pointing and think that its weird he’s looking at my arms. But I don’t say anything because I’ve been stuck on the idea that Will, the guy next to me has man nipples and nothing like the “extra skin” boy nipples I’ve got. “How,” I wonder, “can he only be 13!”
The game ends with some winner; I don’t recall which team. Butters blows his whistle again and marches us into the girls’ locker room. We’ve never been in here before. It ways always the door we saw Kathy and Heidi disappear into before class and thought about as we changed into our gym clothes. It doesn’t smell like the boys’ locker room. It isn’t as metallic. It doesn’t have the lingering scent of old aerosol Right Guard that has permeated the boys’ locker room since Mr. Chad Gara gave the speech last year about too many boys not paying attention to body odor. Since then we’ve been religious about the spray. It helps control anxiety even if the smell wasn’t a problem yet.
“The flex arm hang involves,” Butters explains, “holding yourself up in a pull up position. Except instead of going down and coming up, you stay up and keep the bar at eye level. Then you just stay there and the clock starts.”
We time each other and he supervises. While I’m waiting and wondering how weak I am, we hear him scolding Murphy again. Veins popping out, voice breaking and croaking, madder than we’d ever seen him. “Smoking is bad – period.” Murphy smoked. We all knew that. He lived by Fieldgate. All of those kids smoked, but even Murphy knew never to let that be known by Butters. We looked away.
The athletes in class can all hang for over one minute. The non-athletes don’t do as well and I start to flinch. I know I can hardly do one pull-up. But for whatever reason (adrenaline?) when I get up and start hanging, I’m able to stay up. Time passes and my arms start to shake, but I still stay up. One minute, 35 seconds. No one really notices or acknowledge it even if they did. The class was almost over and we’ve all managed to stay whole.
Butters sends us to the locker room a bit early. “Come back out, Boys,” he says, “before you leave.” So we get changed and come back out into the gym. He tells us with tears in his eyes and his same blue t-shirt – he hasn’t changed – that he has throat cancer and that he’ll be leaving for a little while. He does. We see him at the end of the year and hear that he is better. But he doesn’t make it back for volleyball, and I became quite good at that.
We stayed quiet until he spoke. “Today, Boys”, (bounce; swish) he started, “we’ll be playing some basketball.” (Bounce; swish.) We knew that. and we knew we’d be doing that for the next month. “In the last 20 minutes,” he continued, “You’ll have to do the ‘flex-arm hang’.” This was part of the Presidential Fitness Challenge and we’d be using the girls’ locker room. The three shower bars were perfect to get all 20 of us though the test in the shortest amount of time.
Butters paused. Someone was talking. His nostrils flared and he lashed out. He did this once in awhile – less often than you might think surrounded by generally unruly eighth grade boys, but his discipline was well known. “Murphy,” he roared, his voice breaking at the low end. “One more word and we’ll play catch.” Oh this was our favorite – Butters had a regular parade of these things – what were they? Anger routines? “You stand up and take this ball. Throw it at me as hard as you can.” His voice twisting. “I’ll catch yours. Then it’s my turn (full volume and then softer to end). And you won’t catch mine.” Routine as this was, we felt it and Murphy turned sheepish. He felt it too.
Mr. Butters could do a lot of things really well. He could shoot foul shots, yell at kids, and make a joke, and get us on task faster that anyone on the planet. “Ok Boys,” he’d say, “line up for Basketball.” We really liked how he counted us off rather than pick team captains. No one liked the captains picking teams – especially 13-year olds regularly picked in the second half. I actuality liked basketball and was pretty good at it – especially shooting. But I was 13 and nervous and there would sometimes be girls watching and I never knew whether it was okay to dribble without a travel or a double dribble being called, so I’d pass it whenever I was unlucky enough to have the ball come into my hands. If I just passes or shot, I wouldn’t have to dribble at all. This was especially hard around mid-court when there was clearly no reason to do either.
I started on the floor and was anxious because Butters had not yet announced who was shirts and who was skins. He must have known, we figured, that most of the kids were especially nervous about having to stand in the middle of the gym without shirts on. Especially on days, like today, when the girls were playing basketball on the other side of the gym. My luck doesn’t run deep today. “Skins,” Butters says and points to my side.
The ball only bounces my way twice while I’m on the floor. The first time in a passing situation, so I did it smoothly. The second time was when I was in the clear and had an open mid-range shot. I sink it. Butters blows the whistle, raises his arms, and it’s the next shift.
On the bench, Terry Morales says to me, “I have those same bumps on my arms.” I look where he’s pointing and think that its weird he’s looking at my arms. But I don’t say anything because I’ve been stuck on the idea that Will, the guy next to me has man nipples and nothing like the “extra skin” boy nipples I’ve got. “How,” I wonder, “can he only be 13!”
The game ends with some winner; I don’t recall which team. Butters blows his whistle again and marches us into the girls’ locker room. We’ve never been in here before. It ways always the door we saw Kathy and Heidi disappear into before class and thought about as we changed into our gym clothes. It doesn’t smell like the boys’ locker room. It isn’t as metallic. It doesn’t have the lingering scent of old aerosol Right Guard that has permeated the boys’ locker room since Mr. Chad Gara gave the speech last year about too many boys not paying attention to body odor. Since then we’ve been religious about the spray. It helps control anxiety even if the smell wasn’t a problem yet.
“The flex arm hang involves,” Butters explains, “holding yourself up in a pull up position. Except instead of going down and coming up, you stay up and keep the bar at eye level. Then you just stay there and the clock starts.”
We time each other and he supervises. While I’m waiting and wondering how weak I am, we hear him scolding Murphy again. Veins popping out, voice breaking and croaking, madder than we’d ever seen him. “Smoking is bad – period.” Murphy smoked. We all knew that. He lived by Fieldgate. All of those kids smoked, but even Murphy knew never to let that be known by Butters. We looked away.
The athletes in class can all hang for over one minute. The non-athletes don’t do as well and I start to flinch. I know I can hardly do one pull-up. But for whatever reason (adrenaline?) when I get up and start hanging, I’m able to stay up. Time passes and my arms start to shake, but I still stay up. One minute, 35 seconds. No one really notices or acknowledge it even if they did. The class was almost over and we’ve all managed to stay whole.
Butters sends us to the locker room a bit early. “Come back out, Boys,” he says, “before you leave.” So we get changed and come back out into the gym. He tells us with tears in his eyes and his same blue t-shirt – he hasn’t changed – that he has throat cancer and that he’ll be leaving for a little while. He does. We see him at the end of the year and hear that he is better. But he doesn’t make it back for volleyball, and I became quite good at that.