Excerpt 5 - Dave Hamilton

In the sixth grade I met my dear and long lasting friend, Dave Hamilton.  I cannot now remember what originally drew us together, but we became best friends, and as we all know "best friends" meant something.  His family had just moved to Highland Avenue and was new to our school.  I had spent my first five years of school there and was very familiar with the place and knew most of the kids.  Before Dave came my best friend had been my brother.  I had friends, but I was as likely to get into fights with them as not, and not just scuffles, but real fights, fist fights.  In fact, a week would very seldom go by that I wouldn't be in a fight.  Sometimes with the same boy two or three times in a row, sometimes once was enough, for me, or them.  But Dave and I never fought, not once.  Unless, of course, if you count the time we boxed in the backyard when we were about fifteen, then, yes, we fought.  Dave took me in about... thirty seconds.  Strangely, it was a comforting experience.

            Dave and I were the greatest of friends, inseparable for years.  One Summer Dave and I wound up on the same baseball team.  My father managed that team.  It was called "ADAMS."  I can't now for the life of me remember what ADAMS was.  A car place, or a doughnut shop, or something.  Does it matter?  I as always was the catcher on the team - I was good too.  And this year Dave was a new pitcher for the "ADAMS."  We had yet to play a game, when out in Wayne Hills an accident occurred. 

            Dave and I had ridden our bicycles over behind High Street up to and into Wayne Hills.  The hills seemed wild, not yet paved and parking-lotted.  It was fun to go roaming in those hills that occupied the center of Portsmouth, they still do, and I imagine they are still just as much fun.  We used to climb the water tower, ride fallen trees down, and swing from grapevines of trees.  Over on the High Street side of Wayne Hills someone hung a very thick boat rope to a tree limb that is probably still there for kids to swing on, but in 1962 that very tree only had a grapevine.  And it was to that grapevine that Dave and I proceeded that bright, early Summer's day. 

            We rode our bikes up the footpath to the tree.  Long before we got there we could hear other guys up there.  I can't remember who else was there, but there were, I think, three other guys about our age.  We said our hellos and got in line to ride the grapevine.  We all had had several turns when I got the bright idea for Dave and I to swing together.  The grapevine was really two grapevines that came together to form a "Y."  So, we each grabbed a side, walked back up the hill and ran down and flew.  Within a few seconds we were both flying through the air, gliding on the warm summer air, slowing being pulled by gravity to our inexorable landing.  Crash, we hit and stopped, we didn't roll.  I quickly recovered to found myself straddling a tree stump, freshly chopped, with a very point.  I looked to see where Dave was and saw a sickening sight.  He was OK, except for his arm.  Between his hand and his elbow there was a U instead of a straight bone.  I yelled for help, and all at once we lurched up and headed out, running, forgetting our bicycles, then suddenly remembering, then telling our newfound friends to guard them until they could be retrieved.  We ran all the way home, and then we rode to the hospital, where they set Dave's broken arm.  I still feel guilty over the whole incident.

            Dave's left arm was broken, not his right, which was his pitching' arm, and that meant he was going to pitch that night, and by God he did, and I caught, and we won.  After a winning game (or a losing game) the team would go to "The Shake Shop," for dogs and shakes.  It was wonderful when you were the winning team, not as tasty when you were the losing team.  Fortunately for my memory, it seemed like I won more than I lost.