Training Field: An Excerpt from the Book

Terry Phelps is a past resident of Charlestown. He has written a book (The Training Field) about his younger years growing up on Adams Street at the "top of the park." Although he lives in South Carolina now, he just can't get the townie out of his heart. For more details, email him at: ctowntownie@gmail.com. The following is an excerpt from his book. (Last week, we published a first excerpt. .)

On occasion, memory paints a vivid picture of some of the “park men” (as mum called them.)  As I got a bit older, one of these men became familiar to me and my friends. He called himself “Irish Jack” O’Leary. Irish. What a surprise.  A few of us came upon Irish Jack one day while he was sitting on a bench.  One of his arms was slung over the back, and the other was draped in his lap, as though it were in a paralytic state.  His head was bent so low that his chest had become its resting place.  He was probably sleeping off a previous night’sbottle.

As we approached in our usual boisterous manner, Jack’s head jerked to life  like a soldier being called to attention.  He began to totter as he came to, like a three-month old just learning to sit up.  Jack wasted no time though.  With a quick and confident manner that even a seasoned politician would envy, Jack slurred, “Hey boys!  I’m Jack, Irish Jack O’Leary,  how ya doin?”  If we were there to sport him, or taunt this derelict—Jack disarmed each of us with a simple, but sincere greeting.  The guy had a way about himself that put us all at ease.

As he steadied himself, he threw out a hand, and the four or five of us boys responded in turn.  “I’m Terry,” I said, as I shook his hand.  He invited us to sit down and talk awhile.  His thin face had a brownish tint to it, not so much from the sun’s rays, as if tanned, but a dirty brown film from lack of washing.  The index and middle fingers of his right hand were deeply stained from holding on too long to low-burning cigarettes.  The hair of his head was oily and matted, and appeared to have been uncut for some time.  This bedraggled man spit out a few stories while smoking a cigarette, excused himself, and then went on his way. Of course we all began to form our opinions of him.  Over several brief encounters with Irish Jack,  my friends and I would gain no great knowledge of him, until early one summer evening.

“What do you do Jack?  Where do you work?” one of us foolishly questioned.  Quickly, Irish Jack extended both of his hands out in front of him—palms down, and his fingers slightly apart. “See these? he asked, his eyes surveying each dingy digit.  “Steady as a rock.  I used to be a brain surgeon.  But you know. . . .”  His voice dropped as quickly as his sentence.  I’m not sure of our response to his answer, but no doubt there may have been a few muffled sniggers. But what I do recall is that Jack kept his hands out-stretched for several seconds without saying a word.  Finally, taking his gaze away, he dropped them to his lap.

Could this have been true, or was Jack just summing up his failed life with sarcasm?  Did he even know the first thing about his own brain that he had so often marinated in alcohol?  Or was there an actual practice that Dr. O’Leary had abandoned because of a slip of his scalpel?  Everyone slips.  Irish Jack did have some integrity left though.  Of the “drunks” that we knew in the park that would buy us beer in exchange for some cheap wine, Jack was the only one that  never  stooped to that level.  “It’s not for you boys,” he snapped, at our first, and last proposal.  Thank you “Dr.” O’Leary for that well remembered, but mostly unheeded, lesson in the Training Field.  We never saw Irish Jack after this.  Where had he come from?  Where did he go?  Irish Jack was, perhaps, even less able to answer that question than we were.