Pool_1

But the real curiosity of the basement was that big bag. Maybe it was haunted. There was mystery both in the reverberations of fury that emanated from that bag and in its silence. With Chuck gone, it didn't make any sound. None. Marcus, poised like a boxer on a chair could only hear his own grunting when he hit it. It made no sound of its own. So he took to hitting the big bag with a baseball bat, hollering, "Pow!" as he laced into it. The bat did make its own contribution. It was an upbeat, grandstand impregnating clap. One could just envision hot dogs being dropped and a scramble for the ball. But there was no groan, not the awful screaming groan of guilt ridden sand wailing for mercy. The sand bag made Marcus valuable in baseball. He didn't always connect, but when he did, it was gone with a hollered "Pow!" over the clap of the bat. That uplifting swing cleaned many a base. Of course, his pals always checked to see that the field was not recently mowed. His biggest problem with hitting was sneezing. "Marcus, stay in the basement tonight. We need your hitting tomorrow," was an often heard goodbye, heading off to supper. The basement was later also a great place for a teen aged Marcus to try out new band combinations. The Duvells, that name meant nothing but had the right sound for the time. The Four Plays was officially nixed by mom, as was Banger, Blower, and the Two G-Strings. The neighborhood boys actually played a few gigs with their new singer, John DeAngelis as Johnny Angel and the Clouds. "Oooo Cool name," made that one stick for about two weeks. Many a practice was halted to the voice of Momma Macaluso shouting down the steps, "Those are the WRONG chords!" or, "Raymond, tune your bass! It's off!" It was,