Yes. I have to finally get it off my chest. My beloved parents went to their graves without ever knowing about it.

Starting at the moment it occurred there was a cover-up, and the authorities never knew that little 7-year-old Mark was both the culprit and the victim. Oh yes, a handful of others knew, but they were all in on the cover-up. Fifty-six years later I think it’s high time I blow my cover and confess. 

It all happened at a high school basketball game in my hometown of Ashland. It all started so innocently.  While my father did his Jaycees duty in manning the concession stand, I was required to stay with my older brother and his friends in the bleachers. My brother Mike is five years my senior, so I was not an easy fit with his junior high aged crew. Without a doubt I was the pesky little shrimp that was assigned to his watch, but being an independent social animal I did not find it necessary to sit next to my brother at all times. I knew his friends and they knew me. I was safe as long as I stayed close to the pack. After all, this was the arrangement at least once or twice a week during basketball season. Occasionally during the game I was allowed to make my way to the concession stand to get a snack. Dad allowed me to put it on his tab for the night.

Ashland had a small town school with a small but crowded gym, and an enormous amount of school spirit. The town’s civic pride rose and fell on the success of the Ashland Panthers regardless of the season’s sport. Home court and home field victories were each celebrated as if  they were national championships. That’s just the way it was in Ashland, and the way it should be. Everyone in town agreed.

I don’t remember who the mighty Panthers were playing that night. In those days I didn’t know them by their school name, only by their colors. We, of course sported white uniforms with blue numbers and trim. Blue and white are STILL my favorite colors. I vaguely remember that the opposing team that night wore blue and gold, which could have been any one of several teams in our area. i know for sure it wasn’t Lineville– our arch rival from six miles down highway 9. They were red and black and I would have definitely remembered if it was Lineville. Nevertheless, I’m sure the game was an important one. At age seven I understood very little about basketball. I was more interested in the colors, the sounds, the cheers, the popcorn, and the crazy fans.

At some point during the last half of the game (probably at a crucial time as the game was in the balance– I don’t remember) one of Mike’s friends stuck a metal referee’s whistle in my face and said, “Blow it as hard as you can!”  And I did exactly as I was told. 

Suddenly, the entire gymnasium grew silent.  The blue and gold player racing down the court with the ball stopped cold in his tracks. The refs looked at one another in total confusion and the game came to an awkward halt. Amidst the cheering and screaming, the sound of the whistle had echoed through the gym’s high ceilings in a way that made the source almost untraceable. Meanwhile the instigator, a.k.a. “whistle owner ” (who will forever remain anonymous) leaned down and gave me a quick but commanding, “shhhhhhh.” Then he tucked the offending whistle into his coat pocket and pretended to be as startled as everyone else in the gym.  And again, I did exactly as I was told.  I shushed.

In about fifteen seconds, our highly annoyed principal, Mr. Kermit Traylor began patrolling the floor in front of the home bleachers, back and forth, pointing his long finger toward the crowd of students and parents, “Who has a whistle?   Who has that whistle?!” 

Well, I certainly didn’t respond!  I just sat there, half-covered up by the few around me who knew the truth.  After all, I didn’t have that whistle, and never really had it.  I just blew it.  That’s all.  My little seven-year-old heart pounded out of my chest, and I’m SURE my face appeared as guilty as sin. My mom could ALWAYS tell when I was guilty just by looking into my eyes. But fortunately, Mom was not at the game! Mr. Traylor finally gave up his attempt to locate the guilty party.  So without  a confessor– or a tattle-tale– the basketball game resumed.

I have no foggy idea who won the game that night.  I do not remember.  But I DO remember my brother being really mad at the guy who had directed me to blow the whistle, AND I clearly remember Mike’s firm command, “Whatever you do, don’t you dare tell Dad and Mom what you did!”

And again, I did exactly as I was told.  

So, for the first time in fifty-six years I brought it all up to my brother a couple of weeks ago on a phone call– and it all came back to him.  Yes, Mike also found it somewhere in his distant memory bank.  Laughing he stated, “If Mom or Dad had asked me about it, I would not have lied.  But since they didn’t, I didn’t see any reason for them to have to worry about it.”  Amen to that, brother.

Truth be known, I actually only remembered it recently while watching my little granddaughter Charlotte play basketball in a church gym.  Multiple games were being played at the same time and the abundance of referee whistles confused everyone. That’s when it all flooded back into my mind, and our family has enjoyed laughing about it ever since.

So now, it’s out. It’s done. I have confessed.

And boy do I feel better!

“There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.”    Luke 12:2