Memories of my youth fall into two distinct categories: vague or vivid. The night of my induction into Fair View Senior High athletic awards is about as vivid, as distinct, as it gets for me. I was, after all, the Athlete of the Year, which covered all sports from football to track, from basketball to swimming. No swimming champ had ever been chosen for this honor. I was the first. No idea who, if anyone, came after.

The proceedings were held in the new gymnasium recently added onto the high school, which was built back in the post-war forties. This facility was so new it damn near glowed—the facing bleachers bright with the deep hues of the school’s purple-and-gold.

And those bleachers were packed. Parents in Fair View, Ohio, a river town of just under 30,000, were usually dedicated followers of whatever sport their kids were in, and often the rest of the school’s sports, as well. This year the stands were particularly packed as the basketball team had made it to the state playoffs, though Westlake had taken top honors.

That playoff spot made the idea that I might be chosen for the school’s top athletic honor a long shot at best. Still, I’d won the 100-yard butterfly, 100-yard freestyle, and 500-yard freestyle at the State Swimming Championship in Cleveland. Even my stepmother had been there for that, obviously at my father’s insistence. He was here tonight. She had a conflict. Actually she and I had a conflict in general.

The only person I really cared about who’d been present for this event was Mary Ann Kemper, the best-looking girl in FVHS. I’d carried the torch since grade school, and we got friendly in junior high, but it was high school where I’d really managed to connect with her—specifically, the last half of our final year.

We’d been going together for a good month, and things had advanced to a promising stage. I had got a hand under her bra a month or so ago (at the Hilltop Drive-in, during Vampire Circus), and my fingers found their way inside her panties a week ago at the same venue’s screening of What’s Up Doc?. I do not re-member the second feature in either instance—my memory is only so good. Lately we’d advanced to what I will indelicately term the hand job stage.

Those particular memories were made in the front seat of my ’58 Chevy Bel Air, which I had bought for a song with money saved up from the gas station where I worked. I’d picked up some mechanical know-how and was able to rebuild the once-proud machine from a junker to the jewel that now gleamed red with a white top.

I think I was prouder of that ride than I was of my swimming prowess. But I was pretty proud of the latter, and was pleased, if not surprised, that I’d been nominated for Athlete of the Year. I knew I didn’t have a chance. The basketball team and its first string were beloved; they’d been rated Number One in the state and made it to the final four in the tourney, after all. The football team had several outstanding players who’d won statewide recognition. As far as track was concerned, nobody gave a shit.

Swimming at least had a modest following at the school, and all those wins of mine had been kind of a big deal.

All the nominees were on stage in folding chairs, the star quarterback wondering if the point guard would get the gold (and vice versa), while the various coaches at the lectern presented various awards, including Varsity Letters for lucky young jackets. Everybody was wearing the warm-up suits of their respective sport. I was on the far end, where a lowly swimming champ belonged. Most of the other nominees (all male—we weren’t honoring girls yet) were burly and/or tall and I was a sleek little fucker. They got more tail than Sinatra, all of them, while I’d been laid only twice. And even that had been no small task.

When my name was read—Jack Jamison, as we’ll say I was called back then—I couldn’t have been more astounded. My acceptance speech was not memorable. While I’d uttered "You’re shitting me" when I heard my name announced as winner, I managed to do better than that at the mic, though not much. Just a bunch of thank yous.

I got a fairly big hand from the crowd—though the expression on many parental faces was, "Swimming? Are you fucking kidding me?"—and the trophy they gave me was really impressive. I wonder what happened to it.

The gymnasium was well cleared out when I emerged from the locker room, back in my black Shaft t-shirt and jeans and tennies. I was carrying the big trophy like a big baby.

Mary Ann was seated by herself in the front row as others streamed out. Seeing me, she rose. She was always picture perfect and tonight was no exception: her mini-dress was navy with white collar and buttons and trim, her dark hair sleek and straight, her eye shadow a lighter blue than her dress, her lipstick red as an open wound.

As I approached, she stood. When I was right in front of her, she took the trophy from my arms and set it on the bleacher nearby. She looked up at me—she was half a head shorter—and her smile was proud, her big brown eyes wide. She kissed me and it was sticky and warm and went on forever, or was it thirty seconds? She tasted like a cherry Lifesaver.

"I have a present for you," she said teasingly.

"Good. I like presents. I hope it’s expensive."

"It isn’t. But I think you’ll like it just the same....Get your trophy."

I did. She took my arm.

Ten minutes later we were at Temptation Point, a bluff north of town where the trees were spaced apart enough for cars to pull in between. When we got there, half a dozen vehicles were already snugged into spots. But we found one nonetheless.

The moon was high, the river below shimmering, and leafy trees created a latticework effect on the cars and their occupants.

I was behind the wheel, the trophy in back, a baby without a car seat. Mary Ann was sitting close to me. She smelled of Tabu perfume, her favorite. I liked its spicy scent too, better than my own English Leather.

She got in her purse and found the little box—it was red with a silver ribbon.

"Open it," she said.

The ribbon came off easily. So did the lid.

The contents of the red box was a second cardboard box, baby blue that said in big letters,