1932

Dizzy didn't doubt for a minute that these boys--down from the mountain, singing as they boarded trains to the various industrial cities in the north--these men, this final group for what would be the final summer, were obviously special through and through. Their talents were exceptional. They deserved every bit of drunken adulation they inspired, every clap and slap of the spontaneous applause. And slowly, persuaded by their own publicity, the cadets too began to believe in the magic that had made them teen heroes. More comfortable with themselves in the world, they in turn transformed everyone in their generation(s) into saviors or villains. There were always the two, necessary, sides. And their egos kept growing until, finally home on the porch watching the first real snow of the intruding winter fall, Dizzy said something more hopeless than sarcastic to his friends. In so doing he quieted every voice on this cold, white sand beach. Somebody was certainly offended by what he said but most were earnestly ambivalent. Still others liked the idea of being saturated, penetrated past the fur parka, unraveling the woolen mittens and the cabled sweater that is always tightening with Celtic knots and itchy wool. Snowed in by their own self-satisfied laziness, the men felt invulnerable all the way to their bright red union suits. Not even a shiver. And this cockiness would lead some of them into glory and some of them into stupid, wasted, early graves.