Mitchell College - Thames Log Yearbook (New London, CT)

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A Song For An Unsung Nelghbor My quiet neighbor, World War II, Tank driver, Allied offensive, German bazooka, Stopped you cold, Your two buddies, Surrender bound, Hell no, you said, We're not dead yetf' Submachine gun, hand grenades, Ex-track star, Vital commitment, You ran out, Fifteen Krauts, Dead, By your own initiative. I know it, I saw the script, From some senator, Who wrote the citation, Silver Star, Cross de Guerre, De Gaulle kissed you, On both cheeks, Calling you, Connecticut Yankee. Greatest hero, In our locale, Shy away from, Banal Legion meetings. Frank Sabonis, I love you, Hell is war, But credit's due, To those, Who never cashed in Clike Audie Murphyj America's silent sentinels, Like you, Frank Sabonis, Turned the tide, No glory, Guts and will. , Few know your tale, It's true, Frank Sabonis, I love you more. joseph Krakol

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hockey puck. Originally, I was the sap of a beautiful rubber tree in the south of Guatemala. I circulated throughout the tree, which was dependent upon me for its sustenance. Those were the good ol, days when I helped provide shade for passing caballeros. The Guatemalan sun was warm, and the rain comforting. 'But one day, an American imperialist drained me from my blissful environment. I was pumped aboard a rusty steamer bound for Akron, Ohio. There, I was boiled mercilessly. My happy disposition soured as my consistency thickened. They molded me into an automobile tire. After that technological socialization trauma, I was never the same again. 'From Akron, I was shipped to Detroit and assigned the demoralizing position of right front tire on a 1964 Corvair. 'A little ol' lady from Buffalo ordered that auto, and I spent most of the next four years sitting in her garage. I felt only a little wear and tear each Sunday as she rode me to church and back. 'But one day in '68, catastrophe struck. The ol' lady's nephew received his draft notice. One quiet night, he stole the Corvair and sped his way to Canada. By the time we hit Toronto, the Corvair and and I were thoroughly shot. The nephew sold us to a junk dealer who dismantled us. I don't know what happened to the rest of the auto, but I was sold to a sporting goods manufacturer who melted me down and molded me into seven NHL pucks. I don't know what happened to my six brothers, but I believe that two were shipped to the New York Rangers, three to the Detroit Red Wings, and one to the Toronto Maple Leafs. I was sent to the Montreal Canadians with a host of other pucks. 'We were stored under the stands of the Montreal Forum. Our ranks were decimated periodically. I never knew what happened to my fellow pucks until one night in February, '69. An attendant took me off the shelf and placed me in a deep freeze which further hardened my consistency. I kept dreaming of the warmth of the Guatemalan jungle. Soon, I was taken out of the freezer and given to a league official who inspected me for flaws. He approved of me and passed me on to a referee. 'The referee fondled me, but not for long. Soon, he threw me upon the ice so that I landed broadside. Before I could recover from that initial shock, I found myself being slapped around, stick-handled, shot, kicked out, sticked aside, batted against the boards, and gloved. Thirty-thousand eyes were fixed upon me, witnessing my trauma. 'The excruciating pain was finally relieved when jean Belliveauis slapshop scared high above the plexiglass, into the crowd. One fine man plucked me from the air and presented me to his son. 'For two weeks, the young boy flaunted me about the neighborhood. I was fondled many times, and I enjoyed watching the expressions of amazement on the young boys' faces. 'But, alas, my grandeur was short-lived. No longer a novelty, the young boy relegated me to a street hockey game. After two minutes of play, I rolled onto a sewer grating, teetered for a split-second, and plummeted to the bottom of a Montreal sewer. . . ' joe-Babe. 'Ssssh . . . into cold and darkness. But every cloudless june 21, the angle of the sun is such that a few rays strike me. And I still dream of Guatemala'. joe-Babe! Huh ? We missed our exit. Aw, shoot! I'll have to backtrack. Well, Arlene, what do you think? I think we should take a left at this stoplightf' No, no. I meant about the speech? Good. Really good, joe-Babe. My father likes hockey very much. He has season tickets to the Springfield Kings. Here we are. Well, wouldn't that be great for your speech class, Arlene? It would knock 'em dead, and you'd pick up a sure A. Yeah. But I just can't picture myself as a hockey puck. I think I'll work on the Statue of Liberty idea. Thanks an awful lot, joe-Babe. Thanks for the ride, and have a real nice weekend. Thanks! Same to you! . . . Arlene-Babe.

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Different Beat by Glenn R. Turgeon If a man does not keep pace with his companions . . . june 16, 1973, was a memorable day for all the seniors of Anderson High School in Worcester, Massachusetts. At precisely 8 P.M., POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE would sound as does AULD LANG SYNE on january first. Some 487 students are gathered here for the day which will mark an end to their twelve year wait. The drum roll begins, last minute touches on hair, gowns and caps are made, then we finally move. Each abreast with his or her partner, footsteps fall in unison. The left, right, left, right command of our supervi- sor is silently recited at each fall of the marshall's baton. We march, file into our seats and, as everything else has been, seat ourselves in an orderly manner. '. . . perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. The speaker recites his speech, scholarships are presented, and diplomas are distributed. Together we rise and pro- ceed to march away from the school, away from our parents and teachers, away from all ties of apron strings. For the majority of us, we cannot walk away fast enough. The unison ends and becomes a disorderly bout of hand- shakes and kisses. Most will go to college because of the theory that without a college diploma you won't amount to anything in life. A few will join the service, but only one will do something out of the ordinary. His name is Ty. President of the senior class, voted most-likely to succeed, and a straight A student since grade one. Coming from a good home with well-educated parents, Ty has chosen the profession of a do-good wanderer. He plans to scour the United Stated searching out problems to solve and abolishing vice. Let him step to the music he hears . . . But Ty, you're wasting your skills and abilities. Congratulations, Ty, I wish you the best of luck. What kind of a job is that? I wish I were more like you. How will you live? Where will you stay? What will you eat? How will you make any money? Truly courageous of youli' You're going to find out what life is really like, and when you do, donit bother to come back home. A Good Samaritan may not be the highest paying job, but it's by far the most rewarding. One of my best pupils and he's throwing his life away. You're really doing something worthwhile. Is this what they teach you in schools today? I'm proud of you, Ty. '. . . however measured or far away. Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad.