Ron-bo

Ron-bo
by savage fredd

I rode the bus with Ronnie Wilkans across town to Loma Verde Elementary School every day for three years. The little bus. The one taking me to G.A.T.E. class and him to Special Ed. We had classrooms right next together and used to do joint activities—playing games, doing art projects. Nothing competitive. Perhaps more of a mentoring thing, but as 4-6th graders, it should be assumed safely, we lacked the empathy to partner well with Special Ed. Besides, we were both set away from the rest of the school, marked as different from the norm, targeted on the playground in very subtle ways by kids in the regular classes. Hardened by the jabs and snubbings, we turned predatory every chance we got. Special Ed was veal to us.

“Ronnie. Say it.”
“C’mon, Ronbo. Say it, man. You know we love it.”
“And you love it, too.”
mmmmm. Coooonnnannnn,” he’d growl and raise his fist in the air, purely for our benefit, as we’d laugh so hard. Somehow, this passed for humor in the minds of preteens—getting the monkey to dance.

Ronnie had grown up in Richmond, born to a drug-addled mom and deceased dad, before being adopted into a foster home during the summer before fourth grade.
He had mopish red hair that framed his freckly face and dressed like a gangsta, which in 1984 was years away from the suburban adolecent male uniform de rigour it would become. He had dwarvish features—protruding brow, short, bulky arms and shoulders, hunkering gait, almost simian-like—except that he was fully grown, and by sixth grade stood head high with Mr. Collins. A man-child. Boo Radley—overgrown and awkward to the point of being a scary, boogie man.

In high school, it somehow became okay to love Ronnie, but only in a mocking way. People would yell from across the courtyard at school, “Ron-bo” in a tone reminiscent of Daryl Strawberry in his prime— Roooooooon-boooow; Roooooooon-boooow. He’d just smile and nod, raising and waving his hand to an imaginary DJ. Ronbo was different. He was odd, dressed in a puffy down jacket and flat-billed A’s hat with the tag still on, blasting hip-hop loudly through his walkman ear phones when G & R or Metalica was in everyone else’s tape deck. He was deficient, slow. Disturbed even: At times, during football practice, he’d start crying. In the middle of some drill, he’d just break down weeping and have to go stand on the sidelines until he could gather himself. The coaches tolerated him because they knew his past and because they had space on the team for a mascot, a punching bag.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Every year, at the first pep rally of the season, the entire varsity football team would be introduced to the school. Coach Zechelin announced each player who would then walk across the gymnasium floor toward center court to polite applause and cheers from the rest of the student body, lining the bleachers dressed in various levels of school colors, according to their spirit. As Zechlin read through the list, the crowd grew increasingly quiet. Polite applause gave way to stone silence as he named off the roster of the defending league champion San Marin Mustangs, past stars like Corley or McCoy or Jacobson. Not a peep. Until he reached the end of the list.

“Number 77. Ronnie Wilkins.”

For four whole minutes the entire auditorium, which had somehow coordinated itself to remain silent until just the right moment, leapt to its feet, exploding in applause, screaming, clapping, thundering and then dropping into chant:

“Ron-bo…Ron-bo…Ron-bo.”

Ronnie smiled walked across the gym and joined the team at center court, finding his way to us right as the chants began to pour down.

“Ron-bo…Ron-bo…Ron-bo.”

Zechlin tried to quiet everyone down and get their attention, but the chanting persisted, drowning out his calls for silence.

“Ron-bo…Ron-bo…Ron-bo.”

I remember two things vividly about that day: Having my name announced and walking in front of the entire school to complete silence—broken only by the squeak of my sneakers on the parkay court floor.
And Ronnie—oblivious, unselfconscious, waving his hand to a rhythm only he heard.