Flint High Schools Struggle on the Gridiron

Last August I lamented the decline of Flint's public high school football programs — see the stats below — and things actually seem to be getting worse. As the 2010 season wraps up, Flint schools were a combined 5-22, with the Northern Vikings accounting for all the wins:

Northwestern 0-9
Southwestern 0-9
Northern 5-4

Even Powers Catholic, which has a .677 winning percentage dating back to 1970, only managed to eke out a single win against Northwestern.

I've said this before, but it would be nice if Flint consolidated into a single public high school. The demographics will force it to happen sooner or later. (Flint is expected to have fewer than 2,500 high school students by 2013.) It would be cheaper and provide a better education to Flint high school students. And it would probably produce a competitive football team as an added bonus.

Here's the post from August 2009:

With the start of the high school football season yesterday, it's hard not to notice that one of the casualties of Flint's shrinking population and economic malaise has been the success of the city's public school teams.

Flint Northwestern: By going 5-4 last year, the Wildcats posted their first winning season since 1984. During that run, the team had five 0-9 seasons. Northwestern beat Southwestern in this year's season opener, 32-6.

Flint Southwestern: In the last twenty years, the Colts haven't had a single winning season and have a combined 39-150 record.

Flint Northern: The Vikings last winning season was in 2001. The school has an 8-55 record over the last eight seasons.

Flint Central: After an impressive 11-1 season in 1993, the Indians/Phoenix had 10 losing seasons out of 15 with a combined record of 53-75. In their final season last year, Central went 3-6.

I can't help thinking what a great team the city would have if Flint had a single Class A high school for its approximately 2,700 students. An enrollment, by the way, that's getting smaller every year. But this isn't just about sports. Studies show that students have more academic resources in bigger schools, which are cheaper to run. And there are plenty of good high schools around the country with much larger enrollments. As painful as it was to lose Central, the city should probably close two more schools.

Almost Abandoned: The Revival of Atwood Stadium in Flint, Michigan by Scott Atkinson

Flint, Michigan, 1950, Thanksgiving Day.

Two rival teams from opposite ends of the city have gathered in a tradition that has taken place for the past three decades, the annual Turkey Day game between Flint Northern High School and Flint Central High School. For the next year, bragging rights will go to either the north side or south side of the city—not the students, the city. A record of more than 20,000 people have gathered for the game at Atwood Stadium, the city-owned stadium that houses the annual game. It’s a game that, by pitting the city against itself, brings it together.

Policemen are on the sidelines. It can get rowdy. After a big play spectators have been known to rush the field. It is a nice field, not the kind where you’d expect to find a high school playing. There are no rickety wooden bleachers. No school is in sight. The stadium sits near the Flint River, its top row of seating level with Third Avenue, just to the north. Beyond the brick wall that separates that stadium from the street, the concrete seating cascades down as through carved out of the bedrock—which, in fact, it was, by horses, in 1928. It is one of Flint’s crown jewels, its own colosseum.

It’s just a high school game, but it’s more than that. It is a community game. General Motors in 1950 was at its height, with about 80,000 employees. In four years the company would shut down the city streets to hold an annual parade celebrating the 50 millionth car to come off the assembly line, and just down the street is the General Motors Institute, a technical school training the next generation of people who will move the company forward into the very bright-seeming future. So, yes, more than a high school game. As far as Flint is concerned, there is nowhere else in the world to be (many, in fact, have moved from hundreds of miles away to be a part of the auto-fueled community). There is no other game worth watching. Turkey dinner will wait. Those lucky enough to be in Flint can spend their last Thursdays in November being thankful that their sons have a stadium like this one to play ball in, and that one day those sons can grow up to watch their own boys play ball at Atwood.

One of those boys is Leroy Bolden, a five-foot-eight, 175-pound halfback who would in two years go on to play at Michigan State University, where he would eventually become co-captain before going on to play for the Cleveland Browns. He is one of many who were to go through the “pipeline,” as Flint Northern alum Norm Bryant put it, between Flint’s football teams and MSU. But Leroy doesn’t know that yet. He only knows his team is tied and that, when the ball comes into his hands next, there is about eighty yards between him and victory. He makes the run. Police prepare to usher the crowd back into the towering concrete stands of Atwood, which are frantic with the applause of 20,000 people. This is life in Flint.

John F. Kennedy visits Atwood Stadium in 1960. (Photo courtesy of the Scharchburg Archives/Kettering University)

Fast forward sixty years. Third Avenue has been renamed University Avenue as of 2008, an effort to change the way people look at the area and to connect downtown Flint to the Kettering University campus, located to the west of downtown, formerly known as the General Motors Institute, where the University of Michigan-Flint resides. To the east is Mott Community College. Things have changed in Flint. Only about 8,000of those 80,000 GM jobs remain in the city, and it has almost become a cliché to residents to hear their city described by the media as the “most dangerous” or “most violent.”

Take, for example, University Avenue. The name, one resident said to the city council at the time, was “purely symbolic.” Other testified that a name change might sound great, but what they’d really like to see is fewer drug dealers and prostitutes. They want to see homes looking nicer, never mind that all-but-abandoned football field, just sitting there like a walled-in crater to the south of the street.

One idea of creating a new Flint is that it will be a college town, and it’ something people think the city might be able to pull off (or, perhaps, might be able to not screw up) given that there are three colleges in or within a short radius. Throw in Michigan State University’s recently opened College of Human Medicine branch and you have four. That college town vibe is not quite present, though it may be creeping in: There are coffee shops open past 5 p.m. now; student nights at the local bars; there is no shortage of weird, arty events. But something has been missing, one of the largest unifying forces of any learning institution. There was no football stadium.

In 2013, that changed. Now there is a stadium. Or rather, there’s the stadium that there’s always been there, but it looks like the kind of place you might go—it’s the kind of place people do go. It’s just something the city can be proud of again. And it’s owned by a university that doesn’t even have a football team.

Jack Stock is Director of External Relations at Kettering University. He said he’d been hearing from people in the community still dedicated to the stadium that they were worried about its future. He looked into it and found that the building, still owned by the city, was to be “mothballed,” that is, it was to be kept in some form of working order but no longer used. In other words, it would be just one more property along University Avenue that would just be sitting there.

He went back to his boss, Robert McMahan, Kettering’s president since 2011, who came to the university with a vision of not just running a university, but cleaning up its surrounding area. About two years after Stock entered his office to tell him about Atwood, Kettering would release a new ten-year master plan that would include initiatives such as creating greenspace around the university, cleaning up the University Avenue Corridor to connect Kettering with downtown, and creating more off-campus options for eating and housing for students. (The plan closely aligned with the city’s master plan, adopted in 2013. It was the first updated master plan the city had made in 50 years.)

“I ran back to the office and said, ‘Dr. McMahan, gosh, Atwood Stadium is at risk of never being used again, and we have, maybe, an opportunity to help.’ He said, ‘We’ll take it over for the city.’”

The city was game. So long as it was used for the same purpose outlined in the city charter—that it was to be used for recreational purposes and the community—Kettering could have it. Kettering has since sunk more than $2 million into renovating the stadium using money sought from grants and fundraising. So far they’ve renovated the locker rooms, replaced the old Field Turf (more commonly known, but no longer referred to, as Astroturf) done structural repairs, and cleaned up the area around the parking lot once covered in brambles.

The turf is what has Fred Jackson excited. It’s the same turf used in the University of Michigan’s Big House and the Detroit Lion’s Ford Field. Even in the gray late November it is as green as your neighbor’ yard, Kettering’s Bulldog mascot in its center. At 39, he had played at Atwood in high school and compared the old turf to worn-out carpet. Now the coach of Northwestern High School, he said his kids love playing on it.

“It’s perfect turf,” he said. Teams had been playing there since Kettering had taken it over, which, Jackson said, they probably shouldn’t have been. He said players would leave every game there with scars and rashes. “It was like playing on cement. There’s probably a hundred years of dead skin on that turf.”

It is impossible to talk about Atwood without talking about what’s going on throughout University Avenue because Kettering’s efforts are beginning to be more than the symbolic renaming that skeptics worried about when the city changed the name of the street. Lights keep the entire corridor bright throughout the night, deterring crime. In 2013, Kettering worked with the C.S. Mott Foundation to make “University Corner,” an area adjacent to the campus that houses a bagel and coffee shop for students that is attached to a Flint Police mini station. At the other end of the University Avenue Corridor, a Kettering-owned building that was once a convenience store referred to by some locals as the “stab and grab” is now being turned into a Jimmy John’s.

“I’ve never been so excited about a Jimmy John’s,” Stock said.

Across the river are more improvements. The city found funding that will slowly change the former manufacturing site, an enormous Brownfield once known as Chevy in the Hole, where the famous 1936-37 down strike took place, giving rise to the United Auto Workers union. Now a quarter mile stretch of concrete and gravel, it is becoming Chevy Commons, a large walkable park that will lead the way to Kettering. It’s a city project, but the far end of the brownfield belongs to Kettering, which is going to be turned into an automotive test track that Kettering officials hope will bring outside industry into Flint to conduct vehicle research. The site will be the only proving ground on a college campus in the country.

Kettering is also funding the security for the area, and working with the city to make the area “hike-able and bike-able” Stock said. Atwood’s parking lot serves as a small stretch of the Flint River Trail, a concrete path that takes walkers and bicyclists through about 18 miles along the river, much of it green and wooded. It’s an area Stock said he wants all people feeling safe walking.

“The idea is to have busier streets. Our intention is, when you look west now, is that’s the next piece,” Stock said, referring to the efforts that have taken place to revitalize Flint’s downtown surrounding UM-Flint, and the neighborhood to the east, home to Flint’s cultural district with museums, a library, theaters, and a music institute. “A Jimmy John’s…just a few successes like that and we’ve got something. We’re not there yet but we’re working hard.”

 Tim Monahan lives just blocks from the entrance to Atwood Stadium. He’s part of the  University Corridor Coalition along with Jack Stock, other residents, and anyone else who’d interested in what’s going on around University Avenue. The coalition has a name, and that’s about it. There are no officers, no 501(c)3 status. Just people getting together to talk about ideas. Monahan was one of the people who, in 2008, voiced his concerns to the city council about the name change of the avenue not being enough. He’s also the former president of the Carriage Town Neighborhood Association. What he said he likes about the coalition is the lack of politics.

“The politics aren’t in it,” he said. “Kettering has done such a beautiful job. The city would never have been able to do what Kettering has done. Have you seen that turf? They’ve tried to do the right things around town, around the corridor.”

He said he recently saw a historical aerial photo of the neighborhood, and said it was disappointing to see all the houses that aren’t there anymore, most of them being demolished after being abandoned. But that’s something that won’t change, he said.

“The whole area right around there … is really the beginning of the rebirth of Flint, and I think Kettering is leading the way,” Monahan said.

It’s a large, multi-faceted effort. But at the center of it all, serving as its monument, is Atwood.

Atwood is now the home field for Northwestern as well as Flint Southwestern Academy and Powers Catholic High School, located not far from Atwood. And on August 27, 2015, residents came out to watch another hometown game.

Jackson coached his kids during the first game at Atwood on the new turf, after Kettering took it over. Flint Central and Flint Northern have both closed, but it was still a hometown game. Northwestern played the neighboring Beecher School district. It wasn’t between the two famous rival schools, and it wasn’t on Thanksgiving, but even so, about 4,000 people came out to watch the boys play.

“The Atwood Stadium stuff they’ve been doing has been spectacular,” Monahan said. “We’ve actually had fun watching these football teams. It was by far and away the biggest crowd I’ve seen in years. In years. It was just spectacular to see that many people come in for a game.

“The security was tight, but there were no problems.”

“I’m just glad it’s back,” Jackson said, a sentiment that many people share, even if the stadium was only gone for two years. It had hardly left, but it was already becoming just one more structure in Flint sitting vacant and unused.   “Flint’s got something that’s nice,” Jackson continued. “I like that. I like the whole idea of what they’re doing down there. … It’s a great opportunity for our kids. It was amazing to them. It was like buying a new house.”

The stadium was back, but Flint had still changed.

Beecher won the game, 36-14. The Beecher players dedicated the game to their teammate, Gabe Davis, who had been fatally shot less than three weeks before the game during a block party about three miles north of the stadium.

Norm Bryant remembers the Turkey Day games. He’s 79, and played in his share of the games and remembers when Leroy Borden made those runs, just a few years before he started playing there.

As a member of the Friends of Atwood Stadium, which had helped keep the stadium in working condition while the city owned it, he’s as excited as anyone to see what’s happening at Atwood and praises Kettering for what they’re doing and for continuing to consult with the Friends of Atwood group. He was at the game when more than 4,000 people showed up to watch high school kids play. Some considered it a throwback to earlier days. Bryant loved seeing the football there, but it wasn’t a Turkey Day game.

“No, no, no, no, no. It wasn’t the same. How you could you compare 4,000 to 20,000? It just wasn’t the same. You’d have to be back there to know what I’m talking about. … People went out to the game for entertainment,” he said “It was just something that kept the city together.”

Now he, like Kettering, like everyone in Flint, is wondering the same thing about the stadium that they are wondering about the city itself: It’s not a matter of how to make Atwood (or Flint) what it once was, it’s about seeing what it will be like next.

Bryant has ideas. He thinks they can get colleges to come and play games there, holding battles of the bands at halftime. They could have tractor pulls. One thing he wants to see built is a museum dedicated to Atwood, showing visitors the history he lived through.

“And we could say, hey, this was a crown jewel here. Put some of the old trophies, the ball we used in the turkey day games on display. …We need to have that, because that’s history,” he said.

“I don’t know if those days will ever come back. … We have to find other ways to fill that stadium up.”

Should Powers move?

There's been a long-running discussion about the fate of Powers High School in the comment section of an earlier post on Catholic church closings in Flint. The topic has received more comments than any other post on Flint Expatriates.

Everyone may have said what they want to say at this point, but I thought I'd bring the subject back in case people who missed the earlier post want to chime in...especially those with insider knowledge of what Powers plans for the future. And exactly how Powers raises — or doesn't raise — money.

And I'll throw this idea out no real economic evidence to back it up. If this had happened, Powers might be in the same situation they are in now, or worse. But here goes...

I've always thought that when the Catholic high schools consolidated, Powers should have just moved into St. Michael's. They would have had to make arrangements or buy some land for sports fields, but that wouldn't have been too difficult given the condition of that area even in the early '70s. It would have created an anchor near downtown, made the school more centrally located for commuters, and attached a parish to the school, which was always a drawback to Powers.

And it would have meant the school was right next to Flint's biggest tourist draw — Autoworld! Oh, wait, forget that last sentence.

Just a thought.

COMMENTS:

Anonymous says: St. Mike's certainly would have been a good choice, but I know of a better one: Holy Redeemer. Powers still claims the football field as its home field. When the consolidation occurred in 1970, TWO catholic high schools should have been created: Flint Catholic Central High School NORTH (now Powers). Flint Catholic Central High School SOUTH (Holy Redeemer). I know — wishful thinking.

Anonymous says: The answer is simple. No. Powers was build to serve all of the county, not just Grand Blanc and Fenton. Funds should be raised not for moving, but for
1. lowering the cost of tuition (which is the main reason why the enrollment has dropped).
a. Powers has done a terrible job with alumni relations of the years.
2. Redeveloping the Northwestern/Powers area. Instead of running, make the area better. This is what Notre Dame is doing in South Bend. Which is more Catholic than running from problems. Moving to the south subs will do nothing to reduce the main barrier (tuition) and make a Catholic education out-of-reach of most working Catholics. How could this be good for the long-term health of the Catholic Church?

Anonymous says: My husband graduated from Detroit Catholic Central. I cannot believe the alumni network that CC has. (And the newly built school in Novi is incredible.) The programs, traditions, publications, endowments are impressive. Powers could learn a lot from them. However, Powers will never be a CC or a UofD Jesuit. The administrators may try to be, but never will be able to . The alumni ties to those schools are incredibly strong. Powers doesn't have that kind of affect on its graduates. Also, I was just in grade school when Powers was in its planning stages and my parents were involved on a parish level. I remember my parents saying that most of their fellow parishioners wanted the centrally located, Holy Redeemer site, if not two Catholic high schools in the county. It was egos and administrative arrogance that won out. It will be interesting to see how the new Bishop handles this issue of relocation.

Anonymous says: My family and I will no longer give Powers any more money until Powers can develop a vision for the school for the next 25 years. Part of that vision should be how Powers will make the current location the future location. Dealing with the D of L, Powers admin and various fractions at the school is a joke and makes Powers look 3rd rate. Bottom line—there are no real leaders at the school.

Football Homecoming

Courtney Hawkins, former Michigan State wide receiver and a nine-year NFL veteran, has returned to Beecher High School to coach the football team.

Shawn Windsor of The Detroit Free Press writes:

"Hawkins thinks of Beecher as a state of mind; it is also a 5-square-mile rectangle on the outskirts of metropolitan Flint. It is a place that is, in some ways, unrecognizable to Hawkins, who graduated from Beecher High when the town still survived on the auto industry.

"Since he left for college, Beecher has lost its McDonald's, its Wendy's, its Arby's, its Kmart. 'All that is left are party stores selling liquor and Lotto tickets,' said Brenda Bauer, whose 15-year-old son, sophomore Matt Bauer, plays offensive tackle for Beecher.

"When Hawkins was winning state championships in basketball and track in the middle and late 1980s, some 900 students attended Beecher High School. This year, only 455 students are enrolled. That high school is now shuttered, an empty shell home to crickets, pigeons and weeds, except for Hawkins' office, which the district keeps open because the gym and lockers are used for sports, as is the football field that's still on the property.

"High school students were shipped to the middle school, where a metal detector is the first thing they see every morning.

"'It's sad,' said Hawkins, not sure what else to say."

Beecher is currently 7-3. The Bucs play their final game Saturday against St. Charles.

Holy Redeemer and Holy Rosary Schools to Close...Powers Finds a New Home?

Holy Redeemer School and, possibly, the future Powers Catholic High School? (Photo by Stuart Bauer/The Flint Journal)

Holy Redeemer and Holy Rosary Catholic schools will both close at the end of the academic year.

Linda Angelo of The Flint Journal reports:

Dwindling enrollment and finances, demographic shifts and the overall economy in the Flint area has had a devastating impact on Catholic schools.

"We certainly wished we could keep it open," Holy Redeemer Deacon Rod Amon said. "It's always a sad day when things have to be closed for any reason. Teachers are displaced and people have to find a new place to send their kids for their education. It can be very traumatic."

The fate of Powers High may be related to this story. Flint Expats has already discussed Powers' fundraising difficulties that contributed to the school's decision to scuttle plans to relocate to Grand Blanc. Now a source with some insider knowledge on the Diocese of Lansing tells me rumors are swirling that Powers will abandon its location on Carpenter Road and move into Holy Redeemer. It would liberate Powers from the north end and move them south, which is more prosperous. And Powers already plays their home football games at Redeemer, so it's a familiar spot. Again, this is just an unconfirmed rumor, but it doesn't seem far fetched.

UPDATE: Amy , Powers Class of 1994, writes:

I just got the Powers newsletter in email yesterday which contains a letter from Tom Furnas that they are in negotiations to sell the Carpenter Rd spot (who wants to buy that??) and that there are rumors that some things will be compromised at the possible new locations. He addresses those rumors and the only thing I can think of is that Holy Redeemer doesn't have tennis courts? And I don't remember them having a huge/fabulous basketball court. My only memory of it though was going to Holy Redeemer dances so it was dark! :)

Here is his letter:

Dear Powers Catholic Parent;

I last wrote to you two months ago to share what I could about our efforts to bring about the relocation of our school. In that letter I mentioned that we had received a written off er for our property and were pursuing specific options for a new location.

We have now entered a period of concrete negotiations with the potential buyer to ensure that we receive a fair value for our property and to guarantee that the sale would go through in a time frame that would allow us a proper transition to our new home. There are, of course, a number of details to be worked out and we won’t consider the deal done until the legal agreements are signed. We are represented by real estate attorneys selected by the Diocese of Lansing.

While we are still looking at the possibilities surrounding three specific options, we have given ourselves a deadline and will present a proposal to Bishop Boyea this winter. Our bishop is engaged in this process and is supportive of our efforts. Again, we will share with you our plans at the earliest possible time.

Among the rumors floating around, perhaps the most disconcerting is that a relocated Powers Catholic will have to give up many of its programs. One of Powers’ great strengths is our commitment to both academic and extracurricular programs that serve students of varying abilities and interests. A staggering percent of our student body is involved in our extracurricular program. This richness, along with a dedicated and professional staff , will continue to be a hallmark of Powers Catholic. I believe I speak for the board and the faculty when I say that we would stay at our current campus before we would compromise our programs.

Catholic schools throughout Michigan are facing challenges because of the hard economic times in which we find ourselves. In terms of student enrollment, Powers remains the largest high school in the Diocese of Lansing and is in the top quartile of all Catholic high schools in the state. As a Class B high school, our enrollment is also in the top one-half of all schools in the state. Tough times do not last but Powers Catholic will.

Abide in faith, hope, and love.

Sincerely in Christ,
Thomas Furnas
Principal

Like Amy, I'm curious who would buy such a large block of land on Carpenter Road. And I'm a little concerned about the "Tough times do not last but Powers Catholic will" line. I mean I hope it's true, but wasn't that the semi-official Flint slogan in the eighties? We saw how well that turned out. It might have some bad karma associated with it.

Don Coleman Hospitalized

Flint Central High School and Michigan State football legend Don Coleman is hospitalized in Lansing. My mom remembers him as the friendliest hall monitor and an all-around great guy when she attended Central with him in the forties. He's also the first player to have his number retired at MSU.

Here's Don's bio from the MSU Athletic Department:

...when Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in Major League Baseball, Coleman was primarily a standout swimmer and a trumpeter at Flint Central High School.

His mother had lost two sons at young ages and didn't want Coleman to play prep football. Finally, she gave the OK, but his junior season ended because of conflicts with an after-school job as a busboy at the Durant Hotel.

When he went out for the team again as a senior, Coleman's adjustment was mercurial. He was an immediate state champion and an All-Michigan selection at tackle. And with help from legendary broadcaster Bob Reynolds, Coleman became a must-get recruit for then Michigan State College assistant Duffy Daugherty.

By May 1952, as he prepared for graduation from MSC, Coleman had become arguably the greatest player in school history - pound-for-pound the best lineman in the country. His memberships in the College Football and Michigan Sports Halls of Fame are just two of his honors.

Don's wife, Geraldine, is also in the hospital recovering from surgery, so they could both use some words of encouragement. Please send your get-well wishes to Don and Geraldine at the following address:

424 McPherson Avenue
Lansing, MI
48915-1158

Why Can't I Be Like Alberta Whaley?

More memories of Flint from Pat McFarlane, born at Hurley Hospital in 1930.


Why can’t I be like Alberta Whaley? As far back as I can remember that question would pop into my consciousness like a Hindu mantra.

Alberta was my best friend. She lived in the next block on Illinois Avenue at a time when blocks were cities unto themselves and you knew everyone. Some families were considered undesirable, like the Bach’s who lived a few doors down from our house. My every outdoor excursion was prefaced by my parents with “Don’t play with the Bach kids.” Of course, my rebellious nature made me devise clever schemes to do just that.
Now I realize that the Bach’s were poor. Although we were working class, my parents had high standards that had nothing to do with money. When discussing the Bach’s my dad would say, “You don’t need money to mow your lawn.”

Alberta’s parents were Southerners who had migrated to Michigan looking for work and a better life. In the thirties, Flint was a Mecca for the unemployed looking for jobs in the booming auto plants. “Go West Young Man” had turned into “ Go North.” Her dad worked the night shift at Buick and her mother was a telephone operator for Michigan Bell in the days when you dialed zero a real person answered. Alberta’s mom was a true, soft-spoken Southern lady. I had my suspicions that her dad was a quiet drinker but this was never discussed. Alberta and I knew that some things are best left unsaid.

Our friendship was an unlikely one as she always did what her parents told her and I was always asking “Why not?” Perhaps that’s why we were such good friends, each fascinated by our respective differences.

I spent most Saturday afternoons at the Roxy, a small neighborhood theater a few blocks from my house. I loved the darkness and the roar of the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion heralding an afternoon of previews, world news, serials and finally the main feature. It was usually a western or film noir, allowing me to escape into the Wild West or the shadows of a mysterious city. Alberta could never go with me as I think her parents considered movies sinful.

At that time, my parents didn’t attend a church, believing that God knew they were good people simply because they were Scots and had arrived in Michigan from Iowa. But I was drawn to religion. I made pilgrimages to various churches and Sunday schools. I even had myself baptized. Twice! Sometimes I would go with Alberta and her mother to their evangelical church. It was nice until the call to march up to the altar and “accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior.” In spite of the gentle hand of Alberta’s mother urging me on, my instinct was to run, so my evangelical experience was short lived. I eventually became a Catholic, where you were not coerced into marching down the aisle to communion, but it was understood that if you didn’t you would bypass purgatory and go directly to Hell. I could identify with that doctrine.

Occasionally, we would get to spend the night at each other’s house. Unlike today’s “sleepovers,” it was a special occasion and done only between families who knew each other well. It was always a quiet event at my house because my bedroom was right across the hall from my parents. But Alberta’s house had one bedroom downstairs where we slept. We giggled, told secrets, read Nancy Drew books and best of all, raided the icebox for our favorites — left over fried pork chops and banana peppers, which were an exotic food to me. I don’t think they existed in the Scottish food chain.

But like many youthful friendships, Alberta and I drifted apart. By the time we reached Central High School, we’d simply say hi in the hallway, talk occasionally, but that was it. I was reminded of Alberta when her name appeared on the honor roll every semester, while mine was often on the tardy list.

I loved history, social studies and band. I played alto sax and being in the band meant being classified as a nerd. I preferred to think of the band members as artistic intellectuals. Some of us played in jazz bands after school and a few went on to become professional musicians. The male drum major in later years became the mayor of Flint. And many, like most Flint high-school graduates, went to work for General Motors.

I still remember the thrill I felt when our band marched onto the football field playing the fight song and I knew whatever I did in life it had to be exciting. I didn’t realize exciting can sometimes be a lonely road to travel.

I became friends with a drummer in the band named Jerry. He lived a block from Central and we sometimes ate at his house. His mother had painted nails, wore red lipstick and was divorced! She was remarried to a real estate salesman that Jerry hated. Just after VE day, Jerry’s older brother, Richard, returned home from the Navy. Suddenly, lunch at Jerry’s became very inviting. Dick was going to college and playing saxophone in jazz band, and we all know the low moan of an alto Sax in a smoke filled room is the Pied Piper of love.

Forget high school! I spent all my time taking my fake ID and trying to get into bars and clubs where the band was playing. I may have invented the catch phrase “I’m With The Band.”

The bass player, Earl, was my first exposure to a brooding intellectual. He was tall, dark, handsome and involved in the socialist movement. He soon had me passing out the Daily Worker and going to Detroit to see Russian propaganda movies in secret mysterious places. I was flattered that someone so intelligent could like me. He eventually earned his Ph. D. and became an archeologist, widely published and well known for his projects everywhere from Northern Michigan to Mexico. We always remained friends. I knew he loved me and I often wonder how my life would have played out with him.

I lost track of Alberta after we graduated from high school and I left Flint. My mother sent me the newspaper announcement of her wedding to a policeman. Some years later I heard she had a son who was severely disabled. I understand she and her husband were devoted to caring for him. God knew what he was doing when he sent that baby to Alberta. She was full of goodness and love.

Now, even though many years have passed she is still a part of my life. In my darkest moments of despair, misjudgment and just plain selfishness, it crosses my mind like a banner behind a small plane. Why can’t I be like Alberta Whaley?

Is she somewhere pondering, Why can’t I be like Pat McFarlane?

In Memory of Patricia McFarlane Young

Pat Young during her days as a department store model.

Patricia McFarlane Young, who lived an adventurous, unconventional life guided by her generous spirit and sense of humor, died on December 8, 2017 in Tacoma, Washington. She was 87. 

Pat was born and raised in Flint, Michigan when it was a thriving hub of the automotive industry. “I grew up on the Eastside and recall the unexplained pride I felt when the 3:30 Buick factory whistle blew and the roughly dressed workers poured out of the General Motors’ labyrinth swinging their lunch pails,” she wrote in an essay about her early life. “Some were headed for home and some for the corner bar, but all with the determined step of an army after a battle won. I somehow felt as if I were a part of this giant assembly line and the city it fed.”

But she also knew there was a bigger world beyond Flint, and she was eager to explore it. “Nostalgia, I’m sure, is the opiate of old age,” she wrote. “Memories over ten years old automatically become the ‘good ol’ days. We remember only the happy things and leave the shaded areas behind. And yet, faintly sifting through the sands of time, I seem to recall saying, ‘The day I’m 18, I’m leaving this town.’"

After graduating from Central High School in 1948, she lived in Detroit in the early fifties, where she fell in love with jazz and a jazz musician or two. She moved to New York and became a department store model at Bergdorff Goodman’s and a regular at clubs like Minton’s Playhouse when Bebop was exploding. She had great stories about seeing legends like Charlie Parker and Dizzie Gillespie perform. She remembered loaning saxophonist Gerry Mulligan money to buy coffee and a newspaper early one morning in Harlem. “He still owes me a dollar,” she said.

Pat eventually worked for National Airlines as a stewardess — she wasn’t fond of the term “flight attendant” and refused to use it — and regularly flew out of Miami, Havana, and New Orleans. 

Later, as a Navy wife, she set up houses all over the country — San Diego, San Francisco, Jacksonville, Florida, and Olathe, Kansas, to name a few — but she eventually returned to Flint. There was a part of her that was disappointed to be back, but she wasn’t the type of person to mope. As a single mother, she worked hard to create a stable, happy life for her four children. She was an admitting clerk at McLaren Hospital for many years, earning money to send her kids to college. 

As a devout Catholic, she attended Mass at St. Michael’s and St. Mary’s. Her love of football was intertwined with her faith. She was a regular at Powers Catholic High School games when her kids were students. (The hot rum cider she brought to Friday night games in a thermos was legendary in the parents’ section of the bleachers.) And she energetically watched Notre Dame football after dutifully placing a small statue of the Virgin Mary on top of the television before kickoff. That didn’t stop her from berating the refs when calls went against the Fighting Irish. Expletives were not always deleted.

She loved her parents, who moved to Flint from the cornfields of Iowa in the 1920s. She described her father, Verne McFarlane, as “my gentle hero all my life,” and credited her mother, Leone, with giving her the determination to deal with life’s setbacks. “Their love, and growing up in Flint, made me into a person who could handle tough times and appreciate what really matters,” she wrote.

Pat worked at Jacksonville University, organizing performances for the School of Fine Arts, after moving to Florida in 1986. It was the perfect situation for someone who, by her own count, had around 50 different jobs during her life. She enjoyed talking to agents in New York and getting updates on the places she remembered. Many were long gone, but not all of them. And she had an easy rapport with the performers, making them feel welcome in a way that the college professors could not.

Cooking down on the farm.

After retiring, Pat put a lot of miles on a red pickup truck she called Bubba. She had taken more road trips in the last 20 years than most college kids, often driving from her home in Jacksonville to the family farm in Maple Leaf, Iowa. She slowly but surely restored the century-old farmhouse where her mother grew up. Pat had visited the farm for long stretches every summer as a child, so in many ways this was also home to her. She liked the solitude, and she looked forward to seeing old friends and relatives, people who had known her folks. She certainly wasn’t a farmer, but she understood the rhythms of life in small-town Iowa and liked being a part of it. 

When she visited her kids on the West Coast, she drove cross country, lately with her 90-pound dog, Rob Roy, by her side. (He was a lovable guy, even though he looked fairly menacing.) She listened to unlikely musical combinations on her cassette deck. Frank Sinatra might share time with country singer Dwight Yoakam and Rod Stewart on a stretch of highway. She relied on a dog-eared atlas with handwritten notes detailing where to get blueberry pie in Montana or a good burger in Missouri. She knew where obscure Frank Lloyd Wright houses were located on her northern route. And she knew how to find the Palm Court Jazz Cafe when her travels took her to New Orleans.

Pat made these trips so often she had friends along the way, people she had quickly bonded with over lunch at a diner or during conversations in hotel lobbies. She even exchanged letters with some of them over the years. She could easily turn strangers into confidants. She was someone people liked to be around, an open, unpretentious woman who had a way of understanding what you were going through, whether it was good, bad, or in between. 

She spent the last few years living in Tacoma, Washington, where she could be close to her son, Matt, and daughter, Martha, who lived on the same street. She often talked about how much she loved her daughter, Catie, who lives in North Carolina. She got to see her grandkids and great grandkids regularly. This summer, she got to hold her newest grandchild, Larkin, when her son Gordie visited from San Francisco.

Pat often described herself as a dreamer. She admitted that she was always searching for something in life, even though she wasn’t quite sure what it was. (That’s probably the case for most people, if they are brave enough to admit it.) But she never stopped trying, and she never let the search overwhelm her. She maintained her independence, her intense love of her family, and her kindness for those who were struggling until the end.

It’s hard for her children to imagine life without her. But she taught them that sometimes the hardest things in life can be the most meaningful, and that our memories of those we love can continue to guide us and comfort us. 

We love you, Big Mama.

Pat is survived by her daughters, Catherine and Martha (Patrick), and her sons, Matthew and Gordon (Traci). She is also survived by her grandchildren Claire, Grace (Michael), Hannah, Dylan, and Larkin, as well as her great-grandchildren, Violet and Cash. She was preceded in death by her parents, Verne and Leone McFarlane.

In lieu of flowers, please consider a donation to Luke M. Powers Catholic High School in Flint, Michigan.

Pat Young with her dog, Rob Roy, on the family farm she restored in Maple Leaf, Iowa.

Flint Basketball Loses High School Star

Flint Northern's Richie Lewis splits two Flint Powers defenders. (Photo courtesy of Matt Dixon/The Flint Journal)

There are many obvious ways to chart Flint's socio-economic swan dive — population decline, unemployment rates, crime stats. But here's a less obvious sign of hard times; Flint high school basketball stars are leaving the city in search of tougher hoops competition.

Eric Woodyard of mlive reports:

Flint Northern won’t have its star athlete Richie Lewis for football or basketball this season.
Lewis has decided to finish his senior year at Flora Macdonald Academy in Red Springs, N.C. He plans to make the move next week. 

“Really, it’s competition around here, but I feel like if I go to prep school, then I’m going to play against better competition with people who are going to be on a Division I level that will make me better,” said Lewis. “Going somewhere else different will help me start the college process early a little bit, with all of the work that we put in the gym and knowing the coaches will be on you every minute of the day.” 

He isn’t the first Flint basketball player to enroll at Flora Macdonald Academy. Former Flint Carman-Ainsworth shooting guard Anton Wilson transferred to the same school to finish his prep eligibility at the end of last summer.

Powers Versus Northwestern

This is hard to believe but Powers and Northwestern — two high schools less than a mile apart on Carpenter Road — will play a football game against each other for the first time since 1983 on September 3.

UPDATE: Thanks to an inexplicably detailed website on Michigan high school football, which lists the results of every game going back to 1950, I think I figured out why Northwestern and Powers stopped playing each other. It wasn't the violence referenced in the comment section; there were violent altercations at almost every game. It may have been the results. Powers beat Northwestern six times in a row between 1978-1983. With the old playoff system, losing the first game to a smaller school was probably a good way to ruin your season. But things might be different this year. Northwestern beat Southwestern 32-6 in the first game of the season on Friday.

UPDATE: Rich Frost points out that this rivalry is renewed just as the biggest rivalry of them all in Flint — the fabled Northern/Central matchup — disappears.

L'Affaire de Moofla by Stephen Rodrick

The Moofla, who lived so fast and died so young, prepares for an outing at Mt. Holly.

This is the story of two lost boys, a stuffed animal, and a hanging. There is a happy ending.

In 1980, I moved to Michigan after the death of my father, a Navy pilot. Gone were the idyllic evergreens of Oak Harbor, Washington, a military town on Whidbey Island reachable only by ferry or the Deception Pass Bridge that spans the Strait of Juan De Fuca. My mother re-located us to Flint — or, more perfectly to my sullen teenage mind, Flushing. This was so we could be closer to her family. The only bridge I now crossed was a four-lane overpass above the Flint River.

I arrived at the end of eighth grade and spent the last month of the school year at Flushing Junior High. I now attended class with lanky-haired classmates in REO Speedwagon t-shirts known by the previously unheard sobriquet of "burn-outs." They smoked marijuana cigarettes before gym. Back in Oak Harbor, it was hard to buy candy cigarettes. And in Flushing there was a mandatory home economics class. Sewing was required. I was in way over my head.
That summer, I determined there was no way I would get out of Flushing High School alive. I begged my mom to shield me from the criminal element by sending me to Powers Catholic. This was a bit counterintuitive, as Powers was located in a sketchy neighborhood just outside the Great Lake Region’s murder capital. But then again, mom had just moved us to a city with 25% unemployment; faulty logic was the family ideology. She reluctantly agreed to let me transfer perhaps as a nod to my father, who had attended Mass daily.

Powers was not the sanctuary I imagined. Most of the kids had attended one of the county's K-through-8 Catholic schools. Many had friends dating back to first communion. I didn't know anyone. For someone with my Navy-brat background, this wasn't new. Serving as a 104-pound fifth-string defensive back on the freshman football team led to some cartilage-crushing introductions, but nothing lasting.

It was in Mr. Winchester's honors history class that I found my people, so to speak. One of them was Gordie, the fair-haired boy of our class. (He looked surprisingly similar to the gentleman who runs this site). In a strange bit of synchronicity, we shared some heritage: his dad was also a Navy pilot, if a distant one, living in Washington, D.C. We never really spoke about it, but any accredited child psychologist or sitcom writer could have predicted what would happen next. Together, we embarked on an unintentional competition to see who could have the most spectacularly underachieving high school career.
Gordon was a worthy opponent. He was blond and an adept soccer player, Flint’s rough equivalent of an Ibiza playboy. But he never took the sport that seriously, quite content to have a photo of himself deftly cutting between two defenders on the front page of The Flint Journal sports page stand as his crowning athletic achievement. He seemed a shoo-in for senior class president, but was shunted to vice president in a coup very possibly orchestrated by the faculty junta after he received a grade-deficiency notice in choir class. Still, Gordie had the last laugh. The 1984 yearbook features a picture of Gordie reclining across the backs of the all-female student council. They are on their hands and knees.

My decline was just as sharp, if not as public. I tested into various honors classes, but managed a series of Cs and B-minuses that reverted me to regular classes by junior year. On many days, I would not arrive until third period, clutching a poorly forged note claiming extensive dental work. No one seemed to notice I never wore braces. I wasn't getting stoned in the parking lot; I was at the Flint Public Library, reading back issues of Rolling Stone and Melody Maker.

I'm certain I would have been drummed out of Powers if I had not been a junior member of the school's state champion Quiz Bowl team. Quiz Bowl was less about being an intellectual than having a quick thumb on the buzzer. By the time the host had uttered "It is held every April in Augusta…" I was ringing in "The Masters." This is not really a marketable skill, but it did bring our school glory. The state tournament was held at Alma College and the team's victory earned Powers $8,000 in scholarship money that, inexplicably, wound up completely in the hands of a tobacco-chewing quarterback who tortured me in trigonometry. This seemed like a grave injustice. Still, Quiz Bowl gave me a whiff of indispensability.

I would need it. In our junior year, Gordie and I found ourselves in the English class of Mrs. Sealten.* English was a particularly dangerous place for us. We fancied ourselves young men of a literary bent, largely based on our consumption of back issues of Harpers stolen from the library. In European History class, our knowledge of the Black Prince would never match that of Mr. Richardson, our pot-smoking faculty hero, so he had our respect. (Mr. Rich repaid us when he chaperoned our Model UN team on a four-day trip to the Kalamazoo Hilton. He split after the first day, leaving us alone with our policy papers, three girls, and Mohawk Vodka smuggled in a Head & Shoulders bottle). But this was not the case with Mrs. Sealten. We already believed ourselves more learned.
She quickly sensed our condescension, but did not concede the premise. Possibly born in plaid slacks, Mrs. Sealten had jet-black Spock bangs and reading glasses that swung back and forth across a rotating background of unisex turtlenecks. She was on to our game early and placed us at opposite ends of the classroom. She also made regular sly remarks about the crummy colleges we would be attending, if we managed to avoid Jackson state prison.

She was an odd duck. In addition to her classes, Sealten was advisor to The Powerline, the school's newspaper. We didn't write for the paper — that would have been too constructive — we just made a series of cracks about its suckiness. The school's colors were blue and orange and Mrs. Sealten had a small, shaggy-headed stuffed animal perched on a shelf above her desk. For reasons lost to history, it was named the Moofla. Moofla was the paper's mascot and Mrs. Sealten's closest confidant. During class, she would address her fuzzy friend with asides like "The Moofla doesn't like dangling prepositions." As the semester wore on, the conversations became more frequent. Once, when a hapless student suggested an unsuitable essay topic, Mrs. Sealten turned to the creature and asked, "What do you think Moofla?" She paused, apparently considering his reply, and then declared, "We don't think that will work."

This was disturbing.

Most of our teachers tuned out our bratty prattle and counted the days until we were out of their domain. Mrs. Sealten engaged us in a long-running low-intensity conflict. She reveled in mocking Gordon's writing in front of the young lasses he was trying to woo. One day, I turned in an essay extolling the virtues of Ronald Reagan's Strategic Defense Initiative. It was quite late. This I blamed on a confluence of mononucleosis and an implausible automobile accident. Mrs. Sealten went into investigative reporter mode. She ferreted out my lies and called my mother. "Your son is the most manipulative student I have had in all my years of teaching," Sealten told her. Mom immediately placed me under house arrest. I didn't have the heart to remind her I was already grounded.
Gordie and I were pissed, but powerless. Then Mrs. Sealten made a crucial mistake: she called in sick. On an early winter afternoon, her class descended into anarchy. A substitute sat at Sealten's desk with her face in her hands. Crime and Punishment paperbacks and fundraiser M&M's whizzed through the air. Gordon went on an extended walkabout with a bathroom pass. I plotted how I could interest the impossibly tall Sarah Torri in any of my romantic scenarios. This depressed me so thoroughly that I put my head on my desk and began to doze.

Then Gordon returned. I awoke to see him frantically snapping his fingers in the doorway. He mouthed one word.

"Moofla."

I immediately understood. Casually, I rose from my seat and made my way to the shelf holding our raggedy nemesis. A couple of hockey players wrestling on the floor in a homoerotic way provided a diversion. I grabbed the Moofla from behind the near-tears sub and pivoted toward the door. I then tossed the blue-orange furball sidearm to Gordon. A cheerleader shrieked at the maneuver but then stifled a conspiratorial giggle. Gordon tucked the creature under his sweater and stashed him in the safe house of his locker. That night, the Moofla was smuggled to Gordon's Bassett Park home in an L.L. Bean bookbag.

The next day, Mrs. Sealten returned. She eyed us coldly as we smirked into her classroom. She had an announcement.

"The stealing of a teacher's property is grounds for expulsion. Those of you who know what I am talking about should act accordingly before it's too late."
We chose a different path. Gordon had an unhealthy interest in the Red Brigade's 1978 kidnapping of Italian Prime Minister Aldo Moro. He had an idea: ransom the Moofla back in exchange for a public apology from Mrs. Sealten for not acknowledging our literary greatness. Like most radical kidnappings, this was bound to fail. Moro had more chance of returning from the grave than we had of Sealten cracking.

Still, we hatched a plan: We would photograph the Moofla at various Flint locations and mail the Polaroids to Sealten, whose address was unwisely published in the White Pages.

It was now mid-December. We set upon our mission with a zeal perhaps better utilized conjugating the verb etre. Our Gallic alter egos, Andre and Etienne, were in danger of failing Sister Grace’s French II class despite a creative skit about a drug deal gone bad in the Bois Du Bologne. On a succession of Fridays, Gordie and I bought a bottle of Riunite, put The English Beat on the boom box, and set out in the most unsubtle of vehicles: Gordie's mom's 1963 Buick LeSabre. We logged many miles. There was Moofla on a chairlift at Mt. Holly. There was Moofla being ravaged by other stuffed vixens on Gordon's bed. There was Moofla reading Playboy. There was Moofla holding a current edition of the National Enquirer to prove he was still alive. And our favorite: Moofla spooning the Baby Jesus in St. Paul Lutheran's nativity scene.

Like Patty Hearst, the Moofla embraced the devil-may-care lifestyle of his captors — the booze, the pills, the girls. Some say it was a classic example of Stockholm Syndrome. Others admit he clearly rejoiced in his new-found freedom from Mrs. Sealten.

We mailed the photos.

Soon after, Mrs. Sealten began a class with another announcement.

"It is a federal offense to send threatening items through the mail. These are serious crimes."

This seemed particularly unwise in a place like Flint; the FBI was going to pursue the kidnapping of a Muppetesque animal while the entire city was a Beirut-style war zone and drunk driving was considered a civic right? Not bloody likely.

Still, things were getting too "hot," as they say on Starsky and Hutch. It was time to unload the Moofla. We would return him to his mama — with one significant alteration.

The Moofla would be hairless.

Why? Who can say? It seemed right at the time. One snowy evening, Gordon brought the Moofla into his living room, lovingly placed him on a towel, and broke out his brother's electric razor. Then he proceeded to mow off his synthetic blue-and-orange hair with the sideburn trimmer. Gordie's mom walked by, prepared to speak, gave a sigh, and went upstairs to bed. His older brother then made a cameo. Matt asked if that was his electric razor. Gordon said yes. His brother shook his head and whispered, "You'll be sorry, chump." These were more words than I had heard Matt utter in three years.
Our original idea was to stick the shorn Moofla in Ms. Sealten's mailbox. But then Heineken intervened. As we became increasingly intoxicated, a chain of events that can change lives was set in motion. We stopped at a hardware store. We bought some rope. We drove over to Mrs. Sealten's apartment complex. We drank more beer. We stepped out of the car into the cold, hard Michigan night. Then began some high-octane adolescent brinksmanship. I put the rope around Moofla's neck and tied a sailor knot I almost learned in Webelos. Gordon finally put his athleticism to proper use. He lassoed the excess rope like a rodeo cowboy. He then skillfully hurled the Moofla high onto an upper branch of an oak tree by the building's doorway. Moofla swayed gracefully back and forth under the starlit sky. He didn't look like he was in pain.

"I kinda grew to love that little fella," Gordie said, a hint of regret in his voice.

"He knew too much," I answered.

For a moment, Gordie and I stared wide-eyed at each other. A faraway siren sounded, and then seemed to draw closer. There was a moment of conscience mixed with fear. Should we take it down? "Nah," we cackled simultaneously. We jumped back into Gordie's car and peeled off into the darkness.

Why did we turn it up a notch? I can’t say for sure. Why do little boys set fire to ants? Why do grown men start wars over barren pieces of land? Men do things that are not explainable. Was it the absence of our Top Gun dads to kick us back into line? Possibly. All I know is that I felt truer to myself that night than on any other during my Flint years.

The following Monday, Mrs. Sealten didn't mentioned the shaved Moofla, or the hanging. Actually, she never mentioned the Moofla again. This earned our grudging respect, if not our remorse. The next year, both Gordie and I managed to graduate. The vice principal told my mother we were two of the students with the most potential who did the least with it. We both continued our studies at Catholic colleges — second-tier ones as Mrs. Sealten predicted. Somehow, we both became writers. Gordon is now — wait for it — the well-respected faculty advisor to a college newspaper. He has no mascot.

For years, I thought that if my father had been alive to learn of L'Affaire de Moofla he would have grabbed me by the ear and marched me right back to Mrs. Sealten's apartment complex to make my apologies. Then there would have been a one-way ticket to the military school my mother always threatened to send me to but never did because she is far too sweet.

But then in my thirties I came across a diary from my dad's high school days. It included teenage tales of hot-rodding in cars that did not belong to him. More recently, I found a notice of severe reprimand from the Superintendent of the Naval Academy. It chastised Midshipman Rodrick for a hare-brained, illegal shoeshine-selling scheme. I pull this piece of paper out on occasion and it always makes me smile. Dad had not always been an officer and a gentleman.

Maybe the story of the Moofla’s short life and hard death would have just made him laugh.

Stephen Rodrick graduated from Flint Powers Catholic in 1984 and is a contributing editor at New York Magazine. He also writes for The New York Times Magazine. He previously detailed his late-night exploits with conservative icon William F. Buckley for Flint Expatriates.

*Mrs. Sealten is not her real name. We still fear her.