Carney Park

***** Trigger warning: Description of a pornographic magazine, camel balls*****

I grew up as a Navy brat, well, mostly. My parents divorced when I was five, and I would end up living with both of them a few times.

When I was 7, I was living with my mother, her dad, and his parents. My great grandmother got sick with shingles, and for some reason, I was convinced to move in with my dad and my soon-to-be step-mother and step-sister.

Almost two years later in 1989, and not long after I lost my left pinky [read Pinkies Are Expensive to learn why], we moved to Naples, Italy. Needless to say, it was a culture shock for me right after a quite traumatic event.

I honestly don't remember struggling to acclimate, though, I was always that kid that could fit into almost any clique in school. I was athletic, intelligent, and good-looking enough, but I did struggle with undiagnosed ADHD along with sub-par self-esteem.

I was also dealing with a step-mother who was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. She was a bit of a nightmare, and a big detriment to my self-esteem, but that's a story for another time.

In any case, Carney Park would become one of my escapes. Situated in a dormant volcano, this park was—and still is—a piece of American paradise in the middle of one of the more notorious cities in Italy. Especially the parts right around the base, although we never had much trouble with the locals. We even lived outside of the base.

I honestly don't remember the first time going to Carney Park, but it was most likely that first year when I played soccer for the first time, which I call football. I had only played baseball up until that point, but I picked it up quickly. My dad was the assistant coach, and I got chosen as the starting goalkeeper.

Although it was very undisciplined play, our team was really good. I ended up with a 0.89 Goals Against Average, and for those of you that don't know sports, that means I let in just under one goal per game.

I say undisciplined, because late in the season, our team was chosen to play an Italian team of the same age group, and they annihilated us 13-1. I got so frustrated in goal after letting in the first six goals, that I faked an injury so that I could get off of the field, which almost didn't happen because my dad could see through my act.

I remember that we ended up losing the championship game, but several of my team, including me, were picked for the all-star game. I want to say that I was in for the whole game, but I do know that I blocked the only shot the other team had, and boy was it a doozy.

My dad was the assistant coach again, but we had a different head coach, and since it was raining heavily, he wanted me to use gloves, which I had never used before. I remember being nervous about how they would affect my game, but it was probably the reason I managed to stop the shot.

The only shot the other team got was from a breakaway caused by an error on our defense. He was far off at first, and not having been taught to charge the striker, I kept my spot just in front of the goal line as he entered the 18-yard box. It felt like an eternity watching this kid struggle to dribble in the puddled grass, but he made it to almost the six-yard box before he kicked, and it came straight at my head.

I managed to dodge and catch at the same time, and I remember the ball spinning in my hands a few times before I let out a sigh and held the ball until he retreated. I'm pretty sure it was the heavy textured palms of the gloves that helped me.

Looking back, I can't believe he kicked it right at me. They were regulation size goals, so he had a lot of real estate from which to choose. My guess is that, I must have had a reputation as being the best goalie, and that, that was enough to make him choke and kick the ball at my head. Maybe it was the rain. I sometimes wonder if he regrets that choice, because it would've tied the game. Maybe he'll read this and I can learn his side of that story.

Along with my father playing in a softball league, and there being an Olympic-sized swimming pool, we would end up frequenting this place many times. I can remember a few instances of entering the park where the road enters coming over the lowest part of the caldera, and you can pretty much see the whole park as you enter. Come to think of it, that must be a sunset from summer in the image above.

I also played baseball while I lived there, and I remember the first year we played, we had a pitching machine as the pitcher. I don't remember much of that season, or how our team did, but the next year, I would be a left-handed pitcher.

I remember this season well. Our team was a mock of the Athletics, and my dad was head coach. Interestingly enough, I would have my best game when his softball team was playing a double-header the same day, and so he couldn't coach that game. I ended up throwing a one-hitter, meaning that the other team only got one hit against me. I have to thank the plate umpire in that game, because he was calling this pitch I was experimenting with a strike every time.

I learned later that I was doing a knuckle curve variant, but it would fly straight right up until the edge of the grass before home plate, then it would suddenly curve down and to the right. It was cutting just passed the shins of left-handed batters, and just out of the reach of right-handed batters. I remember being shocked the first time he called one a strike, because the batter had to jump out of its way, or it would've hit his back foot, and luckily, no one was on base because the catcher failed to stop it.

I must have somehow been clipping the front right corner of the plate. Even still, it looked to me like it was boing below their knees as it crossed the plate, which should've been called balls.

I know this is going on long, but there are only a couple of other poignant moments to mention. For instance, I would have my first kiss, well, actually, my first forty or so kisses at Carney Park.

They were all with the same girl, too. I think her name was Melissa, but I can't remember exactly. I was hanging out at the pool, and she was there, too. I don't remember how we got started kissing, but it was in the pool and under water each time. I guess it was like a fun game for her, but I was thinking that we were to get serious, only to find out on the bus ride home that she had other plans.

Now, for the last part, I'm going to keep it as 'PG' as possible, but it's about a porn magazine, so fair warning and all.

I'm pretty sure I was 11 b this time, but I was not at that part of puberty yet. For some context, I was a very sheltered child, but had managed to see a portion of a porn video not long after we moved to Italy, and occasionally would see some tits on the Italian talk shows as the dancers would often be topless. And that was on their network channels.

I had gone to the park alone to hang out and have some fun. I was on my way out, and as I passed an aluminum trash can that didn't have a lid or a bag in it, I glanced into it. I immediately stopped in my tracks having recognized the name on the magazine: Penthouse. I later did some research and discovered that it was the June '91 issue. Like I said, I wasn't at that age yet, but I knew I should cherish the images within it.

I took it to an empty dugout and went through every page. I remember being grossed out by one of the sex scenes that involved fake scat. So, enough detail about that. There was also this one-pane comic that I laughed heavily at:

I laughed so hard that, it attracted two boys to come and see what I was doing. I ended up giving it to the, knowing there was no way I could keep it a secret from my step-mother. Her OCD would sometimes have my whole room re-arranged, even down to the drawers in my dressers.

I was surprised to find that the current Google Earth image looks no different than how I remember it, except that it looks as though they turned the pool into an indoor one. I had a lot of good times there. It truly was a paradise for me, and I can't wait to visit it again.

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