The last time I went home to Maine, I happened to pass by my old high school, Kennebunk High. KHS is a dungeon-like turn of the century building in which 650 students get a claustrophobic secondary education in stagnant, highschool-green classrooms of World War Two vintage. KHS was originally designed to hold approximately 450 students, and for the last 15 years has handily superceded that maximum figure.

KHS, a regional set-up gathers in its charges like an overprotective mother hen (or a maternal boa constrictor) from the five surrounding towns: Kennebunk, Kennebunkport, Goose Rocks Beach, Arundel, and Kennebunk Beach. For at least the last ten years the towns have been debating whether or not to build a new school.

The sight of venerable KHS brought back a lot of memories. Most of them were athletic, such as three years of basketball in which KHS ran up an awesome 13-41 record. I started to ramble back through the people I'd played with--a lot of people passed in and out of the athletic program in those years--but my mind kept coming back to the defensive tackle and fullback of my junior year football team, Mike Hansen.

I first met Mike as a sophomore--and was terrified. He was a squat 5 ft. 10 in. and tipped in at about 225. Despite a bawdy sense of humor, he liked to crunch people both on and off the field. I was always a little uneasy in his presence--he always seems to ooze a potential for mayhem.

Mike had a spotty career. Three weeks after the time of my first encounter with him until he prematurely retired for the season. It seems that the night before the season opener, Mike and a number of other KHS stalwarts had spent the late hours carousing at one of the wilder parties in the Kennebunk's rather mundane history which broke up after the state police busted it. He got in somewhat after curfew, and had a rather oppressive headache throughout the following afternoon--during which we offered up 48 points while tallying zip.

The coach, an obtuse Puritan type who had read too many Vince Lombardi clippings, retired Mike's jersey for the season.

The next season, as Mike began his comeback, we struck up a friendship and became drinking partners. Eighteen-year-old drinking hadn't yet become legal in Maine, and drinking partnership was a serious affair. During the winter, we would cruise the back roads of Kennebunk, quaffing Colt .45, the completely unique experience. With Mike, it was. Mike took his drinking seriously, but had a morbid funny bone when it came to close calls. One winter night, after upsetting a 16 oz. Colt in my lap by skidding around a corner and ramming a snowbank, Mike looked over and grinned his best boyishly sinister grin. "It's a good thing for snow," he said. I asked why. He just pointed to the snowbank. Behind it were three ominous looking pine trees.

Mike's drinking escapades didn't always turn out as congenially. One night Louis's Pizza became embroiled in an argument whether Dick Butkus would really bite his mother if she were trying to score from the one. Mike was an adamant Butkus fan and assured this disbeliever that Butkus most assuredly would bite dear old Mom or anyone else who tried to score. He used hand gestures to emphasize the point. Unfortunately, he was holding a chair at the time.

Mike was out on bail in a couple of days and when basketball season rolled along, decided to try out. He made it as a guard and, although he was a streaky shooter, he was a good man to spice up long bus rides. Once in one of his more philosophical moments, he reflected on the virtues of his high school career.

"I don't think high school has prepared me for much," he intoned seriously. "I don't really know what I'm going to do afterwards." A silence fell on the back of the bus. But not for long as Mike added, "I guess I'll just pull out all my teeth, grow a beard and become a prostitute." Mike never let a solemn pause last for long.