Revenge of the Nerds

Jay Blotcher recalls “The Festers,” a group he led to fight the bullies on his high school football team.

The megaphone used to amplify Fester song parodies at football games.

Autumn reminds me of high school and the mortification of stumbling through my teen years. But I also recall a singular triumph. In my senior year, I led a student uprising. It was prompted by an act of supreme humiliation. Okay, the star quarterback pinched my nipples in the hall.

Not every rebellion has noble origins.

My hometown of Randolph was fifteen miles south of Boston. While it had once flourished for shoemaking, the suburb was now a study in faded glory. The majestic chestnut trees that lined Main Street had been killed by a blight in the 1950s, leaving only stark expanses of macadam. Joylessness reigned.

That joylessness infiltrated my school experience. In the student hierarchy, I occupied a bottom rung. I was a prime target for school bullies: Chubby, bad haircut, and thick glasses. Classroom teasing and playground beatings were the norm in elementary school.

In the student hierarchy, I occupied a bottom rung. I was a prime target for school bullies: Chubby, bad haircut, and thick glasses. Classroom teasing and playground beatings were the norm in elementary school.

In protest, I began to disrupt classes with bad jokes and wrote little magazines filled with teen star and playground gossip. I sold them for a nickel at recess. My acting-out didn’t evoke respect from the bullies, but they gave this freak a wider berth. Being class clown was also the perfect smokescreen for a creeping realization: I preferred boys over girls.

The years of torment were eventually alleviated when I found my tribe: Fellow nerd boys and kindly girls who didn’t mind our softness.

Jay Blotcher, official senior year portrait. Fall, 1977.

It was the fall of 1977 at Randolph High School. My social life was finally flowering at age 17: I belonged to the Drama Club, the school newspaper and the yearbook staff. Blessedly, I had shed the baby fat that had clung since first grade.

Liberated from the husky boys’ section, I went full-on peacock. Over Mom’s objections, I shimmied into tight jeans. I bought silky polyester shirts with loud designs which hugged my torso sensuously. I wore aviator-style glasses and a Tony Manero “Saturday Night Fever” blow-dry. I was still a loser, but a stylish one.

In my excitement to remake myself, I had overlooked the obvious: my preening only deepened classmate suspicions over my sexual identity. Even a fleet of girlfriends —  mostly for show — wasn’t sufficient camouflage.

In protest, I began to disrupt classes with bad jokes and wrote little magazines filled with teen star and playground gossip. I sold them for a nickel at recess. My acting-out didn’t evoke respect from the bullies, but they gave this freak a wider berth. Being class clown was also the perfect smokescreen for a creeping realization: I preferred boys over girls.

Despite my personal breakthroughs, the gap between the haves and have-nots at Randolph High only widened. Especially at Devil’s Den. That was the section of hallway filled with sports trophy showcases. It’s where jocks and their fawning cheerleaders would stand between classes, glaring at us beneath a mural of a Blue Devil, our school mascot. As we passed the mighty, we boys would be pelted with catcalls. “Fester” was the latest insult, a nod to the pop-eyed, bald-headed Uncle Fester from the TV show “The Addams Family.” Frankly, it sounded less punishing than the merciless “fag.”

If your steps slowed as you ran the Devil’s Den gantlet, you could expect further name-calling, spitballs or a shove into the lockers. The daily outrage was especially galling for me; I had once been best buddies with Jimbo, the football co-captain. But that was in sixth grade. Now he just looked through me.

Cover of the invitation to our alternate homecoming party.

One day, as I passed Devil’s Den between classes, I was quickly trailed by a wedge of football players. From their threatening comments, I realized that my silky, tight-fitting shirt — covered in images of curvy 1940s pulp magazine pinups — had stirred their sadism. They surrounded me at my locker and pushed their tall, husky star quarterback at me. Andy reached out with bear paws, grabbing two fistfuls of polyester. He then pinched my nipples — the classic tit-twister — to merciless laughter. And suddenly the rabble evaporated.

I was stunned. Not only by the assault, but by the mixed feelings it sparked. Andy had a bland handsomeness, similar to men in Sears catalog underwear ads. He was that rare thing: a Jewish varsity athlete. And he had chosen me for a gesture that smacked of intimacy. I was outraged. And flattered.

I unveiled a secret society called the Fester Football Fan Club, intentionally employing the slur. Our mission, through a series of public events, was to undermine the jocks. Call it performance art, call it psychodrama, call it childish. It was a high schooler’s first attempt at social justice.

At lunch period in the cafeteria, I gathered sympathetic friends: Jimmy, Jeffrey, Susan, Sharyn, Peter, and Ellen. In dramatic tones, I recounted the morning’s incident, hoping to sound indignant, not bragging.

I soon became obsessed by the incident, replaying it in my head. But I also mulled how to best respond to Andy’s assault. I had no muscle tone, no heft, no brawling courage. But I had my wit, nurtured by MAD Magazine. Two days later, I met my friends at study hall and presented my scheme for collective revenge.

The inside of the invitation, “for all non-jocks of RHS.”

I unveiled a secret society called the Fester Football Fan Club, intentionally employing the slur. Our mission, through a series of public events, was to undermine the jocks. Call it performance art, call it psychodrama, call it childish. It was a high schooler’s first attempt at social justice.

That night, I pushed aside homework and college applications. Instead, I created a Fester manifesto. I sketched a logo. I organized a schedule of fall events. We would attend home football games — to bury, not praise. Like empowered Hester Prynnes, we would wear a scarlet F on our coats. I began writing parodies of the insipid cheers bellowed by fans at halftime. My variation of the new hit Queen song, “We Will Rock You/We are the Champions,” became “We Will Jock You/We are the Festers,” and included references to Devil’s Den athletes. I also revised the top cheerleading anthem:

Theirs:

Touchdown

We want a touchdown

That’s the thing

We want a touchdown

Hear us sing

We want a big, strong bruiser, husky and tall

To run with the ball

And win for us all

We want a touchdown

And when we win, you’re gonna hear us make some noise

T-O-U-C-H-D-O-W-N

We want a touchdown, boys!

Go team! Go team! (repeat song)

Mine, referencing my agony/ecstasy at Andy’s hands:

We are the Festers

We are the Festers

Hear us loud

We are the Festers

And we’re proud

We want a big dumb jock who’s husky and tall

To run down the hall

Molesting us all

We are the Festers

And we’re together in a group that can’t be beat

F-E-S-T-E-R-F-A-N-C-L-U-B

3FC

Go Fess ! Go Fess! (repeat song)

My gang, once proudly dismissive of jock culture, now stood in the bleachers on Saturday mornings, scarlet letters pinned to our coats. When classmates asked, we insisted the F stood for football. But when we sang our parodies, they glared, even if they couldn’t follow the mocking lyrics. Peter was a member of the school band. He taped an F to the bell of his sousaphone and marched proudly on the field.

Soon after the debut of the Fester Football Fan Club, I saw Handsome Andy alone in the halls one morning. As he approached my locker, I steeled myself for another assault. Instead, he just walked past me, eyes averted. I learned that day how bullies are cowards without their enablers.

The Blue Devils never got wise to our subversion. Perhaps our campaign didn’t really vanquish our foes. But the Fester Football Fan Club taught us self-respect. And our makeshift club’s act of defiance had future ramifications. All the boys in the club eventually kicked down another barrier: our own closets. A decade later, I would become a New York City street activist with ACT UP and Queer Nation.

The Festers flourished, emboldened. We greeted each other in the hall with a “Hi, Fess!” I wrote more cheerleading parodies. And when the Blue Devils’ homecoming celebration approached, I organized an alternate: “Octoberfess.” We held the party in Sharyn’s basement playroom, drank cider, ate cupcakes, pretended to be of the ruling class, and sang Fester songs. Peter came dressed as a cheerleader.

The Blue Devils never got wise to our subversion. Perhaps our campaign didn’t really vanquish our foes. But the Fester Football Fan Club taught us self-respect. And our makeshift club’s act of defiance had future ramifications. All the boys in the club eventually kicked down another barrier: our own closets. A decade later, I would become a New York City street activist with ACT UP and Queer Nation.

The football season ended. The Festers focused on term papers, senior prom and college plans. And the fearsome task of growing up.

It was the last week of senior year. I found myself penning a note on blue-lined composition paper. When the hallway was empty, I shoved it through the vents in Captain Jimbo’s locker. It read:

Thanks for a good season.

You gave us something to cheer about.

End of game.

The Festers

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Jay Blotcher’s essays appear in ten anthologies. He has been a developmental editor for 100 book projects.