By JOE PETRUCCI
jpetrucci@leader.net
Charlie doesn't know why. Robert doesn't say why.
Margaret's voice rings out again. "He's after you."
This is the Robert who had once poured alcohol in Charlie's eyes, tried to light Charlie's feet on fire.
Charlie, 16, and frightened again, does what he does best.
He runs.
Robert, 17, follows, chasing Charlie outside the Wilkes-Barre apartment they share with 12 siblings. Robert gets close, within 15 yards.
But Charlie's car is closer.
Under the dark of the 11 p.m. sky, Charlie jumps into the blue 1973 Camaro and speeds off; Robert races toward him, hurls rocks, tries to cut off the car.
But Robert isn't fast enough. Charlie speeds out of the complex, down Scott Street and makes a right onto Kidder. He figures he's safe as he makes the left onto Wilkes-Barre Boulevard.
Charlie knows Robert doesn't have a car. But he also knows he can't go back home, at least not tonight.
As the spring evening chill settles in, Charlie drives on, racking his brain for a place to stay.
A right on Hazle Avenue, on to Academy Street, to Carey Avenue.
He passes two elaborate churches, some stores, well-kept houses.
At the corner of New Alexander Street, there's a convenience store. Charlie notices a pay phone. He stops the car.
Here, large trees shelter most of the road, and manicured lawns display brick or sided houses with lively back yards.
It's a world apart from Robert and the rest of Charlie's family.
He picks up the phone.
Charles DeGraffenreid was born Dec. 7, 1959, to Mary Margaret Elizabeth "Noon" DeGraffenreid-Wade and Robert Wade, in Wilkes-Barre.
Noon was a homemaker, struggling to care for her 14 children and, eventually, some grandchildren, all under the same roof.
Wade, the father of seven of the children, drove trucks occasionally, but earned most of his money through bootlegging, selling bottles of Boone's Farm, a cheap wine, and other liquor.
Charlie saw little of Wade growing up.
Some of Charlie's brothers and sisters turned to crime: pimping, prostitution, drugs, burglary, assault. Newspaper accounts show offenses spanning three decades involving at least five of Charlie's siblings. The only way a DeGraffenreid seemed to make the paper was for a crime or tragedy.
"It was there, but you hide it from the little kids," says Charlie.
"I don't like talking about it. I know they were go-go dancers."
Charlie's youngest brother, Tyrone, drowned in a swimming pool on Aug. 12, 1971. Charlie went to the hospital and saw his mother holding the dead boy in her arms. She sobbed hysterically, unable to accept what had happened.
Nearly four years after the drowning, the 12-room, two-story DeGraffenreid home at 125 Lehigh St. in Wilkes-Barre was struck by fire. It started in one of six second-floor bedrooms and spread to other rooms and the attic. No one was harmed, but the family had to move.
"I had two nice pairs of pants," Charlie says, "and they were covered with smoke."
As children, the DeGraffenreids moved around Wilkes-Barre often, but a change of address never guaranteed a better home. Only the house numbers stick in Charlie's mind. He tries to forget the rest.
He remembers one, though, where Heritage House Stands on Pennsylvania Avenue. "That place was the pits, man," he says. "Roaches up and down the place."
Surprisingly, one of Charlie's few fond childhood memories involves brother Robert. Their mother made a pair of small, wooden stands for them to shine shoes downtown. At 25 cents per shine, they sometimes walked away with $20 - a fortune for a child, but a pittance for such a large family.
Charlie also fondly recalls his time on the Heights Packers mini-football team. It was one of his mother's few joys, watching one of her sons do well at something.
"She didn't know much about the game. She just knew that I was doing good."
Mini-football put him on a path to greatness in sports. By 10th grade, he was a star athlete at Meyers High School - known as "Charlie D" in the hallways and in newspaper headlines.
Still, success as a member of Meyers' football, wrestling and track and field teams did nothing to lessen Robert's contempt for Charlie.
"You've got to understand how tough this guy was," Charlie says. "I was like one of the best wrestlers in the United States. Where does that leave him if he can deal with me?"
"My brother's trying to kill me," Charlie hollers into the pay phone. "Mrs. Wysocki, you've got to help me."
"Where are you?" she asks.
"Right around the corner."
"Come over to the house."
Charlie knows Patricia and Stan Wysocki will help.
He remembers their kindness. He remembers how their son Steven befriended him when he transferred from GAR High School to Meyers in eighth grade.
Charlie also remembers how he looked out for Steven, who was the same age and also active in sports.
He remembers how the Wysockis invited him to their Charles Street home for dinner after Charlie won his first District 2 wrestling title as a sophomore.
He remembers that Steven went looking for him when he didn't show.
An offer from Steven echoes in his mind: "If you want to start coming over, just let me know."
To have any chance in life, Charlie knew he had to get away from the DeGraffenreids - for good.
Standing at the pay phone on that cool spring evening in 1976, that's what he decided to do.
The first night, he slept on the Wysockis' pullout couch.
Before long, Charlie had his own room.
The Wysockis, a white family, were colorblind at a time when many people in Wilkes-Barre couldn't see past race.
"My son asked if he could come over and told me, 'But dad, he's black.' We said we didn't care," Stan says. "It was an issue with certain people, certain neighbors, but we didn't care.
"I had some black friends ... and the guys used to kid me, 'Hey Stan, I'm going to send my son down to your house. Will you take care of him for me?' "
Stan ran a successful masonry contracting and swimming pool business. His wife later opened a sporting goods store in Wilkes-Barre. The Wysockis provided for Charlie, in addition to their biological children Steven and Millie, in a way Charlie only dreamed of when living with the DeGraffenreids.
"Everything was made easier for me. People, they gave me respect. I never wanted anything and never had to get anything because it was there."
That doesn't mean things always went smoothly. Charlie had a difficult time adjusting to a curfew and spending more time on schoolwork. The Wysockis hired tutors for Charlie.
He also faced other pressure.
There were rumblings from some in Charlie's native Heights, from people who believed the Wysockis stole a promising black athlete from the DeGraffenreids.
"My oldest brother (Leroy) told me I better go home. All Leroy was worried about ... was getting money out of me. He saw me at football games. He said one thing and the Wysockis said another."
The opinion that counted the most, however, came from Charlie's biological mother. She told Patricia that Charlie would be better off with the Wysockis.
The conflict ate at Charlie, but it didn't hinder his integration into the tight-knit South Wilkes-Barre community. At the time, it was a place where success on the football field, or on the wrestling mat, turned 16-year-old kids into idols.
"He was a great fit at Meyers because he was an outstanding personality," says Coughlin assistant principal Andy Kuhl, a classmate of Charlie's and fellow member of the football and wrestling teams.
"As time went on, we all came to realize that athletically he was something special. But he was also a big part of the school community ... not like a person that sometimes becomes isolated."
Some in the Heights told Charlie he shouldn't go to Meyers and play for legendary football coach Mickey Gorham.
Charlie had been told Gorham didn't like black players, but Charlie wanted to find out for himself.
Gorham, who met Charlie while he still lived with the DeGraffenreids, ended up the opposite of how he had been portrayed.
He gave Charlie special attention, buying him decent shoes and making sure he ate well. Gorham once took Charlie to dinner with him and his wife on their anniversary.
"He was one of the toughest athletes I ever coached," says Gorham. "He never got hurt in high school. You couldn't hurt Charlie."
Charlie offered an inkling of the athlete he would become at a football camp at Pine Forest during the summer before his sophomore year in 1975. Charlie ran over, around and past players his age and older.
"You got to see Charlie against a lot of other guys from around the area that were the best and he stood out," Kuhl says. "We just knew. He had the package. He was big, strong and fast."
By the end of the 1977 football season, Charlie's senior year, he broke school records for career rushing yards and touchdowns set by Mickey Dudish, two years Charlie's elder and the starting fullback at the University of Maryland. Charlie was just as untouchable on the wrestling mat. There he competed one-on-one, with no help, the same way he had spent the first 15 years of his life.
As a wrestler, Charlie sometimes had to lose weight and regain it quickly to fit into the Meyers lineup. He could do that well, especially when he had to get heavier.
"My memory of Charlie eating is a blur," Kuhl says. "I was afraid for my fingers. ... He probably still owns the record for pizza."
By the time he won his third District 2 wrestling gold medal and the Class 3A state title at 165 pounds his senior year, Charlie had drawn the attention of more than 100 colleges.
Charlie knew that without the Wysockis none of this would have been possible - or at least it would have been much more difficult.
"He wanted to make sure everything would stay the way it was," says Kuhl. "A lot of times, we'd be driving home from a wrestling match, we talked the whole way home ... times like that he opened up and was really happy about where he was. I think he always appreciated what the Wysockis did for him."
By this time, the Wyosckis took guardianship of Charlie. They eventually adopted him.
Planning for college, Charlie made visits as far away as Wyoming. But after visiting Dudish at Maryland, Charlie liked what he saw and accepted a football scholarship there.
He signed his name on the national letter of intent as Charlie Wysocki.
Charlie D. was no more.
Charlie's talents easily translated to the next level. He played little in 1978 as a freshman, but he broke out as a 5-foot-11, 200-pound sophomore. He replaced career rushing leader Steve Atkins, a fourth-round selection of the Green Bay Packers in the '79 NFL Draft, at tailback in Maryland's I-formation attack.
"Once (Atkins) left, that was it. Charlie ran the ball every damn play from then on," says Lackawanna College football coach Mark Duda, a Wyoming Valley West High School graduate who was a freshman defensive lineman at Maryland in '79. "As far as toughness went and durability, he was unmatched.",/
Charlie surpassed the 1,000-yard mark that sophomore year, helping Maryland to a 7-4 mark under coach Jerry Claiborne.
Charlie's toughness really showed as a junior. In a game against North Carolina, he was getting the bulk of the carries, as usual. On one play, Charlie was met head-on by a future NFL Hall of Famer, linebacker Lawrence Taylor.
"LT hit him a ton and practically killed him," Duda says. "(Charlie) got up, went out for about four plays and came back and ran the ball 25 more times. His ability to cope with adversity and physical pain, he had no equal."
Why? Perhaps because Charlie had already dealt with so many problems as a kid.
When he ran the ball, Charlie mourned his dead brother, Tyrone. But he also thought about the bright future ahead, how his new mom took a chance on him, how she was the only one who believed in him. He wore the St. Jude medal she gave him, pinned to his shoulder pads.
Against Duke in 1980, Charlie carried the ball a school-record 50 times.
His speed - he reportedly ran a 4.6-second 40-yard dash in high school - was not as remarkable as his toughness, his ability to absorb hits, elude tacklers and run over defenders.
All that, and Charlie didn't train much. He ran - some said he could run forever - but didn't lift weights often.
Charlie had hit his stride. To top it off, he had a chiseled body, good looks, bright smile and unforced charisma.
"He'd give good interviews. He was an intelligent kid," says former longtime Maryland sports information director Jack Zane. "He was very popular with the team and students. Some players just get cheers running out on the field. He was in that category."
Maryland ended the 1980 season with a 35-20 loss in the Tangerine Bowl to Florida and wide receiver Cris Collinsworth, who enjoyed a stellar NFL career with the Cincinnati Bengals and now broadcasts NFL games for FOX.
Charlie, who ran for 159 yards, and Collinsworth were named their respective team's Most Valuable Players.
Entering the 1981 season, Charlie reached the pinnacle of college football. Having set several school rushing records his junior year, Charlie was a legitimate candidate for his sport's top honor, the Heisman Trophy. He went on a promotional tour with legendary ABC broadcaster Keith Jackson and other Heisman front-runners, such as Southern California's Marcus Allen, prior to the season.
Charlie's life story garnered attention from MGM and Columbia Pictures. They wanted to do a movie about his life. All the story needed was a happy ending. Many, including Charlie and the Wysockis, expected that to come on April 27, the start of the 1982 NFL Draft.
Against Vanderbilt that senior season, Charlie bulldozed toward the goal line for a 10-yard touchdown run, his second of the game.
As Charlie crossed the goal line, a Vanderbilt defender hit Charlie and grabbed his Charlie's left ankle.
Charlie heard it before he felt it.
Pop!
He fell to the ground, overcome by the most severe pain he'd ever felt. The sprained ankle forced Charlie to miss two full games and parts of two others.
"There was no cause for it. It was stupid," says Charlie. "He twisted it on purpose."
Although the ankle and some irksome problems with insomnia hampered Charlie for a time, Charlie appeared to regain his form by the end of the '81 season. In his last college game on Nov. 21 he ran for 153 yards in a blowout victory against Virginia. He finished his senior season with 715 rushing yards and left Maryland with ownership of most of its rushing records.
Still to come, many predicted was that happy ending - the NFL Draft.
No one could miss this party.
No one who knew Charlie. No one who knew the Wysockis, or coach Gorham or, for that matter, the whole of Meyers High School.
It's Tuesday, April 27, 1982, the first day of the NFL Draft. The Wysockis' South Wilkes-Barre home is the stage for the celebration of Charlie's anticipated selection by a professional football team.
Mrs. Wysocki cooks up a storm, including Charlie's favorite, lasagna. Close to 300 people come and go. They saunter in and out of the house and spacious back yard. There is plenty of food, music and anticipation. By 10 p.m., with about 100 guests still waiting, there's also some worry.
No team calls Charlie's name.
"This is good for me. It'll make me hungry," Charlie said at the time, awaiting the second day of the draft.
By noon Wednesday, 335 college players are chosen. But not Charlie. He retreats silently to his room.
Still, several NFL teams are interested, including the Dallas Cowboys. Like so many football fans, Charlie is enamored with "America's Team."
The next day, a Cowboys representative visits the Wysocki home with a free-agent contract in hand.
"Charlie had that explosiveness getting through the line," says Zane, the former University of Maryland sports information director. "At 40 yards he wasn't that fast. ... But the NFL had a book, if you don't meet this test, that test, they'd just automatically move you down the line."
The Washington Federals of the fledgling United States Football League also were interested, but didn't offer enough money, Charlie says. The NFL's Kansas City Chiefs were set to fly someone to Wilkes-Barre the morning after the draft with $15,000 and a contract.
Even though Dallas already had 1977 NFL Rookie of the Year Tony Dorsett, Robert Newhouse and Ron Springs in the backfield, Charlie signed with the Cowboys for a $2,000 signing bonus.
"He did have a guaranteed contract with Kansas City. I tried to talk him into it, but I couldn't talk to him," Stan Wysocki says.
"I was sitting at a table here and the Cowboys kept feeding him a lot of malarkey and I knew it was, and (coach Gorham) was here but we couldn't do anything."
No one could have known that Kansas City would have given Charlie the best opportunity to play. Joe Delaney, the Chiefs' star tailback, died a little more than a year after the '82 draft while trying to save three drowning boys.
Charlie went to Dallas to work out a month before training camp started in the summer. Like the previous fall, however, he couldn't sleep right. It reflected in his performance and after just a week of camp, Cowboys coach Tom Landry cut the tired, confused bull of a young man from Wilkes-Barre.
Disappointed, Charlie put football on hold to go back to Maryland and try to complete the 18 credits he needed to graduate with a degree in communications and recreation.
Charlie tried to relax, focus elsewhere, on his schoolwork. Charlie tried to rest. Charlie tried to sleep.
But he couldn't.
Soon he would be running again.