Remembering George McNeal

When I was a kid at Steward Manor in the early 1980s, two of my best friends were Mike and George McNeal.

Mike, the older of the brothers, was far and away the best all-around athlete I’ve ever known. George, almost two years younger, wasn’t as naturally gifted, but he loved to compete and never backed down from a challenge.

George was the more introspective of the two, and perhaps the most introspective of anyone in our small, but closely-knit group of friends. He was entirely content to walk around outside by himself—just exploring the grounds, knowing that he’d inevitably bump into one of us sooner or later.

Often, you could find him sitting on one of the many benches around Steward Manor, curiously examining a small stick or two that he’d discovered. George wasn’t an aspiring young botanist, though—the sticks had a different purpose for him. A huge fan of professional wrestling, (in the days long before the sports entertainment spectacle was mainstream) George was always on the lookout for sticks that he thought resembled certain wrestlers—and they became action figures for him.

I was sitting on the bench behind 100 Sharon Court with him one afternoon when he showed me a particular stick he’d found. “Don’t this kinda look like Andre the Giant givin’ somebody the big boot?” he asked. Like seeing shapes in clouds, I immediately saw what he meant. It did look like Andre.

In summertime, when he was perennially in shorts and knee-high striped socks, George would carry the latest sticks he’d found by tucking them into his sock. If a game of tackle football—or more frequently, a fist fight—happened to materialize, he’d carefully take the sticks out of his sock and set them aside for safekeeping. After whatever physical activity had finished, he’d collect his sticks and head off to the next activity.

How much were those sticks a part of George’s life? My dad once took the three of us to an actual wrestling card at the Capital Centre. During one of the non-eventful preliminary bouts, I glanced over at George. He was busy playing with his sticks!

George, Mike, and their mom lived at 106 Sharon Court, #302. But rather than climb all those stairs, we’d often just yell up at their top floor windows. If they were home, George or Mike would soon appear.

The large tree behind their building was also, as you’d imagine, the source of many of George’s best stick figures.

Taking a walk through Steward Manor Apartments today invariably brings back countless vivid memories of George. Literally every corner of this neighborhood holds them, and events from nearly 40 years ago come flooding back with crystal clarity.

On Sunday, July 12, 2020—which would turn out to be the day before our friend George passed away—Rodney Pressley and I walked around the complex reminiscing. We couldn’t be with George in his final hours; he was in hospice care in Savannah after having fallen into a diabetic coma late last month. But we could be where his spirit will always be strongly with us—the place, according to Mike, where he’d spent the most enjoyable years of his life: Steward Manor.

Their building holds a lot of memories for me, obviously. To this day, I feel like I could still go in there, go up the stairs, and George would come to their door.

The front porch reminds me of a moment in January 1982, just before the classic NFC Championship Game between the Washington Redskins and the Dallas Cowboys. George was—and forever remained—a die hard Redskins fan. I was walking around the corner when he and Mike were helping their mom bring groceries in from her white Ford Pinto wagon. George was excited to let me know what they planned to eat during the big game, and happily shouted over to me, “Hot dogs an’ pizza!” Anytime I see those items in the grocery store today, I smile as I hear George’s voice in my mind shouting, “Hot dogs an’ pizza!”

Speaking of food, George was also incredibly fond of spaghetti. In fact, more often than not, he’d have remnants of what must’ve been a very good spaghetti sauce around his mouth anytime you saw him after dinner time.

The dumpster in front of their building brings to mind a close call George had when he was just learning to ride a bike. It was actually Mike’s bike that he was riding when a car came around the corner and hit him, then fled the scene. The driver was caught, and thankfully George suffered only minor injuries. But Mike’s prized BMX bike was destroyed. I remember seeing its crumpled remains in the dumpster, and worrying that Mike would pummel George for ruining it. But he didn’t—and his reaction of only caring about George’s well-being made an impression on the rest of us that day. This was what brotherly love really was all about.

It was also here, in front of their building one summer afternoon, where George had one of his many fights. He didn’t win a lot of fights when he was young, but on this particular occasion, an elderly gentleman was driving by and saw him pinning Bobby Buckles to the ground. The man feebly shouted from his car, “Hey! Get off’a that boy! I’m gonna call the police, and Im’a gonna be a witness!”

It was something about the way the man said it that just struck all of us—George, me, and even Bobby himself—as unbearably funny. We all just immediately started laughing. As the man drove away down Sharon Court, we took turns pointing at each other mockingly and threatening to call the police. “…and Im’a gonna be a witness!!”

Behind my building at 100 Bryan Court is where my mom shot this photo in early 1983. George, Mike, and I had just come from the basketball court, and she had the presence of mind to capture a typical moment of us together.

George and I probably logged several miles just wandering around Bryan Court and Morris Drive, on those occasions when there wasn’t a basketball or football game to be played. It was along these sidewalks that we actually had most of our conversations (aside from all the phone calls).

He could be surprisingly philosophical, believe it or not. Out of the blue one day, while walking from my building, he asked me, “Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to be black?” As we were only 10 years old, I don’t think there was any deeper meaning to the question; but he was just curious like that. He simply wondered what it was like.

It was also here, behind my building in 1982, where we had many discussions about (and reenactments of) a favorite film that had just come out—Rocky III. There’s a scene just before the final fight where Clubber Lang tells Rocky, “I’m gonna bust you up.” (It’s in the trailer below). For some reason, George heard that line differently. In his mind, it was “Sucka-sucka-momma.” This nonsensical phrase instantly became immortalized, and we still laugh about it all these years later.

George was a fixture at the swimming pool during his years at Steward Manor. While most of us kids steered clear of the lifeguards, he ended up being buddies with them. Morrie, Mike, and Barry are the names that somehow stick in my mind—guys who were probably college students at the time who picked up some extra cash as lifeguards each summer. George and I would be at this gate almost every morning, waiting for them to drive up and let us in.

But the bulk of the memories—probably for anyone who grew up at Steward Manor in the 1970s and 80s—stems from the basketball court and field behind Morris Drive.

It was here that so many moments stand out in my memory. Football games were always on this field, as it was the only field in the complex that we were allowed to play on without being chased away by maintenance men.

And it was actually a great field for football, as long as you didn’t punt or kick the ball. As you can see, it had great length; but there wasn’t a lot of width. The 6-foot chain link fence along the edge separated the field from the creek between Steward Manor and Laurel Pines Apartments, and it was completely overgrown with weeds, poison ivy, and other nasty stuff. You did not want your football or basketball to go over that fence, because it was a true bitch to retrieve it.

George, however, had no qualms about it whatsoever. And he always wanted to punt the football, even though punting was never a part of our games. “Mike, lemme punt it!” he’d say. Anytime George was the closest to retrieve a stray ball, he couldn’t resist punting it back to you instead of simply throwing it. More often than not, the ball would shank off the side of his foot, going over the fence and deep into the weeds. Without hesitation, George would deftly climb the fence and disappear into the foliage. You’d hear him rustling around for several seconds, and then suddenly the ball would be hurled back over the fence.

George also really didn’t have a filter in those days, as you might have guessed. Many times, he’d abruptly leave the field in the middle of a game and start walking off without saying anything. “Where you going, George?” someone would ask. “I’ll be back,” he’d say. “Gotta take a dookie!”

While the basketball court has been gone for several years now, there’s still a lot about Steward Manor that hasn’t changed since our childhood. Take this old green fence, for example. It still houses the giant HVAC unit (or whatever that thing is) and is designed to keep people out. George, however, always dreamed of having “a steel cage match” within its confines.

He also constantly wanted to have cage matches down in these sunken rock pits, which were just outside peoples’ basement windows, unfortunately. In those days, there were no fire escapes here, either. Once you were down there, it was incredibly tough—especially for a child—to climb back out. George loved it.

Most of the wrestling matches, however, mercifully took place at the picnic area near the pool. The patch of grass in the distance was framed by a fence on one side and three concrete pads for picnic tables on the others. The grassy space within was, in our mind, the ideal size of a wrestling ring.

My role in the wrestling shenanigans was that of the colorful, heel manager. I was the Bobby “The Brain” Heenan of Steward Manor Wrestling, and was George’s manager, exclusively. I would always look to sneak a “foreign object” in to him at any opportune time, and distract his opponents while he took advantage of them. It was all play, of course; but nonetheless, we went to great lengths to make it as entertaining as possible. I still have this—an “open contract” that George signed, agreeing to face any would-be challengers.

George and I also loved to make championship belts. Unfortunately for our moms, this came at the expense of their rolls of aluminum foil. George would often bring me his mom’s entire roll (she got the good, thicker kind) and I would fold it, double-fold it, triple-fold it, and then decorate it with magic marker until it vaguely resembled Bob Backlund’s WWF belt.

Whenever a title was lost (usually to Mike, who was the undefeated, undisputed champion) we’d just make another belt. Other kids started doing the same, inventing things like “The Colorado Championship” (despite having no connection to the state of Colorado, but I digress). George won the Colorado Championship and promptly destroyed the belt, having deemed it of inferior quality to my aluminum foil beauties.

George loved those old wrestling magazines, too, by the way. And he would often walk to Keller’s on Main Street (not a short hike from Steward Manor for a kid, mind you) to look through the vast selection before choosing one to spend his allowance on. He’d usually have at least one magazine on hand as he wandered around Steward Manor, ready to share the latest wrestling news with the rest of us.

Back in 1981, Mike had already played football for the Maryland City Mustangs for at least a season or two. George and I joined the rookie team that year, and it was always so much fun riding to and from practice together, often stopping on the way home for McDonald’s—the three of us feeling invincible with our uniforms and equipment.

George and I weren’t football stars at that age by any stretch of the imagination, but our rookie team actually went undefeated that year. And that’s a record that I’m not sure has ever been matched in Maryland City Football. I still have my very first jersey from that team.

Mike and George moved away to Claxton, GA during the summer of 1985, leaving behind an impossible void. It was like a seismic shift, and growing up at Steward Manor was never the same without them. They would call and write, of course, but long distance friendships were nothing like they are today with the ease of social media.

George and I would call each other occasionally, well into the 1990s. Oftentimes, he’d call from a pay phone so as not to incur long distance charges on his mom’s bill. We’d reminisce about many of the same things I’ve described here, and he’d tell me about life in Claxton. He loved to joke and share funny stories about “these rednecks down here”. Many of these involved fighting, and creative ways to initiate said fights, such as the phrase, “Boy, I’ll walk th’ dog on your ass!”

I last saw George in person when they visited Maryland in 1989. In fact, until last week, I’d never even seen a picture of him as an adult. In my mind, he had remained that happy, fun-loving, creative little kid all these years.

But his life in Georgia was very much in fitting with his personality from all those years ago. He worked in a grocery store meat department for a few years out of high school before taking a job at Claxton Cold Storage, where he’d remained for the past 25 years. He’d started working out and lifting weights diligently at age 14, and by the time he was in his mid-20s, he could bench press in excess of 530 lbs. Undoubtedly, that drive came from his early years, when he vowed to someday “be bigger and stronger than Mike.”

He did indeed, and actually went on to develop a reputation as being the strongest guy in town. Mike told me a story about one of their friends who had a flat tire one morning, but didn’t have a jack. George, who happened to be walking by, picked the front end of the car off the ground and held it while he switched tires. Afterwards, when he asked George if he needed a ride to work, George replied, “I’m good,” and walked off.

He went to all the Claxton Tigers home football games, and became a fixture around town. Even people who didn’t know his full name knew George as a friendly face they’d frequently encounter. He was always out and about, and always had a kind word or funny story for everyone.

Kids benefited from his kindness, as well. Anytime he’d stop by the Kids Castle (the Claxton equivalent of Chuck E. Cheese) for a large pizza, he’d bring a roll of quarters to give to the kids playing video games.

In this photo that Mike shared of George in recent times, that smile and familiar twinkle in his eyes are still very much there. I’d have no trouble recognizing my old friend if I’d passed him on the street. And I very much regret not having the chance to spend more time with him later in life. Just as he was a constant fixture in Claxton, I think we all took it for granted that one day, George would make it back up to Maryland for a Steward Manor reunion.

Despite his physical strength, diabetes took a massive toll on George’s life. He’d had several health scares in recent years, and to borrow Mike’s wrestling analogy, he always managed to kick out at two-and-a-half.

But when Mike got that phone call on June 25th that George had been found unconscious in his apartment after neighbors hadn’t seen him for two days, he knew this was different. George had been taken to Memorial Hospital in Savannah, where he lingered in a coma on life support, occasionally showing brief glimpses of hope by opening his eyes, but ultimately revealing no upper brain activity. His neurologist told Mike that they believed he wouldn’t wake up, and Mike took their recommendation to have his little brother transferred to hospice care on July 9th, and to make George as comfortable as possible. On the morning of July 13th, he passed away peacefully, just two months shy of his 47th birthday.

I feel especially bad for Mike, obviously. Due to the pandemic, he wasn’t even able to be there with George in his last days; and now he has to fly to Georgia to make final arrangements and to clear out George’s apartment.

I’d planned on starting a GoFundMe campaign to help with George’s recovery, knowing that the medical costs would be staggering. That plan has obviously shifted to helping with funeral expenses, including Mike’s travel costs, as he’s currently working in Arkansas.

Please visit https://gf.me/u/ygcj4w and consider making a donation. It can be any amount, and you have the option of contributing anonymously. Minus GoFundMe’s small administrative fee, all funds will go directly to Mike McNeal to use as needed. It’s my hope that everyone who knew and loved George at Steward Manor will be able to spare even a few dollars. Collectively, it all adds up and makes a huge difference.

Since first hearing of George’s condition, I’d hoped for the best while preparing for the worst. What I wanted most was for him to regain consciousness and be restored to full health; after which point I would have loved to have driven down to Georgia to finally see him again in person. I also wanted to give him something that I know he would’ve treasured … something that I wish I could’ve given him when we were kids: a “real” championship belt—not the aluminum foil kind. If he’d somehow managed to beat this, it would’ve been a constant reminder for him of the ultimate victory, and of what he will always mean to those of us who grew up with him.

While I hate the idea that we’ll never get to have that reunion at Steward Manor or reminisce over the phone again, I’m relieved that George’s suffering is over. Reading the hundreds of thoughtful comments on Facebook and the GoFundMe page—many from people who were practically strangers—only reinforces what we already knew: George was a very special soul who will forever be a part of our lives.

Rest in peace, my dear friend.

George Edward McNeal
September 11, 1973 – July 13, 2020

https://gf.me/u/ygcj4w