The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  “Let me see … . You wish to enroll?”

  John took a deep breath, trying to conceal his anxiety and his emotions.

  “I wished to inquire how many more credits I would need to finish a degree,” he said politely.

  The man looked from John to the papers and back again, his distaste obvious.

  “But”—he stammered—“these credits are from, uh, Indian schools.”

  Somehow, the distaste with which the man said “Indian” made it sound like typhoid or cholera.

  “You must realize that this is a University. We could accept very few of these credits.”

  He gestured with the papers, his attitude implying that he feared he might soil his hands just by examining the forms.

  “But … There are three years of study there,” John protested.

  “Of course,” said the educator, speaking slowly and a little loudly, as if that would help the misunderstanding. “A year at Haskell and, uh, two more at, uh, Carlisle, is it? Indian schools. These are not acceptable credits, for the most part.”

  “I will have another year’s credits in the spring,” John offered.

  “Yes, uh, Haskell credits. You may have enough entry-level hours for a semester or two. But … Some of these you have will not be eligible. If you had taken this class, for instance, here at the University, you would have needed other prerequisites first.”

  He pointed to the top page on the sheaf of papers.

  “But I took that course! I scored well.”

  “Yes, but without the prerequisites, this other freshman course can’t be accepted.”

  “I would have to take it over again?”

  “Well, yes … But only after taking the prerequisite, Beginning Mathematics.”

  “Beginning?”

  “Of course. One must start at the bottom, in any field. Except, of course, digging a well.”

  The man giggled, amused at his own cleverness.

  John Buffalo assumed his stone-faced stoicism, his protection.

  “Do you want these?” asked the man, offering the papers.

  “I wanted information,” said John. “Maybe I got it. I have wasted three years?”

  “Not at all.” The man smiled. “You can read and write.”

  The message was plain: And most savages can’t.

  John would have liked to have more information about just how many of these credit hours could be transferred, but he realized that it was not forthcoming.

  Maybe, when Naismith returned, he could be helpful. He stopped to leave the envelope and the papers at the coach’s office, with the pockmarked clerk.

  NINETEEN

  “They won’t accept your credits?”

  Naismith was indignant.

  “Only a few, they said. Not more than a semester or two.”

  “Well,” the coach pondered. “I can see their position. Not that I agree with it, John … Much of your study has been at a training level called ‘normal school.’ Not comparable to the University. But to further confuse things, you’ve competed in football and track for three seasons. In your fourth, now. And this, at college level. And from Carlisle, back down to two-year training level. I don’t understand that rationale at all.”

  John said nothing. He had a pretty good idea of that rationale, but it would do no good to attempt to explain. He had been punished for his poor choice of parents, and an unacceptable romance.

  Jane … He still thought of her often. He had mourned her loss and had tried to move on. There had been a brief time when no woman even looked attractive to him, but that had passed. Now his attraction was guarded. More objective, a bit defensive, in the stoic, emotionless “Indian” way. He did not expect … Did not even want to feel about any woman as he had felt about Jane Langtry. That was the love of a lifetime. The urges he felt now were purely animal.

  “John?”

  “What? Oh, yes, sir.”

  His mind had wandered and he had been lost in thought.

  “Are you all right, John?”

  “I … uh … I think so, sir. You were saying—”

  “I asked whether you knew how many credits the university will accept, eh?”

  “Oh … No, sir. They didn’t say. Not more than a year’s work, I gathered.”

  Naismith shook his head.

  “Well, first you should finish the year at Haskell. Receive your two-year degree. That lends some dignity. Then you could probably find a job as a trainer. Possibly we can help with that. Pay would be poor … . Little chance for advancement. But you could continue your education and your physical training, compete in open track events, look ahead to Olympic level.”

  “You mentioned further education, sir. What would be needed to coach?”

  “At least a college degree, I’m afraid, John. But you wouldn’t have to do it all at once, eh?”

  “What about the cost?”

  “That, of course, is a potential problem. Have you any resources?”

  “Resources?”

  “Yes. Any income …”

  “Oh. Money.”

  “Well, yes, to put it bluntly.”

  “No, sir. At Haskell—”

  “Ah, yes. The Indian schools. Carlisle, too, of course … This is outside my experience, John. But you know there are fees, tuition, expenses at colleges and universities?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve just had no occasion to deal with it.”

  “I understand. Well, in most cases, the cost is by the credit hour. You’d pay only for the courses you take. Probably a registration fee.”

  “How much money are we speaking of?”

  “I can’t say, offhand. But within reason. You can do this, John. Finish your year at Haskell, and I’ll inquire around. A trainer’s job, or even a locker-room attendant would be a start, eh?”

  The coach rose, indicating that the interview was at an end.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Stay in touch!”

  They shook hands and parted.

  Now, with at least some sense of direction, John could try harder to concentrate on football. First, however, it was necessary to get into some games, and that was difficult. The Haskell team was well seasoned and well coached. Players were in good condition, and there were few injuries. John found himself in an odd dilemma, almost hoping for the injury that would thrust him into the game, yet feeling guilt for that very hope.

  In practice, he worked with a vengeance. In scrimmage against the starters, he tackled and blocked as if the game actually depended on it. After a particularly hard tackle, he was helping the ball carrier to his feet when the coach rushed onto the field.

  “Take it easy, Buffalo. This is just practice, you know.” He turned to the dazed player. “Are you okay, Soldier?”

  “Yes, sir. I think so. Damn, John, we’re on the same side, remember?”

  “I—I’m sorry, Soldier,” muttered John. “I didn’t mean …”

  “I know. It’s okay.”

  If he could only take out his frustrations in a game or two!

  But he warmed the bench and, in observing, learned. Football was still in process of development, and the rules were at times unclear. Haskell played teams with bizarre variations to their uniforms. Straps and handles dangled from the suit of one team’s ball carrier. His teammates could grab and pull, push, carry—even throw the quarterback through or over the line of scrimmage.

  Another team wore jerseys with the outline of a football, complete with lace up the middle, stitched on the chest. This created difficulty in identifying who actually had the ball.

  Some of their games were with semiprofessional teams, with strange equipment and techniques. One of these, the St. Louis Athletics, had pointed helmets with a lace up the back like that on a football. When the ball was snapped, several players would yank off their helmets, tuck them under an arm, and run wildly. Which one should be tackled? And, if you guessed wrong, there could be a penalty for holding.

  When the season was over, Joh
n reverted to distance running to stay in physical condition for the coming track-and-field season. Each morning he rose early to run at least ten miles before classes. In inclement weather he still ran, counting laps around the gymnasium.

  Christmas came and went, observed but little celebrated by the students, most of whom remained at school for the holiday break. There was a Christmas dinner with some special treats. Oranges, not a usual delicacy in the school cafeteria, and for each, a sack of hard candy.

  With the help of James Naismith, John managed to obtain more information about his academic status. At the University of Kansas, he would be allowed credit for what would amount to a year’s study. There were three more courses for which he could receive credit by taking “prerequisites,” which would have been required if he had taken the courses at K.U.

  “You could take some of those now,” suggested Naismith. “This term.”

  “Uh … Sir, I couldn’t.”

  “Not enough time?”

  “Well, that, and … I have no money, sir.”

  “Yes, I suspected as much. Which leads me to another matter. I may have a job for you.”

  John brightened.

  “Here?”

  Naismith smiled. “No, it’s customary to fill our jobs with our own students, you know.”

  Of course, thought John. How stupid of me.

  “This would be at Lane University,” the coach went on. “Over at Lecompton, west of here. Walking distance. Ten miles, maybe. A church school. United Brethren … A good school. They need a trainer and locker-room manager. Here, I’ll give you the name to contact.”

  Naismith pulled a sheet of paper toward him and scribbled on it, then folded it and handed it to John.

  “Here’s your introduction. Hand this to the coach over there, eh?”

  It was three weeks before the weather permitted such travel. When there was finally a break, he crossed the bridge at Lawrence and followed the road west, on the north side of the Kaw River. The road was thawing in the watery rays of the pale winter sun. It was muddy in places and slippery in others, and it was difficult for him to maintain a runner’s pace.

  It was not difficult to locate the brown sandstone University building when he arrived at the town of Lecompton. Easily the most imposing structure in town, its construction had been started as the state’s Capitol Building. Shifting politics moved the capital to Topeka, a few miles west, and the unfinished building was sold to the Church of the Brethren for their University. The Brethren were originally allied to the Methodists, but based around German-language congregations, and more pacifist, similar to the Quakers.

  John was not particularly interested in all of this, but listened patiently as an enthusiastic student escorted him to meet the man to whom he would give Naismith’s note.

  Coach Braun rose to shake hands, and unfolded the note, scanning it briefly.

  “Ah, yes! Coach Naismith spoke to me of this, Buffalo. As I understand, you are not to enroll as a student?”

  “Possibly, sir. I will graduate from Haskell this spring, but will need further credits to enter coaching.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember now. You seek a trainer’s job while you continue. A few classes here, then?”

  “If possible, sir.”

  “I don’t see why not. A bit unusual perhaps, but … Didn’t Naismith tell me you had attended somewhere else? Some eastern school … Springfield?”

  “No, sir. He was at Springfield. I was at Carlisle, and we played them at football.”

  “I see. Well, this isn’t much of a job, this trainer’s position. Usually I use one of our own students as a part-time helper. But that man is graduating. We are talking of next term, I assume?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This could mean room and board, perhaps a couple of dollars a week … .”

  “Coach Naismith suggested that I might work toward a degree from here. There would be enrollment costs?”

  “Yes … I gather that your resources are limited?”

  Not limited, nonexistent, thought John.

  “Uh … Yes, sir.”

  “Well, it might be possible to consider a waiver. At least a partial one. Nothing definite, you understand. We’ll see. After all, this is months away, you know.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  As he left Lecompton, his spirits rose. The journey back to Lawrence was much shorter and easier because his heart was soaring.

  It had been a long time since he had anything good about which he could think. Maybe he had come to a point in the trail where things could again become good for him. He smiled to himself, and lengthened his stride toward the Haskell campus.

  TWENTY

  Maybe his world was beginning to fall into place again. He still thought of Jane sometimes, but less often, maybe. There was not the rending, tearing sense of bereavement that he once had felt. There was regret for the loss, but it was a loss of something that had really never been, except as a hope and expectation. In his more thoughtful moments, he told himself that such a love could never have been, anyway. Her world was far removed from anything that he could ever be. He had been taught this, in many ways, since his first day in the government school on the reservation.

  Now, however, he had envisioned a new goal and a realistic chance at achieving it. He could work for the summer again, maybe save a little money. He’d move to Lecompton as the harvest was over and the fall term began at Lane University. It was a plan. He was certain that in a position as trainer he could begin to do some coaching.

  John worked hard at his own training, pleased that his abilities at track and field were improving. In distance runs, his wind was better than ever, and his coordination smoother. He almost never fell at the hurdles now. The javelin soared to greater distances as he developed muscle strength. He placed in the track meets against other schools around the region.

  Shortly before the end of the spring term, it occurred to him that it might be good to contact Coach Schmidt at Lane again, to verify their previous conversation. He was accustomed to a daily ten-mile morning run, and usually another in the evening. He could easily head across the river and west, ending the morning session at Lane. The return trip could be at any time later in the day.

  It was a glorious morning in May, cool and sunny, and the sun was pleasant. John could glory in the use of his developing strength and condition. He reached Lecompton and slowed to a walk to cool down as he neared the campus at Lane University.

  “Ah, yes,” said the coach, half-turning to set down a burlap sack of equipment. He extended a hand. “Good to see you, Buffalo. But I’m afraid I have bad news.

  “Bad news?”

  “Yes. The trainer’s job … It’s filled.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought—”

  “I’m sorry, John. I told you, we give preference to our own students.”

  “Yes, sir, but you said—”

  “I don’t know what you thought I might have implied, John. But the position is filled. Maybe next year.”

  There was no point in further talk. That much was plain. It was also plain that the “preference” was quite selective. The pimply faced young man beyond the lockers, stuffing soccer balls into another gunnysack, was a Nordic type with blue green eyes and flaxen hair. It was as plain as if someone had said: You’re just an Indian.

  John’s shield of stony stoicism descended over his face as he turned away.

  “Maybe later, son,” the coach called after him.

  John wanted badly to shout at the man, I am not your son! I am the son of Yellow Bull! But it would do no good. He walked away.

  The road back to Lawrence was much longer than it had been on the morning run, and not nearly so smooth. What had been a beautiful day, with sights, scents, and sounds of spring, had deteriorated considerably.

  As he passed Mount Oread, he considered turning aside to talk to Coach Naismith, but elected to defer it. Possibly, when he regained his composure, he would consider i
t. Yes, he probably owed it to the coach to tell him of this latest twist of misfortune.

  It was nearly two weeks before John had recovered to the point where he felt comfortable in approaching the man.

  “Really? I’m sorry, John. Did he give you any reason?”

  “One of his students …”

  “Ah, yes. Well, that can’t be helped. What will you do now?”

  “I don’t know. I can work for the summer for one of the farmers, but then, I don’t know.”

  “Sorry I’d have nothing here. There are other colleges around, though. I’ll keep an eye open. Stay in touch, eh?”

  John talked to his own coach, but they had never been really close.

  “Too bad, Buffalo. I’d hoped that would work out for you at Lane. If I hear of anything …”

  “Yah!” said Mr. Schneebarger. “Ist goot. Ve got a horse to break, too. Ven ken you start, John?”

  “Two weeks. I could come this weekend, two days.”

  “Mebbe so, Saturday. Sunday, nein. Ist day to rest.”

  John had always found that odd. Most whites, especially the more churchly types, set aside a day for “rest” every seven days. Routine chores must be done, of course. Milking, feeding, and gathering eggs. In most families, there was no plowing or planting or hoeing. The main activity was church, which sometimes lasted most of the day. Prayers and singing and endless sermons.

  He participated, to an extent. It was easier. Old White Horse had taught him that. But he still wondered. Why does the white man talk to his God only once a week?

  There was a ceremony as the graduation took place at Haskell. The students wore robes and funny mortarboard hats, and marched to music. Speakers praised the graduates, and urged them to go out and make their instructors proud; to show that they had overcome the handicaps of their collective origins. They marched out again, soberly, to the same music.