And just while I was daydreaming like that Jane reaches back and up between my legs and somehow manages to reach through and actually grab my balls from behind. I jumped like a rocket launch. "Jesus, Jane, can't you wait till we get home!" I said. "I rilly don't know," she said with a straight face that kind of scared me a little. Then I caught a gleam in her eyes that I didn't like. Any guy in his right mind would've loved this eye gleam, because it was a little twinkle that said everything, you know, everything a man waits his whole life to see, hear, feel from another woman, but all I got was this dull weightless ache between my stomach and my chest and it was a major friggin' relief when Nigel showed up with our little cardboard ticket.
"One-'leven, at eights," he said solemnly. It was like he had just cast his vote for King Of The World, and the ticket was his voting stub. "You 'old it, Yank. F'good luck."
"I'm honored," I said. And I was.
All twenty horses were on the track by this time, starting to make their way up the long straight to where it turns left to form the vertical part of that reverse "L". "Beautiful track," I said mildly. "No' track!" Nigel exclaimed. "Theys no track 'ere---that's grass, y'twit! You coll a dirt egg back in 'merica a track, y'coll a green thing of beauty over 'ere a course! Goodwood Racecourse! No' track, f'devil's sake."
"Sorry, man. I'm just a basketball player."
"Beautiful animals. Just beautiful!" Jane contributed.
"Seriously, Nigel, do we have a Chinaman's chance of actually winning this thing? It just seems kinda stupid to think our weighted-down horse is just gonna run right by all those other nineteen horses."
"Oh ye of lit'l faith, chief."
"What are we going to do with our money!" Jane said through her best smile. She wore that quality of total optimism that usually makes me want to vomit....but on her? Absolutely friggin' great, I'm not kidding.
"Buy tons of drinks at The Badger," I replied coolly.
"Aye! They runnin', lads'n lassies!"
"Where?"
"There! Down 'the loop, goin' oop the rise!"
I couldn't see anything. You must understand, it isn't like an American track where everything is so close to you because it's an oval. These horses were almost a mile away, and I couldn't see them to save my life.
"Well where's our Waajib, then?"
"Oh...." said Nigel, and he wasn't even looking toward that part of the course, "'e's movin' quite well, 'long the outside rails."
"Come on, Waajib!" Jane said.
When they came off the rise at the bend of the L, and then sweep-turned to the right to head for home, I could finally see them. Not as individual forms, mind you, but as a single brown oozing thing, slowly getting bigger and horsier as they advanced to a half mile out, and then only a quarter mile out. The crowd was amazing. They weren't saying anything. Almost like they were bored, or like it was tea time or something. But then, when the announcer announced that they were nearing the last furlong marker, all friggin' hell broke loose. All at once. Everybody began practicing his or her own pet brand of screaming. Most of them tended to just shout their jockey's first names: "Yo' Willie!---Yo' Nickie---Yo' Greville!", just like that, and soon they were practically in front of us, and there we were on one of the bottom steps, millions of people in front of us so that even with my height I could barely see what was going on. And the jockeys were different, too. It was weird. I'm no expert on the track or anything but after all I am a professional athlete, and the first thing an athlete's trained eye notices with an American jockey is how controlled and compact he is on a horse, bent close to the saddle, almost motionless, arms tucked to his sides, hiding himself behind the horse's head and neck to cut down on the wind resistance. But not these English boys. They were all sitting straight up and flapping away like mad, man you could tell they wanted to win, one arm flapping the whip around, the other holding the reins and flapping those too. Some of them even seemed to be flapping their knees, to get the horse going I guess. It's really a lot more interesting to watch than in America. It sort've looks like these jocks are a bunch of giant, multi-colored bees, just over from Jupiter or Uranus maybe, and they've just swooped down on these poor horses and grabbed them and are flapping their wings really hard so they can lift the extra weight and return to their spaceship with all that extra food. That's what it looks like.
"Where is he, chief? Where the blazes is he!"
And wouldn't'cha know here comes Waajib on the outside, a big burgeoning whale of a horse, clearly bigger than the rest of them, his jockey's blue-and-white silks clearly visible, and I tear my eyes away to quickly check the racecard to make sure those are his silks, and they are, and all of a sudden my heart starts to flutter, and I'm tingling all over and I can hear myself screaming, "Come on! Come on, Waajib, murder 'em you big beautiful s.o.b.! There he is, Nigel, he's killin' 'em, he's killin' 'em!", and then Nigel gets excited and starts whacking me again.
About a hundred yards from the wire Waajib pokes his big beautiful brown nose in front, and draws off by about a length at the wire. It was magnificent, and actually sort of ridiculous how good the whole stupid thing made me feel. We hugged and kissed and punched each other. It was as if the stupid horse had won the race for us personally, and as alone.
"We go' it, chief, I knew we'd win it!"
"No you didn't, but who cares!"
"Bu' I've always liked ol' Waajib!" Nigel explained.
"I wonder if I can buy a whole new hat with me-eight new pounds," Jane said.
"Christ, Jane, I'll buy you twenty goddam hats!" I yelled, and I meant it. "Let's go pound down a couple gallons of beer."
But on the way back to The Harroways Bar our day at the races came to a screeching halt.
Maybe it was the excitement and all the jumping up and down and everything, I know I probably wasn't paying much attention, because I took a bad step and my knee just flat gave out and down I went. It hurt like blazes too, and I guess I sort've screamed a little bit as I went down. The really bad pain was gone in a few seconds, but I think my screaming almost gave Jane a heart attack! Poor thing. She got down on her knees and started petting my face and asking me a lot of fool questions....I thought for a second she was going to cry. But when I assured her I was alright, and that this type of thing happens every once in awhile while the tissue is still technically in the last stages of repair, that seemed to cheer her up instantly.
"Whatever 'mi going to do with a screwed-up Yank like you!" she said as she snuffed up. And then she gave me one of those short but awesome little kisses I was telling you about, which was kind of embarrassing since there was already a big crowd circled around where I was lying on the cement walking area.
"That's the spirit, chief! Nuthin' like a big winner at Glorious Goodwood, hey! I loikes him, Janie---'as possibilities, 'e does!"
"If either of you thinks I'd take a pratfall on cement over a stupid horse, you're crazy," I said.
"C'mon, ol' boy, I'll 'elp y'up. Jane, you take the ticket an' go cash 'er in, while I 'elps the 'merican invalid to a bench. Make sure y'gets exactly one quid shy of a thousand, an' no' a shillin' less. Eight to one, nine fore one, same diff'rence. Gaw on, girl."
So Jane ran off to cash our winning ticket while Nigel helped me through the crowd and over to a bench. Nicest crowd of people you ever saw, by the way. A bunch of them started helping Nigel sort of carry me over to this little bench next to the Tattersalls Gate, they kept asking me how I was and if I wanted a doctor and all that jazz, one nice old lady even ran and got me a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice from the fish bar and when I tried to pay her she told me that the clerk at the fish bar had told her that it was on the house! Typical English. Going out of their way to be nice to you, just to show you how out of place you are in their happy little country.
"Feelin' better now, chief?"
"Yeah, thanks Nigel. Appreciate your help."
"The ol' leg give out in the excitement, hey!"
"Something like that," I said.
/> And then, out of the blue, and in a much softer, more serious kind of voice, Nigel starts asking me about me and Jane:
"Y'got plans fore me-girl, Yank?"
"I don't know. I mean I've never been much for makin' plans." "Listen, son---I moight no' seem like much've a father, an' I reckon I'm not much've one, bu' I cares 'bout that lit'l girl like she was me-own....me-own bonnie....I just want what's best, that's oll."
I knew he was serious. It was the only time he ever called me that.
"She's a fine girl, sir."
"Aw, we' both men-o-the-world, Yank. I knows a man needs a lit'l taste of it now'n again. An' that's fine by me. Bu' this wee lass 'as been 'urt more'n once by blokes who didn' deal roight by 'er. Y'with me, Yank?"
"I promise to never do anything I don't say I'm gonna do. And vice versa," I said.
"I 'ope y'mean that, chief. I 'ope y'do. She's worth more than the gutter I cudda give 'er. More, I say."
He had his hand around my upper arm this time, my right upper arm, the arm he'd already bruised in the parking lot and during the race, and he was squeezing it like mad; but like I said, I'm pretty sure he wasn't even aware he was doing it. He was looking right at me with those hidden beady eyes when Jane walked up.
"Nine hundred ninety nine pounds! Look at me, I'm the Duchess of York!" she squealed, spinning around with our money sticking right out in the open like that. I thought if someone didn't sneak up and grab it that she'd surely drop it for godsake, the way she was flashing it around: "I was so popular! The blokes in the queue thought I was a genius! I could have been married three times over!"
I tell you, it always made my day to see that girl smile.
"Let's blow this tube, babe. I seriously doubt if there's any more Waajibs running today."
"Quite roight, chief," Nigel said, divvying up the profits. My share was 400 pounds, about 650 bucks. Not bad for not knowing what was going on: "Get on 'ome and take a load off that leg---an' when you see ol' Del, tell 'im I owes him a noight on Charing Cross Road f'this one!" (I found out later that Charing Cross is a street in downtown London, noted for its fine theater and even finer after-theater "lady professionals". Jane told me.)
"You leaving too?"
"Leaving! Are you daft? With four hundred quid in me-pocket?"
"Don't spend it all in one place," I said sincerely. I was worried he might blow the whole thing before the damn day was out. Gamblers are sick people. "Very nice to have met you, Nigel. Thanks to you I had fun today."
"Bye-bye, Daddy. Thank you." They hugged good-bye. Her back was to me, so his face was too. He winked one eye shut that was almost shut already. But I understood him. "You kids 'ave fun. Seems like a nice chap, ol' girl. A lit'l rough loike any bloody Yank, bu' you can fix it! Prob'ly just needs t'come to the races more."
We walked out to my MG with Jane trying to help me keep weight off my left leg. It was okay by now, but she seemed to like doing it so I kept quiet. As far as Goodwood is concerned, thumbs up. Anybody coming to England would be crazy to pass it by. But watch out for the touts. They're probably all over the place.
That was the only time I ever saw Nigel, by the way.
* * *
The next few weeks with Jane were just about the best few weeks of my life. Or at least in the last couple years.
We did everything together. Out driving every day, out drinking every night, and around eleven o'clock when the pubs would close down it was back to her place, where she would freely encourage me to suck the paps of life. (When I said earlier that Jane wasn't much on curves, that turned out not to be true. Turns out she had a set of paps that just looking at them changed the taste in your mouth.) We became inseparable. Seemed like ten minutes never went by when we weren't together. It got to where I was only showing up at the B&B to catch an occasional breakfast and to change my clothes; which reminds me. I even tried introducing Jane to Frieda, but for some reason Frieda didn't take to her too well, so I never brought her back to the B&B again. That was the only time I ever saw Frieda less than her usual sweet self. Women.
And I should probably say a little bit more about our sex life together, not a lot more, this isn't a girlie mag type rag, but since she was my main female gig over here it somehow seems sort've relevant; even though it doesn't have a thing to do with basketball. In a nutshell, we were spectacular together. Why was no mystery. It was because we each really liked the other, and we hadn't known each other long enough for any bull_ _ _ _ female negatives to get in the way. Sometimes we would do it two, three, even four times in one night. I had trouble keeping up with her, and I'm a professional athlete in peak physical condition. But there wasn't anything I wouldn't've done for her in bed, and I know she felt that way about me. I don't know. It's just different when you know somebody cares about you more than anybody else in the world. I've had plenty of one-nighters on the road, I know the difference. It used to be that way with Sam, before her head got all screwed up....and I know that's the way it was with Jane because she told me so.
Sometimes, right after we'd been at it, right after she'd come and I'd come and she'd said I love you and of course I'd said me too, and we would be lying there all sweaty and exhausted and tingly and happy, she'd give me one of those sweet little moany kisses and hit me with her pet line, "Whatever 'mi going to do with a screwed-up Yank like you!", and then she would beam that smile up at me and hug my sweaty arm. It became sort've a stupid ritual with us. I'd kiss her right back, and say something like "try and keep me happy", or something dumb like that. Jane always knew just the right thing to say, in or out of bed. To be fair, Sam used to say cute stuff like that, too. One've her favorites was, "Y'know one of these days I'm gonna get fed up and then I'll be gone and then where will you be?" She used to say that all the time, like when we would be play-fighting or arguing about whether or not to make plans for what we would do when my basketball career was over....or every time I wouldn't do some stupid thing she wanted like go to a "super hot" new play with a bunch of fraternity reject types I don't like, or later on with her stupid socialite friends. Sometimes Sam would throw out a line like that even when we were just doing nothing, like walking along that stretch of Santa Monica beach near her apartment. I guess all chicks have clever, stock one-liners they use as a means of ingratiating themselves to their man. But except for in the beginning, Sam was never especially affectionate about it the way Jane was. Sure, Sam would say something like that with that wrinkled, raised-eyebrow expression on her face, but she was never the type that would just come up and hug your arm like Jane would. I loved it when Jane would just come up and hug my arm. She always seemed to know right when to do it, too. God, it made me feel good.
Another thing about Jane was her way of working me in with her friends. They were all just regular outskirts-of-London-working-class-people, just plumbers and prostitutes and barmaids and lorry (truck) drivers, welfare cases, by-god street people, and I was "one of the guys", so to speak, right away. Thanks to her. She even threw me a party one day, just to introduce me to all've them, and I thought I would die laughing when she made me a present of this terrible scarf she'd evidently been secretly working on day and night for the last week or so, a red-white-and-blue monstrosity with the flags of Britain and the U.S. at either end, it was just awful but I tried not to show it too much and I think it made her happy giving it to me. It was a great party, though. We all got stinking drunk, these English street people and me, with me, their new American friend, the goddam guest of honor. I liked them all. Especially the lorry driver, an intensely-thoughtful chap, who spent half the night explaining to me how "If bloody Maggie Thatcher was 'ere roight now" he'd be both proud and happy to "kick the old tart roight in the crotch!" He had a very strong social conscience. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get him to say he'd kick The Queen in the crotch. No way. It took me a long time to understand the way people think over here.
The point is that I loved the way Jane worked me into her little circle. The way S
am kept me away from her filthy-rich, socialite friends you would've thought I was an ax-murderer or something. Or worse yet, an ax-murderer without a masters degree. That was something really dumb about Sam. If she happened to need someone to be her "escort" to a "sizzling-hot" new play that was one thing, or if she happened to be, let's say, unusually restless in the middle of the night or something and she "needed" me, she never gave it a second thought about coming over to my place on the spur of the moment and having a party. And she liked going on the road trips with me because, I think, she knew none of her friends would be around and she wouldn't have to feel obligated to spend a bunch of time talking to them just to fulfill her precious social obligations. But other times, she didn't even seem to want me around. A guy gets sick to death after awhile hearing how much his woman "needs her privacy", or requires her "own sphere of influence". No wonder nobody is monogamous with their lovers.
The Basketball Expatriate Page 12