But I still have a couple serious beefs with the dude. For one thing, he's just too hung up on sex. Don't get me wrong, I like sex as much as anybody, more than most, but this guy is either some kind of deviant or he's just using sex and vile language to shock people, which is dog crap. If you've got a good story to tell, I just don't think it's necessary. You've probably noticed how I hardly ever swear, and never just for the hell of it. For one thing, my mom would kill me if I ever actually used any real bad words. I do say "god damn" every once in awhile, but only conversationally. Only to emphasize a point. Hell, if you think about it, it's only taking The Lord's name in vain if you happen to give a good god damn about The Lord; and I hate people like that, the stupid fucking hypocrites. But this guy Exley uses words you wouldn't hear at a stag party for a fraternity of rapists.
Secondly, after listening to him tear himself apart like that, I don't have any clue as to why he would even do it! I mean what's the point? Sympathy? Man, this really goes against my personal philosophy about writing. I think for fiction (that is to say literature, decent literature, literature that lasts that is) to be valuable, it has to tell a story and it has to have a worthwhile purpose and it has to get itself finished as soon as possible. But in Exley's case, and you need to understand that this dirge of his goes on for almost 400 pages, the text reads more like the secret diary of a deranged psychopath on the way to the gas chamber! Poor guy. It's not so much a story as it is a masochistic confession. I mean he doesn't even change his name. It's Fred Exley writing about a guy named Fred Exley. I think if he called the main character "Joe Crudhead" or something I, for one, would've felt better about it, but now everybody knows how nuts he is....But that's what happens sometimes, I guess, when you let some guys write about themselves. Maybe if he would've said up front that it was merely a biography, like me, it would've been okay. But he didn't. He says it's fiction. He forces you to read it as fiction. And that makes it an unfairly high standard to live up to.
Funny thing is, the book's not really about football at all; there's really very little mention of The New York Giants in it. Most've the time Fred is hanging out in this alcoholic's asylum somewhere in The Deep South, or in some bar whining away about how somebody has screwed him over in some way. It'll confuse you the first time you read it.
Y'know, now that I think about it, it might not've been one of the Clips who recommended Fred's book to me. Might've been Mom, or even Sam. I don't remember. }
quick piss before bed. It was a pretty solid routine.
When my eyes would get tired of reading, often I would simply gaze out and down over the Bignor Roman Villa. If it was early evening, the late afternoon sun gold-orange and hovering just above the rim of pines surrounding The Downs, I would watch the tourists disappear, one-by-one, into their little antlike cars and creep away. If it was right before bed and too dark to see I would look down anyway, and sometimes I would see the two-thousand- year-old tenants of the villa milling around in their cinematically familiar Roman attire, swords skirts sandals, going from saunas to cold baths to sumptuous feasts prepared by captured English slaves. I mean I could really see them. Just knowing the villa was nearby was oddly reassuring to me on those thoughtful evenings. It was comfortable. I mean if you live in Los Angeles, and you go up to Mt. Wilson and try to look down on where you live and imagine what it would be like two thousand years ago, you'd be a pretty lonely guy....
I'd grown really comfortable at THE BADGER too, to the point where going there became the glorious highlight of my day. Delby was always glad to see me, always ready with a firm handshake and a salty tale of the sea. It was sort've funny; he and Frieda, through me as messenger, sort've struck up this daily correspondence. When I'd leave the house at half-five she'd say "Say 'ello to me-ol' Delby!", and then at THE BADGER Delby might say something unintelligible like, "'ow's me-old rosy-luv'ble, china-trouble, Frieda these days?" (I did find out later that "china" means "mate" because it rhymes with "plate", or some dumb thing.). I guess they must've been pretty good friends at one time. Once he even tried to tell me that he and the old girl were the same age, but of course I didn't fall for any of that. But I could just imagine the funny banter they would've had together. I kept trying to get her to come with me down to the pub so that the three of us could have a beer, but she always begged off. Always something about getting ready for some big rush of guests she was always expecting. We three never did have a beer. The old gal was just too much of a homebody.
One time old Delby and I were talking about Frieda and he happened to mention that she'd been married, get this, three times! I could hardly believe it. I pumped him for as much information as I could, but he indicated that he really only knew one of them: "Neve' met the first, an' barely knew the last....'fore 'e buggered off on 'er, tha' is!" he said. By this time I'd sort've figured out that there was something funny about her mysterious "kiddies", and so I asked Delby what the deal was and if that last husband, the one who left her the house, took them with him or something. All he would tell me was, "In a manne' uff speakin', m'friend-- -bu' I reckons yull 'afta inquire 'bout that y'self."
So I did.
Frieda and I were having afternoon tea. Only a couple days before I took off. We were sitting in this wonderful little room, a six-sided glass room she had out on the patio just for growing plants, a "hexagonal solarium" she called it, we were just sitting there and sipping one of her special foreign teas, when I suddenly started thinking about it again and I just couldn't help myself:
"Frieda....how come my room was never finished?"
"Beg pardon?"
"My room. It looks like kiddie wallpaper was being put up, but then they just stopped and slopped paint over it. What's the deal?"
I felt bad the minute I'd said it, but there wasn't much I could do about it then. She froze up like a popsicle, wouldn't look anywhere near me. She just got up and walked around the glass room, sort've pretending to inspect all the weird crawly plants she had creeping all over the glass walls. The late-afternoon sun was coming in from the west, and it lit up her red hair so you could really see how much gray she had in there. Kind've sad, if you ask me. I could tell I'd really stepped in it this time. I really wanted to let her off the hook. I mean I couldn't just let her stand there like that: "I'm a little tired, Frieda. I think I'll get some sack," I said, but she wouldn't let me go.
"Me-daughter was going to 'ave tha' room....Nicole."
"Uh, yeah. You mentioned her. Couple times."
"Ev'ry woman wants a baby, luv. Them tha' tells ya they don't is no' bein' square...."
"I bet she was beautiful," I said (and you're about to find out that there's no limit to how stupid I can be sometimes).
"She'd be 'bout....eight years old by now. Give or take."
"Oh. I'm very sorry. How did she die?"
"I wudda been such a fine ol' mum....such a bloody-good mum, I wudda been! I knows I would 'ave. I know...."
So I'm just sitting there, like a dummy, pretending to sip my goddam tea, trying to think of something worthwhile to say but as it turns out I didn't have to; and somehow I don't think she would've heard me if I did. She was standing perfectly still at this point, gazing out across the gold-drenched Downs. Her back was to me. She was in a direct line between me and the dropping sun, and a soft shadow was therefore thrown directly over me, so I didn't have to squint to look at her but I'll bet I was think-squinting the way she was talking. I'm telling you, it was like a monologue scene from an old play. It was like this was her one moment, like a sixth of the whole world was suddenly gathered at each glass window to watch her make this simple, defining statement about herself. And she didn't raise her voice, but instead talked just as if it wasn't me that was listening but rather a great many people, people who were expecting something dramatic and therefore didn't expect it loud:
"All I eve' wanted....me-'ole life....was me-own lit'l girl. I knowed it right from the first moment I eve' found out 'bout babies. Me-own lit'l girl
....a beaut'ful lit'l girl I could brush an' spoil an' dress up in fine clothes....an' we'd be more'n mother'n daughter, we'd be friends, roight good friends we would....but I'd still be the mum. I'd be the mum....an' she? Why she'd be a lady, a real lady, with the proper schoolin' an' the proper manners, no' a back-alley barmaid like 'er ol' cow 'ad to be just to survive, no sir....an' the most proper families would receive 'er, an' invite 'er ove' f'tea, an' call 'er Miss---Miss Mannheim! Miss Nicole Mannheim!...Miss Nicole Mannheim....Miss Nicole Mannheim....don't tha' sound just perfectly luv'ly?..."
Man!
That was it. She was crying. I could tell from the way she carried her wiggly shoulders. Ordinarily I probably wouldn't've been this nosy, but just remember that we were pretty close. In a temporary sort of way.
"So your third husband didn't want kids."
"hm-mmm..."
"And you didn't even find out until after you were already married?"
"Marriage means children, ducks."
"But there are lots of couples nowadays who---"
"It's a bitta' pill, luv, when a lady finds 'er bloke don't bloody-well....love 'er 'nough....'nough to stay 'round long 'nough, t'give 'er....tha' wha' she deserves."
"I guess it's hard to really know about people."
"Quite. Bu' when 'e winds up....when 'turns out...."
"Well at least you've got his money. And this nice house he so generously left behind."
"You got money. Does it make it any betta'?" There was a sharpness in her voice now. I didn't know what she was talking about.
"I meant for later. When you meet the right man. You'll already have the money for her education and to buy her all those neat clothes."
Finally she turned around and looked at me. Her eyes were all wet and she was sniffling. But at least she was smiling: "Depends on 'ow often a bird meets a bloke who could be tha' right man....more tea, me-dark 'andsome man?"
"I'm really sorry about all that stuff, Frieda," I said. "Tough break. But the stupid jerk doesn't sound like he was good enough for you anyway. You were lucky. Wait and see--- someday soon you'll meet some nice old guy, some really nice considerate English gentleman ready to settle down and have some kids of his own. You'll see."
"I 'ave some cleanin' t'do."
"Huh? What'd I say?" I said, but she'd already scurried into the house. She was really upset. Probably the last thing she wanted to talk about was her marriages. Probably just reminded her of arguments she must've had with that last guy about whether or not to get her pregnant. Women and children....I can remember all the times Sam used to squawk about wanting kids, and how upset she used to get listening to me trying to explain that I was a professional athlete on the road all the time and never around in the evenings and how I was hardly the type to be worrying about a bunch of screaming carpet urchins, for the next ten or twenty years anyway. But Frieda sure seemed a lot more upset than Sam ever got. I bet she was crying again, too. I thought about running after her, maybe offering to take her up to THE BADGER for a beer or two, but I decided it might be best just to leave her alone. So instead I just went up to my room, locked the door, and took my afternoon nap.
Finally, one damp chilly evening, after about two weeks had passed by, Delby (who had finally started to be not so nice to me with every passing day I didn't break down and call Jane) leaned over the section of the bar where I was drinking, getting his unsmiling face really close to my face the way he liked to do, and told me that Jane was going to be coming in any minute, and that he would consider it a "consi'dribble per'snal court'sy" if I would make sure to glue my "bloody Yank arse" to that barstool until she arrived.
"Sure thing, Delby old pal," I growled at him.
When she finally appeared in the doorway of THE BADGER, that last time, it was almost exactly as I remembered it from the first time. There was late-afternoon light bouncing off her hair and shoulders, framing her, and she even had on the same peach-colored tank top she had on the day we went to Goodwood. About the only thing different was the smile. She was always smiling, but it was different this time. Tired. Like it was held in place with scotch tape.
And then she hugged me and kissed me and then the little moan and touching the back of my head and the whole routine.
"Hello again, my tall one."
"Hiya, good-lookin'. I missed you," I think is what I said.
She kissed me again, and before either of us could say anything stupid she pulled some letters from her handbag.
"Mine?"
"I told you I'd keep track of your affairs, poppet---I checked the post every day. One of them is a right queer name."
"Oh. Thanks."
"Mebbe they'll be news of a basketballing job!"
She was always saying things like that. She was great. She was truly great.
"Maybe."
"You go ahead'n read, and I'll visit the loo."
While Jane was in the head I took a look at the letters. There were four of them. Three were from my mother, and there was nothing in them worth taking up space here, just the usual advice and "I love you" jazz and midwest-type small talk. They were good letters and everything, they just weren't relevant to a piece on basketball. (Besides, there's just no way I'm going to show you a letter from my friggin' mother.)
The fourth was from LeSoul Jackson. That was the queer name Jane was talking about. Soul was probably my best friend on the team up until last year, when they all ran me off. That's really his name, too. He didn't make it up. Unless you're from L.A. or Detroit or D.C. a name like that probably seems weird to you, and I have to admit that jigs, that is to say black folks, do tend to get pretty creative when it comes to handing out names to their offspring. I mean they have names like Bob and John and Terry and Ricky, etc., just like everybody else, but unlike Whitey they evidently sometimes feel some sort've Africa-historical or tribal-cultural need to express themselves by going haywire with a weird first name every now and then. I don't mind. I know one black guy back in L.A. named Clyde, which isn't too bad, but his brothers are named Theotis and Derneille for godsake (thank god my Italian mom didn't revert to the old country and stick me with Carlo or Leonardo or some screwy thing). And you should hear the names of some of the other guys in the League, on the Clippers for that matter. Antoine, Dominique, Lafayette, Garlande, Kalvin, Kelvin, Klevinne....Abdul....heck, Soul isn't even the only guy on our team with "Le" starting off his name; there's this jerk LeVelle Carter who plays back-up power forward, second-year man out of Marquette. He couldn't wait to get rid of me, I'm here to tell you. And as a guard myself, and not being nearly tall enough to even think about being a friggin' small forward, much less a power forward, I wasn't even a threat to him.
Anyway, since Soul's letter happens to be the only other piece of mail I received the entire time I was in Sussex, I thought I might as well let you in on it. I think it does provide a measure of insight into how the black mind works, what they think about, you know. Also gives you a feel of basketball life from the point of view of another player besides me. There's no point in reading a piece about basketball without knowing what goes through a player's mind when he's not actually playing. Hell, you might think it's boring, I don't know. If you don't like it it's my master's fault for letting you see it, not mine. Here goes.
One more thing: I'm putting this down just the way it was written, with all the spelling mistakes and punctuation and everything. I don't want you to blame Soul too much, though. He grew up in L.A., South-Central, and he didn't exactly have the best of educations. It's lucky he can play ball (and can he play ball!), because without his basketball scholarship to Oklahoma U. he wouldn't've had a Chinaman's chance in hell of going to college. And not because he's stupid, he's not, but because of money. But then he went "hardship" after his junior year (he was actually 10 or 12 units shy of actually being a junior, though I probably shouldn't say it in print), and now the dude pulls in about 600 grand a year, which is roughly four times my last contract. Hardship my butt! But the point
is that college allowed him to make his name for the Pros, and then he got out quick. I just didn't want you to think less of him because he might not talk as well on paper as he does in real life. Or because he used college the way most jig jocks use it until it isn't useful anymore. In that respect, he's no different than me, in a way. I don't remember a goddam thing I learned in college. Except my creative writing classes, of course.
The Basketball Expatriate Page 17