Segal, Jerry

by One On One (V1. 0) [Lit]

  The classroom half of the lab was empty, and he searched the cubicles. Each had a one-way window in its door—those outside could see in, but those inside could not see out.

  He saw her in the last cubicle, engrossed in an experiment, under Malcolm’s supervision. They were studying the behavior of a rat. The rat, in a cage, was hooked to some sort of electrical apparatus that reacted to its behavior. Janet took notes as Malcolm spoke to her. Occasionally she or Malcolm pushed a button which seemed to agitate the rat.

  Henry had never seen such absorption. Janet’s eyes shone. Her entire being seemed connected to her work. Within her cubicle was another world, a universe of exciting meanings and nuances. She was learning, and loving it.

  He glanced at the clock on the cubicle wall. 12:15. If he hurried, he could get to his English exam. He had studied for it; he would take it himself. He wanted to feel, suddenly, the way Janet felt, to know the sense of accomplishment that lit her face.

  He sprinted from the lab and across the campus to the building in which the exam was taking place, raced up the stairs to the door of the huge classroom. He looked through the window in the door.

  Too late. The young man who sat in Henry’s seat looked up from his writing, recognized Henry and grinned. With an exaggerated wink, he made a circle with his index finger and thumb, indicating that everything was okay.

  Walking slowly, Henry left the building and went back to the gym.

  He ran for two hours on the indoor track, resting only long enough to keep from passing out. When he was completely exhausted, he went to his room at the dorm, threw himself on the bed and slept until dinner.

  * * *

  X

  In mid-November, two weeks before the season opener, Smith ordered a game-conditions scrimmage. In addition to the regular varsity squad, the red-shirts and j.v. boys were involved. Red-shirts were players good enough to make the varsity squad, but ineligible this season for scholastic or other reasons; the junior varsity consisted of players not quite good enough to make the varsity.

  After preliminary warm-ups, the coach assembled the squad. “All right—you, you, you, you, you and you,” he said. “Reverse your shirts. You men are golds.”

  Henry was one of the boys selected. He took off his practice shirt, which was black on the outside and gold on the inside, and reversed it so that the gold showed.

  “I’ll coach the golds,” Smith said, and barked out a starting line-up, which included Henry. “Coach Phillips will handle you black shirts,” he went on. His reptilian eyes swept the squad. “I’d like to see good, tough basketball, gentlemen.”

  Yips of encouragement rang through the gym as the starting teams took the court. Tom, also a gold, shouted at Henry from the bench, “Go get ‘em, buddy!”

  Phillips’ team controlled the tap and scored quickly. Henry took the inbounds pass, dribbled upcourt, drove for the basket, passed off at the last minute to an open man, who scored. A good play. Now he backpedaled on defense, guarding Jomo Wade. Jomo darted behind a pick. Henry attempted to break through the wall of flesh between him and Jomo, and got a massive shoulder in the eye from one of Jomo’s protectors. Helplessly, he watched Jomo jump and score.

  Henry brought the ball back upcourt. Eyes locked, he and Jomo jockeyed. Finally, Henry faked a pass, feinted left, drove right. But Jomo’s long arms and incredibly fast hands won the moment. Though Henry was already a step past him, he reached in, stole the ball, and dribbled the length of the court with Henry in desperate pursuit. As Jomo went up and sank the lay-up, Henry climbed on his back and fouled him.

  After Jomo made the free throw, Henry took the ball upcourt on offense. His pride stung, he signaled his teammates to clear the right side so he could go one-on-one against Jomo. On the bench, Smith rose, eyes narrowed.

  Jomo did not fall for any of Henry’s beautifully executed fakes. Again and again, his incredible reach and agility enabled him to block Henry’s moves.

  Furious, Smith barked, “Team ball, Steele! TEAM BALL! For God’s sake, what is this one-on-one business! You’ve got four other ballplayers on your team! Time, ref, time! Tommy, get in there for Steele!”

  At the bench, Henry found a towel and wiped his face. Then, with a burst of courage, he went to Smith. The coach, engrossed in the game, ignored him.

  “Sir? Sir, I’m sorry for the way I played. I’ll do better next time.”

  “Sit down, Steele.”

  “Yes, sir.” His face burning, Henry sat and watched.

  Minutes later, Smith shouted, “Time, ref.” To the players, he said, “Take a break. You’re starting to look sloppy. Two minutes. Then I want the starting teams back on the court. Except for Steele. Cranston, you’re in for Steele.”

  The winded players headed for the fountain in the corner of the gym. Crestfallen, Henry joined Tom at the end of the water line. Tom looked around. Satisfied he was unobserved, he reached down inside his knee-pad and extracted a rolled-up wad of plastic. He unwrapped the wad.

  “Hey, buddy,” he whispered. “Take one of these. You’ll play better.”

  Henry peered into Tom’s cupped hand, in which nestled a cluster of tiny pink capsules.

  “What are they?”

  “Greenies.”

  “Greenies? They’re pink.”

  “Never mind,” Tom whispered. “Just take one. It’ll make you play better.”

  Henry took a capsule. When he reached the water, fountain, he threw it into his mouth, drank, and swallowed.

  Tom patted him on the back. “You’re a new man,” he said.

  Soon the scrimmage resumed. Henry and Tom watched from the gold bench. Soon one of the gold players wove through the defense and scored.

  Henry leaped to his feet, screaming. “Thataway! Way to go! Put it to ‘em!”

  Tom stared at him. God, he thought, that greenie worked fast!

  “Come on, Ziggy! Hustler Henry cried. He jumped up and down in a frenzy of excitement.

  The golds scored again.

  Henry hooted, “Whoo! Whoo! Oh, wow! Man, did you see that, Tom!” Leaping, he spread his legs in mid-air before he came down. “Get ‘em!” he screeched.

  “Take it easy, buddy,” Tom growled, wrestling him down on the bench.

  “Ain’t they playin‘ great!” Henry yammered. “Get ’em, gang! Get ‘em! Get-’em-get-‘em-get-’em!”

  Smith’s attention was caught by Henry’s uncharacteristic cheering. The coach had seen many ballplayers psych themselves into a whirlwind of excellence.

  “Okay, Steele. Are you ready to play ball?” he called.

  “You bet your ass,” Henry shot back.

  “What did you say, boy!”

  “Yes, sir! Yes, sir, I’m ready to play ball! Sir!”

  “Then get in there. Tommy, you, too.”

  With an Indian war yell, Henry sprang from the bench, ran onto the court and grabbed the ball from a surprised player in mid-dribble.

  “Hey!” the coach shouted. “Wait for the time-out, son! Time, ref, time!” The referee blew his whistle. “Steele, come here!”

  Still carrying the ball, Henry skidded to a halt in front of the coach. He jumped up and down, unable to control his energy.

  “Steele, I want to see the land of basketball you’re capable of!” Smith said. “Can you show me something now?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “What are you going to do out there?”

  “Run fast! Jump high!”

  “Good. And team play. Don’t forget, team play. Now, go! You too, Tommy. Get in there!”

  The referee blew his whistle and the game began again.

  Henry was ridiculous. He refused to give up the ball. He dribbled in and out of bounds, ignored the referee’s whistles, did fancy ballhandling exhibitions, executed a Harlem Globetrotter dribbling routine at centercourt, and concluded his performance with a blind, back-to-the-basket half court shot that soared over the backboard into the mezzanine.

  Henry’s teammates gaped in d
isbelief. Smith was furious at first, thinking that Henry was mocking him, but then the experienced coach deduced the explanation. He sat back in disgust.

  After almost a full minute of Henry’s insane antics,

  Tom managed to grab him in a bear hug and drag him off the floor to the bench. Smith stared at him, icily calm.

  “I’m playin‘ a lot better, huh, Coach?” Henry giggled.

  “Steele,” said Smith.

  “Yes, my man?” Henry giggled again.

  “Go take a shower.”

  “Sir,” wailed Henry, suddenly on the verge of tears, “I’m just gettin‘ warmed up!”

  “TAKE A SHOWER!”

  Henry’s knees buckled; for a second, he blacked out. Tom and the trainer helped the slumping boy out of the gym and to the showers.

  ==========

  At practice the next day, Henry took a good-natured ribbing from his teammates. But their warmth gave him little comfort. Smith ignored him totally. Phillips barked at him. Worst of all, he found himself demoted in scrimmage from number three guard, behind Jomo and Floyd, to number five guard. For long stretches, as Jomo, Floyd, Tom and Cranston played, Henry sat on the sideline, watching.

  ==========

  It was late afternoon. Janet and Henry sat across from each other at a table in a corner of the student lounge. Henry, clad in his letter jacket, was answering his tutor’s question.

  “… and France, Italy and the British Empire. And, uh, in 1917, the United States.”

  “Good.” She smiled at him, thinking that he looked tired and worried. “Now tell me how World War I started.”

  “You mean the assassination of, uh, Francis Ferdinand at Sarajevo?”

  As Janet nodded, Malcolm entered the lounge and came up to their table.

  “Concert starts in a little while, Janet,” he said.

  “I know.” She looked at her watch. “There’s plenty of time.”

  Malcolm leaned down and kissed her possessively, as if for Henry’s benefit, then went to a window and stood looking out, scowling.

  “Before the assassination, Henry,” Janet said, “what were the real causes of World War I?”

  Trying not to let Malcolm’s brooding presence distract him, Henry forced himself back into the lesson. “Uh, one was, uh, when Kaiser Wilhehn built a railroad in Turkey and the English got mad. Another reason was Prussian militarism.”

  “Very good,” Janet said. “Tell me a little bit about Prussian militarism.”

  “Well,” Henry said, “Prussian militarism was like, uh—”

  “The Western University basketball team,” Malcolm sneered from the window.

  Henry gave him a brief stare, then looked at Janet to see if she was friend or foe.

  “In a way, Henry,” Janet said gently, “Malcolm’s right. You see, militarism is basically authoritarian, and so are college athletics—”

  “—and both are dependent,” said Malcolm, joining them at the table, “on pathological and primitive attitudes. Both sanction violence. Both are anti-intellectual.”

  Janet said softly, “You see, Henry, regimented behavior can cause intellectual paralysis. I mean, athletes are so busy perfecting their fantastic skills that they don’t have the time or motivation to look inside themselves. To think.”

  Calmly, Henry said, “You don’t think an athlete thinks?”

  “In the sense that he knows his body and controls a game, yes, he thinks. But deep inside, he’s—unexplored.”

  “Immature is the word,” Malcolm said. “What she means, my friend—”

  “I’m not your friend,” Henry said flatly.

  “I’m not your friend either,” Malcolm drawled. “What she means is: athletics offer submissive individuals a life of perpetual adolescence. What real man lets someone tell him what kind of haircut to get, or what time to go to bed? It’s all a pile of shit. Do you really think a behind-the-back dribble has any intrinsic social value?”

  “I think—”

  “No, you don’t! If you could think, you wouldn’t be what you are, jock.”

  “Malcolm, stop it!” Janet’s eyes, wide with anxiety, did not leave Henry’s face. “That’s enough, please.”

  “Can’t he take it?” Malcolm warmed to his subject. “I thought when the going gets tough, the tough get going. Isn’t that what Coach Smith makes you say before every meal? How can you guys let fascists like Moreland Smith hype you? Smith and his brethren are nothing but Nazi generals, and you jocks are nothing but Good Germans—all thinking the same way, putting on your pagan spectacles week after week, dressing up the same way in your little uniforms!”

  “Will you please be quiet!” Janet implored.

  “What about your uniform?” Henry said icily.

  “What?” Malcolm laughed.

  “Those second-hand clothes,” Henry said. “And those sandals that leave your feet dirty all the time. And that ugly beard.” He glared at Janet, “And her long hair and jeans and beads and bare feet. And the way you people talk. Every one of you hippies look alike, sound alike, and smell alike.”

  “Hippies?” Malcolm guffawed. “Oh, God. What a brilliant response.”

  Henry and he were both on their feet now, their hands clenched. Pale, frightened, Janet sat between them, her small fist nervously at her mouth.

  Slowly, deliberately, Henry said to Malcolm, “All your big words and fancy theories, they don’t mean crud to me, you hairy cow chip. You are the most self-righteous, narrow-minded, prejudiced cow’s ass I ever met. You act like you know everything about everybody. Well, chicken turd, you don’t know what’s inside me. But I’m gonna fix that right now!” .

  Henry began to take off his jacket. Beads of sweat materialized on Malcolm’s forehead, but he held his ground.

  “Henry!” Janet stood trembling. On the edge of hysteria, she cried, “Henry, what are you doing!”

  “He’s about to employ the only problem-solving tool he has. Violence. Right, jock?” Malcolm said.

  “Will you shut up!” she hissed.

  Ignoring her, Malcolm continued. “Gonna settle this philosophical question with our fists, right, jock?”

  “Malcolm!” Janet shrilled. “Don’t say another word! Henry! Please! Please, stop!”

  Henry dropped his jacket on the table and advanced on Malcolm. Janet stepped quickly between them and grabbed the front of Henry’s shirt.

  “Please don’t!” she cried. His enraged eyes remained on Malcolm. “Please! He’s wrong! Henry! Listen to me! He’s wrong! Malcolm is wrong! Please listen!”

  She felt him relax slightly. Gently, she put her palms on each of his cheeks and tenderly forced his head downward, until he looked into her eyes. Her body pressed against his. ,

  “There are all lands of violence!” she said. “Your fists. And Malcolm’s big mouth. And my big mouth, too. Oh, I’m so sorry! Please forgive me, Henry! Please?”

  She had stopped the fight. Henry stared down at her, felt her desperation, felt her hot, sweet breath on his face.

  Janet turned to Malcolm. Wide-eyed, tears glistening on her lashes, she beseeched him. “Please—go. Please.”

  Malcolm shrugged to cover his relief. “Anything you say, Janet my love. I’ll meet you at the box office in front of the concert hall.”

  “Let’s skip it for tonight,” she whispered. ‘'I'll see you tomorrow.“

  He forced a laugh and said, “Okay. You’ve made your choice. I just hope you don’t have to sleep with it.”

  Henry tensed again. Clutching him, Janet rasped, “Malcolm, will you shut up and leave! Please!”

  Malcolm left the lounge.

  Janet walked to the window, breathed deeply, forced herself to calm down. When the trembling left her legs, she returned to the table and sat down across from Henry. She made herself speak normally.

  “Well—where were we?”

  “The real causes of war.” Irony shaded his words.

  She smiled. He smiled back.

  They be
gan to laugh.

  ==========

  During calisthenics the team trainer entered the gym and looked around until he spotted Henry.

  “Coach Smith wants you in his office, Steele. Pronto!”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He went over to the athletic department office. B.J. was not there, so he walked through the outer rooms and knocked on Smith’s closed door.

  “Come in.”

  He entered and closed the door behind him. Smith rose from his desk, smiling his most paternal smile. “Hello, Henry.”

  The warmth in the coach’s voice was reassuring. Smith had not addressed him directly since the greenie fiasco.

  “You want to see me, Coach?”

  “Sit down, son.” Smith motioned to a conference table in a corner of the lavish office.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They sat opposite each other. When Smith spoke again, his tone was reasonable, kindly.

  “Son, we have a problem with you here at Western. You’re not making the adjustment from high-school to college ball.”

  He gave Henry no chance to respond.

  “You’re too small and you don’t have any muscle. I’ve got six-foot-four-inch boys who are almost as quick as you and infinitely stronger. I’m always honest with my men, so I’ll get straight to the point. Henry, I gave you every chance to make it here with us, but you haven’t come through.”

  Smith’s steady gaze did not waver from Henry’s face. He said, “I want you to resign, Henry, and renounce your scholarship.”

  Stunned, Henry could only stammer, “You want me to—quit?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, sir. I—I can’t quit.”

  “You don’t have any choice, son.”

  Henry leaned forward. “Look, sir, I’ll work harder. I can build up my muscles. I’ll practice all day if I have to. But I can’t quit.”

  “Don’t beg, Steele. Don’t ever beg anyone for anything.” Smith’s voice was still calm, but there was an edge to it. “Just quit. Make it easy on yourself.”

  “I can’t, sir, I’ll practice—”

  “You refuse to renounce your scholarship?” Smith snapped.