Segal, Jerry

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

  This time he called on a man, who gave his reason in song. “Because—ev’rybody’s doin‘ it, doin’ it, doin‘ it!”

  Malcolm joined in the general laughter.

  “Correct,” he said. Then, louder, “Correct!” He slammed the lectern with his open hand. “Yes! It’s okay to lie and cheat, it’s okay to break the law, it’s okay to violate every moral precept—as long as you’re doing it for a worthy cause! Or, as long as—ev’rybody’s doin‘ it!” He smiled coldly. “Wnich takes us from Watergate—to college athletics.”

  The class laughed again.

  “Did I say something funny? I didn’t mean to. Let’s compare Watergate and college athletics.

  “What ends do college athletics hope to achieve? Win games! Make money for the Athletic Department! Achieve excellence by spending millions of dollars on a few dozen superbly trained young athletes—in a student body of fifty thousand!

  “And what means are employed to achieve these ends? We buy young men’s bodies. To hell with their minds. And we call these professional athletes ‘students!’ What hypocrisy! The way we exploit these young men under the guise of giving them a higher education makes the entire university stink with rottenness!

  “But what difference does all this duplicity make? As long as we win games, sell tickets, make money—it’s all okay. It’s okay! Because ev’rybody’s doin‘ it!”

  Malcolm looked directly at Henry now, and addressed him as if they were the only two people in the room.

  “I’m the psych teacher, not a theologian. But I believe that when cheating is a person’s everyday way of life, that person loses his soul. I believe that when a person blindly lives by false standards, that person is not free. That person is a slave.”

  He looked at his watch, began gathering his notes. “That’s it,” he said. “Class dismissed.”

  The students straggled from the classroom. When they were gone, Henry rose and stared down at Malcolm, who smiled tentatively up at him. Solemnly, but without rancor, Henry nodded. Malcolm’s smile widened.

  “Peace?” he said.

  “Peace,” Henry whispered.

  Malcolm turned away and exited through the door behind the lectern.

  * * *

  IV

  Phillips’ persecution of Henry reached its zenith on a day in early December, just before the team left for its first road trip. That day, Phillips had shouted during practice, “Steele, over here. You, too, Tommy.”

  When they stood before him, Phillips barked, “Steele, we’re putting you on a special program to build your muscles and stamina. I want you to start with a hundred push-ups and a hundred sit-ups in twenty minutes. If you don’t make it in twenty, start all over again. Then, you run them stairs up yonder in the mezzanine, everyone of ‘em, up and down every aisle, all the way around the arena, in five minutes. If you don’t do it in five, start all over again. Tommy, you supervise.”

  Sullenly, Tom muttered, “Yeah.”

  “What’d you say?” Phillips’ eyes were baleful.

  “Yes, sir,” Tom said.

  “Then git goin‘!”

  Wild with rage, Henry had done the push-ups with explosive frenzy. When he began the sit-ups, Tom helped him by holding his feet for anchorage.

  “Tom!” Phillips bellowed from across the gym. “Let’s let Steele do it on his own, son!”

  Tom stood aside while his teammate struggled.

  Next day the traveling squad departed. Henry, left at home, was blissfully free for ten days from Phillips and Smith. Meanwhile, in Chicago, Western destroyed its first opponents of the season by more than thirty points. In a tournament a week later—three games in three days—no foe came closer than fifteen points to beating Western. When Smith’s team returned home in mid-December, Western was number one in every poll.

  ==========

  The day after the team’s return from the road trip, Henry reported for practice confident that having endured the push-ups, sit-ups and stairs, he could now take everything Smith and Phillips could devise.

  At the beginning of the practice, Smith spoke to the assembled squad.

  “We’re going to have a little game of one-on-one. Pay attention, gentlemen. You will learn something.” He nodded to Phillips. “Proceed.”

  Phillips waved toward the door of the gym, and Hitman King, a mean-looking linebacker on the football squad, entered, wearing basketball clothes. When he reached the curious squad, King bent over and picked up a basketball from the top with one hand, as easily as if it were an orange. Only an inch or two above six feet, King’s bulging muscles put his weight over two hundred and thirty pounds. He moved with the agility of a toe dancer, but his nickname, Hit-man, reflected the cruelty of his disposition.

  “Steele!” Phillips snapped.

  Henry came forward. Next to Hit-man King, he looked undernourished, vulnerable. The squad grew tense; the older players knew what to expect, and Henry was one of their own.

  “You and King play a little bit of half court for us, Steele,” Phillips said. “I’ll referee.”

  King took the ball at midcourt. Henry, on defense, played him low and tight. Backing toward the basket as he dribbled, King deliberately exposed the ball, inviting a steal. Quickly, Henry reached around for the ball. With a sickening whask! King’s elbow smashed into his chin. The force of the blow sent Henry to the floor. King dribbled around him and scored.

  Rising groggily, his hand to his bleeding mouth,

  Henry said to Phillips, “I suppose you didn’t see that, ref.”

  “Shut up, and play ball!” Phillips ordered.

  On the sidelines, the entire squad had risen angrily from the bench. Tom started out on to the floor to protect his roommate, but Moreland Smith grabbed his arm. Commanding Tom and the rest of the squad with his eyes, Smith stared them into sullen compliance— they knew their futures, their lives, depended on the coach’s good graces.

  On offense now, Henry took the ball at midcourt. As he worked his way toward the basket, King slapped his arm repeatedly—flagrant, vicious wallops. Phillips did not blow his whistle. Disgusted, Henry pushed King’s huge hand away.

  Phillips’ whistle shrilled. “Foul! Your ball, King.”

  “You gotta be kidding” Henry slammed the ball down angrily, so that it bounced high in the air. King, grinning, caught it as it came down and immediately charged toward Henry like a maddened rhino. His massive body smashed the boy to the floor again, the crash reverberating through the gym. King scored, then stood under the basket and grinned wolfishly at Henry on the floor.

  Henry struggled to his feet and shook his head to clear it, turning his back on King. Then, whirling, he threw a lunging right that connected perfectly with King’s chin.

  King went down to one knee for just a second. Then the muscled linebacker flew at Henry, an explosion of massive windmilling fists. The blows smashed into Henry’s face once, twice, three tunes, each like a battering ram. The first punch staggered him. The next two connected as he fell.

  Tom and Phillips picked him up and held him so that the hysterical boy could not try to continue the uneven fight. Half knocked out, Henry struggled nevertheless.

  “You sonofabitch! You sonofabitch!” he rasped at King, squirming and twisting. Only when Smith came forward and icily inspected his bleeding face did he calm down.

  Blue, egg-sized welts already puffed Henry’s cheeks and mouth. His chin and lips were bloody. Satisfied that he had sustained no serious injuries, however, Smith spoke to the squad.

  “Gentlemen, what you’ve seen here is a demonstration of mental warfare, of one man psyching another man right out of a ballgame—or, in this case, into running the stairs.” Coldly, the coach said to Henry, “Get going, Steele.”

  On shaky legs, Henry walked toward the stands. As his head cleared, his pace increased. By the time he reached the mezzanine, he was running. In a fury, he attacked the stairs, vaulting up the aisles as fast as he could, hatred contorting his battered face
.

  ==========

  The practice over, Smith walked through the long tunnel that connected the varsity lockers with the complex in which his office was located. Preoccupied, he was halfway through the dimly lit tunnel before he realized that a figure had stepped out of the shadows at the far end and now blocked his way.

  “Coach Smith!” the figure croaked.

  God, he thought, it’s Steele! Squinting, he saw that Henry was still clad in his work-out garb. Although he did not slacken the cadence of steady walk, Smith nevertheless felt a sudden clutch of uneasiness. Had he pushed the lad too hard? Had the boy cracked?

  “Coach Smith,” Henry blubbered through swollen lips, “you’re never gonna get me to give up my scholarship!”

  Smith stopped a foot from Henry. “Get out of the way, boy,” he said calmly. “Go see the trainer. Get your face cleaned up.”

  Tears mixed with the clotted blood on Henry’s face as he snarled, “You can ruin other guys’ lives, but not mine! You’re never gonna get me to give up my scholarship!”

  Smith lost control of himself. Grabbing the front of Henry’s sweatshirt, he jerked the boy to him until their faces almost touched.

  “Ruining lives?” he screamed. “What do you mean, ruining boys’ lives? Why you little bastard, I save boys’ lives! I give boys a chance here! I gave you a chance!”

  “You’re never gonna get my scholarship!” Henry hissed.

  “You know what you can do with that scholarship!” Smith roared. “You can shove it up your ass! All the way up! With a red-hot poker!”

  The frenzied coach realized suddenly that Henry was smiling through his swollen lips. He abruptly released the boy’s shirt and stepped back, speechless. In thirty-five years of coaching, he had never lost control of himself like this.

  Henry laughed. “What we’ve just seen,” he said, “is a demonstration of one man psychin‘ another man right into peein’ in his pants.”

  Smith stared at him.

  Henry laughed again. “Coach, you are a great molder of character.”

  He had gone too far.

  “Why, you pernicious little hypocrite!” Smith brought his demeanor back to normal, but his words came out like frozen knives. “Before you signed your letter-of-intent to play here, you bargained with me as tough as any shyster lawyer. You ate every steak, used every airline ticket, fucked every girl we bought you. You asked for a car. We gave it to you. You asked for two scholarships. We gave them to you. Not once”—his finger jabbed Henry’s shoulder to emphasize each word —“not once did you ever ask to have your ‘character molded!’ Because it was already molded! You knew every minute what was going on! You’re disgusting, you two-faced, supercilious little phony!”

  He pushed Henry aside and walked on through the tunnel.

  Henry watched him go, the smirking triumph vanishing from his face. Smith’s speech had nailed him like a whip. It’s true, he thought. What the coach said is true! Jesus, it’s true, every word of it!

  * * *

  V

  He stood in the moonlight for a moment, debating whether to ring her bell or to flee. His battered face was not the reason he was afraid to look her in the eye. Moreland Smith’s tongue-lashing had deflated him, made him realize how bankrupt his values were. He gritted his teeth, fought to still the trembling inside him, and rang the bell.

  In a moment, she opened the door. Softly, she said, “Hi. You’re late.” She saw his face. “Oh, my Lord! Henry—what happened?”

  The tenderness in her voice melted his resolve. He tried to answer, then clamped his mouth shut, certain that if he spoke he would break down.

  She pulled him inside the apartment and closed the door. In the light, she inspected his face more carefully, and tears formed in her eyes.

  Her tears triggered the frustration, the shame, the helplessness inside him. He heaved a great, dry sob.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  She urged him to the sofa and sat him down. Sitting next to him, she pulled his head to her shoulder and put both arms around him. As she rocked Him gently, he began to weep.

  “It’s all right. It’s all right,” she whispered. “Everything will be all right.”

  ==========

  The morning sun threw a shaft of gold across the room. Henry, still in his clothes and partially covered by a blanket, slept on the sofa. Janet, curled up on an easy chair, watched him sleep.

  He woke, saw her near him. The sunlight made a halo of her hair.

  Neither moved. For a long while they drank deeply of each other with their eyes.

  ==========

  Wearing jeans but no shirt, a towel around his neck, his hair still damp from showering, he sat at the dinette table and ate cereal. Janet, dressed for the street, bustled about the apartment. Between long, thoughtful looks at Henry, she rinsed dishes, drank coffee.

  At last, upset, she exclaimed, “No wonder you’re not prepared to take that history exam! How can anyone go too classes ‘til one, practice basketball all afternoon—my Lord!—then try to study, and then work all night in a hotel!”

  Henry shrugged. Last night she had dressed his cuts, put ice packs on his lumps. As she nursed him, he had reluctantly answered all her questions. Now she knew about Smith, about Phillips, his hotel job, all his problems.

  She touched his still-swollen lips gently, as if her fingers could make the pain go away. “Henry—do you want to pass that exam?”

  “I have to, Jan.”

  “Then—” she looked at him intently “—then move in with me.”

  Suddenly shy, she rose and carried some dishes from the table to the sink. His eyes followed her. For a moment, he was stunned by her proposal, and then love for her surged through him—a love he had felt, but suppressed, for three months now.

  “Sure,” he whispered at last.

  “And when my student becomes my roommate, there’s no charge for tutoring. Therefore, you now have no reason for working at that hotel. Agreed?”

  Smiling bashfully, he said, “Agreed.”

  Janet came to kneel before him.

  “And last but not least,” she whispered, “enough with the basketball. Quit.”

  “Please, Jan. Don’t. I can’t quit.”

  “Darling, you’re killing yourself over a silly game.”

  “I can’t quit.” His face hardened with determination.

  She knew he wanted her, but that if she persisted he would walk out the door and not return.

  She smiled. “All right, then. Let’s whip ‘em together.”

  Then“ eyes met. She kissed him—a tender lingering kiss, with only their lips touching. Their first kiss.

  Suppressing her excitement, she rose and quickly collected her books and purse, a scarf. His eyes never left her.

  At the door she said, “Make yourself at home. We’ll study when I get back from class. There’s an extra key by the stereo.” She threw him a kiss. He smiled.

  “Bye,” she said, and left the apartment.

  Her kiss still tingling on his lips, Henry’s mouth opened in a mute gasp of joy.

  ==========

  Malcolm was in the psych lab, alone, absorbed in a huge book. She ran to him and flung her arms around his neck.

  “Oh, you gorgeous, hairy genius! You were right, Malcolm! You were right!”

  “Of course I was.” Gently, Malcolm disengaged her arms from his neck. He stepped back, studying her. “I was right about what?”

  “About—you know.”

  “You and the jock?”

  She nodded. She knew he understood what she was thinking, what she wanted. Their affair was over and she was sorry he was hurt—but they were still friends and always would be.

  Malcolm gave her a friendly leer.

  “Felicitations,” he said.

  She kissed him on the cheek and bounced away to put on her clinician’s smock.

  They lay on her bed, reading. She wore only Henry’s pajama top; he wore the bottoms. His arm
rested on her bare leg; her fingers touched his hair. Once, still reading, he took her hand and kissed it.

  Janet looked up from her book. “Henry—why can’t you quit?”

  “Lots of reasons. My dad. The folks in my home town.” He grinned and mocked himself. “I can’t quit mostly because of me. It’s agin mah nature.”

  “Doesn’t your dad know about you and Coach Smith?”

  “Naw. It’d kill him. My folks are great, but they don’t want to hear nothin‘ but good news.”

  He surprised her by sitting up and, in mime, talking on the telephone. Her delighted laughter tinkled through the apartment as he pretended to speak to his parents.

  “Ma? Oh, I feel fine. Oh, the food’s great. Yes, ma’am, I’m meetin‘ nice people. Made a really good friend, name of Nanette, or Annette, or Janet, or something like that. Yes’m, the weather’s beautiful. I love you, too, Ma!… Hi, Dad! Yes, sir, Coach Smith’s treatin’ me super! Oh, yes, sir, I’m workin‘ hard, stayin’ sharp, on top! Yes, sir, you can tell everybody in town I’ll be a starter this year and All-American the next four years! Yes, sir, I know that’s what they all expect me to do! You take it easy, too. Dad! ‘Bye, sir Now Henry mimicked a robot’s electronic voice. ”This has been a recorded announcement.“

  He grinned at Janet, pleased that he had been able to make her laugh. The grin faded, and his face filled with longing. They looked at each other as only new lovers can. The room was suddenly sultry.

  Taking a deep breath, Janet handed him his book. “Here. Study.” Smiling, she added, “This has been a recorded announcement.”

  Nestling next to each other, they resumed their reading, content in the knowledge that later they would make love, then hold each other through the night.

  “We’re number one! We’re number one!” the home crowd thundered in the packed Western gym. Jomo Wade led a fast break downcourt and sent the ball twisting into the basket for a sensational lay-up.

  The Scoreboard changed to read: WESTERN 64 - VISITORS 31.

  Henry sat silently on the end of the bench, wearing his warm-up jacket, while the other substitutes jumped up and down with excitement.