by Dan Garmen
The gym grew quiet, sounds of rubber soled shoes squeaking as everyone made for the exits, when Coach’s voice startled us again, “Mr. Collins, Mr. Girrard, my office.”
I made eye contact with Will, who looked at the retreating figure of Coach MacLaren, making sure he was on his way out of the gym, before silently miming a karate punch and silent Bruce Lee fighting scream. It was all I could do keep from exploding in laughter. Without giving it a second thought, my father’s long-ago demand forgotten, Will and I high-fived each other, our palms smacking together, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent gymnasium, neither of us caring who heard.
“Mr Collins,” Coach MacLaren said, after a few seconds of silence with the three of us in his office. “In three years playing for me, you never did anything like I saw tonight. Why in the world would you do that?”
I watched, amazed at this wonderful spectacle, Steve catching hell for slugging me. I felt vindicated for the years he snubbed and disrespected me, even though those years were almost all in his future, and my past. At the same time, I understood my turn would be here soon enough, or I wouldn't be standing in Coach’s office. The truly interesting thing to me, though? Steve was under no obligation to take this dressing down. He'd graduated last year, this past May finishing up his first year at UCLA, and to my knowledge, did play ball there. In short, he didn't need Coach MacLaren at all anymore, but the weight of the Coach's authority and power still held us even after we graduated. Both Steve and I, over six feet tall, being made to feel about an inch high by a 50 year old man 5’10” at the most when standing, but in front of us sitting behind a desk in the summer, showed how successful MacLaren had been in fostering our respect in him.
“Sorry, Coach,” was all Steve said. The 47 year old student of human behavior in me observed he was looking off to the side, rather than down at his shoes, which spoke volumes about his true feelings. Maybe MacLaren's authority wasn't still absolute to him. Off to the side means I'm taking this, but I'm not sure I have to.
“All right. I’m fine with you boys who have graduated coming back to play ball in the summer, and encourage it, but I want no more nonsense like what happened tonight,” MacLaren said. “If you do it again, you won’t be welcome anymore.”
Silence, but a small nod.
“Good night then,” the Coach said. Oh crap, I thought, he's forgiven. Way too easy.
Part of me chuckled at myself, though. 47 years old, living 30 years in my past, being called on the carpet by my old (and in my time, dead) high school basketball coach. I was totally immersed in this insane fantasy, which despite what Thelma had told me a couple hours ago, could not be real, yet I was hooked. I sighed and said to myself well, let's see where this goes.
I didn’t have long to wait. Steve left the room and we heard his footsteps fade as he left the gym. Coach MacLaren then started in on me.
“First of all, Mr Girrard,” he began, “if I ever catch you hanging on one of my rims again, you'll be running bleachers until you have grandchildren. They will then take over.” To maintain a straight face in reply to such pure MacLaren was the hardest challenge of the evening. Remember that one, I instructed myself. It’s a keeper.
“Secondly, when you're playing basketball in my program, and by the way, just because we're not in season and officially practicing, when you're playing on my court with my ball, you're in my program, you will play basketball, not chase cheerleaders around.”
Ah, now we’re getting down to it.
“She’s not a cheerleader, Coach, the captain of the drill team for the band,” I replied, sharply.
“And she’s Collins’ girlfriend,” MacLaren, in a softer voice, shot back.
“Yea, well she’s only 17,” I said.
“As I believe, are you.”
Silence followed for a few seconds as we retreated, Coach looking at me with concerned eyes, as I held an internal debate, trying to decide whether to tell him about my experience.
No way, my twenty-first century mind exclaimed.
MacLaren seemed to note the change in my demeanor as I came to the decision not to tell him the absolute truth, and he said, “Rich, you’re in an excellent position this year. We’ve got a strong team, and you’re going to play a lot, so you and Rick are going to be heavily recruited. I’ve talked to Coach Hall at Kentucky and Fred Schaus, from Purdue is interested in seeing you play again,” he said, his voice, light and encouraging, but also held enough tension to let me know nothing was guaranteed. “Coach Knight will probably be at an early game, though I’m not sure you would fit on his roster right now. The point is, the next several months are going to be extremely important to your future, and a girl like that…”
Coach MacLaren had successfully diverted the subject away from Amanda for the moment, but his last line brought the subject of the conversation right back into view.
“A girl like what?” was my retort.
Coach held up his hand in supplication. “I’m sorry, Rich. Not what I meant. Miss Tully is an attractive young woman, and at your age, her attention could be very…” For the first time, MacLaren had drifted into an area he didn’t have complete command over, and though today I’m sorry for it, I left him hanging, struggling for the words necessary to execute an honorable retreat from where he had taken the discussion. This was the kind of situation he usually invited Mrs. MacLaren into for help, but I figured in this case, he this, so he needs to deal with wherever the conversation may lead.
After a couple seconds, I relented and came to his rescue. “Coach, Amanda's not a problem. I promise,” I said, my tone back to a softer, more respectful one to MacLaren’s relief, not at my assurance about Amanda, but at being able to retreat back to what he knew best.
“She would never do, or let me do, anything that would get in my way,” I said. “We’ve known each other way too long for that.”
“Okay, Rich, I understand,” Coach MacLaren replied. “It was my duty as your coach to talk to you about it, you know.”
“I know, Coach,” I said, smiling. “I appreciate it.”
“You've been working hard, a lot harder than you have before. Even if you hadn't done what you did tonight,” MacLaren said, referring to my dunking on Steve and rim-hanging, “I figured you could.” Coach paused and chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds, then continued. “What's brought this on?”
I shrugged. “Coach, I missed most of last season, and decided I needed to make up for lost time. I got serious.” Again, I shrugged.
MacLaren was nodding, but he wasn't buying. Shaking his head, he said, “Well, I'm happy to hear the right answer, but I don’t think it’s the entire answer.”
I looked off to my right, away from his face, and pretended to study the books in the case beside his desk. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him in 2007 I took a road trip to Belton, Indiana and met an old lady who gave me a letter from my Grandfather, saying I would travel back to 1933, then had a car accident the next day, waking up here in 1976, a teenager for the second time. I wanted to tell him I'd been busting my ass because I let my injury from last year derail me the first time I'd lived through the late 70s, keep me away from basketball, eventually getting me hooked on painkillers, screwing up a good portion of my life, and given a second chance, I didn’t want to repeat the experiences. Beating the pain without drugs turned out to be easier than I'd ever imagined, once I applied the experience of 30 years. I wanted to tell him he needed to get to a cardiologist, fix his diet, or cholesterol or stress or whatever, because in four years he would die from a major heart attack not 15 feet from this spot, in the locker room before a game.
I wanted to say these things, but didn’t. Instead, I said, “Coach, I had a little taste of failure and a short descent into self-pity. Didn't last, and I decided to work harder than I'd ever worked before,” I explained while holding my breath, wondering if he would buy such a simple story. I hoped he would, because I had nothing between telling him I was, in rea
lity, a time traveler and some bullshit answer involving Dr. Wayne Dyer's current (in 1976) best-seller Your Erroneous Zones and finding a new approach to life.
Silence. Then more silence.
Finally, Coach MacLaren spoke. “Well, Rich, I’m impressed,” he said, surprising me. “Impressed” was not what I expected. “I’m not going to lie to you, your accident worried me, because I’ve seen serious injuries like yours completely derail athletic careers. But you did the right thing, you fought your way back and are better because of it.”
MacLaren stood, indicating our conversation was almost over.
“Thanks, Coach,” I said, as we walked through his office doorway and down the hall toward the gym. “I’m sorry about hanging on the rim.”
He slapped me on the back, looked up and down the passageway to make sure no one would overhear us, and chuckling said, “That was a hell of a move.” He smiled, his eyes beneath the heavy black framed glasses, bright with amusement. I'm not sure I ever remember seeing Tom MacLaren smile quite so broadly. “A nice move,” he laughed, as he turned and walked back into his office. “You put Collins on his ASS.”
And that was it. After retrieving my stuff, I left the gym, heading toward my car, and as I fished the keys out of my bag, stopped short 20 feet from the El Camino. Leaning on the hood was a figure. I paused for a couple seconds as a smile formed on my face, before walking through the twilight toward my car and Amanda Tully.
Amanda had taken the heat for what had happened on the court, Steve apparently (and not surprisingly) catching the glances between us, which combined with his embarrassing performance, put him in a pretty foul mood. Amanda told me they had argued in the parking lot, in the end she telling him to “get lost,” though I suspected those weren’t the exact words she had use. Steve had sped out of the parking lot, leaving Amanda to rely on me for a ride home, and I was more than happy to oblige.
Coach MacLaren had cut the night's scrimmaging short, so was still early. We decided to stop at my house so I could change before going out for pizza. Friday night meant no band rehearsal for Amanda, and I didn't have any plans. We walked in the house in the middle of my mother taking Katie up for a bath, and my dad settling in for MAS*H and either Hawaii Five-O or The Rockford Files, depending on which rerun he hadn't watched in the fall. Amanda sweetly declined the offer of something to drink and sat down in the sunken family room in front of the television with my Dad while Mom took Katie upstairs and I went up to shower and change clothes.
12 minutes later, I walked downstairs to Amanda's distinctive laughter from the family room. My Dad, always the charmer, was telling Amanda about his time in the Army in France and Germany between Korea and Vietnam, as MAS*H started. He'd had a commission from college ROTC and I had to admit he had some pretty funny stories from those days. When I would listen to them the first time through the 70s, I'd always thought them at least exaggeration, and at most, complete bullshit, but several years later, he hosted a reunion of some of the other officers and non-comms he'd served with in those days, and I heard the stories again from those guys. He'd been pretty accurate in his telling of them, or else they'd all gotten together and standardized the tales. Either way, I was pretty impressed.
Amanda looked up as I came into the room and gave me a smile I swear lit up the room. To witness her do that still sent a hand reaching into my body, grabbing my stomach, and twisting. Amanda, so beautiful, her eyes meeting mine not in a sultry way, but in a familiar and intimate, yet innocent way, lit a glow in me I hadn't experienced in years, on either side of my shift back here from 2007. If nothing else good happened through this bizarre episode in my life, that one moment was worth the whole thing.
“You two have fun,” my Dad called after us as we left. “Don't keep her out too late, Richie” he said, as if Amanda were his daughter. That was (and is) my dad.
“I won’t,” I replied, smiling at Amanda, who returned the favor.
“Bye, Mr Girrard,” Amanda said as the front door closed behind us.
We drove to Noble Roman's Pizza on 10th Street, parked and went in. A summertime Friday night, and the best pizza parlor on the West side of Indy hummed with both kids our age and families finishing up late dinners. We didn't have to wait though, since most date night teenagers were still in movies, so the demand for tables for two stayed a little soft. Ours sat in a perfect spot, out of the way in the corner opposite the front door. Our waitress, a familiar looking girl named Denise, happened to be Amanda's older sister's roommate at Indiana University, so she and Amanda chatted while I slowly began to recall my memories of her. Once the memories were in place, I joined the conversation and we all three talked for a couple minutes while she took our order. Denise left to put the order in, and we looked across the table at each other.
“We've never done this,” I said after a few seconds.
“Nope,” Amanda replied, the impossibly radiant smile back on her face.
“I'm going to be honest with you, I'm sorry about we haven’t. I should have asked you out long ago and let you shoot me down.” My turn to smile came.
Amanda wrinkled her forehead with a smirk and said, “Why would I shoot you down?”
“Well, there was always someone else, ever since Junior High. Scott Reynolds, Danny Walters, then Scott again…” We laughed together.
“And then Steve,” I said, turning serious. “That one’s going to stick, isn't it?” I looked at her, the laughing gone, but with a slight smile I didn’t feel.
Amanda nodded, saying only, “Probably.”
“It will,” I added. “Count on it,” I said, though not sure of that anymore.
“How do you know?” She asked, a sly smile on her lips.
“ Oh, I know lots of things. I'm pretty smart to begin with, and of course, extremely wise for my years,” I teased.
“Really?” She asked, eyebrows arched mock-innocently. “Show me how wise you are.” Amanda folded her arms defiantly and leaned forward on the table.
“I know I've missed a couple opportunities to say some things I've wanted to say,” I began, “and if I don't change things, I'll miss a couple more and it will be too late to ever say them.” I paused. She looked at me with a steady gaze, interested. I continued, “I know I didn't say them, because I was afraid, but I'm not afraid anymore.”
Amanda listened, her head tilted to the right, in a posture I would, in the years to come, recognize as intently interested concentration on what was being said.
“I know if things go on as they are now, next summer in August, you'll be spending the week at our lake cottage while we work on summer stock together. We'll be in my car driving back after rehearsals and I'll desperately want to tell you something, but won't be able to. Steve will pick you up the next morning after you two have a fight on the phone and that'll be the last we see each other for a long, long time.” The last part was a bit of a lie that hurt like hell to say, but was necessary. The truth would have turned the conversation in a direction I didn’t want to go.
Amanda's expression now showed surprise but she still listened. A few seconds taking all of this in, then she said, “That’s not being wise, that’s being a psychic.”
“I guess,” I replied, but before I could continue, Denise brought our Cokes, dropped them off and chatted with Amanda about what Amanda's sister Kelly was doing over the summer. Kelly, 3 years older than Amanda, was in Paris for a summer semester abroad, and not due back for another several weeks. Denise left, saying our pizza would be up in a couple minutes.
Amanda took a drink through the straw in her Coke and sat back, smiling. “So, you were telling me how you can tell the future.”
The interruption had taken my momentum away, and I backed off from spilling something I had no business telling her, the truth about what was going on, and how I was making my second pass through 1976. I had no intention of letting the moment pass, though. ”It's not too hard to project what's going to happen, if you apply a little experience and crea
tivity,” I began. “If you think about it, you know what your future holds, right?”
Amanda pondered this for a second and said, “Maybe, but I think I want to be surprised, don't you?”
“Amanda,” I said, lowering my voice for effect. “I don't think it's possible for me to surprise myself anymore…” I shrugged, and let a few seconds pass. She nodded, thinking about something I couldn't begin to guess.
“But here goes,” I continued, surprising her as I continued a sentence she thought was over. As I talked for the next few minutes, Amanda didn't say a word, speechless. A part of me, the observer part all of us have, who watches everything we do in a strange, detached way and often comments on how stupid this was, or how brilliant that was, remained speechless, too. My observer sat for once, with his goddamned mouth shut, and listened. To be honest, I don't think he had any idea what to say or how to criticize what I was saying.
In short, I told Amanda I'd loved her from the first moment I saw her in 7th grade, and pretty much every day since, but I never thought myself good enough or handsome enough or popular enough for her. I told her she is and will always be the benchmark to which I compare all women, but all of them I'll meet will come up short. I told her I love the way she smiles, the way she laughs, and even though we won't have a life together, she will be the one never be far from my thoughts. Three or four minutes passed like they were hours. I didn't falter, I didn't hesitate, I just said the things my heart had been saying for 35 years, and apparently, my heart had been having pretty regular discussions with my head, too, because though I couldn't possibly remember everything I said, if I sat down to write out what I said, it couldn’t be as eloquent as when I delivered it. In those few, fleeting minutes, I gained a huge measure of respect for the depth and subtlety of the human emotional heart. I am now acutely aware of what makes us human, is our ability to feel such a profound connection with another person, and when necessary, articulate what it means. The brain's a pretty cool organ, but in terms of the art of being human, the heart so kicks its ass, it's not even funny.