by Dan Doyle
“He called in late yesterday,” Doris said. “Told me that the NCAA has appointed him to a special committee to study sports marketing trends in college athletics. He’s pretty excited about it.”
“When’ll he be back, Doris?” Jim asked, trying to mask his sense of urgency.
“Well, the committee will meet all day today and, since it’s Friday and it’s Las Vegas, he’s decided to stay over and fly back early tomorrow. He’ll be in first thing on Monday.”
“Can I get in to see him at nine on Monday?”
“I’ll put you down for nine, Jim. Should be no problem.”
“Will he be calling in today?”
“He normally does, but because of the time change and the tight schedule of this meeting, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to.”
“Well, if he does, please have him call me. Otherwise, I’ll see him Monday morning.”
While Jim had made up his mind to fire Frazier, he knew that he must meet with Connors to get clearance. With the meeting likely off until Monday, he decided that any contact with Frazier would be limited to game-related matters.
The strain from losing eight in a row, dealing with the Edna’s rapid decline, and now being faced with the prospect of discharging a disloyal assistant had taken a terrible toll on Jim’s health and will. In each of the last four nights he had gotten no more than two or three hours sleep, and the fatigue showed in every grooved furrow on his face. Like all coaches going through a long losing streak, he did not merely hope for a win—he craved one.
Before heading to the gym, he made a cup of coffee and went up to the bedroom to see Edna. She managed a smile and said, “So, Coach, is it a ‘W’ tonight?”
“Tonight, we can do it, Edna,” he intoned, as if in prayer.
Jim arrived at the gym two hours before tip-off. Thirty minutes later, when Frazier showed up, Jim said only “Hello, Robert,” then quickly turned away. Frazier headed for his office and closed the door. When the players gathered in the locker room for pre-game instructions, he joined the group and stood quietly as Jim wrote instructions on the blackboard. Once Jim finished writing out the briefing, he animatedly reviewed it with his team. There was a feeling of anticipation in the locker room that had been absent since just prior to the first game.
But when the game began thirty minutes later, the anticipation evaporated and anxiety overtook the team. State missed its first eight shots, the two white players performed poorly, and Cornell went on to win by 18 points. Had the Cornell coach not substituted so freely in the last five minutes of the game, the margin would have been even greater.
For a coach, the minutes that immediately follow a loss are occupied with a swift transformation of body chemistry. During the game, the coach is in a state of complete immersion. A wall is built between him and all thoughts other than those related to the game. Adrenaline courses through his body. When the game is over, and if the outcome is a win, the adrenaline produces a blitz of endorphins that result in a state of euphoric relaxation. But if the outcome is a loss, the transformation is a harsh sensation that Jim once described to Edna.
“It’s sort of like a chill that displaces the adrenaline. As you walk off the court, you feel kind of frozen, almost as if some type of icy layer has formed around your body and also—especially—your mind. The feeling of dejection, of hopelessness, is overwhelming. You know you’re going to be miserable for a day or two, or even more, depending on when your next chance is to get a win.”
For Jim Keating, this particular loss not only left him with that cold and bleak feeling he so dreaded, but it also brought on the wrath of more than a few unhappy fans.
“Hang it up, Keating!” yelled one particularly vocal critic.
Within moments, he would find that the disgruntlement of the fans fell far short of what awaited him in the locker room.
11
After all games, Jim Keating’s rule was that by the time he got to the locker room, the players had to be seated, waiting to listen to his post-game comments. But tonight only a few players were in their chairs and the others were angrily removing their uniforms or talking in small groups.
Jim knew he must put his own hurt in storage and act strong. He tried by firmly ordering the entire team to take their seats. Several players refused, and the coach was faced with a direct affront to his authority. There had been a handful of times in his career when he had been challenged by individual players, but never after a nine-game losing streak—the longest losing streak in his career—and never by a faction this large.
“Hey, we’re all upset, but we’re not gonna throw in the towel. Now get to your seats.”
The words had no impact. Several of the seated players began to look around at their rebellious teammates, wondering if they should join them. Bill Laverty tried to grab hold of the situation by imploring the group to sit, but just as he finished his appeal, Robert Frazier spoke up.
“Maybe these players have a right, yeah, a right, to be upset.”
It was a statement of outright insurrection, and Jim was so distressed by it that his face literally writhed in anguish. For an excruciating moment, despair overtook this combat veteran, this coach who had fought in the NBA trenches, and he became mute. But Laverty, younger and of stronger will, quickly retaliated.
“Shut up, Robert!” he yelled.
Laverty’s statement provoked a swarm of invectives by the players. Some were directed at him for rebuking Frazier; others were aimed at the team’s lowly state of affairs . . . and all knifed into Jim Keating’s heart. The situation had gyrated out of control.
Jim knew he had to regain some form of order, but the best he could do was to ramble a few sentences about things getting better. When the angry players refused to acknowledge his words, most either unlacing their sneakers or simply staring at the floor, Jim turned to Laverty and said quietly, “Bill, tell the team that I’d like to meet with them at noon tomorrow. Also, please handle the post-game press briefing for me.”
Jim Keating was so hurt, so disoriented, he could say no more. He had to leave—escape—the locker room. His spirit broken, he walked into the corridor and quickly detoured away from the press room to the parking lot. When he opened the door to the outside, the cold night air roared hard into his face and made him dizzy.
Jim trudged toward his car. Only steps before he reached it, he stopped and threw up, discharging both food and pent-up emotions. After looking around to make sure that no one was watching, he got into his car and pulled it quickly to the rear of the parking lot, to the darkest area where no one would see him. The veteran coach, the old soldier, then did something that he had not done since his mother died: He wept uncontrollably.
On the way home, trying to regain his composure, he stopped at a gas station, bought a coffee, and washed his face. The nurse greeted Jim at the front door, tactfully avoided asking about the game, mentioned that Edna was asleep, and left quietly. Jim slumped in a chair and dozed off.
The following morning, he received a phone call from a campus newspaper reporter.
“Coach Keating, we’ve been told that at least three players are quitting the team—and that more will soon follow. One player told me you’re insensitive to minorities.”
“I have no comment,” said Jim softly and hung up.
Insensitive to minorities.
Moments later, Jim received a call from Laverty.
“Jim, I went over to campus early this morning to see some of the players. It’s not good. The co-captains, plus some other kids, are saying they’re quitting. The co-captains are circulating a petition asking for your resignation. They’re using race as a reason, and I’ll bet that Frazier’s orchestrating this whole thing.”
Jim felt queasy, but he was able to speak. “Can we try to get the team together at noon?” “I’ll do the best I can, Coach.”
At 11:30 AM, Jim headed for his office. On the ride over, he heard a radio news bulletin that reported on the “mutiny” of the State
basketball team. The situation had advanced to a crisis.
Fifteen minutes later, Jim entered the team meeting room. Laverty and graduate assistant Bob DiMello, back from a scouting trip, were both present. Frazier was not. Five minutes later, one of the rebellious co-captains walked in and coldly presented Jim with the petition calling for his resignation. Among the points listed, the most lethal was: “Coach Keating has lost touch with the needs of many of the minority members of the team.” The petition was signed by nine of the twelve team members. The signatures of the two white players and freshman Jim Atkinson, whose grit Jim had so admired, did not appear on the document.
In some ways, Jim wished the two white players in particular had signed the petition. He deplored racial division, and their missing names would surely be construed by many as an example of that division, rather than what Jim felt to be the real case—their recognition of the injustice that Frazier had helped engineer.
Moments after the co-captain left, the three who remained loyal showed up. Each player quietly approached Jim and shook his hand. The last in the line was Atkinson, the lone African American not to sign. He stared sadly into Jim’s eyes and said, “Coach, this isn’t fair.”
Such a declaration of support always stands out in a time of peril, especially when made by someone with the conviction to break from the peer group. In thanking Atkinson, Jim found his rickety emotions nearly melting in tears.
By early Saturday afternoon, the story was on the wires, and radio and television stations were rampant with reports of the “anarchy” on the State team. A halftime feature on the CBS College Game of the Week focused on statements of several players that referred to “Coach Keating’s racial insensitivity.”
Bill Connors, back from Las Vegas, left Jim a voicemail. “Jim, I need to see you today. Please come by my office at 5:00 PM.”
Connors liked Jim, but he knew that he had no choice but to remove his coach from the whipping post. Jim’s intended discussion about firing Robert Frazier took a 180-degree turn.
“Jim,” Connors began softly, “this is about the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do as an administrator.”
Connors had to pause for a moment. At thirty-eight, the athletic director knew he was too young to fully understand the complex emotions that overwhelmed this erstwhile legend. What he did understand was that the news he would now relay would be devastating.
“We’re going to have to make a change, Jim. Robert Frazier is going to take over the team. I’m going to have to terminate you.”
Jim was a veteran of firings. While not surprised with his fate, the wave of despair that accompanies such devastating news swamped his senses. His hands began to shake, physical evidence of the forlornness that now overwhelmed him.
After a brief but jarring reflection on the implications of his dismissal, including how the firing would affect him monetarily and psychologically, Jim regained enough composure to ask Connors, “What about my assistants?”
“Bob and I will have to work that out. I know there’s friction, and it may be that we have to assign Coach Laverty in particular to other duties until the season ends. In any case, we’ll honor the three contracts.”
As Connors walked around to the front of his desk, Jim was determined to remain stoic. They shook hands. Neither said anything. In a move reminiscent of his parade ground demeanor, Jim turned and strode out of the office. In the parking lot, he instinctively looked at his watch; it was 5:25 PM, and the chilled air met the dusk.
As he walked slowly toward his car, one step ahead of the darkness, Jim thought to himself: Nothing worse than this could ever happen to me.
Four months later, Edna McCarthy Keating died.
II
Hope
12
Even after his lone outing to the Golden Gloves, Jim Keating still had to draw deeply from his creative resources to avoid simply going back to bed or mindlessly watching TV. Every morning, just after dawn, he would begin his one-mile walk to early Mass at St. Peter’s, hoping for a brief reprieve from grief.
The Catholic Church had been Jim’s lifelong companion, if not always his close friend. As with any lengthy relationship, there had been some disagreements.
Jim was firm in his belief that abortion was, in most cases, murder—”a malignancy out of control,” in his words. Yet he wondered if he would be so resolute if his own daughter were raped and impregnated. He often recalled the surprise he felt when reading an article by a Catholic theologian that stated both Saint Augustine and Saint Thomas Aquinas thought prostitution immoral and yet supported its legalization. According to the author, both saints believed that “greater evils would come about if this outlet for aberrant sexual energy were outlawed.” Aquinas went so far as to write that “the wise legislator would be imitating God, who tolerates certain evils lest greater evils ensue.”
In making the case for legalized abortion, the author proposed that a Catholic legislator who views all abortions as immoral could still vote to keep it legal because of the problems that would occur, especially for poor women, if it were made illegal.
Yet how would Saint Augustine and Saint Thomas Aquinas really view the abortion conundrum, as opposed to prostitution? In asking himself the question, Jim could not come up with a firm answer.
Divorce, in Jim’s opinion, had become a matter of convenience for too many, with little regard for its impact on children, and the Vatican was correct in standing firmly against it. And when the New York Diocese vehemently protested the notion of public schools dispensing condoms to kids, he gave this opposition his silent support. Such a misguided policy, he felt, was nothing more than a wink, with no regard for what unbridled sex does to a youngster’s ultimate self-esteem.
Jim knew many priests who embodied humility. Yet he deplored the clerical arrogance that seemed so prevalent within the Catholic Church, and he also did not agree with every tenet. Priests, he thought, should be allowed to marry. This would help rid the Church of the many pedophiles that entered the priesthood to hide out from their deviancy, a deviancy that had caused irreparable harm to thousands of innocent children . . . and to the reputation of the Church. He felt outrage over his Church’s shameful cover-up of these countless misdeeds.
Jim also felt that women should be granted Holy Orders and not be relegated to inconsequential positions. And he wondered why so many Catholics were so blatantly prejudiced against minorities and why the Church was not more vigilant in combating this unjust attitude. Underlying Jim’s feelings about all these issues was a constant irritation at the attitude of superiority, the downright haughtiness so often displayed by some Catholics: They had the answers, and if they didn’t, well, the Pope did.
In the last few weeks of Edna’s life, just after he had been fired, Jim Keating’s Catholicism faced its most severe challenge. Edna had been in and out of delirium. When coherent, her pain had been excruciating. Jim could not bear to see his beloved wife experience such agony, and he contemplated an option presented to him by her doctor.
“We could administer morphine; it would be very peaceful and quick. It’s done all the time in these situations,” said the doctor.
Before agreeing to the plan, and knowing of Edna’s trust in Catholic theology, Jim consulted with the parish priest, who left no margin for interpretation.
“Jim, no matter how the doctor describes it—palliative medicine—palliative sedation—or whatever . . . it’s still assisted suicide and completely against the teachings of the Catholic Church.”
Jim canceled the plan and watched Edna suffer through five torturous weeks before she passed—five weeks that were, he felt, completely unnecessary. Jim still had trouble suppressing his anger over this episode; he had watched medics administer morphine to dying soldiers and looked at the act as one that would be favored by a merciful God.
While this bitter experience had caused him to seriously question his religion, and despite what he felt was the Church’s fallibility on some issues in whic
h it claimed infallibility, the jolt of spirituality from going to Mass and receiving Communion still gave Jim Keating the modicum of peace he needed to wade through this desperate time in his life. He remained a member of the flock, albeit a questioning one.
After morning Mass, Jim would stop at Alice’s, a neighborhood coffee shop. Alice’s husband, Paul, had been a young ref when Jim played high school ball, knew Jim’s situation, and left him alone. After two over-easy with home fries, the coach would sit in the rear booth with his back to the customers, drink coffee, and read and re-read the Worcester Telegram. He would then take his daily walk. Back at the apartment, he would plan errands, often ones he would make up to keep busy. He always kept a book going—a biography, a book on Spanish history, or a Ludlum novel. On rare occasions, he would meet up with an old friend, but only when he felt emotionally armored. He dreaded the risk of a trusted crony witnessing one of his crying spells, which now made frequent and unwelcome visits.
His major expense these days was still his weekly visit to Dr. Rotella, who had reduced his fee by half to accommodate the coach’s meager budget. Jim looked forward to his weekly consultation, for Rotella was a kind and compassionate man who clearly empathized with his client’s pain.
In their first meeting, Jim remembered experiencing great difficulty in disclosing his past torment.
“Open up, Jim—you need to get in touch with your feelings,” Rotella would gently prod. His entreaty evoked an atmosphere of trust and caused Jim to gradually share some important thoughts.
After several sessions, Jim had reached a point of revealing his lost hope, surprising himself with his candor and helping Rotella provide guidance.
“Jim, in your twenties and thirties, you saw yourself leaving large footprints, and the respect you generated—both self-respect and respect from others—was your oxygen. Since then, you’ve been hit hard with some major blows. You’ve lost several jobs, and this wreaked havoc on your self-esteem. It was inferred in public that you are a racist . . . and you’re certainly no racist. And most importantly, you lost your most trusted friend, the one person in whom you could always confide, someone whose wisdom you fully trusted.”