Poor fucking Matthew. I tried to buddy up with him as much as possible. The best result I managed to achieve was an occasional smile for no apparent reason.
The owner of the camp was Esther Shapiro, who had inherited the place from her own recently deceased husband. Since it was her only means of support, Aunt Esther tried to micromanage everything. She constantly complained that the campers were eating too much of the quasi-disgusting food they were being served, using too much toilet paper, making too much noise in the dining room.
My friend Richie and I regularly got up at six a.m. to run wind sprints on the basketball court and, sometimes, to jog a few miles before reveille.
More than anything because of the high-quality basketball, it was a good time.
After eight weeks, I was in terrific shape, my game was sharp, and I could hardly wait to show Coach Woody and Coach Lee that they wouldn’t be able to keep me on the bench.
Two weeks later, with one suitcase packed and $300 in my wallet, my parents bid me farewell as I ducked into a cab. That’s because my father refused to drive me to the airport, complaining he’d have to fight through rush-hour traffic.
Okay. The sooner I left him in the rearview mirror the better.
“Eat your vegetables,” my mother pleaded through her tears. “Call us every day. Let us know if you need more money.”
“Study,” my father said sternly. “Don’t lie, and don’t do anything stupid.”
Chapter Four
There were dozens of kids flying in to the Tucson airport to participate in USA’s two-day Freshmen Orientation program. So several buses were on hand to transport us to the campus, but none of them departed until all of us who were supposed to be there were checked in. One flight from Portland, Oregon, carrying seven kids was delayed for a half hour—and nobody who’d already been checked in was allowed off the buses.
So, while there was constant chattering and giggling on the bus I was in, I found myself seated beside an absolutely gorgeous brunette, who told me her name (Jeanette) and her hometown (Topeka), listened to my information out of a strained politeness, then buried her head in a book, which appeared to be about electrical engineering. And after that she totally ignored the inane chitchat I employed to try to engage her interest.
We eventually disembarked at the field house and were instructed to leave our luggage outside while we were sent inside to get our room assignments. Once that was done, we were tasked to find our rooms, unpack, then go to the George T. Gerson Auditorium.
Ah, the stately William K. Kramer Field House, named after the basketball coach who preceded Coach Woody and currently served as the athletic director. I imagined my being carried off the court on the shoulders of wildly celebrating fellow students after sinking the buzzer-beating jump shot that would win the national championship.
The bus had been air-conditioned and, as I would soon discover, so was virtually every indoor space, not only on the campus but throughout the entire state. That’s because being outside was like being inside an oven!
Fortunately, the U–Z line was short, and after I signed in, I was given a sealed manila envelope.
In addition to discovering that my new home was Room 313 in Dormitory B, the envelope contained a map of the campus, plus my schedule of classes. Since my room was only a few hundred yards away, I decided to set myself up in there before looking at my schedule.
Disdaining the elevator, I leaped two steps at a time up to the third floor. And I was appalled by what I found!
A roommate! Despite what Coach Lee had told me, I didn’t have my own room!
And he was not just any roommate.
A zit-faced, skinny kid, who was already balding. Brown eyes largely magnified behind thick glasses, a small nose with big nostrils, and a grim, thin-lipped mouth.
He had already picked the bed and the desk next to the room’s only window. Seated behind his desk, he was simultaneously reading from some kind of textbook, working a slide rule with his left hand, and writing something in a notebook with his right.
Then I noticed that he had hung a large battery-operated clock on the far wall. Instead of the usual twelve numerals, each five-minute station was marked by a mathematical symbol. The only ones I recognized were pi and the angular square-root sign.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Elliot Hersch, from New York.”
Without looking up, he said, “Phillip T. Yerblonsky, from the infinite universe.”
Holy shit!
There was a stack of bed linens as well as a thin red blanket neatly folded on top of what was apparently my mattress, but I sat down on my desk chair and looked at my class schedule.
ENGLISH COMPOSITION 101: 3 credits, M-W-F, 10:00–11:00 a.m., Room 124, Gordon Hall – Ms. B. Thomas
AMERICAN HISTORY 101: 3 credits, M-W-F, noon-1:30 p.m., Room 2333 , Jackson Hall – Dr. P. J. Smithson
SURVEY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE 101: 3 credits, Tu–Th, 10:30–noon, Room 1775, Fulton Hall – Dr. Robert P. Selma
HEALTH AND RECREATION: 3 credits, Tu–Th, 1:00–2:30 p.m., Room 008, Kramer Field House – Mr. Gerard Watkins
PHYSICAL EDUCATION ACTIVITIES 101: 1 credit, M–F, 2:00–3:00 p.m., Room 010, Kramer Field House – Mr. Paul Ritter
CLASSES COMMENCE TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9
There was a handwritten note at the bottom:
Hey, Big E,
Welcome aboard. Pick up your FREE textbooks 10:00 Monday morning in the Central Library. Don't forget to get your photo taken for your student ID and bring it with you.
Happy hooping!
Coach Lee
Fuckall! Instead of the 15 credits I’d need to be on track for graduation, I had only 13.
Instead of a room of my own, I was bunking with a math-head.
Instead of Western Civilization Culture and Sociology 101, I was taken Health and Recreation, and a phys-ed course as well.
I’d been fucked. Cheated. Lied to!
This was unacceptable! Coach Lee would have to make things right.
After I unpacked and put my portable typewriter on my desk, I said, “Hey,” to the citizen of the universe, “it’s time for the first orientation lecture.”
But he just waved me away, so away I went.
However, instead of going to the lecture, I walked around the outside perimeter of Kramer until I found the Intercollegiate Athletics Office.
Did I mention how fucking hot it was outside? The leather-faced, dry-roasted locals would insist that they didn’t mind daily temperatures routinely surpassing 100 degrees. How many times was I destined to hear this? “It’s a dry heat, so you don’t sweat as much. You’ll get used to it.”
More the fool me.
I never would have even thought of USA had I known I’d be spending four years at high noon in hell.
When I asked to see Coach Lee, I was told by a busty blonde secretary that he was playing tennis.
“Oh, I really need to see him. I’m one of his freshman recruits and I have some questions that need to be answered ASAP.”
When she looked dubious, I told her my name and that I was “extremely upset.”
She shuffled through some papers as if she was looking up my name, then she sighed, flashed me a plastic smile, and handed me a key to one of the golf carts that were parked outside the office.
“Go right and stay right past the baseball and then the softball fields, the track oval, the soccer and lacrosse field. Keep on going right. You’ll see the football stadium and behind it the practice football field. Behind, and just in front of the maintenance building are the tennis courts. It’s about a mile and a half, but you’ll be there in a jiffy. Just don’t forget to turn the switch off when you get there to keep the battery from running out. Oh, if I’m not here when you get back, just slide the key through the slot in the front door.”
I thanked her p
rofusely, then set out to find Lee.
The more I thought about my room and my schedule, the more pissed off I got.
But seeing the photos of all these playing fields and huge buildings hadn’t prepared me for the real-life versions. Spacious, well-trimmed deep-green fields. Buildings as gigantic and awe-inspiring as medieval cathedrals. It was like a city unto itself. A paradise for jocks.
There were men and women running around the cinder track, and several no-neck giants heaving shot puts. There were at least a hundred football players on the sidelines of the practice field, some in red uniforms, some in yellow, and a few wearing black dickeys over their jerseys. Meanwhile twenty-four other players periodically smashed into each other on the field, their movements interrupted by shrill whistles and loud barking commands that I couldn’t quite hear.
Finally, I heard the thwock of racquets hitting balls before I saw the tennis court. A long line of ten courts was surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, all of the courts in use. About a dozen go-karts were lined up nose-first against an adjacent curb.
I buzzed around until I saw Lee in the farthest court, playing singles against a squat, burly, heavily muscled guy, who was surprisingly agile.
I switched off the motor and watched them play while I baked.
Lee’s quickness and long arms covered the entire court. He had a sharp forehand, and a soft, spinning backhand. His opponent was all power, but Lee was a retriever, who got his racquet solidly on everything, even his opponent’s smoking serves. Plus Lee’s high lobs had the big fellow running to and fro, and his passing forehands were too quick for the big guy to mash.
Clearly, Lee was the better player, and I saw him break the other guy’s service twice. His last shot, a sideline bullet that his opponent didn’t even try to reach, apparently ended the match.
They shook hands, grabbed towels, opened a cooler that leaned against the fence, extracted and unscrewed the tops of large thermos bottles. They both took long, gulping swallows, before Lee saw me.
“Hey, Big E,” he gushed, racing over to pump my hand. “Great to see you.”
When the big man also lumbered over, Lee said, “Elliot Hersch, this is Chad Brownley, our weight-training guru. Elliot here is one of our new recruits, and he’s a good one. We think he has All-American capabilities.”
Yeah. Yeah. I was already wise to the coach-speech bullshit.
As we shook hands, Brownley came close to pulverizing every bone he squeezed.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Can’t wait to get started designing a program for you.”
Then Brownley offered me a swig from his thermos. “Don’t believe what the locals say about dry heat. It’s bad for you, because your sweat evaporates real quick, so you never stop sweating, and your body has trouble regulating its temperature. Really. The water gets sucked out of your body so fast you can get dehydrated before you know it. . . . So go ahead, take a long drink of this.”
Which I did, and it was disgusting! “What is this?”
“A mixture of beer and tomato juice. It’s my own concoction. Drinking water is just about as helpful as pouring it on the ground. This stuff is the only thing that’ll keep you properly hydrated. Coach Woody has all his boys drinking it, right, Coach?”
“Absolutely,” echoed Lee.
“Got to go,” Brownley said. “I have an appointment with a running back who’s rehabbing a groin pull. Their first game is next Saturday, but I doubt if the kid’s gonna be ready. I mean, he doesn’t work as hard as he has to.”
He gave me a meaningful glower, then ambled off toward the line of go-karts.
“So, what’s up, Elliot? Do you play tennis?”
“Nah, I’m too young for that.”
He stiffened, glared at me, saying with more heat than I expected, “Listen, son. I can still dunk over your—”
Then he stopped and flashed me a shit-eating grin.
“Sorry, man. I guess I’ve still got that competitive fire burning from the tennis match.”
“Okay,” I said.
We both knew that it was me who now had the upper hand. Whatever problems I had that had brought me out where mad dogs, Englishmen, and sane tennis players dared not go would have to be resolved forthwith. That’s because, since I had not yet attended a class, I could still transfer to another school without having to sit out a full season.
He walked over to the chest, lifted it, placed it in the back of another go-kart, and hesitated for a moment before pulling out a can of beer, popping the tab, and offering it to me.
“Here you go. You’re still a civilian. I hate drinking that tomato beer, but Chad would be on my butt if I didn’t. Beer’s good enough for me.”
“Thanks.” I took a sip. “I’ve got to talk to you about something.”
“Okay. Let’s chat while I drive us back to Kramer.”
He told me to leave key in the ignition of the kart I had used, then we rode together.
“Okay. Let it out.”
“A couple of things . . . You said I would have my own room, but I’m sharing with some loony kid who says he’s from outer space and is a total math brainiac. So what’s the deal with that?”
“Let me explain. . . . I don’t know if you know it or not, but our football team was just reinstated after being on probation for two years.”
“For what?”
He gave me a searching look. “It’s really incredible. Unbelievable. One of the assistant coaches gave some money to a kid whose mother had suddenly died back in Brooklyn, right? I mean, it allowed the kid to go home for his mother’s funeral. A good deed, right? But the NCAA cracked down on us. They forced us to fire the assistant coach, they declared that the kid was ineligible to play for two years, they took away about seventy-five percent of our football scholarships. . . . It was a total disaster, and completely unfair to the kid, the coach, and to everybody involved with our football program.”
“What happened to the kid?”
“We lost track of him. The last we heard he was making seventy-five bucks a week playing for a weekend, semipro team in Kingston, New York.”
“And the coach?”
“He’s now an assistant at a two-year college somewhere in Ohio.”
Lots of people waved to Lee as we scooted by.
“Anyway, about your room . . . So now that we have our full scholarships back, Coach Scolari used them all. This means we’ve got a whole lot more football players than we’ve had in two years. So single rooms are really scarce. But just hang in there, Elliot. Football players flunk out by the dozen. That’s why we recruit so many. I anticipate that by the start of the spring semester we’ll be able to rectify the situation.”
“Okay. . . . But I’ve got another bone to pick.”
“Pick away.”
“My schedule . . . Instead of Sociology and that Western Civilization course, I’ve got Health and Recreation and Phys Ed. And that’s only thirteen credits, not the fifteen I need to be on track to graduate in four years.”
We’d reached the small lot outside the athletic department. Lee switched off the ignition and said, “It’s like this. . . . Our practice starts at three thirty, which really limits the number and the schedule of classes you can take. Also, fifteen credits is a whole lot for a freshman playing basketball. And you don’t have to worry about going to that Phys Ed class. You’ll get a courtesy A without showing up. As for Health and Rec, that’s another easy course that won’t work you too hard.”
“But didn’t you say that you had a seventy percent graduation rate?”
“I did and we do, but I didn’t mean that our student-athletes necessarily graduate after four years.”
“I see.”
“Listen, I’ve got a meeting to go to. You should go get your student ID done while everybody’s still at the lecture. Okay? We’ll hook up with ea
ch other and with Coach Brownley sometime next week. Give you a few days to get used to college life. Be patient, Elliot. All good things will happen. You’ll see.”
Then he dashed into the office.
Yeah, I’d see all right.
I’d already seen that I’d been bullshitted, conned, and cheated, and that this guy was a fucking snake-oil salesman. This place was a den of big-time liars. I’d have to be totally alert to stay faithful to the “Trouthe.”
Chapter Five
“Hi. Yeah. It’s me. . . . Fine, Mom. Yeah. Everything’s good. . . . I know. I’m sorry but there was such a big line to use the phone and I had to study for a quiz. . . . Yeah. I got the vitamins. Thanks. . . . Of course I’m taking them. . . . Nothing really new. Same old same old. Go to class, study, repeat as directed. . . . I’ve got so much to read I’m either in the library or in my room. . . . He’s okay. Doesn’t say much. . . . Yeah. I got an A on that English Lit quiz I was telling you about. . . . Beowulf. . . . No, no. It’s Old English. Chaucer is Middle English. Beowulf is about six or seven hundred years before Chaucer. It’s very Germanic. Hwat weye gardenia compared to Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, the drought of Marche hath perced to the roote. . . . Yeah, Chaucer is much closer to—yeah, Romance languages. Sure . . . but Beowulf is much darker. Beneath the evil monster is the mother of the evil monster. . . . Ha! Don’t take it personally. Anyway, how are you doing? . . . Uh-huh . . . She can’t be that sick if she went to . . . You know what they always say, you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick . . . Yes, I know she’s my aunt, but I haven’t seen her in how long? I wouldn’t recognize her if I tripped over her. . . . What else? . . . Yeah, that’s the norm for contractors, but it’s at least good that you got that started. . . . Yeah . . . And the leaks would’ve eventually . . . Yeah . . . And how’s my dear old dad? . . . I know . . . Yeah . . . still working in his crypt. . . . Anyway, I’ve got to get off. There are people waiting here. . . . Tell him about Beowulf. He’ll really appreciate it. . . . No, no . . . I mean, there’s nothing more to tell. Yes, I promise to tell you all of my secrets. Ha! . . . Yeah, buddy. Hold your horses. I’ll be off in a minute. . . . People are people, you know? Just because they’re in a college . . . Got to say g’bye now. I’ll try to call you tomorrow. . . . Okay. Okay. I will call you tomorrow. . . . Me, too. . . . Bye.”
Trouthe, Lies, and Basketball Page 3
