“How about you? You must be hot property yourself.”
“Not really. Got a note from the guy at Florida Presbyterian and a postcard from Glenn Wilkes at Stetson.”
“Yeah?”
“Said he had to save his scholarships for big guys, but if I was interested, he would try to get me some loans and stuff.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“I don’t think anyone’s getting too excited about a barely six-foot-tall, skinny guard. Maybe if I have a really good year next year they’ll come knocking.”
“How about track? Are you running any?”
“I thought about it, but they’ve hired coach Bickerstaff from Glenridge to replace Blackwelder as track coach. He still acts kind of squirrelly around me. Besides, they’ve had two meets already and I’m in terrible running shape. It was weird, I was in such good shape at the end of the summer that I think I could have done pretty well at cross-country. Then once basketball started, I just slowly got out of shape. And I even ran laps around the gym every day before practice.”
“Well, I know you love basketball and all, but . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, it was something Archie San Romani said back when you were doing those workouts of his before the all-comers meet. I was going to tell you, but then you made the basketball team and I just . . . Well, I probably shouldn’t even say anything now.”
“Come on, Trap.”
“Well, he said that considering the progress you made in those few weeks, that he had never seen a runner your age do anything like that. He said . . .”
Trapper, lost in thought, was watching a pair of mullet jumping almost in tandem right next to his dock.
“Trapper! What’d he say?”
“He said that you were a natural-born runner, and that it would be a shame if you didn’t pursue it.”
“Really?”
“He said you were given a gift. That you were one in a million and you shouldn’t squander that.”
CHAPTER 33
* * *
DEWEY STODDARD
Third-period History of Western Civilization was taught by the pear-shaped, flattopped Dewey Stoddard, Cassidy’s former JV basketball coach, who had since been promoted to offensive and defensive line coach on the football team.
Dressed in enormous red canvas coaching shorts, a white cotton polo shirt with a flying eagle over the pocket, tube socks, and black ripple-soled coaching shoes, Dewey in a classroom was as incongruous as a brown bear at Tiffany’s. His teaching style was a thing of his own invention. Leaning back against his desk, licking his thumb, and leafing languidly through the textbook, he would read more or less random passages while a buzzing fan blew warmish air back and forth across the heat-stunned students. He would occasionally attempt to interpret certain historical events with a modern sensibility, particularly as they might pertain to, say, football. The fan would have drowned out a lot of teachers, but Dewey’s practice field voice boomed off the walls of the stuffy classroom.
This morning it was already warm although only ten o’clock. Air-conditioning was a blessing found only in movie theaters, drugstores, and a few homes of the well-off. There weren’t even any official electric fans in the building either, but a few teachers like Dewey purchased them and brought them to school on their own. The school board wasn’t even embarrassed.
Cassidy still had very little posterior cushioning, so the hard desk seats were uncomfortable even under the best of conditions. On steamy spring mornings like this, his cotton underwear and thin pants would fuse itchily to his skin, and when he squirmed, the oak veneer seat would grind into his meager tuber ischiadicum. Every now and again he would lean forward and, as surreptitiously as he could, peel the irritating fabric away from his inflamed coccyx and try to remain in that awkward vulture-leaning position long enough for the fabric to dry out a little.
But worse than cheek itch were these lectures.
“All right, people, let’s take a look at this fella, the Emperor Charlemagne,” said Dewey, holding up his open text to the appropriate chapter in case anyone might think he was just making this up. He pronounced it, believe it or not, “Empra Charlie Mange.”
Dewey was a big fan of conquerors, whom he considered to be the progenitors of modern football coaches, and as far as Dewey was concerned, much of the ebb and flow of Western civilization could be explained in gridiron terms. Cassidy had come to believe that Dewey was an undiscovered comedic genius, and when he came out with a good one, Cassidy would roll his eyes at Ed Demski in the next row.
“Now, if you Charlie Mange, you look around your territory and you get to frettin’ about what you see,” said Dewey. “You got your defenses and all, but you look out across your borders, and whatcha got?”
Dewey’s unique style of pedagogy was to personalize the subject matter by figuratively placing the student right in a historical epoch in order to make the past “come alive.” This he learned at a Division III land grant institution near Dothan, Alabama.
“Why, you’re a Christian and all you got is pagan opponents. You got your Saxons, you got your Goths. Heck, you got your Slavs and your Basques, too. You throw in a few Moors and Huns and, why, next thing you know you completely surrounded by heathens! And you about to get sacked in y’own backfield!”
Cassidy knew where this was headed. He tore a corner off a sheet of notebook paper, folded it in half, and wrote, “Charlie Mange is going up the middle. Probably off-tackle,” and slipped it to Ed Demski, who had been going to a speech therapist twice a week and hardly stuttered at all anymore. He glanced at the note, turned beet red, put his chin in his hand, and started studying the Map of the Ancient World hanging on the side wall.
“So he says to hisself, ‘Hey, I got a army. I got horses and catapults and whatnot. I bet I could whip them others!’ Mr. Dinsky, is there somethin’ a’matter with you, son?”
Demski swallowed hard, looked up briefly at Dewey, and shook his head, his bulbous eyes glistening.
“No, sir,” he croaked.
Ed managed to keep himself more or less under control by looking anywhere but directly at Dewey. A Mexican standoff of several seconds’ duration took place as Dewey glared at him and Ed kept his eyes carefully trained on the big rotating Breeze King fan. Dewey was about to return to A.D. 768 when Ed let loose a loud, involuntary snort, quickly covering his mouth and turning his head aside. The class tittered.
“Listen up, Mr. Dinsky. You had better straighten up and fly right, son. Is there somethin’ you find amusin’ about the Empra Charlie Mange?”
Cassidy coughed. Demski shook his head, choking and red faced.
“Well, then, I . . .”
“I think I s-swallowed a gnat!” Demski croaked. For some reason, he had always pronounced it “guh-nat.” It brought the house down.
“Well, hellfire, son, go get a drink a’ water or somethin’! Don’t let a little inseck innarrup everbody else’s education here!”
“Yes, sir!” Demski blurted, absconding in a flash, even taking his books with him. Damn, Cassidy wondered, how did that happen?
Cassidy sighed. Now that Ed had escaped, this class was going to be worse than church. He looked around for other victims, but the only potential target was in the desk behind Ed’s, Maria DaRosa. Cassidy had known her since they were tiny and knew she was nowhere near as easy as Demski. What’s more, she was perfectly capable of cracking Cassidy up, in which case he’d be the one in trouble.
She smiled sweetly at him. “Let’s go, big boy,” she mouthed silently. Cassidy crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue prominently into his left cheek: no response.
“Jesus H.,” said Dewey, glaring at the door closing behind Demski. “All right, people, settle down. It was just a little gnat. No need to fly off the handle. Now, let’s get back to . . . What is it, Mr. Cassidy?”
“Coach Stoddard, if I swallow a guh-nat, can I leave, too?”
Pandemonium ruled for thirty seconds while
Dewey glowered. Fortunately, Cassidy had a certain amount of limited immunity, being a member of one of the two “revenue” sports.
Besides, Dewey was a little amused himself, though he dared not show it. Instead, he focused his red-faced football death ray on him until Cassidy looked properly contrite and the rest of the class finally quieted. In his peripheral vision Cassidy noticed with satisfaction that he had finally gotten to Maria DaRosa.
“Mr. Cassidy, you cruisin’ for a bruisin’. Do you read me, son?”
“Yes, sir,” said Cassidy meekly. Maria winked at him.
“All right, then. Now, Charlie Mange, people. Pay attention . . .”
Unfortunately, his ad-libbed introductory summation had exhausted his knowledge and unique take on the subject matter, so Dewey returned to his primary teaching technique of reading from the textbook.
“Charlie Mange, also known as Charles the Great, was borned in either . . .”
The business with Cassidy, Ed, and Maria had been going on for some time but had really picked up the year before in Miss Ameison’s Spanish class when a standard-issue funny face from Cassidy caught Demski by surprise and brought the rather mild wrath of the dainty Miss Ameison descending upon his asymmetrical noggin. That was too easy, Cassidy thought.
The next day the class was silently taking the weekly multiple-choice vocabulary test, and Cassidy was concentrating mightily: was pollo apple or chicken?
He heard a fake cough and looked over at the unsmiling Demski, who had removed his jacket and was working intently on his test in a three-sizes-too-small T-shirt with a graphic of a huge baseball with crossed bats and the bold legend JUNIOR MAJOR LEAGUER. In a ring around the baseball were circular mug shots of a number of the biggest stars of the American and National Leagues: Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Clete Boyer, Joe DiMaggio, Jackie Robinson, Sandy Koufax, Ernie Banks, Willie Mays, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, and Peewee Reese.
Cassidy lost it and was promptly banished from the class. As he was being escorted to the door with a note for the principal, written by the actually quite pissed-off Miss Ameison, he had to admire how calmly and methodically Ed had simply slipped his jacket back on, leaving most of the class—as well as Miss Ameison—thoroughly confused about the source of the ruckus.
Not everyone had missed it. Maria DaRosa gave Demski a thumbs-up. It was shortly after that that she and Cassidy started occasionally going out “as friends.”
After Dewey’s class, a grinning Demski was waiting by the water fountain.
“Hey, thanks for giving me the royal shaft, ya big spaz,” Demski said, mock-frogging him on the deltoid.
“You kidding me?” said Cassidy. “You had it made in the shade, buddy. You got to skip most of Charlie Mange and . . . Say, how did you come up with that ‘gnat’ thing, anyway?”
They started making their way down the crowded hall toward Mr. Kamrad’s class.
“I d-didn’t come up with anything, man. I actually swallowed a guh-nat.”
CHAPTER 34
* * *
BOB BICKERSTAFF REDUX
Coach Jim Cinnamon pushed his reading glasses toward the end of his nose so he could read, for perhaps the two hundredth time, the brass plate on the large trophy sitting on the end of his credenza:
1963–64 Class 4-A Region 4 Champions
Citrus City Edgewater High School
Jim Cinnamon, Coach
He could still barely believe it. They had beaten Cocoa 51–49 in a wild back-and-forth battle that had seen three of his starters foul out, including Stiggs and Randleman. But Cassidy had hit seven for nine from the floor and Stewart’s two free throws at the end had clinched the game.
The state semifinal in Kernsville had been just as wild, but this time without a happy ending, and the bus ride back to South Florida had been long and quiet. With all but one of the starters returning next year, though, the sportswriters were already talking about next season. Not bad work for someone in just his fifth year of varsity coaching.
Cinnamon shook his head clear and got back to work. He was writing out in longhand some formations he wanted to give the players to study over the summer.
Pressing hard with his ballpoint pen to cut the stencil, he wrote:
Diamond I Zone Press
This press is not designed to steal the ball every time, but to constantly harass a team and force it into mistakes. In this particular defense it is possible for us to overplay our opponents for the interception and still have them covered in case they break the press.
Each player must always be alert and on his toes in order to cut off an attempt to pass to his man—this pass must never be completed. The inbound pass must be a long one, at least to the back of the foul circle. Several steals, interceptions, or turnovers of any type will break down the morale of any team.
His big men had good hands and decent speed down the court. It would shock everyone in the conference next year if they came out in a full-court press. It was counter to all traditional wisdom of the game. Big teams were supposed to hang around the rim and take utmost advantage of their height. Small teams were supposed to keep you from getting the ball upcourt without a battle. They nipped at you like little terriers, biting at your ankles, trying to provoke mistakes by sheer obnoxiousness.
Cinnamon used a ruler and compass to draw several court diagrams on the page, crosshatching the areas of responsibility for each man, identified as X1 through X5. Thirty minutes later he wrote the concluding paragraph:
After we have scored, X5 must turn and run down the floor as hard and as fast as he can. He must get back in order to release X1. If this release of X1 is too slow, it gives the opposition time to find an open man.
The primary objective of this defense is to pick off the first pass, and if everyone carries out his assignment, this objective will be accomplished.
He went back over the four pages, making sure he had not left anything out. He paper-clipped the pages together, along with a note to the mimeo clerk about the number of copies he needed and when he needed them, along with a little pretend begging to get them earlier, if possible.
He was just finishing up when Dewey Stoddard stuck his large flattopped head in the door.
“Hey, Dew, what’s up?” said Cinnamon.
“Denise says you have a call on line one. Someone named Doug DeAngelis from Miami Senior.”
“Okeydoke. Probably wants to schedule us. Hey, if you’re going that way anyway, can you drop these off at the mimeo room?”
* * *
The article on the front page of the Citrus City Sentinel Star read:
CINNAMON SIGNS ON WITH STINGAREES
By Al Whitmarsh
Sentinel Sports Staff
Jim Cinnamon, who led the Edgewater Eagles to the state semifinals this year, is heading south.
The Metro Conference Coach of the Year has been hired to lead one of the oldest and most consistently dominant basketball powerhouses in the state, Miami Senior High School, said Stingaree athletic director Douglas DeAngelis at a press conference in Miami yesterday.
“Coach Cinnamon has shown the kind of innovative and inspirational leadership in his career that we have always prized at Miami Senior, and now that Al Blanchard is stepping down after 22 years and seven state championships . . .”
Stunned, Cassidy sped through the paragraphs of boilerplate coach-speak. It was all blah blah “He’ll have some pretty big shoes to fill . . .” (DeAngelis) and blah blah “Hate to leave such an outstanding group of young men . . .” (Cinnamon) and “I can’t think of a better man to take over . . .” (Blanchard) and “Just too great an opportunity to pass up . . .” (Cinnamon again).
Finally, in the last paragraph, he found what he was looking for:
Edgewater principal Howard Fleming announced at the same press conference that Bob Bickerstaff, who was an all-conference guard in his college playing days at Eastern Kentucky, will take over the top hoops job. Bickerstaff is currently Edgewater’s track and field coach.
Fleming said that Dennis Kamrad, the current crew coach, will now assume the track and field duties as well.
Cassidy, still in a daze, went to the phone on the kitchen wall and, with the greatest of difficulty, after three tries managed to successfully dial a number he had known almost his whole life.
“Stiggs?” he said. “What is . . . I mean . . . Stiggs . . . what the hell?”
CHAPTER 35
* * *
CHANGING OF THE GUARD
Summer doldrums had already arrived in the hallways of Edgewater, though it was only the end of April. Everyone called it spring fever. Students strolled slack-jawed down hallways in the direction of classes they’d had the year before. They dozed in Western Civ after lunch and studied passing clouds through the windows in Trig. Shop teachers carefully chaperoned the use of any type of machine capable of removing digits. Couples made out behind opened locker doors, and other mating rituals could be seen. Who says the semitropics are seasonless?
The shock of Jim Cinnamon’s announced departure was almost matched by Jim Cinnamon’s actual departure. He had said he was eager to get started in Miami, and everyone agreed that it was such an awkward situation that it would probably be best if he’d just go ahead and go. The bastard.
Bob Bickerstaff wasted no time in calling for a team powwow. For privacy’s sake and the lack of any better place—the football team had the varsity locker room for spring practice—it was held after fifth period in the tiny weight room at the end of the gymnasium. Everyone sat around on different kinds of apparatus and benches, moody and subdued. Cassidy lounged on a stack of evil-smelling wrestling mats.
Finally, Stiggs got bored waiting for Bickerstaff to show up and began entertaining everyone with his imitation of Dewey Stoddard giving a pregame talk.
“These Riviera boys are not only big and quick, but they’re also very, uh . . . quick!” For a prop, he held up and pretended to be reading from an upside-down clipboard.
Racing the Rain Page 18
