Segal, Jerry

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

  The only major continuing disagreement between Henry and Chris was over the subject of girls. Henry loved sex but hated dating. Whenever Chris asked Henry to double-date with him, the answer was almost always no. When they did go out as a foursome, the evening usually ended with Henry’s sullen silence and the girl’s near-tears of rejection.

  “You go for a chick like most people go for a car-wash,” Chris once said to Henry. “In and out, and forget it ‘til the next time you need it.”

  By their senior year, Henry had slept with virtually every desirable girl in Elroy High School, but seemed not to like a single one of them. Chris, on the other hand, had charmed his way into an equal number of perfumed panties, and loved them all.

  ==========

  That night in early March, as Chris was coaching Henry in algebra, Jerome burst in on them, brandishing two envelopes.

  “Look what come in today’s mail! Two more!”

  Jerome opened both envelopes, read the letters inside, and handed them to Henry, who scanned them quickly and smiled with pleasure.

  “Michigan and Arizona!” Hah!“ Jerome shouted. ”Put ‘em with the others, Henry-boy!“

  Sheepishly, Henry reached under his bed and pulled out a shoebox that bulged with orderly bundles of letters secured by rubber bands.

  “Ain’t that somethin‘, Chris-boy!” Jerome barked. “He’s got nearly two hunderd of them there ath-a-letic scholarship offers! From the best doggone universities in the U.S. of A!”

  To Chris, Henry’s father sounded like a lactating cow that had not been milked for a month. Henry did not know it, but Chris had always hated the singleminded, semi-literate Jerome.

  With a triumphant laugh, Jerome left the room, slamming the door behind bun.

  Henry, embarrassed, replaced the shoebox beneath the bed. Never had he mentioned this plethora of scholarship offers to his closest friend, his supposed confidant.

  Chris lost his temper. “Fuckin‘ lousy stinkin’ system,” he muttered.

  “Take it easy,” Henry said softly.

  Chris exploded. “Sure! You can say take it easy! You’ve got a shitload of scholarship offers! What about me?”

  Henry’s eyes grew so large that Chris knew his friend was as pained by the situation as he was. But the frustration was a cancer inside Him. He sputtered with anger as he continued.

  “All through school, I never made any grade lower than A. On anything! Shit, man, I’m goin‘ to be valedictorian of our class! I averaged seven-fifty on my college aptitudes! I scored ONE-FRIGGIN’-HUNDRED on my calculus placement! But just because my pa runs a dinky little feed store, they say we’ve got too much income for me to get financial aid from a decent school! What a joke! A -little merchant tike my pa hasn’t got the six or seven grand a year it takes for tuition at a good college! Shit! I’m goin‘ to wind up at some state teachers college! Man, I’m never gonna get into a school with a first-rate biophysics department!”

  Henry swallowed hard. “Slow down, Chris.”

  “Oh, Jesus! Slow down, he says! How can I slow down—when a dumb jock who doesn’t know his anus from a terrene excavation gets the universe handed to him on a platinum platter!”

  Chris was suddenly aware of his unwarranted personal attack on his friend. He fought to calm himself.

  “Hey, Chris, I’m sorry, man.” Henry groped for words. “But—It’s not my fault. I—I just play basketball.”

  Chris forced a smile. “I know. I’m sorry too.” Then his anger surfaced again. “Shit!” he barked. “Let’s finish this algebra.”

  Henry bit his lip, looked away. Chris knew he had overstepped, that his friend was about to call it a night. Hoping to make peace, he went into an inspired imitation of Jerome Steele.

  “Henryhenryhenry!” he bawled. “If you wanna learn this here algebra and pass that test tomorrow, you gotta work hard, stay sharp! You hear?”

  Henry smiled. A moment later the two boys were back at work.

  ==========

  Whether Chris’ hostility toward Jerome Steele was justified or not, one fact cannot be disputed.

  From the moment Henry was thirteen and came under the tutelage of his junior-high-school basketball coach, Jerome was no longer able to contribute to his son’s development as a ballplayer. From then on, the boy was under the aegis of professional mentors who taught the. fine points of the game, fine points which Jerome did not know existed. Jerome’s dog-eared, military-like basketball manual had done its job. Jerome had done his job. But now the pupil knew as much as the instructor—every word in the book. And more. Henry was becoming battle-tested. Jerome, so far as basketball was concerned, had never learned the lessons that combat teaches; he had never played the game. Henry rose now from the low plateau of Jerome’s expertise to rare heights which only his coaches and his own talent could navigate. Jerome remained below, looking upward and watching. He became nothing more than a cheerleader and moralizer, exhorting Henry, ad nauseam, to work hard, to stay sharp.

  But Chris knew, even if Jerome did not, that Henry required no cheerleader. Drive, desire, determination— these qualities had been born in Mm. Often, when Henry practiced at night in the Elroy gym after dinner, Chris would sit in the stands and study. At those tunes, when only the hollow thump of the basketball echoed in the empty gym, Chris would marvel at the phenomenal concentration of his friend and reflect: What will power! And what Henry wills, Henry does.

  Oddly enough, one of the reasons Chris most admired Henry was because of the loving way Henry protected Jerome.

  Even after Henry became aware that his father knew nothing about the fine points of basketball, he would draw Jerome aside at team practices where everyone could see, and ask his advice. No matter how ridiculous that advice was, Henry would listen respectfully, nod in agreement, and seem to ponder as if the words had been sage. Then Henry would smile at his father and go out on the court and make miracles.

  Thus are myths born, thought Chris, and legends embroidered. Because Henry loves his father and would never hurt or embarrass Mm, people are sure every move that fantastic friend of mine makes is because of that stupid old fart, old man Steele.

  * * *

  IV

  In early spring of 1976, as Henry’s magnificent senior year of basketball drew to a close, the recruiters increased their efforts.

  There had been a flood of letters, offers from colleges in every state in the country. Now, the recruiters themselves descended on Henry—coaches, assistant coaches, alumni, preachers, senators, millionaires, famous athletes, movie stars.

  They even used horses.

  They flew him to Kentucky in a private plane. It was hush-hush, because the trip was against every recruiting rule in the book. But Jerome said yes, and Henry had begun to relish being courted by these famous and sophisticated men.

  The private plane landed on a strip near Louisville. The wealthy Kentuckian who had accompanied Henry emerged first. Henry followed him down the ladder. Two other men were Waiting.

  “Henry, my boy. Good to see you. Good to see you,” said the older of the two.

  “Thanks,” said Henry. “Same here.”

  “Welcome to the Blue Grass State,” said the other man. He was tall, athletic, thirtyish.

  Henry’s eyes grew brighter with recognition. “Oh, my gosh, wow! You’re—”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, I saw every game you ever played on tv! I’m like your number one fan!”

  “We know,” said the Kentuckian who had brought Henry.

  The tall man put his arm around Henry’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Henry. I’m glad you decided to take a look at our campus. This is a wonderful place.”

  The group headed toward a nearby limousine. The older man said, “Our climate’s nice. We’ve got lots of pretty girls.”

  “I loved going to school here, Henry,” the tall man said. “Of course, I attended before Secretariat made Kentucky famous.” They all laughed, and he added, “Would you like
to meet Secretariat?”

  “Yes, sir” said Henry. “I sure would.”

  “That can be arranged,” smiled the tall man.

  The Kentuckian who had accompanied Henry grinned, rubbed his hands together and said, “Yes, that can be arranged.”

  ==========

  But mostly they lured with girls.

  Henry stood on the topmost row of a Mississippi football stadium, looking away from the field at the panoramic view of the tree-filled campus below.

  “If you come to our school, Henry, we won’t recruit any other guards. We’ll build our ball club around you. It’ll be your show for four years, son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look down there on the football field.”

  Henry turned and looked down. On the field, spread from goal line to goal line, the college pep-squad drilled, charming in tight sweaters and mini-skirts.

  “Ain’t they nice, Henry?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Which one d’you like?”

  “Sir?”

  “Come on, son. You know what I mean. Which one d’you like?”

  “Oh. Uh, they all look alike from up here.”

  “Well then, Henry—let’s just get ourselves a closer view.”

  The grinning men led him down the stadium steps toward the marching girls.

  * * *

  V

  Two men entered the luxurious lobby of the Dallas hotel. One of them, a large, athletic type approaching middle age, quickened his step and strode directly toward the room clerk’s counter. The other man—older, tall, thin, patrician—regally surveyed the lobby as he strolled toward the elevators.

  An affluent-looking couple emerged from an elevator. The husband immediately recognized the stroller. “Coach Moreland Smith,” he said.

  With imperial calm, Moreland Smith bestowed his gaze upon the couple. His eyes were deepset, opaque, unyielding, ice-cold.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” the husband stammered. “I’m president of a bank in California. Here on business. I, uh, I’m an admirer of yours. Just wanted to shake your hand.”

  “I thank you, sir.” Smith’s voice was crisp, but there was a trace of a midwestern accent.

  “This is my wife.”

  Smith bowed, his smile radiating sudden warmth. The wife melted.

  “So good to see you, madame,” Smith said.

  As the couple backed away, the big man who had entered the lobby with Smith came bustling toward him.

  “Here’s your room key, Coach.”

  “Very good, Phillips.”

  “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “I think not.”

  An elevator opened its doors. Smith stepped in.

  “Well, sir,” said Phillips, “I think I’ll have me a nightcap.”

  “As you wish. Good night, then.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” As the elevator doors closed, Phillips added, “You really signed yourself up a good one tonight, Coach. Congratulations, sir.”

  The doors shut, and Smith’s mouth formed a pleased smile that did not spread upward to his brooding eyes.

  In his suite, he doffed his jacket and loosened his tie. For a moment he stood at the window, looking out at the skyline of Dallas thrusting heavenward in the near distance. Then he took a sleek, expensive tape recorder from his suitcase and set the gadget on the coffee table. He went to the bar, poured himself a tall Chivas, returned to the sofa and sat down. After a thoughtful moment, he snapped the tape recorder on to “record,” took a sip of his drink and began to speak.

  “Miss Rudolph, kindly transcribe this tape in its entirety.”

  He cleared his throat and took another sip of his drink. Then he rested his head against the back of the sofa, elevated his feet on the coffee table, closed his eyes, and spoke again.

  “In your usual efficient manner, Miss Rudolph, please extract the salient points from what I’m about to say regarding Master Henry Steele and forward the information to the registrar’s and athletic director’s offices. Oh, yes, and to the attention of that Brunz fellow, the head of the Alumni Association. These offices will make all the necessary arrangements preparatory to Steele’s matriculating at our noble institution of higher learning. Although these matters may seem routine, Miss Rudolph, this case presents a unique point or two.

  “I have in my possession a letter-of-intent signed by our elusive young Hermes, I’m happy to say. It was an interesting chase and capture, and it stimulated me, Miss Rudolph. Agnosco veteris vestigia ftammae. I feel again a spark of that ancient flame.”

  Smith smiled to himself, sipped again, and continued. “At any rate, we have him.

  “Most of the material I’m about to dictate, Miss Rudolph, is background for my memoirs. Kindly destroy the tape when you have typed your transcription. Again, I importune you—and please forgive me for constantly doing so—to make absolutely certain no other eyes or ears see or hear this material. I have no wish, at this stage of my career, to expose my very rabid followers to the unwholesome machinations requisite to winning national basketball championships.”

  He sighed. “Well, on with it. June sixteen, nineteen seventy-six. Dallas, Texas.”

  Miss Rudolph’s Transcript of Moreland Smith’s Tape

  During my odyssean endeavours as a college coach, I have recruited a panoply of the most gifted of American youth. From Lake Superior to the Rio Grande, from Montauk Point to Puget Sound, I have wooed wise-eyed urbanites with vowels on the ends of their names; thick-tongued southern blacks whose fourth-grade vocabularies are offset by magnificent basketball skills; bucolic midwesterners with giant bodies; street-wise ghetto savages with a highly creative approach to basketball. There are few surprises or delights I have not encountered in this duplicitous, intoxicating recruiting ritual. I have seen it all.

  But I have not always been the Moreland Smith, creator of Western University’s perennial champions, the most successful coach in college basketball history. No, indeed.

  When I first began, thirty years ago, I bled in the pits of ambition with all the other assistant coaches. During my first ten years of coaching I was a nonentity, a desperate young man who scurried fifty thousand miles in some years by plane, train, bus, car—and, yes, by wagon, on horseback and afoot. Under the banner of whichever hicktown junior college or one-horse university was paying my inadequate wages, I cajoled, I flattered, I tricked young boys into joining my glorious cause. I have pandered, pimped, subverted and bribed.

  I hated every minute of it. I loved every minute of it. Fiercely. As do all my coaching brethren. We are all collectively guilty. We are all collectively innocent. As lion kills to live, my confreres and I recruit in order to survive. Our employers demand that we hunt. If we do not, we starve, we die.

  I have proved that I am the greatest hunter of them all. I am paid homage by awed parents and stuttering, obsequious high-school coaches. It has become an honor to play for Moreland Smith of Western University. And so I now personally recruit only the finest and most elusive prospects.

  Henry Steele was a high-school junior when he was first approached on my ‘behalf by one Armand Drake, a Western U. alumnus, a former California oilman who had relocated in the petroleum-rich Big Springs area of West Texas. Over a period of two years, Drake became friendly with the boy’s father by purchasing two trucks from the gentleman. Drake was introduced to the lad, therefore, as a customer of his father’s rather than as a representative of Western University.

  I had read mountains of glowing press clippings, received constant and unabashedly laudatory letters from Western alums about young Henry Steele’s achievements, watched whatever films I could get my hands on of Elroy High School basketball games. The films made my mouth water. All this, coupled with the knowledge that some of my most perspicacious coaching rivals were ardently courting the lad, made me determined to have Master Steele. So when Armand Drake finally called me and admitted defeat, saying that the boy was inscrutable and
uncommunicative, I felt a heady call to combat.

  I did what I seldom do these days. Drake sent his jet for me on the appointed day, and I spanned half a continent. The mountain came to Mohammad. I flew to Elroy last March—as you know, Miss Rudolph—to watch Henry Steele play ball. It was a most inconvenient time for me, in the middle of an undefeated season, but I was determined to induce that ‘boy to spend his four years of college under me.

  Between that night last March in Elroy and tonight here in Dallas, three months went by during which I could not obtain Henry Steele’s signature on our letter-of-intent. Yes, I did make a modicum of progress. I found it encouraging when Steele refused to meet with me in Los Angeles, my home turf, and insisted on a neutral site such as Dallas or El Paso. I agreed, because during my single encounter with the youngster I had sensed an economy of mind which made him waste not. I deduced that the lad had already decided on Western, but that he wanted to bargain with me in a setting in which I would be as disoriented as he. I liked that.

  We chose Dallas, and Armand Drake set the stage well, reserving a secluded corner of an elegant restaurant. My troops consisted of Phillips, my first assistant coach; Joey Wilson, the movie star, who is a nouveau nabob in the swarm of nabobs known as the Western University Alumni Association; and, finally, Terri Dymand. Miss Dymand is that sensual young creature who, in all her movies, disrobes at least twice. Drake and Wilson assured me that she would play a convincing scene with young Steele, both publicly and privately.

  Drake arranged for his oil company’s plane to fetch Steele. At Love Field, Drake met the aircraft and led Henry to the parking lot. There sat a gleaming, powerful new sports car, a… um… red Datsun 280Z, I believe. Drake handed Steele the keys and asked if he would care to drive the car to our restaurant meeting place. The boy merely shook his head no, handed the keys back to Drake, and got into the car on the passenger’s side. The incident made me recall my meeting with Steele last March in Elroy, when he hardly spoke to me, yet was vividly expressive with his silence.