Segal, Jerry

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

  The boys counted off. Jomo Wade, a lithe black freshman from Harlem, was number one. Another guard, the six-foot four-inch Cranston, was second. Henry, third. Tom, fourth.

  “Odd numbers are offense, even numbers defense,” Phillips ordered. “Offense takes the ball downcourt, one-on-one against the defensive man, and scores if he can. Defense, play him close.” Phillips tossed the ball to Jomo Wade and poised his clipboard to make notes. On the sideline at midcourt, Smith watched.

  “Ball’s in play! Go!” Phillips shouted.

  Jomo was so graceful, so fast, as he faked, twisted and spun that Cranston, an all-conference guard the previous season, seemed inept. Jomo sped by him at midcourt, went into the air at the free-throw line and laid the ball in so softly that it made hardly a sound as it kissed the backboard and feathered down through the hoop.

  A pleased Moreland Smith nodded a well-done to Jomo.

  Henry, next in line, took a deep breath. Oh, wow! He rubbed his hands on the sides of his practice uniform. His hands felt clammy. Jomo Wade bounced the ball to him.

  “Next!” screamed Phillips. “Let’s go, Steele!”

  Tom crouched low in front of Henry, arms spread wide, ham-like hands darting toward the ball, guarding closely.

  Calling on all his skill, Henry advanced the ball almost to midcourt against his bigger foe; he feinted, dribbled behind his back, drove right, left, right. Finally, at the oenterline, he faked, threw Tom off-balance and drove past him, clearly on his way to an easy basket.

  But as Henry charged past, Tom darted a long arm toward the ball, tapped it away, retrieved it, and dribbled toward his own basket for an uncontested lay-up.

  Frozen at midcourt, Henry stared as Tom bounced the ball to the-next man and trotted to the end of the line. No one had ever taken the ball from him like that.

  He glanced at Smith a few feet away on the sideline. The coach met his shocked eye for a second, then looked away and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Henry jogged slowly to the end of the line.

  Tom patted him on the rump and whispered, “Shake it off, buddy. You’ll get me next time.”

  “Yeah,” mumbled Henry.

  Head down, he saw Tom’s long arms out of the corner of his eye. Down the lure, he saw all the other arms, as long as Tom’s or longer.

  Perspiring profusely, Henry found a towel, wiped his face.

  A few minutes later, on offense, he took the ball in against Jomo Wade. With a pair of fine moves, he drove past his opponent, sped toward the basket, jumped and shot.

  Unbelievably, Jomo recovered and leaped from behind Henry, extended his arm and cleanly deflected the shot. Henry grabbed the loose ball and fired a ten-footer into the basket. Relieved, he again cast a covert glance at Smith. The coach was studying him through narrowed eyes.

  As he and Jomo moved back to the line, Smith said, “Nice block, Wade.” The coach ignored Henry.

  Half an hour later, in groups of five, the boys began a tip-in drill. The drill lasted for twenty minutes, and though Henry leaped higher and more desperately than he had ever jumped in his life, he did not retrieve a single rebound. His heavy, towering teammates shoved him aside as they would a troublesome gnat.

  Phillips, that worshipper of brute strength, looked to see if his boss had noticed.

  Moreland Smith had. Long before Phillips.

  ==========

  Before ending the day’s practice, Philips put the exhausted boys through fifteen minutes of brutal calisthenics. Goaded by the shame of having been outplayed and outmuscled by his gargantuan teammates, Henry was merciless to his body, bending, stretching, straining like a man possessed. During the calisthenics, the coaches ignored him.

  At last Smith nodded to Phillips, who blew his whistle and shouted, “Head for the showers!”

  The coaches stood by the door that led to the locker room. As Jomo Wade went by, Phillips gave him an approving slap on the tail and said, “Way to go, there, Jomo baby!”

  Henry approached the door, his face red, the veins bulging in his neck.

  “Steele,” Phillips snapped.

  “Sir?” Henry stopped.

  “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Tomorrow’s another day.”

  Henry barely managed a smile as he trotted from the gym.

  Moreland Smith stared after him. Sighing, the coach folded his arms. His mouth set itself in a hard line of disappointment.

  ==========

  “Sure, 'I'll accept the charges,” Jerome sang out. Henry heard him call, “Eunice! It’s Henry!”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Son! How you doin‘? From your letters, looks like you’re kind of takin’ over out there.”

  “Not exactly, Dad.” Henry thought of the practice concluded just a few minutes earlier. His entire body ached.

  “What? Must be a bad connection. I read your last letter to just about ever‘ man and critter in town. The one about gettin’ your picture took with Coach Smith for the newspapers. Everybody in Elroy’s expectin‘ big things o’ you, Henry. Know what I tell ‘em? I tell ’em not to worry. Right, son?”

  For a moment, Henry did not answer.

  “Sure. Uh, Dad—is Ma there?”

  “Betchaboots. Here, Eunice.”

  “Henry, darlin‘?”

  “Hi, Ma.”

  “Are you all right? There’s nothin‘ wrong, is there?”

  “Oh, no, Ma. I, uh—just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “I wanted to hear yours, too, darlin‘. Henry, are you doin’ your lessons? And makin‘ friends? I do hope you’re havin’ fun, and dates, and goin‘ to parties—”

  “Now cut that out, Eunice!” Henry heard his father bark, and then Jerome was back on the line. “Henry?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Henry, your Ma’s got the simples, son. Friends and parties. Bull! Basketball, Henry! Basketball’s your party! That’s your life. Without basketball, you’re nowhere. You know that, Henry. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “That other stuff—girls and parries and lessons— that’ll take care of itself, once you’re on top. You just stick with your basketball. Right?”

  “Right, Dad.”

  ==========

  Later that afternoon, he went by the athletic office to pick up his check from B.J. Rudolph.

  “Happy?” she asked, smiling as he glanced at it.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Your check. It’s for seventy dollars.”

  “Oh. Last week it was for fifty-six.”

  “Yes. Sometimes Senor Gonzales misguidedly tries to save the athletic department a dollar an hour. I caught the mistake. You get five an hour now, not four. Say, ‘Thank you, Miss Rudolph.’ ”

  “Thank you, Miss Rudolph.”

  “That didn’t sound too happy.” She rose and stood close to him. “What’s wrong, Henry? Don’t you like your job? Are you having troubles with your classes? How can I help you?”

  “Oh, everything’s fine, ma’am. No problems at all. I think I’ll go study now.”

  He fled back to his room, sat his bone-tired body at the desk, and attacked his English textbook.

  ==========

  That night he had a date with Julie.

  The passenger seat of the Lincoln Continental opened into a bed. Henry lay back in the deep cushions, Julie on top of him. Her lips and tongue caressed his neck, ears, hair, mouth. Her hands played with his belt buckle, undid it, and unzipped his jeans. Purring hot breaths, she pulled down his jockey shorts, played with him.

  At last she put her cheek against his and whispered. “You’re not much fun tonight, Henry-poo.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Somethin‘ on my mind.”

  She took his hand and put it inside her blouse.

  “Tell me what it is. Julie will make it better,” she murmured.

  From an inch away, Henry looked at her face. A masterpiece. Once he had asked her why she had chosen him when she could have the pick of the campus. “Because,” she had answere
d, “I’m the biggest beauty, and they tell me you’re going to be the biggest ”jock. So—together—we rule this joint for the next three or four years.“

  Now she repeated, “Tell me what’s on your mind and Julie will make it better.”

  “It’s basketball. Among other things.”

  She giggled. “Well, basketball’s always on your mind.” Her fingers danced in his crotch. “But it’s never made any difference before. Ohhh, come on, Henry,” she implored him. Taking his hand from her breast, she moved it down inside her panties.

  “I’ll make it better,” she moaned. “Mmmmm, come on, Henry. Ohhh, mmmm, Henry, come on.”

  Her tongue, in a frenzy, sought his ear, his mouth, pushed open his lips. Groaning, she kissed his chest.

  She paused and looked at him. “Henry?” she whispered.

  Then she shouted. “Oh! You bastard! You’re asleep! Asshole!”

  Furious, she opened the car door and began pushing him out. In a daze, he stumbled from the car, holding his unbuttoned pants to keep them from falling.

  Julie started the motor, revved it thunderously. Rage clouded her gorgeous face. “Oh!” she hissed at him.

  Tires squealing, the Lincoln screamed away, leaving the exhausted Henry on the curb, three miles from his dorm.

  ==========

  After his last class the next morning, Henry wandered idly, books in hand, around the campus. Basketball practice would begin in a couple of hours, at two-thirty. He tried not to think about it.

  He came to a grassy field that was flanked by the library, the Student Center building and a small lagoon. Students sat on the soft green turf, young men and women scattered like wild flowers in a meadow, studying, talking, napping. One group gathered around two guitarists. Music drifted gently over the field. The autumn sun warmed the air.

  Aimlessly, Henry walked across the field. As if for the first time, he saw his fellow students, looked at their faces, noted their preoccupation with each other, their absorption in their books. Suddenly he felt their community, wondered what it would be like to be one of them.

  He stopped in the middle of the field. The books in his hands, unnoticed a few seconds before, seemed to pulse and take on weight. He looked down at them. For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, he had a clear thought.

  He would sit and read, just like all the others.

  Making sure he was not observed, Henry slowly sat down, his legs crossed under him. Then he stretched out on the grass, enjoying the smell of the rich earth a foot from his nose, the feel of the living blades bending beneath his body. Opening Moby Dick and holding it above his head, he began to read. After only a few minutes, his hungry mind was lost in Melville’s words.

  ==========

  That afternoon the squad held its first scrimmage of the season.

  Henry, dribbling in backcourt, spotted a teammate “basket-hanging” far downcourt. His cannon-shot pass zoomed eighty feet, the length of the court. Catching the perfectly thrown pass, the teammate scored easily.

  Moreland Smith stormed off the bench, raging. “Goddammit, Steele! That’s not the style of game we play here! No more of that kind of pass! You hear me, boy?!”

  Phillips and the rest of the squad froze. Smith rarely lost his temper, virtually never screamed at a player.

  Shamed, Henry stared wordlessly at the coach.

  “I don’t know where your mind is,” Smith shouted, “but you’d surely better get it back on basketball. What you just pulled is schoolyard stuff! You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Henry whispered,

  Loud enough for everyone to hear, Smith muttered as he walked back to the bench, “What in hades is the matter with that dumb kid?”

  When play resumed, the determination in Henry’s face was distorted by embarrassment and fear.

  * * *

  VII

  Henry did not call Janet for almost two weeks after their first turbulent tutorial session. By then, he had prepared himself carefully for what he thought of as a rematch. She had attacked his intelligence; he had decided to accept the challenge, rather than submit helplessly to her academic superiority.

  “This is Henry Steele, Miss Hays,” he said when Janet answered the phone.

  “Oh, my. Aren’t we formal. You may call me Janet, Henry.”

  “When may I come to get tutored?”

  “Well, the only time I have open is tomorrow at one. At the psych lab, room twelve, where I work. Normally, that’s my lunch hour, but for you, Henry”—she laughed —“anything.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be there. ‘Bye.”

  “Henry?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t call me ma’am. You make me feel ancient. You know, I’ll bet you and I are pretty close to the same age.”

  Henry was curt. “What'd‘ you want?”

  “I just wanted to say—I’m glad you called.”

  He softened a bit. “Well,” he said, “the first two or three weeks of basketball practice kind of kept me busy.”

  “I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again.

  Putty in her hands now, he said, “Oh, no danger of that.”

  “Good.” She laughed again, and her next words were like a slap in his face. “Because I really need that two-fifty an hour.”

  He hung up on her, something he had never done to anyone in his life.

  ==========

  Janet’s lab—or, more accurately, Malcolm’s lab— was an ample, open area with desks and tables for lectures, and a cluster of cell-like cubicles, each soundproof, for experimental uses. When Henry arrived, he found Janet alone. She wore a clinician’s smock and looked lovely. He returned her smile with a sober nod, sat at a large table with his books in front of him, and waited for her to pour herself a cup of coffee.

  “Want some milk or something, Henry?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She sat across from him, coffee cup in hand. “Okay, what’s first on the hit parade?”

  “English.”

  “Fantastic. What’s your problem?”

  He stared at her. “What do you think about Moby Dick?‘

  She smiled. “Your problem is what I think about Moby Dick

  “Can’t you ever answer a question straight?”

  His eyes, she noted, had changed. They had been soft, boyish; now they were cold.

  She refused to be intimidated. “Look, Steele,” she snapped, “you’re just trying to get a quick, pat answer out of me and save yourself a lot of work. Read the book. Then I’ll be happy to discuss it with you.”

  A hint of a smile narrowed his eyes. “I read the book,” he said.

  “All of it?” For a moment she felt herself on the defensive. Then she attacked.

  “Congratulations, Steele! You’re not only the first jock, but the first person I’ve ever known who’s read aft of Moby Dick.”

  “You never read it?”

  She sneered. “Of course I read it, you ass. I was just joking. You have absolutely no sense of humor.”

  Suddenly, he was formidable—a young bull, his chest puffed out, his shoulders great with anger.

  His words were flat, cold. “I have a good sense of humor. When I’m around funny people.” He leaned toward her. “And I’m not takin‘ anymore crud off of you. Don’t call me names, or I’ll forget you’re a female.”

  Her basic decency came to the fore. “I guess I had that coming, Henry,” she said sincerely, “I apologize.”

  He went back to his first question. “What do you think about Moby Dick?

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that it’s a monumental work of art. A powerful masterpiece of great symbolism.”

  “What about Captain Ahab? What do you think about him?”

  “I love him. He’s one of my favorite characters in all of literature.”

  “How come?”

  She laughed uncomfortably, not only at his intensity, but because she knew he was in command here. “Henry,” she exclaimed, “I�
��m the tutor, remember? You tell me. Why do I love Captain Ahab?”

  He quoted Captain Ahab’s words. “ ‘What I’ve dared, I’ve willed. And what I’ve willed—I’ll do!”

  “Yes!” she cried, delighted. “That’s when, let’s see that’s when—”

  Henry said, “—when Starbuck tried to talk Captain Ahab out of goin‘ after the great white whale.”

  “Yes! And Ahab was so determined! He wouldn’t be dissuaded. He never gave up, no matter what. Oh, that total commitment! I love it when a person pursues his destiny, no matter what it is, with single-minded devotion!”

  He stared at her. “Then why don’t you like jocks?” he asked.

  Nonplused, she stared back at him.

  Satisfied now that he had made ‘his point, Henry busied himself with the books stacked before him, then abruptly changed the subject. Opening his history text, he said, “There’s a couple of things I don’t understand on this page here.”

  Taking the book, Janet studied him. Despite herself, she liked what she saw. But she was not about to let him know it.

  * * *

  VIII

  October was almost gone.

  Dejected. Henry finished dressing. His hair still wet from showering, his body drained from an unusually rough practice session, he sat on the bench in front of his locker and stared at the floor.

  Tom had watched his roommate put on his usual plaid flannel shirt, faded jeans, and worn, shapeless shoes. Now, as Henry rose to leave, Tom hurled a damp towel at him. “Wait up,” he said.

  “Sure.” Henry leaned against a locker and shook his head. “Man, I can’t believe how bad I’m playin‘.”

  “You’re not playing so bad. It’s just that everyone else is playing great.”

  “That Jomo Wade, he’s got moves I’ve never seen before,” Henry muttered.

  “You worry too much,” Tom said. He decided to get Henry’s mind off basketball. “You got any money?”

  “Yeah. I made seventy bucks last week and the week before. Watchin‘ sprinklers go on and off.”

  “Dynamite. Let’s go spend it. There’s a party tonight. You’re coming. Thing is—now, this is nothing personal, man—you sure could use a new set of clothes.”