Segal, Jerry

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

  Looking up in the crowd, he found Janet. She waved and smiled. He managed a smile in return.

  * * *

  VI

  It was early January.

  From his desk at the front of the quiet classroom, Professor Williams’ gaze raked the students as they took their exam. His eyes lingered for a moment on Henry, who was writing furiously.

  By the time the bell rang, most of the students had already handed in their papers and departed. The last bluebook placed on the professor’s desk was Henry’s. Having watched the boy struggle on the edge of failure for four months, Williams was somewhat surprised by Henry’s confidence as he put his exam atop the others, smiled, and left the room.

  In a moment, Williams went to the window and looked out. He saw Henry leave the building and break into a joyous run across the campus.

  Williams walked back to his desk, eyed Henry’s bluebook speculatively, picked it up and began to read.

  ==========

  The phone rang the next day in the professor’s office.

  “Professor Williams?”

  “Yes.”

  ‘This is Miss Rudolph. One moment for Coach Smith.“

  Moreland Smith’s voice was crisp. “Hello, Dr. Williams. We did not receive your memo regarding Henry Steele’s washing out in History 1 A.”

  “That’s because I didn’t send it, Coach Smith.”

  “Would you kindly send it right away, please. We need it.”

  “I can’t very well do that now.”

  “Why not?” Smith barked.

  “Steele made a ninety-two on his exam.”

  ==========

  The red sports car sped along the coastal highway. Henry, as happy as he had ever been, bounced in his seat in time to the music on the radio. The Pacific beaches and the ocean spread to their left, high cliffs soared to their right.

  Janet’s hair flew freely as the wind rushed through the open windows. Her hand rested on Henry’s thigh, his right elbow kept contact with her left forearm—as if they felt incomplete unless they were touching one another.

  They found a plateau that overlooked the ocean. Overhead, gulls circled. Below, the surf foamed on wet rocks that glistened in the noonday brightness. The sun warmed them, sea breezes cooled them. They drank wine until they were both a bit tipsy; they lay on their backs on a blanket, holding hands, watching birds float across the blueness above.

  Henry sat up and lifted his glass to toast Janet. “Here’s to you—for my ninety-two!” He sipped. “One more glass and I’ll see two baskets when I work out this afternoon.”

  She propped herself on her elbows. “Even on Sunday? Can’t you forget it for one day?”…

  “Gotta work out every day.” He grinned. “It’s in my blood.”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen!” she called out like a circus barker. “Step right up and see Henry Steele, the wondah boy, whose plasma consists of red and white basketballs.”

  He put his face close to hers and whispered, “And Janet Hays is also in his blood. She is in his heart.”

  Half-jesting, she put her hand on his chest. “Maybe it’s too crowded in there. Maybe there’s not enough room for all those basketballs and Janet Hays.”

  “It’s not too crowded.”

  “I love you, Henry,” she said. “I love you, and that’s why it hurts. Seeing you involved in all that garbage.”

  “It’s not garbage, Jan. It’s beautiful. Maybe the way they run sports is garbage. But sports itself—that’s beautiful.” He searched for words. “When I’m runnin‘, and I feel like I can’t take one more step—and then I do—I know my legs are listenin’ to something inside me. When that happens, I know how those birds up there feel when they fly. You understand what I mean, Jan? Sure, the way they run sports is garbage. But playin‘ sports makes me feel good.”

  She kissed his hand. “Okay, no more nagging. I promise.”

  Henry gently pulled her down so they lay side by side, facing each other. His hands and lips began to make love to her.

  “I thought you said you wanted to get back to the city and practice,” she teased.

  “I said I wanted to work out. And you said you wanted to help.”

  They laughed, kissed. Gulls cried. The sea wind whistled. Henry and Janet made love. Everything that was natural and lovely seemed to be happening there on the plateau.

  * * *

  VII

  WESTERN 110———VISITORS 58. The Scoreboard clock showed less than a minute to play, and the gym, packed at the beginning of the game, was now half empty. The contest had been a rout; the fans, now leaving the arena in droves, were more interested in beating post-game traffic than they were in the action on the court.

  On the bench, Moreland Smith scanned his substitutes. His eyes rested on Henry, who looked up and saw the coach staring at him. Their eyes locked. After an instant, Smith nodded. “Go in for Jomo,” he snapped.

  Henry quickly doffed his warm-up jacket.

  No one on the team knew that Henry had defied the coach, and he had continued to work hard in the practices, so sending him into the game did not represent a loss of face for Smith. Although he still planned to force Henry to relinquish his scholarship, the coach saw no reason why he should not use the boy in a situation such as this. The outcome of the game was not in doubt; the opposition had begun to play roughly, thus endangering Jomo.

  Checking in at the scorers’ table, Henry found Janet in the stands. She waved at him.

  Western scored, and he ran onto the court. Oh, great! he thought, glancing up at the clock. I get in the cruddy game when there’s just twenty-eight seconds left to play!

  Tom inbounded the ball to him. Angrily, in defiance of Moreland Smith’s coaching, he ignored his teammates and brilliantly drove the length of the court. As he flew by the basket, he banked a sensational, hotdog lay-up off the backboard and through the hoop. In a close game, before a packed house, the display of brilliance would have produced cheers. But now, as the remaining spectators shuffled toward the exits, there was no reaction. In the stands, Janet suffered quietly over the lack of response.

  On the bench, Moreland Smith nodded righteously to himself. The boy’s an exhibitionist, he thought; he doesn’t give a tinker’s dam about team play.

  * * *

  VIII

  All fall, Chris had phoned him regularly to chat. But Henry never called him. At last, Chris vowed that he would call no more, and for two months they had not spoken to or seen each other.

  And then, as Chris left the cafeteria one mid-January morning, Henry hailed him. Chris’ mustache had been supplemented by a lush, full beard, and his hair hung now to his shoulders. He wore a Che‘ beret, a secondhand army shirt, and sandals.

  “Hey, Chrissie!”

  “Henry. I thought you’d died, man.”

  “Cut it out. I’ve had a few problems. Haven’t been good company. You ain’t missed a thing.”

  “Sorry, man. I should have known you were up against it. Everytime there’s a game, I look at the box score. You ain’t playin‘ much.”

  “That’s for sure.” Henry put an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Where you headed?”

  “Physics.”

  “I’ll walk you. Tell me what’s happenin‘. Are you doin’ okay, Chrissie?”

  “Oh, shit, Henry! Life here is out of sight, man! I love it!”

  For ten minutes, they chatted nonstop, renewing their friendship. Henry said nothing about his basketball problems and the campaign to get him to renounce his athletic scholarship; he spoke of Janet and his love for her. Chris was delighted.

  “Me, I’m spread out thin,” he said. “Like, there’s this chick across the hall in my roomin‘ house, an exchange student. Her English, it ain’t so good.” He leered. “But we don’t do that much talkin’.”

  “Chrissie, you ought to be like me. How come you don’t find one girl, and settle down?”

  “Because I’m like the amoeba. It’s my destiny to multiply mys
elf.”

  Tom came up behind them as they neared the physics building and threw his long arms around their shoulders.

  “Hey, buddies!”

  “Hi,” said Henry. “You think it’s safe for you to be seen with me in public? Coach Smith might find out.”

  “Nobody’s watching,” Tom said.

  “Oh, man! I was just kiddin‘,” Henry told him.

  Tom grinned. “Ain’t seen you around the dorm much lately, champ. Where you shacking up?”

  “Coach Phillips is lettin‘ me stay at his house.” Feeble as the joke was, Tom laughed.

  “You startin‘ tonight, Tom?” Chris asked.

  “No, but I’m the seventh man.” Gleefully, Tom added, “My folks are gonna see their little Tommy play on national television tonight!” He caught himself. “Oops. Sorry, Henry.”

  “That’s okay. My folks are gonna see their little Henry sit on the bench on national television tonight,” Henry muttered.

  “Yeah, well, hang in there, champ.”

  Tom left them, and they continued on toward the physics building, jabbering cheerfully to each other again.

  ==========

  They were friends now, Henry and Malcolm.

  In Janet’s apartment, Henry lay across the bed, studying, while Malcolm and Janet worked together. He sensed something conspiratorial in their manner, and when they had finished their work, he learned that his suspicion was justified.

  Janet took a deep breath. “Henry, we did some research. Malcolm and I.”

  “Oh?” he said.

  “When you recruited, they broke every rule there is. Henry, you’ve got enough on Moreland Smith to put Western University and ten other schools on probation for years.” Janet watched him intently.

  He pursed his lips, but did not answer.

  Malcolm said, “You can blow the whole mess wide open. You can help straighten out the whole rotten system.”

  “I could do all that?”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Janet said. “Let’s blackmail Smith! We can make him get off your back, make him put you on the starting team.”

  Henry glanced at Malcolm, grinning. “Blackmail is lawlessness. Right, Malcolm? No matter how virtuous the goal, we should not be lawless.”

  Malcolm laughed. “Right,” he said.

  “Where’d you learn all that, Henry?” Janet asked.

  “I been gettin‘ myself educated.”

  Janet persisted. “Henry, they cheat and lie to recruit you, then stab you in the back once you’re here! You can’t let them get away with it! It’s criminal!”

  “And then they institutionalise their crimes on tv,” Malcolm added.

  “Hold on a minute,” Henry said, addressing them both. “Tell me somethin‘. Why do ten or twenty million people reschedule their day just so they can watch a good basketball game on tv? They enjoy it, that’s why.”

  “Darling, what’s wrong with you? Can’t you see that—?”

  “Wait, Jan,” he said. “I’m not through. People don’t think watchin‘ a basketball game is watchin’ a crime. People watch a fine ballplayer for the same reason they watch a fine dancer—because they’re seein‘ the best.” For a moment, he spoke almost to himself. “I’m not goin’ to blow the whistle and spoil it for my teammates—just because it’s not workin‘ out for me.” To Malcolm, he said, “And before I can even think about straightenin’ out the system, I’d better worry about gettin‘ myself straightened out.”

  He fell silent. Janet crossed the room and kissed him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Henry,“ she said.

  He clutched his stomach. “Oh, yes, there is!”

  “What is it, darling?”

  “I’m about to throw up my lunch.” He feigned pain, then began to laugh at the joke. “I may be sittin‘ on the bench, but tonight’s still my first time on national tv!”

  ==========

  At half-time, the two network tv sports announcers stood on the court in front of a camera and delivered their commentaries.

  “What incredible basketball, Mike!”

  “That it was, Hal. A great half. There’s some really fine talent on both squads. But Western is thin at the guard position and it’s hurting them quite a bit tonight. One of their reserve guards, Cranston, is out with an injury. So after then” two starters, especially the sensational Jomo Wade, and —“

  “—a really sensational basketball player, Mike.”

  “That he is, Hal. After the starting guards, Wade and Floyd, Western has only two boys who’ve seen very little game time.”

  “And Jomo’s got four fouls, Mike, and that’s made him alter his usually aggressive style of play.”

  “That it has, Hal, Which is why Western’s losing to this solid Tech team by nine points at half-time.”

  “Tell me Mike-—during your playing days you were in many situations like this. What do you think the Western coaches are saying to their team right now?”

  “You’re playin‘ like shit! All of you! You pecker-woods are lucky you’re only nine points down!” Red with anger, Phillips screamed at the Western squad. “You-all got about as much gumption in you as a week-old corpse. Hell, I’m ashamed of you!”

  On the locker room benches, the boys sat with their heads lowered. Behind Phillips, Moreland Smith stood in stony silence next to a diagram-filled blackboard. Now, arms folded, he walked from the blackboard until he stood front and center, commanding the room. Under his penetrating stare, the boys lifted their heads to pay attention.

  “Jomo, four fouls!” the coach began. “Goodness gracious, boy! And Wheeler! Why all that fancy dribbling? Are you showing off for your folks in Harlem? Forget we’re on tv! Pass the ball, son! Baker! Why aren’t you helping Ziggy under the boards? Drop off, son, just like I diagrammed it, and let’s keep the middle closed! Tommy! Thirty-five-foot jump shots with no one under? What’s the matter with you, boy!”

  His voice took on an inspirational tone.

  “In the second half, gentlemen, we have something to prove! Number one rankings are meaningless when they’re printed on a newspaper page. What I want to know is—are we number one on the basketball court! Are we?”

  “Yes!” the answer thundered. Even Henry, the most subdued person in the locker room, had responded.

  “All right, then! One hundred and fifty percent from everyone! Team ball! What do you say, gentlemen! Do we wipe them out this half?”

  “Yeah!” the boys roared.

  “All right! GO GET THEM!”

  As the team trotted through the ramp toward the court, Wheeler said to Jomo, “If that turkey says one more thing about my folks in Harlem, I’m gonna break his fuckin‘ neck.”

  “I hear ya,” said Jomo, nodding.

  The Scoreboard read WESTERN 50 - TECH 59 as the two starting teams took the court for the second half. From her usual seat in the stands, Janet watched Henry trudge to the far end of the Western bench ‘and sit down. An expectant roar rose from the home crowd, an exhortation to the Western team to do what it virtually always did—win big.

  Next to Henry on the bench, Tom said, “I wish he’d put me in there.”

  “You wish,” Henry growled.

  A referee tossed the ball in the air at centercourt. The second half began.

  Tech controlled the tap, brought the ball quickly up-court and scored for an eleven-point lead. Jomo dribbled the ball upcourt and passed to Ziggy, but the Tech center blocked Ziggy’s shot and began a three-on-one fast break. Again, Tech scored. WESTERN 50 - TECH 63.

  From the bench, Henry watched the players’ sweaty faces; he saw hands slapping arms; heard sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor; saw the ball zip crisply from man to man, saw it shot softly, floating toward the basket, saw it bounce crazily around the run and drop into the hoop; he saw bumping, pushing, grabbing; he heard yelling, snarling, the refs’ whistles; he saw the Scoreboard changing, the clock moving; heard the crowd roar, groan, scream.

  And despite himself, he
watched with pride as his teammates fought back. With five minutes and forty-one seconds left in the game, the Scoreboard read WESTERN 71 - TECH 77.

  And then Jomo Wade, driving toward the basket, was unable to avoid fouling a Tech player who had planted himself in Jomo’s path. His shot went in, but the ref waved his arms, nullifying the basket, and blew his whistle, pointing at Jomo.

  Head down, Jomo walked off the court. The crowd booed the referee as the public address system blared into life: “FOUL ON NUMBER TWELVE OF WESTERN UNIVERSITY, JOMO WADE. THAT’S HIS FIFTH FOUL. HE’S OUT OF THE GAME.”

  Jomo slumped down on the bench, catching the towel tossed to him by Phillips. Smith pointed at Tom. “You’re in, son,” the coach said. “Don’t worry about scoring. Just play tough defense.”

  Tom checked in, ran onto the court, and play resumed.

  The crowd screamed, hissed, booed, cheered, cursed, prayed, jumped up ‘and down, shrieked. Chris, seated next to Janet, was as rabid as the most fervent fan, but Janet sat quietly as the two fine teams traded baskets. The clock ran down. Tech scored. Western scored. Tech scored. Western scored. Tech. Western. Tech. Western.

  Floyd took a pass from Tom, dribbled toward the circle, jumped high and shot. As he released the ball at the top of his leap and hung, defenseless, in mid-air, a Tech defender charged into him, Floyd spun as he fell, hitting the floor off-balance. Crunch. Floyd’s ankle snapped. He writhed on the floor.

  Time was called; the crowd grew silent as Western’s trainer, with Smith and Phillips, ran to kneel at Floyd’s side. The trainer cut the shoe, sock, and tape from Floyd’s foot and waved for the team’s doctor, who trotted out, took one glance at the foot and motioned for a stretcher.

  The crowd applauded politely as the stretcher took Floyd away. And then, suddenly, there was only a quiet buzz in the arena. The Scoreboard read, WESTERN 89———TECH 94. Time to play: thirty-five seconds.

  Moreland Smith stared at his bench and at last, reluctantly, exercised the only option he had left. With his rolled-up program, the coach pointed to the only remaining guard on the Western squad.