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The Squared Circle
James W. Bennett
Author’s note
I would like the reader to understand that even though real place names (for the most part) comprise its setting, The Squared Circle is exclusively a work of fiction. All characters—as well as events—in it are products of imagination, with no basis in any actual person, living or dead.
The setting for The Squared Circle is real because it is designed to function centrally in the story. The southernmost tip of the state of Illinois, traditionally referred to as “Little Egypt,” has long been a basketball hotbed, particularly at the high school level.
As an author with southern Illinois roots, I hold Southern Illinois University and its athletic program in high esteem. All coaches, players, fans, administrators, and events in this story are fictitious, no link to SIU history or procedures is intended.
1
Snell asked the question as if what he expected from Sonny was an admission of guilt: “Did you shoot free throws after practice?”
“What d’you think?”
“How many?”
“What d’you think?”
“You shot a hundred, right?”
“Yeah.”
“How many did you make?”
“I just told you. I made a hundred.”
“I said how many did you shoot, not how many did you make.”
Sonny looked up from his book. He had already decided he didn’t like Snell. “I told you. I shot a hundred and I made a hundred.”
“You’re saying you made a hundred in a row?”
“No, Snell, you’re saying it.” Sonny decided to go back to the paragraph he was trying to read.
“You hear this shit?” said Snell to Robert Lee. “He says he made a hundred free throws in a row after the workout.”
Robert Lee was leafing through a recent copy of Penthouse. Without looking up he said, “That’s what I know. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You believe him?”
Robert Lee shrugged. “I’ve seen him do it before. I don’t think he’d leave the gym without his hundred straight free throws.”
“I’ve never seen him do it,” said Snell.
Sonny put the book down again. “That’s because you’re never around after we scrimmage. If you want to see it, you’ll have to hang.”
“Right. I’m going to hang out afterwards, just so I can watch you shoot free throws.”
“Then get off my case.”
Sonny and his two pledge brothers were sitting in one of the upstairs study rooms in the fraternity house. They were waiting restlessly for the second lineup of the year. Mounted on the wall were a few fraternity paddles made of blond polished wood. The paddles were half an inch thick and 26 inches long. On each paddle, the names of pledge father and son were burned in charred capital letters: MIKE ’97 from DOC ’96. TONY ’98 from NILES ’96.
Robert Lee and Snell were both scholarship basketball players like Sonny, but from what Sonny could tell from the pickup games in Davies, the old gym, Snell was going to be a practice player strictly, while Robert Lee was an overachiever, one of those guys who got by on desire.
The book Sonny was trying to read was one on chimpanzees by Jane Goodall, assigned by his Intro to Anthropology professor. His interest was so marginal that he kept rereading the same paragraph. The obstacles to concentration began with the imminent lineup, but continued with Robert Lee’s interruptions to show beaver shots from his magazine. For his part, Snell was amusing himself by setting his own farts on fire with a Bic lighter.
Snell still wasn’t finished with his agenda. He turned to Robert Lee again and said, “Youngblood shoots his hundred free throws a day, and we don’t even start real practices for another week. Then he’ll have to shoot his free throws after he wins the wind sprints and the suicides.”
There was no answer from Robert Lee, so Snell went on, “You know what you are, Youngblood?”
“I give up,” said Sonny.
“You’re a fuckin’ fanatic. You’re a basketball junkie. It’s like there’s nothing else in life but hoops. You’re a fucking fanatical basketball junkie.”
These remarks pissed Sonny off. He was about to answer, And you’re nothing but a glorified walk-on, but then suddenly, the door was kicked open. It was Pinky, a chunky sophomore. Across his flushed face was a mad grin. Sonny felt his stomach constrict.
“Guess what, slugs?” asked Pinky. “Guess what it’s time for?”
“We know, we know,” said Robert Lee with a weary expression.
“You know shit!” roared Pinky. He was full-out drunk. In his right hand he was holding what was left of a gallon of Mad Dog wine; his pudgy index finger was looped through the glass ring at the bottle’s neck. “A fucking slug knows jackshit!”
Robert Lee lowered his face and murmured, “Yes sir.”
In his left hand, Pinky had a firm grip on his fraternity paddle. “It’s time for the goddamn lineup,” he declared. He tilted up the jug to drink some wine with a gurgling sound. Finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched loudly. Twice. “I said it’s time for the goddamn lineup. Get off your dumb butts and follow me downstairs. Fucking slugs.”
Dutifully they followed Pinky, who swayed as he walked. At the last study room before the stairs, they stopped before the open doorway. Wayne Burkhart was in the study room, lying on a couch, reading a book.
“Time for the lineup, Wayne,” said Pinky. “You wouldn’t want to be late.”
“We’ll see.” Wayne, a senior, was Sonny’s pledge father; but having nothing in common, the two of them had little contact with each other.
“Hummin’ you!” shouted Pinky at the top of his lungs. He twirled the gallon jug like a lariat, then released it through the open door of the study room. It smashed against the wall behind Wayne’s head before he had a chance to duck. The bottle shattered. Red wine streaked down the wall.
“You asshole,” said Burkhart.
“HaHA!” Pinky threw back his head and laughed. Sonny wasn’t too surprised; he’d seen Pinky hum people before.
“Asshole,” Burkhart said again. Looking at the shattered glass and moisture on his clothes, he sat up and put the book aside.
“Let’s go, slugs!” commanded Pinky. He led them down the stairs.
They went through the parlor and the living room. In the living room, there was a large stone fireplace against one wall. Once, when Stinky was drunk, Sonny saw him take a piss on the gold carpet; there was still a stain, in front of the fireplace.
Lineups were always held in the dining room. Sonny, Robert Lee, and Snell were the last ones. The other pledges were already in place, seated in their chairs.
“Well,” said Harris sarcastically. “Glad you children could join us.”
“Fucking slugs,” muttered Pinky. He belched loudly again.
When the three took their seats, all nine pledges were in place. In a lineup, it was a requirement that you had to sit rigid on your wooden chair, with both feet flat on the floor, and keep your arms folded across your chest. Your chin had to be pulled in tight, and your eyes staring straight ahead at all times.
Harris, the house president, would lead the lineup. He held his fraternity paddle in his right hand and wiggled it back and forth. He was known for his sarcasm, but usually it went over Sonny’s head.
Sonny sat stiff and staring. He focused his eyes on a knothole in the tongue-and-groove pine paneling opposite. He could feel his palms begin to sweat; to him, the lineups fe
lt like betrayal. Everyone said that lineups were illegal, but that didn’t seem to prevent them.
As soon as the noise died down, Harris started to speak. “I’m glad to see you, Robert Lee. I’ve got some plans for you.”
“Yes sir,” said Robert Lee, his eyes straight ahead. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet, but you and I have a score to settle. You know what I mean, don’t you, Robert Lee?”
“I think so, sir.”
“You bet your sweet ass. You get your buns ready.” Harris spoke quietly, but his eyes were glittering.
“Yessir.”
By now, the room was silent. Harris lit a cigar before he continued, and clenched it between his teeth. “A few of you guys are going to get your ass burned tonight. Robert Lee won’t be the only one.”
Sonny swallowed hard and sat ultra-still, hoping not to be noticed. But at six feet five inches, it was never easy to be inconspicuous.
“In a few months,” Harris went on, “several of you slugs will become active members of this house, although God only knows why. Most of you are too dumb to find your ass with both hands.”
“They show me no hair!” shouted Pinky.
As if on cue, the 35 actives in attendance pounded their fraternity paddles on the floor like baseball bats. Then stopped abruptly.
“We can’t blame anybody but ourselves,” the president continued. “We chose to pledge you losers, and now we’re stuck with you. And you thought we had perfect judgment, didn’t you, Youngblood?”
It was several seconds before Sonny realized that Harris was speaking to him.
“I said, you thought we had perfect judgment, didn’t you, Youngblood?” Harris’s voice was hard. He was touching Sonny’s forehead with the tip of his paddle.
“Yes, I did,” said Sonny. But he could feel how dry his mouth was.
“Yes, you did what?”
“Yes, I did, sir.”
“Try to stay with us, Youngblood; the questions may get harder.”
Skinner came forward to stand next to Harris. At six feet four and 235 pounds, he was the starting tight end on the football team. He was massive in the arms and upper torso from years in the weight room. He rested his paddle easily on his right shoulder. “I’m gonna have to bust Woodson’s ass,” he said simply.
“Be my guest.”
“Woodson, get your ass up here,” ordered Skinner. Woodson got up from his chair to step forward.
“Fucking slugs, keep your eyes on the wall!” shouted Pinky. Paddles pounded on the floor for emphasis. Staring straight at the wall, Sonny still had Woodson and Skinner within his range of vision.
“Assume the position,” said Skinner.
“Yes sir.” Woodson bent over. His head was even with his knees. His right hand cupped his genitals, while his left hand gripped his left ankle.
Skinner drew the paddle back slowly, then drove it powerfully against Woodson’s buttocks. Crack! Immediately after the blow landed, there was the exclamation point of paddles pounding on the floor.
With a scarlet face, Woodson stood up to face Skinner. “Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”
“We’ll see. First, I want you to tell everybody how many classes you cut last week.”
“Eight, sir.”
Sonny could barely hear him.
“Louder!” commanded Skinner. “And keep your goddamn eyes on the wall!”
“I cut eight, sir.” Woodson answered, in a louder voice. “I cut eight classes.”
“Why, you lying bastard,” Harris interrupted. “You told me you went to all your classes. Assume the position.”
Woodson assumed the position, but Harris stepped back. Skinner administered another board with another loud report.
“Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”
“Hell no, you’re not worth it. Go sit down, girlie man.”
Woodson resumed his seat at the other end of the row. Sonny’s lower back was getting stiff, but he tried to hold his rigid position while staring at the wall. There was no breeze in the room, so he was beginning to sweat. He fought the urge to scratch, for fear that someone would notice him. The hope in a lineup was always that they would overlook you.
For Sonny, the hope ended as soon as Geisel, the house academic chairman, stepped to the front. “Youngblood! Youngblood, get up here.”
Sonny got out of his chair and stepped stiffly to the front. He stared at the wall. Harris stood on his left, while Geisel was at his right. Geisel was fat, but strong. He was as sarcastic as Harris, and he didn’t attempt to hide his contempt for freshmen on athletic scholarships.
“Youngblood, did you think we were going to forget about you?”
“Not much, sir.”
“Louder!” shouted Grimes. “Speak up!”
“I didn’t think about it much, sir,” said Sonny, louder this time. He felt ridiculous.
“You smart ass,” sneered Harris. “You lying bastard. You’ve been thinking about nothing else since you parked your ass in that chair. Am I right?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so what?”
“I guess so, sir.”
“Are you going to make grades this semester?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“You hope so, sir,” Geisel mocked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I just mean I hope so, sir,” Sonny repeated. He had to stop to lick his lips. Sonny’s marginal academic history wasn’t any secret. He searched the room quickly with his eyes, looking for Burkhart. Burkhart was his pledge father, maybe he would stand up for him.
“Keep your goddamn eyes on the wall, slug!” Pinky exploded.
Sonny flinched and stared straight ahead.
Geisel repeated the question, which really didn’t sound like a question at all: “You’re not gonna make your grades, are you, Youngblood?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Assume the position.”
“Yes sir.” Sonny bent over. The tile on the floor was alternate red and black squares. He could smell Geisel’s beer breath and his body sweat.
The paddle slammed against his butt. The pain, which was shocking, licked its way like shooting flames down his legs. He stood up quickly, his face burning. “Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”
“We’ll see.”
Sonny felt the ridicule of all the eyes watching him. He had the urge to turn on Geisel and give him a shot in his blubber gut. You couldn’t do that here, though, because everything was stacked against you. Where the hell is Burkhart? Probably still upstairs reading Plato or some other shit.
Then Pinky, the drunkest of all, stumbled forward swinging his paddle. “I’ll tell you something else. Youngblood spends most of his spare time hanging out with niggers.”
“Is that a fact?” asked Harris.
“Fucking-A. This stupid slug is a nigger lover. Niggers are his friends, right, Youngblood?”
“Some of them are going to be my teammates, sir. You usually make friends with your teammates, because you play a lot of pickup games with them.”
Geisel put his face right next to Sonny’s ear. “You asshole, do you know anything at all about house loyalty?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Then why the hell aren’t your own brothers good enough for you? What makes you think you need to spend your time with the niggers?”
“A friend is a friend, sir.”
“A friend is a friend,” sighed Geisel. “Isn’t that special? I think I might wet my pants, I really do. Is there something wrong with your own brothers, for Christ sake?”
“No, sir, I like my brothers.”
“Then why the hell do you spend your time with the fuckin’ niggers?” demanded Pinky. “If they were on fire, I wouldn’t piss on ’em to put it out.” The actives pounded their paddles to show approval.
Sonny could feel his scalp burning. He said to Geisel, “There’s a logical explanation.”
“There
’s a logical explanation WHAT?”
“There’s a logical explanation, sir.”
“Goddamnit, Youngblood, keep your eyes on the wall!” Harris shouted.
Sonny focused quickly on the knothole. Geisel was giggling. “A logical explanation?” He turned to all the brothers: “Wouldn’t y’all just love to hear the logical explanation?”
The furious pounding of the paddles signified yes.
“Go ahead, slug,” said Harris to Sonny. “We’re all just dying to hear your logic. Just be sure you keep your goddamn eyes where they belong.”
Sonny swallowed first, and then he said, “I don’t get much chance for free time. We have informal workouts every day and study table at night. I would be with the black guys a lot, even if I didn’t want to be. That’s how it is when you’re on scholarship; other people decide how you spend your time.”
Harris whistled his scorn before he spoke in reverent tones: “Great god almighty, Youngblood, your logic is so airtight I’m about to suffocate. When basketball season is over, you’ll probably be recruited for debate.”
Pinky faced the group to slur out his contempt: “When you’re on scholarship?? Y’all hear this shit? Are we supposed to be impressed?”
Sonny had no idea the question was meant for him. Pinky wobbled closer. “I asked you a question, stupid slug. Are we supposed to be impressed because you’re a high school all-American? You think you’re the first big-time jock this house ever had?”
Sonny swallowed again. “No sir.”
“He’s a high school all-American from Abydos, so we’re supposed to kiss his ass!”
Geisel took over again. “You know what that all means here, Youngblood? You know what the all-American crap means on this campus? In this house? It means jackshit, that’s what.”
“Yes sir.”
Geisel finished it off in his terse, even voice: “What you are here is a slug. What’s a slug, Youngblood?”
“A slug is the lowest form of life, sir,” answered Sonny.
“Keep that in mind the next time you do your wraparound dribble. What you are is a goddamn slug.”
“Yes sir.”
“Assume the position, Youngblood,” said Pinky. “I’m gonna board your all-American ass.”
The Squared Circle Page 1
