“He’s the best athlete I’ve seen,” I heard Coach say. “And he’s just a junior.” He paused. “That’s because the Times didn’t cover us much last year, but trust me—you’ll want to see this kid play.”
I knew the kid had to be Ernie, who’d made the varsity football and basketball teams as just a sophomore and was their best player.
“That’s why I’m calling. I thought maybe you could get a foot in the door before the wolves descend, and believe me—they’ll devour this kid. At the moment he’s flying under the radar, but that’s going to change soon.”
After another minute, Coach replaced the receiver and leaned back in his chair. The most valuable player on his high school football, basketball, and baseball teams, Coach Moran had his name stitched in gold letters on three navy-blue blankets hanging from the Saint Joe’s basketball gym rafters. Lean and muscular, Coach still looked like he could go out and dominate in any of those sports.
“What am I going to do with you, Sam Hell?” He had a habit of saying a player’s first and last names when imparting instruction or criticism.
“We can’t have that, Sam Hell. No, we can’t. You have to set that screen right there, Sam Hell. You don’t and we’re fucked. You understand me, Sam Hell?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Then set the goddamn screen, Sam Hell.”
I knew Coach’s question was rhetorical, but I saw it as a chance to lobby for myself. “Put me on the team, Coach?”
He chuckled at my boldness. “Hell, you have the heart of a lion, I’ll give you that. I’ve never had a more determined son of a bitch play for me. All you’re lacking to be a good basketball player is height, quickness, and shooting ability. You’re too short, too slow, and can’t shoot.”
“I can learn to shoot,” I said.
His smile waned. He lowered the front legs of his chair to the ground. “I have a hard decision to make, Hell. I have to choose between you and Chuck Bennett, and I only have twelve uniforms. Let me be straight with you. You’d be the twelfth man, which means you’d practice but rarely play. I have no doubt you’d practice hard, work your ass off, but . . .” He paused, looking at his hands folded in his lap. “Here’s the thing, Hell. Mr. Shubb says you’re a hell of a writer, that you got real talent.”
I failed to see the connection. Dick Shubb was the moderator of the Saint Joe’s Friar, the school newspaper.
“He wants you on his staff, but the staff meetings are after school, as is most of the production time.” Now I saw the connection. “You couldn’t do both, Hell.” Coach ran a hand over his chin as if considering whether to shave. “Bennett, on the other hand, is a first-class fuckup. I cut him, and he’ll end up in the pit smoking pot with the stoners. So, you see the problem I have, Hell?”
I did, of course, but facing the prospect of losing one of my dreams, being benevolent wasn’t my priority. Then Coach asked, “What do you want to be, Hell? You have any idea?”
“I was thinking maybe a doctor,” I said. “Maybe an ophthalmologist.” The idea had come to me one day while Dr. Pridemore examined my eyes. Dr. Pridemore had always taken the time to explain to me not only my condition but the inner workings of the eye. It seemed like a natural fit.
“What do you think will benefit you most in the future, on your résumé—the ability to write or to shoot a free throw?”
Coach was right. We both knew it. Looking back, it was the most candid advice from the most unlikely source, and it changed my life in many ways, but goddamn, I wanted to play basketball and still be a jock, even if it was in name only. Then another idea hit me, and I quickly realized I could make this a win-win situation for me and for Ernie. I did love to write, and the newspaper would be a way for me to pad my résumé. And if the plan I was formulating worked out, I could also make some money for my college tuition. As for Ernie, while he excelled on the athletic fields, he continued to struggle in the classroom, despite my tutelage. Ernie’s grades could limit his choice of colleges, unless he could get an athletic scholarship. That required notoriety, and Coach Moran was right. The local paper did a poor job covering high school sports.