Doctors (6 page)

“Not quite.” Laura smiled mischievously. “You still have to put the ball through the hoop.”

Thus, in the year that saw President Truman relieve General MacArthur of his Far East command and Professor Robert Woodward of Harvard synthesize cholesterol and cortisone, Laura Castellano ascended to the presidency of the sophomore class. And Barney Livingston faced his long-dreaded moment—or, to be precise, three minutes—of truth.

One hundred and eighty seconds was all the time basketball coach Doug Nordlinger needed to distinguish between a live tiger and a dead dog.

The air in the gym was pungent with fear. The candidates were divided into groups of five (Shirts versus Skins) who would go on court to play against one another for three minutes of scrutiny. Each of the ten aspirants had to show his stuff during the same time limit.

Two minutes into his trial, Barney had scarcely gotten his hands on the ball. It looked as if all his dreams of glory would go up in sweat.

Then suddenly a shot was misfired against his own basket. Both he and a taller rival leaped for it. But Barney boxed him out and snatched the ball.

As he started upcourt, several Shirts made desperate lunges for the ball. But Barney pivoted, dribbling with either hand.

Another desperate Shirt approached with murder in his eyes. Barney faked left, ran right, and glided by him. With ten seconds
to go he was underneath the enemy basket. He wanted to shoot—but common sense dictated that he should pass to a better-placed teammate. He forced himself to toss the ball to a Skin who was in the clear. As the fellow shot—and missed—the buzzer rang.

It was all over.

The coach lined up all ten in a row. All fidgeted nervously, as if about to face a firing squad—which, in a sense, they were. Nordlinger’s eyes went left to right, then right to left.

“Awright, I want these guys to step forward. You—” He indicated a tall, gangly, pimple-faced member of the Shirt contingent.

“The rest of you fellas, thanks a lot …”

Barney’s heart sank to his sneakers.

“… except you. Hey, Curly—didn’t you hear me?”

Barney, who had been gazing disconsolately at the floor, suddenly looked up. Nordlinger was pointing at him.

“Yes, sir?” His voice was little more than a croak.

“That was smart playmaking there, kid. What’s your name?”

“Barney, sir. Barney Livingston.”

“Okay, Livingston, you and Sandy go over and sit on the team bench.”

As Barney stood in motionless astonishment, the coach turned and bellowed, “Next two teams, hustle out there!”

“C’mon,” said his lanky future teammate. And the two started toward the wooden shrine of the elect.

“The coach knew your name already,” Barney remarked with curiosity.

“Yeah.” The beanpole grinned smugly. “When you’re six foot six in Flatbush, a lotta coaches know your name.”

At five-thirty that afternoon Barney, Sandy Leavitt (as the beanpole’s full name turned out to be), and a third, barrel-chested sophomore, Hugh Jascourt, were measured for uniforms. Official practice would start next Monday, but their satin team jackets—that irresistible lodestone for the co-eds—would not arrive for three weeks. But, hopefully, the
Argus
would publish the good news before that and Barney’s social life would move into high gear.

He sprinted off to tell Laura.

L
ate in the second half of the Midwood–New Utrecht game, the scorekeeper pressed a button. A buzz reverberated across the gym and into the annals of history. For it was followed by the announcement: “Midwood substitution, Number Ten, Livingston.”

There was perfunctory applause from the stands. And one delirious war whoop, “C’mon, Livingston!”

With four minutes left, the New Utrecht boys were getting careless. Barney was able to intercept a pass and start a fast break downcourt, finally handing off to captain Jay Axelrod, who sank the lay-up.

Then, with only forty seconds to go, an enemy player charged into Barney, incurring a penalty. Barney took a deep breath at the foul line. He had been there so many times in his imagination that summer in Riis Park. Now it was for real. He took careful aim … and sank it: his first Varsity point!

Laura cupped her hands and cheered, “Way to go, Barney!”

After the game, as they stood side by side under adjoining showers, Jay Axelrod congratulated Barney on his performance, adding, “That Laura Castellano must be your one-man fan club. You dating her or something?”

“No, no,” Barney gargled, as he let the warm water spill down his throat. “Why do you ask?”

“I’d sorta like to ask her out.”

“So what’s stopping you?” Barney inquired.

“I don’t know,” the captain of the Midwood basketball team replied with sudden diffidence, “I mean, she’s so good-looking and …”

“Want me to introduce you?” Barney offered.

“Gee, wouldja, Livingston? I’d be really grateful.”

“No sweat, Jay. She’ll be waiting right outside. You can meet her tonight.”

“No, no, Barn.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve gotta get a haircut first.”

During the ride home, Barney told Laura of the honor about to be bestowed on her. She laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Suzie Fishman came over to me after the game and asked if I’d introduce
you.
”

“Suzie Fishman?” Barney answered, wide-eyed. “She’s one of the best-looking girls in the school. Why does she want to meet me—I mean, I only scored one point.”

“She thinks you’re cute.”

“Yeah? Really? It’s amazing what a Midwood uniform can do, isn’t it, Castellano?”

“Oh,” she said, smiling, “is that all you think you have to offer?”

Inspired by the arrival of his shiny new basketball jacket, Barney began a rake’s progress to win the hearts of the Midwood cheerleaders. The team ate lunch together, their conversation filled with erotic braggadocio. If there had been even a modicum of truth to the claims made over tuna fish sandwiches and milk, there was no girl over sixteen in Flatbush—perhaps even the entire borough of Brooklyn—who was still a virgin.

Laura had been dating Jay Axelrod regularly ever since Barney introduced them. They made such a handsome couple that Barney jokingly referred to them as “Mr. and Mrs. Midwood.”

That winter Laura took an audacious political step. Instead of just running for junior class president, she entered the campaign for treasurer, the third-highest office in the entire school.

“Castellano, you’re really nuts. When the word gets out that a sophomore is running for treasurer, you’ll be the laughing-stock of Midwood.”

Laura smiled. “Fine. They may laugh but at least they’ll be talking and that’s good publicity.”

“God,” exclaimed Barney with undisguised admiration, “you really play guts ball, don’t you!”

“Look, Barn, my dad always says, ‘
Si quieres ser dichoso, no estés nunca ocioso.
’ ”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, ‘
Life
is a guts ball game.’ ”

*    *    *

During an intense practice scrimmage a week before the crucial game against Midwood’s archenemy Madison High, Jay Axelrod tripped and fell, badly spraining his ankle. The doctor said it would be ten days before he could even don his sneakers. The next afternoon as Barney was toweling himself at the end of practice, Doug Nordlinger walked by and remarked casually, “You’ll be starting tomorrow night, Livingston.”

Starting!
Unbelievable! Too much!

He could not wait to get home.

“You’ve gotta come, Dad,” he pleaded over dinner. “I mean, it’s a Friday night and you don’t have to teach the next day. And this is probably the biggest honor I’ll ever have in my life.”

“I doubt that.” Harold smiled indulgently. “But I can understand why you’re so excited.”

“You’ll come, won’t you, Dad?” Barney asked again.

“Of course,” said Harold, “I haven’t seen a basketball game in years.”

That Friday, Barney went through his round of classes like a zombie, thinking only of how many minutes were left till seven o’clock.

After school, he went to the empty gym and tossed foul shots for half an hour, then went to George’s to fortify himself with a ninety-five-cent steak sandwich and a cherry Coke.

By six, when the other players were arriving in the locker room, he was already suited up, sitting on a bench, his arms on his knees, trying vainly to convince himself that he was cool.

“Hey, Livingston,” he heard a nasal voice call. “I’ve got great news—Axelrod’s leg is all better, so you won’t be starting tonight after all.”

Barney’s head jerked up as if jolted by electricity. It was that oversized moron, Sandy Leavitt, an idiotic grin on his face.

“Ha, Livingston, got you, didn’t I?”

“Fuck you, Leavitt,” Barney snapped nervously.

Madison was first to take the floor to the clamorous cheering of supporters who had trekked two miles up the road for the traditional Battle of Bedford Avenue. A moment later, Jay Axelrod (in uniform, but on crutches) led the Midwood squad on court as the rafters vibrated, the cheerleaders gyrated, and Barney’s heart palpitated.

They quickly began their warm-up routine. As Barney snagged
a rebound and dribbled out to try a set shot, he glanced toward the packed stands. His dad had not arrived yet.

The practice continued. It was now almost game time. Barney again sneaked a look at the spectators. Laura was there, with Warren next to her. Thank God. But Dad—where were Mom and Dad?

The buzzer sounded. Both teams returned to their respective benches. Only the starters remained standing as they peeled off their sweats. Barney’s fingers fumbled as he unsnapped his jacket.

As the first-string quintets took their positions on court, the loudspeaker droned out their identities.

“… and Number Ten, Livingston.”

He took another glance—just Warren and Laura. His folks were still not there.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’…”

As Barney placed his right hand in patriotic salute upon the left side of his chest, he could feel his heart racing.

“Play ball!”

The ref’s shrill whistle reawakened the athlete in him. Barney instantly latched onto the Madison guard dribbling cockily toward him. In a split second, he rushed forward, stole the ball, and raced downcourt like a rocket.

He was all alone when he reached their basket. Breathe, Livingston, he reminded himself, stay loose and lay it up carefully. He waited another instant and then … basket!

He felt almost dizzy with ecstasy.

Midwood was leading by three baskets when Madison called for a time-out. As both teams huddled around their coaches, Barney again looked at the stands. Just Laura and Warren, still!

Had they maybe been in an accident? No, Dad didn’t drive. Besides, Warren was there. During the halftime break, they retired to the dressing room and sucked sliced oranges. Barney, his uniform heavy with sweat, slumped on the floor against a locker. Forty minutes later, when the game ended with Midwood a six-point victor—Barney had scored thirteen. Instead of following the rest of the guys to the lockers, he walked slowly over to Laura and Warren.

Laura spoke first. “Papa wouldn’t let him come.”

“Huh?”

“Right after dinner Dad felt some sort of pain in his chest,”
Warren explained, “and Dr. Castellano came and examined him.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Papa thinks it was probably just something he ate,” Laura quickly added. “But he made him go to bed to be on the safe side.” And then she tried to change the subject. “You were fantastic out there, Barn. I bet you get your picture in the
Argus.
”

And Warren added, “I’ll remember every single terrific thing you did for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, good,” said Barney absently, and started toward the showers.

The next morning Luis drove a reluctant Harold Livingston to King’s County for an electrocardiogram. His neighbor had agreed to go only on condition that Estelle not accompany them. (“You’re already upset over nothing, honey.”)

Later, as he smoked nervously, Harold could overhear Luis discussing the results with the cardiologist, mumbling about P-waves and Q-waves.

Finally, Luis came over and helped Harold to the car.

“Well,” Harold asked, trying to mask his anxiety, “wasn’t it just indigestion? I seem to be prone to that after all those years on Army food.”

Luis did not reply for a moment. Then he remarked, “Harold, the test showed you had some cardiac arrhythmia. That means—”

“I know Greek, Luis. Some sort of irregularity of tempo. Is it anything serious?”

“Well, yes and no. It can be an isolated physiological event that means nothing. Or it can be a warning signal of some underlying pathological process.”

“That’s just a grandiloquent way of saying you don’t know.”

“Okay, Harold, I
don’t
know. But since you don’t know either, I suggest you start taking better care of yourself and having regular checkups. You can begin by cutting down on the cigarettes.”

“They relax me.”

“You only
think
they do, my friend. Nicotine is a truly poisonous alkaloid and it is actually a stimulant. I can assure you that it would do you no harm to smoke less.”

As the car approached Lincoln Place, Harold asked, “What are you going to say to Estelle?”

“Don’t you think I should tell her the truth?”

“You’ve already admitted you don’t know for sure.”

“May I at least tell her that?”

“Feel free, Luis,” Harold answered good-humoredly, “broadcast the inadequacies of your profession all over Brooklyn.”

But the moment Luis parked his car, Harold turned to him and said firmly, “But there’s no reason to trouble the children about this.”

“I agree, Harold. They should not be given additional burdens when they are busy enough just trying to grow up. But I want
you
to worry and remember what I told you.”

Barney tried to broach the subject casually.

As they were riding the trolley on Monday morning, he looked up from his Chem book and asked matter-of-factly (in a casual tone he had much rehearsed), “Are you ‘going all the way’ with Jay Axelrod?”