I Am Charlotte Simmons (77 page)

BOOK: I Am Charlotte Simmons
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“Well, I've seen the name somewhere.”
“Professor—”
Oh shit. Buster Roth was piping up again with his
Professor
.
“We're very firm about that with the tutors. That's the first thing we tell them. They're there to
help
the student-athlete”—Quat's lips and nostrils twisted sarcastically at the very term—“but they're
not
there to do their work for them. Writing a paper for somebody—no way.” He shook his head and slashed the air with the edge of his hand, to emphasize the “no way.” “This is Adam Gellin's third year working with student-athletes, as fine a young man as I ever met, and I never heard a him doing nothing that wasn't strictly by the book. I talked to him myself after this thing came up, and he got mad at me for even
suggesting—
you know what I'm saying? I never saw him lose his temper before, but
this
? … No way!” He slashed the air again. “I know Adam—and Adam? They don't come any more decent and honest than Adam Gellin … No way!” Another slash for good measure.
The President let out his breath. Bravo, Buster. He could have used a little help in the grammar and syntax department, but he had managed to be pretty convincing. This was all very tricky stuff for the President. Circumstances had forced him to become a temporary ally of Buster Roth. Roth had approached him and warned him—although not in so many words—that if
Johanssen was forced out for even one semester, the scandal would hurt not merely “the program” but the entire university. It wasn't that Buster was so concerned about losing Johanssen himself—he was gradually being replaced by a hot freshman named Congers, anyway—but such a turn of events would make “the program” look so sleazy and hypocritical. For years the university had built up and promoted its reputation of being a national power in football, basketball, ice hockey, and even minor sports—track and field, baseball, lacrosse, tennis, soccer, golf, squash—without compromising academic standards by so much as a millimeter. A case indicating that Dupont had tutors who wrote the athletes' papers for them would explode all that in the public eye. It might, he had hinted in guarded terms, open up a whole can of worms. Where did the players' new SUVs come from? What about this list of “friendly” courses? What about these rumors that four of the team's players had SAT scores of under nine hundred? The President thought about that. For a start, it would knock Dupont from second, behind Princeton, in the
U.S. News & World Report
rankings down to … God knew where.
U.S. News & World Report—
what a stupid joke! Here is this third-rate news weekly, aimed at businessmen who don't like to read, trying desperately to move up in the race but forever swallowing the dust of
Time
and
Newsweek
, and some character dreams up a circulation gimmick: Let's rank the colleges. Let's stir up a fuss. Pretty soon all of American higher education is jumping through hoops to meet the standards of the marketing department of a miserable, lowbrow magazine out of Washington, D.C.! Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford, Dupont—all jumped through the hoop at the crack of the
U.S. News
whip! Does
U.S. News
rate you according to how many of the applicants you offer places to actually enroll in your college and not another? Then let's lock in as many as we can through early admissions contracts. Does
U.S. News
want to know your college's SAT average? We'll give it to them, but we will be “realistic” and not count “special cases” … such as athletes. Does
U.S. News
rate you according to your standing in the eyes of
other
college presidents? Then a scandal indicating that all our lofty pronouncements about the “student-athlete” at Dupont are not only a joke but a lie—well, anybody could write the rest of that story.
But there was no instructing the faculty to keep mum about such things and cooperate. You had to become a college president to realize how powerful the faculty could be when aroused. We
are
the university, was the attitude of the Dupont faculty. Consequently, they resented not only the vast amount of money that went to sports, they also resented the glory. Why
should a collection of anabolic morons such as the Dupont basketball team, led by a man who goes by the ridiculous name of Buster, be idealized at one of the world's greatest institutions of learning? The President had wondered about the same thing himself, for years; and when he was a young faculty member, he had been resentful and contemptuous the same way Jerry Quat was, although not with such bitterness. It wasn't until he was promoted from chairman of the history department to provost of the university that he began to understand. Contrary to what most people believed—himself included in days gone by—big-time sports did not make money for the university, did not help to underwrite the academic departments, etc. National championship teams receiving big postseason television fees lost still more money, more than all the minor sports, baseball, tennis, squash, lacrosse, swimming, the lot put together. Big-time sports were a
stupendous
drag on the financial health of the university. In a practical sense, they were like sticking a .45-caliber revolver barrel in your mouth and pulling the trigger. Nor did alumni donations increase or decrease with the fortunes of the teams. It was something subtler and grander at the same time. Big-time sports created a glorious aura about everything the university did and
in the long run
increased everything sharply—prestige, alumni donations, receipts of every sort, as well as influence. But why? God only knew! These great athletes—Treyshawn Diggs, from a lower-middle-class black neighborhood in Huntsville, Alabama; Obie Cropsey, all-American quarterback, a redneck from rural Illinois—none of the athletes in the major sports resembled the vast majority of the real students, not intellectually, not socially, not temperamentally. Nor did the two groups mix at Dupont. The athletes were received with awe wherever they went, but few real students had anything to do with them personally, and vice versa. Part of it was that the other students thought the athletes existed up on a plane so far above them, they shouldn't presume to intrude. And in truth, the Athletic Department saw to it that they spent so much of their day in mandatory physical training, mandatory practice, mandatory dining at training tables, mandatory study halls in the evening, and certain “suggested” “athlete-friendly” courses that their contact with real students would be minimal in any event. They were alien mercenaries paid in kind and in glory. So why would the real students, the alumni, the parents of prospective applicants, the world at large,
care
how
our
aliens performed against
their
aliens? Fred Cutler had no idea. He had puzzled over it for more than ten years now, and he had … no idea … But one thing he did know for sure: a winning coach like Buster Roth, Low Rent grammar and all, was … a
demigod. He was a far bigger figure than President Frederick Cutler III or any Nobel Prize laureate on the faculty. He was known across the nation. He now had his own castle, the “Rotheneum.” Officially he, Frederick Cutler III, had authority over Roth. On paper, in the catalog, Buster Roth was on the faculty. But he also made more than two million dollars a year. Because of his private deals with sports equipment companies, his television product endorsements, lectures, and other public appearances, it was hard to determine how much with accuracy. The President's salary was four hundred thousand a year, one fifth as much or perhaps less. And there you had it. He had the official power to oppose Roth at any juncture. But he could only do so gingerly, with his own job in his hands—because there was one thing he couldn't do. He couldn't fire him. Only the board of trustees could do that—and they could also fire the President.
Ironically, only someone much lower down the ladder—some faculty member with tenure—dared speak out, dared cause trouble. And who was the hothead, the firebrand, who did the most to inflame the entire faculty's resentment of how the natural and rightful order of things had been turned upside down? That hothead, that sorehead, was the blob sitting right across the desk from President Frederick Cutler III.
“Jerry,” said the President, “there's one thing that makes this case a little different, and I thought I'd run it by you. Stan Weisman”—I'll keep that name front and center, he said to himself—“discovered an interesting thing. After Johanssen turned in his paper, but before the question of plagiarism came up, he seems to have undergone something of a conversion, as it were. He decided—or so he told his friends—to become serious about his academic work. He shifted out of a one-hundred-level survey course of modern French literature to a two-hundred-level course on the nineteenth-century French novel with Lucien Senigallia, where all teaching and discussions are in French. He shifted out of a one-hundred-level Philosophy of Sports course into a three-hundred-level course Nat Margolies teaches—the Age of Socrates, I believe it's called. And Nat, as you may know, is pretty demanding and cuts no slack for anybody—
any
body
.

Buster Roth spoke up, looking at Jerry Quat. “Oh, I've never been prouder of any of my boys than I was when Jojo came to me and told me he wanted to take that course, the Age of Socrates.” Buster Roth smiled at the recollection and shook his head, as if to say that was really
some
turn of events. “I wanted to make sure he understood what he—the commitment
he was making. I said, ‘Jojo, have you ever taken a three-hundred-level course before?' He said he hadn't, and so I said, ‘These are advanced and very serious classes. They can't wait for you if you fall behind,' and I'll never forget what Jojo said. He said, ‘Coach, I know I'm taking a risk, but I feel like I've just been grinding out credits up to now. I'm willing to take a risk to get
myself
to a higher level. The way we look at the world today'—he said, or something like that—‘it all starts with Socrates and Plato and Aristotle, so that's where I want to start.' And then he's telling me about Pythagoras, I think it was, and how he was great in math but pretty backward in philosophical thought—I mean, I had no idea he was into all this stuff. I was really impressed, but it was more than that. I was
proud
of him. Here was the kind of young man you're always looking for. Oh, I know people get excited over sports
qua
sports, the competition and all that—”
Qua?
The President couldn't believe it. Buster Roth was sitting here saying “sports
qua
sports”? He wondered if he'd planned it.
“—but I like to think of my role as an educator first and a basketball coach second. You know? I think it might a been Socrates himself who said,
‘Mens sana in corpore sano,'
a sound mind in a sound body, and a lot of people forget—”
Oh shit
,
Buster
, thought the President,
you just blew it.
Socrates, he don't speaka the Latin. You just buried that beautiful
qua
of yours. And you didn't have to translate
mens sana in corpore sano
for a Jerry Quat.
“—that that's the ideal. There's a beautiful synergy there, if we can only make it happen. And there's a guy like Jojo, the kind a big, plainspoken guy people are gonna call a ‘dumb jock'—you know what I mean?—and he's coming to me on his own to tell me he don't wanna miss the chance he's got to make that synergy work at a great university like Dupont.”
The President studied Jerry Quat to gauge his reaction to Buster Roth the Greco-Roman scholar. He expected the worst, but Quat was actually studying Roth. He didn't look convinced—but neither did he have the typical Jerry Quat sarcastic look, turning his face away from the speaker and tilting his gaze upward as if bird-watching until the mindless boor shuts up. He was trying to decide—the President devoutly hoped—if there was more to this great side of beef with a Dupont-mauve blazer on than he had thought.
“I've never been prouder of one of our athletes in my life,” Buster Roth was saying. “This was all Jojo's idea. It's one thing to take chances on the court. Jojo is used to that. He's a kid who's used to doing the unexpected under
pressure. But it's another thing for a kid to take a chance in a thing that's just as important where he don't qualify as a star.”
The President was beginning to get nervous. The
he don'ts
were piling up. All it would take would be the notion that Buster was just blowing smoke up his tail.
“So how is our newborn scholar doing in the Big Risk?” said Quat.
Buster Roth and the President looked at each other for a moment. “I've checked with Mr. Margolies,” said Roth, “and he says Jojo's struggling a bit, but he's working hard and getting his assignments done, and he's been taking part in class discussions and so on.”
The President jumped in and said, “I've talked to Herb myself, and that's pretty much the same thing he told me. This is an unusual situation.”
“It's not unusual,” snapped Jerry Quat, “and it's not even a situation, if by situation you mean some state of affairs that is not easy to interpret and deal with. Unfortunately, it's not ‘unusual' for ‘student-athletes'”—pronounced affectless felons—“to engage in the most egregious cheating. Your Mr. Jojo is lazy, ignorant, and a simpleminded
cheater
. Let's keep our eyes on
that
ball. What he has or hasn't done for Herb Margolies couldn't interest me less. I've looked your Jojo's callous, contemptuous disregard for the core mission of this university in the face, and I don't like what I've seen, and I don't intend to put up—”

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