The Gathering (23 page)

“Please.”

“Well, okay. We’ve got a half day tomorrow. Why don’t we meet here in the gym after lunch and we’ll see what we can do.”

The next day, promptly at 1
P.M.
, Stanley, attired in brand-new basketball togs, showed up in the gym. His father had gotten the uniform for him. Delighted that his son was finally interested in sports, George dreamed of the day Stan would make a varsity team, even if only to sit on the bench. George Benson was a jock. Stan Benson was whatever the opposite of a jock might be.

Koesler strolled onto the court dribbling a basketball. He almost doubled over at the sight of Stan, but managed to contain himself in a Christian manner.

“Is this okay?” Stan’s question referred to his uniform.

“I … basically, I guess so,” Koesler said. “I don’t know what ‘team’ you’re playing for. But there’s one important thing.”

“What’s that?” Benson was eager.

“That elastic thing you’re wearing on top of … uh, on the outside of your shorts …”

Benson looked down at it. “Yes—?”

“It’s called a jockstrap, and it’s supposed to be worn under … uh, inside your shorts.”

“Oh …” Stan was embarrassed and confused. He did want to be au courant, but he realized that to get the strap on correctly he would have to take off his shorts as well as the strap. This would have made him temporarily naked from the waist down. He hesitated, indecisive.

“Don’t bother with it now,” Koesler said. “Let’s just get warmed up.”

“Okay.” Stan was determined to at least master enough of athletics to get lost in the crowd.

“Here …” Koesler called. “Catch this.” He lobbed the ball at Stan, who awaited it with open arms.

The pass hit him in the chest and knocked him backward.

Koesler trotted over to make sure he was all right. He was.

Koesler led his protégé to one of the baskets. He started to explain the game.

“I know the object.” Stan didn’t mean the remark sarcastically; he just wanted to hurry things along. “No offense!”

“None taken.” Koesler handed the ball to Stan. He didn’t want to try another pass just yet.

Time after time, Stan threw the ball upward toward the basket. Stan was, thought Koesler, setting world’s records. In perhaps fifty tries, not once did his shot reach the basket’s rim.

Koesler considered mentioning this, but assumed Stan would realize that if there are going to be points scored, the ball would have to at least go over the rim.

Conclusion, after nearly an hour and a half: Stan Benson had no coordination. None at all. About the only thing accomplished was the providing of entertainment for boys who were entertained by seeing an athletic supporter worn in so imaginative a fashion.

Even a dogged Koesler had to admit that Stan would never score a single basket. Too bad; Koesler liked to see progress even on a modest scale.

Next, the teacher took his student to the basement handball courts.

There were six four-walled courts. As the twosome approached, the familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of the balls against the walls could be heard as in an echo chamber.

One court was open. Fortunately, it was the singles court. Stan wouldn’t have to run as far. They descended into the pit.

Stan had never seen this game before. A few words of explanation were in order.

It didn’t matter. Stan could neither serve nor return the ball. The shots that came anywhere close to being kill shots were the ones that hit Stan. And the only marks he got were the contusions that pockmarked his skin.

As they rested, though only Stan was perspiring, Koesler took stock. He had never encountered anyone so completely uncoordinated. In motion, Stan was a danger only to himself. Any opponent, in whatever sport, could damage Stan at will.

As the two sat on the floor, backs against the wall, a word came to Koesler.

Walk.

Walking must’ve been among the earliest exercises known to mankind.
Homo erectus
, wasn’t it? The great primates who stood up on their hind feet.

When we first stood erect, there were no planes, cars, scooters, roller skates, bicycles, or anything else to ride. We walked.

“Stan, do you ever walk?”

Benson looked at Koesler as if he were an alien. “Well, yes. Of course.”

“I don’t mean ‘walk’ as in how you got to these handball courts. I mean serious walking … with some attention to speed and distance.”

“Hmmm. If you put it that way, no. Not really.”

Koesler told Stan to change into casual clothing—without jockstrap, either inside or outside—and meet him at the seminary’s elongated back porch.

Surrounding an area large enough to contain three football fields or five baseball diamonds, depending on the season, was a red brick walk that did not lead to Oz. It didn’t lead anywhere. If one stayed on the walk without surcease, one would travel in circles endlessly.

So, the two began to walk. It didn’t take long for Stan to tire and experience breathing difficulties. At that point, Stan was willing—eager—to quit for the day.

But Koesler divined that should he let Stan off the hook, the boy would misread the purpose of this walking. Reminding Stan of the goal he had set for himself, Koesler permitted them the indulgence of resting on one of the benches along the pathway.

When Stan regained his breath, off they went again.

Fearful of his own weakness in backsliding, Stan asked if Koesler would continue walking with him. Koesler did not hesitate. Anytime there was a recreation break too brief for an organized game, there they’d be: Koesler and his protégé, walking around and around on the red-brick footpath.

As they walked, they talked … that is, once Stan was able to coordinate walking and talking.

As a tribute to Koesler’s endurance and patience, before graduating from Sacred Heart Seminary, it was possible for Stanley Benson to participate on the basketball court.

Without the slightest possibility of helping his team in any fashion whatever, at least he could catch the ball. He could neither throw, dribble, nor score with it. But Koesler took inordinate pride in getting Stan out on the court without threat to his—or anyone else’s—life.

They continued to walk together. To walk and talk together. Over the years they learned much from and about each other.

   
SEVENTEEN
   

M
EANWHILE, BACK AT HOLY REDEEMER PARISH
, the integrated high school students had long since gotten used to each other.

At first, there had been feelings of awkwardness and self-consciousness. Boys felt uncomfortable that, in general, girls knew answers much more frequently and speedily.

In time, competition gave way to an acknowledgment that it wasn’t so much a case of gender as it was that some—be they girls or boys—were better students, were naturally gifted, and/or worked harder.

Mixing boys and girls in classes throughout the school still triggered differences of opinion. Some thought it was a healthy sort of phemomenon that would, in time, lead more gradually into the marital state. Which would be the destiny of almost all these young men and women.

Others agreed with one educator who warned that this physical proximity would lead to “the premature and unhealthy pursuit of girls.”

Even though Rose—and Alice—no longer attended Redeemer, both girls continued to attend school programs, parties, and other social events.

According to those who dabbled in such ratings, Rose was among the prettiest girls in both Immaculata and Redeemer. She was also among the most aloof.

Making out with Rose would have been a dream come true for those who competed in that sort of thing. As yet, no one had even tried to bluff such achievement, although Rose was the object of many a pubescent male fantasy.

Eric Jorgenson, captain of the varsity basketball team, decided to give it a try. He was not averse to having Rose’s scalp on his trophy wall. This in the face of dire warnings, from priests, and especially nuns, that premarital sex was sinful, harmful, and not all that much fun. It did not escape the attention of some students that these admonitions came from chaste celibates who really never should have had such knowledge.

Almost every school—in some instances, almost every classroom—had a boy who bore the distinction of being a filth fiend. This was true not only in public schools but even—gasp—in parochial schools.

In the parochial setting, the role of filth fiend was outstanding mostly because few could qualify. The opposition—those priests and nuns, not to mention Monsignor Fulton J. Sheen, and of course the Pope—had all the howitzers.

It helped that Eric was a jock. Not only was he captain of the basketball varsity; he was oustanding in football and baseball. The advantage of being, arguably, the top jock in school was that he was awfully good at physical activity. And his approach to romance was nothing less than physical.

Eric the Vike (for Viking) Jorgenson did not fish for perch. Girls with round heels were not worth his time and trouble, not to mention his reputation. So, one fine day, when the boys were feeling jocular in the locker room, the gauntlet was thrown. Would Eric the Vike accept the challenge?

Of course.

Eric was not a moron. Nor was he, like
Streetcar
’s Stanley Kowalski, more brutish than human. Although the term “delayed gratification” had not yet raised its sociological head, Eric was, all unknowingly, a proponent in that he was not unable to contain himself if the eventual reward was worth the wait. And in Eric’s book, Rose Smith was close to priceless.

As added incentive, it was common knowledge that Rose was headed for the convent. That sort of feather had not yet found a home in the Vike’s cap. Since Rose went to Immaculata and Eric went to Redeemer, his chances were few and far between.

But Eric had a plan. One constant in Rose’s life was her attendance at Redeemer’s cheerleading practice. Not because Rose was a cheerleader, or was even interested in becoming one. It was because Alice was a cheerleader … rather she had been a cheerleader. And as such, when the Redeemer girls asked her to coach them in cheerleading, she said yes. And since Alice went, Rose went along with her.

Often, the cheerleaders practiced at the same time as the boys’ varsity team. The bleachers in the gym were moved back against the wall, creating room for the cheering group to go through their paces. Rose would sit on a folding chair and alternate between studying and watching her pal coach Redeemer’s up-and-coming cheerleaders in their routines.

On this Wednesday, Alice was busy at her cheerleading chores. Rose kept her eyes on Alice, but her mind was on Herman Melville’s
Moby Dick
. She had been assigned to make a report on the classic next week.

Rose’s nose told her that someone had approached. The odor of perspiration—musky perspiration—was not unpleasant, just something that could take some getting used to.

She glanced to her left. It was Eric the Vike. His long brush cut stuck together like spikes. Sweat coursed from his hairline and ran off his nose and chin. He had plunked himself down next to her on a folding chair. “Rosie,” he said, in as deep a voice as he could muster, “how’s it going?”

“Rose,” she corrected him pointedly.

He shrugged.
“Rose.
What’s in a name? Somebody wrote that. Whatever. A rose by any other name …”

It didn’t matter to him how important a name might be to a girl, as long as she had all the right equipment. And, judging from the curves stretching her sweater, Rose was endowed.

Basketball practice continued. Eric had decided he’d had enough limbering up. So where better to sit it out for a while than next to Rose? There was little that the coach or Eric’s teammates could do about his dropping out. Their task with regard to Eric was to humor him. More than likely he would win the game for them with or without having participated in practice.

Rose shifted in her chair and moved slightly away from Eric.

He didn’t crowd her; he stayed in his place. “I’ve been wondering,” he said, “how come you show up at practice but you’re nowhere in sight when we play a league game?”