CHAPTER 2
Date: 2015-10-07; view: 635.
Oliver Barrett IV Ipswich, Mass. Age 20 Major: Social Studies Dean's List: '60,, '62 '63 All-ivy First Team: '62, '63; Career Aim: Law Senior Phillips Exeter 5'11" 185 lbs. By now Jenny had read my bio in the program. I made triple sure thatVic Claman, the manager, saw that she got one. "For Christ's sake, Barrett, is this your first date?" "Shut up, Vic, or you'll be chewing your teeth." As we warmed up on the ice, I didn't wave to her (how uncool!) or evenlook her way. And yet I think she thought I was glancing at her. I mean, didshe remove her glasses during the National Anthem out of respect for theflag? By the middle of the second period, we were beating Dartmouth o-o. Thatis, Davey Johnston and I were about to perforate their nets. The Greenbastards sensed this, and began to play rougher. Maybe they could break abone or two before we broke them open. The fans were already screaming forblood. And in hockey this literally means blood or, failing that, a goal. Asa kind of noblesse oblige, I have never denied them either. Al Redding, Dartmouth center, charged across our blue line and Islammed into him, stole the puck and started down-ice. The fans wereroaring. I could see Davey Johnston on my left, but I thought I would takeit all the way, their goalie being a slightly chicken type I had terrorizedsince he played for Deerfield. Before I could get off a shot, both theirdefensemen .were on me, and I had to skate around their nets to keep hold ofthe puck. There were three of us, flailing away against the boards and eachother. It had always been my policy, in pile-ups like this, to lash mightilyat anything wearing enemy colors. Somewhere beneath our skates was the puck,but for the moment we were concentrating on beating the shit out of eachother. A ref blew his whistle. "You-two minutes in the box!" I looked up. He was pointing at me. Me? What had I done to deserve apenalty? "Come on, ref, what'd I do?" Somehow he wasn't interested in further dialogue. He was calling to theofficials' desk-"Number seven, two minutes -and signaling with his arms. I remonstrated a bit, but that's de rigueur. The crowd expects aprotest, no matter how flagrant the offense. The ref waved me off. Seethingwith frustration, I skated toward the penalty box. As I climbed in,listening to the click of my skate blades on the wood of the floor, I heardthe bark of the PA system: "Penalty. Barrett of Harvard. Two minutes. Holding." The crowd booed; several Harvards impugned the vision and integrity ofthe referees. I sat, trying to catch my breath, not looking up or even outonto the ice, where Dartmouth outmanned us. "Why are you sitting here when all your friends are out playing?" The voice was Jenny's. I ignored her, and exhorted my teammatesinstead. "C'mon, Harvard, get that puck!" "What did you do wrong?" I turned and answered her. She was my date, after all. "I tried too hard." And I went back to watching my teammates try to hold off Al Redding'sdetermined efforts to score. "Is this a big disgrace?" "Jenny, please, I'm trying to concentrate!" "On what?" "On how I'm gonna total that bastard Al Redding!" I looked out onto the ice to give moral support to my colleagues. "Are you a dirty player?" My eyes were riveted on our goal, now swarming with Green bastards. Icouldn't wait to get out there again. Jenny persisted. "Would you ever 'total' me?" I answered her without turning. "I will right now if you don't shut up. "I'm leaving. Good-bye." By the time I turned, she had disappeared. As I stood up to lookfurther, I was informed that my two-minute sentence was up. I leaped thebarrier, back onto the ice. The crowd welcomed my return. Barrett s on wing, all's right with theteam. Wherever she was hiding, Jenny would hear the big enthusiasm for mypresence. So who cares where she is. Where is she? Al Redding slapped a murderous shot, which our goalie deflected offtoward Gene Kennaway, who then passed it down-ice in my vicinity. As Iskated after the puck, I thought I had a split second to glance up at thestands to search for Jenny. I did. I saw her. She was there. The next thing I knew I was on my ass. Two Green bastards had slammed into me, my ass was on the ice, and Iwas-Christ!--embarrassed beyond belief. Barrett dumped! I could hear theloyal Harvard fans groaning for me as I skidded. I could hear thebloodthirsty Dartmouth fans chanting. "Hit 'em again! Hit 'em again!" What would Jenny think? Dartmouth had the puck around our goal again, and again our goaliedeflected their shot. Kennaway pushed it at Johnston, who rifled it down tome (I had stood up by this time). Now the crowd was wild. This had to be ascore. I took the puck and sped all out across Dartmouth's blue line. TwoDartmouth defensemen were coming straight at me. "Go, Oliver, go! Knock their heads off!" I heard Jenny's shrill scream above the crowd. It was exquisitelyviolent. I faked out one defenseman, slammed the other so hard he lost hisbreath and then -instead of shooting off balance-I passed off to Davey Johnston, whohad come up the right side. Davey slapped it into the nets. Harvard score! In an instant, we were hugging and kissing. Me and Davey Johnston andthe other guys. Hugging and kissing and back slapping and jumping up anddown (on skates). The crowd was screaming. And the Dartmouth guy I hit wasstill on his ass. The fans threw programs onto the ice. This really brokeDartmouth's back. (That's a metaphor; the defenseman got up when he caughthis breath.) We creamed them 7-0. If I were a sentimentalist, and cared enough about Harvard to hang aphotograph on the wall, it would not be of Winthrop House, or Mem Church,but of Dillon. Dillon Field House. If I had a spiritual home at Harvard,this was it. Nate Pusey may revoke my diploma for saying this, but WidenerLibrary means far less to me than Dillon. Every afternoon of my college lifeI walked into that place, greeted my buddies with friendly obscenities, shedthe trappings of civilization and turned into a jock. How great to put onthe pads and the good old number ~ shirt (I had dreams of them retiring thatnumber; they didn't), to take the skates and walk out toward the WatsonRink. The return to Dillon would be even better. Peeling off the sweaty gear,strutting naked to the supply desk to get a towel. "How 'd it go today, Ollie?" "Good, Richie. Good, Jimmy." Then into the showers to listen to who did what to whom how many timeslast Saturday night. "We got these pigs from Mount Ida, see . . . ?" And Iwas privileged to enjoy a private place of meditation. Being blessed with abad knee (yes, blessed: have you seen my draft card?), I had to give it somewhirlpool after playing. As I sat and watched the rings run round my knee, Icould catalog my cuts and bruises (I enjoy them, in a way), and kind ofthink about anything or nothing. Tonight I could think of a goal, an assistand virtually locking up my third consecutive All-Ivy. "Taking' some whirly-pooly, Ollie?" It was Jackie Felt, our trainer and self-appointed spiritual guide. "What does it look like I'm doing, Felt, beating off?" Jackie chortled and lit up with an idiot grin. "Know what's wrong with yer knee, Ollie? Diya know?" I'd been to every orthopedist in the East, but Felt knew better. "Yer not eatin' right." Ireally wasn't very interested. "Yer not eatin' enough salt." Maybe if I humor him he'll go away. "Okay, Jack, I'll start eating more salt." Jesus, was he pleased! He walked off with this amazing look ofaccomplishment on his idiot face. Anyway, I was alone again. I let my wholepleasantly aching body slide into the whirlpool, closed my eyes and just satthere, up to my neck in warmth. Ahhhhhhh. Jesus! Jenny would be waiting outside. I hope! Still! Jesus! How longhad I lingered in that comfort while she was out there in the Cambridgecold? I set a new record for getting dressed. I wasn't even quite dry as Ipushed open the center door of Dillon. The cold air hit me. God, was it freezing. And dark. There was still asmall cluster of fans. Mostly old hockey faithfuls, the grads who've nevermentally shed the pads. Guys like old Jordan Jencks, who come to everysingle game, home or away. How do they do it? I mean, Jencks is a bigbanker. And why do they do it? "Quite a spill you took, Oliver." "Yeah, Mr. Jencks. You know what kind of game they play." I was looking everywhere for 4enny. Had she left and walked all the wayback to Radcliffe alone? "Jenny?" I took three or four steps away from the fans, searching desperately.Suddenly she popped out from behind a bush, her face swathed in a scarf,only her eyes showing. "Hey, Preppie, it's cold as hell out here." Was I glad to see her! "Jenny!" Like instinctively, I kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Did I say you could?" she said. "What?" "Did I say you could kiss me?" "Sorry. I was carried away. "I wasn't." We were pretty much all alone out there, and it was dark and cold andlate. I kissed her again. But not on the forehead, and not lightly. Itlasted a long nice time. When we stopped kissing, she was still holding onto my sleeves. "I don't like it," she said. "What?" "The fact that I like it." As we walked all the way back (I have a car, but she wanted to walk),Jenny held on to my sleeve. Not my arm, my sleeve. Don't ask me to explainthat. At the doorstep of Briggs Hall, I did not kiss her good night. "Listen, Jen, I may not call you for a few months." She was silent fora moment. A few moments. Finally she asked, "Why?" "Then again, I may call you as soon as I get to my room." I turned and began to walk off. "Bastard!" I heard her whisper. I pivoted again and scored from a distance of twenty feet. "See, Jenny, you can dish it out, but you can't take it" I would like to have seen the expression on her face, but strategyforbade my looking back. My roommate, Ray Stratton, was playing poker with two football buddiesas I entered the room. "Hello, animals." They responded with appropriate grunts. "Whatja get tonight, Ollie?"Ray asked. "An assist and a goal," I replied. "Off Cavilleri." "None of your business," I replied. "Who's this?" asked one of the behemoths. "Jenny Cavilleri," answeredRay. "Wonky music type." "I know that one," said another. "A real tight-ass." I ignored thesecrude and horny bastards as I untangled the phone and started to take itinto my bedroom. "She plays piano with the Bach Society," said Stratton. "What does she play with Barrett?" "Probably hard to get!" Oinks, grunts and guffaws. The animals were laughing. "Gentlemen," I announced as I took leave, "up yours." I closed my door on another wave of subhuman noises, took off my shoes,lay back on the bed and dialed Jenny's number. We spoke in whispers. "Hey, Jen.. "Yeah?" "Jen... what would you say if I told you.. I hesitated. She waited. "I ~hink... I'm in love with you." There was a pause. Then she answered very softly. "I would say. . . you were full of shit." She hung up. I wasn't unhappy. Or surprised.
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