CHAPTER 3
Date: 2015-10-07; view: 695.
I got hurt in the Cornell game. It was my own fault, really. At a heated juncture, I made theunfortunate error of referring to their center as a "fucking Canuck." Myoversight was in not remembering that four members of their team wereCanadians-all, it turned out, extremely patriotic, well-built and withinearshot. To add insult to injury, the penalty was called on me. And not acommon one, either: five minutes for fighting. You should have heard the Cornell fans rideme when it was announced! Not many Harvard rooters had come way the hell upto Ithaca, New York, even though the Ivy title was at stake. Five minutes! Icould see our coach tearing his hair out, as I climbed into the box. Jackie Felt came scampering over. It was only then I realized that the whole right side of my face was a a bloody mess. "Jesus Christ," he kept repeating as he worked me over with a styptic pencil. "Jesus, Ollie." I sat quietly,staring blankly ahead. I was ashamed to look onto the ice, where my worst fears were quickly realized;Cornell scored. The Red fans screamed and bellowed and hooted. It was a tienow. Cornell could very possibly win the game-and with it, the Ivy title.Shit-and I had barely gone through half my penalty. Across the rink, the minuscule Harvard contingent was grim and silent.By now the fans for both sides had forgotten me. Only one spectator stillhad his eyes on the penalty box. Yes, he was there. "if the conferencebreaks in time, i'll try to get to Cornell." Sitting among the Harvardrooters-but not rooting, of course- was Oliver Barrett III. Across the gulf of ice, Old Stonyface observed in expressionlesssilence as the last bit of blood on the face of his only son was stopped byadhesive papers. What was he thinking, do you think? Tch tch tch-or words tothat effect? "Oliver, if you like fighting so much, why don't you go out for theboxing team?" "Exeter doesn't have a boxing team, Father." "Well, perhaps 1 shouldn't come up to your hockey games." "Do you think 1 fight for your benefit, Father?" "Well, I wouldn't say 'benefit.'" But of course, who could tell what he was thinking? Oliver Barrett IIIwas a walking, sometimes talking Mount Rushmore. Stonyface. Perhaps Old Stony was indulging in his usual self- celebration: Look atme, there are extremely few Harvard spectators here this evening, and yet Iam one of them. I, Oliver Barrett III, an extremely busy man with banks torun and so forth, I have taken the time to come up to Cornell for a lousyhockey game. How wonderful. (For whom?) The crowd roared again, but really wild this time. Another Cornellgoal. They were ahead. And I had two minutes of penalty to go! DaveyJohnston skated up-ice, red-faced, angry. He passed right by me without somuch as a glance. And did I notice tears in his eyes? I mean, okay, thetitle was at stake, but Jesus- tears! But then Davey, our captain, had thisincredible streak going for him: seven years and he'd never played on alosing side, high school or college. It was like a minor legend. And he wasa senior. And this was our last tough game. Which we lost, 6-3. After the game, an X ray determined that no bones were broken, and thentwelve stitches were sewn into my cheek by Richard Seizer, M.D. Jackie Felthovered around the med room, telling the Cornell physician how I wasn'teating right and that all this might have been averted had I been takingsufficient salt pills. Seizer ignored Jack, and gave me a stern warningabout my nearly damaging "the floor of my orbit" (those are the medicalterms) and that not to play for a week would be the wisest thing. I thankedhim. He left, with Felt dogging him to talk more of nutrition. I was gladto. be alone. I showered slowly, being careful not to wet my sore face. The Novocainwas wearing off a little, but I was somehow happy to feel pain. I mean,hadn't I really fucked up? We'd blown the title, broken our own streak (allthe seniors had been undefeated) and Davey Johnston's too. Maybe the blamewasn't totally mine, but right then I felt like it was. There was nobody in the locker room. They must all have been at themotel already. I supposed no one wanted to see me or speak to me. With thisterrible bitter taste in my mouth-I felt so bad I could taste it- I packedmy gear and walked outside. There were not many Harvard fans out there inthe wintry wilds of upstate New York. "How's the cheek, Barrett?" "Okay, thanks, Mr. Jencks." "You'll probably want a steak," said another familiar voice. Thus spakeOliver Barrett III. How typical of him to suggest the old-fashioned cure fora black eye. "Thank you, Father," I said. "The doctor took care of it." I indicatedthe gauze pad covering Seizer's twelve stitches. "I mean for your stomach, son. At dinner, we had yet another in our continuing series ofnonconversations, all of which commence with "How've you been?" and concludewith "Anything I can do?" "How've you been, son?" "Fine, sir." "Does your face hurt?" "No, sir. It was beginning to hurt like hell. "I'd like Jack Wells to look at it on Monday." "Not necessary, Father." "He's a specialist-" "The Cornell doctor wasn't exactly a veterinarian," I said, hoping todampen my father's usual snobbish enthusiasm for specialists, experts, andall other "top people." "Too bad," remarked Oliver Barrett III, in what I first took to be astab at humor, "you did get a beastly cut." "Yes sir," I said. (Was I supposed to chuckle?) And then I wondered if my father's quasi-witticism had not beenintended as some sort of implicit reprimand for my actions on the ice. "Or were you implying that I behaved like an animal this evening?" His expression suggested some pleasure at the fact that I had askedhim. But he simply replied, "You were the one who mentioned veterinarians."At this point, I decided to study the menu. As the main course was served, Old Stony launched into another of hissimplistic sermonettes, this one, if I recall-and I try not to-concerningvictories and defeats. He noted that we had lost the title (very sharp ofyou, Father), but after all, in sport what really counts is not the winningbut the playing. His remarks sounded suspiciously close to a paraphrase ofthe Olympic motto, and I sensed this was the overture to a put-down of suchathletic trivia as Ivy titles. But I was not about to feed him any Olympicstraight lines, so I gave him his quota of "Yes sir's” and shut up. We ran the usual conversational gamut, which centers around Old Stony'sfavorite nontopic, my plans. "Tell me, Oliver, have you heard from the Law School?" "Actually, Father, I haven't definitely decided on law school." "I was merely asking if law school had definitely decided on you." Was this another witticism? Was I supposed to smile at my father's rosyrhetoric? "No sir. I haven't heard." "I could give Price Zimmermann a ring-" "No!" I interrupted as an instant reflex. "Please don't, sir". "Not to influence," O.B. III said very uprightly "just to inquire." "Father, I want to get the , letter with everyone else Please." "Yes. Of course. Fine." "Thank you, sir." "Besides there really isn't much doubt about your getting in," headded. I don't know why, but O.B. III has a way of disparaging me even whileuttering laudatory phrases. "It's no cinch," I replied. "They don't have a hockey team, after all." I have no idea why I was putting myself down. Maybe it was because hewas taking the opposite view. "You have other qualities," said Oliver Barrett III, but declined toelaborate. (I doubt if he could have.) The meal was as lousy as the conversation, except that I could havepredicted the staleness of the rolls even before they arrived, whereas I cannever predict what subject my father will set blandly before me. "And there's always the Peace Corps," he remarked, completely out ofthe blue. "Sir?" I asked, not quite sure whether he was making a statement orasking a question. "I think the Peace Corps is a fine thing, don't you?" he said. "Well," I replied, "it's certainly better than the War Corps." We were even. I didn't know what he meant and vice versa. Was that itfor the topic? Would we now discuss other current affairs or governmentprograms? No. I had momentarily forgotten that our quintessential theme isalways my plans. "I would certainly have no objection to your joining the Peace Corps,Oliver." "It's mutual, sir," I replied, matching his own generosity of spirit.I'm sure Old Stony never listens to me anyway, so I'm not surprised that hedidn't react to my quiet little sarcasm. "But among your classmates," he continued, "what is the attitudethere?" "Sir?" "Do they feel the Peace Corps is relevant to their lives?" I guess my father needs to hear the phrase as much as a fish needswater: "Yes sir." Even the apple pie was stale. At about eleven-thirty, I walked him to his car. "Anything I can do, son?" "No, sir. Good night, sir." And he drove off. Yes, there are planes between Boston and Ithaca, New York, but OliverBarrett III chose to drive. Not that those many hours at the wheel could betaken as some kind of parental gesture. My father simply likes to drive.Fast. And at that hour of the night in an Aston Martin DBS you can go fastas hell. I have no doubt that Oliver Barrett III was out to break hisIthaca- Boston speed record, set the year previous after we had beatenCornell and taken the title. I know, because I saw him glance at his watch. I went back to the motel to phone Jenny. It was the only good part of the evening. I told her all about thefight (omitting the precise nature of the casus belli) and I could tell sheenjoyed it. Not many of her wonky musician friends either threw or receivedpunches. "Did you at least total the guy that hit you?" she asked. "Yeah. Totally. I creamed him." "I wish I coulda seen it. Maybe you'll beat up somebody in the Yalegame, huh?" "Yeah." I smiled. How she loved the simple things in life.
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