The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(53)

“Yes, Coach.”

“Then set the goddamn screen, Sam Hell.”

I knew Coach’s question was rhetorical, but I saw it as a chance to lobby for myself. “Put me on the team, Coach?”

He chuckled at my boldness. “Hell, you have the heart of a lion, I’ll give you that. I’ve never had a more determined son of a bitch play for me. All you’re lacking to be a good basketball player is height, quickness, and shooting ability. You’re too short, too slow, and can’t shoot.”

“I can learn to shoot,” I said.

His smile waned. He lowered the front legs of his chair to the ground. “I have a hard decision to make, Hell. I have to choose between you and Chuck Bennett, and I only have twelve uniforms. Let me be straight with you. You’d be the twelfth man, which means you’d practice but rarely play. I have no doubt you’d practice hard, work your ass off, but . . .” He paused, looking at his hands folded in his lap. “Here’s the thing, Hell. Mr. Shubb says you’re a hell of a writer, that you got real talent.”

I failed to see the connection. Dick Shubb was the moderator of the Saint Joe’s Friar, the school newspaper.

“He wants you on his staff, but the staff meetings are after school, as is most of the production time.” Now I saw the connection. “You couldn’t do both, Hell.” Coach ran a hand over his chin as if considering whether to shave. “Bennett, on the other hand, is a first-class fuckup. I cut him, and he’ll end up in the pit smoking pot with the stoners. So, you see the problem I have, Hell?”

I did, of course, but facing the prospect of losing one of my dreams, being benevolent wasn’t my priority. Then Coach asked, “What do you want to be, Hell? You have any idea?”

“I was thinking maybe a doctor,” I said. “Maybe an ophthalmologist.” The idea had come to me one day while Dr. Pridemore examined my eyes. Dr. Pridemore had always taken the time to explain to me not only my condition but the inner workings of the eye. It seemed like a natural fit.

“What do you think will benefit you most in the future, on your résumé—the ability to write or to shoot a free throw?”

Coach was right. We both knew it. Looking back, it was the most candid advice from the most unlikely source, and it changed my life in many ways, but goddamn, I wanted to play basketball and still be a jock, even if it was in name only. Then another idea hit me, and I quickly realized I could make this a win-win situation for me and for Ernie. I did love to write, and the newspaper would be a way for me to pad my résumé. And if the plan I was formulating worked out, I could also make some money for my college tuition. As for Ernie, while he excelled on the athletic fields, he continued to struggle in the classroom, despite my tutelage. Ernie’s grades could limit his choice of colleges, unless he could get an athletic scholarship. That required notoriety, and Coach Moran was right. The local paper did a poor job covering high school sports.

“Coach, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’m going to join the newspaper staff,” I said. “I appreciate the spot, but my dad also needs a delivery boy at his store after school, and I don’t see how I could do it all.”

We stood and we shook hands. “Your name will be on the list I post this afternoon, Hell. You can bet your ass it will. I’ll leave it up to you what you want to tell everyone.”

I reached the door.

“Hell.”

“Yeah, Coach?”

“Life is about heart. Yours is as big as any kid’s I’ve ever coached. Don’t you ever forget that.”

“No, Coach, I won’t.” I left his office with one less dream but somehow feeling like I was seven feet tall.





9

“What happened?” Ernie asked the question even before the swinging door to the locker room had shut behind me. He’d been waiting in the hall.

“I made the team,” I said.

He pumped his fist as we walked through a hall crowded with students coming back from lunch and hurrying to get to class. “I knew he’d keep you. You work harder than anyone.”

“I turned him down.”

Ernie stopped. “You did what?”

“Mr. Shubb is looking for someone to write sports for the newspaper and take over as the editor in chief next year.”

“So?”

The first bell clattered, echoing loudly. “I think I’ll get more out of that than playing sports. It’s a big commitment—I can’t do both. Plus, my dad needs me at the store.”

“You’re giving up basketball?”

“It’s better for my future,” I said over the clatter of the bell and the banging of lockers.

“You can’t quit, Sam.”

“I’m not quitting,” I said. “I’m just choosing something different. Besides, think about all the great stories I can write about you now.” This caught Ernie’s interest. His eyes widened. “I’m going to call up the Times and get a job covering high school games. Coach says they don’t have a high school reporter. When I’m done, you’ll be a legend.”

The idea to contact the Times had come from my eavesdropping on Coach Moran’s telephone conversation. If I was going to be writing articles for the school paper, I might as well see if I could get paid to do it.