The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(54)

I called the Times sports editor when I got home and asked if he wanted a high school reporter. He asked me to see him the following day and to bring examples of my writing, which were essays I’d written in my English classes, since I hadn’t yet written for the paper. Given that saying about beggars not being choosy, the Times hired me. They agreed to pay me thirty-five cents a column inch, plus my mileage to and from the games. They also gave me a press pass.

My coverage of Ernie’s exploits appeared in the Times at least once a week during the next year and a half. By our senior year, I hadn’t just made Ernie a legend at Saint Joe’s; I’d made him a household name throughout the county. College recruiters showed up in hordes at Ernie’s games and practices. The recruiting letters, which started as a trickle, became a deluge of envelopes stuffing his parents’ mailbox and bore the insignias for USC, UCLA, California, Syracuse, North Carolina, Georgia, Florida, and Arizona. Coaches offered him scholarships in basketball, football, and track, but it became apparent that football was the sport that best utilized all of Ernie’s athleticism and provided his best chance at a professional career.

Giving up basketball for the journalism staff had two other unintended consequences. After a feature article I wrote about Ernie won first place in a journalism contest and I received a $500 scholarship, Mr. Shubb entered my writing in other competitions. By the end of my senior year, I had won close to $2,500 in scholarship money, which, as my mother liked to say, was no small potatoes. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Not playing sports also gave me the time to work at my father’s store, and that led to the second unintended consequence.

I wouldn’t need to take Mickie up on her offer when I turned eighteen.





10

My father’s disappointment that I would no longer be playing competitive sports was tempered when I told him that night at the dinner table that I wanted to earn money working at his store and could save for college. I knew my parents were concerned about the expense. More than once my mother had intimated that the community college would be a great way to get my general-education requirements out of the way. She was right, I knew, and I didn’t want to tax their budget any more than I already was, but I also really wanted to go to college.

“As of tomorrow, you are Broadway Pharmacy’s part-time delivery and stock boy. And when Alex leaves for college next year, you can take on the extra days.”

“Only if he keeps his grades up,” my mother said. She expressed no disappointment at the end of my competitive athletic career. As she spooned mashed potatoes onto my plate, she said, “Maybe you’ll become the next Woodward and Bernstein. Or Walter Cronkite. Wouldn’t that be something, Sam?”

I agreed it would be, but I doubted anyone would want to hire a newscaster with red eyes. Much as I had come to accept my appearance, I was not so naive as to believe people would readily accept me, someone who looked so different, and there was never a shortage of people to remind me of this when I grew too comfortable.





11

The Saint Joe’s newspaper was produced every other week, with production taking place right after class. I could work the schedule so I could be at my dad’s store in time to dust mop the floor, stock the shelves, and get out the door to make the deliveries. Shortly after the Easter holiday, I entered the pharmacy to find a new girl being trained at the front register by my dad’s longtime assistant, Betty. Some months earlier my father told us at dinner that Betty had asked to cut back her hours. Her husband had taken sick. My mom suggested my dad hire girls from the local high school to work part-time for minimum wage.

The girl behind the counter looked up from Betty’s tutelage and smiled without hesitation. “You must be Sam.” She stuck her hand across the counter. “I’m Donna.”

My mother would have called Donna “husky.” The blue smock did not hang on her the way it did on Betty. It protruded over her chest. I suspected Donna was stacked.

“Hi,” was all I could manage.

I set about my business but found mopping the floor more difficult than usual. It seemed no matter the aisle I moved to, Donna would appear to dust the merchandise and talk to me in between waiting on customers.

“Your father says you go to Saint Joe’s.” She flipped her hair from her shoulder and folded it behind her ear, revealing a silver hoop earring. Blue eye shadow painted her upper eyelids.

“I’m a junior,” I said.

“I’m a senior at Burlingame. What’s it like going to a school without any girls?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “You get used to it.”

“I’d think an all-girls’ school would be boring,” she said. “I can’t imagine going to one. It seems like my best friends are always guys. Your dad says you play baseball. I play first base on the softball team.”

“I had to give it up to write for the newspaper,” I said, which was an outright lie, since I hadn’t gone out for the team.

“I know,” she said. “I saw your stories in the window.” My father displayed all my articles from the Friar and the Times in the store windows with great pride. “I liked the one you did about Ernie Cantwell hitting the last-second shot. You really made it sound exciting.”

“You read my articles?”

“Not all of them, but the ones I’ve read are really good.”