The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(77)

More to appease my mother, and because Mr. Rice had gone to the effort, I filled out the application. I prepared my essay the night before the application deadline, writing about my life with ocular albinism. I mailed off the packet the following morning and promptly dismissed it.

About that same time, I wrote an article on Ernie Cantwell’s college recruiting experience for the final issue of the school paper. The Times liked the article so much they ran it on the front page of the sports section. I was thrilled. As I sat reading my article in the journalism trailer, my editor from the Times called.

“You’re famous, Hill. The Associated Press picked up your article and ran it on their wire service. Your name is atop the article in hundreds of newspapers in dozens of cities.”

The following day, as Ernie toweled off after track practice and I waited in the locker room to drive him home, Coach Moran—who had become the athletic director, in addition to the varsity basketball coach—burst into the locker room looking like he might have a heart attack. “Cantwell! My office.”

“Okay, Coach, let me get dressed—”

“Now!”

“Coach, let me put on my—”

“Stanford is on the phone, Cantwell. Coach Christiansen wants to talk to you about playing football at Stanford University next fall. Or do you want me to tell him you’re too busy toweling off your ass?” As Ernie sprinted past him, tucking a towel around his waist, Coach Moran spied me. “You come, too, Hell.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you started this—he read that article you wrote, and he might have questions I can’t answer.”

Coach Christiansen only had one question, and it wasn’t for me. He asked Ernie how he’d like to play football at Stanford University. Ernie committed on the phone. When he hung up, Coach Moran was wide-eyed and aghast. “You committed? What about all those other schools waiting for an answer? What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Tell them I’m going to Stanford, Coach. It’s close to home. My mother and father can watch me play, and my father wants me to major in business and computer science.”





13

The Cantwells threw an impromptu barbecue that night in their backyard. I attended in a dual capacity—as Ernie’s friend and as a journalist. The Times wanted the scoop on Ernie’s commitment to Stanford, a local-boy-stays-local kind of story. I interviewed Ernie’s mother and father and his maternal grandparents. I also interviewed his coaches at Saint Joe’s. I spent much of the party calling in my story to an editor at the sports desk. By the time I had finished, everyone had eaten, but Mrs. Cantwell had saved me a plate with two hamburgers and potato salad.

I took my plate outside to sit by the fire pit while everyone else went inside to eat cake and drink coffee. Ernie had to make phone calls to give the bad news to the other recruiters. As I sat by the fire, I sensed someone’s approach. Mickie sat down beside me, the flames flickering shadows across her face. “Great news about Ernie, huh?”

“Yeah, great,” I said and blew at the smoke threatening to engulf me.

We stared as the flames spit an assortment of colors. Mickie had decided to attend UC Davis near Sacramento. Her grades weren’t great, but she had obtained a near-perfect score on the SAT. It also hadn’t hurt her chances that I had helped her write her application essay. We chose the difficulties of growing up in an alcoholic household as her topic.

“Don’t judge him, Sam,” Mickie said. “He didn’t make up the rules.”

“I know,” I said.

My mother would have called it “God’s will” for Ernie to go to Stanford, but I couldn’t help wondering why I had spent so many hours studying to achieve perfect grades. I’d made the same fatal mistake as when I was nominated for class valedictorian—I’d allowed myself to get my hopes up. Stanford hadn’t responded to my application, but I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. I’d applied to the University of California schools, which had negligible tuition for California residents and were a better fit for my family’s budget. I had been accepted at UC Davis, as well as at Cal Berkeley and UCLA. They were all good schools, and if I went to Davis, I’d have Mickie to hang out with and I could get home occasionally to visit my parents.

I drove Mickie home after the Cantwells’ barbecue and stayed to watch a late-night movie with her and Joanna. They both fell asleep on the couch. I carried Joanna up the stairs and put her to bed. When I pulled the covers up tight under her chin, Joanna awoke briefly, threw her arms around my neck, and pulled me close to kiss my cheek.

“I love you, Sam.”

It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to me, because I knew it was unconditional. Joanna was not my mother or even my friend; she had no obligation to say those words to me, and she didn’t want anything, except maybe a stable house and someone to love. I smiled down at her. “I love you, too, Jo-Jo.”

When I started from the room, I found Mickie leaning against the doorjamb, staring at me with an impish grin. We shut the door and stepped into the hall. “You don’t have to walk me to the front door,” I whispered. “Go to bed before you fall asleep on your feet.”

“Aren’t you going to tuck me in, too?” she asked, also keeping her voice soft.