The Great Santini Part 29

Rostelli came down court, dribbling slowly with his right hand, barking out plays to his teammates. Overplaying his right hand, Ben forced Rostelli to switch hands. He faked as though he were going for the steal, then retreated as Rostelli switched hands and pa.s.sed it to the other guard. "Next time, next time," Ben said to himself as he watched the forwards setting screens against Jim Don and Art. The ball came back to Rostelli who dribbled it to the right of the key, Ben overplaying the right hand again, watching, tensing, until the moment Rostelli moved the ball to his left hand. Then Ben broke for the ball, tipped it away from Rostelli, but only barely, sprinting after it with Rostelli matching him step for step, gaining control of the ball, dribbling it behind his back and breaking toward the center of the court where he heard Pinkie's shout coming into his left ear. He felt Rostelli on his right but he was moving fast now, and faster, till he felt himself rising toward the basket, the ball rolling off his fingertips, and an arm crashing over his shoulder as Rostelli came over him, lunging for the ball that was dropping through the net.

"Good move," Rostelli said, offering a hand to pull him off the floor.

"The basket is good," the referee motioned to the scorer's table. "Number thirteen will shoot one."

"Thirteen charged, ref," Bull cried out.

In the first half Ben scored eighteen points. Plays and moves, embedded in him, poured out of him. Twice more he stole the ball from the opposing guard, dribbled the length of the court, and laid the ball gently in the white square painted on the gla.s.s backboard. Three times he left Rostelli on reverse dribbles and drove the center of the lane before the forward could react and rush to prevent the intrusion, to repel the attack of the little man in the area of the court marked out for giants. Always, there was the quick, unantic.i.p.ated move. It all took place in a timeless frontier, in fractional divisions of moments unrecallable, as Ben fed on the noise of the crowd, the plankton of applause as he drove and pa.s.sed and shot, as the lungs strained, as the heart thundered, and as the father watched. On the court, the court he loved, the court he ruled at times, Ben felt disembodied, running to the point of exhaustion, but more alive and more human than he would ever be again. Every pore was open to the action swirling around him, every vibration, every stirring, every cheer, every carnivorous roar. The basketball was a part of him, an extension of him because of long years of dribbling around trees, through chairs, down sidewalks, past brothers, away from dogs, past store windows and before the eyes of men and women who thought his fixation was demented at best. But he had lived with a basketball, had paid his dues, and could now exult in this one small skill of boyhood. This sport in all its absurdity did a special thing for Ben Meecham: it made him happy. The court was a testing ground of purpose. There was a reason. There were goals, rewards, and instant punishments for failure. It was life reduced to a set of rules, an existential life, a life clarified by the eyes of fathers.

At half time, Calhoun led by thirteen points. In the locker room Ben drank ice water as though it were a drug. The sweat was hot on his flesh. His teammates pummeled him again and again until his back and shoulders ached. In the gym, Bull paid the director of the pep club band five dollars to play the Marine Corps hymn. Then he made every person in his section of the stands rise and sing the anthem with him. Silently, Lillian and her children left their seats and walked to the opposite side of the gym.

At the start of the second half, Ben hit two quick jump shots in a row. The night again blurred into sprints and slow walks up to the foul line. Every time he shot a foul shot, he heard the crowd stir as he made the sign of the cross. He remembered that he was in the land of the hardsh.e.l.l, the barren hardscrabble of the spirit where the sign of the cross conjured up rich images in lands that had been totally immersed in the waters of a hard-a.s.sed Christ. He ended the game with a drive down the right side and a behind-the-back pa.s.s to Art when Art's man moved over to challenge him. "Show-off," he heard Bull say. But then he was mobbed by his teammates and then by a perfumed, hysterical flock of cheerleaders. As Ansley Matthews kissed him and Janice Sanders hung on to his sweating arm, Ben caught a glimpse of Mary Anne watching him from her seat on the bleachers. It crossed his mind that he had never seen her so sad, but then Carol Huger kissed him on the mouth and the boys who had been cut surrounded him and walked with him to the locker room.

Rebel yells resonated through the steel lockers and sc.r.a.ped along the cinderblock walls. Fathers lined the dark hallway that led to the locker room. They were smoking cigarettes and reaching out to touch the sweating forms of the starters as they glided past them. Not a single father touched a boy from the second string even if it was his own son. The fathers whose sons had played merited a more aggrandized status in the fraternity of older men who queued along the pa.s.sageway. They pounded Ben as he ran their gauntlet. Bull was not among them. He would be waiting outside in his squadron car preparing an exhaustive critique of Ben's performance.

When Ben entered the locker room, Art lifted him off his feet and danced him from one end of the locker room to the other, spinning in circles and singing the fight song of Calhoun High. The players had begun to peel the sweaty uniforms from their bodies. The scrubs who had not played removed their warmups that still smelled of detergent and their mothers' hands. Mr. Dacus moved down the long bench slapping b.u.t.tocks and punching shoulders. "Jim Don, you ain't worth a tinker's d.a.m.n," he shouted at the large forward. "Artie, what's wrong with you? You played well tonight."

Art put Ben down, ran over and began to shadowbox with Mr. Dacus. "Did you see me sky tonight, Mr. D.? I was jumpin' so high I felt like I was part n.i.g.g.e.r."

When Mr. Dacus reached Ben, he grabbed him in a headlock and said, "You sorry d.a.m.n p.i.s.sant. You're going to be sweet as potato pie if you learn to play both ends of the court. Work on your defense, Ben. Otherwise, it was a great game."

"Thanks, Mr. Dacus."

"We ain't beat West Charleston in ten years," Pinkie screamed.

"f.u.c.king A," Mumford said.

"You've got to score more, Philip," Ben heard Mr. Dacus say. "You've got to look for the basket. You treat that ball like it's radioactive."

"I get more satisfaction out of making good pa.s.ses than I do scoring, Mr. Dacus," Philip answered. "Anyway, I didn't feel very good tonight."

"You sick?" the princ.i.p.al asked.

"Yeah," Pinkie said, entering the conversation, "Prince Philip's got the Mongolian Zinch disease."

"What's that, Pinkie?" Ben asked.

"Everything he eats turns to s.h.i.t," Pinkie said.

The locker room exploded with laughter until Jim Don said, "All right, let's hold it down in here or I'm gonna have to kick a.s.s and take names later."

"You going to whip my a.s.s, Jim Don?" Mr. Dacus asked.

"Naw, Mr. D., I'm gonna let you slip out the back door before I commence to doling out fist burgers."

"Meecham got thirty!" the manager cried.

"Jesus H. Christ!" someone said.

"Who's got some greasy kid stuff I can use after I clean my gorgeous body?" Art asked.

"Philip's got some," Pinkie answered. "Hey, Prince. You gonna let me use some of that English Leather jungle juice?"

"Why don't you buy your own s.h.i.t," Philip snapped.

"Because my old man don't own the whole f.u.c.king state of South Carolina," Pinkie answered.

"Sure, Pinkie, I was just kidding."

"Hey, Pinkie," Art called. "What do you think of the r.e.c.t.u.m as a whole?"

"I think it ought to be wiped out."

A transistor radio tuned' to the Big APE radio in Jacksonville blared through the locker room with a song by Peter, Paul, and Mary. Then the Big Ape bellowed. The first shower burst against the tile floors of the shower room and plumes of steam inched along the ceiling and flowed down the walls. Ben rose naked from the bench and walked slowly to the shower room. The place where his uniform lay made a wet spot on the cement floor. He would be sore tomorrow, he knew, for already the stiffness was settling into trembling half-cramped leg muscles. The body always demanded and received payment for the punishment it endured in a basketball game.

Ben turned on a shower at the end of the room and stepped into water as hot as he could bear. The sweat burned off his body in an instant. He stuck his hand under the spray and felt the blood rush through his body. In a minute all ten showers were in use. The steam was so thick that the players were vague, ethereal forms in the mist. Only their voices remained clear.

"Pinkie, T.C. O'Quinn says he can take your 'fifty Ford any day of the week and twice on Sunday," Jim Don said.

"s.h.i.t, that car of mine's souped up better than Campbell's. What's O'Quinn been running?"

"He says he's got it up to one-twenty."

"Big deal."

"That's in second gear."

"Bulls.h.i.t."

"s.h.i.t. Pinkie's car can stop on a dime and give you nine cents change," Art said.

"We ain't discussin' stoppin'," Jim Don said, "we's discussin' racin'."

"Pinkie's car got more horses under that hood than a John Wayne movie and you and T.C. O'Quinn both know it," Art said.

"f.u.c.king A," Mumford said.

"Shut up, Mumford," Jim Don shouted. "Who asked you anyway. You ain't even circ.u.mcised."

"Did you hear that Pamela Wall swallowed a watermelon seed?" Art said.

"Odum Bell ain't gonna marry her either," Pinkie added. "She's going to that home in Charleston."

"If I'd known she was giving it away for free, I'd have played hide the banana with her myself," Jim Don said.

"Pamela had peanut b.u.t.ter legs all right," Art said, his head under the shower, "smooth and easily spread."

"I heard her old man just beat the livin' s.h.i.t out of her when he found out."

"s.h.i.t, I could have told him she's only been screwed twice that I knowed of," Pinkie said. "Once by the football team and once by the band."

"Jim Don, I hear Lou Ellen Alston's got the hot uterus for you," Art said.

"I might find time to slip her a piece of my prime Grade A twelve incher."

"You gonna screw her with your foot?" Pinkie said. "That's the only thing on your body that's twelve inches long except your nose."

"Mine's a lot bigger than that little dried up piece of s.h.i.t you call a p.e.c.k.e.r," Jim Don fired back.

"You're dreamin', boy," Pinkie said. "It's like comparin' an El Dorado to a Volkswagen."

Jim Don spoke: "I know my p.e.c.k.e.r's bigger than most men's 'cause I couldn't satisfy Ansley's biological needs for three seconds if I wasn't hung like a horse."

"You ain't never touched Ansley Matthews, Jim Don," Pinkie said.

"I touched every inch of her body," Jim Don answered angrily. "She don't even have a freckle."

"It makes me sick to think of you climbing on top of Ansley Matthews," Philip said.

"It does?" Jim Don sneered, imitating Philip's clipped, aristocratic speech.

"Don't worry, Philip," Artie said, "Ansley wouldn't let that monkey in her pants even for a little peek."

"Oh boys, I'll tell you about the first time I did the evil deed with ol' Ansley. We were parking at the old beach and I was puttin' my best moves on her. One thing led to another and before you knew it my big, hairy banana was whistlin' Dixie when it struck gold in them thar hills. I decided to make the first time a memorable occasion for her. After I cracked her cherry, I decided to write my name in her big v.a.g.i.n.a. I wrote Jim Don' with my big pencil."

"Why didn't you write James Donald'?" Philip interrupted.

" 'Cause my name's Jim Don," he replied, then continued his narrative. "First I wrote a capital 'J.' A fancy, swirly 'J.' "With all the little curls and things. Then I wrote a small 'i' and a small 'm.' I didn't want to drive her crazy by writing the whole thing in capital letters. But Lord, she was going wild. I even did the 'd' in a small letter. As a favor. Then a little 'o' and an 'n.' I was giving her too much pleasure all at once and I knew I had to slow down. But then I made a mistake. I realized I'd forgotten to dot the 'i.' So I went back and put the dot way up high. Well sir, she fainted dead away. It like to scared me to death. I thought to myself, 'Oh, G.o.d, what have I done now? I done f.u.c.ked her to death!' "

"Bulls.h.i.t," Pinkie said, amidst the whoops and hollers of the team.

"I've f.u.c.ked over twenty women in the past two years and every one of 'em loved it and begged for more," Jim Don declared.

"That's the biggest lie I've ever heard," Pinkie said.

"How many girls you nailed, albino?" Jim Don asked.

"About ten."

"Ten, my a.s.s," Jim Don said. "How many you had, Art the Fart?"

"Ten or eleven," Art said. "I can't remember for sure."

"Try zero. That's easy enough to remember," Philip said, walking out of the shower room.

"Excuse us, Prince Philip, for our filthy talk," Jim Don said. "We country boys like to talk about p.u.s.s.y every once in a while if his lordship don't mind. I bet you never even found out that thing between your legs is good for somethin' besides p.i.s.sin'."

"s.h.i.t, Jim Don, Philip turns down more m.u.f.f than you ever dream about. Girls love his rich little a.s.s."

"How about you, Meecham, how many times you do the job?" Jim Don asked.

"Once," Ben answered in a lie that had been born out of a pure adolescent instinct.

"Once!" a disbelieving chorus shouted in his direction.

"You must be queer as a three dollar bill, Meecham," Jim Don said roughly.

"You ever f.u.c.ked a n.i.g.g.e.r, Meecham?" Art asked.

"No."

"s.h.i.t, I don't even count n.i.g.g.e.rs on my list," Jim Don boasted.

"Me neither," Art agreed. "Only white women make the golden list. I f.u.c.ked so many n.i.g.g.e.rs I lost count."

Ben turned his shower off and walked half blind through the steam. He was clean and tired in a grand way. He thought for a moment about the universality of the locker room experience. Over the years, in the time before and after the playing of games, in the trembling zone of adolescence, Ben had listened to the dialogue and banter of athletes talking about girls. It had been a long, extended anatomy lesson purged of reverence or homage. It was talk that dulled the diamond-headed points of l.u.s.t that cut into Ben his every waking moment. As he dressed, he realized that coming out of a shower full of boys he felt both the cleanest and the dirtiest of any other time in his life. The transistor radio played on as he dressed. Then, waving good-bye to Philip, he walked out into the cold night air to face his father.

Bull started the car when he saw Ben emerge through the locker room door. He was chainsmoking Camels as he waited for his son in the parking lot. As Ben opened the door, Bull began to criticize his play in a severe, cutting voice. It was like this after every game Ben had ever played in, so neither the tone nor the content of the speech was a surprise. With his right hand Bull hit the dashboard to emphasize his major points. As he drove, he looked at his son more frequently than the road. "I'll tell you one thing, jocko," he said, slamming his fist against the dash, "if you think you can play college basketball just because you can score thirty against that pack of pansies you got another think coming. A good college guard could have cut you a new a.s.shole out there tonight. You made so many mistakes I don't even know where to start. Your defense wouldn't have won a prize in the girls' game. Your jump shot was just sad to watch. You loafed getting back down the court after your team scored. You pa.s.sed the ball off to those clowns on your team when you should have taken the good shot. If you're gonna play the G.o.ddam game then you're gonna play it G.o.ddam right or I want you to turn in your uniform and try out for second flutist in the G.o.ddam pep band. Now you tell me what really p.i.s.sed me off about your play tonight."

Ben was silent.

"Do you know, jocko? Do you have any idea?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I'll fill you in. The thing that really p.i.s.sed me off and embarra.s.sed me was when you knocked that West Charleston boy on his a.s.s, then put out your hand to help him up."

"What was wrong with that?"

"I'm doing the talking. You keep your yap b.u.t.toned and just listen. I don't want to see you being a good sport the rest of this season. I want you to be a G.o.ddam animal from the time that whistle blows to start that game to the time the buzzer goes off to end it. I want to see foam coming out of your mouth. If I was your coach I'd have pulled you out of the game and kicked you all over that gymnasium when you helped pull that son of a b.i.t.c.h up off the court. The next time you knock someone down run up and kick him in the head. Tell him that the next time he gets in your way you're gonna break his G.o.ddam neck or rip out his p.i.s.sin' kidneys. I hate a G.o.ddam good sport on a basketball court worse than I hate a pigtailed Chinaman. You could have scored forty tonight. But you just weren't hungry enough. You got too much of your mother in you and not enough of Santini. Not enough man. You got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"You read me loud and clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then say it like you were a man."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't want to see any more of that good sportsmanship horses.h.i.t. The next time you put a boy on the floor, you ought to make sure he stays down there awhile. Otherwise you've wasted a foul. The way I see it, the rules give you five chances to break someone's bones. When I used to deck guys, they considered it an act of G.o.d if they could get up without major surgery. I played the game like I had rabies."

They rode in silence through the streets of Ravenel. Ben looked out the window, but his eyes focused on nothing. Bull continued to speak, gesturing with his right hand, his lips moving, his eyes narrowing, as he continued the lecture in a soundless world where he was the sole audience. When they drove up to the house, Ben left the car hurriedly. As he ran up the steps, he heard his father say behind him, "But all in all, that's the best game I've ever seen you play."

The family had gathered in the kitchen to celebrate the victory while the afterglow of Ben's performance burned strongly in their memories. Mary Anne shuffled a covered pan of popcorn on the stove. Matthew dribbled a rubber basketball in the hallway that led to the dining room and shot repeatedly at an imaginary goal above the door. Karen and Mrs. Meecham poured Coca-Colas into jelly gla.s.ses of different sizes.

When Ben walked through the door, Lillian ran up to him and kissed him lightly. Ben threw his bag to the floor and picked his mother up in his arms like a child.