Chapter 11

Since there was no faculty meeting that Monday, he had told both teams that there would be a one-hour practice.

Joe Shorts was waiting for him at the gym door, his uniform washed and neatly folded in a paper bag. He handed it to the teacher, looking down, sniffed and said, "I have to quit. My mother does not want me to play. I'm sorry." He turned away.

The teacher stopped him with a hand on his thin shoulder, led him over to the stands, and they sat beside each other as other players soon appeared and began shooting baskets.

"Why?" the flustered teacher asked.

"She noticed the crusty blood in my nose."

"That all?"

The boy nodded. "I think she hates sports, all sports. Waste of time is what she says, could be studying, practicing piano."

"Where do you live?"

"Edgemoor, near Wilson Lane."

"What's the address? Oh, it's on your permission ship isn't it?"

The boy nodded, looking like he was about to start crying.

"Joe, I'll talk to her, today if I can. And I hope she changes her mind. You are a good shooter, and you can be a good player."

He nodded. The teacher hoped he was not going to cry. He had decided what to do with the young player very late the night before as he lay listening to Meg breathe.

It wasn't far, six blocks or so, so after practice he walked to Joe's house and rang the bell. It was a big, old house, half-timbered, in a very fashionable neighborhood with lots of trees and shrubbery, million dollar homes, an area where, the teacher was sure, no Jews lived before the war.

A thin woman opened the door.

The teacher smiled. "Mrs. Shorts?"

She nodded.

"I'm Mr. Thompson, from the high school. I'm a teacher, and Joe's basketball coach."

She nodded and blinked, taking a breath, hand to her throat, unhappy.

"May I come in?" He paused and watched her hesitate. "I'd like to talk with you."

She held the door open and then led him to the living room, and he sat on a very old sofa and she on a high backed wing chair. He put his briefcase down by his feet. She took a deep breath.

"May I get you something?" she asked.

"No, thank you, I wanted to talk with you about your son and basketball."

"Did he quit, return his suit? I told him he couldn't play. It's too rough. Joseph's our only child. I don't want him hurt."

"He told me. And you are right. It can be rough and a lot of the boys are bigger than Joe."

"I'm sure," she said, looking worried and ill at ease. "He's like his father, very thin."

"But he is a good player, and he wants to play, very much. And I think he should play. I do not believe he will get really hurt, very few boys or girls do playing basketball. It is not a dangerous sport. Ankle sprains are the most common injury I suppose. It might help him in school and getting into college."

"No problem there, Mr. Thompson. He'll go to Penn, his father's school. He's already registered."

"Has he ever spoken of Princeton?"

She nodded. "But I don't know why."

"Do you subscribe to the New Yorker, the magazine?"

She nodded again, looking puzzled.

"I'd like you to read something, at least part of it. The story is called 'A Sense of Where You Are' and it's by McPhee, John McPhee. It was written back in the Sixties I think. You can find it online."

"He's a good writer."

"Indeed. I think this was one of his first. Your son read it; he has the book I think. It's why he wants to play basketball, one reason at least. And I think he can be a good player." He paused, considered, and said, "And he likes to do it, you know?"

"I'll look at it." She grasped the arms of her chair as if she were going to stand.

"And I hope you will reconsider letting him play. He's is very unhappy."

"But he got hurt, a bloody nose." She licked her lips. "He has several bruises."

"I know. But when it stopped bleeding, he wanted to get back in the game. He played well, very well." He licked his lips, pausing. "He didn't cry, and I know it hurt."

"Really? He didn't tell me he was going to play."

"He thinks you don't like sports." The teacher wondered who had signed the permission form, if the boy had. He wouldn't be the only one.

"I suppose I don't. I'll talk to his father about this, tonight. He's been out of town."

"Let me give you my phone number so he can call me if he wishes. He popped open his case, found a notebook, tore off a piece of looseleaf and handed her his number. "Any time," he said. "Joe is one of my best players. I'd hate to lose him." He stood, and she walked with him to the door and nodded him out.

He walked home thinking about the conversation and wondering what else he could have said.