Racing the Rain (18 page)

His progress mystified some people, but not Cassidy. While his taller friends had been playing against other ninth graders, he had been at the base gym doing drills, lifting weights, and getting in games with servicemen, some of whom had played high school or college ball. Some were big-city black guys who grew up playing wild and woolly playground ball. His school was lily white and so was every school they played against.

Lieutenant Lefaro not only continued to hold coaching clinics with him, he occasionally picked Cassidy for his team in three-on-three. It was a rare day when Cassidy could not get into a game now.

As he stood in front of the list, feeling light-headed, his mind reeled with recollections of his heretofore failed basketball career. It amounted to years of disappointment and unrewarded striving, lasting right up until his brief triumph on the track had given him some hope that he wasn't completely doomed as an athlete. At least he could run.

And now, here was his redemption in black and white, proof for all to see that he was a basketball player, too.

He read the notice for the tenth time:

FINAL CUT

The following boys have been selected for this year's Edgewater High School junior varsity basketball squad:

Samuel Stiggs

Erich Randleman

Quenton Cassidy . . .

He turned to go to homeroom when something occurred to him he hadn't thought of in a long time. His sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Meredith, had been something of a polymath. He often gave interesting and unusual lessons that were unique to his classroom. One day he showed some slides from a recent trip to Europe.

Cassidy sat in the darkened classroom as the portable screen at the front of the room shone with Michelangelo's
David
, standing languidly in front of the Accademia Gallery in Florence in white marble splendor. The figure evinced an easy grace, almost an insolence, as David tarried momentarily before battling Goliath. The deadly sling with which he would make himself immortal draped casually over his shoulder. David gazed into the middle distance, wistfully pondering the impossible task before him.

Everyone else was tittering because they had never seen nudity in school before, even rendered in marble, but Cassidy was mostly struck by the familiarity of David's stance, the way he held himself, the powerful and graceful torso and legs.

Mr. Meredith was talking about how the statue was a wonderful example of the Renaissance mannerist style and of Michelangelo's genius for proportion and the human form and blah blah blah. Cassidy stared at the statue, fascinated.

“Notice the angle of hips,” said Mr. Meredith. “Not many people realize that the reason it's done that way was the shape of the original block of marble Michelangelo was working with . . .”

It struck Cassidy that there was something familiar about the five-hundred-year-old statue that he couldn't put his finger on. Then he realized it was simply that Michelangelo's David was an athlete.

He had the same manner, a mixture of anxiety, confidence, and grace that Cassidy had noticed in athletes like Chip Newspickle, or the school's best football player, Harry Winkler. And yes, even in his own friends Stiggs and Randleman.

But the most remarkable thing, said Mr. Meredith, was that Michelangelo chose to render David not in a moment of triumph or in the midst of competition, but in the calm before battle, in that quiet moment of introspection before going out to meet his fate.

He doesn't know if he can win, but he knows that he will try. Perhaps he will be overmatched—his opponent is twice as big as him—but David's physical form tells you that, like all athletes, he has spent much of his life in preparation for this moment.

Quenton Cassidy realized that day in Mr. Meredith's class that he would give anything in the world to be like David, to be one of the exalted beings he saw every day ambling down the halls of their school. He longed to command that grace, power, and speed. But mostly he wanted to embody the spirit of that figure, the courage and the determination it took to accomplish impossible things, things that most others would not even attempt.

Up until now, most of his efforts had ended in disappointment. Being rebuffed time and again had brought him derision and self-doubt. He was the silly kid who didn't know when to quit.

Now, in his fifteenth year, he realized that seeing that image of David up on the screen in a grade school classroom all those years ago was the moment he understood what an athlete really was.

And it was the moment he decided that he would become one.

“R
egular team practices start at the end of October,” Cassidy wrote to his uncle Henry, in reality an older cousin. “I may not get to play much, but that doesn't matter. In fact, if I got struck by lightning tomorrow bream fishing on Lake Okeechobee, I would go to Valhalla a happy boy.”

He meant it, too. His last growth spurt earned him a promotion out of the skinny shrimp club into the pond bird club, but making the JV team had really put him on the map. People were nice to him now for no reason, even girls he didn't know. Guys were vaguely respectful or, even better, envious. Teachers he liked, like Mr. Kamrad, now seemed to know who he was. Sometimes they wanted to chat.

It was so much better than being a dweeb!

Stiggs and Randleman, after getting over the shock, were sanguine about the whole thing. They were still the stars, of course, and he was just a bench-bound journeyman, but at least he was on the bus. The three were more of a trio than ever, which took Demski some getting used to. Now he was the odd man out.

It was Friday and Cassidy was looking forward to practice. Afterward, everyone was going directly to the football game. He was working on drills in Mrs. Abke's fifth-period typing class, trying his best to train his right index finger to distinguish between the “n” and the “m” on the bottom row of the maddeningly blank keys of the big Olivettis.

The PA system came on, and after some fumbling around, a male voice said: “This is Principal Fleming. This news bulletin is just coming in on the radio.” There was more jostling as the microphone slid across the desk to the radio.

“. . . in Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennedy's motorcade in downtown Dallas. The first reports say that President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by this shooting . . . More details just arrived. These details about the same as previously: President Kennedy shot today just as his motorcade left downtown Dallas. Mrs. Kennedy jumped up and grabbed Mr. Kennedy. She called, ‘Oh, no.' The motorcade sped on. United Press says that the wounds for President Kennedy perhaps could be fatal.

“Repeating, a bulletin from CBS news, President Kennedy has been shot by a would-be assassin in Dallas, Texas. Stay tuned to CBS news for further details . . .”

The same noise of the microphone sliding was followed by the resumption of the regular program, which sounded like a soap opera. Principal Fleming's voice sounded strained when he came back on.

“That's all we know right now. We will let you know when there is further news.” Then, after a pause: “God bless America.”

The typing class was mostly girls, and many were visibly shaken. Two were openly weeping. Mrs. Abke appeared distressed, absentmindedly wringing her hands at the front of the room.

“All right,” she said. “Those of you who do not feel like continuing with your exercises right now may sit quietly at your desks. You may put your heads down if you like. There are only twenty minutes left in the period. I'm sure Principal Fleming will let us know when there is more news.”

Cassidy, dazed, tried to finish the exercise, as did several other students, though the usual steady clattering of their machines was now coming in fits and spurts.

Cassidy was working on a formal business letter in which he had to make up the names for the sender and recipient. He typed:

. . . and, upon further reflection, it appears we will be needing another three (3) cases of your type L-24 aluminum brackets, and would be most pleased if you could reserve another two (2) cases for delivery before the end of next nomth. Our purchase orders for same will follow forthwith.

I would like to relate to you how particularly impressed we are with the L-24, not only in its utility, but indeed in its aesthetic appeal as well. Congratulations on this most important innovation in the field of bracketology.

Sincerely yours,

Robert Benchley

Senior Production Manager

Acme Steel Hanky Co.

307 Drudgery Street

Pontiac, Michigan

But he made two typos and decided not to turn it in until he could retype it the next day. By the time the bell rang for next period, half the class appeared to be in a state of shock. The hallways were nearly silent as he made his way over to the B wing for sixth-period algebra with Mr. Cieplechowicz.

No one could concentrate in that class either, so Mr. Cieplechowicz didn't even try. This time, more than half the heads went down on the desks immediately. Cassidy was stunned, too. He looked at Stiggs one row over, who just shrugged. He had been a big Kennedy fan, and he looked confused and miserable.

The PA crackled again, but Principal Fleming didn't say anything. He just moved the microphone over next to the radio. Cassidy now recognized the announcer's voice as that of Walter Cronkite, the CBS anchorman whom his father watched every night.

“. . . From Dallas, Texas, the flash—apparently official—President Kennedy died at one
P.M.
, Central Standard time, two o'clock, Eastern Standard time, some thirty-eight minutes ago. Vice President Lyndon Johnson has left the hospital in Dallas, but we do not know to where he has proceeded; presumably he will be taking the oath of office shortly and become the thirty-sixth president of the United States.”

Basketball practice was canceled, as was the football game that night. Cassidy, Stiggs, and Randleman got a ride home with Phil Jameson, who drove a 1952 Ford Crestline and let everyone carpool with him for gas money. No one said much of anything except Stiggs, who occasionally uttered a muted, “Damn.”

It seemed strange to be home early in the afternoon with nothing to do. Neither of Cassidy's parents were there, and the neighborhood seemed eerily deserted. He went to the backyard and hitched his canoe trailer to his bike and pedaled to the intracoastal. He wasn't sure exactly where he was going, he just wanted to be going somewhere. In half an hour he found himself passing the Jupiter Hilton and decided to stop for something to drink. Mr. Tolbert was in his usual chair behind the counter, reading
Harper's Magazine.
When he looked up and saw Cassidy, he smiled broadly and put down the periodical. He reached over and turned down the sound on the small black-and-white television beside him.

“Why, I believe it is one of our cage stars,” he said. “I find it hard to believe he is playing hooky from practice. Coach Stoddard must not be the heartless taskmaster we had been led to believe.”

“Hi, Mr. Tolbert. You been listening to the news?”

“Yes, son, I have,” he said softly.

Cassidy nodded, then went to the drink cooler and located a big Topp Cola, his preferred brand.

“Can I ask you something, Mr. Tolbert?” said Cassidy, handing over a quarter.

“Of course you can, Quenton,” he said, handing back his change.

“I guess I don't understand why anyone would want to kill President Kennedy,” Cassidy said.

Mr. Tolbert sat back in his chair, thought about it a moment, then motioned Cassidy to come around the counter and pull up an empty wooden drink crate. They could see on the silent TV the same video clips and still photographs over and over from earlier in the day, the president and first lady in a convertible waving to the crowd as they went by the camera, then black-and-white shots of people panicking, flinging themselves to the ground, looking around in stark terror as the events unfolded. Then a homemade snapshot of Lee Harvey Oswald, standing in what appeared to be a backyard, proudly displaying a rifle.

“The short answer is, I don't know,” Mr. Tolbert said, casting his eyes downward. “I do know that occasionally murdering our leaders is a trait that human beings have exhibited since the beginning of recorded history. It was happening even before that, probably, come to think of it. That is, if you can judge by the behavior of some of our primate cousins.”

“Really?”

“Well, Julius Caesar was killed forty-four years before the birth of Christ, and Abraham Lincoln was shot right after the Civil War. Why, even the great Zulu warrior chief Shaka was murdered by his own brothers in the early 1800s. I'm afraid leader killing has been much with us as a species.”

“I guess so,” said Cassidy, “but why?”

“Lots of reasons,” said Mr. Tolbert. “Others want their power, their influence, their juju. They want to substitute their own vision of the future for that of the departed. Sadly enough, it often works. And I can't even sit here and tell you that I think it always and forever ends in a terrible outcome. Why, Hitler's own generals tried to do away with him and darned near succeeded. Who knows how many thousands—hundreds of thousands or millions—of lives might have been saved, how many cities spared destruction, if that bomb had been pushed a little closer to the führer's hind end.”

Paddling home, Cassidy reflected on that. Within hours of hearing that a much-beloved president had been gunned down in cold blood in an American city, the kindest and smartest man he knew proposed that the world would have been better off had the German chancellor's fanny been more directly seated over a satchel of high explosives.

H
ead high school basketball coach Jim Cinnamon was a no-nonsense taskmaster, though he typically paid little attention to the junior varsity. The JV coach was a huge, pear-shaped, flat-topped retread from the football team named Dewey Stoddard. Dewey claimed a degree from a dubious teachers' college outside Dothan, Alabama, and was renowned around Edgewater for his malaprops and mispronunciations. He was kind of a poor man's Yogi Berra.