“This’ll give me something to read on the train.”
Then they were out in the quadrangle again, and they had almost reached One building when Steve MacKenzie approached them on the stone walk. Grove hoped MacKenzie might settle for a nod in passing, but MacKenzie had other ideas.
“Hi, uh, Bill,” he said. “This your dad?” And for three or four minutes he stood chatting with Grove’s father, while Grove shifted his weight from one foot to the other. At last MacKenzie held out his hand – it seemed to Grove that they’d shaken hands at least three times – and said “Well, I won’t keep you, Mr. Grove. Good to meet you, sir.”
“There’s a nice boy,” Mr. Grove said as they walked away. “He a good friend of yours?”
Out in front of One building, waiting for the taxi, Grove composed a final sentence in his mind and resolved to deliver it without stammering. He even rehearsed it, twice, just under his breath. When the cab pulled up he took his father’s hand in a grip that he hoped was as strong as MacKenzie’s and said “Thanks for coming out, Dad.” It sounded almost as natural as he’d meant it to.
Terry Flynn and Jim Pomeroy had gotten off to an uneasy start as roommates on the very first day of school, when Terry opened a suitcase, said “Look what
I’ve
got,” and pulled out a set of yellow curtains, pleated and flounced, that his mother had made especially for their windows.
“Well, that’s – nice, Terry,” Jim Pomeroy said.
“They’re easy to put up,” Terry assured him. “I’ve got the curtain rods, and the brackets and stuff.” And that wasn’t all: he also had eight framed color photographs of rural New England – from spring wildflowers to autumn foliage to deep snow – thathis mother had thought might brighten their walls. And he had another photograph, in a stand-up leather frame to be placed on his side of the windowsill, showing his mother and father on their wedding day.
“Yeah, well, that’s – nice,” Jim Pomeroy said. But he worried about the decorations all day, especially the curtains, until one of the more popular members of his class dropped in that night and said “Wow, you guys’ve really fixed your place up. Looks terrific.”
Other visitors soon confirmed that view, and Pomeroy was able to relax. Still, from time to time, he couldn’t help wishing the curtains weren’t quite so flouncy, or that there could be perhaps four – or six, tops – rather than eight of the framed New England scenes. It was a very small room. He wished too that Terry Flynn wasn’t two years behind him in school.
Football season made everything all right. He and Terry were both Eagles, which everybody said was too bad for the Beavers, and they made an unbeatable combination that year. Because they were both so light (and probably too because they weren’t seniors) the Eagles’ coach didn’t use them for the whole of any game, but when they were in they were tremendous. Pomeroy would fade back, wait for the last possible moment, then leap and throw a long, perfectly spiralling pass, and far down the field the sprinting Flynn always knew just when to turn, reach up, and pick it out of the air.
Grove, who covered the games for the
Chronicle
, soon found he was running out of adjectives for Pomeroy and Flynn, and so as the season wore on his accounts for the sports page lost some of their exuberance. But he enjoyed the work. He himself, on other afternoons, was an absurdly incompetent end on what was called the “intermediate” Beavers’ team, but being well known as a non-athlete seemed only to enhance his role as sportswriter.He would shamble along the sidelines, carrying a clipboard and a chewed pencil to record each play; when a game was stalled he would squat and write, holding the clipboard on one tense thigh and very much aware that a number of smaller kids were peering over his shoulder; when the game broke open again he’d get up and run with it,
Then they were out in the quadrangle again, and they had almost reached One building when Steve MacKenzie approached them on the stone walk. Grove hoped MacKenzie might settle for a nod in passing, but MacKenzie had other ideas.
“Hi, uh, Bill,” he said. “This your dad?” And for three or four minutes he stood chatting with Grove’s father, while Grove shifted his weight from one foot to the other. At last MacKenzie held out his hand – it seemed to Grove that they’d shaken hands at least three times – and said “Well, I won’t keep you, Mr. Grove. Good to meet you, sir.”
“There’s a nice boy,” Mr. Grove said as they walked away. “He a good friend of yours?”
Out in front of One building, waiting for the taxi, Grove composed a final sentence in his mind and resolved to deliver it without stammering. He even rehearsed it, twice, just under his breath. When the cab pulled up he took his father’s hand in a grip that he hoped was as strong as MacKenzie’s and said “Thanks for coming out, Dad.” It sounded almost as natural as he’d meant it to.
Terry Flynn and Jim Pomeroy had gotten off to an uneasy start as roommates on the very first day of school, when Terry opened a suitcase, said “Look what
I’ve
got,” and pulled out a set of yellow curtains, pleated and flounced, that his mother had made especially for their windows.
“Well, that’s – nice, Terry,” Jim Pomeroy said.
“They’re easy to put up,” Terry assured him. “I’ve got the curtain rods, and the brackets and stuff.” And that wasn’t all: he also had eight framed color photographs of rural New England – from spring wildflowers to autumn foliage to deep snow – thathis mother had thought might brighten their walls. And he had another photograph, in a stand-up leather frame to be placed on his side of the windowsill, showing his mother and father on their wedding day.
“Yeah, well, that’s – nice,” Jim Pomeroy said. But he worried about the decorations all day, especially the curtains, until one of the more popular members of his class dropped in that night and said “Wow, you guys’ve really fixed your place up. Looks terrific.”
Other visitors soon confirmed that view, and Pomeroy was able to relax. Still, from time to time, he couldn’t help wishing the curtains weren’t quite so flouncy, or that there could be perhaps four – or six, tops – rather than eight of the framed New England scenes. It was a very small room. He wished too that Terry Flynn wasn’t two years behind him in school.
Football season made everything all right. He and Terry were both Eagles, which everybody said was too bad for the Beavers, and they made an unbeatable combination that year. Because they were both so light (and probably too because they weren’t seniors) the Eagles’ coach didn’t use them for the whole of any game, but when they were in they were tremendous. Pomeroy would fade back, wait for the last possible moment, then leap and throw a long, perfectly spiralling pass, and far down the field the sprinting Flynn always knew just when to turn, reach up, and pick it out of the air.
Grove, who covered the games for the
Chronicle
, soon found he was running out of adjectives for Pomeroy and Flynn, and so as the season wore on his accounts for the sports page lost some of their exuberance. But he enjoyed the work. He himself, on other afternoons, was an absurdly incompetent end on what was called the “intermediate” Beavers’ team, but being well known as a non-athlete seemed only to enhance his role as sportswriter.He would shamble along the sidelines, carrying a clipboard and a chewed pencil to record each play; when a game was stalled he would squat and write, holding the clipboard on one tense thigh and very much aware that a number of smaller kids were peering over his shoulder; when the game broke open again he’d get up and run with it,
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