comfortable in the school. Conferences with Coach Ramirez and Ray Connors hadn’t much changed Jefferson’s position. He attended two practices, and missed the first game of the season entirely. Many had given up on Jefferson when Coach Ramirez brought the name up in the year’s first budget meeting.
“I want our student representatives here today to know,” said Ray Connors, “that what I’m about to say I’ve said to Charles myself. Charles is probably the best end I’ve ever seen on a Ridgemont football team. But the vultures came right in and picked the boy clean. He has absolutely no ambition left at school, or on the field . . . he admits it himself. He told me he wasn’t even sure he was going to UCLA.”
“Oh, these kids do a lot of talking, Ray,” said Mrs. George.
Connors continued. “Mr. Ramirez, members of the board, I do not question the jerseys or the helmets. What I want to know before we vote is this: How is a movie camera going to get Charles Jefferson or, for that matter, anyone to perform better on the field. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned coaching ?”
“Mr. Connors,” said Ramirez, “I can answer that question. This year I will deliver a championship team—whether you give these boys their equipment or not. That is our commitment to you. Now you show us your commitment to the Ridgemont Raiders.”
The budget vote was put before the panel, and the committee slowly raised their hands of approval, one by one. It was as if no one dared diminish the institution known as high school football, not even Ray Connors. Coach Ramirez was granted the equipment, even the movie camera.
Charles Jefferson
C harles Jefferson’s car was in the shop for repairs, so he had taken the city bus to school that morning. Jefferson hated taking the city bus. The more the bus stopped, the more impatient he became. The more people who yanked on that little cord— ding —the angrier he got. All day long in classes Charles Jefferson was never far from the thought that he was going to have to take that lousy city bus back home again.
After school, Jefferson walked by football practice. He looked through the wire fence at the action on the field.
“I WANT YOUR BUTTS TO BOIL,” Coach Ramirez was yelling. He had split the varsity team into two squads, each practicing pass-and-receive patterns on the still-yellowed field. Ramirez bolted in and out of the plays with his megaphone, complete with its own portable amplification system that hung from a shoulder harness in one hand and a movie camera clutched in the other. Charles Jefferson did not care for the megaphone, the little amplifier, the movie camera, or for Coach Ramirez.
Ramirez had come to Jefferson during Running Techniques and laid a whole line on him—this was the twentieth anniversary of the school, you’re such a great player, bullshit bullshit bullshit. Jefferson knew Ramirez was just looking to save his own ass. Forget Ramirez, he thought, the man had been nice to him only after the first talent scout arrived last year. He stopped being nice when Jefferson stopped playing high school football. Now he was being nice again.
“GET IN FRONT OF HIM! WORK WITH ME WORK WITH ME WORK WITH ME! STICK TO HIM LIKE GLUE!!!”
Ramirez relished his job, anybody could see. When he spotted two small kids playing too close to the action on the sidelines, Ramirez simply stared at them with utter contempt and held the megaphone to his lips. He clicked it on to speak.
The kids scattered.
“NORTON! TAKE A LAP!”
Jefferson couldn’t take any more. Without anyone ever noticing him watching through the wire fence, he turned and went to wait for the L bus heading downtown. Once on board, Charles lasted seven stops. He pulled a jacket over his arm and got up to speak to the bus driver.
“Driver,” said Charles Jefferson, “take me home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Belmont.”
“We're getting closer. It’s another twelve stops or so,
“I want our student representatives here today to know,” said Ray Connors, “that what I’m about to say I’ve said to Charles myself. Charles is probably the best end I’ve ever seen on a Ridgemont football team. But the vultures came right in and picked the boy clean. He has absolutely no ambition left at school, or on the field . . . he admits it himself. He told me he wasn’t even sure he was going to UCLA.”
“Oh, these kids do a lot of talking, Ray,” said Mrs. George.
Connors continued. “Mr. Ramirez, members of the board, I do not question the jerseys or the helmets. What I want to know before we vote is this: How is a movie camera going to get Charles Jefferson or, for that matter, anyone to perform better on the field. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned coaching ?”
“Mr. Connors,” said Ramirez, “I can answer that question. This year I will deliver a championship team—whether you give these boys their equipment or not. That is our commitment to you. Now you show us your commitment to the Ridgemont Raiders.”
The budget vote was put before the panel, and the committee slowly raised their hands of approval, one by one. It was as if no one dared diminish the institution known as high school football, not even Ray Connors. Coach Ramirez was granted the equipment, even the movie camera.
Charles Jefferson
C harles Jefferson’s car was in the shop for repairs, so he had taken the city bus to school that morning. Jefferson hated taking the city bus. The more the bus stopped, the more impatient he became. The more people who yanked on that little cord— ding —the angrier he got. All day long in classes Charles Jefferson was never far from the thought that he was going to have to take that lousy city bus back home again.
After school, Jefferson walked by football practice. He looked through the wire fence at the action on the field.
“I WANT YOUR BUTTS TO BOIL,” Coach Ramirez was yelling. He had split the varsity team into two squads, each practicing pass-and-receive patterns on the still-yellowed field. Ramirez bolted in and out of the plays with his megaphone, complete with its own portable amplification system that hung from a shoulder harness in one hand and a movie camera clutched in the other. Charles Jefferson did not care for the megaphone, the little amplifier, the movie camera, or for Coach Ramirez.
Ramirez had come to Jefferson during Running Techniques and laid a whole line on him—this was the twentieth anniversary of the school, you’re such a great player, bullshit bullshit bullshit. Jefferson knew Ramirez was just looking to save his own ass. Forget Ramirez, he thought, the man had been nice to him only after the first talent scout arrived last year. He stopped being nice when Jefferson stopped playing high school football. Now he was being nice again.
“GET IN FRONT OF HIM! WORK WITH ME WORK WITH ME WORK WITH ME! STICK TO HIM LIKE GLUE!!!”
Ramirez relished his job, anybody could see. When he spotted two small kids playing too close to the action on the sidelines, Ramirez simply stared at them with utter contempt and held the megaphone to his lips. He clicked it on to speak.
The kids scattered.
“NORTON! TAKE A LAP!”
Jefferson couldn’t take any more. Without anyone ever noticing him watching through the wire fence, he turned and went to wait for the L bus heading downtown. Once on board, Charles lasted seven stops. He pulled a jacket over his arm and got up to speak to the bus driver.
“Driver,” said Charles Jefferson, “take me home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Belmont.”
“We're getting closer. It’s another twelve stops or so,
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