the caption, "Jill Casler, the wealthy daughter of the late director William 'Cass' Casler."
Randy spoke. "Is it a good picture of her?"
Doug looked at the picture in the magazine again. If it weren't for the caption, he wouldn't have recognized her. In person he had thought her exceptionally attractive; her face had been lively and expressive, her manner unstudied. This picture, however, suggested a person with a personality only slightly north of a glazed doughnut.
"I don't think she's as dumb as this picture makes her look," he said.
Randy took the picture back. "You think this makes her look stupid?"
"Close to brain-dead."
"Oh, well." Randy flipped the magazine shut and tucked it back into the rack. "Guessing a girl's I.Q. was never my strong suit."
Truer words had never been spoken. Perhaps in a reaction to his negative mother, Randy was remarkably uncritical. He was a ladies' man, well acquainted with each year's crop of Young Lovelies. He liked girls who were lively and good-humored. They didn't have to be drop-dead beautiful, as long as they were fun. They needed to be bright enough to read the Pizza Hut menu, but beyond that, Randy wasn't too fussy.
As much as Doug valued discernment in people, he had found the last month of Randy's uncritical company refreshing. He had had enough criticism for the moment. In March he had resigned from his job as head basketball coach at Maryland Tech. This had not been any quiet, discreet parting. If Doug hadn't resigned, he would have been fired.
The path that had led him into a Division I coaching job had been steady as the path out of it had been swift. He had grown up the Valley's star basketball player. He spent every summer at the Five Star basketball camp. During his senior year in high school he had been named to the second-string Ail-American team. With grades and SAT scores that matched his basketball skills, he had left Virginia to go to college at Duke University, in Durham, North Carolina.
Duke was one of the shining spots in college basketball. It had an honestly run program with no hint of the scandals that infected so much of college sports. Duke was known as the "Harvard of the South." All its athletes were smart, having SAT scores hundreds of points above some of their opponents' scores. Duke players didn't live in special dorms; they couldn't major in bogus fields like "recreational technology." They had to pass organic chemistry. And every one of the Blue Devils graduated—every one of them.
The school was arrogant about its excellence, and its student body was witty and energetic. After an N.C. State player was arrested for mugging a Domino's pizza delivery man, twenty Domino's pizzas were delivered to the State bench just before the start of the game. Whenever the bald Lefty Driesell, then coach of the University of Maryland, was in town, Duke students came to the game in bald skullcaps. When an opposing player with the last name of Hale was sidelined with a lung ailment, one side of the Duke bleachers shouted "In Hale," with the other answering "Ex Hale" until even the ailing Hale himself was laughing. In the national finals one year, Duke was opposed by the University of Nevada-Las Vegas, which was pretty much the sort of school one would expect to find in Las Vegas. The Duke mascot strutted over the U.N.L.V. fans with a sign reading, "Welcome Fellow Scholars." Of course, U.N.L.V. had its revenge; they beat Duke by the widest margin of any Final Four game ever.
But Duke had a cheer for even moments like that, one they used after plays by schools like N.C. State, Clemson, or Maryland Tech. "That's all right, that's okay," it went. "You'll all work for us someday."
Doug, quick and articulate, had thrived in this environment. Although the supremely gifted David Lyncton—now center for the L.A. Lakers and known nationwide as "the Lynx,"—was his teammate, Doug had been the team leader. He kept practice on an even keel, he encouraged the academic
Randy spoke. "Is it a good picture of her?"
Doug looked at the picture in the magazine again. If it weren't for the caption, he wouldn't have recognized her. In person he had thought her exceptionally attractive; her face had been lively and expressive, her manner unstudied. This picture, however, suggested a person with a personality only slightly north of a glazed doughnut.
"I don't think she's as dumb as this picture makes her look," he said.
Randy took the picture back. "You think this makes her look stupid?"
"Close to brain-dead."
"Oh, well." Randy flipped the magazine shut and tucked it back into the rack. "Guessing a girl's I.Q. was never my strong suit."
Truer words had never been spoken. Perhaps in a reaction to his negative mother, Randy was remarkably uncritical. He was a ladies' man, well acquainted with each year's crop of Young Lovelies. He liked girls who were lively and good-humored. They didn't have to be drop-dead beautiful, as long as they were fun. They needed to be bright enough to read the Pizza Hut menu, but beyond that, Randy wasn't too fussy.
As much as Doug valued discernment in people, he had found the last month of Randy's uncritical company refreshing. He had had enough criticism for the moment. In March he had resigned from his job as head basketball coach at Maryland Tech. This had not been any quiet, discreet parting. If Doug hadn't resigned, he would have been fired.
The path that had led him into a Division I coaching job had been steady as the path out of it had been swift. He had grown up the Valley's star basketball player. He spent every summer at the Five Star basketball camp. During his senior year in high school he had been named to the second-string Ail-American team. With grades and SAT scores that matched his basketball skills, he had left Virginia to go to college at Duke University, in Durham, North Carolina.
Duke was one of the shining spots in college basketball. It had an honestly run program with no hint of the scandals that infected so much of college sports. Duke was known as the "Harvard of the South." All its athletes were smart, having SAT scores hundreds of points above some of their opponents' scores. Duke players didn't live in special dorms; they couldn't major in bogus fields like "recreational technology." They had to pass organic chemistry. And every one of the Blue Devils graduated—every one of them.
The school was arrogant about its excellence, and its student body was witty and energetic. After an N.C. State player was arrested for mugging a Domino's pizza delivery man, twenty Domino's pizzas were delivered to the State bench just before the start of the game. Whenever the bald Lefty Driesell, then coach of the University of Maryland, was in town, Duke students came to the game in bald skullcaps. When an opposing player with the last name of Hale was sidelined with a lung ailment, one side of the Duke bleachers shouted "In Hale," with the other answering "Ex Hale" until even the ailing Hale himself was laughing. In the national finals one year, Duke was opposed by the University of Nevada-Las Vegas, which was pretty much the sort of school one would expect to find in Las Vegas. The Duke mascot strutted over the U.N.L.V. fans with a sign reading, "Welcome Fellow Scholars." Of course, U.N.L.V. had its revenge; they beat Duke by the widest margin of any Final Four game ever.
But Duke had a cheer for even moments like that, one they used after plays by schools like N.C. State, Clemson, or Maryland Tech. "That's all right, that's okay," it went. "You'll all work for us someday."
Doug, quick and articulate, had thrived in this environment. Although the supremely gifted David Lyncton—now center for the L.A. Lakers and known nationwide as "the Lynx,"—was his teammate, Doug had been the team leader. He kept practice on an even keel, he encouraged the academic
Similar Books
