THE NEWBS WERE LINED UP IN THEIR UNDERWEAR ALONG THE FAR wall of the Hawley basement. Ennis Quinn, the captain of the wrestling team and the hardest sixth-former in Hawley House, stepped out from the pack of older kids, and Ben Weeks’s shoulder blade met the cool stone behind him. Ben tried to keep his nervous elation from becoming too apparent: he had spent so long waiting through other things to get here. Ennis began to pace in front of the newbs, his eyes forced wide, his paper-bag-colored hair buzzed wrestling short, the tip of his tongue moving over his lips. He seemed built of denser stuff than the other kids.
The older guys in the dorm stood on all sides, now swaying in time together, and because they couldn’t let the junior faculty two floors above them hear, they chanted in whispered unison, “A St. James newb is a quiet newb! A St. James newb is a quiet newb! A St. James newb…”
Ben could feel how scared the rest of the new kids were, and he was overcome with a protective pity for them. He wished he could impart to them what his older brother, Teddy, graduated that past spring, had imparted to him. This would just be a glorified pillow fight, it was happening all across campus in the basement of every dorm, it would weld them all together, they had come down here strangers and would leave each other’s future groomsmen.
But, now, Ennis paced. Ben kept expecting him to start talking or yelling, to open the ordeal, but he just continued to walk back and forth, and the chanting of the other upper-formers all at once grew stale. They had repeated the words so often that the meaning had gone away in their mouths.
Now it seemed that this could be more difficult. Ennis kept pacing, not speaking, as though waiting for someone else’s line to prompt him. Of course they had all been drinking, the upper-formers, but Ben hadn’t come close enough to smell it. The newbs remained standing there, hair sleep-askew. Fear began to turn in Ben, new fear about actually getting hit now, and fear that this would be something other than what he had hoped it would be.
Ben’s roommate, Ahmed, was the only newb who wasn’t staring absently down at the drain in the floor, waiting for this to begin so that it could be over. And Ahmed was the only newb who was wearing a bathrobe: off-white waffle weave with crimson piping. His eyebrows were low and he followed Ennis with his eyes. What had Ennis done to earn this?
Earlier that day Ben had come through the door to the room and met eyes with Ahmed, this brown boy wearing a magnificent plum-colored dress shirt, and Ben had been quietly shocked by what was there in his face, in such contrast to all the other faces he had ever seen at St. James: a pure enthusiasm, a near-complete absence of guile. Now Ahmed closed his fists and released them, close-release, close-release, close-release, close-release. Ben watched Ahmed, and Ahmed watched Ennis. Still Ennis paced, still he said nothing, and it seemed like some mechanism was broken inside him.
Ben had so much to rely on. He took himself back to the living eyes of the crowd behind his court as he faced them, right arm above his head, after winning the last point of the Under-15 Junior National Squash tournament. Ben tried on that triumph again, tried to let it take him. Manley Price, the St. James squash coach, had been waiting for him to arrive on the team. Ben saw his brother Teddy’s face, utterly free from doubt, describing St. James’s classes, late nights in friends’ rooms, afternoons deep in the woods. He saw Hutch’s face across the Camp Tongaheewin canoe shed, telling the other kids how sweet St. James was going to be. Ben saw the class photos of his uncle and father and grandfather, all the Weekses who looked like him, all the way back. Fear was natural, fear was even part of the appeal, but he belonged, he belonged, this was the correct beginning for all of it.
“Newbs!” Ennis finally called out in a whisper. “We are going to see who is the toughest among you!”
Again Ennis lapsed into fixated silence, and all of Ben’s assurance went away.
“We are going to find out who is the bravest! The strongest! The fastest! The best! The best! The besssssssst!”
Ennis curled his fists in front of himself and lowered his head toward his chest now, chanting to himself, “The bessssssst! The bessssssst! The besssssssssst!” The morning of that day seemed very long ago.
* * *
After two hours on the blazing highway, Ben’s dad had taken Exit 20 into Doverton’s strip of car washes, mattress stores, drive-thru banks, the Pizzeria Uno, the Staples, the Boston Chicken. Ben wondered when the school would build its own exit off of 93 so you didn’t have to drive through all this, the hectic electrical wires across the sky, the parking lots without a single car surrounding restaurant-shaped buildings with no glass in the windows. They passed Doverton’s dignified red-brick mental hospital, the tan public high school, the Citgo station crouched in its concrete lot.
The road narrowed. Now the houses on either side sagged as though underneath the clapboard they were built of sodden foam.
Then the forest seemed to unwind, to expel the hasty man-made things, and it became the kind of forest that people think of when they think of New England. Ben dried his palms on the front of his khaki shorts. His real life was so close, but now unexpectedly he wanted to keep driving for a few more hours, to go out into the woods with his dad and find sheets of lichen over wide granite tables. At home a few years before, they had walked through the woods and taken lichen flakes to compare with the pictures in the thick manual on the library coffee table. Since then that book had lain there, perfectly undisturbed.
The back of the Volvo station wagon was snug: two hockey duffels full of clothes and bedding; his three Prince Extender squash racquets, which Prince had just sent him; half a flat of new yellow-dot squash balls; Action Eyes glasses with white Croakies; two pair of Hi-Tec court shoes. He had Teddy’s hand-me-down stereo; a cardboard tube with a Led Zeppelin poster and an M. C. Escher poster inside; cleats, Saucony running shoes, brown Oxfords; the red Marlboro Racing hat with the Formula 1 car on it that Teddy had given him, which Ben had stuffed with two T-shirts and wrapped in a fleece so it wouldn’t get misshapen in the duffel; a Mac Classic; a schefflera tree in a wicker basket; an alarm clock; toothbrush, toothpaste, Old Spice, and shampoo-and-conditioner-in-one. A new North Face Mountain Jacket was also rolled up in his duffel bag, and Ben had cried to get it.
They kept driving now under trees whose heavy foliage blocked out the sky. Ben kept waiting for St. James’s front sign. He had come up for so many anniversary days, for squash matches where he had undergone Manley Price’s famous handshake, for Teddy’s games, for years of Parents’ Weekends.
And before that, Ben’s father had come up on the train from the old Penn Station; and his uncle; and his grandfather, who on the living room mantel laughed in black-and-white with Bobby Kennedy; and his great-uncle, whose name was on the certificate of incorporation for the Council on Foreign Relations.
And before any of that, in New Bedford, Massachusetts, then still a colony, Samuel Weeks had been a sailmaker, sewing by hand the sails for a single whaling vessel, the Vulcan. Soon he ran a thriving sail- and boatmaking enterprise, and his sons thereafter invested in shipping and importing, rising to prominent places in state government.
And so, in order to become equipped to carry on this lineage, twelve-year-old Thomas Weeks had in the fall of 1856 arrived in God’s Pocket, New Hampshire, in a surrey carriage behind two overcast-gray horses, for the first day of the first semester of St. James’s first year.
Thomas’s parents were risking their son’s education, and by extension the social standing and future of the family, on a new pedagogical idea. A young minister, the son of a family friend, had decided to establish an intentionally remote, enclosed educational haven in the old-growth forest. At the time, the academies—Andover, Exeter, Milton—weren’t boarding schools at all. Their buildings lined each town’s main street and students lived with local families or in independent rooming houses. But every family knew a few boys who had come back from the academies with drinking and gambling problems, and this was an error in the system. The point had always been to have a son escape the distractions and temptations of the city in order to become prepared.
So to announce its contrast, St. James chose as its school symbol not an eagle or lion or dragon, but an ant. The school crest was a black worker ant below an open Bible over the motto Vade ad Formicam. That impressed the Weekses. All students would live together on campus under the direct supervision of teachers, and together they would undergo the same curriculum of Latin, rhetoric, mathematics, and theology. Students would work on the buildings and grounds. After four years, the risk paid off several times over.
Thomas went on to Princeton and was an early investor in the rubber industry. The Weeks family had contributed to the rubber tire, the sealing gasket, the windshield wiper, the shoe sole, the conveyor belt, the latex glove: modernity itself. Money was not a possession but rather a trust, and the owner simply a trustee, a steward.
Ben had been told this story many times. He had been reminded of the particular worthiness of this origin, but most of the time it was too familiar to be distinct to him. The photo of Thomas Weeks with the six other graduates of the first St. James class hung inconspicuously along the back hallway of Ben’s house, and Ben would sometimes look at all of them leaning on the split-rail fence and wonder when it had become the rule to smile in pictures. Almost right away, St. James had been accepted as one of the very few training grounds for America’s nervous and changeable aristocracy, and soon several other schools imitated the idea.
But now, in the middle 1990s, this design, this intentional remoteness, was starting to break down, and it would only continue to break down. The majority of St. James kids already had email addresses, and in a few years, the dorms would be wired for broadband Internet. And then hip-hop slang would sound cooler than what had bloomed in this particular Galápagos of Grateful Dead dialect. And the kids would start looking at the same amount of porn as everyone else, Gchat with their friends from home, check Facebook between classes, tend Instagram, and get calls from their parents on their phones every day. And their parents would call their teachers and wonder about that grade on that quiz, or that decision not to start the kid for the second half of the game.
But not quite yet. Still, as Ben and his father drove toward campus, you could go an entire semester without seeing a newscast or hearing commercial radio, and each dorm shared one pay phone in the basement. Even though N.W.A CDs and Peter North on VHS had passed the gates since Ben’s dad had graduated, the remoteness still functioned as remoteness; it was still easier to escape distraction here. To what end?
And then the simple white sign between granite posts appeared: ST. JAMES SCHOOL.
Ben’s dad braked and pulled off into the spur of the entrance lane. Untrained evergreen hedges grew tall on either side, blocking for a moment the powerful sun, and the car drove slowly between them.
The St. James admissions packet—the sight of its thickness had washed Ben with relief—told him he would have a roommate, but it hadn’t given him any information about who the roommate would be. Ben loved that he would have a roommate. This kid would give Ben a place to deploy the expertise he’d learned from Teddy. When he had visited St. James before, met Teddy’s friends, he’d learned that if a kid’s last name sounded familiar, it wasn’t a coincidence. Yes, that food company, that steelmaker, that bank. Ben and his roommate would know St. James slang together, they would have inside jokes, they would go talk to girls together and compare notes after. Ben would let the roommate know how to act at Seated Meal and at the Den, what no one wore, how to make upper-formers think you were cool enough for a newb but not trying to be too cool. When you went to someone’s room you never knocked on the door because only faculty were required to knock, and so anyone who knocked was faculty.
Ben and his roommate would know how to get liquor (Ben had no idea how to get liquor, but so what) and other kids would want to come to their room to partake. Ben would hang out with his roommate more than with the guy he knew from Tongaheewin, Taylor Hutchinson—Hutch—and Hutch would want to hang out with Ben because he was kind of unavailable. The Tongaheewin staff had let Hutch go on the Long Canoe Trip even as a 14-and-Under, and during the dance with Loheewo, he had apparently fingered Heather Reese on the tennis courts. This past summer people said they had gone all the way. Hutch was up for Best Camper two years in a row, but he had scoffed at the idea, saying that only suck-ups got that prize.
“But I bet Weeksy wants it, huh?” Hutch said, punching Ben pretty hard on the shoulder. And in fact Ben did want Best Camper, and he blushed, and the rest of the kids at their table laughed and Ben punched Hutch back but it was so light. Hutch had afforded Ben more respect once he found out that Ben was going to St. James too.
Ben and his roommate would steal an industrial-size bag of powdered Jell-O from the Dish and caulk the gap under the door of someone’s ground-floor room, then, with a hose through the window, fill the room with a foot of water, pour the Jell-O in, turn the radiator on and stir the whole room with an oar from the boathouse, then turn the radiator off, leave the windows open, and, when the room was discovered with a foot of perfect gelatin across it, be hailed as epoch-defining practical jokers, and Hutch would nod that it was pretty awesome.
Ben already missed his friend from home, Tim Green, with his eternal middle part and his cargo shorts, but finally he would have better, cooler friends, friends for whom he had no hidden pocket of embarrassment.
Now the entry lane hedges dropped away from either side of the car. Playing fields like green lakes opened around them. A barn-red barn sagged slightly to their left, and across the road stood a series of faculty houses in brick and white clapboard.
Beyond a fringe of trees rose the square tower of the school chapel, knotty spires pointing up from each corner. Its liver color seemed to vibrate against the ultra-sincere blue of the summer sky. To call it a chapel had always seemed strange to Ben; it was a full-scale cathedral, and its tower was visible from almost everywhere on campus.
Ben sensed the North Face jacket and the Marlboro Racing hat in the car behind him and almost shuddered with the anticipation of wearing them when the time came. Soon he would feel the right way. If he had come in on the first day wearing the hat, people would think he thought he was cool, but soon he would be able to wear it.
Driving in now, Ben saw kids along the paths in their hats, mostly the two-bar Game hats with the names of different colleges across the front, but he knew that his Marlboro hat was better because it was the same shape and structure as the Game hats, but it was distinct, one of a kind, and the curve of the brim was perfect. Hutch would immediately recognize that it was perfect, and Ben wished that Teddy had given it to him early enough to wear at Tongaheewin.
They kept driving, down a slight incline toward Founder’s Hall with its bleached-bright columns, then over the nameless brook that ran through campus. Usually his dad talked constantly when they came to St. James, pointing at places through the window and relating things he had done in each place, but now he was quiet, maybe also under the heaviness of his hope. He had been co-chair of the fundraising committee for the new squash courts, so at least Ben knew he would want to go see them. Maybe Manley Price would be there at the courts waiting for them.
Now they came to the parking lot behind the unlovely quad dorms, 1930s institutional Gothic built of brick and sandstone. Ben’s dorm, Hawley, did its part to confine an expanse of grass on the building’s far side. They parked amid the other cars and got out and stretched in the hot sun, and the chapel bells rang all four Westminster Quarters and then a single bong: one p.m.
The dorm thrummed with kids and parents intent on carrying things in and setting them up. Ben and his dad wore khaki shorts and polo shirts but not sunglasses because sunglasses were gauche. Room 24 was empty. Two beds, two surgical-green rubber-covered mattresses, two desks. Ben and his dad set the first bags on the floor. Three windows on the far wall looked out over the back parking lot and the stretch of grass to the Two-Laner, and then the cinder block gym beyond. Ben knew that if he stuck his head out the window he could see the squash courts just up the rise to the right. The wind pushed slowly through the heavy trees.
On both desks lay the folder with the line-drawn map of the school and the schedule of first days’ activities, and on top of that, a small, dark blue leatherette book.
THE ST. JAMES COMPANION
was printed on the cover in stout, gold-embossed letters, and the page edges were stained red. Ben chose the bed and desk on the left, and he slipped the book into the desk’s pencil drawer.
Outside, older kids were hugging each other and laughing. Ben carried a standing lamp and his dad carried one bookshelf speaker under each arm. They set up the stereo and hung the Escher poster of ants crawling along a Möbius strip. Ben’s dad had given him a three-by-five reproduction of an Audubon drawing of the Great Auk, a sort of penguin that looked like an affronted London aristocrat. The little print was in a worn-out, gold-painted frame, and Ben jammed a thumbtack into the outside of the room’s door and hung the frame on the tack. Ben kept imagining a short-haired girl coming to visit him. The last thing she saw before their eyes met would be this quirky, charming picture.
Now in the parking lot it was sweat-hot. The leaves flashed white as they faced the sun. Cicadas ground off and on as though theirs was the noise of the heat itself.
As they made trips to and from the car carrying things in, Ben nodding and half smiling to every new person he passed, girls were doing the same thing, moving with their parents between the cars in the quad parking lot and the neighboring dorms.
Ben looked at the girls but tried not to look too hard. He noticed the pretty girls, but he also saw the cusp-pretty girls. Even in hurried glances with his arms full, Ben could tell which of these St. James girls had been awkward. There had been a couple girls like this at Sidney, his school at home. Their long necks just now belonged with the rest of their bodies, or their eyes weren’t quite so close together anymore, and even though Ben couldn’t know its precise history, the unaccustomedness was clear.
The always-pretty girls seemed to consume attention as a matter of routine, or even as a nuisance, and Ben couldn’t blame them for that. But the cusp-pretty girls had never before been looked at so hard—by boys, by men, and by the always-pretty girls—and it seemed to make them aware of their surroundings in a way that appeared exhilarating and slightly painful for them.
Ben felt kinship with those cusp-pretty girls, slight kinship, because now for the first time people were starting to look at him with a story in their minds too. Because Ben had in the past year gone from being a pretty good squash player to being maybe the best boys’ squash player in the country. Even in a world so tiny—he played a sport that most of America would never know about—that new celebrity, the way the coaches and parents and other players actively reassessed him, stood out clearly to him.
Ben loved the feeling that people were going to respect him, that he could lift his shoulders and feel a mantle of dominance laid over them. But to talk too much about oneself was bad, to have too much self-regard, and so when he smiled about winning, lifted his arm above his head as he turned to the crowd—eventually that would feel natural. It was like a demented eddy in him when the triumph that he had wanted for so long, that all the other players around him worked so hard for, that his father was incandescent for on his behalf, didn’t feel exactly the way he thought it was going to. Ben could sense that every time these people looked at him, they were trying to assess how closely the real thing lived up to what this Weeks kid was supposed to be. He hoped those cusp-pretty girls were noticing him, feeling him feel kinship with them.
All at once everything was up in the room, and so Ben and his dad decided to go see the new courts. As soon as they walked down the steps at Hawley’s back entrance, Ben again expected Manley Price to be there, knowing exactly how long Ben had already been on campus. Slowly they went up the rise toward the new building.
The game of squash—two players in a room the size of a two-car garage hitting a rubber ball off a wall, each trying to hit a shot that bounces twice before the other can reach it—started in England in the 1830s and soon spread throughout the British colonies. St. James, from the beginning almost desperately imitating England in its architecture, curriculum, and pastimes, built in 1885 the first court in the United States. There was no standard court size at the time, and St. James’s court happened to be narrower than the ones taking shape in England. St. James, and then clubs and schools in Philadelphia and Brooklyn Heights and Canada, were playing in the winter before reliable heating, and because cold rubber doesn’t bounce easily, the Americans developed dense balls that retained heat well and moved fast even when you could see your breath on the court.
But in the rest of the world, a wider, shorter court became standard. A ball developed that you could pinch between your fingers and that wasn’t overactive in warmer climates like India and Hong Kong. And so the two games existed in parallel: “hardball” in America and “softball” around the world, and the American game became a strange, isolated variant.
This American game was the version that everyone around Ben played growing up. Ben’s dad, Harry, had been on the team at St. James in the mid-1960s and remained a fanatic, playing three times a week at his club. Manley Price started as coach after Harry graduated, and many times out loud Ben’s dad had expressed regret that he hadn’t been there for the Price era. Harry and his friends at the club wore paper slippers after the shower and cupped their privates in talcum powder and used combs lifted by a metal plunger out of the jar of Barbicide and drank Scotch and played backgammon.
Harry somehow never became true friends with the other men whose families had always belonged to clubs like this, had founded clubs like this. His real friends—and more or less the only friends he had, rather than his wife’s friends’ husbands—were Chip and Paul, the two guys he played squash with most often. Chip was an engineer from Wilmette, Illinois, and Paul was an insurance executive from Houston, and they had moved to Connecticut to work for United Technologies and Cigna, respectively. Chip and Paul had both picked up squash as adults. Late-to-the-gamers are always the most intense, and they were the only two guys at the club who played hard enough for Harry’s liking. The three of them never entered official tournaments; they just played endless winner-stay-on-court games. The three of them dove for the ball, their knees bled, they wore complicated braces, but they never missed a court time.
Even though he would have been ashamed to catch himself thinking it, Harry thought he was the social better of these two men. Partly he enjoyed their company so much because he didn’t have to impress them, and because they couldn’t accurately assess the nuances of his class and how closely he did or didn’t adhere to its rules. When he was around real WASPs, Harry sometimes had a feeling that he’d been wasting his time with Chip and Paul, but he was always relieved to see them again.
Harry used squash as his handle on St. James. It was his way of counterbalancing the influence of his brother, Russell: Russell Weeks, founder and chairman of Landreach Capital. A home at 80th and Park and one in Amagansett. Served on the St. James board, audited the school’s books each year, and co-authored the Annual Report. In 1992 Russell had given the majority gift for a major addition to the school’s observatory, including a telescope seven times more powerful than the previous one. Harry gave every year too, but he prided himself on spending time: when the SJS squash team played a school in Connecticut or southern Mass, Ben’s dad would go cheer and talk with Manley Price about strategy and training approaches.
At Harry’s club he and Chip and Paul played the American game, but Chip had first learned to play squash on International courts with a softball while working for Siemens in Munich, and so when he came back to the US, playing the American game felt like hitting a Super Ball in a closet. In a long, patient fit of pique he built an International court out of cinder block and plaster in his backyard, and he called it the “µm Club,” or the “Micron Club” after his favorite unit of measurement. He gave Ben and a few other local kids the keys and said they could use it whenever they wanted.
From Ben’s house to the country club was a sixteen-minute drive, but it was only a seven-minute bike ride to the Um Club, and so almost entirely out of inertia Ben at age eleven began spending ninety percent of his playing time on the International-size court playing with the International ball. He and the other kids who ended up at the Um Club were generally in better shape than their tournament opponents because a softball is harder to put away. Their points lasted longer, but their timing was off for the American game, their movement not as precise, and so they would almost inevitably lose in the second or third round of any tournament they entered.
On certain weekend days Ben played with the other kids at the Um Club for four or five hours at a stretch, going through three or four changes of T-shirts and socks. And sometimes after school or after dinner or when he couldn’t sleep, Ben would bike over and just hit balls, straight long shots (“rails”) and drop shots. He would stay there for hours, and would be surprised when he saw the time as he walked off court. Chip would look out his bathroom window while brushing his teeth and see the court lights on, then hear the faint sound of the ball against the racquet and the slightly louder sound of the ball against the wall.
Ben couldn’t have told you why he was doing it, exactly; there was just something soothing about the limits of the court, the consistency of that world, just a few walls, and the ball, and the racquet, and he could submit to those boundaries and make only the very few decisions that they dictated.
Ben’s mom, Helen, would hear Ben come in at eleven p.m. on a Wednesday, and it occurred to her what a strange kind of worry she felt. She knew he wasn’t out doing drugs and breaking windows. She knew he wasn’t getting the neighbor’s daughter pregnant. Instead he was digging into some deep solitude, some absorption that she worried he wouldn’t be able to extricate himself from. Harry told her to let it go; didn’t she remember being a kid, being caught in little fixations? She did. Days during the summer when it would have been too much effort to actually begin any real activity—practicing the piano like her mother kept reminding her to do, going to the beach with friends—she remembered taking out all of her jewelry—the thin chain with the St. Christopher on it, the charm bracelet with the flexible fish and the spinning Ferris wheel, the thin strand of freshwater pearls—then heaping everything all together and mixing it around until it was tangled, then untangling it all again. “See?” Harry said. “All kids do that, he’s just doing it with squash.”
And still, what if this rule-bound thing shaped him to its shape? What if he never felt the pull of rulelessness? And she knew that Harry wasn’t impartial about this, that he would have responded differently if the fixation had been something other than squash. So for a couple years Ben played, and he and his Um Club friends stayed toward the bottom of the middle of the pack.
But then, in the early nineties, US squash got tired of being a backwater, and colleges wanted to be able to recruit international players, and so gradually everyone started playing softball on narrow courts. And then when colleges and clubs one by one started renovating their courts, they went International-size, and suddenly Ben didn’t have to adjust. When he reached for the ball, his racquet was there, when he forgot himself the default was right. All of the Um Club kids went up in the rankings, but Ben had spent the kind of time that none of the rest of them had spent, and so he could always get to one more ball, always made the better choice, always had the decisive half inch.
Something changed as he started beating the Um Club kids and then going on to win tournaments. Before, they had all just been hacking around, turning up the Allman Brothers and Led Zeppelin on the shitty all-in-one stereo unit behind the Um Club court, clapping for each other during hard-fought losses in the quarters. They had all sat on the thin carpeting of various college gyms and private club lounges, stretching and making fun of each other, folding over gauze pads and taping them to the undersides of their feet where the calluses had pulled off in a flap as thick as an orange rind, eating PowerBar after PowerBar in miniature bites so as never to get on the court too full, pressing sweat-soaked clothes into plastic shopping bags and squeezing the air out, tying them shut and forgetting to open them when they got home, then discovering civilizations of mildew. They made jokes together about the preening kids in the top five whose parents went paper-faced when they lost.
But when Ben started winning, winning by a lot, the faces of the other guys went a little quieter toward him, and soon a kind of lacquer began to come over their eyes when they looked at him. When he was still on court, Ben saw all of them sitting together, showered and in long sweats. Suddenly there were jokes that he hadn’t been around to help invent. The only one this didn’t seem to happen with was Tim, but then Tim never really seemed to care about squash that much to begin with.
And now when his mom came to see him play, when she saw him beat the other kids, she worried that maybe Ben was getting too used to it. He seemed to expect the awe already; she saw him compress his lips into a smile after coming off court early in a tournament, treating the applause almost as a sudden rain shower. To her he looked so beautiful—thin but strong, those flash-gray eyes—but she truly couldn’t tell if this was just a mother’s bias or real information in the world. And so even though she rooted for him, when he came off court and looked for her, she could feel herself trying to be a little clay-faced, to stand on the other side of the scale, to convey to him that winning was important but not more so than other things, not more than being respectful and kind and not thinking too much of oneself.
But to see him play, to see his arms and legs moving in such a coordinated way, so soon after he had hardly been able to stand up on his own, to see him brush the slate-black hair out of his eyes, to see him fold a bandanna to the perfect width in a way she had never showed him how to do and then knot it behind his head—all of it, his mere supple existence, sometimes surprised her, made her afraid that he would turn out to be less gentle than his father, less openhearted.
Teddy was out of her hands; she had known even before Teddy could speak that he would be out of her hands. She had to concentrate to remember the times when of his own volition Teddy had treated something or someone gently. But there was tenderness in Ben, and so it worried her when Ben became so good at squash because she knew that tenderness needed tending. There was something of her brother-in-law, Russell, in him that had maybe received too much oxygen when Ben started beating everyone.
Even with his mother’s apparent worry, and with the changes in his old Um Club friends, Ben luxuriated in the future waiting for him on the St. James squash team, Manley Price’s legendary team, the Tide. The wood plaques in the St. James lounge listed in gold paint the thirty-four times they had won the New England Championships. Eleven times between 1979 and 1991: the Long Streak. SJS number one Blake Perkins had won the Independent School League individual championship four straight years starting in 1984, and twice he had beaten the number two SJS player for the title.
This dominance had two causes. One of course was Price, whose two constantly repeated maxims were now stitched on felt banners in the lounge:
SOME OTHER TEAM MAY BEAT US
BUT THEY WILL HAVE TO BLEED TO DO IT
and:
PLAY THE PERCENTAGES
Price ran sprints with his kids, even into his fifties. He could clearly explain stroke mechanics but stopped before making a player self-conscious. He was a widower and a rumored late-night alcoholic, which gave him a tragic majesty that allowed the kids to build a kind of crusade narrative for each season: the world had wronged their coach and they could rectify that through their own selfless contribution.
The second cause of the Long Streak was the furnace under the St. James courts. Since the forties it had been the pet of Ed Poniatowski, the school’s head maintenance man, and he had made so many provisional fixes and had memorized such a vast complex of minute adjustments that when he died in 1976, the furnace left the control of men. The Athletic Director set aside funds to replace it, but Price convinced him to leave it alone and instead coached directly to it.
Eighty percent of the time the heat hardly worked at all, and the St. James courts were almost as cold as the outside air. Squash balls bounce much less when they’re cold, and although they get warm mainly by being hit, the temperature of the court determines the pace of the game. Cold courts make the ball slow and so it’s easier to win with drop shots but harder to win with power. SJS players wore long underwear and wool sweaters, and they learned to scrape every ball off the floor, pry every shot out of the back corners, and get the ball deep in the court by hitting it high on the front wall.
When the furnace woke up, though, the air quavered over the radiators, and players would set balls on top of them until they were almost painful to pick up. When the court is hot, the ball bounces higher and is harder to kill. St. James players learned to run and run and run, to be patient and not try to force the end of a point, to play for reliable shots instead of outright winners. They learned to lay the ball into the nick—the seam where the wall and floor meet—in order to keep their drop shots from bouncing up too high. They learned to lob gentle balls over their opponents’ heads and let them die in the back corners.
People began calling the furnace the Dragon. Because of the Dragon, SJS could play anywhere, but opposing players could almost never play the game dictated by the SJS courts.
Price promised five hundred dollars to any of his players who could beat the slowest member of the crew team in a 2,000-meter erg piece (“twenty-five cents per meter”), and twice he had to pay. No other school brought players into that kind of fitness, and the kids who couldn’t tolerate emergency signals singing through their nervous systems dropped off the team.
Success begat success, and the best players from Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia wanted to play for St. James. Price recruited in a way that seemed to other coaches ruthless and a little pathetic. It was just high school squash, after all.
Price seemed to hover over the school, outside the dull interchange of classes and homework, something more elemental to the school’s enduring idea of itself and its cold-water New England beginnings. When people mentioned him, he seemed more like the chapel or library than like a private citizen.
By the mid-eighties the team started calling itself the Tide. Before matches they would huddle together and chant over and over, “You can’t stay dry, the Tide is rolling in, the Tide is rolling in, the Tide is rolling in. You can’t stay dry, the Tide is rolling in…”
When Ben was mediocre at hardball, he had always hoped to be part of the Tide but knew that he would be toward the bottom of the ladder, maybe even JV. Kids at tournaments nudged each other when Price showed up, scouting, and some of them played worse under the pressure of his scrutiny.
Then, at the beginning of Teddy’s fifth-form year, the year Ben started seventh grade, a chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling of Court 4 and knocked a player’s racquet out of his hand. St. James’s American courts went overnight from being classic to being embarrassingly out-of-date, and Ben’s dad had found his project. He and a group of other squash alumni promised to raise six million dollars to finally replace the furnace, and to convert the facility to wide International softball courts.
So when the 1994 Junior Championships were at Harvard on International courts, Manley Price came to watch, and after Ben walked off the court after not dropping a game in the semifinals, Price was there at the Poland Spring cooler. Ben nodded in recognition and smiled but he was still too out of breath to say anything, almost thankful that nervousness didn’t have anywhere inside him to reside. He filled a paper cup with water and sipped from it as Price stood right there wearing a small, extremely intense smile.
Ben stepped a bit away from the cooler so that the two of them could have a thin buffer of privacy. Price clearly wanted to say something, and Ben looked at the man’s face, dug through with creases, his wheat-colored sweater with holes at the hem and right forearm, his sticking-up hair like a cropped tassel out of an ear of corn.
Price took two fingers and poked Ben in the chest.
“You,” he said.
Ben pretended to be still too winded to speak. He just smiled as though there had been some good joke and sipped from the water cup again.
“You have it. The Long Streak is going to be a preamble to you.” Ben smelled Price’s breath, like leaves long on the ground. Price hadn’t taken his eyes from Ben’s, and Ben nodded curtly, hoping it looked polite, appreciative of this thing Price had said that Ben was now realizing was extravagant praise, praise almost beyond imagining. It felt like the kind of reality-dream you have just between wakefulness and sleep.
“You can kill, can’t you? Right now they’re just dying for you, so it’s hard for me to tell. You have to answer this for me: If there’s someone just as good as you are, or even a little better, can you go right to the inside with him? Can you go there and kill him?”
Ben nodded because that’s what was being asked of him and Price smiled, all the lines in his face coming together, his eyes gleaming slots.
“Take care of yourself—start that application.” And then Price turned and walked away as though he had forgotten about Ben completely.
Did Ben know how to kill? It had really only been six months that he had been winning, when overpowering his opponents felt inevitable. If he could have described it, he would have said that he loved letting some energy pass through him as unopposed as possible. Was that killing? Was murder part of that energy? The other Um Club kids came up to him. What did Price say? What did he want to know?
That night after winning the final—turning to the crowd and seeing them all looking at him, not even hearing their applause but taking the weight of their gaze—Ben told his dad that Price had said hello.
“Was he excited?” Ben’s dad asked.
“Yeah. He was really nice. I mean, I think I might play pretty high up there.”
His dad hugged him and Ben could feel him restraining himself from hugging too tightly. Ben wished Teddy had been there to see it. But, also, he was glad that Teddy was with friends spring skiing in Vail.
And so, as though it were blossoming just for him, the new St. James squash center was finished the summer before Ben’s first year: twelve International courts, ASB brand, the building’s interior totally remade without changing the staid brick exterior. When the architect had finished the plans, Ben’s dad spread them over the dining room table and the family ate in the kitchen for three weeks. He would finally and permanently hold his own against his brother Russell.
And now on the first day of school, as Ben and his dad in a medium sweat set down the last box, they nodded to each other in agreement to go look at the new courts. Ben had expected his dad to be shuddering with excitement, but still he was quiet, and Ben guessed that he was worried about leaving, or maybe he was afraid of meeting an experience that he’d anticipated for too long.
In the bright heat they walked up to the giant furnace, furry with rust, now bolted down on a ten-foot-by-ten-foot concrete slab in front of the courts building. It looked like the sire of ancient mechanical bulls. Below it, on a sloped granite block, a bronze plaque.
THE DRAGON
1935–1993
ST. JAMES SQUASH
The two of them went inside the courts, still not speaking maybe from reverence, and after they had admired the two stadium courts below the bank of carpeted steps, they came back out into the obliterating light and walked very slowly to the dorm amid all the other students and adults moving around them. Ben realized that part of him had expected that Price would be living in the courts.
“Parents always stay too long on the first day,” his dad said, smiling to Ben. “That’s the problem.” So there on the Hawley doorstep, with two kids carrying in a futon frame behind them, Ben hugged his father goodbye. They came apart and his dad had his lips pressed together, and then the Volvo accelerated neatly out of the parking lot, and Ben’s connection to the outside world was broken.