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I did wind up borrowing the VTOL. I watched the raid on Pearl Harbor in real time. I parked the VTOL on a hill on Oahu with a good vantage point, but a safe distance from the fighting. There was no safe place to park it at Midway or Wake Island. Dad didn't want me hovering around in the middle of a naval air battle, lest a flak burst or a mid-air collision damage his incredible aircraft.
The attack on Pearl was infuriating, and frustrating—orders of magnitude worse than watching a favorite team make a bad showing and get trounced in a game.
My combat experience consisted of just one firefight, that lasted less than a day. It couldn't compare to the days, weeks, and months on end of brutal, grueling combat that real fighting men had to go through. My surreptitious observations sobered me up. I still wanted to do it, but now had a greater appreciation for the risk and sacrifice involved, as well as my ability to postpone it until done with college.
I decided I would at least do something. I joined the Air National Guard in my adopted timestream and completed basic training before I returned to school. It wasn't the challenging military experience I wanted...it was more what I might expect from a Boy Scout camping trip...but for now I would honor Dad's guidance.
***
I RETURNED TO CAMPUS a week before the Pumas' training camp started. I brought my own football this time and took it out to the field to get my arm tuned up. I hadn't thrown a pass all summer and didn't want to be sloppy for the first day of practice. Dad once told me that a person may never forget how to ride a bike, but they sure will get clumsy at it if they go too long without practice—and the same was doubly true for throwing a spiral. I didn't know how long was too long, and didn't want to find out.
I missed Juanita, but I still loved football, and was glad to be the Puma's starting quarterback. Dad was right: I had started something here, and needed to finish it before I moved on to something else.
I began writing Juanita immediately, not yet knowing how I would get the proper postmarks on the letters. Receiving anything from her in return would probably be impossible. I would have to brainstorm hard on this dilemma.
Gartenberg was already in the dorm when I arrived, and we were roommates again. I only managed to get him to go play catch with me twice. I had all my stuff moved in and organized quickly. When we were both in the room at the same time, he would usually play music (either on his guitar or from his records) and I would typically either read up on WWII or write to Juanita. In the evenings I would attend to one of my spinning plates, or go to the Bohemian bar with Gartenberg. I met another horny divorcee there. It was almost too easy getting her in the sack. Her doctor had prescribed her some miraculous new medication she was confident would prevent pregnancy, so we didn't need to take conventional precautions. She liked the way it felt without such. So did I.
Back in St. Louis I had heard references to "the pill," which all now made sense.
In the mornings I worked the bags in the gym, skipped rope, shadowboxed, ran circuit drills, then did my wind sprints and roadwork. I had been following this particular routine for so long that I never even pondered the necessity of the habit. In the afternoons I absorbed information; in the evenings I blew off steam in one way or another; and mornings, during my workouts, was my time to just think. On any given day I might consider something I had recently learned; something related to girls, cars, or football; or the left-field 'quantum shadows' I still experienced occasionally in my sleep.
Bartok arrived at the dorm when most of the players began trickling in from summer vacation. We hastily planned another trip to the dry lakes. Gartenberg declined our invitation, so Bartok and I cruised downstate without him. This time, we were the only ones there. I tweaked the Merc's suspension some more, and made some suggestions for his engine. He was faster than the year before, and felt better about the way his sled handled.
I enjoyed the trip. There was the satisfaction of making mechanical improvements on the Merc, of course, but it also seemed I was finally accepted as a full-fledged member of the team, and Bartok's inner circle. Life was good.
Bartok no longer referred to me as "Fresh Meat," and abandoned all vestiges of hazing—at least hazing directed at me. He even confided in me a little.
It was Bartok's senior year, and he wasn't sure what he wanted to do when he graduated. He could return to his home town, get married as soon as possible, and work as a surveyor for his father. He could try to get a white collar job in a big city, using his business degree to get his foot in the door. He even talked about joining the Peace Corps, or the Navy.
I suggested he should go pro. He enjoyed football, and certainly was good at it. If you've got the talent, why not give it a shot?
He laughed at that, and reminded me that Poly was just a College Division school, and no player from there had ever been drafted into the pros.
Some of the confident optimism from 1942 had rubbed off on me. I opined that maybe now that Stauchel had a winning program, the Pumas would start getting noticed. And Puma players might be taken more seriously.
The night before the first day of camp, I chose not to go anywhere, thinking I should be well-rested for one of Stauchel's typical slave-driving practices. I sat reading about the battle for Leyte and Luzon when the quiet dorm building was rocked by an explosion of noise.
A door slammed shut and a loud voice began echoing through the halls on the first floor. Soon other voices (not quite as loud) blended together to fill in the ambience. There was yelling and laughing and whooping. Solid objects hit the cinder block walls or clattered on the floor. Another door slammed and now stomping feet and the loud, obnoxious voices echoed up through the stairwell. Another door slam, and the party moved into the hallway on my floor. It was impossible not to track this blitzkrieg's progress along the hall.
"Who the hell are you? What're you doin' in DeWeese's room?"
Somebody murmured a response I could just barely hear, but couldn't make out.
"No shit you're new here! You look too damn stupid to be anything besides a freshman. What you lookin' at, Fresh Meat? Never seen a real man before? Hey, Jones? Don't be acceptin' blowjobs from these freshmen—they look like they got social diseases. Holy shit—were you that fat last year? You look like 300 pounds of solid blubber! Hey Gomez—what you doin' in there, pal? You need to borrow some tweezers and a magnifyin' glass so you can jack off?"
The remaining member of the Tumultuous Trio had arrived.
It came as no surprise when the door to my room burst open. Looking like a cross between Buster Crabbe and a blond Hercules in a rodeo cowboy costume, a duffle bag over one shoulder and a shit-eating grin on his face, Kiley tipped his hat back and greeted, "What's goin' down, needle dick?"
I returned his grin and, without climbing out of my seat, replied, "Your mama. She's probably worked her way up to the second floor by now."
That took the edge off his bluster. "You little piece of Yankee dogshit. I'm gonna flatten your wise ass all over the field tomorrow, quarterback or not." He thrust his chin toward what I was reading. "You still got your nose in a book! Damn queer bait. No wonder you're such a sissy on the field—you're too busy reviewin' calculus equations to throw the ball. You better have your shit squared away this season, Jagoff...I mean Jaeger. Where's Garter-belt/Fairy-burger?"
"At the club," I said. "He took his guitar, so he must be playing. But he left without saying anything."
"He would be at that damn beatnik dive—probably warblin' some bullshit about unemployment lines and hard luck. Dipshit don't know nothin' 'bout it. Tell you what, though: there's some horny broads come to that weirdo hangout."
"Some of them not bad to look at," I agreed.
"Where the hell's Bartok? He still in the same room?"
"No. He's on the first floor now."
"She-it. Figures. He's a senior now, so his shit don't stink. Big tub a' lard's too good to go up and down the stairs, now. Hell, Gartenberg's a senior, too. How come he's not on the first floor—he been pokin' you up the poop-chute or sumpthin'?"
Sometimes Kiley's unceasing efforts to shock and offend were annoying; sometimes hilarious. Either way, there was rarely a dull moment with him around.
"He probably doesn't want to share a room with some inbred, penis-worshipping, homoerotic moron like you."
"Damn, Jaeger, you got a mouth on you this year. Must fancy yourself a tough guy now that you're a sophomore. Alright bright boy: your ass is grass tomorrow. Now c'mon—let's go get Bartok."
"Why?" I asked.
"'Cause you and him are gonna help me bring all my shit inside."
I probably should have felt flattered. With his signature vulgarity, this was Kiley's way of also accepting me into the inner circle. I stopped thinking of him, Bartok and Gartenberg as the Tumultuous Trio. I was now one of them, and together we were the Quarreling Quartet...or the Frenetic Foursome.
***
IN THE LOCKER ROOM the next day, I watched the freshmen go through the same routine I had gone through last year. Rather than hazing them along with the other upperclassmen, I was friendly toward them. I decided to be a positive influence and encourage them when possible. When you're a new guy in a competitive environment, surrounded by bigger and older guys who are unsympathetic to your tenuous position, with sneering drill instructors like Stauchel and his staff barking and snarling what a dumbass you are for hours on end, a sympathetic word or gesture goes a long way. Actually, even just a lack of derision would make a big difference.
Just like that impromptu bull session in the parking lot last year with Bartok and Gartenberg had meant a lot to me.
These freshmen...those who survived Stauchel's training camp...would be my soldiers on the field for three more seasons. They and my fellow sophomores would be the Old Guard once all the juniors and seniors were gone. If they saw me as the "good cop" while the coaching staff (and some of the upperclassmen) were still all strictly "bad cops," maybe they would not only trust my leadership, but work harder for me than for anybody else—and really take it to heart when I did have to chew them out.
At least, that's how it would have worked on me the previous year. Dad had repeatedly warned me about assuming others shared my psycho-cognitive algorithms. Maybe, because other men didn't think like I did, my strategy would backfire. But I considered it worth the risk.
Stauchel didn't disappoint: the practices were grueling. A lot of the players appeared to have eaten poorly and avoided exercise over the summer, and it was especially hard on them.
At the end of practice, after breaking up and heading for the locker room, somebody slapped down on my shoulder pad. I turned. It was Stauchel himself, with Gurtz and Turner in tow, clipboards in hand.
"You held up pretty good out there today, Jaeger," Stauchel said.
"Thanks, Coach," I said.
"He's not breathin' hard enough, Coach," Turner quipped. "Want me to tell Vargas to give him the business?"
Turner was actually smiling. Stauchel and Gurtz appeared about as amenable as I could imagine them being.
"You kept in shape over summer, and came back ready," Stauchel said. "I like that."
"I told you I would go for broke if you gave me a chance, Coach," I said. "I'm a man of my word."
"Outstanding," Stauchel replied. "I like that, too. Look, Jaeger: I want you to pick up right where you left off last season. We turned this team around, and you're one of the players that made it possible."
"Thanks, Coach."
"Now, you've got to build on your progress from last year," he continued. "You played well; but I expect you to play better this year. You're more experienced; more mature. That means you've got more to offer the team. Right?"
"Yes sir."
"You've got to go up from there, Jaeger. Not down. Not stay at the same level. This team is going to be tougher and better than last year; so every player has got to pour it on. You had great protection, and you're going to have even greater protection this season. The offensive line is made up of all veterans, and Coach Turner is going to work with them to perfect their pass blocking. The added dimension I want to see from you is leadership. You've got to be a leader, on and off the field. You may be younger and less experienced than half the players, but you're not a freshman anymore, either. You've got to find a way to lead this team."
It was irritating to be told to do something I was already trying to do, as if it hadn't occurred to me, but all I said was, "Okay, Coach."
He slapped me on the back and walked toward his office.
Gurtz remained facing me, still looking uncharacteristically congenial.
"Like Stauchel said," Gurtz told me, "you've got to pick up where you left off. You're a good player, with a strong arm. But when you're not throwing the deep ball, you've got to flatten the trajectory. I want you to work on that every single day, and I'll be watching."
"Okay, Coach," I said.
I knew he was right. I had gotten into some bad habits during junior high and high school. My coaches never corrected them because they didn't give me the chance to pass very often, anyway. The passing game had been an afterthought for them. I threw plenty during sandlot games in Bakersfield, but there was no coach to correct my mistakes. My passes almost always hit the receiver, so I assumed I was doing everything right. Fuentes, a fellow sophomore moving up to take DeWeese's starting receiver slot, was willing to stay with me after practice on most days to play pitch-and-and-catch.
The "conditioning" phase of training camp was a drag, but I had gone through it once before and knew I could again. Most of my teammates were also confident because of that. This gave us veterans a sort of bond, but it also brought out the schadenfreude in some of them—directed against the rookies. After the freshmen were sifted, through cuts, and the merciless conditioning forced some to quit, I played Good Cop more often. I didn't coddle them—every football player has to take some quantity of shit. I only rode to their rescue when the harassment went too far. However, I didn't hang out with freshmen off the field. They would have to prove themselves on the team, before I let them think of themselves as my peers.
Back when Dad and I would watch war movies and talk about leadership, I remember him making a point about officers and enlisted men: there had to be a caste system separation between them, he taught me. The officer could like his men, but he best not show it. He could joke around with them to some extent, when there wasn't "another hill to take." He could, and should, go to bat for them when they suffered injustice because of his superiors. He could not be buddies with them. It had something to do with the fact that he might have to send them to their death, and they had to obey orders even if it meant that.
Obviously, football wasn't as serious as combat. But I figured I should keep that kind of separation from them, at least for a while.
***
WHEN CLASSES STARTED that year, to my surprise, I really took to school. I had a couple professors who stimulated my interest in the subject matter, and when I was interested in something, I made an effort to learn more about it. When I made such an effort, I could learn a lot, quickly. I had never been much of a student, before college, but something switched "on" during my sophomore year and I became a learning machine. My engineering courses were fascinating, and no matter how much I discovered, I was hungry to learn more. I wouldn't exactly say I became a favorite of my professors, but they seemed to appreciate my questions. They called on me at an increasing rate, and other students began turning to me to help them understand lessons and concepts. My lowest grade that year was a "B," and I made the Dean's List both semesters. Easy times.
***
GARTENBERG BEGAN CHANGING noticeably my sophomore year. He sneered a lot more, his attitude took a serious swing to the negative, and he became much less pleasant to deal with. He turned openly contemptuous of Christianity, the nuclear family, everything American, and, for some reason, me.
He had a way of talking about certain things—like songs, cars, people, movies, traditions, pastimes—that suggested their very existence was offensive. He didn't just hate Coach Stauchel, but even football itself, it seemed. I was rather surprised he stuck with it to the end.
He got so that he wouldn't listen to anything on the radio, or any popular music besides folk. But it had to be a certain type of folk music. Even the Kingston Trio wasn't aware, awake, and "conscious" enough anymore. I didn't know what he meant by that at first, but eventually figured out that their failure to turn their music into lyrical socialist sermonizing had earned his scorn. He listened exclusively to a batch of folk singers I never knew of before hearing them on his phonograph. There was Joan Baez (who I admit had a charming voice); Pete Seeger; Woody Guthrie; the Weavers; Dave Van Ronk, and some young guy with a weird, nasal voice that slid up in pitch to hit the notes of the melodies.
Gartenberg read Karl Marx and beatnik poetry as often as he played his guitar. He got rid of his hot rod and began driving some ugly foreign vehicle. He complained about American cars and their big engines. He hated women who he thought put too much effort into making themselves look attractive. Any movie or other form of entertainment that most people enjoyed was just proof that Americans were all morons. Any company that turned a profit was a greedy, heartless monolith that exploited the downtrodden. Any man with masculine traits was probably an alcoholic, wife-abusing rapist, or worse. Every church building was a hotbed of hidden vices, and housed preachers who were invariably conning poor people out of their money while brainwashing them with idiotic superstitions. He talked about our left-wing professors like they were backwards, narrow-minded "conservatives." Only the pure Marxists on campus were worth a damn, and it infuriated him that they felt it necessary to self-censor around "jock meatheads" like me, Kiley, and other guys on the team.
I ignored his snide remarks about the women I dated. But when he directed one of his snide remarks at Dad, who he had never met, I told him to shut his mouth before I closed it for him. Our argument did almost end in violence that time, but he finally backed off when he realized how seriously pissed I was.
Gartenberg's evolution, right before my eyes, was a real shame. I used to like him.
***
AS GARTENBERG GREW less friendly, I frequented the beatnik bar less, and he didn't hang out as much with me, Bartok, and Kiley. Rather than remaining the Frenetic Foursome, we reverted to the Tumultuous Trio, with me replacing Gartenberg.
Roommate or no roommate, my sophomore year was fantastic. I gained friends constantly. Everybody, on and off the team, was friendly to me. I settled into a serial monogamy on campus, to reduce the drama. And, as I drifted away from the sororities and the popular princesses, toward the more normal, down-to-earth girls, I could put up with them for a lot longer.
I was enjoying college life so much, I admit the idea occurred to me to jump to another college at different coordinates once I graduated—just keep learning, and partying, and playing football for as long as I was young enough to look like I belonged.