1
Snell asked the question as if what he expected from Sonny was an admission of guilt: “Did you shoot free throws after practice?”
“What d’you think?”
“How many?”
“What d’you think?”
“You shot a hundred, right?”
“Yeah.”
“How many did you make?”
“I just told you. I made a hundred.”
“I said how many did you shoot, not how many did you make.”
Sonny looked up from his book. He had already decided he didn’t like Snell. “I told you. I shot a hundred and I made a hundred.”
“You’re saying you made a hundred in a row?”
“No, Snell, you’re saying it.” Sonny decided to go back to the paragraph he was trying to read.
“You hear this shit?” said Snell to Robert Lee. “He says he made a hundred free throws in a row after the workout.”
Robert Lee was leafing through a recent copy of Penthouse. Without looking up he said, “That’s what I know. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You believe him?”
Robert Lee shrugged. “I’ve seen him do it before. I don’t think he’d leave the gym without his hundred straight free throws.”
“I’ve never seen him do it,” said Snell.
Sonny put the book down again. “That’s because you’re never around after we scrimmage. If you want to see it, you’ll have to hang.”
“Right. I’m going to hang out afterwards, just so I can watch you shoot free throws.”
“Then get off my case.”
Sonny and his two pledge brothers were sitting in one of the upstairs study rooms in the fraternity house. They were waiting restlessly for the second lineup of the year. Mounted on the wall were a few fraternity paddles made of blond polished wood. The paddles were half an inch thick and 26 inches long. On each paddle, the names of pledge father and son were burned in charred capital letters: MIKE ’97 from DOC ’96. TONY ’98 from NILES ’96.
Robert Lee and Snell were both scholarship basketball players like Sonny, but from what Sonny could tell from the pickup games in Davies, the old gym, Snell was going to be a practice player strictly, while Robert Lee was an overachiever, one of those guys who got by on desire.
The book Sonny was trying to read was one on chimpanzees by Jane Goodall, assigned by his Intro to Anthropology professor. His interest was so marginal that he kept rereading the same paragraph. The obstacles to concentration began with the imminent lineup, but continued with Robert Lee’s interruptions to show beaver shots from his magazine. For his part, Snell was amusing himself by setting his own farts on fire with a Bic lighter.
Snell still wasn’t finished with his agenda. He turned to Robert Lee again and said, “Youngblood shoots his hundred free throws a day, and we don’t even start real practices for another week. Then he’ll have to shoot his free throws after he wins the wind sprints and the suicides.”
There was no answer from Robert Lee, so Snell went on, “You know what you are, Youngblood?”
“I give up,” said Sonny.
“You’re a fuckin’ fanatic. You’re a basketball junkie. It’s like there’s nothing else in life but hoops. You’re a fucking fanatical basketball junkie.”
These remarks pissed Sonny off. He was about to answer, And you’re nothing but a glorified walk-on, but then suddenly, the door was kicked open. It was Pinky, a chunky sophomore. Across his flushed face was a mad grin. Sonny felt his stomach constrict.
“Guess what, slugs?” asked Pinky. “Guess what it’s time for?”
“We know, we know,” said Robert Lee with a weary expression.
“You know shit!” roared Pinky. He was full-out drunk. In his right hand he was holding what was left of a gallon of Mad Dog wine; his pudgy index finger was looped through the glass ring at the bottle’s neck. “A fucking slug knows jackshit!”
Robert Lee lowered his face and murmured, “Yes sir.”
In his left hand, Pinky had a firm grip on his fraternity paddle. “It’s time for the goddamn lineup,” he declared. He tilted up the jug to drink some wine with a gurgling sound. Finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched loudly. Twice. “I said it’s time for the goddamn lineup. Get off your dumb butts and follow me downstairs. Fucking slugs.”
Dutifully they followed Pinky, who swayed as he walked. At the last study room before the stairs, they stopped before the open doorway. Wayne Burkhart was in the study room, lying on a couch, reading a book.
“Time for the lineup, Wayne,” said Pinky. “You wouldn’t want to be late.”
“We’ll see.” Wayne, a senior, was Sonny’s pledge father; but having nothing in common, the two of them had little contact with each other.
“Hummin’ you!” shouted Pinky at the top of his lungs. He twirled the gallon jug like a lariat, then released it through the open door of the study room. It smashed against the wall behind Wayne’s head before he had a chance to duck. The bottle shattered. Red wine streaked down the wall.
“You asshole,” said Burkhart.
“HaHA!” Pinky threw back his head and laughed. Sonny wasn’t too surprised; he’d seen Pinky hum people before.
“Asshole,” Burkhart said again. Looking at the shattered glass and moisture on his clothes, he sat up and put the book aside.
“Let’s go, slugs!” commanded Pinky. He led them down the stairs.
They went through the parlor and the living room. In the living room, there was a large stone fireplace against one wall. Once, when Stinky was drunk, Sonny saw him take a piss on the gold carpet; there was still a stain, in front of the fireplace.
Lineups were always held in the dining room. Sonny, Robert Lee, and Snell were the last ones. The other pledges were already in place, seated in their chairs.
“Well,” said Harris sarcastically. “Glad you children could join us.”
“Fucking slugs,” muttered Pinky. He belched loudly again.
When the three took their seats, all nine pledges were in place. In a lineup, it was a requirement that you had to sit rigid on your wooden chair, with both feet flat on the floor, and keep your arms folded across your chest. Your chin had to be pulled in tight, and your eyes staring straight ahead at all times.
Harris, the house president, would lead the lineup. He held his fraternity paddle in his right hand and wiggled it back and forth. He was known for his sarcasm, but usually it went over Sonny’s head.
Sonny sat stiff and staring. He focused his eyes on a knothole in the tongue-and-groove pine paneling opposite. He could feel his palms begin to sweat; to him, the lineups felt like betrayal. Everyone said that lineups were illegal, but that didn’t seem to prevent them.
As soon as the noise died down, Harris started to speak. “I’m glad to see you, Robert Lee. I’ve got some plans for you.”
“Yes sir,” said Robert Lee, his eyes straight ahead. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet, but you and I have a score to settle. You know what I mean, don’t you, Robert Lee?”
“I think so, sir.”
“You bet your sweet ass. You get your buns ready.” Harris spoke quietly, but his eyes were glittering.
“Yessir.”
By now, the room was silent. Harris lit a cigar before he continued, and clenched it between his teeth. “A few of you guys are going to get your ass burned tonight. Robert Lee won’t be the only one.”
Sonny swallowed hard and sat ultra-still, hoping not to be noticed. But at six feet five inches, it was never easy to be inconspicuous.
“In a few months,” Harris went on, “several of you slugs will become active members of this house, although God only knows why. Most of you are too dumb to find your ass with both hands.”
“They show me no hair!” shouted Pinky.
As if on cue, the 35 actives in attendance pounded their fraternity paddles on the floor like baseball bats. Then stopped abruptly.
“We can’t blame anybody but ourselves,” the president continued. “We chose to pledge you losers, and now we’re stuck with you. And you thought we had perfect judgment, didn’t you, Youngblood?”
It was several seconds before Sonny realized that Harris was speaking to him.
“I said, you thought we had perfect judgment, didn’t you, Youngblood?” Harris’s voice was hard. He was touching Sonny’s forehead with the tip of his paddle.
“Yes, I did,” said Sonny. But he could feel how dry his mouth was.
“Yes, you did what?”
“Yes, I did, sir.”
“Try to stay with us, Youngblood; the questions may get harder.”
Skinner came forward to stand next to Harris. At six feet four and 235 pounds, he was the starting tight end on the football team. He was massive in the arms and upper torso from years in the weight room. He rested his paddle easily on his right shoulder. “I’m gonna have to bust Woodson’s ass,” he said simply.
“Be my guest.”
“Woodson, get your ass up here,” ordered Skinner. Woodson got up from his chair to step forward.
“Fucking slugs, keep your eyes on the wall!” shouted Pinky. Paddles pounded on the floor for emphasis. Staring straight at the wall, Sonny still had Woodson and Skinner within his range of vision.
“Assume the position,” said Skinner.
“Yes sir.” Woodson bent over. His head was even with his knees. His right hand cupped his genitals, while his left hand gripped his left ankle.
Skinner drew the paddle back slowly, then drove it powerfully against Woodson’s buttocks. Crack! Immediately after the blow landed, there was the exclamation point of paddles pounding on the floor.
With a scarlet face, Woodson stood up to face Skinner. “Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”
“We’ll see. First, I want you to tell everybody how many classes you cut last week.”
“Eight, sir.”
Sonny could barely hear him.
“Louder!” commanded Skinner. “And keep your goddamn eyes on the wall!”
“I cut eight, sir.” Woodson answered, in a louder voice. “I cut eight classes.”
“Why, you lying bastard,” Harris interrupted. “You told me you went to all your classes. Assume the position.”
Woodson assumed the position, but Harris stepped back. Skinner administered another board with another loud report.
“Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”
“Hell no, you’re not worth it. Go sit down, girlie man.”
Woodson resumed his seat at the other end of the row. Sonny’s lower back was getting stiff, but he tried to hold his rigid position while staring at the wall. There was no breeze in the room, so he was beginning to sweat. He fought the urge to scratch, for fear that someone would notice him. The hope in a lineup was always that they would overlook you.
For Sonny, the hope ended as soon as Geisel, the house academic chairman, stepped to the front. “Youngblood! Youngblood, get up here.”
Sonny got out of his chair and stepped stiffly to the front. He stared at the wall. Harris stood on his left, while Geisel was at his right. Geisel was fat, but strong. He was as sarcastic as Harris, and he didn’t attempt to hide his contempt for freshmen on athletic scholarships.
“Youngblood, did you think we were going to forget about you?”
“Not much, sir.”
“Louder!” shouted Grimes. “Speak up!”
“I didn’t think about it much, sir,” said Sonny, louder this time. He felt ridiculous.
“You smart ass,” sneered Harris. “You lying bastard. You’ve been thinking about nothing else since you parked your ass in that chair. Am I right?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so what?”
“I guess so, sir.”
“Are you going to make grades this semester?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“You hope so, sir,” Geisel mocked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I just mean I hope so, sir,” Sonny repeated. He had to stop to lick his lips. Sonny’s marginal academic history wasn’t any secret. He searched the room quickly with his eyes, looking for Burkhart. Burkhart was his pledge father, maybe he would stand up for him.
“Keep your goddamn eyes on the wall, slug!” Pinky exploded.
Sonny flinched and stared straight ahead.
Geisel repeated the question, which really didn’t sound like a question at all: “You’re not gonna make your grades, are you, Youngblood?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Assume the position.”
“Yes sir.” Sonny bent over. The tile on the floor was alternate red and black squares. He could smell Geisel’s beer breath and his body sweat.
The paddle slammed against his butt. The pain, which was shocking, licked its way like shooting flames down his legs. He stood up quickly, his face burning. “Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”
“We’ll see.”
Sonny felt the ridicule of all the eyes watching him. He had the urge to turn on Geisel and give him a shot in his blubber gut. You couldn’t do that here, though, because everything was stacked against you. Where the hell is Burkhart? Probably still upstairs reading Plato or some other shit.
Then Pinky, the drunkest of all, stumbled forward swinging his paddle. “I’ll tell you something else. Youngblood spends most of his spare time hanging out with niggers.”
“Is that a fact?” asked Harris.
“Fucking-A. This stupid slug is a nigger lover. Niggers are his friends, right, Youngblood?”
“Some of them are going to be my teammates, sir. You usually make friends with your teammates, because you play a lot of pickup games with them.”
Geisel put his face right next to Sonny’s ear. “You asshole, do you know anything at all about house loyalty?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Then why the hell aren’t your own brothers good enough for you? What makes you think you need to spend your time with the niggers?”
“A friend is a friend, sir.”
“A friend is a friend,” sighed Geisel. “Isn’t that special? I think I might wet my pants, I really do. Is there something wrong with your own brothers, for Christ sake?”
“No, sir, I like my brothers.”
“Then why the hell do you spend your time with the fuckin’ niggers?” demanded Pinky. “If they were on fire, I wouldn’t piss on ’em to put it out.” The actives pounded their paddles to show approval.
Sonny could feel his scalp burning. He said to Geisel, “There’s a logical explanation.”
“There’s a logical explanation WHAT?”
“There’s a logical explanation, sir.”
“Goddamnit, Youngblood, keep your eyes on the wall!” Harris shouted.
Sonny focused quickly on the knothole. Geisel was giggling. “A logical explanation?” He turned to all the brothers: “Wouldn’t y’all just love to hear the logical explanation?”
The furious pounding of the paddles signified yes.
“Go ahead, slug,” said Harris to Sonny. “We’re all just dying to hear your logic. Just be sure you keep your goddamn eyes where they belong.”
Sonny swallowed first, and then he said, “I don’t get much chance for free time. We have informal workouts every day and study table at night. I would be with the black guys a lot, even if I didn’t want to be. That’s how it is when you’re on scholarship; other people decide how you spend your time.”
Harris whistled his scorn before he spoke in reverent tones: “Great god almighty, Youngblood, your logic is so airtight I’m about to suffocate. When basketball season is over, you’ll probably be recruited for debate.”
Pinky faced the group to slur out his contempt: “When you’re on scholarship?? Y’all hear this shit? Are we supposed to be impressed?”
Sonny had no idea the question was meant for him. Pinky wobbled closer. “I asked you a question, stupid slug. Are we supposed to be impressed because you’re a high school all-American? You think you’re the first big-time jock this house ever had?”
Sonny swallowed again. “No sir.”
“He’s a high school all-American from Abydos, so we’re supposed to kiss his ass!”
Geisel took over again. “You know what that all means here, Youngblood? You know what the all-American crap means on this campus? In this house? It means jackshit, that’s what.”
“Yes sir.”
Geisel finished it off in his terse, even voice: “What you are here is a slug. What’s a slug, Youngblood?”
“A slug is the lowest form of life, sir,” answered Sonny.
“Keep that in mind the next time you do your wraparound dribble. What you are is a goddamn slug.”
“Yes sir.”
“Assume the position, Youngblood,” said Pinky. “I’m gonna board your all-American ass.”
For what? wondered Sonny. Puzzled, he turned to look at Pinky.
“You got some reason to be looking at me, slug? I told you to assume the position.”
“Yes sir.” Sonny assumed the position, but he was tense. He knew how drunk Pinky was.
When the blow came, it lashed across the back of both his thighs. It scalded him clear to his ankles. He stood up immediately, at least eight inches taller than his drunk tormentor, but powerless and humiliated nonetheless. “Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”
“Not now,” interrupted Harris. “It’s time to settle my score with Robert Lee. Go sit down.”
Sonny returned to his seat.
“Robert Lee, front and center!”
Robert Lee jumped to his feet. Sonny used his sleeve to wipe his sweaty face before he got back into the required position in his chair. Feelings of anger and betrayal roiled inside, replacing the humiliation. Part of it came from his knowledge of Robert Lee’s imminent ordeal.
“Did you think I was going to forget about it?” Harris asked Robert Lee quietly.
“No sir.”
“You bet your ass. Now just so everybody has a little background on this whole thing, I want you to tell the group what we had for supper last night.”
“Fried chicken, sir.” Robert Lee worked for his weekend meals by serving in the house dining room.
“Did you say fried chicken?”
“Yes sir.”
“Now then. In a voice loud enough for everybody to hear, tell us what you served me for supper.”
“I’d rather not say, sir.”
“You dumb shit, assume the position.”
Harris hit him hard, then Skinner did the same.
“Let’s try again, okay?” said Harris. “Once more, what did you serve me for dinner?”
“An olive, sir.”
“Louder!”
“An olive, sir.”
“One olive, slug?”
“Yessir, one.”
Skinner came up close in a hurry. “An olive? You douche bag, you served Harris an olive for supper?”
“Yes sir.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“I thought it might show some hair, sir.”
“You thought it might show some hair? Robert Lee, stupid slug, what is an olive?”
“An olive is the lowest form of food, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s used in the olive race, sir.”
Harris asked him, “What is the olive race like, slug?”
“Sir, the pledges—”
“—the WHAT??”
“The slugs, sir.”
“That’s better. Go ahead.”
“The slugs carry the olives in the cheeks of their ass from one block of dry ice to another. The losing team eats the olives, sir.”
“And you thought it would show some hair to serve me an olive?”
“I thought it might, sir.”
“Buster, you just lost the biggest olive race of your life. Assume the position.”
“Yes sir.”
Skinner boarded him a hard one, which was followed up immediately by the clatter of paddles pounding the tile. Robert Lee stood up. “Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”
“Keep your shirt on,” said Geisel, who had joined those in front. He was holding a one-quart Mason jar, full most of the way with green olives. “Do you know what this is, stupid slug?”
“I think it’s a jar of olives, sir.”
“Do you know how many olives are in here?”
“No sir.”
“Let me tell you then. There are forty-eight. Each one of these olives has spent a little time in the asshole of one of the active members of this house. Are you starting to get the picture?”
“Yessir, I think so, sir.”
Then Harris took over. “You just lost the olive race, slug. You get to eat these. All of them.” He took the jar from Geisel.
“Open up, slug,” ordered Harris.
The room was so quiet. Sonny felt like he was watching an execution; it made his stomach turn. He resisted the urge to wipe the sweat that rivuleted its way down his face and neck. From the corner of his eye he could see Robert Lee.
When Robert Lee opened his mouth, Harris ordered: “Wider!” He opened wider.
“Now,” Harris instructed, inserting the first olive, “swallow only when I tell you to.” One by one, he put eight olives into Robert Lee’s mouth. Then, and only then, did he say, “Okay, chew ’em up and swallow.”
It took Robert Lee a long time to chew up the eight olives and finally swallow. “Now assume the position,” said Harris.
As soon as Robert Lee bent over, Harris boarded him.
They repeated the procedure five more times. Each time, Harris pressed the eight-olive quota inside Robert Lee’s mouth. Each time slower, Robert Lee chewed them up and swallowed. Then he caught a board. It was agony for Sonny just to watch, even worse than when he himself had been the victim.
Finally all 48 olives were gone; the jar was empty.
Harris spoke to Robert Lee one more time. “Now go and sit down. You think long and hard before you ever serve me an olive for dinner again.”
“Yes, sir,” said Robert Lee. He returned to his chair.
Before he dismissed them, Harris delivered a short speech on house loyalty, but Sonny didn’t pay much attention. The breakup was a weary one without much conversation. Sonny went back upstairs to the study room, passing Burkhart’s closed door on the way. From downstairs, he could hear several of the actives talking in loud voices about going out to do some more drinking.
There were three bathrooms on this floor. Sonny found the first one, went inside, and closed the door. It was too bright, but at least it was private. He pulled off his soggy shirt and T-shirt, then rolled them into a ball. He had to stoop down to look at his red face in the mirror. He scrubbed with tepid water from head to belt buckle, then toweled off with special effort to dry his wet hair.
When he was done, he put on his nylon UCLA windbreaker over his bare skin and zipped it up. He put the rolled-up shirts under his arm.
Back in the study room to retrieve his textbook, Sonny found Robert Lee prone on the couch, a wet washrag draped over his face. Sonny felt bad for him. “You okay, Robert Lee?”
Lee lifted a corner of the washrag to speak. “I couldn’t be better. I just hope we all get to do it again tomorrow night.”
“I’m really sorry, what they did to you. You gonna be okay?”
“Shit. If we scrimmage again tomorrow, I’ll be right in your face again.”
Sonny laughed. It was amazing, the way you couldn’t get him down. Couldn’t keep him down, anyway.
Robert Lee lifted the corner again. “I suppose you’re going to shoot now.”
“Most likely,” Sonny answered.
“You’ll be going over to Davies to see if it’s unlocked. One workout a day ain’t enough for you.”
“Most likely.” Then Sonny had a thought. “You want to come with me?”
This time Robert Lee lifted the whole rag. “Are you out of your freakin’ mind? You saw what they did to me.”
“Yeah, right. Sorry.”
Just after Robert Lee got the washrag back in place, Harris came into the room, walking slowly. He was trying to relight what was left of the short cigar. Without looking at Sonny, he tilted back in a wooden chair against the bolster next to Robert Lee’s head. Harris made Sonny nervous; everything he did seemed arrogant.
“How we doin’, amigo?”
Robert Lee answered without lifting a corner. “Who, me? Hell, I’m just great, how about you?”
Harris was Robert Lee’s pledge father. He chuckled as he blew his smoke in twin nostril streams. “Any gastrointestinal distress?”
Robert Lee cut loose with a whopper of a belch. “You mean something like that?”
Harris laughed out loud and pretty soon Robert Lee joined him, until the two of them were hysterical like little kids. Robert Lee took the washrag away and rolled on his side. Sonny didn’t laugh at all; if there was something funny, it eluded him. They fucked him over like they did and now it’s funny.
Harris tipped forward in the chair so all four legs were back on the floor. He handed Robert Lee the cigar so he could have a drag. “My son, you make me proud.”
“I’m sure.”
“The olive gambit was the best I’ve seen. That was big-time hair.”
Robert Lee took a second drag, then passed back the smoke. He exhaled just before belching again. “Next time, don’t be so proud, okay? My ass is still burning.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” chuckled Harris. “Big-time hair, Robert Lee.”
Sonny didn’t get any of this. He stood up to leave.
Harris turned to look at him for the first time, the smile still on his face but all the humor gone out of his eyes. As if he could read Sonny’s thoughts he said in a flat voice, “You don’t get any of this, do you, Young-blood?”
Sonny’s voice was tense, but his answer honest: “No, I don’t.”
“No you don’t what?”
“No, I don’t, sir.”
“What do you get, Youngblood? Other than a double team or a pick-and-roll, just what the hell do you get?”
Sonny hated the contempt. He knew he had to leave, he was on the verge of telling Harris to go fuck himself. Instead he said, “I have to go now.”
“You have to go what?”
“I have to go, sir.” He headed out the door without looking back. Over his shoulder he said, “See you, Robert Lee.”
He headed for the quad by way of Thompson Woods. It was a still and warm October night. In the mist, the pole lamps looked like London streetlights in old Jack the Ripper movies. The soggy fallen leaves beneath his feet crowned the blacktop with a slick layer of thatch.
He tried to stop thinking about the lineup. Burkhart didn’t come down at all. Was there something meaningful that a pledge father was for? Something that he was supposed to do? Whatever it was that bonded Harris and Robert Lee was beyond Sonny’s understanding. You don’t get any of this, do you, Youngblood?
He knew he would get what he needed at Davies, where he found a side door unlocked. The old gym was obsolete since the opening of the new arena, but you could never obsolete a ten-foot rim affixed to a rectangle. He shot layups and jump shots for nearly an hour, stripping eventually naked to the waist. Left-handed, right-handed, left-handed, right-handed, the old, ragged nets plopped on short shots and snapped on long ones. Sonny cozied into this warm and private freedom like a bird in its nest. Custodial workers came and went without taking notice of him; they were used to this.
It was nearly midnight by the time he sat beneath the basket where he began pulling on his shirt. Sonny felt in no hurry to leave. He spun the pebbled texture of the ball across his fingers where it soothed like the touch of a lover. The fraternity was mostly for the purpose of satisfying his uncle Seth anyway; he said out loud, as if speaking directly to Harris, “You don’t get any of this, do you?”