Chapter 1
Jerry Cradleman spotted the new boy at the back of the class. His left hand shook as he struggled with the scissors. Their second grade teacher had asked everyone to cut a square of construction paper.
Jerry pranced over. The boy’s face turned strawberry.
“I can do that for you,” Jerry said.
“No,” the boy said.
“You’re using the wrong hand.”
“This is the only hand I’ve got.”
“Try the other one.”
“I don’t want to,” but he tried cutting with his other hand, the right one, and sure enough the scissors worked.
“Yay!” Jerry enthused.
They looked at each other and laughed, then they broke into a victory dance, swaying their hips left to right and shaking their hands like they were holding maracas.
“You’re new,” said Jerry.
“You’re new.”
“What’s your name?”
“Adam Goldberg.”
“Well…OK!” and Jerry ran back to his desk.
***
In third grade, Jerry and Adam’s teacher invited them to her apartment in New York City. Adam’s mom drove them into Manhattan. Inside, they both sat on her couch, feet dangling over the edge of the cushions. They admired the ornate surroundings. Jerry sipped his Coke feeling very grown-up.
“My mom doesn’t let me drink Coke,” said Jerry.
“I drink Coke all the time. I like it better than coffee.”
“You drink coffee?”
“Uh-huh, I love coffee.”
“My parents don’t let me drink coffee.”
“What do you drink?”
“Milk.”
“Ugh. Disgusting.”
“You are.”
“No, you.”
And they both laughed. They laughed until drool dangled out of Adam’s mouth and Jerry grabbed his ribs to keep them from breaking apart.
Their teacher appeared, and off they went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This was their reward for getting straight A’s.
***
During fourth grade, they were playing Monopoly at Adam’s house.
His Victorian home was perched on a hill. A substantial two story home, it had gingerbread trim and a wrap around porch. The yard begged for a lawn mower. Tall weeds flourished. Dandelions ruled. Its puff balls shivered with floatie seeds ready to bolt. A beat up Volvo station wagon sat in the driveway. Inside the house, a pile of dishes stood in the sink. Dust balls gathered under the sofa. New Yorker and Atlantic Monthly magazines lay strewn about the floor.
Jerry liked Adam’s home. It was comfortable, unlike his own. In another part of town, his Norman Rockwell home was white clapboard with forest green shutters. The yard was crisp as a military hair cut. Candy cane colored geraniums flourished in measured intervals in front of the picture window. The garage protected a waxed Pontiac station wagon. Inside, despite mom’s constant harangue, “Just once I wish this house would stay clean for more than 24 hours,” was always immaculate. Readers’ Digest, National Geographic and Life sat stacked in order of size on the glass topped coffee table.
Adam’s younger sister Kathy joined them. She was cute but the odor from her armpits offended Jerry. Adam’s did too, and his stringy hair needed washing. He was constantly sweeping loose strands behind his ear. He took out his retainer and checked it for food, which he picked off and ate.
Jerry, desperate to win just once, surreptitiously nudged a $500 bill under the board, while Adam announced his presidential candidate choice.
“Senator Kennedy is going to help the poor people. It’s not just about us, you know. We need to share the wealth. We need to help the poor. He’s the new man for the decade.”
“Well, Nixon’s better. He’s got more experience.”
“Yeah, but what’s his platform?”
“It’s a good one, solid.” Jerry had no idea what a platform was.
“We’ll see about that. He’s just for protecting the rich.”
“Well, they need protection too.”
“They take all the money for themselves and won’t share. That’s not right.”
The next day Jerry begged his mom to take him down to the local Nixon for President headquarters where he loaded up on bumper stickers, buttons and campaign literature. He had to make sure Nixon won.
When he didn’t, Jerry was devastated. How could this happen? How could the world continue? More disturbing, how could Adam win…again.
***
In fifth grade they both ran for class president and the vote was tied. Their teacher flipped a coin to determine the winner. Adam called heads. He won.
***
In sixth grade Jerry followed Adam into basketball. Adam’s older brother was on the high school team. Adam joined the Saturday League. Jerry did too. Each Saturday morning they played another elementary school. They both started. Jerry decided he could be better than Adam at this game. He was taller and faster.
***
In seventh grade, they both continued playing in junior high. The practice, run by the high school coach, always finished with a five on five game, shirts against skins. The play was getting decidedly rougher, much to Jerry’s dislike. Also, his lay up was getting blocked by kids even taller than him. And his jump shot was awkward. On the other hand, Adam’s 10-foot set shot kept going in. On defense, coach appreciated his scrappy play.
***
In eighth grade, they attended a summer week-long basketball camp run by the infamous Coach Bobby Knight, head coach for the Indiana Hoosiers. Noteworthy moments of leadership included punching out his own player – his son – and tossing a chair across the court over a ref’s call. Willis Reed and other New York Knicks were also part of the coaching staff.
As the smoky exhaust from the departing Goldberg Volvo hung suspended in air, Jerry’s stomach clenched. He wanted to be home in bed. Why had he come? To keep up with Adam. It was his idea. His brother told him about it.
They were in the Poconos, but for all Jerry knew it could have been the Amazon jungle. Hot and humid, Jerry was already in a full sweat, and he hadn’t even lifted a basketball yet. He swatted at the flies and mosquitos.
An older boy directed them to their cabin. Adam heaved his duffle bag onto the top bunk; Jerry dropped his beside the lower one, packed with a week’s worth of t-shirts, shorts, underwear and socks, all neatly folded.
Jerry wondered why was Adam so comfortable, while he was so uncomfortable? Adam mingled with the others. Jerry just wanted to curl up in a ball and hide.
The next morning, while the cicadas chanted like a Greek chorus, Coach Knight, whistle around his neck, clipboard in hand, bellowed instructions for their first basketball drill. Gangly high school boys stood court-side and listened. Adam and Jerry were amongst the youngest.
The ball rolled up the middle, and Jerry sprinted like a Labrador fetching a stick. Another boy from the opposite side, twice the size of Jerry, did the same thing. He got there first. Jerry glued his body onto him. The boy shot a layup and missed. Jerry grabbed the rebound, dribbled maniacally around the key, shot from the foul line and air balled. The other boy got the ball, shot quickly and missed again. Jerry wheezed, every inhale burned his throat, scalded his lungs. He prayed the other boy would make the damn shot so this could stop, and he did. Jerry staggered over to the side line.
Next!
Coach Knight whistled and called everyone over. His hand rested on Adam’s shoulder.
“See this boys?” He pointed to Adam’s knee with rivulets of blood running down it. “That’s hustle. That’s what I want from all of you. Give me your all.”
Jerry kept trying. He kept running after that ball, but his “all” had gone a long time ago.
After dinner, back at the cabin, Jerry lay on his bed talking with Adam above him.
“Hey, Adam, do you wonder why we’re doing this? I mean, it’s so weird, don’t you think? Trying so hard to get a ball through a hoop.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. I’m just saying, I mean, you know, it’s just a game, like monopoly, and we’re getting bloody, and we’re sweating, and, anyway, I don’t know anyone here.”
“Well, that’s your problem. You need to talk more.”
“I don’t know these guys.”
“You talk to them in order to know them, genius.”
“How do you do that?”
“It’s easy. I don’t know.”
“But they all seem better than me.”
“That’s your problem. It’s in your head.”
“I’m afraid I’ll make a mistake or say something stupid.”
“Don’t think about it. Just be yourself.”
“Yeah right, I really don’t know who ‘yourself’ is.”
“That’s your problem.”
“I seem to have a lot of problems. Thanks alot, Bozo.”
“You are.”
“No, you are.”
They both laughed, and it felt like home again, if only for a moment.
Jerry let out a huge sigh. His lungs just wanted to stay there. He had to push to make them inflate. He noticed his heart was beating fast, really fast, like he was in another drill. But he was just lying there. Why was it beating so fast?
They walked down the dirt path to watch the evening basketball game with the older kids. Courtside, they slid into the stands. Surrounded by peaceful pines, stars seasoning the sky, glistening warriors grunted up and down the asphalt. Adam talked it up with another boy sitting to his right. Jerry stayed silent.
Back in bed, Jerry’s heart refused to slow down. It shook the bunk bed. Frightened, he wondered what he should do. He didn’t want to wake anybody up. Nowhere close to sleeping, he lay there. The warm pine scent comforted him. It reminded him of Christmas, not that that was particularly comforting, but it was way better than this.
He so wanted to go home, but he couldn’t. Yet it wasn’t his mom or dad he thought of, it was the house, which surprised him. Up to that point his house meant no more to him than a green Monopoly piece, solid, with no entrance. Now he longed for it, a haven from the world.
He listened to the snoring and the languid shifting of bodies and started to fade.
With reveille blaring, Jerry dragged himself out of bed and headed for the chow hall, then it was back to the courts. Standing with his age group, sporting a white t-shirt with the camp logo and navy blue shorts, Jerry slapped at flies and fried under the sun while the coaches pontificated.
Then there were more drills. Coach Knight’s exhortation echoed in his ears, but it did not inspire. This was a job.
Time dragged on with excruciating slowness. He counted each day, each day closer to leaving. Waking, morning became lunch, became afternoon became dinner became night became back in bed listening to his heart pound on the bars of his ribs, became asking himself for the umpteenth time why he was here, became wishing he was someplace else, anyplace else.
Yet sports was the only world he knew. And in this world, value was placed on those who won. Those who didn’t had no value. It didn’t matter how smart they were or how artistic they were, they didn’t exist. In this world, the more minutes played, the more popular they were.
Gradually, the days till leaving became smaller than the days he’d been there, until finally, it was over. With such relief, he went home. He would never, ever do that again.,