In tenth grade, Adam tried smoking. He sat on the cement curb beside the town basketball court, hunched over a pack of matches, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. After a few failed scrapings of the match across the scratch board where the once stiff match became a bent, frayed mess, a match lit. He stabbed it to the tip of his cigarette, which was hard to see at such close range, and it extinguished on impact. So, back to lighting matches. Another one lit, and this time he was able to light the cigarette, but just one side. He puffed like The Little Engine That Could to keep it lit creating a lopsided ash.
Jerry shook his head. What did Adam think he was doing? Athletes don’t smoke.
The next day Jerry spotted Adam in the school hallway wearing a black, wool felt beret. It was set at a jaunty angle. Jerry screwed up his face. Again, what the hell was Adam doing? Yet he couldn’t help feel jealous, because secretly, he wished he lived like that.
“Hey, sport,” said Adam.
“Hey. What’s on your head?”
“A beret. You like it?”
“Uhhh, no.”
“I do. I love it. I look sophisticated.”
“You look stupid.”
“Fuck you very much. So anyway, what’s say we lose this place and go into the city, catch a movie.”
“Say what? We got practice, dweeb.”
“Screw practice. There’ll always be practice.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Your loss. I’m going. Apocalypse Now is supposed to be outstanding.”
***
In eleventh grade, Adam quit the basketball team. He decided he wanted to be a film director. Jerry felt betrayed. How could Adam abandon basketball, abandon sports, abandon him?
Now everyday while heading off to practice, Jerry asked himself why he was doing this. He didn’t really fit in. He didn’t exist in the Varsity coach’s mind, and he hated the junior varsity coach. He didn’t connect with the other boys, and maybe he never had. The adolescent hi-jinks in the locker room, snapping towels, teasing penis size, chanting about Janet Morgan’s big boobs didn’t do it for him.
***
“Cradleman, come with me,” said Coach Strohmeyer.
The entire class gawked at Jerry, Mr. Ajalak, the history teacher and JV coach, included. Coach stood at the door and motioned for Jerry to follow him.
Out in the hallway, muffled voices padded the air. Endless lockers resembled a perspective exercise in art class. Coach strode quickly. His crisp footsteps reverberated. Jerry scampered to keep up.
He felt like he had been pulled into the doctor’s office for a private consultation. Maybe his parents should be here, or a lawyer.
“Cradleman, you’re not going to see any playing time on Varsity, and I’ve talked to Coach Ajalak. The two of you don’t see eye to eye, so junior varsity is out too.”
He stopped, faced Jerry and said, “I’m sorry, but you’re off the team.”
Jerry clenched his jaw. He nodded his head. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
Coach put his arm around Jerry’s shoulders. “Basketball’s not your thing, Cradleman. Now go find out what it is.” And he walked off.
Jerry’s chest pressed down. He squatted, put his arms around his knees and lowered his head.
The bell rang. Kids jostled him as they forged by.
Far down the hall someone yelled, “Hey, Cradleman! You got cut!”
Jerry lifted his middle finger in the voice’s direction. He stood up. Wobbly, he headed back to his books.
Why did he feel so crushed? He should rejoice.
Because it was the one shred of meaning in his life. Now he had nothing.