CAN ATTEND ANY OF THE TOWN CHURCHES OF OUR CHOICE; JEWS AREN'T FORCED TO TAKE COMMUNION, UNITARIANS AREN'T DRAGGED TO MASS- OR TO CONFESSION-BAPTISTS AREN'T ROUNDED UP ON SATURDAYS AND HERDED OFF TO SYNAGOGUE (OR TO THEIR OWN, UNWILLING CIRCUMCISIONS). YET NON-CATHOLICS MUST EAT FISH; ON FRIDAYS, IT'S EAT FISH OR GO HUNGRY. I THOUGHT THIS WAS A DEMOCRACY. ARE WE ALL FORCED TO SUBSCRIBE TO THE CATHOLIC VIEW OF BIRTH CONTROL? WHY ARE WE FORCED TO EAT CATHOLIC FOOD?'
He set up a chair and desk in the school post office to collect signatures for his petition-naturally, everyone signed it. 'EVEN THE CATHOLICS SIGNED IT!' announced The Voice. Dan Needham said that the food service manager put on quite a show in faculty meeting.
'Next thing you know, that little turd will want a salad bar! He'll want an alternative to every menu-not just fish on Fridays!'
In his first column, The Voice had attacked MYSTERY MEAT; now it was fish. 'THIS UNJUST IMPOSITION ENCOURAGES RELIGIOUS PERSECUTION,' said The Voice; Owen saw signs of anti-Catholicism springing up everywhere. 'THERE'S SOME BAD TALK GOING AROUND,' he reported. 'THE CLIMATE OF THE SCHOOL IS BECOMING DISCRIMINATORY. I HEAR THE OFFENSIVE SLUR, 'MACKEREL-SNAPPER'-AND YOU NEVER USED TO HEAR THAT KIND OF TALK AROUND HERE.'' Frankly, / never heard anyone use the term 'mackerel-snapper'-except Owen! And we couldn't pass St. Michael's-not to mention the
sainted statue of Mary Magdalene-without his saying, 'I WONDER WHAT THE PENGUINS ARE UP TO? DO YOU THINK THEY'RE ALL LESBIANS?'
It was the first Friday following Thanksgiving vacation when they served cold cuts and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches with the standard fish dish; you could also get a bowl of tomato soup, and potato salad. He had won. He got a standing ovation in the dining hall. As a scholarship boy, he had a job-he was a waiter at a faculty table; the serving tray was half Ms size and he stood at attention beside it, as if it were a shield, while the students applauded him and the faculty smiled a trifle stiffly. Old Thorny called him into his office. 'You know, I like you, little fella,' he told Owen. 'You're a go-getter! But let me give you some advice. Your friends don't watch you as closely as your enemies-and you've got enemies. You've made more enemies in less than two years than I've made in more than twenty! Be careful you don't give your enemies a way to get you.'
Thorny wanted Owen to cox the varsity crew; Owen was the perfect size for a coxswain, and-after all-he'd grown up on the Squamscott. But Owen said that the racing shells had always offended his father-'IT'S A MATTER OF BLOOD BEING THICKER THAN SCHOOL,' he told the headmaster; furthermore, the river was polluted. In those days, the town didn't have a proper sewage system; the textile mill, my late grandfather's former shoe factory, and many private homes simply dumped their waste into the Squamscott. Owen said he had often seen 'beetleskins' floating in the river; beetleskins still gave him the shivers. Besides, in the fall he liked soccer; of course, he wasn't on the varsity or the junior varsity-but he had fun playing soccer, even on the lowest club-level. He was fast and scrappy--although, from all his smoking, he was easily winded. And in the spring-the other season for crew-Owen liked to play tennis; he wasn't very good, he was just a beginner, but my grandmother bought him a good racquet and Owen appreciated the orderliness of the game. The straight white lines, the proper tension in the net at its exactly correct height, the precise scoring. In the winter-God knows why!-he liked basketball; perversely, perhaps, because it was a tall boy's game. He played only in pickup games, to be sure-he could never have played on any of the teams-but he played with enthusiasm; he was quite a leaper, he had a jump shot that elevated him almost to eye level with the other players, and he became obsessed with an impossible frill of the game ('impossible' for him): the slam-dunk. We didn't call it a 'slam-dunk' then; we called it 'stuffing' the ball, and there wasn't very much of it-most kids weren't tall enough. Of course, Owen could never leap high enough to be above the basket; to stuff the ball down into the basket was a nonsense idea he had-it was his absurd goal. He would devise an approach to the basket; dribbling at good speed, he would time his leap to coincide with a teammate's readiness to lift him higher-he would jump into a teammate's waiting arms, and the teammate would (occasionally) boost Owen above the basket's rim. I was the only one who was willing to practice the timing with him; it was such a ridiculous thing for him to want to do-for someone his size to set himself the challenge of soaring and reaching so high ... it was just silliness, and I tired of the mindless, repetitive choreography.
'Why are we doing this?' I'd ask him. 'It would never work in a game. It's probably not even legal. I can't lift you up to the basket, I'm sure that's not allowed.'
But Owen reminded me that I had once enjoyed lifting him up-at Sunday school. Now that it mattered to him, to get the timing of his leap adjusted to my lifting him even higher, why couldn't I simply indulge him without criticizing him?
'I TOLERATED YOU LIFTING ME UP-ALL THOSE YEARS WHEN I ASKED YOU NOT TO!' he said.
' 'All those years,' ' I repeated. 'It was only a few Sunday school classes, it was only for a couple of years-and we didn't do it every time.'
But it was important to him now-this crazy lifting him up-and so we did it. It became a very well-rehearsed stunt with us; 'Slam-Dunk Meany,' some of the boys on the basketball team began to call him-Slam-Dunk Master, after he'd perfected the move. Even the basketball coach was appreciative. 'I may use you in a game, Owen,' the coach said, joking with him.
