Then into the showers to listen to who did what to whom how many times last Saturday night.
'We got these pigs from Mount Ida, see…?' And I was privileged to enjoy a private place of meditation. Being blessed with a bad knee (yes, blessed; have you seen my draft card?), I had to give it some whirlpool after playing. As I sat and watched the rings run round my knee, I could catalog my cuts and bruises (I enjoy them, in a way), and kind of think about anything or nothing. Tonight I could think of a goal, an assist and virtually locking up my third consecutive All-Ivy.
'Takin' some whirly-pooly, Ollie?'
It was Jackie Felt, our trainer and self-appointed spiritual guide.
'What does it look like I'm doing, Felt, beating off?'
Jackie chortled and lit up with an idiot grin.
'Know what's wrong with yer knee, Ollie? Diya know?'
I'd been to every orthopedist in the East, but Felt knew better.
'Yer not eatin' right.'
I really wasn't very interested.
'Yer not eatin' enough salt.'
Maybe if I humor him he'll go away.
'Okay, Jack, I'll start eating more salt.'
Jesus, was he pleased! He walked off with this amazing look of accomplishment on his idiot face. Anyway, I was alone again. I let my whole pleasantly aching body slide into the whirlpool, closed my eyes and just sat there, up to my neck in warmth. Ahhhhhhh.
Jesus! Jenny would be waiting outside. I hope! Still! Jesus! How long had I lingered in that comfort while she was out there in the Cambridge cold? I set a new record for getting dressed. I wasn't even quite dry as I pushed open the center door of Dillon.
The cold air hit me. God, was it freezing. And dark. There was still a small cluster of fans. Mostly old hockey faithfuls, the grads who've never mentally shed the pads. Guys like old Jordan Jencks, who come to every single game, home or away. How do they do it? I mean, Jencks is a big banker. And why do they do it?
'Quite a spill you took, Oliver.'
'Yeah, Mr. Jencks. You know what kind of game they play.'
I was looking everywhere for Jenny. Had she left and walked all the way back to Radcliffe alone?
'Jenny?'
I took three or four steps away from the fans, searching desperately Suddenly she popped out from behind a bush, her face swathed in a scarf, only her eyes showing.
'Hey, Preppie, it's cold as hell out here.'
Was I glad to see her!
'Jenny!'
Like instinctively, I kissed her lightly on the forehead.
'Did I say you could?' she said.
'What?'
'Did I say you could kiss me?'
'Sorry. I was carried away.'
'I wasn't.'
We were pretty much all alone out there, and it was dark and cold and late. I kissed her again. But not on the forehead, and not lightly. It lasted a long nice time. When we stopped kissing, she was still holding on to my sleeves.
'I don't like it,' she said.
'What?'
'The fact that I like it.'
As we walked all the way back (I have a car, but she wanted to walk), Jenny held on to my sleeve. Not my arm, my sleeve. Don't ask me to explain that. At the doorstep of Briggs Hall, I did not kiss her good night.
'Listen, Jen, I may not call you for a few months.'
She was silent for a moment. A few moments.
Finally she asked, 'Why?'
'Then again, I may call you as soon as I get to my room.'
I turned and began to walk off.
'Bastard!' I heard her whisper.
I pivoted again and scored from a distance of twenty feet.
'See, Jenny, you can dish it out, but you can't take it!'
I would like to have seen the expression on her face, but strategy forbade my looking back.
My roommate, Ray Stratton, was playing poker with two football buddies as I entered the room.
'Hello, animals.'
They responded with appropriate grunts.
'Whatja get tonight, Ollie?' Ray asked.
'An assist and a goal,' I replied.
'Off Cavilleri.'
'None of your business,' I replied.
'Who's this?' asked one of the behemoths.
'Jenny Cavilleri,' answered Ray. 'Wonky music type.'
'I know that one,' said another. 'A real tight-ass.'
I ignored these crude and horny bastards as I untangled the phone and started to take it into my bedroom.
'She plays piano with the Bach Society,' said Stratton.
'What does she play with Barrett?'
'Probably hard to get!'
Oinks, grunts and guffaws. The animals were laughing.
'Gentlemen,' I announced as I took leave, 'up yours.'
I closed my door on another wave of subhuman noises, took off my shoes, lay back on the bed and dialed Jenny's number.
We spoke in whispers.
'Hey, Jen … '
'Yeah?'
'Jen … what would you say if I told you … '
I hesitated. She waited.
'I think … I'm in love with you.'
There was a pause. Then she answered very softly.
'I would say … you were full of shit.'
She hung up.
I wasn't unhappy. Or surprised.
3
I got hurt in the Cornell game.
It was my own fault, really. At a heated juncture, I made the unfortunate error of referring to their center as a 'fucking Canuck.' My oversight was in not remembering that four members of their team were Canadians — all, it turned out, extremely patriotic, well-built and within earshot. To add insult to injury, the penalty was called on me. And not a common one, either: five minutes for fighting. You should have heard the Cornell fans ride me when it was announced! Not many Harvard rooters had come way the hell up to Ithaca, New York, even though the Ivy title was at stake. Five minutes! I could see our coach tearing his hair out as I climbed into the box.
