Jackie Felt came scampering over. It was only then I realized that the whole right side of my face was a bloody mess. 'Jesus Christ,' he kept repeating as he worked me over with a styptic pencil.
'Jesus, Ollie.'
I sat quietly, staring blankly ahead. I was ashamed to look onto the ice, where my worst fears were quickly realized; Cornell scored. The Red fans screamed and bellowed and hooted. It was a tie now. Cornell could very possibly win the game — and with it, the Ivy title. Shit — and I had barely gone through half my penalty.
Across the rink, the minuscule Harvard contingent was grim and silent. By now the fans for both sides had forgotten me. Only one spectator still had his eyes on the penalty box. Yes, he was there.
'If the conference breaks in time, I'll try to get to Cornell.' Sitting among the Harvard rooters — but not rooting, of course — was Oliver Barrett III.
Across the gulf of ice, Old Stonyface observed in expressionless silence as the last bit of blood on the face of his only son was stopped by adhesive papers. What was he thinking, do you think?
Teh tch tch — or words to that effect?
'Oliver, if you like fighting so much, why don't you go out for the boxing team?'
'Exeter doesn't have a boxing team, Father.'
'Well, perhaps I shouldn't come up to your hockey games.'
'Do you think I fight for your benefit, Father?'
'Well, I wouldn't say 'benefit.''
But of course, who could tell what he was thinking? Oliver Barrett III was a walking, sometimes talking Mount Rushmore. Stonyface.
Perhaps Old Stony was indulging in his usual self-celebration: Look at me, there are extremely few Harvard spectators here this evening, and yet I am one of them. I, Oliver Barrett III, an extremely busy man with banks to run and so forth, I have taken the time to come up to Cornell for a lousy hockey game. How wonderful. (For whom?)
The crowd roared again, but really wild this time. Another Cornell goal. They were ahead. And I had two minutes of penalty to go! Davey Johnston skated up-ice, red-faced, angry. He passed right by me without so much as a glance. And did I notice tears in his eyes? I mean, okay, the title was at stake, but Jesus — tears! But then Davey, our captain, had this incredible streak going for him: seven years and he'd never played on a losing side, high school or college. It was like a minor legend. And he was a senior. And this was our last tough game.
Which we lost, 6–3.
After the game, an X ray determined that no bones were broken, and then twelve stitches were sewn into my cheek by Richard Selzer, M.D. Jackie Felt hovered around the med room, telling the Cornell physician how I wasn't eating right and that all this might have been averted had I been taking sufficient salt pills. Selzer ignored Jack, and gave me a stern warning about my nearly damaging 'the floor of my orbit' (those are the medical terms) and that not to play for a week would be the wisest thing. I thanked him. He left, with Felt dogging him to talk more of nutrition. I was glad to be alone.
I showered slowly, being careful not to wet my sore face. The Novocain was wearing off a little, but I was somehow happy to feel pain. 'I mean, hadn't I really fucked up? We'd blown the title, broken our own streak (all the seniors had been undefeated) and Davey Johnston's too. Maybe the blame wasn't totally mine, but right then I felt like it was.
There was nobody in the locker room. They must all have been at the motel already. I supposed no one wanted to see me or speak to me. With this terrible bitter taste in my mouth — I felt so bad I could taste it — I packed my gear and walked outside. There were not many Harvard fans out there in the wintry wilds of upstate New York.
'How's the cheek, Barrett?'
'Okay, thanks, Mr. Jencks.'
'You'll probably want a steak,' said another familiar voice. Thus spake Oliver Barrett III. How typical of him to suggest the old-fashioned cure for a black eye.
'Thank you, Father,' I said. 'The doctor took care of it.' I indicated the gauze pad covering Selzer's twelve stitches.
'I mean for your stomach, son.'
At dinner, we had yet another in our continuing series of nonconversations, all of which commence with 'How've you been?' and conclude with 'Anything I can do?'
'How've you been, son?'
'Fine, sir.'
'Does your face hurt?'
'No, sir.'
It was beginning to hurt like hell.
'I'd like Jack Wells to look at it on Monday.'
'Not necessary, Father.'
'He's a specialist — '
'The Cornell doctor wasn't exactly a veterinarian,' I said, hoping to dampen my father's usual snobbish enthusiasm for specialists, experts, and all other 'top people.'
'Too bad,' remarked Oliver Barrett III, in what I first took to be a stab at humor, 'you did get a beastly cut.'
'Yes, sir,' I said. (Was I supposed to chuckle?)
And then I wondered if my father's quasi-witticism had not been intended as some sort of implicit reprimand for my actions on the ice.
'Or were you implying that I behaved like an animal this evening?'
His expression suggested some pleasure at the fact that I had asked him. But he simply replied, 'You were the one who mentioned veterinarians.' At this point, I decided to study the menu.
As the main course was served, Old Stony launched into another of his simplistic sermonettes, this one, if I recall — and I try not to — concerning victories and defeats. He noted that we had lost the title (very sharp of you, Father), but after all, in sport what really counts is not the winning but the playing. His remarks sounded suspiciously close to a paraphrase of the Olympic motto, and I sensed this was the overture to a put-down of such athletic trivia as Ivy titles. But I was not about to feed him any Olympic straight lines, so I gave him his quota of 'Yes sir's' and shut up.
We ran the usual conversational gamut, which centers around Old Stony's favorite nontopic, my plans.
'Tell me, Oliver, have you heard from the Law School?'
'Actually, Father, I haven't definitely decided on law school.'
'I was merely asking if law school had definitely decided on you.'
Was this another witticism? Was I supposed to smile at my father's rosy rhetoric?
'No, sir. I haven't heard.'
'I could give Price Zimmermann a ring — '
'No!' I interrupted as an instant reflex, 'Please don't, sir.'
'Not to influence,' O.B. III said very uprightly, 'just to inquire.'
'Father, I want to get the letter with everyone else. Please.'
'Yes. Of course. Fine.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Besides there really isn't much doubt about your getting in,' he added.
I don't know why, but O.B. III has a way of disparaging me even while uttering laudatory phrases.
'It's no cinch,' I replied. 'They don't have a hockey team, after all.'
I have no idea why I was putting myself down. Maybe it was because he was taking the opposite view.
'You have other qualities,' said Oliver Barrett III, but declined to elaborate. (I doubt if he could have.)
The meal was as lousy as the conversation, except that I could have predicted the staleness of the rolls even before they arrived, whereas I can never predict what subject my father will set blandly before me.
'And there's always the Peace Corps,' he remarked, completely out of the blue.
