The university was in Oakland, a tranquil town of ten thousand. Broad dirt streets were lined with oaks and whitewashed fences and houses. I took a streetcar up Seventh from the ferry slip. At Broadway workmen were finishing the Central Pacific’s impressive new depot; soon the overland journey would end here, not in Sacramento.
Near Lake Merritt—actually not a lake but an estuary named for the current mayor—stood a new girls’ school run by the Convent of the Sacred Heart. Beyond it, projecting from a grove of oaks to the northeast, rose the cupola of a university building.
I walked slowly, trying to fit my mind to the lazy afternoon. I was starting to feel disoriented again, as if the milkiness were about to come on.
The campus covered the blocks between Twelfth and Fourteenth, Harrison and Franklin. Over the largest of the white frame buildings hung a Bear flag; a sign on the portico identified it as the College of California and offered the information that university courses were now added. In the hallway I found a class schedule and faculty roster. Physics Professor John LeConte—I recognized his surname from a Berkeley street—was acting president.
The building was empty. Classes took place between ten and two. It was now almost three. I was on my way out when an apple-cheeked boy appeared carrying books in a leather strap. I stopped him.
He introduced himself as George Beaver—“Eager,” of course, to his classmates—and was a proud member of the freshman or “first” class, one of eight boys who had passed the grueling entrance exams. I asked what they involved.
“Oh, the customary,” he said airily—a young Millar in the making, I thought. “Higher arithmetic, including metrics, square and cube roots, algebra as far as quadratic equations, the first four books of Loomis’s Geometry. English grammar, U.S. history, and geography.”
“Is that all?” I said wryly, impressed.
“Those’re to enter the regular colleges,” he said disdainfully, explaining that to get into the elite Harvard-style curriculum, one had to pass additional tests.
“Such as?”
“Latin Grammar: four books of Caesar, six of Virgil’s Aeneid, six of Cicero’s orations. Greek grammar: Exenophon’s Anabasis, three books.”
He rattled them off like items on a shopping list and added that so far they’d spent class time debating such subjects as who was the greater general, Caesar or Napoleon. “Of course, in the common university technical colleges,” he finished, “standards are less exacting.”
“Of course,” I said, thinking that he seemed more like Stanford material. “How much is tuition?”
“Sixty dollars, plus admission fees—they said our yearly costs could reach five hundred.”
Clearly not for the masses. He said that no dorms existed yet; students roomed with Oakland families. Freshmen had to be at least sixteen—his own age—and provide testimonials of sound moral character.
“Any women enrolled?”
He looked at me as if I were from another planet.
“Tell you what, Eager,” I said. “Here’s what I think. You’ve got to get some coeds in here, move the campus to Berkeley where it belongs, and start calling yourselves the Golden Bears.”
“Golden Bears? Whatever for?”
“For when beanies and bonfire rallies come in.”
He gave me the outer-space look again.
I got back to the city—already San Francisco was called that—around five and decided to catch the end of the game. Waiting for a horsecar at the ferry station, I glanced at a bulletin board. In stunned surprise I saw a flyer headed: CAPTAIN F. J. O’DONOVAN. It advertised the speech I’d heard him make in Cincinnati. It was sponsored by the local Wolfe Tone Fenian Circle and was to be held the next night.
McDermott and Le Caron had failed.
So he had come himself.
I arrived in time to see Sweasy field a bouncer and flip to Gould for the final out to nail down a 54-5 victory. While the teams cheered each other I looked over Millar’s shoulder at the score book. “Is this right?” I said. “Eleven homers for us?”
“George alone had four.” Millar gave me his owlish look. “Enjoy your day?”
“Mostly.” I was trying to fight off thoughts of O’Donovan. “How about filling me in on the highlights?”
“Why me?”
“Hell, you know players can’t be trusted to give us hard-working press guys the straight stuff.”
“You know, Fowler, the Enquirer didn’t have the slightest inkling of what they were getting in you.”
“Aw, you’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not.”
The next morning, Friday, October 1, New York’s Gold Room finally reopened. I cashed my certificates at Wells Fargo, barely able to cover Twain’s thousand. I sent him a draft with a note saying I didn’t think the Avitor was a good investment.
That afternoon we met the Atlantics, the third San Francisco club to test us. Only four hundred turned out—the result of cold driving winds and lack of excitement over the Atlantics’ chances. Among them was Elise Holt, who caused a stir in her lacquered carriage.
She left after Andy’s first time up. Which was just as well, for the game was truly awful. The Atlantics muffed everything. Their hurler issued eleven walks despite our desire to swing at anything in reach. With darkness falling and the contest only in its fourth inning, we went to ridiculous lengths. Allison batted with one hand and George leaped to swipe at pitches over his head. At last the requisite five innings were completed. The score was 76—5. Our record was a neat 50-0.
Next day we faced the California Nine, made up of the best players from local clubs. This was the contest many had awaited, and over three thousand turned out. Betting was heavy on whether we’d win by as much as a two-to-one margin.
The Stockings were ravenous for some genuine competition. All but Andy, that is, who was red-eyed and irritable. He told me that Elise’s show would leave town that night.
“You know,” I said tentatively, “there are lots of—”
“Don’t start, Sam. I fancy her.” He eyed me defiantly. “She fancies me, too.”
“I’m sure she does, Andy.”
He trudged off. I felt bad for him, guessing that he’d never before mixed love with sex. I
