AT 29 (43 page)

“Do you dance?” she asked.

“I don't know how.” Nigel stammered, embarrassed.

“Then do you talk?”

They spent the rest of the evening chatting easily. When it was time to go they exchanged promises to write. And, over the ensuing months they corresponded weekly by letter. They met again the next year, inseparable except for music practice and their
performances. They kissed for the first time while walking the streets near the Sydney Harbor Bridge.

He was sixteen when his athletic skills brought notice. He stood six foot five with a powerful physique that made him all but unstoppable on the field. Professional teams from Geelong, St. Kilda, and as far away as Fremantle sent scouts. Eventually, the Saints came forward with a contract offer. Nigel brought Sister Marie to meet the team's representative. She had her doubts. She foresaw broken limbs and rattled skulls, but her greater concern was Nigel's fragile emotions, which continued to suffer from the periodic depressions for which only music seemed to offer relief. His stellar academic performance and its earlier than normal completion meant that he was free to move on to a career in the sport he loved, but she feared that he was too young, that he did not yet have the mental toughness to withstand the pressures he would face. It was over this danger that she grilled the poorly prepared St. Kilda man.

In her heart she knew she could not prevent Nigel from pursuing his dream. Were she to invoke her guardianship and say no, she knew it would only be temporary until he was eighteen and could make his own way. Waiting those two extra years might enable him to gain the mental fortitude to deal with potential failure, but the cost would be great. He would descend into a chasm of depression. He would hate her. This she could not bear. So, at the end of that long afternoon she penned her consent and the St. Kilda scout fled from the most grueling signing he had ever endured.

By age seventeen, Nigel Whitehurst, the boyhood star, took the field for his new team. The yearlong preparation had been daunting. As feared, his brain had been rattled by a concussion and a hamstring pulled so severely that it took two months of therapy to heal. But, the Saints saw promise in the boy. He had a knack for the goal, something the perennial last place team needed desperately. Still, there was much debate among the coaches about bringing him up. Another year of seasoning would simply make him better and prepare him for an illustrious career, perhaps epic stardom. Money, as always, won out. The team's owners saw the chance to turn a profit for the first time in years. Just moving up in the standings, behind the youngest player in the league, would assure sellouts.

At first, he fulfilled all expectations. Through the first quarter of the schedule he was the Saints' leading scorer and ranked among the top ten in the league. But the long schedule began to take its toll. By the tenth match the brutal hitting that now targeted his every move, produced aches and pains that did not easily heal. He was facing bigger and stronger men. The far more punishing tackles sapped his strength. By mid-season he was sidelined.

Sister Marie did not attend Nigel's professional matches, but she kept in close contact with others who watched him play. When she learned that he was off the field she knew the effect would be devastating. Even with all of his physical and intellectual talents, she recognized that he lacked resilience. In part, this was due to his easy success. He knew little about how to deal with failure. With no time for other pursuits and no place of retreat like the orphanage she feared that he would be unable to rebound.

And, she was right. Nigel slipped into deep depression. Soon, he isolated himself from his coaches and teammates, speaking little and rushing off to sit alone in his team owned apartment after practice. His calls to Reina became less frequent until she was compelled to call him every night, just to be sure he was well. She also recognized his
depression because she knew the symptoms, having witnessed it first hand during one of his choir's annual visits to Sydney. Their relationship suffered from distance and, try as she might, she could not breach his wall of silence.

During the final weeks of the season the Saints staged a rally. Nigel no longer figured in the matches. The coaches were impatient with his depressed state, seeing it as selfish pique rather than the psychological paralysis it really was. But when the team went on a win streak that put them into finals contention, everyone became energized. Even Nigel, accustomed to winning, began to shake-off his lonely self-hate. The daily practices became more spirited as each player smelled victory on the coming weekend. The weeks of relative inactivity gave Nigel's body time to recuperate. He regained much of his strength and was healed from the nagging injuries that dogged his mid-season performance. His play in practice once again returned to its former level. The coaches saw a secret weapon that could be employed during the season's last match, St. Kilda's chance to reach the finals for the first time in a decade.

The tragedy happened with five minutes remaining in the final quarter against archrival Collingwood. The bruising battle had taken a toll on both teams as bodies slammed against one another, only to eke out meager gains in a low scoring tie. From the opening second, Nigel took tackle after bruising tackle. To his credit, he fumbled only once, but often found himself at the bottom of the pile where fists bludgeoned his body in an attempt to wrestle the footy from his arms. He was spat upon, kneed in the groin and gouged by thumbs craftily applied out of sight of the umpires. Both teams knew a score would be hard to overcome.

Collingwood controlled the action and with dogged determination, moved the footy forward in slow, but steady progress. As time wound down, the strategy was clear, maintain possession, run down the clock and gamble on a last second score just as time ran out. Nigel was just as aware of his club's predicament as everyone else. St. Kilda had to regain possession or its season was over. His legs were heavy, but he was convinced that only he could gather the speed to break through and snare a Collingwood handball. He stayed at the front, surveying the opposing line and marking the Collingwood player he expected to get the ball. Sure enough, the footy moved down the field in the player's direction. But as the last handball skimmed the air, Nigel made his move, leaping over a defender and intercepting it cleanly. He gathered the footy into his arms at full speed and sprinted toward the St. Kilda goals. The stands erupted as he pulled away. Collingwood players scrambled to follow with St. Kilda's players tearing at shirts and shorts in an unabashed attempt to hold them back. Any number of penalties could have been called, but the umpires held their whistles.

As he neared the goals, Nigel was certain he would have the chance to pull up and kick the ball through. The nearest Collingwood player was close, but no legal tackle would have the momentum to knock him off his feet. Nevertheless, as he brought his powerful leg up to meet the footy, a jarring hit from behind propelled his body into the air. As the footy slipped from his hands and sputtered out of bounds, he came down in a heap, consumed with pain. The crowd noise never entered his ears as he passed out.

The illegal back tackle that ruptured Nigel's spleen, tore the ligaments in his knee and fractured his ankle, only served to steal St. Kilda's chances. Despite the post-match reporting and subsequent suspension of its player, Collingwood was victorious. A huge scrum broke out on the first play after Nigel was taken from the field on a stretcher. Even
St. Kilda's coaches joined the fray, so enraged that they had to be forcibly restrained. A few of St. Kilda's fans tried to climb the barriers to get at the Collingwood bench, but security rushed out to discourage their efforts. Some of the Collingwood players looked over their shoulders nervously. The blatant assault was shown on live television a dozen times, depicting the horrible effect it had on Nigel. Sister Marie rushed to the hospital as soon as she was told. His spleen was removed the next morning. His ankle was put in a cast and his knee required two operations and a year of physical therapy.

His short-lived career was finished. When it was clear that he would not be healed for the start of the next season, the Saints abruptly released him. No other team showed interest. Some of his teammates and coaches stayed in touch, even visiting him during his recuperation at the orphanage where Sister Marie insisted he return.

Depression overwhelmed, triggered by his crushed hopes. A young assistant coach, his playing days also prematurely ended by injury, introduced him to the one remedy he'd found for the blues, Magic Green, elsewhere called marijuana. It became Nigel's escape in the face adversity from then on.

They emerged into the sunlight, chatting lightly about the old days. The studio was across the campus in what was once a barn, one of several that Thomas Overton had constructed for wife number six's show horses. Daisy converted it to Blossom's recording center when she took control of the property. The building housed two studios different in size and scope. Studio A was large with six platforms of varying heights that could accommodate an orchestra. The room was oval shaped so sound could be directed and redirected according to whichever instruments predominated. A dozen microphones hung from the ceiling where they could be dropped to any height desired. The recording equipment was state of the art with hundreds of controls, allowing the engineers to manipulate every nuance of sound. The mixing and dubbing equipment was separately located in a cramped control booth that served both studios. Studio B was much smaller, just large enough to support a twelve-piece group. It lacked the sophistication of the larger studio's design and, therefore, saw far more use from the less complicated musicians who simply wanted to create and record on chairs in the center of its flat surface.

Jimmy looked forward to being in the studio again. Over the years he had become familiar with the controls and even showed some talent when it came to mastering many of the equipment's subtleties. During the label's heyday, he was sometimes called in when the engineers hit a wall.

Cindy unconsciously slid her arm into his as they walked down the path. “I really mean it, you look better than ever. I hope you keep it up.”

“I intend to, but not because some suit is looking over my shoulder.”

“Miles? He's fine. You just don't know him yet.”

Jimmy glanced at her. “You like him?”

Cindy knew him well enough to know what was behind the question. “What? Oh no…you don't think…” Jimmy averted his eyes, but not before catching her blush. He backed off.

“How have you been?”

“Very busy.” She seemed grateful for the subject change, “Between rounding up the two groups in London then coming back here to record for the last two months, it's been a merry-go-round.”

“I'm sorry about what happened.” He decided to get it out.

Cindy tightened her grip on his arm. “I know, Jimmy.”

“I realize the train wreck I caused for a lot of people, especially you.”

“Ellis told me you were trying to get straightened out. You look like you're on your way.”

“I don't want this to be hard for you?”

“Working together?”

“Yes.”

“I was nervous when I heard you were coming in today, but, so far, it's not what I expected. I'm truly happy to see you. No heartbreak and no second thoughts.”

“I want to be friends.”

“We are and we always will be.”

They stopped to compare notes before entering Studio B. “I'm stuck on the last cut on each album. I can't get the sound right. My plan was to have them go through them again until I can figure out what's wrong.”

“Any problem children?”

“I replaced two members in one of the groups; the bass player because the original guy was doing coke and the keyboardist because she refused to leave London, boyfriend issues.”

“They all get along?”

“Seem to. I haven't spent much time with them on the outside.”

“Where are they staying?”

“On the grounds.”

“They've been shacked up here for two months?” Jimmy remembered a small building that was made into efficiency apartments where players bunked when needed.

“Miles won't spill for a hotel in the city. Maybe when we make some money.”

“After two months here on the farm you're lucky they haven't revolted.”

“He's got them back on their heels. Threats one day and promises the next.”

“I know about the threats. He's doing that with everybody?”

“At the moment there's only you and them. When these albums get done he wants me on a plane to Canada and then California.”

“Are you okay with this new role?”

“If we can deliver something, yes.”

In less than thirty seconds Jimmy knew what was wrong and he didn't think it had anything to do with the music. Cindy introduced each musician. The groups went by Rebellion and Weak Knees. Although they were all showing signs of burnout, they were attentive. He studied them as they came forward to shake hands. One of the girls, Melinda, the new keyboardist with Rebellion, looked barely twenty and was striking with a captivating smile. She was short and shapely, with dark rings of fatigue under her eyes. After the introductions Cindy explained Jimmy's role.

“You're taking over?” Melinda asked.

“No,” Jimmy answered, honestly. “Lending my ears.”

He noticed several of the group lowering their eyes to the floor. They looked lost. He knew there was little to be done until he dissected every cut. But, in their current state he was afraid that even if he had some ideas, they wouldn't be ready to take his direction. Something more than mere fatigue was going on. Something Cindy either didn't recognize or was afraid to mention. Another band member spoke up.

“Do you want us to play some?”