The Squared Circle

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The Squared Circle

James W. Bennett

Author's note

I would like the reader to understand that even though real place names (for the most part) comprise its setting,
The Squared Circle
is exclusively a work of fiction. All characters—as well as events—in it are products of imagination, with no basis in any actual person, living or dead.

The setting for
The Squared Circle
is real because it is designed to function centrally in the story. The southernmost tip of the state of Illinois, traditionally referred to as “Little Egypt,” has long been a basketball hotbed, particularly at the high school level.

As an author with southern Illinois roots, I hold Southern Illinois University and its athletic program in high esteem. All coaches, players, fans, administrators, and events in this story are fictitious, no link to SIU history or procedures is intended.

1

Snell asked the question as if what he expected from Sonny was an admission of guilt: “Did you shoot free throws after practice?”

“What d'you think?”

“How many?”

“What d'you think?”

“You shot a hundred, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How many did you make?”

“I just told you. I made a hundred.”

“I said how many did you
shoot
, not how many did you make.”

Sonny looked up from his book. He had already decided he didn't like Snell. “I told you. I shot a hundred and I made a hundred.”

“You're saying you made a hundred in a row?”

“No, Snell,
you're
saying it.” Sonny decided to go back to the paragraph he was trying to read.

“You hear this shit?” said Snell to Robert Lee. “He says he made a hundred free throws in a row after the workout.”

Robert Lee was leafing through a recent copy of
Penthouse
. Without looking up he said, “That's what I know. Tell me something I don't know.”

“You believe him?”

Robert Lee shrugged. “I've seen him do it before. I don't think he'd leave the gym without his hundred straight free throws.”

“I've never seen him do it,” said Snell.

Sonny put the book down again. “That's because you're never around after we scrimmage. If you want to see it, you'll have to hang.”

“Right. I'm going to hang out afterwards, just so I can watch you shoot free throws.”

“Then get off my case.”

Sonny and his two pledge brothers were sitting in one of the upstairs study rooms in the fraternity house. They were waiting restlessly for the second lineup of the year. Mounted on the wall were a few fraternity paddles made of blond polished wood. The paddles were half an inch thick and 26 inches long. On each paddle, the names of pledge father and son were burned in charred capital letters: MIKE '97 from DOC '96. TONY '98 from NILES '96.

Robert Lee and Snell were both scholarship basketball players like Sonny, but from what Sonny could tell from the pickup games in Davies, the old gym, Snell was going to be a practice player strictly, while Robert Lee was an overachiever, one of those guys who got by on desire.

The book Sonny was trying to read was one on chimpanzees by Jane Goodall, assigned by his Intro to Anthropology professor. His interest was so marginal that he kept rereading the same paragraph. The obstacles to concentration began with the imminent lineup, but continued with Robert Lee's interruptions to show beaver shots from his magazine. For his part, Snell was amusing himself by setting his own farts on fire with a Bic lighter.

Snell still wasn't finished with his agenda. He turned to Robert Lee again and said, “Youngblood shoots his hundred free throws a day, and we don't even start real practices for another week. Then he'll have to shoot his free throws after he wins the wind sprints and the suicides.”

There was no answer from Robert Lee, so Snell went on, “You know what you are, Youngblood?”

“I give up,” said Sonny.

“You're a fuckin' fanatic. You're a basketball junkie. It's like there's nothing else in life but hoops. You're a fucking fanatical basketball junkie.”

These remarks pissed Sonny off. He was about to answer,
And you're nothing but a glorified walk-on
, but then suddenly, the door was kicked open. It was Pinky, a chunky sophomore. Across his flushed face was a mad grin. Sonny felt his stomach constrict.

“Guess what, slugs?” asked Pinky. “Guess what it's time for?”

“We know, we know,” said Robert Lee with a weary expression.

“You know shit!” roared Pinky. He was full-out drunk. In his right hand he was holding what was left of a gallon of Mad Dog wine; his pudgy index finger was looped through the glass ring at the bottle's neck. “A fucking slug knows jackshit!”

Robert Lee lowered his face and murmured, “Yes sir.”

In his left hand, Pinky had a firm grip on his fraternity paddle. “It's time for the goddamn lineup,” he declared. He tilted up the jug to drink some wine with a gurgling sound. Finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched loudly. Twice. “I said it's time for the goddamn lineup. Get off your dumb butts and follow me downstairs. Fucking slugs.”

Dutifully they followed Pinky, who swayed as he walked. At the last study room before the stairs, they stopped before the open doorway. Wayne Burkhart was in the study room, lying on a couch, reading a book.

“Time for the lineup, Wayne,” said Pinky. “You wouldn't want to be late.”

“We'll see.” Wayne, a senior, was Sonny's pledge father; but having nothing in common, the two of them had little contact with each other.

“Hummin' you!” shouted Pinky at the top of his lungs. He twirled the gallon jug like a lariat, then released it through the open door of the study room. It smashed against the wall behind Wayne's head before he had a chance to duck. The bottle shattered. Red wine streaked down the wall.

“You asshole,” said Burkhart.

“HaHA!” Pinky threw back his head and laughed. Sonny wasn't too surprised; he'd seen Pinky
hum
people before.

“Asshole,” Burkhart said again. Looking at the shattered glass and moisture on his clothes, he sat up and put the book aside.

“Let's go, slugs!” commanded Pinky. He led them down the stairs.

They went through the parlor and the living room. In the living room, there was a large stone fireplace against one wall. Once, when Stinky was drunk, Sonny saw him take a piss on the gold carpet; there was still a stain, in front of the fireplace.

Lineups were always held in the dining room. Sonny, Robert Lee, and Snell were the last ones. The other pledges were already in place, seated in their chairs.

“Well,” said Harris sarcastically. “Glad you children could join us.”

“Fucking slugs,” muttered Pinky. He belched loudly again.

When the three took their seats, all nine pledges were in place. In a lineup, it was a requirement that you had to sit rigid on your wooden chair, with both feet flat on the floor, and keep your arms folded across your chest. Your chin had to be pulled in tight, and your eyes staring straight ahead at all times.

Harris, the house president, would lead the lineup. He held his fraternity paddle in his right hand and wiggled it back and forth. He was known for his sarcasm, but usually it went over Sonny's head.

Sonny sat stiff and staring. He focused his eyes on a knothole in the tongue-and-groove pine paneling opposite. He could feel his palms begin to sweat; to him, the lineups felt like betrayal. Everyone said that lineups were illegal, but that didn't seem to prevent them.

As soon as the noise died down, Harris started to speak. “I'm glad to see you, Robert Lee. I've got some plans for you.”

“Yes sir,” said Robert Lee, his eyes straight ahead. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don't thank me yet, but you and I have a score to settle. You know what I mean, don't you, Robert Lee?”

“I think so, sir.”

“You bet your sweet ass. You get your buns ready.” Harris spoke quietly, but his eyes were glittering.

“Yessir.”

By now, the room was silent. Harris lit a cigar before he continued, and clenched it between his teeth. “A few of you guys are going to get your ass burned tonight. Robert Lee won't be the only one.”

Sonny swallowed hard and sat ultra-still, hoping not to be noticed. But at six feet five inches, it was never easy to be inconspicuous.

“In a few months,” Harris went on, “several of you slugs will become active members of this house, although God only knows why. Most of you are too dumb to find your ass with both hands.”

“They show me no hair!” shouted Pinky.

As if on cue, the 35 actives in attendance pounded their fraternity paddles on the floor like baseball bats. Then stopped abruptly.

“We can't blame anybody but ourselves,” the president continued. “We chose to pledge you losers, and now we're stuck with you. And you thought we had perfect judgment, didn't you, Youngblood?”

It was several seconds before Sonny realized that Harris was speaking to him.

“I said, you thought we had perfect judgment, didn't you, Youngblood?” Harris's voice was hard. He was touching Sonny's forehead with the tip of his paddle.

“Yes, I did,” said Sonny. But he could feel how dry his mouth was.

“Yes, you did what?”

“Yes, I did, sir.”

“Try to stay with us, Youngblood; the questions may get harder.”

Skinner came forward to stand next to Harris. At six feet four and 235 pounds, he was the starting tight end on the football team. He was massive in the arms and upper torso from years in the weight room. He rested his paddle easily on his right shoulder. “I'm gonna have to bust Woodson's ass,” he said simply.