The Squared Circle (6 page)

He was talking about the NIT in New York City. “That's not for another week,” Sonny replied. “I'll be ready when the time comes.”

Sissy's office was in ancient Allyn Hall on the perimeter of the old campus quad. Although he'd passed it many times on the way to informal workouts at Davies, he'd never been inside the building. If there was a comfortable way to talk to her, Sonny didn't know what it might be, so he started with an irrelevant question. “Do you think Uncle Seth will be pissed when he finds out I quit the fraternity?”

“I have no idea, Sonny. Are you in a fraternity?”

“I was, until last week. I dropped out.”

“I'd like to see that as a problem, but in my mind a person who separates himself from the Greek system should be commended for an act of intelligence.”

Sonny absorbed her remark a moment or two before he continued, “I'm going to tell him I just don't have the time, which is the truth. Not with classes and practice.”

“Did you enjoy the fraternity?”

“No.”

“Then that should be reason enough for quitting, shouldn't it?”

“Probably. I just don't want to hurt his feelings, I guess.”

“Why is it so important what he thinks?” Sissy asked him. “Why are you so concerned about Seth's approval?”

Sonny looked at her. He felt like saying,
He's your father, for Christ sake
. Instead, he told her, “Where would I be now if it wasn't for Uncle Seth and Aunt Jane? They took me in when my mother went to the puzzle house.”

“I know, Sonny. I'm glad for that.”

“He supported my whole basketball career through high school. He took care of recruiters, summer camps, and just about everything else. It was like I had my own agent.”

Sissy answered, “I'm pleased to hear it. I hope he did it for the right reasons.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

It was somehow her cue to activate some impatient body language. She sat up straighter in her chair. “Let's just say your uncle Seth hasn't exactly made a habit of working at things that don't benefit him personally. Have you never heard of doing the right thing for the wrong reason?”

“He's your father, isn't he?”

“Yes, indeed. Sonny, your uncle and I have a long and checkered history, which you and I don't need to explore at this time. If he supported you, I'm happy to know it. In any case, belonging to a fraternity, or not, has to be your decision.”

Of course she was right. He looked out the window where the sycamore limbs, large and bare of leaves, mottled with missing bark, reached their bony branches right up near the glass. It was a clear sky, but the sun in it was the pale November kind.

“Why did you come to see me?” Sissy asked him. “You're not here to talk about fraternities.”

“That's true.” He was still staring out the window at the branches. “I've got a big problem. I dropped a course.”

“What course?”

“Anthropology. Intro to.”

“Why did you drop it?”

“I think I was flunking.”

“Then maybe dropping it was the right thing to do.”

He looked into her eyes. “I've only got eleven hours now; I'm afraid I'm not going to be eligible.”

“You're talking about basketball now. Are you saying that you have to be carrying more than eleven hours to be eligible for basketball?”

“That's what I'm saying.”

“And you didn't know this when you dropped Anthropology?”

Sonny shook his head. “I probably should have. Robert Lee told me last night. He's one of the other players on the team. I thought eligibility was based on the courses you're registered for.”

“And apparently it's not?”

“It gets worse. I might not even be eligible second semester. I might not have what they call
satisfactory academic progress
. Not with just eleven hours.”

“Have you talked to your academic advisor?”

“He's on the A.D.'s staff. He'll be pissed big-time.”

“Will he know?”

“All our academic stuff goes through the athletic director's office.” At this point there seemed more than he could tell her. Or would know how to tell her. There was eligibility, but there was also trust in the athletic administration. Sometimes it felt like your treatment wasn't open. There was the possibility of the NCAA examining everybody's transcript. When the basketball office found out, what if they tried to hide it?
Then where will I be?
Finally he said to her, “Sometimes it's like you can't even take a piss without the right person's permission. Or that's how it seems. Excuse my language.”

For the first time, Sissy laughed. “Sonny, forgive me for being blunt with you, but I have no patience at all with varsity athletic programs in college. There are universities where some of the best high school students are denied admission, yet basketball and football players can be admitted with ACT scores of fifteen.”

“I know all about that. What am I supposed to do?”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “It's a corrupt sort of business, but you're not its creator. Why are you telling me all of this?”

Sonny decided he might just as well say it. “I just thought that since you're a professor, there might be something you could do.”

“Do? I don't know of anyone who could reinstate you in a class once you've dropped it.”

Sonny was shaking his head. Since he was this far, though, he might as well go for the rest. “That's not it. I only need one hour. I thought there might be something you could do.”

At first, she didn't say a word. Slowly, and with some discomfort evident, she wheeled her desk chair close to him, using her feet to propel herself. She clamped his left hand, top and bottom. “Cousin, Cousin. Are you asking me to commit academic fraud for a jock?”

“No, nothing phony.” He tried to imagine how preposterous this request must sound, and how vague. “You have to understand, I'm not good at expressing myself. I just thought there might be something; I'm not sure what.”

She let go his hand. When she stood up, she did so slowly. “Come with me. I'll buy you a Coke at the student center.”

This part was a surprise. “I'll go with you, but I can't accept the Coke.”

“Why is that?”

“It's probably a gift. It's probably a violation.”

“From your own cousin?” Then she began laughing and laughing, for what seemed like the longest time.

Sonny finally interrupted, “What's so funny?”

“You don't see the humor in this?” she asked him. “I would say it's downright comical.”

“All I said was, it might be against NCAA rules.”

“Come with me, Cuz.”

They sat in the student center McDonald's, but Sonny paid for the two soft drinks. “Let me see your hands,” Sissy said.

“What?”

“Put your hands on the table; I want to look at them.”

The long, strong fingers he spread covered nearly half of the Formica top on the tiny table. “Why am I doing this?” he asked Sissy.

“You're probably strong as an ox, aren't you?” she asked. When she said “Okay,” Sonny put his hands back in his lap. She wanted to know if he'd ever done any carpentry.

“Some, at Uncle Seth's. I always got A's in shop. So what's the point of these questions, anyway?”

“The point is, I may actually have something, unlikely as it seems.”

“Have what?” Sonny asked eagerly.

Sissy was rubbing her closed eyes. He noted the long fingers with the irregular nails. Other than the gray in her hair, and the well-defined crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes, she didn't really look her age.

“Have what?” he asked again.

“Do you know anything about art?” she asked.

Even if he needed a favor, Sonny wasn't prepared to lie. “Not actually. I always took shop instead of art.”

“I need some help with a restoration project,” she said. “I have to get some fresco panels taken down and transported from Pyramid State Park. I'm working on a grant from the National Endowment.”

Words like
fresco panels
and
national endowment
didn't mean much to Sonny. “And you could give me credit for helping you?”

“I could give you an hour of independent study. The panels have to be transported safely by second semester. I have a seminar that's going to work on restoring them. It will be hard work getting them here, worth an hour's credit at least.”

“Don't forget, I only need one hour.”

“I'm not forgetting. I had an art major picked out for this, but he dropped out of school.”

“So let me do it,” said Sonny.

Sissy searched his eyes for several moments before she answered. “You're so young, aren't you?”

“I'll be nineteen at the end of next month. You know how old I am.”

“How's your mother?”

“She's the same, I suppose.”
Why is she changing the subject with a question like this?
“I see her about once a month, but I don't think she recognizes me. She's been catatonic. This is off the subject, isn't it?”

“Maybe and maybe not.” Sissy was smiling, but it wasn't teasing. It seemed like a patient and fond smile. “Actually, it might work out nicely. You're strong and you have some experience with tools and materials.”

Where she was headed seemed promising, so Sonny didn't say anything. Sissy added, “It would take us clear through December, I imagine, which is well past the end of the semester.”

“I don't think that would be a problem. I'd have the team, but no classes; there should be enough free time.” In spite of himself, he was starting to breathe a sigh of relief. He waited a moment before he added, “It seems perfect to me, Sissy. You'd have your project ready to go and I'd be eligible. I know you're eligible if you're carrying twelve hours.”

“It's perfectly
political
, that's for sure,” she replied. “I have no interest in basketball, and you have no interest in art. What could be better?”

It wasn't the first time in his life he'd observed her sarcasm, which could just about blow you away. “It just seems to me like we'd be helping each other out,” he said quietly.

“And it seems to me we'd be using each other. Would it bother you at all to earn credit if you have no real interest in the subject matter?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “That's what I do every day. What would bother me is going ineligible. Basketball is my whole life.”

She reached upon the table to touch his hand, which was wrapped around his Coke. She gave a long sigh. “Cousin, Cousin. I'm going to need a little time to think about this. There are art majors who could help once the semester is over, but I can't wait that long to get started. Besides that, I have the go-ahead from my doctor to start working on the project. Give me a day or two to see if I can lock my conscience up in the closet.”

“Okay,” said Sonny. He chose to see this as extremely hopeful.

She searched his eyes again. “It might be nice to get acquainted, huh?”

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

“No promises,” she reminded him. She was taking a small spiral notebook and a ballpoint from her large canvas bag. “I'll need your phone number,” she said.

3

It was Robert Lee's opinion that there were better ways to spend Thanksgiving Day than sitting on a charter flight, but Sonny knew they were headed for New York City and the Big Apple NIT. “No, there aren't,” was his terse reply.

Luther announced with contempt that the Salukis were ranked 21st in the country in
USA Today's
preseason poll. It seemed like a pretty high honor to Sonny, but Luther threw the paper aside. “Shit, man, say twenty teams better than us? No way.”

On the trip, Sonny would be rooming with Robert Lee. Snell was left at home because only 12 could make the traveling squad. When they reached their midtown Manhattan hotel, Robert Lee flopped himself on one of the two queen-size beds and wallowed in the luxurious spread. “I could get used to this, man.”

Sonny laughed, but his interest in their accomodations was minimal; standing at the threshold of his collegiate career, he was too much on edge. His interest in the sights and sounds of Manhattan was only slightly higher. This was just a town for playing basketball, like Mounds, Illinois, or Cobden.

Madison Square Garden, however, was a different matter, an awe-inspiring shrine permanent on the pilgrimage of basketball holies. “Jesus Christ,” said Robert Lee. “I thought our arena was big.”

“The Assembly Hall at the U of I is as big as this,” said Sonny. But that fact didn't mitigate the reverence he felt. He spent so much time gawking worshipfully at the height and breadth of this basketball mecca that Workman, one of Gentry's assistants, told him, “Time to get in your game head, Sonny. This is just another gym.”

“Right.”

“Baskets here are ten feet, free throw line is fifteen. This is the same as the playground.”

“Right.” Sonny began pouring in three-point arcers. The photographers and the Minicams seemed to grow out of the floor like crops.

A free copy of
The New York Times
was perched on each table in the hotel dining room. Tournament coverage in the sports section included pictures of Sonny and Luther, as well as high profile players from some of the other teams. When they were finished eating, Sonny folded the page to take home for Aunt Jane's scrapbook.

The game against Miami was an easy 95–77 win, but the crowd was small. Even though the Salukis had some substantial preseason recognition, Miami had none at all, and neither team was likely to spark a great deal of interest in this east-coast setting.

Nervous during the first half, Sonny relaxed later on and nailed a few threes. He finished with 19 points, but late in the game, a Miami jumping jack named Jerome Williams blocked his shot. It was a breakaway, which Sonny nonchalanted in a finger roll, but Williams swooped from the side to swat it off the court.