But James wasn’t sliding. As Bell made the tag, James plowed into him running at full bore, arms held up in front of him, elbows extended. The ball, Bell’s mitt, his hat and most of his consciousness went flying.
Scorcelli threw his glove down on the mound, ran over to James, grabbed him by the neck, and pinned him up against the chain-link backstop. “Are you crazy?” The others, including a dazed Tom Bell, began to cluster around them. Scorcelli spun James around, wrestled him to the dirt. “Vi balshoy sveynenah.”
The others who had surrounded Scorcelli and James tensed — even Scorcelli seemed to forget that he had his hands around James’ neck.
“Enough.” Mr. Roberts walked through the quickly parting crowd and stood over the two on the ground. Scorcelli got to his feet and stood straight, almost at attention, hands at his sides, chin up. James, his chest heaving, also stood up quickly.
Roberts was a short, squat man with dark brows obscuring darker, cavernous eyes. His rumbling voice commanded instant attention.
“James deliberately ran into Bell to make him drop the ball,” Scorcelli began.
“It’s in the rules, pea-brain—”
“He ran right into him,” Scorcelli went on. “He did not even try to slow down or get out of the way! James is a cheater—”
“No one calls me a cheater—”
“Enough, ” Roberts ordered.
But James ignored the order. “I fight my own battles. If you knew the rules, Scorcelli, you’d know I have the right to home plate as much as the catcher. If he stands in front of it, I can run him down. And if he drops the ball, even after making the tag, the runner is safe and the run scores.”
“What about when you tapped the ball like that?” Scorcelli fired back. “Were you trying to get hit by the ball? You are supposed to swing the bat, not—”
“It’s called a bunt, you fool.” That revelation brought a number of blank stares.
Eyes turned toward Mr. Roberts, who stared at Ken James, then announced the period was over and ordered them to report to their next class.
The students Ken James and Anthony Scorcelli were standing before their headmaster’s desk. Jeffrey Baines Roberts was behind his desk. His secretary had put two file folders on his desk. She ignored Scorcelli; favored James with the hint of a smile before leaving.
“Mr. Scorcelli,” said the headmaster, “tell me about your brother Roger.”
Scorcelli stared at a point somewhere above Roberts’ head.
“I have four siblings, sir, two brothers and one sister. Their names—”
“I did not ask about your other siblings, Mr. Scorcelli. I asked about your brother Roger.”
“Yes, sir … Kevin and Roger.” He seemed to be talking to himself, then said aloud, “Roger is two years older than me, a freshman at Cornell University. He—”
“Where was your mother born?”
“My … mother … yes, sir, she was born in Syracuse, New York. She has two sisters and—”
“I did not ask you about her sisters.” Roberts ran an exasperated hand down his forehead. “Are you not familiar with the rules of baseball, Mr. Scorcelli?”
“I was not aware that Mr. James was allowed to assault his friends and fellow players—”
“The proper term is a battery, Mr. Scorcelli. Assault is the threat of physical harm. Is it a battery if Mr. James’ actions are a legal part of the game?”
“It may not be a battery, sir, but I believe Mr. James took great pleasure in the opportunity to knock over Mr. Bell—”
“Bullshit,” James said.
“I also think, sir, that If Mr. James could legally find a way to hit me over the head with one of those bats from that stupid game, he would do it with the same enthusiasm and—”
“Right, asshole …”
“That’s enough,” Roberts said, his voice calm. Actually he had to strain to keep from smiling. Scorcelli would be right at home in a large corporation’s boardroom or in a court of law; James would be at home in an active situation. A dangerous one with courage and physical stamina. And an ability to adjust. James was not a team player. He either led or he would choose to operate on his own. He could also be ruthless …
“I will not have athletics in this institution become a private battleground between students,” Roberts said. “Mr. Scorcelli?”
Scorcelli hesitated, turned to face James and stuck out a hand.
“Apology accepted, Mr. Scorcelli,” James said with his winning smile — a smile that infuriated Scorcelli.
“I assume you have no intention of changing your playing habits,” Roberts said. “You will continue to take advantage of each opportunity to denigrate your compatriots, even in a baseball game?”
Ken James looked puzzled. Scorcelli may have believed he was wrestling with a moral dilemma. Roberts knew better, but was surprised when James replied: “Sir, I will take advantage of every rule and every legal opportunity to win.”
“No matter the consequences?”
“No matter, sir.”
Roberts expected and desired nothing less. “You are dismissed, Mr. Scorcelli. Mr. James will remain … so, Mr. Scorcelli?”
“Yes, sir?
“Vi balshoy sveynenah.”
Scorcelli did not look blank, as required. Only flustered.
“Get out,” Roberts said, and Scorcelli hustled away, closing the door behind him so gently he might have been closing a door made of fine china.
Ken James waited impassively. Roberts motioned him to a seat. Roberts watched him unbutton the top button of his sports coat and seat himself. “You even swear like one of them, Mr. James.”
No reply.
“Do you think you are ready for graduation?”
“I do.”
“Mr. James, whose side are you on? Sometimes it appears only your own.”
“Isn’t that the American way? Knowledge is power, in baseball or business. I want all the knowledge I can accumulate. I’ve worked hard to accumulate it, even the things others think inconsequential. It would be a waste not to use it—”
“Do not pretend you know everything about America or how to live in it. You have lived a sheltered life here in the Academy. The world is just waiting to swallow overconfident young people like you.” James made no reply but sat easily in the hard-backed upright wood chair. Roberts paused for a moment, then asked, “Tell me about your father, Kenneth.”
“Not again, sir. All right, my father was a drunk, sir, a drunk and a scum who murdered my younger brother but was found incompetent to stand trial and was committed to a mental institution. They said he was suffering from delayed shock syndrome from his three tours as a Green Beret company commander in Vietnam. When he was released several years later he abandoned his family and went off to who knows where’ Prison or,another mental institution. His name was Kenneth also, but I refuse to use ‘Junior’ in my surname and I’ve even thought of changing my whole name.”
Roberts looked surprised, which amused James. “Don’t worry, sir. I won’t. It’s not as glamorous a story as Scorcelli’s rich jet-setting parents, or Bell’s midwestern aunties. But it’s my story. I’ve learned, sir, to downplay it, push it out of my consciousness. I allow it to surface as a reminder of what I could become if I don’t work and study very hard.”
“I am not particularly interested in your opinion of your father,” Roberts said, “and you would be well advised to keep such opinions to yourself.”