The next problem was selling the team on a coach who did not know enough about the game to qualify as a coach. After a few, ineffective starts, Koesler sold them simply on doing him a favor. Ridley Groendal, Koesler explained, was a friend who happened to be in need. He was having a bad time and needed exercise and companionship. And if they weren’t interested in helping people in need, whatinhell were they doing in a seminary? That did it. With pronounced reluctance and grudging charity, the consensus was: Bring him on; we may make a jock of him yet—but don’t bet on it.
Chief among those who bought the charity angle was Charlie Hogan.
It was Hogan who taught Groendal—whose previous expertise was limited to basic dribbling, passing, and layups—niceties such as the difference between a zone and man defense, pick-plays, give-and-go, the butterfly drill, and so forth.
At first Ridley’s participation was predicated entirely on getting the exercise he needed in order to get some troublefree sleep. But as time passed, Hogan’s patience and good humor began to have its effect. Groendal began to join in with more spontaneity, even to the point of enjoying the sport and looking forward to practices.
As a fringe benefit, just as he had hoped, he began to get the restful sleep he so wanted and needed.
Not that Groendal would ever be varsity caliber. He had no natural physical coordination. But he did reach the level of being able to assist the other coaches.
Koesler was so pleased he was ready to award himself an honorary doctorate in amateur psychology. Ridley’s entire attitude had returned to near normal. Once again, seated at the piano in the rec room, Groendal became the life of the party. Koesler thought nothing of the friendship that was building between Groendal and Hogan. Neither did Groendal and neither did Hogan.
Charlie Hogan was a lithe lad, built perfectly for either dancing or baseball. And there were many similarities between the art and the sport. Despite not being very large, he was an outstanding football player. He excelled at baseball as well. Though the seminary fielded neither a football nor a basketball varsity, the sports were wildly popular on an intramural basis.
At almost any other high school, Charlie Hogan might well have been “Big Man on Campus.” But since high school and college at Sacred Heart Seminary were at that time, for all practical purposes, housed in the same building, the two were more or less inseparable.
At other institutions, high school graduation was a major event. At the seminary, one simply passed from “fourth high” to “first college.” This peculiarity tended to keep high school seniors “in their place,” which was not near the top of any totem pole.
Hogan was interested in much more than athletics. He was an avid reader and enjoyed music. He had written a couple of articles for the Gothic, the seminary publication. By no means was he on the same level as Groendal in the arts field. Hogan was, after all, four years younger and nowhere near as broadly talented. But particularly after Groendal was dragged into the sports world, they did have some common interests.
So the friendship grew—cautiously. Almost without exception, everyone in the seminary was extremely sensitized to the pitfalls of a “particular friendship.” The rules of conduct made explicit the terminal punishment reserved for that specific infraction. And once each year the rector explained the purpose and meaning of the rule in nonspecific terms.
Charlie Hogan did not consider theirs a “particular friendship.” He knew he was not “that way.” He was an athlete. He didn’t even know how people who were “that way” thought. He and Ridley were friends, good friends. He had to admit he knew no one else in the seminary who had such a good friend who was as much as four years his senior. They just shared common interests, that was all.
Ridley Groendal did not consider theirs a “particular friendship.” What could be more innocent than two people teaching each other what each knew best? He realized the seriousness of such a liaison and the penalty attached to it. Besides, to recall for an instant something he was trying very hard to forget, he was heterosexual. He’d certainly proved that with Jane Condon.
Koesler did not consider the relationship between Hogan and Groendal a “particular friendship.” In the first place, Koesler himself had virtually introduced them. He had done so only to help Ridley out of the doldrums. And it had worked. In the second place, Koesler did not entirely understand all the implications of a “particular friendship” even though he’d heard it explained eight times now.
So it wasn’t a “particular friendship.” And it prospered.
Month followed month. Ridley learned more about basketball, though he became no more adept at it. Hogan learned more about music. They enriched each other in their love of literature. They spent many brief recreation periods walking around the back grounds. Frequently they were joined by others of the high school basketball varsity. The fact that they seemed to feel no need to be alone together further reinforced the conviction that this was not a “particular friendship.”
Easter was approaching, and with it, spring. And with that, the conclusion of the basketball season and the beginning of baseball.
Hogan brought the matter up. “So, Rid, are you as bad at baseball as you were at basketball?”
“Probably not quite. It is the national pastime, so I know more about it. But I don’t suppose I play it any better.”
“Wait a minute.” Hogan laughed. “We’d better get right on your case. Baseball’s right around the corner. If you’re going to coach us, we’d better get some practice in.”
Groendal was instantly serious. “Charlie, I’m not going to coach baseball. There was a special reason why I got involved in basketball.”
“Yeah, because Bob Koesler made you.”
Groendal smiled. “More than that. I didn’t want to get into it; I just had a special reason for needing a lot of exercise. And that problem’s been solved . . . at least it seems to be.
“It’s time to be honest with myself. Outside of my friendship with you and the other guys on the varsity, I’ve got no business hanging around with high schoolers, even if they’re seniors. I had a reason. And now I don’t.”
It was Hogan’s turn to be serious. “You mean we won’t be friends anymore?”
“I didn’t say that. Sure we’ll be friends. It’s just that I no longer need to coach something I know nothing about.”
They were silent for several moments.
“What’s the matter?” Groendal asked.
“Nothing. It’s just a surprise is all. I just took it for granted that you’d coach. I guess I’ll miss you.”
“Charlie, it’s almost Easter. In a few months I’ll graduate. Then it’s on to St. John’s Seminary in Plymouth. We’ll be in different schools. It’s not like we’re going to be in the same place the rest of our lives.”
“Oh, I know. It was just the surprise. I guess I’ll be able to pitch without you on the sidelines.”
“Who said I wouldn’t be on the sidelines? I’m just not going to coach, that’s all . . . okay?”
“Sure. We’ll go out and win one for the old basketball coach.”
“Besides,” Groendal’s voice took on added animation, “I’ve got a present for you.”
“To celebrate your graduation?”
“To repay a bit for teaching me just about all I know about basketball.”
“Judging from what you learned about basketball, this doesn’t have to be much of a present.”
“The Met’s coming to town.”
“The what?”
“The Metropolitan Opera Company—New York.”
“That’s nice . . . so what?”
“It’s time you saw your first opera, is what.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. A week from next Saturday they’re doing Carmen as a matinee. It’s maybe the most popular opera of all time. A great way to begin.”