“Mr. Ramirez,” said Vice-Principal Connors, “before we vote on this matter, I’d like to say something before this panel.”
Ramirez nodded.
“I don’t think I’m saying anything that isn’t already on everyone’s mind,” he said. Connors passed a hand through his buzz cut. “We’re already over our pay rate per season. Many of us are concerned about our own projects. We ask ourselves—Why more money for football? We just brought in Assistant Coach Sexton last year. Why the continued expense?”
“Mr. Connors,” said Ramirez, placing his fingertips on the table before him, “you are forgetting our special weapon.”
“And what is that, Mr. Ramirez?”
“I’ll say only two words to you.” It was a dramatic pause. “Charles Jefferson.”
Ray Connors turned to the two teachers on either side of him. “That,” he said, “I would like to see.”
Charles Jefferson was a name spoken around Ridgemont with equal parts awe and fear. Jefferson was one of the few black kids who attended Ridgemont. He was just under six feet tall, quick on his feet, and blessed with those huge NFL shoulders that tended to make opponents take one look and think, Fuck it. At right end, he was by far the best football player Ridgemont High had.
Jefferson played on the Ridgemont varsity squad in his sophomore year, two years ago. He was virtually unmatched in the California Interscholastic Federation. By his junior year, Jefferson, in spite of little support from his less-talented teammates, had attracted the attention of several colleges. There had been a sizable behind-the-scenes bidding war over the young athlete, and UCLA won out with the offer of a $40,000 scholarship. Shortly after accepting, Jefferson turned up at school with a cheery new blue Mustang. It became known among the students of Ridgemont as Jefferson’s Scholarship Mustang, but no one really knew if UCLA had given him the car or not. Charles Jefferson didn’t talk to anybody.
Charles Jefferson didn’t want to be anybody’s “black friend.” His father was an insurance representative for Farmer’s, and Jefferson always seemed more than a little on edge about the middle-class environment his family lived in. Jefferson stalked the hallways of Ridgemont High carrying his football duffle bag and wearing a wronged look on his face, and the hallways parted for him.
Toward the end of last year’s football season, Charles Jefferson graffiti started springing up around schooclass="underline" Bonenose Jefferson Was Here. There it was, on the side of the gym, in the dugout, on the wall of the Mechanical Arts Building. Because the Charles Jefferson graffiti never appeared on any desks, it was presumed that Lincoln High was sneaking on campus after hours with their felt-tip markers and spray-paint cans. Jefferson himself made no comment, and stayed to himself as usual.
Then one day Jefferson walked into the 200 Building bathroom and saw scrawled on the mirror: Send Kunta Kinte Jefferson Back to Africa.
Jefferson went wild. He took off his belt and used the buckle to smash the big grooming mirror. (It was not replaced.) Jefferson walked off campus and decked the hall monitor, Willy Avila, who tried to stop him. Jefferson had been unreceptive to the many white administrators who tried to soothe him. He didn’t apologize to Willy Avila, either.
Then, this year, Jefferson didn’t show for summer football practices. Reached at home, he said he didn’t feel inspired this season. He didn’t feel comfortable in the school. Conferences with Coach Ramirez and Ray Connors hadn’t much changed Jefferson’s position. He attended two practices, and missed the first game of the season entirely. Many had given up on Jefferson when Coach Ramirez brought the name up in the year’s first budget meeting.
“I want our student representatives here today to know,” said Ray Connors, “that what I’m about to say I’ve said to Charles myself. Charles is probably the best end I’ve ever seen on a Ridgemont football team. But the vultures came right in and picked the boy clean. He has absolutely no ambition left at school, or on the field . . . he admits it himself. He told me he wasn’t even sure he was going to UCLA.”
“Oh, these kids do a lot of talking, Ray,” said Mrs. George.
Connors continued. “Mr. Ramirez, members of the board, I do not question the jerseys or the helmets. What I want to know before we vote is this: How is a movie camera going to get Charles Jefferson or, for that matter, anyone to perform better on the field. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned coaching?”
“Mr. Connors,” said Ramirez, “I can answer that question. This year I will deliver a championship team—whether you give these boys their equipment or not. That is our commitment to you. Now you show us your commitment to the Ridgemont Raiders.”
The budget vote was put before the panel, and the committee slowly raised their hands of approval, one by one. It was as if no one dared diminish the institution known as high school football, not even Ray Connors. Coach Ramirez was granted the equipment, even the movie camera.
Charles Jefferson
Charles Jefferson’s car was in the shop for repairs, so he had taken the city bus to school that morning. Jefferson hated taking the city bus. The more the bus stopped, the more impatient he became. The more people who yanked on that little cord—ding—the angrier he got. All day long in classes Charles Jefferson was never far from the thought that he was going to have to take that lousy city bus back home again.
After school, Jefferson walked by football practice. He looked through the wire fence at the action on the field.
“I WANT YOUR BUTTS TO BOIL,” Coach Ramirez was yelling. He had split the varsity team into two squads, each practicing pass-and-receive patterns on the still-yellowed field. Ramirez bolted in and out of the plays with his megaphone, complete with its own portable amplification system that hung from a shoulder harness in one hand and a movie camera clutched in the other. Charles Jefferson did not care for the megaphone, the little amplifier, the movie camera, or for Coach Ramirez.
Ramirez had come to Jefferson during Running Techniques and laid a whole line on him—this was the twentieth anniversary of the school, you’re such a great player, bullshit bullshit bullshit. Jefferson knew Ramirez was just looking to save his own ass. Forget Ramirez, he thought, the man had been nice to him only after the first talent scout arrived last year. He stopped being nice when Jefferson stopped playing high school football. Now he was being nice again.
“GET IN FRONT OF HIM! WORK WITH ME WORK WITH ME WORK WITH ME! STICK TO HIM LIKE GLUE!!!”
Ramirez relished his job, anybody could see. When he spotted two small kids playing too close to the action on the sidelines, Ramirez simply stared at them with utter contempt and held the megaphone to his lips. He clicked it on to speak.
The kids scattered.
“NORTON! TAKE A LAP!”
Jefferson couldn’t take any more. Without anyone ever noticing him watching through the wire fence, he turned and went to wait for the L bus heading downtown. Once on board, Charles lasted seven stops. He pulled a jacket over his arm and got up to speak to the bus driver.
“Driver,” said Charles Jefferson, “take me home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Belmont.”
“We're getting closer. It’s another twelve stops or so, son.”
Charles Jefferson jabbed two jacket-draped fingers into the back of the bus driver’s neck. “I want to go home. Now. To my door.”