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Chapter 8

 

 

   We are incredibly impervious to what befalls us when it is not in harmony with that innate “character” which, in the final analysis, we are.

 

                             Ortega y Gasset

 

 

 

 

          “Ted Williams got into my cab last night.”

          Pinson was sitting on the couch watching the Mets game.

          “No shit dad.  I hope you said something intelligent to him.”

          He grinned at me and put his hand on his big, faded, ocher Organic Chemistry book, patting it affectionately.  He carried it around with him but rarely opened it.

          I took a swig from my third cup of coffee.  I said,  “Actually they just went to the Edgewater Inn.  I was listening to them talk mainly.”

          “What?  Did you take the whole team?”

          “No.  Denny McClain was with him.”

          “Denny McClain!  You really struck paydirt dad.”

          “Well, he only tipped me a lousy thirty-five cents.”

          “No shit.  It’s really fucked when a really big cat like that’s ungenerous...  It’s probably because he knows he’s not going to win thirty games this year.”

          “No, Williams paid.  It was really ironic because I think I just didn’t stroke their egos enough.  I mean I was so overwhelmed by Williams especially that I was afraid to say anything.  I think he thought I was being hostile or something.”

          “You didn’t ask for their autographs?”

          “I couldn’t say anything to them.  Every time I thought of something to say it sounded juvenile.  Like Gee whiz Ted...”

          A Met hit a long ball high into the bleachers at Shea stadium and the crowd roared and blew horns and waved pennants in the air.  The Mets were still in second place behind the Chicago Cubs.  We paused to watch the ritual rounding of bases. 

          I said,   “I guess I wanted to be a major league baseball player pretty bad when I was a kid.  I was really stupid enough to believe that I had a chance.  And then it was taken away from me by a lot of improbable occurrences and...”

          I left the sentence dangling.  I had known for a long time that no one was interested in my excuses for not playing baseball in the Major Leagues.  He didn’t seem to hear the words.

          The sound of the crowd droned over the speaker.  I said, pointing to his Chemistry book,  “Don’t you ever open that thing?”

          “Huh?  Yeah, I look at it when it’s time for an exam.”  His face brightened up with a good-natured smile that said it was too early in the morning to be aggressive. 

          I continued,   “I used to love Chemistry.  I scored third highest on the state Chemistry exam at Oakland High School.”

          He looked at me with an emotion that I couldn’t decipher and I thought maybe he couldn’t either so I decided to continue,  “I mean I was third out of about three hundred students who took the test at Oakland High School, not third in the state.”  I thought I was trying to be modest.

          “So what happened?”  He sounded irritated.

          “Well, I have a step-brother who moved into the house at about that time, when his father and my mother got married.  His father was an alcoholic.  He was a General Contractor and went bankrupt about three months after the marriage.  He hadn’t paid withholding tax for his employees, for about five years, and the Government threatened to put him jail if he didn’t come up with $10,000.  My mother had to pay it.  There was a lot of fighting and arguing and I blew it.  My grades fell and I didn’t make it into Cal.  I needed ten approved subjects with A’s or B’s to get into Berkeley and I only got nine and a half because I got all C’s in my senior year, the year they moved in.  I mean in my senior year I only needed to get one semester grade of B out of the ten semester classes that I took but I got all C’s.”

          He blinked. 

          I went on,  “My step‑brother was the most competitive human being I’ve ever encountered in my life.  He was so competitive that I can’t even describe it.

 

          Question to Bobby Fischer:

          Would you consider yourself the greatest player that ever lived, even better, say, than Capablanca, Steinitz or Morphy?

          Well, I don’t like to put things like that in print, it sounds so egotistical, but to answer your question, Yes.

 

          “I couldn’t deal with that kind of competition.  I don’t know why, but I just quit studying and I never did any homework all year.”

 

          His absorption in chess, often so absolute that he would not hear when spoken to, troubled his mother.

 

          “My step-brother never did anything except study.  When he went to Berkeley he got all As his first semester, so he decided to take 21 units the next semester and he got all As again.  Then the third semester he took 27 units and he got all As again!”

 

          His attitudes progressively soured his relationship with other chess players and the chess organizations too.  He was fond of saying that he played chess because “I like to see them squirm”, a phrase he later modified to “I like to watch their egos crumble!”

 

          “He graduated in Engineering Physics with the highest grade point average recorded at Berkeley in over fifty years.  He would have got a 4.0 except he got a B in quantum mechanics from Emio Segre, the Nobel Prize winner.”

 

   Bobby Fischer is a chess phenomenon, it is true; but is also a social illiterate, a political simpleton, a cultural ignoramus and an emotional baby.  There are no vibrations of humanity from him; when you look at him, his eyes are blank and staring, since he only has eyes for chess.  He is a machine... He does arouse the most tremendous hostility in people surrounding him....

 

          “He must be one smart son-of-a-bitch.”

          “Do you want to know why he got a B?”

          “I’m game.  Shoot.”

          “The professor, Emilio Segre, said that he, Emilio Segre didn’t understand quantum mechanics.  My step-brother raised his hand in class and said that HE understood quantum mechanics.”

          He said, “He must be one smart son-of-a-bitch.” 

          “He’s no smarter that you are Pinson.  You work at the gas station forty hours a week and you’re taking a full load at Cal.   I’ve seen you studying Organic Chemistry about twice since I’ve known you.”

          He didn’t protest.

          “The funny thing is, I scored higher than he did on the National Merit Scholarship test.  I scored in the 99th percentile on the Natural Science Reading section and on the Social Science Reading section.  He scored in the low nineties.” 

          I knew that my truth seemed to him like unbearable pride, debilitating self-absorption and ridiculous self-aggrandizement, so I said,  “Hell, you yourself scored higher than he did on the Scholastic Aptitude Test.”

          He looked uncomfortable, as if he hadn’t been truthful about his scores.  I added,

   “Jake scored 750 on the math aptitude but a little below 700 on the verbal.  You scored 750 on both of them.”  I didn’t look into his eyes. 

          He said,   “Well, actually my combined score was less than 1500.  It was about 1480 or something like that.  I forget.”

          “Well, that’s high enough.  His English teacher actually devoted every Friday to studying one of those books, you know the ones that are used to raise your score on the SAT.  In fact I bought it for myself and never looked at it.  He used it for that class and beat my score by a hundred points... and gloated over it.  Like I said, I never even looked at it.”

          We felt the tension that accompanies the telling of truths that are better left unspoken or, at least, not spoken of without disguising them first. 

          He said, after a silence,   “My old man was an alcoholic.  That’s why my mom divorced him.”

          I knew that he was trying to rescue me from my unseemly self-pity, and unresolved anger at my fate.  I didn’t know what to say.  I said, stupidly,   “Well, then you know what I mean.” 

          He continued,  “When I was going into junior high school they couldn’t deal with me at all so they shipped me off to a military academy.”

          I remembered that my mother regularly threatened me with military school when I was in junior high school but I didn’t say anything.

          “He was the president of the San Francisco Bar Association...  He had everything going for him and he just blew it.  Couldn’t handle it at all...  I didn’t even know there was anything wrong with him until I got older.  He used to take me to restaurants and then he would point out some guy sitting at a table, and he would stare at him until the poor guy would just feel like shit...  One guy got up and came over to the table and almost punched him out.  I never forgot that...  But most of those poor bastards would just get really embarrassed, and either leave, or just sit there feeling like shit...  I didn’t even know there was anything wrong with him until I got older and started to think about it.”

          We watched the Mets game in silence.  I said, really just trying to break the silence,   “Well, at least Billy comes from a stable family.” 

          “No, he’s fucked up too.  I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he was a big Eagle Scout and he went hunting with a younger kid and he went through a barbed wire fence without putting the rifle down, you know like they teach you to do?”

          “Yeah.”

          “He’ll tell you about it but don’t tell him that I told you first.”

          “No problem.”

          “Anyway, the gun went off.  It killed the kid.  He went to a psychiatrist for five years to get his shit together.  I first met him when he went to work in my uncle’s gas station.  He was still riding a motorcycle and wearing a black leather jacket.  He really had to work hard to get into Berkeley.”

          “I noticed.  He seems to study whenever he isn’t working.”

          “He went to the community college first.  He had all D’s and F’s in high school.”

          “How does he do at Cal?”

          “Nothing spectacular.  I think he gets mostly B’s and a few C’s.  Berkeley has got a lot easier in the last few years.  It’s the Vietnam war.  They say that professors are grading easier because they know they’re sending their students to Vietnam if they flunk out.  Most of them are against the war.  It’s their way of doing something patriotic I guess.”

          We turned towards the television.  The Mets had been the laughing stock of baseball for seven years and now they were, inexplicably, in second place.

          “Be sure not to say anything to Billy about it.  Let him tell you himself if he wants to.  He will, sooner or later, because he doesn’t want to hide it from anyone.   He doesn’t want to feel guilty about it.  It’s what his shrink tried to convince him of, that it was an accident and it wasn’t his fault.”

          “Does he have a girlfriend?” I asked, rather irrelevantly, thinking of my lunch date with Florence.

          He paused before answering.  “No.  He’s never had a girl friend as long as I’ve known him.  He’s not a homosexual or anything like that.  I guess he just doesn’t have time for women.  Women take a lot of time.”

          We thought about that for a few seconds and then I said,   “I’ve got a lunch date with Florence today.”

          “Congratulations.  Give her my best.”

          “I told her you like Tilly’s legs...”  He looked surprised.  I said,   “Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky and get to stroke her legs.”

          He grinned and said,   “I can’t wait.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 9

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