Oliver Barrett IV
Ipswich, Mass.
Age 20
Major: Social Studies
Dean's List: '60,, '62 '63
All-ivy First Team: '62, '63;
Career Aim: Law
Senior
Phillips Exeter
5'11" 185 lbs.
By now Jenny had read my bio in the program. I made triple sure that
Vic Claman, the manager, saw that she got one.
"For Christ's sake, Barrett, is this your first date?"
"Shut up, Vic, or you'll be chewing your teeth."
As we warmed up on the ice, I didn't wave to her (how uncool!) or even
look her way. And yet I think she thought I was glancing at her. I mean, did
she remove her glasses during the National Anthem out of respect for the
flag?
By the middle of the second period, we were beating Dartmouth o-o. That
is, Davey Johnston and I were about to perforate their nets. The Green
bastards sensed this, and began to play rougher. Maybe they could break a
bone or two before we broke them open. The fans were already screaming for
blood. And in hockey this literally means blood or, failing that, a goal. As
a kind of noblesse oblige, I have never denied them either.
Al Redding, Dartmouth center, charged across our blue line and I
slammed into him, stole the puck and started down-ice. The fans were
roaring. I could see Davey Johnston on my left, but I thought I would take
it all the way, their goalie being a slightly chicken type I had terrorized
since he played for Deerfield. Before I could get off a shot, both their
defensemen .were on me, and I had to skate around their nets to keep hold of
the puck. There were three of us, flailing away against the boards and each
other. It had always been my policy, in pile-ups like this, to lash mightily
at anything wearing enemy colors. Somewhere beneath our skates was the puck,
but for the moment we were concentrating on beating the shit out of each
other.
A ref blew his whistle.
"You-two minutes in the box!"
I looked up. He was pointing at me. Me? What had I done to deserve a
penalty?
"Come on, ref, what'd I do?"
Somehow he wasn't interested in further dialogue. He was calling to the
officials' desk-"Number seven, two minutes -and signaling with his arms.
Iremonstrated a bit, but that's de rigueur. The crowd expects a
protest, no matter how flagrant the offense. The ref waved me off. Seething
with frustration, I skated toward the penalty box. As I climbed in,
listening to the click of my skate blades on the wood of the floor, I heard
the bark of the PA system:
"Penalty. Barrett of Harvard. Two minutes. Holding."
The crowd booed; several Harvards impugned the vision and integrity of
the referees. I sat, trying to catch my breath, not looking up or even out
onto the ice, where Dartmouth outmanned us.
"Why are you sitting here when all your friends are out playing?"
The voice was Jenny's. I ignored her, and exhorted my teammates
instead.
"C'mon, Harvard, get that puck!"
"What did you do wrong?"
I turned and answered her. She was my date, after
"I tried too hard."
And I went back to watching my teammates try to hold off Al Redding's
determined efforts to score.
"Is this a big disgrace?"
"Jenny, please, I'm trying to concentrate!"
"On what?"
"On how I'm gonna total that bastard Al Redding!"
I looked out onto the ice to give moral support to my colleagues.
"Are you a dirty player?"
My eyes were riveted on our goal, now swarming with Green bastards. I
couldn't wait to get out there again. Jenny persisted.
"Would you ever 'total' me?"
I answered her without turning.
"I will right now if you don't shut up.
"I'm leaving. Good-bye."
By the time I turned, she had disappeared. As I stood up to look
further, I was informed that my two-minute sentence was up. I leaped the
barrier, back onto the ice.
The crowd welcomed my return. Barrett s on wing, all's right with the
team. Wherever she was hiding, Jenny would hear the big enthusiasm for my
presence. So who cares where she is.
Where is she?
Al Redding slapped a murderous shot, which our goalie deflected off
toward Gene Kennaway, who then passed it down-ice in my vicinity. As I
skated after the puck, I thought I had a split second to glance up at the
stands to search for Jenny. I did. I saw her. She was there.
The next thing I knew I was on my ass.
Two Green bastards had slammed into me, my ass was on the ice, and I
was-Christ!--embarrassed beyond belief. Barrett dumped! I could hear the
loyal Harvard fans groaning for me as I skidded. I could hear the
bloodthirsty Dartmouth fans chanting.
"Hit 'em again! Hit 'em again!"
What would Jenny think?
Dartmouth had the puck around our goal again, and again our goalie
deflected their shot. Kennaway pushed it at Johnston, who rifled it down to
me (I had stood up by this time). Now the crowd was wild. This had to be a
score. I took the puck and sped all out across Dartmouth's blue line. Two
Dartmouth defensemen were coming straight at me.
"Go, Oliver, go! Knock their heads off!"
I heard Jenny's shrill scream above the crowd. It was exquisitely
violent. I faked out one defenseman, slammed the other so hard he lost his
breath and then
-instead of shooting off balance-I passed off to Davey Johnston, who
had come up the right side. Davey slapped it into the nets. Harvard score!
In an instant, we were hugging and kissing. Me and Davey Johnston and
the other guys. Hugging and kissing and back slapping and jumping up and
down (on skates). The crowd was screaming. And the Dartmouth guy I hit was
still on his ass. The fans threw programs onto the ice. This really broke
Dartmouth's back. (That's a metaphor; the defenseman got up when he caught
his breath.) We creamed them 7-0.
If I were a sentimentalist, and cared enough about Harvard to hang a
photograph on the wall, it would not be of Winthrop House, or Mem Church,
but of Dillon. Dillon Field House. If I had a spiritual home at Harvard,
this was it. Nate Pusey may revoke my diploma for saying this, but Widener
Library means far less to me than Dillon. Every afternoon of my college life
I walked into that place, greeted my buddies with friendly obscenities, shed
the trappings of civilization and turned into a jock. How great to put on
the pads and the good old number ~ shirt (I had dreams of them retiring that
number; they didn't), to take the skates and walk out toward the Watson
Rink.
The return to Dillon would be even better. Peeling off the sweaty gear,
strutting naked to the supply desk to get a towel.
"How 'd it go today, Ollie?"
"Good, Richie. Good, Jimmy."
Then into the showers to listen to who did what to whom how many times
last Saturday night. "We got these pigs from Mount Ida, see . . . ?" And I
was privileged to enjoy a private place of meditation. Being blessed with a
bad knee (yes, blessed: have you seen my draft card?), I had to give it some
whirlpool after playing. As I sat and watched the rings run round my knee, I
could catalog my cuts and bruises (I enjoy them, in a way), and kind of
think about anything or nothing. Tonight I could think of a goal, an assist
and virtually locking up my third consecutive All-Ivy.
"Taking' some whirly-pooly, Ollie?"
It was Jackie Felt, our trainer and self-appointed spiritual guide.
"What does it look like I'm doing, Felt, beating off?"
Jackie chortled and lit up with an idiot grin.
"Know what's wrong with yer knee, Ollie? Diya know?"
I'd been to every orthopedist in the East, but Felt knew better.
"Yer not eatin' right."
Ireally wasn't very interested.
"Yer not eatin' enough salt."
Maybe if I humor him he'll go away.
"Okay, Jack, I'll start eating more salt."
Jesus, was he pleased! He walked off with this amazing look of
accomplishment on his idiot face. Anyway, I was alone again. I let my whole
pleasantly aching body slide into the whirlpool, closed my eyes and just sat
there, up to my neck in warmth. Ahhhhhhh.
Jesus! Jenny would be waiting outside. I hope! Still! Jesus! How long
had I lingered in that comfort while she was out there in the Cambridge
cold? I set a new record for getting dressed. I wasn't even quite dry as I
pushed open the center door of Dillon.
The cold air hit me. God, was it freezing. And dark. There was still a
small cluster of fans. Mostly old hockey faithfuls, the grads who've never
mentally shed the pads. Guys like old Jordan Jencks, who come to every
single game, home or away. How do they do it? I mean, Jencks is a big
banker. And why do they do it?
"Quite a spill you took, Oliver."
"Yeah, Mr. Jencks. You know what kind of game they play."
I was looking everywhere for 4enny. Had she left and walked all the way
back to Radcliffe alone?
"Jenny?"
I took three or four steps away from the fans, searching desperately.
Suddenly she popped out from behind a bush, her face swathed in a scarf,
only her eyes showing.
"Hey, Preppie, it's cold as hell out here." Was I glad to see her!
"Jenny!"
Like instinctively, I kissed her lightly on the forehead.
"Did I say you could?" she said.
"What?"
"Did I say you could kiss me?"
"Sorry. I was carried away.
"I wasn't."
We were pretty much all alone out there, and it was dark and cold and
late. I kissed her again. But not on the forehead, and not lightly. It
lasted a long nice time. When we stopped kissing, she was still holding on
to my sleeves.
"I don't like it," she said.
"What?"
"The fact that I like it."
As we walked all the way back (I have a car, but she wanted to walk),
Jenny held on to my sleeve. Not my arm, my sleeve. Don't ask me to explain
that. At the doorstep of Briggs Hall, I did not kiss her good night.
"Listen, Jen, I may not call you for a few months." She was silent for
a moment. A few moments.
Finally she asked, "Why?"
"Then again, I may call you as soon as I get to my room."
I turned and began to walk off.
"Bastard!" I heard her whisper.
I pivoted again and scored from a distance of twenty feet.
"See, Jenny, you can dish it out, but you can't take it"
I would like to have seen the expression on her face, but strategy
forbade my looking back.
My roommate, Ray Stratton, was playing poker with two football buddies
as I entered the room.
"Hello, animals."
They responded with appropriate grunts. "Whatja get tonight, Ollie?"
Ray asked. "An assist and a goal," I replied. "Off Cavilleri."
"None of your business," I replied.
"Who's this?" asked one of the behemoths. "Jenny Cavilleri," answered
Ray. "Wonky music type."
"I know that one," said another. "A real tight-ass." I ignored these
crude and horny bastards as I untangled the phone and started to take it
into my bedroom.
"She plays piano with the Bach Society," said Stratton.
"What does she play with Barrett?"
"Probably hard to get!"
Oinks, grunts and guffaws. The animals were laughing.
"Gentlemen," I announced as I took leave, "up yours."
I closed my door on another wave of subhuman noises, took off my shoes,
lay back on the bed and dialed Jenny's number.
We spoke in whispers.
"Hey, Jen..
"Yeah?"
"Jen... what would you say if I told you.. I hesitated. She waited.
"I ~hink... I'm in love with you."
There was a pause. Then she answered very softly.
"I would say. . . you were full of shit." She hung up.
I wasn't unhappy. Or surprised.