Free A Fan's Notes by Frederick Exley Page A

most strained and the conversation had lagged, shoved me in front of Owen and said, “ This is my son, Fred. ”
    “ Are you tough? ” Owen said.
    “ Pardon, sir? ”
    “ Are you tough? ”
    “ I don ’ t know, sir. ”
    Owen looked at my father. “ Is he tough, Mr. Exley? ” Though more than anything I wanted my father to say that I was, I was not surprised at his answer.
    “ It ’ s too soon to tell. ”
    Owen was surprised, though. He had great blondish-red eyebrows, which above his large rimless glasses gave him an astonished expression. Now he looked baffled. As the meeting had not been a comfortable one to begin with, he said in a tone that signaled the end of the conversation , “ I ’ m sure he ’ s tough, Mr. Exley. ” Turning abruptly on his heels, he walked across the lobby to the elevator of his hotel, where this meeting took place.
    This was a few years after my father had quit playing football, when he was managing Watertown ’ s semiprofessional team, the Red and Black. A team which took on all challengers and invariably defeated them, they were so good that —stupefying as it seems—the ostensible reason for our journey to New York had been to discuss with Owen the possibility of the Red and Black ’ s playing in exhibition against the Giants. I say “ stupefying ” now; but that is retrospectively fake sophistication: I thought we could beat the Giants then, and I use the “ we ” with the glibness of one who was committed unalterably to the team ’ s fortunes—the water boy. On the wall in the bar of the Watertown Elks ’ Club hangs a picture of that team; seated on the ground before the smiling, casual, and disinterested players is an anguishingly solemn boy—the solemnity attesting to the esteem in which I held my station. I can still remember with what pride I trotted, heavy water bucket and dry towels in hand, onto the field to minister to the combatants ’ needs. Conversely, I recall the shame I experienced one day when, the team ’ s having fallen behind, the captain decided to adopt a spartan posture and deprive his charges of water, and he had ordered me back from the field, waving me off when I was almost upon the huddle. My ministrations denied in full view of the crowd, I had had to turn and trot, red-faced, back to the bench. Yes, I believed we could beat the Giants then. Long before Owen so adroitly put my father down, though, I had come to see that the idea of such a contest was not a good one.
    The trip began on a depressing note. The night before we were to leave, my father got loaded and ran into a parked car, smashing in the front fenders of our Model A Ford roadster. It was one time—in retrospect—that my father ’ s drinking seems excusable. Such a journey in those days was one of near-epic proportions, made only at intervals of many years and at alarming sacrifices to the family budget; I have no doubt that that night my father was tremulous with apprehension, caught up in the spirit of bon voyage , and that he drank accordingly. Be that as it may, because he was drunk he left the scene of the accident; and the next day, fearing that the police might be searching for a damaged car, my mother wouldn ’ t let him take the Ford from the garage. For many hours it was uncertain whether we should make the trip at all; but at the last moment, more, I think, because I had been promised the trip than for any other reason, it was decided we should go on the train.
    We rode the whole night sitting up in the day coach, without speaking. My father was hung over, deeply ashamed, and there was a horrifying air of furtiveness hanging over us, as if we were fleeing some unspeakable crime. As a result, the trip—which might have been a fantastic adventure—never rose above this unhappy note. In New York we shared a room at the YMCA (I can remember believing that only the impossibly rich ever stayed in hotels), and the visit was a series of small, debilitating defeats: