BY GEOFF LACASSE
“Hey Jon, Bob here. Jodi wanted to know if you could make our place this Friday night? You know the score – dinner, drinks, mingling, conversation. Jodi invited another of her college friends, so we are short a warm male body to give us an even number of guests.”
Bob was a good friend from my university days. The friendship had been forged not through our respective disciplines – they were as different as night and day – but from common interests in politics and science and sports, amongst others. We went out for coffee or lunch when I happened to be in town, sometimes joined by his wife, Jodi, who worked in administration for the same local college as Bob and collected stray bodies for her monthly parties. I avoided both (bodies and parties) because I found them boring at best and tragic at worst. The ‘tragic’ appeared when Jodi invited some young professional female from her circle of acquaintances to meet one of Bob’s bachelor friends (often me) – the invite couched in terms of handsome, intelligent, eligible, etc., etc., etc. Jodi considered herself as the personal purveyor (unpaid) for a steady girlfriend for yours truly. Unfortunately, she forgot that at 24 years old, with an uncertain career, home perhaps four-five months per year, huge workload besides the budding career, I had little time for a casual, much less serious, relationship. I would bet a million dollars Jodi’s latest friend was intended for me. Or her to me. Sometimes I felt sorry for these women.
Sadly, or perhaps prophetically, Bob caught me in a weak moment. My parents were away on holidays somewhere warm, siblings busy doing whatever they do away from a bachelor brother, and close friends hiding elsewhere in the ether. “Okay, Bob. I’ll drag my carcass to one of your wife’s soirees.”
I was the last to arrive, remembering with a last minute call from Jodi (she was prescient to how I conducted my life). When I walked into the living room, theswirl of people drinking, nibbling, talking, laughing – sometimes at the same time – overwhelmed the ambience. Bob introduced me to the other guests, a motley congregationof his and Jodi’s friends from college, either fellow professors or office staff, ranging in age from mid 20s to mid 30s, names forgotten with each introduction and faces blurring into a single entity. They seemed to be paired off as couples, leaving myself and a young female as singles.
“And this is El. She works in the Department of History at Cap College as an assistant professor.” El was tall and slim, with short brown hair, and intelligent, brown eyes unobstructed by thick glasses. We exchanged vague pleasantries.
I circled around, listening in as I munched away on the surprisingly good appetizers scattered about the room. Much of the conversation was about the difficulties of teaching the current crop of illiterate students, the cost of mortgages and kids and city life, the latest karaoke sensation, or what stocks they should buy with their next paycheque. I caught an implied superiority in most as they exchanged insincere words. Where this superiority came from I hadn’t the faintest clue. These people knew little about life away from a public service job, andtheir ‘superior’ education and sinecure positions had warped their perspective. I couldn’t help myself, I had to chuckle at these delusional idiots. I didn’t think anyone caught my indiscretion but when I glanced around I could see El – sitting by herself – studying me.
She made room on the couch. “So what do you do for a living, Jon?”
Before I could answer, one of the women behind us spoke up, “Bob told me that Jon is a jock. He even looks like a jock. Look at those muscles. Oh, this is so exciting! I bet he makes millions. Not like us, ehhh El.” The woman thought about slapping El on the shoulder but resisted on a glare. I wasn’t surprised at the words. Amongst so-called intellectuals few were supportive of individuals playing sports. A common attitude.
I corrected her. “First of all, I’m a professional baseball player. That’s not the same thing as a jock. Second, I play for the Ottawa Lynx Triple A baseball team and make decent but not great money since I’m not yet a regular at the major league level.” When I glowered at her, she wasn’t cowed in the slightest, instead smirking at me like the drunk she was. Our conversation had attracted the rest of the guests, who clustered close by for their chance to see and talk to the freak, someone they wouldn’t go near most of the time. I could see Bob and Jodi, at the back of the pack, roll their eyes and shake their heads in sympathy.
I asked El a question. “Bob mentioned that you joined the college a year or two ago. Where did they … ?”
Before I could finish or El answer, a second woman jumped in. “El is the star of the department. They recruited her last year to create a Latin American Studies program.” As El contemplated this newest voice, a frown on her face, the woman continued, “She can speak a lot of foreign languages, is working on her PhD, and writing a book based on her Masters degree.”
El wasn’t happy she had been usurped. Instead of confirming the information, she turned to me, “I understand from Jodi that you and Bob were friends in university. Were you in the same discipline?”
One of the men, voice slurring a little from the copious amounts of alcohol in his system, did his best to answer the question from ignorance. “Hey Jon, I bet you were another of those jocks that made it to university because you were that great high school sports star all of us hated. Or your old man had lots of money and bought you a place on the team.” Hesnickered at his own joke as part of a chorus from the crowd with the exception of El and Bob and Jodi.
I forced a smile. “As I noted before, I’m not a jock, I’m a professional baseball player. I met Bob like so many of my other friends – we ran into each other at some event for students our first year, and hit it off. Not in his department.” I caught El’s eye as I spoke.
The man heard my words but had not listened. “I should say not. Physics takes a lot of brain power, and I’m not sure you baseball players are that capable. Hahaha.” I heard ragged clapping in concert from the spectators. When I glanced over to El, she caught my eye, silent,and something other than humour in her face. Sympathy? Empathy? Bob rubbed his forehead as if trying to make all of this go away.
Another of the males piped up, focussed on his cell phone. “Hey, look at this. Jon Thomas, second baseman, played 10 games in the majors last year, another 12 the year before. Not very good average though. I can see why you don’t get paid a lot.” I said nothing. Whatcould I say to a group like this which wouldn’t be twisted or laughed at or misunderstood?
I turned to the person who had spoken. “No, I’m not a star in the majors. But I’ve worked hard to reach my current level, and I hope for more success in the future. I think I’m well prepared physically and psychologically for the upcoming year.” Some tittered when I mentioned the second term. I tried to explain. “The psychological element is crucial when a person is trying to be the best in a sport like Major League baseball. There is so much more to the game at the top level than the physical.” The tittering gave way to outright laughter.
“Jon, all you have to do is swing a bat and throw a ball. Not much else. Since you have all this free time, you must have a great golf game.” More laughter from the cheap seats.
“I don’t play golf, thank you. I prefer badminton or tennis or something athletic.” My smile was sarcastic – an only weapon with this entitled crowd.
“What did you study, Jon?” This from El. Perhaps she had envisioned something different when I mentioned my baseball career. More muscular and less cerebral. Or perhaps more emotional. I had faced this many times during my university studies. Curious? Or bored?
By this point, most of the guests had clustered around El and I. The shouts rose higher and higher, led by several saying in unison, “Jon, don’t tell us yet, let me guess.”
“Gym!” “PE.” “General studies.” And some stupid examples. “Sleep and eat.” Laughter accompanied each ignorant guess. Some of my teammates did fit into this category. Their parents had literally bought them a place in university, or they were so good at baseball the university had made room for them despite having the IQ of a brick. Not me.
“I studied history.” That shut up a couple of the crowd.
The silence didn’t last. Another person spoke up but with a little less certainty. “You probably had someone like us sit in for you so you could pass the courses. Any of us could do that in History. No problem.”
“I majored in Latin American studies.” I paused to scan the crowd. “I have a BA Honours plus a First Class Masters. And speak four languages.” At the back of the group I could see Bob laughing to himself. He knew my university time, what degrees I had earned, my languages – a hell of a lot more education than most of the group here. Some had drifted back to their insulated groups, ashamed perhaps but more likely words having failed them in their alcohol-induced confused state. A typical reaction.
El and I were left sitting on the couch by ourselves, a reality separate from thegathering, the murmur of voices in the background now on topics less embarrassing. She had an indecipherable expression on her face, silent for a moment.
“True?” Single word, many questions.
“Yes.” Cryptic but volumes said.
“Where?”
“SFU. Finished a couple of years ago, working around my baseball career. You?”
“U of T. Finished my Masters two years ago. Now working on a PhD. Will you do a PhD yourself once your baseball career is finished?”
I smiled, tipped my head back, confusing El. “Already launched. My advisor knows a couple of the profs at U of T, and arranged with them for me to do the program from a distance, as long as I complete some winter courses. I’ll be working with Rob Fennerman. Seems like a good guy. Do you know him?”
El’s mouth dropped open, eyes wide behind her glasses. She looked at her watch, stood with a polite apology, “Excuse me, I need to make a call … be back in a minute,” and walked away. I was puzzled. Something had happened I didn’t understand.
When El returned she was no longer wary but amused. “Sorry, I had to make a call to a friend. Yes, I know Rob. He was my advisor for my Masters, and now my PhD. He’s a good prof, and a good person.”
She had checked on my story. Fennerman? I thought so, but for what reason I had no idea. Although she didn’t know me from Adam, except what she had heard from Jodi, I thought it was obvious I was telling the truth. Easy to check. Which, when I thought about it, she had.
I winked and teased her. “I should’ve asked you to say hi from me.”
She had the good grace to blush, her eyes twinkling behind the glasses. “Sorry, I’ve been plagued by people who try to impress me with their academic credentials.” She contemplated the room, the other guests now invested in enticements scattered around, ignoring the two of us. She was contemptuous. “I think you made a poor impression with my peers. They may not have believed you.”
“What about you?”
She smiled. “Oh, Rob gave you a solid recommendation. But he didn’t tell me anything else. I know nothing about what you’re doing.”
“My previous work was based on Paraguayan reconstruction post 1870, but my PhD will focus on the Chaco War and its antecedents.”
Shock and something else. “From what perspective?”
“Paraguay’s.”
“Why theirs?”
“Always fascinated by Paraguay. And you?”
“I specialize in Bolivian studies, and I’m also working on a thesis on the impact of the Chaco War, but on post-war Bolivia.” She stopped, before adding, cheekily in return, “Always fascinated by Bolivia and its history.” As I gaped at her, this evening had turned into something more than what I expected. Far better in fact. El was the most interesting person I had met in a long time.
She burst out laughing, an excited laugh, attracting curious stares from some of the nearby guests. “I never expected to meet anyone like you at a simple dinner. In fact, I rarely meet anyone remotely interested in my field of study.” She waved her hand at the others. “Notwithstanding what my esteemed colleagues noted.” Her words had a tinge of bitterness, and her face a brief frown, but she brightened up the room with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.
I think we shocked them a second time when we burst into peals of laughter whichleft us weak and helpless on the couch. In my mind, the number of scholars working on something to do with the Chaco War outside of Bolivia or Paraguay itself is minimal, and being in this room at the same time as non-existent. They must have thought we were nuts.
She added a question. “Languages?”
“I’m fluent in Spanish, some Guarani, and some German. You?”
“Spanish, Quechua, Aymara, and German. Enough, anyway, to talk to the locals.”
A thought occurred to me. “Do you think Jody knew this when they threw us together?”
No need to answer. “Why baseball?”
“Love the sport. Played it since I was a little boy, and I’m good enough that I might have a career. The scholarships I received paid for my studies.”
“I would like to see you again.”
“Yes.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Geoff LaCasse is happily retired and now spending many of his free hours writing short stories. A published author, many of his stories are based in Thailand, his home away from home.
The Green Shoe Sanctuary 