Chapter 11 — Pressure

The clatter of 250 spoons scraping the last traces of chocolate pudding from 250 saucers died away as Mr. Hanshaw arose to make the usual post prandial announcements. So familiar was the procedure that he needed no bell nor tap on a glass. Most of the announcements were formal and routine. Certain malefactors were to report to the woodpile. The first act of the play would rehearse at 4:30. The inhabitants of Brackett House would meet with Coach Johnson at his table. “Finally, it is a pleasure to announce that Mr. Robert A. Estabrook, whom some of you will remember as having graduated five years ago, is with us at lunch today. He is on the admissions staff at Darthherst College and will talk at 2 o’clock in the Common Room with any juniors and seniors interested in that distinguished institution of higher learning … That’s all for today, gentlemen.” Chairs scraped and confusion became general. In the Common Room rather complicated mental and emotional processes began which bore only a distant relationship to words being said. Each of the seniors and most of the juniors present were asking anxiously inside themselves, “Can I get in?” Bob Estabrook, a neat young man wearing above his red and yellow Kennebec Academy tie, a smile not quite artificial, was asking himself, “Will I get any kids out of this lot which I can get by the Admissions Committee? Or will they all go to BBC?” But neither of these questions was asked aloud. Bob passed out cards asking for name, address, and class, “just so my boss will know I saw somebody,” and started the meeting with a reminiscence of his days at Kennebec and an unfortunate question about the recent football season. He then slipped into a well-rehearsed description of the excellent facilities at Dartherst, the eminence of the faculty and the flexibility of the program. It is well that he had rehearsed the talk because while his mouth was saying —“We have one of the best college libraries in the state. Furthermore, we have open stacks so you can go in any time and look over the actual books available on a certain subject. You can’t do that in a University library,”— his mind was thinking, ‘What is the use of talking to these children about college? They really have no idea what college really is and what a library is for. It’s like talking to third graders about marriage’—“and we have 20 squash courts, two hockey rinks, and an Olympic-size pool. If you don’t make a varsity team, there are JV and club teams so you can play almost any sport at your own level. Any questions?” A profound and embarrassed silence. Finally Jock Peterson, unable to bear the silence and willing to ask almost any question but the persistent one on everyone’s mind, asked, “Can you have a car at Dartherst?” “Yes,” answered Bob, “if you can find a place to park it. A bicycle is more practical, and walking is easier.” He thought, ‘the question is antediluvian and irrelevant. All colleges now recognize that some students need cars, and to choose a college on the basis of cars must be the height of stupidity.’ “Any other questions?” Again, a long and uneasy pause. “What is your average college board score?” That came closer to The Question. “About mid-600’s,” answered Bob. “But that doesn’t say much except that many bright kids come to Dartherst. We don’t accept candidates entirely on the basis of scores. We have some in the high 400’s and quite a few in the 700’s. We are interested much more in how well you do your academic work and in your abilities and interests in other fields. A good musician or hockey player or mountain climber with a 480 score and an honor list record may be admitted, while a greasy grind with a 700+ score who does 55

nothing but study and smoke cigarettes hasn’t a chance. But I can promise you that no one gets in who doesn’t apply.” The boys with scores under 660 felt better about their chances, glowed with intentions to apply; those with scores above 600 knew they were not greasy grinds and felt lifted by a wave of confidence. “Another question?” Another silence. “Do you have to get an interview at the college?” “No. You are welcome to visit and I hope you will. We will have someone to show you around, and if you will call ahead and let me know you are coming, one of us will be glad to talk with you; but an interview is more for your good than ours.” He thought, ‘I hope I will be forgiven for that lie; anyway, I have told it so many times that one more won’t make any difference. A good admissions man can spot a winner in a minute and a jerk in 30 seconds.’ “How big are the classes?” “They vary. A freshman history class may have over 50; an advanced Latin class no more than 5. In the Inter-semester Period in January you may be doing an independent study project alone with a professor. I had one of the best months of my whole four years doing a project on 18th Century poetry with Professor Oakland. You may think 18th Century poetry is dull, but it was really an exciting time. If you bore into Alexander Pope, you find he is not all pure intellect and argument, particularly in his translation of The Odyssey. And Burns is as different from Pope as you can get. He is one of the best poets the English language has produced, whatever you think of his dialect.” He cut himself off and thought, ‘I can’t give these guys a lecture on poetry. That’s not what I’m here for. It’s no use anyway, because they have no idea what fun real study is and they won’t know until someone strikes the spark that ignites them and some of them may never catch on.’ Most of his hearers had no idea what he was talking about and shut him off. Sam Reed thought, “18th century? Is that the 1700’s or the 1900’s?” and he began to figure it out from the first century on. McPherson, who was proud of his Scottish ancestry, and who knew Burns was a Scot, nodded in agreement and about decided to go to Dartherst. Allen Poole, who had been daydreaming since the earlier mention of mountain climbing, was aroused by the enthusiasm in Bob’s voice, drew breath to express his own enthusiasm for The Odyssey, but choked it off for fear of sounding ridiculous. “Can you pick an easy subject and do it fast and go skiing for the rest of the Inter-whaddayacallit

term?

“Well, I suppose you could, but you’d miss a lot.” He thought, ‘God! What a dumb question!’ “Could you go to California and study movies?” General laughter. “You might find that one to be more of a project than you bargained for.” ‘Now I’ve heard it all!’ “I have some pictures here of the college that some of you might like to see. Anyone interested in early admission should see me afterwards. Pass me your cards as you leave.” A few stayed to turn over the pictures in the view books, pictures of old brick buildings surrounded by bright autumn foliage and attractive boys and girls and of the new cement block gym and then drifted away into library, gym, or dormitory. Sam Reed and Mike Brinker, who were really serious about Dartherst, stayed to talk about their individual situations and left with early decision applications. In December, early decision reports came in. A fat envelope meant YES! YES! YES! YOU’RE IN. You made it. The goal of life has been achieved. You are now a college man! A thin envelope, however kindly phrased might be the letter enclosed, meant NO. Dummy, you’re OUT. You’re a reject, a failure. We don’t want you because you’re no good, and any college that would take you is no good.” December 10. A cold, raw day on the banks of the Kennebec with a spit of snow in the air, conditions to which Eddie Sullivan paid not the slightest attention. And not the slightest attention had he paid to his first period English class and his second period Calculus class, for today had to be the DAY.

The Ivy colleges had agreed to announce their early admission decisions two days before and for two days Eddie’s mailbox had been achingly empty. He had checked several times each day to be sure. In applying for early decision, Eddie had agreed that should he be accepted by The Great University, he would accept and would withdraw all other applications. That was all right with Eddie. His father had graduated from The Great University 26 years ago. The day after Eddie was born, the admissions office had been informed that eighteen years later he would be a candidate. He had a Great University banner on his wall at home, had cheered a dozen Great University football teams, sitting beside his father under the same stadium blanket, ignoring together their cold feet, thrilling to the music of the marching band, rising together to cheer the caught pass. He had been to class reunions, the best, last June the 25th – a grand party. He had visited the admissions office with his father, had been welcomed cordially, but in spite of encouraging words and a broadly-expressed enthusiasm for alumni sons and daughters, had come away with no promises. What if he didn’t make it? Well, try again in the spring, I suppose; but what would his father say if he failed? He would be terribly disappointed, devastated. His boy had let him down! But what if he made it? Eddie scarcely dared think of that – didn’t know how to think of that. As he reached for the door handle of the school post office without looking at it, his hand closed on Sam Reed’s. Both looked startled, so preoccupied were they that neither had seen the other. They exchanged no word, crowded through the door together. Box 352. Yes! There was a diagonal line across the glass. Fat or thin? Can’t tell. Spin the combination, turn the handle. Reach in. It feels fat. IT IS FAT. As he tore the envelope open, Eddie was suddenly conscious that this moment, as he stood in the dingy school post office on a gray December day was a bright spot on the calendar of his life, the day he was accepted at The Great University.

Dear Mr. Sullivan: It is with great pleasure that I can inform you of your admission to the class of 1990 at The Great University, conditional of course on your successful completion of your year’s work and graduation from Kennebec Academy. I enclose various announcements and forms to be completed, including one for your mid-year and final grades.

Sincerely,

George D. Feldman Dean of Admissions

That’s it. I’m in, Eddie crossed the court outside the post office, numb to the piercing wind and flying flakes. He was a college man now, to dwell perforce until June among grubby school boys. But his job was done! No more sweat. He was in.