On Their Manor

By Brian McAuliffe

Set at an elite liberal arts college in a Western Massachusetts university town, picaresque On Their Manor depicts the experiences over the course of a fall semester of Mick McNulty, an assertive working-class Londoner of Irish parentage, member of the soccer team. McNulty challenges breezy, underachieving teammates who regard soccer as

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian P McAuliffe
• Release date: Oct 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087911939

Book preview

9781087908304.jpg

Copyright

© 2014–2023 by Brian P. McAuliffe

Cover and interior design by Masha Shubin | Inkwater.com

Author photo by Greg Mentzer

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary. The settings and characters are fictitious or used in a fictitious manner and do not represent specific places or living or dead people. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and/or author.

Paperback: 978-1-0879-0830-4

Ebook: 978-1-0879-1193-9

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

I am grateful to those who were of encouragement and assistance, especially C. Carlin and M. Slavin.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Standing atop the patched surface of the driveway that looped behind his family’s Dutch colonial home, the sandaled left foot a little less than a yard from the apron to the converted one-car garage, Brendan Kelleher relaxed his posture and twirled his keys.

His parents, aware that the patient son was only signaling departure, were then quick to mark their paperbacks and rise from restored Adirondack chairs. Barefoot, they tiptoed across the mossy brick patio to the asphalt.

Kelleher shook his father’s hand and kissed his mother’s cheek still confident that the bookcase and television set wedged into the backseat of the hand-me-down Camry would pin the garment bags hanging from the adjusting rods of the headrests. He was also confident, despite the pre-dawn dream of hydroplaning on a wide highway, that weather would not complicate his travel. After an involuntary deep breath, he exhaled loudly and hoped that the effect was neither worrying nor theatrical. All right, you two. I’m out of here. And by the way, you know that I love you, right?

We love you, too, Brendan, his mother said. "And we’re proud of you. Our very own son. Mister Incommunicado. We did something right. No ringtones for you."

Or GPS, said his father.

Should I even bother to tell you to call us when you get there? his mother asked. You have to at least let me appear to be a concerned parent.

Do what you have to do, Mom. Go ahead. Tell me.

We’ll just keep an eye on the headlines throughout the day, his father said, the crass allusion an ironic affirmation of respect for human life.

I’ll call you in a couple of days, Kelleher said. When we’re settled in.

"Bueno, mijito, his mother said sweetly, conscious of inviting a volley of localisms. Que te vaya bien."

"Con cuidado, said his father, mocking Andean dourness. ¿Oyó?"

"Tranquilo, Dad. You know me."

Because Kelleher had witnessed many strained summer farewells during his upbringing on The Cape, he had no desire to say goodbye one last time to the tennis professional at the country club or the proprietor of his neighborhood’s small, independent grocery store, the men for whom he had worked. They had businesses to run, and neither wished to see him leave before Labor Day, but they knew that as a member of the soccer team at Boltwood College, in Western Massachusetts, he was required to return to school well before summer’s end for pre-season training. Although inconvenienced, they, too, were proud of him and would adjust to his absence.

Kelleher had learned that mid-August was the ideal time to leave The Cape, for it was the period of the summer when year-round and seasonal residents, frustrated with overcrowding and already less congenial towards each other, began, to his horror, to target visitors, especially on the roads, in traffic. The generational and socio-ethnic tensions at the country club now bored him, as did the compulsions of hustling townies who stopped at the grocery store.

The high-season buzz made the departure less poignant, nevertheless, and the morning’s brightness and warmth discouraged reflection. He thus succeeded in putting the country club and the store out of his mind even before reaching the Depression-era bridge that spanned the wide sea-level canal. Once beyond the limb-shaped peninsula – his father had remarked that the salient flexed arm on the map recalled the dead-of-winter closing-time bravado of lonely laborers – he prayed for the deliverance of those in vehicles from other states and Canada, who, although satisfied that the flight from profiteers and distracted table-servers was complete, remained uneasy.

He felt the usual revulsion and nostalgic tug upon seeing the pairing of signs for the main route to Boston and the interstate that linked The Cape with Rhode Island, highways for which his father had introduced the designations Murph’s Dragway and The Luso-American International Speedway. He managed the undivided scenic road along the canal’s mainland side and entered The Commonwealth’s peripheral semi-circumferential highway at its southernmost point.

Although his father had not yet assigned a name to the highway, the area of it that served as the demarcation between Irish and Portuguese Massachusetts was often challenging to the meek motorist; several stretches, especially those between exits to roads that penetrated the ethnic spheres, were confluences of Irish-American impunity and Azorean recklessness.

He watched a Benfica-supporting landscaper weave through traffic in an overloaded stake-body truck and swerve to avoid the rusty Ford pickup of a Swamp Yankee who hauled scrap metals. A young male executive, running late after the extended weekend, sped by in a Golf GTI.

Kelleher then observed the fair face of a thirtysomething mainstream feminist while passing her Subaru Outback, a vehicle that he associated with progressive outdoorsiness. The woman, her forehead moist, gripped the steering wheel. Having seen the rear license plate and the decals that proclaimed support for environmental and nonprofit media organizations, he assumed that she was returning to Vermont from a remote campsite and, snickering with guilt, imagined her concentrating on reports about shrinking animal habitats, fluvial contamination in mining areas, and genital mutilation in Africa to keep her mind off of the traffic.

Public radio no longer appealed to him, for he felt that the enunciation of the program hosts and correspondents was an affectation of learnedness, insulting to his intelligence. He considered attention to cursory, hard-hearted discussion of political questions on commercial radio a waste of his time. Talk of local products, where the mindset is at, recaptured windows, ramped-up intensity, world class family-friendly facilities, potential negatives, compete levels, the most storied franchises in all of sport, pocket navigation, New England’s collective breath, and groin issues didn’t interest him.

Once the signal of The Cape’s classical station became weak, he reached for the selection of songs that sat atop other compact discs on the passenger seat, then realized that the aggressive call-and-response of his favorite Cuban dance band would disrupt the warm connection that he felt to the cranberry bogs and thickening forest. He knew that the less ponderously titled works of contemporary impressionistic Americana by the ageless Midwestern jazz guitarist would be more fitting, but the music was airy and thus impossible to fully appreciate with the windows open.

He switched to AM hoping to find one of the stations that specialized in the popular music of an earlier day; golden oldies and adult standards, he felt, were best enjoyed in crackling mono. He came across a Portuguese-language report on the Sporting-Boavista futebol match and listened long enough to again wonder why the daydreams of his drudging ancestors never inspired names as fanciful as those of the Brazilian goal scorers. Further up the dial, a frenzied, reverb-heavy advertisement in Spanish for a meat market in a long-decaying Rhode Island industrial town counteracted his post-oatmeal cravings.

Friends considered the aversion to cellular telephones, automotive navigation systems, air conditioning, and certain audio players an endearing idiosyncrasy. Many, especially the gadget-dependent, envied the serenity with which he isolated himself and made do. He was thought to be the only student at Boltwood to carry the print version of The New York Times to classes and meals, and he once aroused the curiosity of members of his class in twentieth-century Spanish-American literature by insisting that he was most alive whenever he sensed that the flesh covering his hamstrings was adhering to a vinyl car seat.

A Chevrolet Suburban passed him. The decal on the bumper was an incorporation of the Boston big-league baseball team’s insignia and a shamrock. He shook his head, never to be convinced that the team’s chubby Dominicans, venal Asians, or eccentric Southerners were conscious of having demonstrated the superiority of New England culture whenever they celebrated success. The Suburban, directional signals idle, cut across two lanes before accelerating onto a wide exit ramp, and he pictured the ballplayers at the service of what was left of the Republican movement in Ireland.

Traffic on The Turnpike between the semi-circumferential highway and the suburbs south of Worcester was also challenging. The appearance of an Audi S3 hatchback in the breakdown lane startled him and reminded him that the celebration of The Turnpike in a popular song was an example of folk-rock naiveté. He had the satisfaction, however, of knowing that he was headed west, beyond Worcester, further away from congested Eastern Massachusetts, to territory that was distinct, friendlier. As always, his ears first popped at the elevated point of The Turnpike that, according to his father, represented The Commonwealth’s dialectical divide. Traffic soon became lighter, he was more assured of his safety, and he remembered that he would be meeting his new roommate.

Several weeks earlier, from the family summer home on on The Cape, Myles Woodring had phoned Kelleher and invited him to lunch. Kelleher assumed that Woodring, the head coach of the Boltwood soccer team, intended to assign a diminished role or inform him of being in competition for his place. Aware that Kelleher was often self-doubting, Woodring was quick to assure him that he only wished to ask a favor.

They met at one of The Cape’s few traditional delicatessens. Woodring praised Kelleher for his manners and capacity for cross-cultural understanding. He then asked Kelleher if he would mind serving as roommate to a new player, a transfer from London.

Kelleher leaned back and scratched the slight overgrowth of hair on the back of his neck.

He’ll be a junior like you, Woodring said. I’m not trying to stick you with a freshman, Brendan. Or with…well, you know.

Kelleher had planned on sharing his suite with like-minded Schiff. He, however, had called in early July to say that he would be remaining in France after the regional symphony orchestra for which he played cello had concluded the biennial European summer tour. He says he needs a break, Kelleher explained. The place is driving him nuts.

Yeah?

You should have heard him. He went on and on about how he had to escape the academic world. And The Valley, of course.

Woodring and Kelleher joked about Schiff’s motivation, the convenience of Schiff’s decision. Kelleher thanked Woodring for the kind words and said that he would welcome the newcomer. Woodring thanked Kelleher and said that he was happy with the arrangement.

What’s this guy’s name, anyway? Kelleher asked.

McNulty, Woodring replied. Mick McNulty.

"McNulty?"

Yeah.

You said he’s from London, Coach?

That’s right.

He must be London Irish. Beautiful.

Yeah, but he’s a decent guy, Brendan. He really is.

Who does he support?

You’ll have to ask him yourself. I haven’t met him yet. In fact, I’ve never even talked to him.

But you know he’s a good guy.

I do. Don’t worry.

I’m not worried at all. In fact, I’m looking forward to this. But given what you’re told me, I can’t help but wonder a little. Just a little.

I know. But give me some credit, Brendan. Have faith.

Do you know if he’s any good?

I haven’t seen him play either. Not in person, anyway. But I’m sure that he can handle himself.

Despite the clever evasions and understatement, and never having met or spoken with Mick McNulty, Woodring knew that he was a commanding defender and that he supported the Arsenal Football Club; Irish-born, Arsenal-supporting relatives in London had taught McNulty of the team’s habit in the Seventies and Eighties of contracting Irish players. Woodring had also learned that when McNulty was very young, his father had died in a workplace accident and that his mother had left him in the care of an uncle, a construction contractor, before emigrating. McNulty’s inconsistency at the Catholic schools to which his uncle sent him wasn’t a secret.

The feigned ignorance of the details of Michael Xavier McNulty’s life allowed Woodring to appear to have been passive in the process of the Londoner’s unlikely matriculation at Boltwood College, a most selective liberal arts school located immediately south of The Town Green and the original village center of Boltwood, Massachusetts.

Boltwood was home to two other colleges: Massachusetts State University (State, Mass State) whose urbanized campus occupied much of the North Side, and the experimental Bowles College, its campus inconspicuous among centuries-old orchards in the southernmost area of the town, at the foot of the north-facing slope of the Skinner Range, a small but steep range of scenic low mountains known for its peculiar east-west orientation.

Boltwood was recognized as one of the most vibrant communities in The Valley, an area of Western Massachusetts that included not only the cities and towns along the Connecticut River lowlands but also several of the tiny settlements in the uplands east and west of the river. Among the other colleges in The Valley – several were members of The Valley Collegiate Consortium – the closest to Boltwood was Skinner College, a prestigious women’s school located just south of the mountain range.

Students from the colleges, especially State undergraduates, supported Boltwood’s thriving bar and casual dining scene. Faculty, graduate students, cultured undergraduates, and State alumni who had settled in The Valley patronized the town’s performance arts groups and venues, as well as the growing number of fine restaurants. Independent bookstores, boutiques, and specialty music shops happily promoted and depended on Boltwood’s progressiveness.

Transplants, Woodring had learned, considered mere residence in The Valley both an achievement and a political statement. Members and followers of the literary and musical avant-garde in Boltwood and the ascetics who sought seclusion in the hill towns, regarded themselves and each other as worthy representatives of the Valley lifestyle and equally virtuous, although students who had no desire to remain in the area and working-class townies often derided them.

Whenever tempted to ridicule Valleyites who satisfied ambition through subsistence in hermitages or commitment to movements and scenes, Woodring reminded himself that, aside from summers on The Cape, his time at boarding school, and frequent extended visits to England, he had never uprooted himself and also found The Valley’s comforts difficult to forsake; that he was one of only a few males from his graduating class at Boltwood College who had not pursued an advanced degree; and that he owed his job as head soccer coach at Boltwood – and his financial independence – to the fact that his English father, Peter, had been coach there for decades.

The promises of increased wages and new scenery had lured Peter Woodring to the ill-fated American soccer league in the mid-Sixties. He accepted experimentation with the rules of the game and enjoyed some celebrity, but well before retirement from playing he grew sick of the league’s unorthodox setup and cramped, bumpy fields. Indeed, what he found especially attractive about Boltwood during his first visit was the air of traditionalism and availability of superior playing space. Unionized physical plant employees and kitchen staff were pleased when, not long after his arrival, the administration permitted him to open a summer soccer camp. He invested the profits – as well as those from camps that he would soon open in Connecticut, Vermont, and New York – in local real estate, particularly rental properties, just as State expanded its campus and enrollment. He increased his wealth through investment in financial markets and was able to send his son to an independent school in New Hampshire.

Woodring’s education at Boltwood College, per the terms of his father’s benefits package, was gratis. Before graduating magna cum laude in economics, he was captain of the soccer team and twice named Division Three All-American. He managed the camps and took on more responsibility with the real estate company after graduation, and within a few years he would become a partner in the businesses. Following his father’s advice, he invested every cent that he earned playing in the New England Portuguese league – his per game salary, at one point, was a thousand dollars, always paid in cash – in a promising West Coast software company.

At the banquet held in honor of his father, who at the same banquet publicly accepted the post of athletic director, Woodring was introduced as Boltwood’s new coach. The team would remain committed to free-flowing soccer and continue to post impressive records, but it would lose every decisive match and manage to beat its fiercest rival, Greylock College, only after it was impossible for either team to win the New England Conference championship and qualify for the post-season tournament that determined the national champion.

The Boltwood College administration was delighted, however, with his directorship. The players were sporting and receptive to his ideas about character development. Their play was stylish, the non-league schedule was ambitious, and games were well-attended. Alumni, students, and locals were proud of the team. Woodring was revered.

He earned more through his various income sources than most of his Boltwood classmates. He was in near perfect health. He lived in a coveted neighborhood only minutes from campus, in the heart of an idyllic region. And he was eager to marry his long-time partner, Meredith, a congressional staff attorney who was most comfortable in her Georgetown condominium, although she had reminded him over dinner at Boltwood’s newest French bistro that she would not accept a proposal from him unless he promised her that he would seek a graduate degree and a more respectable profession. Meredith’s strict conditions didn’t trouble him, and he remained certain that they would soon settle down together in Boltwood.

Still, it occurred to him that Meredith had become more demanding just as he was growing impatient with Valley culture – while driving one Saturday he became conscious of the inelegance with which pedestrians acknowledged his courtesies – and his team. Relocation was impractical, though, however little the interests required of his labor. Neither academe nor the corporate world appealed to him, and, his frustrations notwithstanding, he wished to continue coaching and to remain at Boltwood.

He suspected that Meredith intended only to shake him from complacency, to save him from becoming another tired Valley fixture. Indeed, he had complained to her that faculty and staff at Boltwood spoke with him only of soccer and no longer of economic questions.

The platitudes and their implicit slights were bothersome, but he was more concerned that the decorum and perspective that Boltwood College required of its athletes had fused with attitudes particular to American soccer and caused his team to be indifferent to results.

He was convinced that the players now pitied him, some even contemptuously, and were no longer respectful of his leadership. He had heard them mutter Whatever so many times in lazy disagreement or unconcerned reaction to losing that he considered punishing the word’s use. Their sympathetic characterizations – The Man, good people, a hot shit, a great coach – often seemed to him motivated by guilt.

The season-ending loss didn’t surprise Woodring: Boltwood was talented, but it lacked cohesion, discipline, toughness. That many of the players appeared to confuse graciousness with apathy after the match was more disappointing to him, as was the prolonged fraternization of the senior co-captains with the opponents and their failure to console underclassmen who had taken the loss hard. Some Boltwood fans would complain about Greylock’s triumphalism, but he was glad to see that someone cared enough about winning to carry on a bit. He also hoped that returning players would find Greylock’s celebration so distasteful that they would vow to never witness another.

Rather than angering him, the snippy message from Meredith – away again, this time on a fact-finding mission in the Balkans – only made him more critical. He slumped onto his living room sofa, now troubled that he might be failing his players, and switched on the delayed telecast of a match played that day between top-level London teams. Then he remembered, as he always had recently, that he had come to detest the sneering cosmopolitanism of London’s big clubs and again regretted that similar attitudes were common in The Valley and among American soccer fans. After closing his eyes, he thought of the features of lower-division soccer in England that made it irresistible to him and recalled that friends in London often criticized him for obsession with aspects of English life that they considered caricatures. He realized then that he had been partly responsible for the preservation of his team’s culture and asked himself why he had never challenged the ethos that promoted participation in varsity sports as ideal preparation for the demands of the real world while it accepted half-hearted effort in the face of real competition and excuse-making – We like to keep things in perspective at Boltwood – after defeat.

He recognized the technical superiority of the more glamorous team, but the effortlessness of its highly paid players – among them a Senegalese-born French international who spoke openly of his desire to play in Spain, a sulky Brazilian who had established Japanese and Portuguese citizenship, a troubled Dutchman of Antillean parentage, a blond Argentine whose one season in the ancestral homeland accounted for his frequent gesticulations – left him cold. He had learned, however, that to publicly bemoan the deracination of the top English league invited accusations of ethnocentric hysteria; only by wondering if the heart had gone out of the English game would he express his concern.

The home team’s stars monopolized possession of the ball throughout the first half, and the visitors – a core of competent Englishmen complemented by a Welshman, a Nigerian, two Irishmen, a Norwegian, and a Californian – scrapped and hung on. Although the game was scoreless at the half, Woodring felt that the outcome was as inevitable as that of the morning’s Boltwood-Greylock game and watched only to distract his most pessimistic thoughts.

During the interval he decided to finally report Boltwood’s loss to Ian Jeffries, a family friend who lived in London. Jeffries played with Peter Woodring in the old American league and had been an investor in the camps. He enjoyed his years in the United States and had come to believe in the future of American soccer. He followed several American teams, including the national team, the New England entry in the new professional league, and his sentimental favorite, the Kestrels of Boltwood College.

After his playing days Jeffries returned to England and established himself as an agent. He represented some of the biggest English stars and nearly every American who played in England or Scotland. Many of the American clients had been overlooked by scouts in the United States because they played in obscure leagues, but the Woodrings knew the American amateur and small college scenes well. Jeffries quietly compensated his friends for their discoveries, although the promotion of American players in Britain motivated the three more than financial gain.

Woodring realized that the game between the London teams might become suspenseful and, not wanting to risk learning the final score, decided to put off the call.

The home team squandered several clear chances during the opening twenty minutes of the second half. The visiting goalkeeper then made two stunning saves, and each of his center backs cleared attempts off the goal line. The groans of the home crowd grew louder and more impatient, and the game finally captured Woodring’s imagination fully.

A counterattack from the home team broke down after its Spanish teenage virtuoso passed the ball two yards ahead of the Brazilian, who had wanted the ball played directly to his feet. The Brazilian held his arms up and shook his head. The young Spaniard kicked the ground, sighed, and then raised his hand to acknowledge the error. The French manager (coach) rose from the bench and encouraged his players to continue to attack.

With little time remaining, the visiting manager – a sexagenarian Londoner, thoughtful and articulate – replaced a spent midfielder with a balding English veteran and a forward with the versatile, fearless young Texan whom the Woodrings had introduced to Jeffries. The Texan immediately threatened with an uninhibited run and was finally brought down by a tug at his already untucked shirt. The referee allowed play to continue, but the visiting team’s English substitute won the ball back with a fierce tackle. The home team, after having dominated the match, seemed to concede the midfield, and its attacking players argued among each other. The Texan soon received an inventive pass from the wily Englishman, burst by his marker, and drove the ball through the goalkeeper’s legs. Woodring jumped as the netting bulged. Seconds after the home team restarted play, the referee ended the match. Woodring reached for the phone.

Ian, it’s Myles. You don’t want to know the score of our game, pal. Trust me. Anyway, watching our boy from the Lone Star State has put me in a decent mood and given me an idea. Something big. And I want to get right on it. You might have to put off your retirement, in fact. Or you can dedicate it to philanthropy. Give me a call me as soon you can.

Chapter 2

Another Albinoni oboe concerto played as Kelleher made himself at home in the suite that he would share with McNulty. Understanding that first impressions were important and that insecure newcomers were often hostile and disapproving, he preferred to risk establishing snobbery to underwhelming McNulty with his popular music choices, although, despite being protective of his reputation as a gentleman, he cared little about what others thought of him. Yet the playlist of Italian compositions was a natural choice, for he found that baroque music elevated his mood and prepared him for challenges and fresh starts. And he hoped that by first playing works of Catholic composers, he would break in his new residence on the third floor of Parsons Hall properly, warm it to his liking.

He discovered the bags of dried eucalyptus leaves that his mother had stashed among pots and pans. He steamed a portion of the contents of one of the bags in the kitchenette, a feature of the suites for upperclassmen that those who didn’t appreciate the importance of domestication or social entertainment thought superfluous, for residents were already required to participate in the meal plan. As he had intended, the fragrance masked the lingering scents of disinfectants and cleaning agents, but it reminded him of the home on The Outer Cape – the area of The Cape most associated with estate-funded eccentricity and artsiness – where, during his final year in high school, he taught Spanish to a temperamental sculptress. He had thought that McNulty might regard the aroma and the steaming pot quizzically and was thus prepared to explain that his mother had bought the herbal remedy at a botanica in Providence and had done so only out of pity for the proprietor.

After tracking the steam through the open doorway of the bedroom that McNulty would inhabit, he assumed that Boltwood’s Office for International Students had supplied the blankets, pillows, and linens that were piled neatly on the end of the mattress. Although tempted to make the bed, he decided that doing so would constitute an imposition.

He had been considerate of previous roommates, but as McNulty’s arrival drew closer he realized that he was unusually eager to provide an appropriate welcome. Gratitude motivated him as much as his commitment to correctness, for from the time that he had heard from Schiff until the afternoon when Woodring treated him to lunch, he feared that he’d be stuck with a colorless egghead, a boor, or worse, a tedious ideologue.

On that year’s Easter Monday, a decision by the unpopular president charged an already political climate. Within a few days, schoolmates who misinterpreted the dispassionate way in which Kelleher discussed domestic and foreign affairs were open with their resentment of him. Although not without friends, he would soon be almost as tired of Boltwood as Schiff.

The soccer team, through its appeal to internationalists on campus and throughout The Valley, had become a symbol of resistance and was no refuge for Kelleher. The most creative midfielder, an American from one of Boston’s western suburbs, had complained throughout the previous pre-season – Kelleher’s first – about the encroachment of right-wing social policies on his life, and, only days before the season-opening match, announced that he had quit Boltwood and would be leaving the next morning for a university in Canada. Kelleher managed to stay out of the many impolite debates over the player’s decision but found the episode demoralizing. He considered the disquiet an unkind irony, since he was the most comfortably polyglot of the players and had joined the team only after he had had enough of varsity tennis.

The condition of his relationship with Ana, his tennis-playing Germano-Latin girlfriend at Skinner College, was solid and improving. But worried that his absence during the spring semester – he planned on spending it in France – might imperil the romance, he didn’t know if he wished the fall semester to fly by or last forever.

However quickly or slowly the fall would seem to pass, Kelleher hoped that the company and example of a brassy Londoner would encourage him to enjoy it and stop looking at it as a prelude to heartbreak and nostalgia. Yet, because Boltwood was a school for prepared, ambitious pre-professionals and soccer in England a game for the undereducated, he wondered just how swaggering or adept at soccer McNulty could be. Kelleher had played among English university students on The Cape and found that they were generally poor players and well-mannered, although enthusiastic about the game and far from dull. Perhaps, he thought, McNulty’s family had risen from the working-class condition that the Irish name implied and retained an interest in the game, as well as a fondness for conversation, good company, confrontation. Or maybe McNulty was rootless and lifeless, and, like so many students from England, had fooled himself into thinking that he could make it as a player in the United States.

Satisfied that the suite was presentable and that the perishables that his mother had supplied were properly stored, he sat on the living room sofa nearer to the bedrooms and opened the front section of that day’s New York Times – an aunt in Rhode Island renewed the subscription every year for his birthday – to the international report. He had just returned to the front page when he heard the thud of a forearm on a swinging door. The continuation of a peremptory monologue followed:

"And it’s pretty damn obvious to me that you people from London don’t like to listen to Americans or people of color. That’s gonna have to change. Anyway, the point is, I’m tired of telling your English ass that I don’t mind carrying your suitcases. And it ain’t because I know my place. No, sir. Why do you think my triceps are so cut up? And my biceps. Huh? Huh? Because I’m always trying to work on them, man. And if it wasn’t for your long day and your long-ass flight and whatnot, we would have taken the stairs. Suitcases or no suitcases, though. So you’re warned. If I ever see you on an elevator, you will get a beating. Don’t even give me that smile, Mick. You’re on campus now. That’s right, though. I don’t have to be nice anymore. I gotta whip all or your asses into shape and I don’t mind starting with you. What are you laughing at, boy? You better not be laughing at me. I’ll tell you that right now. Come on, man. We’re almost there. Let’s go."

Kelleher had been enjoying the pre-semester emptiness of Parsons Hall and The Valley’s summery innocence, yet he welcomed the Cape Verdean voice that echoed in the hallway for its impudence and signifying that his new roommate had made it; a straightforward message from Woodring had informed Kelleher that Boltwood’s new assistant coach, Ricardo Barros, would be arriving with McNulty from Boston’s Logan International Airport in the late afternoon.

Barros, a graduate of State and one of its many associate deans, was a supporter of local soccer teams and familiar to Kelleher and other Boltwood players. He was a close friend of Woodring – the two had played together for Ludlow in the Portuguese league and both Boltwood Town and Inter Boltwood in The Valley’s amateur league – and uncle of Boltwood’s midfielder Tony Mendes. He had been introduced to Kelleher by Mendes at a cultural event at State and was taken with Kelleher’s perfect Brazilian Portuguese and appreciation of the Portuguese restaurants in New Bedford, the city where he and his nephew were raised after emigrating from Cabo Verde. With humor and some severity, he had coached the male team at Boltwood Regional High School and the varsity at Skinner College. Indeed, his speech was simultaneously lilting and imperative, and he often prepared his teams by taking them on grueling runs up and down the slopes and along the ridgeline of a section of the Skinner Range. He had been hired by Woodring to improve Boltwood’s fitness, discipline, and internal communication. Because he was the other unwitting instrument in Woodring’s greater plan, commencement of his duties had been intended to coincide with McNulty’s arrival.

Yo, Brendan, we’re here! he announced from the doorway before noticing Kelleher. Oh, there you are. Right in front of my face. How are you doing, man? And how come you’re not listening to Brazilian music? What’s up with that, though? Because Kelleher spoke fluent Portuguese, Barros spared him from harsher greetings.

Gentlemen, Kelleher said. He folded the section of the newspaper and placed it on the wooden coffee table before him. He stood unhurriedly, arched his back for a moment, and stepped towards the doorway.

I’m going to make this quick, you two, Barros said. You know what I mean? I have things to see, people to do. Anyway, Brendan, meet your new roommate, Mick McNulty. Mick, meet Brendan Kelleher. With names like that, I can’t see you two not getting along.

Experiences on The Cape with the Irish and English had taught Kelleher that they shared his contempt for effusive greetings. Unlike them, though, he didn’t associate politeness with upper-class ceremony and was never intimidated into abandoning his manners. Pleased to meet you, he said, extending his right hand.

Kelleher, yeah? McNulty asked.

That’s right, Kelleher replied as they shook, grips firm.

First it was all the coppers at the airport, yeah, Coach Barros? Donnelly, Hickey, Joyce, Brennan, whatever. McCarthy. All trying to look hard, as well, weren’t they? And now Kelleher. I tell you what, mate.

"This is Massachusetts, Mick," said Kelleher.

Yeah, well, between all the Paddy names and the heat, it might as well be fucking Australia.

Kelleher smiled. Barros exaggerated an expression of puzzlement.

Don’t laugh, McNulty said. Some of my mates have been there and they say it’s dodgy. Well dodgy. They’ll be surprised when I tell them it’s worse here, won’t they? There better not be any flies in my room, though. Or empty beer cans.

I wouldn’t worry, Kelleher said. It looks like they got them all. The snakes, too. Only after I complained, of course. And I don’t know if anyone has told you, but winter’s not far off.

I’ve been told a million times already, McNulty said. You know, ‘You better be ready for it,’ ‘It’s a land of extremes,’ and all that.

Take a seat, will you, Mick? You too, Mr. Barros.

No, man, Barros said. "I have to get going in a minute, like I said, and I’ve been driving all day, anyway. Had to pick up his ass."

Look at this furniture, McNulty said. No telly, though. What’s that about?

You are a complainer, said Barros.

The TV’s in my room, Kelleher said. I was going to hook it up out here later.

Nice one, son, McNulty said, straightening himself on the other sofa. And I wasn’t complaining, Coach Barros. I was just wondering. Can’t a man wonder?

You can wonder, but you better not be complaining, Barros said. "Because if you don’t like it here, you can grab your bags and go to Australia. I’ll run your ass back to Logan right now. I’ll just crash with one of my cousins in Dorchester. My old lady won’t mind. Not as long as I stop by her mother’s house and bring back some grub. My sogrinha can cook, though. But good luck finding a college in Australia as good as this one, man. Good luck. Brendan, can you believe this guy?"

Who said I didn’t like it here? McNulty said, leaning forward. I’m just saying it’s dodgy, that’s all. Saying something’s dodgy and complaining are two different matters, aren’t they? In fact, I’m glad to be here.

"He’s glad to be here. You hear that, Brendan? Wait ‘til I get ahold of his ass tomorrow, though. He’ll wish he was in Australia."

Maybe I will, McNulty said, slumping, tapping the toes of his right foot. But I’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow, mate. For now, well, it’s been a long day and, as much I’d love to talk bollocks with you two all afternoon and bond, I think I’m going to turn in. For a quick lie-down, anyway.

"Don’t even forget our team meeting tonight," Barros said.

I need to be rested for it, though, don’t I?

I won’t let him forget, Kelleher said. I’ll get him there.

I’m really in the lap of luxury now, said McNulty. I even have my own valet. Or au pair, as the case may be. Where are you from, love? Sweden? Romania? What kind of visa are you on?

Kelleher snickered.

"Joke all you want, Mick, but you don’t want to miss that meeting, though, Barros said. You better hope that Brendan gets your ass up."

He’s a big boy, Kelleher said. Let him blow it off if he wants to. I’m not going to twist his arm.

"Twist my arm? McNulty said. You?"

Just be at the meeting, Mick, said Barros.

No worries, Coach Barros. I’ll be there. Sober, as well. How’s that for commitment?

You don’t want to know what I’ll do to your ass if you show up to one of Woodring’s meetings with booze on your breath.

Have you read the student handbook? McNulty asked.

The student handbook? What’s he talking about, Brendan?

Your guess is as good as mine.

They made me read it front to back, McNulty said. You know, as part of my orientation correspondence. Anyway, you can’t drink on campus without a special permit, can you? I must say that I found that disappointing. It got me thinking twice, as well, truth to tell.

Well, there are plenty of bars within a five minute walk of this place… Barros said.

An educated confirmation. That’s what I wanted to hear.

…and you better stay out of them, Mick, if you plan on making the team.

A few jars never hurt anyone’s football.

Maybe you can pull some strings and get him in under the wire over at State, Kelleher said to Barros. He’d fit right in.

We’re trying to crack down over there now. I’m already tired of doing his ass favors, anyway.

You mean you’re not going to carry the bags to my room? said McNulty. You’re going to make me get up? As I was getting comfortable? It’s just as well, I reckon, because I don’t have any small change for the gratuity. I know that’s how they do it over here.

Keep running that mouth, Mick, Barros said. Keep running it.

I’ll get the bags, Kelleher said.

No, I got it, said Barros. That’s only because I won’t refuse exercise. Where’d you stick him, Brendan?

He’s got the room to the right. The quiet room. The one furthest from the kitchen and the hallway. Letting him have it was the least I could do for him. And probably the last thing that I’ll do for him.

Yeah, well, I appreciate it, just the same, McNulty said.

Barros grabbed the suitcases and carried them to McNulty’s room. He placed them at the foot of the bed.

It must be said, though, that most domestic servants have their quarters near the kitchen, anyway, so it’s not like you even did me a favor.

See if you can get Brendan to make your bed, then, Barros said. Someone’s going to have to do it and it ain’t me.

Why isn’t the bed made? McNulty asked. That’s out of order. I think I’d like to have a word with the manager.

Independent living, pal, Kelleher said. This isn’t a hotel.

At least I have a nanny. Make the bed for us, will you, dear?

Kelleher turned his face towards Barros and glowered.

"Don’t look at me, Brendan, Barros said. He’s not my problem until tomorrow. You’re going to have to straighten him out."

Make your own bed, Mick, Kelleher said. Come up with new material while you’re at it. Got that?

Fair enough, mate. Can you wake us, though?

How does six sound? Kelleher asked.

Perfect, McNulty replied. That should give me a good couple of hours, anyway.

So I’ll see you two later on, Barros said.

I’ll get him there, sir, said Kelleher. Don’t worry.

"Obrigado, Senhor Brendan."

"Nada. Esquenta não."

You make me laugh with that Brazilian slang, Brendan, Barros said. You really do. I’ve never heard an Irish dude speak street Portuguese like that.

Speaking like a native has its costs, unfortunately. Guilt by association is a sad reality. But if I give people the wrong impression and my reputation suffers, I’ll still have my music collection.

I know what you’re saying, Brendan. I agree with you, too. And Mick?

Yes, sir.

Welcome to Boltwood. Enjoy your nap.

Thanks, Coach Barros. I will. Thanks for everything. Really.

"You’re welcome, Mick. Damn, Brendan, it looks like you might actually be rubbing off on his ass, though."

A short time after Barros’ departure, Kelleher, in running gear, stepped from his bedroom and saw that McNulty’s door was open. He knocked gently.

Come on in, son.

That’s all right. I was just wondering if you wanted me to shut the door.

Do that, would you, mate? Cheers.

Kelleher reached inside the room for the doorknob and noticed, despite averting his eyes, that McNulty lay on his side, his back to the door, atop the sheets and a thin blanket. The bed was neatly made, but the clothes and shoes that McNulty had worn formed a trail to the suitcases, which, left open, covered much of the remaining floor space.

I’ll be back in a little while, Mick.

You’re leaving me alone, are you?

I’m just going for a quick run. Nothing too crazy.

"Well, you won’t have to worry about making any noise when you get back. I reckon I’ll be well out."

Tired, huh?

This should sort me.

Are you going to be good for the wake-up?

I’ll have to be, won’t I?

After returning from the run, Kelleher chugged an entire room-temperature twenty-ounce serving of water in the kitchenette, undressed in his bedroom, and showered. The bathroom was between the bedrooms, the showerhead only five feet from the spot where McNulty’s head rested.

Is he back already? McNulty eventually called.

Are you up already, Mick?

I’m awake, anyway. Can you open the door, son? I can’t exert myself before tomorrow, can I?

Kelleher knocked before opening the door. On his back, McNulty stared at the ceiling. He rubbed his eyes.

Did you sleep?

Well enough. How was the run?

Fine. Do you want to keep sleeping?

I might as well get up. If I don’t, I’ll probably slip into a fucking coma. And that wouldn’t exactly impress them at the meeting, would it?

If you shower up now, I’ll take you for a walk around campus. We’ll have plenty of time.

That’s an idea.

It’ll wake you up, too. Come on. Get up. Do you have a towel?

There should be one here. Who knows where it is now, though. Probably buried under the suitcases. Nice, yeah? I’m already losing towels.

I’ll get you one.

I’ll find my own, son. Don’t bother.

Let me get you one, Mick. My mother made me bring a stack of them for you. Can you believe that?

The route that Kelleher chose, however introductory, would offer views of the neoclassical and late-twentieth century structures at the heart of the Boltwood campus, as well as the most startling vistas of the surrounding countryside.

He pointed to the library and the addition to the Student Center, both warmly modernist. He waved towards a few academic buildings and mumbled their names. He played with his gifted wristwatch as McNulty marveled at the observatory and Museum of Natural History. They walked by the skating rink – Kelleher identified it as the hockey rink – and an auxiliary gymnasium, and McNulty, straining to keep pace, realized that much of the campus had been constructed on a wide slope.

The climb became less steep just as they emerged from the oak-canopied common space, and McNulty began to breathe easier. They arrived at a convergence of walkways and then to a wide granite staircase. Freedom from visual confinement energized McNulty, but he descended the stairs and crossed the floor of weathered flagstones slowly. He reached the edge of the south-facing overlook, took a deep breath, and exhaled in a way intended to express satisfaction. This is incredible. Better than I thought it would be.

Nice, huh?

I’ve been dying to see it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stared at the photos.

The War Memorial, my man. One of the nicest spots around.

That’s right, son. This is The War Memorial.

Didn’t you see all the names on that granite slab back there?

Sorry, mate. I was so caught up in the setting sun and the view that I didn’t notice. Maybe I should come back some other time and lay a wreath, yeah? You know, to show my respect. You can’t blame them if their leaders dragged the old feet and left us to stand up to the tyrants on our own.

No, Mick, you can’t.

We could get some pipers and a film crew and make a day of it. If we’re lucky, we could even end up sipping whiskey afterwards at a legion club somewhere. What do you reckon, son?

Sounds good.

Just trying to be respectful.

That’s the main field down there, by the way. The one right below us. We train on the others. So do the women.

That’s where we’ll be hosting matches? Down there?

That’s right. See the scoreboard off to the side? They’ll be putting little stands around it before the season starts, so don’t worry.

I’m not worried. This is brilliant, this is. And what are those fields for?

Baseball. See the diamonds and the backstops? The dugouts?

Right.

The rugby setup needs no introduction.

I saw the goalposts, but where’s the beer keg?

It’s prohibited, remember?

What about GAA?

"Here? Come on."

I didn’t think so. This place is posh.

Speaking of that, behind those tall hedges are a bunch of clay tennis courts. See? That’s east, in case you didn’t know.

It does nothing for me, mate. I could learn to appreciate it, though, if the ladies team has some fit Russians.

I don’t think they do, Mick.

What about American football and athletics and all that?

They have their fields a few blocks west of campus. There’s a little stadium there, too. We’ll check it out it one of these days.

Tell me about those mountains, mate.

The Skinner Range? What about them?

"What about them? They’re beautiful."

They’re definitely distinct for small mountains. And, yes, they’re beautiful. They stand there and you almost feel as if you have to answer to them.

Will we have a view of them when we play?

You know it.

Can we climb them?

Sure. There’s a trail that runs along the whole ridge and other trails that lead to the individual summits. In fact, there are a bunch of trails that cross the slopes. I’ll get you up there some Sunday morning.

Why isn’t the sun setting behind the mountains? The river runs north-south, doesn’t it? It appears to on the map, anyway. The Connecticut, yeah?

Good man, Mick. But that range runs east-west, perpendicular to the river. Weird, huh?

I was confused there for a second, I have to admit.

It’s considered a geological abnormality. It’s cool, though, because you can get great views to the north. You know, New Hampshire, Vermont. And depending on where you stand, you can get some decent views in the other directions.

So, you’ll take us up there, yeah?

I’ll be glad to. Hiking up there can be a challenge, though. Don’t kid yourself.

I can stick it. I’m here to play football, after all, aren’t I?

They arrived at the classroom in the main gymnasium building only seconds before Woodring, Barros, and the diminutive student manager. Many of the players greeted Kelleher with nods or pats to the shoulder, but before he could introduce McNulty to anyone – indeed, before either he or McNulty had become comfortable in their bucket seats – the meeting began.

Welcome, Woodring said. To those who are new to us, welcome to Boltwood College. There are a couple of you who, for whatever reasons, I still haven’t met. I’m Myles Woodring. I’m the director of the men’s soccer program at Boltwood and head coach of the varsity. The goal this year is as ambitious as it can be: the New England Conference championship, defeating Greylock in the process, and winning all there is to win. All of you, and that includes returning players and the newcomers, will be competing for positions on the varsity. Those who don’t make it at first will play JV and remain available for varsity play. Training begins tomorrow morning at six with the five-mile run. The morning sessions will start at eight. Lunch will be at eleven thirty. The afternoon sessions will start at one thirty. We have a couple of friendlies lined up with some D2 teams. Assisting me will be the gentleman to my right, Ricardo Barros. And, of course, many of you already know our manager, Sean Joyce. Sean?

Joyce rarely joked and never initiated or participated in pranks, but he nearly always smiled and thus appeared to see humor where others didn’t. Kelleher suspected, however, that the smile – along with sensitivity to sunlight it contributed to the narrowing of his eyes – was often fearful and intended to discourage bullying.

Hey, guys, Joyce said, appreciative of the respectful attention of the upperclassmen. As you all know, we got into your rooms and dropped off your travel clothing. And sets of running gear. You can exchange dirty sets for clean ones at the AD laundry. You shouldn’t have any problems, and if you do, just let me know. And tomorrow we’ll be handing out all of your training gear after breakfast and getting you lockers. I’m here to serve you guys, so don’t ever hesitate to contact me about any of your equipment needs or anything else that I can help you with. It’s important that you’re comfortable and prepared out there. I won’t rest until you’re satisfied.

The players applauded. Joyce’s moist eyes sparkled.

Rick? Woodring said.

Barros unfolded his arms from his chest. He then held his hands behind his back and paced. "Gentlemen, I’m honored that Coach Woodring has made me part of the staff at Boltwood, he said, the habit of emphasizing prepositions when speaking formally acquired from other middle-level administrators at State. As you know, my name is Ricardo Barros. If you’re a senior, you can call me Coach Rick. The rest of you will call me Coach Barros. I’ve been around the game and part of the game for a long time. I have a B-level license. My father worked for the football association in Cabo Verde and was once head of game officials in Guinea Bissau. Just about everyone in my family over here has played some form of semi-pro ball, mostly in the New England Portuguese league, although one of my cousins played USL. In fact, I have cousins who have played professionally in Portugal and Holland and another who played for a Senegalese youth team.

"I might as well come right out and tell you that your teammate Tony Mendes is my cousin. Before you think that I’ll be giving him any special treatment, keep in mind that I have to answer to my aunt, OK? She’s a strong Cape Verdean woman from New Bedford, though. She’s never asked for a favor in her life and you don’t want to mess with her. She understands tough love. In fact, that’s what she’s all about. It’s a family trait. I’m serious. I’m not trying to be funny. Anyway, enough of that.

"I’m sure that some of you may recognize me from Boltwood games or from around town. If you ever head over to Mass State for whatever reason, you’ll see me there. I’ll be running, working out, playing grad-fac intramural, catching a State game, hustling around campus, doing what I have to do. That’s right. I am a Valleyite. Just like Coach Woodring. In fact, I’ve been here pretty much since I graduated from State and that was about twenty years ago. But, you’ll find that I’m, well, a little different, OK?

"With all that said, you know that we expect you to already be in game shape and top physical condition. The athletic department physician reviewed the results of all of your physical exams with us and I’m glad to say that they looked great. All of you played in summer leagues and did the required weight and road work. Our job is not to get you in shape, all right? My job is to get you to improve upon your already outstanding condition. To get you over the top. Because that’s where we’re going, though. The top, OK? We have to aim high to get there. I hope that none of you have a problem with that. Coach Woodring?"

Thanks, Rick. Now I’d like to invite the co-captains to say a few words. Liam? Seth?

Before an open window in the back of the room, Seth DeAngelis sat in a stack chair, free to extend his long legs. Next to him, Liam Finnerty leaned forward in his seat and rested his elbows on a plastic desktop, hands clasped.

They looked at each other, then stood. With his right hand, Finnerty tugged once on a belt-loop of his pleated khaki shorts. DeAngelis stepped behind the row of desks, stretched his back, and stood on his toes before extending his left arm – the hand open – to encourage Finnerty to lead the way. Finnerty smiled gratefully, then proceeded. DeAngelis followed, satisfied that Finnerty would speak first.

Thanks, Coach Woodring, Finnerty said. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Liam Finnerty…

McNulty grinned, amused by the introduction of another Irish American and pleased with himself for having supposed correctly that the co-captain with the ash-blond hair, lightly freckled face, and gray-blue eyes was the Liam whom Woodring had summoned. Finnerty’s shoulders were narrow but well-rounded, his arms leanly muscular, and his thighs and calves bulged enough to be slightly out of proportion to the rest of his body. He was six feet tall. The holding midfielder, McNulty thought. Looks like he could also handle the box-to-box side of things. His people will be from Donegal, as well. Either that or fucking Derry.

…and for those who do, it’s good to see you again, although I did play summer league with many of you on The Cape. Anyway, I can certainly understand why Coach Barros feels honored because I’m honored to be co-captain of the Boltwood College soccer team. Honestly, I can only hope that I set an honorable example and live up to Boltwood’s tradition of sportsmanship and outstanding leadership. I’m pretty sure that we can do some good things this year and it would be, again, an honor to be part of it all. It’s a pleasure and a privilege to be working with Seth. I also look forward to working with Coach Barros, who I hope you all welcome warmly. With that, thanks. Seth?

DeAngelis lifted his head, closed his eyes, and ran both hands through his shoulder-length black hair. He was several inches taller than Finnerty, and his shoulders and chest were broader. His arms and legs were not as defined as Finnerty’s, but they were large and well-developed. McNulty had never known anyone of such size and apparent strength with an abdomen so narrow and flat. He’ll still be a center half.

Gentlemen, I must say that I am gratified, DeAngelis said. "Not only to Liam for his typically kind words but also to be captain of this team and to be part of something unique in the most positive sense, something special. That’s Boltwood College soccer. It’s special because it’s about more than winning. It’s about commitment to playing the game the way it should be played. It’s about people from diverse backgrounds expressing themselves, coming together to make a wonderfully pleasing statement. It’s about allowing the gifted to showcase their unusual talents. That’s why we’re respected. That’s why people look up to us. That’s why people throughout The Valley follow us and care about us. We represent what’s good about the game and we’ll continue to do so.

Tomorrow we begin training. As Coach Woodring said, and as you all know, we’ll do our six o’clock run. Then we’ll get down to the business of honing our skills and becoming a team, of coming together as a unit whose individuals all share in the commitment to what has always been the Boltwood philosophy. Hard work, physical preparation, are components of that philosophy, so let’s be ready. I’m excited about this year and I’m looking forward to showing people, once again, how the game can be played and what we’re about. Thanks, gentlemen.

As Finnerty and DeAngelis returned to their seats, Kelleher looked around the room to see who else was confused. A few freshmen, each with long hair, bobbed their heads in favorable reaction to DeAngelis’ address. Others seemed puzzled but were too timid to express their concern less politely. One freshman, however, smiled slyly.

Tony Mendes opened his eyes wide, chuckled, and then shielded his face with his left hand. Vindicated by DeAngelis’ words, Alfredo Freddy Herrera, the skillful Mexican sophomore who often claimed that he wasn’t appreciated, lifted his