“Yes, voco,” Ted repeated. “As you may recall, it’s first conjugation. And I’d like to hear you go through it in the present passive.”
There was a slight pause.
“I’m afraid I didn’t get today’s assignment, sir.”
“What you’re saying is that you weren’t here last time and didn’t bother to ask anybody what to prepare.”
“Well —”
“Mr. Jastrow, I want to see you in my office this afternoon between four and five.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t make it, sir,” he answered courteously. “I’ve got practice.”
“Listen,” Ted warned sternly, “I don’t care if you’ve got a meeting with the President of the United States. You show up between four and five today — or else.”
And even though there was some ten minutes remaining, he could not continue teaching.
“Class dismissed,” he said, fuming.
As the students filed slowly toward the front and out the door, sophomore Tom Herman stopped at Ted’s desk and spoke sympathetically.
“Excuse me, Professor Lambros, would you be offended if I said something?”
“Tom,” Ted answered, “nothing you could say could possibly offend me any more than Jastrow’s attitude.”
“Well, that’s just it, sir,” Herman said diffidently. “Maybe you don’t know who he is.”
“I read the college paper,” Ted replied. “I know Jastrow’s our first-string quarterback. But I’m still going to bounce him from the class if he doesn’t start working.”
“Sir, with due respect, you can’t do that. I mean, without him we can’t win the Ivy title.”
Having spoken out bravely, he turned and quickly left the classroom.
Ted sat in his Canterbury office from four till half-past five that afternoon. Several students dropped by, some to question points that genuinely puzzled them. Some merely to gain points with him.
But Chris Jastrow was not one of them.
Ted threw on his (Harvard) scarf and coat and started down the hallway. He noticed that the Classics Department was still open and Leona, the secretary, was typing. He stuck his head inside.
“Hi, Lee, have you got time to do a short note for me?”
“Sure.” She smiled, then quickly rolled a fresh sheet of stationery into the typewriter and said, “Fire away.”
“To Anthony Thatcher, Dean of Humanities: Christopher Jastrow ’69 is currently failing intermediate Latin. His attitude is insouciant bordering on the arrogant. Barring some unforeseen miracle, there is no possibility of his being kept in the course past midterm. Yours truly, et cetera.”
Ted dictated this in one cathartic burst, his head in his hands. When he glanced up he noticed that Leona looked uneasy.
“Yes, I know who he is. But this is the Ivy League, we’ve got standards to maintain.” And as she typed the envelope he added, as if to absolve her of complicity, “I’ll put it under the dean’s door myself.”
He had no classes the next day, and so took full advantage of the rich facilities of the Canterbury Library to further his research.
He emerged after spending nearly eight hours abstracting the entire Fondation Hardt volume on Euripides, his green bookbag heavy with valuable copies of European journals that he — and Sara — would devour over the weekend.
Something made him glance up the hill at Canterbury Hall. There was no light on in the department office. What the hell, he thought, I might as well pick up my mail.
In addition to the routine correspondence there was a hand-addressed letter from the Department of Athletics.
Dear Ted:
I’d be grateful if you could drop by as soon as possible. I’m usually in my office till at least 7:30
P.M.
He had half-expected this. Glancing at his watch he saw there was still time to put this presumptuous bastard in his place tonight. He marched off toward the gym.
Chet Bigelow’s rugged features looked like they had been the model for the phalanx of trophies lined up on the desk that separated the two men.
“Well then, Professor,” he began, “I understand our boy Jastrow’s having difficulty with your Latin course. Perhaps you don’t realize the pressure our men are under during the season.”
“Frankly, Mr. Bigelow, that’s none of my concern. In fact, what puzzles me is why Jastrow’s taking Latin in the first place.”
“Why, Prof, you surely know the college rules as well as I. A guy’s gotta fill a foreign-language requirement to graduate. Right?”
“But why Latin? Why in the world did you have your precious quarterback take an ancient language that is probably twice as difficult as any modern one?”
“It’s not hard if you’ve got the right teacher,” Bigelow explained.
“What?”
“Most of your classics boys have been terrific to us over the years,” Chet reminisced. “I mean, Henry Dunster’s absolutely fantastic. And, of course, we’ve played ball with him, too.”
“Coach Bigelow, I’m afraid you’re losing me.”
“All right, Teddie, lemme put it another way. If you suddenly got a lot more students taking Latin, you’d have to hire a lot more teachers. Am I right?”
“I don’t like your insinuation,” Ted said with disgust.
“Just what do you imagine I’m insinuating, Prof.?”
“Naturally, I’m just a dimwit from Harvard. But it seems to me you’re suggesting that if the football team increases our enrollments by sending us warm bodies, we should be so grateful that we should let them sail through without doing any work.”
There was a pause. The coach stared silently at Ted. And then he smiled.
“You clearly know the game, Professor. Now I suggest you go out and play by the rules. For, from what I gather, you do not yet have tenure at this place. And just like we need a good season, you need a good season.”
Ted stood up.
“If you want a war, Coach,” he whispered, “you’re gonna get one. Tomorrow’s the midterm exam. And if Jastrow flunks, he’ll be out on his ass.”
“Have it your way, Teddie. Just remember you’re dealing with a man who’s undefeated in six seasons.”
At the exam next morning, Jastrow did not appear at all. As soon as it was over, Ted Lambros stormed over to Barnes Hall and requested an audience with the Dean of Humanities.
“Tony, I’m sorry to barge in on you like this.”
“That’s all right,” the dean replied. “In fact, you might say your visit has been heralded.”
“Coach Bigelow?”
He nodded. “Yes, Chet’s a bit overprotective of his boys. Anyway, sit down and tell me about it.”
Thatcher listened as Ted went on like a prosecuting attorney. A frown gradually appeared on his face. There was a moment of silence before he commented, “Look, Ted, I don’t think flunking Jastrow’s the most prudent way of handling this.”
“Do you see any alternative?”
The dean turned his chair ninety degrees and gazed out over Windsor Green. “Well,” he mused, “as John Milton so eloquently put it, ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ ” He then swiveled back and looked at Ted.
“Milton was blind when he wrote that. But I’m not.”
Dean Thatcher gave this response careful thought, then smiled benignly.
“Ted, I want to talk to you for a moment off the record. You know how highly I regard you. And I feel you’re at the start of an extremely promising academic career.”