Page 117 - Rainbow County and Other Stories

The Assistant Freshman Football Coach 105

Girls Sighed. Geeks
Trembled. But I Had...

The Assistant Freshman

Football Coach

Once upon a time I was a college professor, back during the war
in Nam and the war on the cam pus. The complete cliche. I had
exchanged my 3-piece Yves Saint Laurent designer suit for my
Ken Kesey jeans, cowboy boots, and tie-dyed teeshirt, all of which
fit tight-and-snug in all the right places. I was 28 and toned. I
worked out and showered in the campus gym, trading weight
benches with the university team players, the varsity squad, and
the pencil-necks trying hard not to be geeks. I had me some arms
and some pecs, and was deter mined to keep them, because with-
out pecs, you’re dead.
I was far from buffed like the real jocks, but back then I
looked more athletic than your usual North-Midwest ivory-tower
academic. I was the youngest member of the English department.
My “Film as Literature” classes were packed. I was teaching peace,
love, sex, and violence in cinema. My chairman thought I could
do no wrong. “Nice touch,” he said one day after a class. He had
walked in and seen me lectur ing, sitting cross-legged like Allen
Ginsberg on the desk, pontifi cat ing Timothy Leary theory, with
everything but flowers in my hair and incense burning in my
navel. “You can get away with murder!” He patted me on the
shoulder. “Just keep packing them in. To save our department
budget we have to keep the body count up.”
General Wastemoreland couldn’t have said it better.
The only body that counted sat in the first row. He could
have been Ryan O’Neal’s younger, bigger brother. He was a senior
who’d mistakenly taken all his “electives” his first two years. Now

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