it’s about doing one’s best; others think it’s about money; others think it’s about winners and losers; others think it’s about attracting the opposite sex; others think it’s about nothing; most don’t bother thinking about it at all. Regardless, spring renews it. 1
With spring, Robert would chomp at the bit to start baseball. Practices began indoors in early March. The Lambeth coaches looked on in amazement as they saw the youngster pitch. They clocked his fastball at eighty-seven miles per hour, approaching major league territory. His curveball and changeup were no less impressive. And his control was superb. “We can’t lose with this kid,” they told each other.
But no one he knew cared for the sport, so no one cared how good he was at it. It frustrated him that his talent in baseball earned him no recognition, let alone admiration among those who knew him. Girls flocked around the great hockey players and football players, but his being the best baseball player by far in the city garnered shoulder shrugs.
Baseball could have been a good avenue for Robert to make friends, but that went nowhere. The game came so naturally to him, he couldn’t comprehend how others seemed to find it so difficult. The game was so important to him—in his mind, baseball was his most promising means of escape from indigence and social oblivion—he took exception when bad plays or bad calls affected his record, and thus his chances of getting noticed by a scout. He’d often lose his composure with teammates over botched plays and scream reprimands not calculated to endear him to anyone such as, “Christ, don’t we have a first baseman who can catch the damn ball!”
He’d constantly argue with umpires over their incompetent calls, often cursing or throwing his cap or his glove down in frustration and getting tossed from the game. His parents would never have tolerated this behavior, but they were gone. His coaches tried to reign in his excesses, but didn’t feel they had the authority to get too harsh. Combine his poor sportsmanship with vanity over his talent and envy over that talent, and none of his teammates liked him.
At school, the story was analogous. With an IQ sixty-two points higher than average, relating to his typical classmate was a little like that classmate trying to relate to a mentally retarded peer with an IQ of thirty-eight. Teachers, with a few notable exceptions, were too inept or unmotivated to challenge him with advanced material; standard high school fare was well beneath his capabilities, so he spent most of his time bored to death. He had a tendency to ask questions that most teachers couldn’t answer, which undermined the respect they got from other students. He regularly disputed the statements they made, which also conduced to disrespect. Had his parents been there to guide him, they would have subdued his arrogance and disrespect, and ensured he was in the best learning environment lest his gifts stagnate, but they were gone. His teachers tried to assert their power when he got unruly, but he only respected authority when it was earned and wielded with competence. Few teachers met his standards. He was a regular at the office. Not able to trust anyone and wary about forming relationships, he seemed unfriendly to most people, which was impertinent of a guttersnipe.
There he would sit, now on the bus, now in class, now in the cafeteria—surrounded by people, but all alone. Classmates construed his isolation as aloofness. No one liked him, and no one felt sorry for him.
Hence, this young man, blessed by nature with charm, looks, athletic talent, humor, and brilliance, had no friends whatever, the continuing toll of the calamity that befell him at age eight. Only Kristen and Jennifer saw him for what he was. Most everyone else saw a low-class, yet conceited, foster child, someone to look down on.
With the end of the school year, the Taylors migrated northwest to their cottage. Kristen
With spring, Robert would chomp at the bit to start baseball. Practices began indoors in early March. The Lambeth coaches looked on in amazement as they saw the youngster pitch. They clocked his fastball at eighty-seven miles per hour, approaching major league territory. His curveball and changeup were no less impressive. And his control was superb. “We can’t lose with this kid,” they told each other.
But no one he knew cared for the sport, so no one cared how good he was at it. It frustrated him that his talent in baseball earned him no recognition, let alone admiration among those who knew him. Girls flocked around the great hockey players and football players, but his being the best baseball player by far in the city garnered shoulder shrugs.
Baseball could have been a good avenue for Robert to make friends, but that went nowhere. The game came so naturally to him, he couldn’t comprehend how others seemed to find it so difficult. The game was so important to him—in his mind, baseball was his most promising means of escape from indigence and social oblivion—he took exception when bad plays or bad calls affected his record, and thus his chances of getting noticed by a scout. He’d often lose his composure with teammates over botched plays and scream reprimands not calculated to endear him to anyone such as, “Christ, don’t we have a first baseman who can catch the damn ball!”
He’d constantly argue with umpires over their incompetent calls, often cursing or throwing his cap or his glove down in frustration and getting tossed from the game. His parents would never have tolerated this behavior, but they were gone. His coaches tried to reign in his excesses, but didn’t feel they had the authority to get too harsh. Combine his poor sportsmanship with vanity over his talent and envy over that talent, and none of his teammates liked him.
At school, the story was analogous. With an IQ sixty-two points higher than average, relating to his typical classmate was a little like that classmate trying to relate to a mentally retarded peer with an IQ of thirty-eight. Teachers, with a few notable exceptions, were too inept or unmotivated to challenge him with advanced material; standard high school fare was well beneath his capabilities, so he spent most of his time bored to death. He had a tendency to ask questions that most teachers couldn’t answer, which undermined the respect they got from other students. He regularly disputed the statements they made, which also conduced to disrespect. Had his parents been there to guide him, they would have subdued his arrogance and disrespect, and ensured he was in the best learning environment lest his gifts stagnate, but they were gone. His teachers tried to assert their power when he got unruly, but he only respected authority when it was earned and wielded with competence. Few teachers met his standards. He was a regular at the office. Not able to trust anyone and wary about forming relationships, he seemed unfriendly to most people, which was impertinent of a guttersnipe.
There he would sit, now on the bus, now in class, now in the cafeteria—surrounded by people, but all alone. Classmates construed his isolation as aloofness. No one liked him, and no one felt sorry for him.
Hence, this young man, blessed by nature with charm, looks, athletic talent, humor, and brilliance, had no friends whatever, the continuing toll of the calamity that befell him at age eight. Only Kristen and Jennifer saw him for what he was. Most everyone else saw a low-class, yet conceited, foster child, someone to look down on.
With the end of the school year, the Taylors migrated northwest to their cottage. Kristen
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