Evan Connell - Mr. Bridge

“Sharpe’s does awfully nice work,” Carolyn suggested.

In a choking voice Mrs. Bridge said: “I want Douglas to do it. If he thinks he can do whatever needs to be done I want him to do it. Nobody else is going to touch it!” She began to cry.

“What in the world is going on around here!” Mr. Bridge muttered, and flung down his napkin like a gauntlet.

Tryouts for the team began soon after school opened in September. Douglas approached his father for permission and confidently held out a mimeographed sheet of paper.

“They don’t issue uniforms to the guys until they get this signed at home.”

Mr. Bridge accepted the paper, scanned it, and gave it back. Douglas gazed up at him with a stricken expression.

“You are not playing football.”

“What do you mean? What do you mean I’m not playing football?”

“Just what I said. I won’t have you breaking an arm or a leg.”

“You’re kidding!”

“That sport is dangerous. I have heard of too many cases where some boy has been injured.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I mean it.”

“Everybody in creation is going out for the team.”

“You are not.”

“Who did you ever know who got hurt? Name one. I mean, really hurt? Just name me one.”

“There have been a number of instances. And every year or so some boy is killed playing football. You may as well make up your mind to it. I will not have you run the risk of serious injury, or worse, for anything as insignificant as football.”

“Vandermeer’s father signed the permit.”

“What has that to do with you?”

“It’s pretty obvious. I mean, what am I going to say when Coach asks for my permit?”

“You tell the coach your father did not give you permission to play.”

Douglas clutched his head. “Oh. Oh, sure. Sure. Sure, I can just see that, all right. In front of all the guys.”

“Nonsense. You are not going to be the only one.”

“If Rodney Vandermeer can play, why can’t I? He only outweighs me about fifteen pounds. And David Griffith got his permit signed. And so did all those guys who made the team last year.”

“We are not going to get involved in a discussion.”

“I just want to try out for halfback. I don’t want to be a tackle or guard. I probably can’t make the team anyway because they got Nichols and Kurtz, and then there are a lot of other guys that didn’t graduate so I probably haven’t got a Chinaman’s chance anyhow, but I don’t see why I can’t even at least try out.”

“Well, you are not. And that is that.”

“But why not? I mean, how come? I won’t get hurt. I never broke a leg yet, did I?”

“You can play basketball, or you can play tennis, or you can try to make the swimming team. These are all fine sports. There should be several athletic teams you can try out for. Swimming is an excellent sport.”

“I want to play football.”

“You play some after school, do you not?”

“That’s only touch. You can’t play tackle without equipment. You need helmets and shoulder pads and all that stuff. Touch isn’t even real football.”

“I’m afraid ‘touch’ will have to do. I don’t want you being tackled by some boy twice your size.”

“You sound like I was made out of porcelain or something.”

“You are flesh and blood. It might be a good idea to start getting used to the idea. As you grow older you will discover that you have certain limitations.”

“Yuk.”

“I realize you didn’t come here for a lecture, but the fact remains that having lived a good deal longer than you I have learned a few things that you have not.”

“Oy, oy, would you let me play if I weighed two hundred and fifty pounds?”

“When you grow to that size we’ll discuss the matter again. Now is anything else on your mind? If so, I’ll be glad to talk about it with you, but I have no time to discuss football.”

Douglas waved the sheet of paper. He said with as much sarcasm as possible, “I might as well toss this in the wastebasket.”

“As you like.”

Football was not mentioned again for almost a month. Then an item appeared on the sports page of the Star about a boy in Ohio who died of a broken neck after a school football game. Mr. Bridge pointed to the article.

“Have you read this?”

“Oh, yuk,” Douglas said wearily. “Do you always need to prove you’re right?”

Both of his sisters had pledged a sorority soon after entering high school, yet Douglas, for reasons his parents could not understand, refused to join a fraternity. They knew he had been invited by at least three fraternities, but the weeks were going by and he appeared totally unconcerned. Once he remarked that a group of Sigma Deltas had stopped him on the way to Civics and told him they wanted to have a talk, but that was all he said. His parents decided not to press him, and so the wait continued. He seemed unaware that they were waiting, and apparently he did not care that his two closest friends Tipton and Vandermeer had joined a fraternity.

By the end of November it was advisable to investigate this matter. One evening while the three of them were in the living room his mother inquired as casually as possible whether he was still trying to make up his mind which fraternity to join. Without looking up from his book he answered that he had not thought about it. She said, after a respectful pause, that she believed most of his friends already had joined a fraternity. He went on reading.

Then Mr. Bridge, who had been listening carefully, asked if he still saw as much of Tipton and Vandermeer as he used to. Douglas turned a page, and shrugged.

“Old friends are best,” his mother observed.

He nodded, and went on reading.

Mr. Bridge concluded the time had come to bring this problem to the surface. “Are you going to accept one of those invitations, or not?”

“I doubt it,” he murmured without raising his eyes.

“May I ask why not?”

“Why should I?” he countered, still reading.

“Because these contacts will prove valuable in later life.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Douglas answered in a flat voice, but with no animosity.

“Well, then,” said his mother, laughing, “won’t you let us know what you’ve made up your mind to do?”

“Is there any huge rush?” he asked.

“We would like to know why you object to joining a fraternity,” his father said.

Douglas hung the book on his knees, hunched his shoulders, and spread his hands. “So who’s objecting? Who’s got objections? Tipton wants to join a frat, it’s his business. It’s okay with me. The same goes for Vandermeer. What’s it to me?”

“These boys who have invited you to join their organizations have gone out of their way to be nice to you. You should remember they have been under no compulsion to invite you.”

“I imagine any number of boys would snap at the chance,” Mrs. Bridge added.

“One day these boys are going to be stockbrokers, insurance agents, physicians, corporate executives, and so forth. It will pay you to know them. It’s time you recognized the fact that in this world nobody, no matter how independent — and this goes for me as well — succeeds altogether by his own efforts. We need to help each other. Just as I assist certain people, so they assist me.”

“Who’s arguing?”

“They seem to be awfully nice boys, and I’m sure they must think quite a lot of you if they’ve invited you to join. Isn’t Paul Battenhurst a member of Sigma Delta?”

Douglas nodded.

“Well, then. You don’t want people to think you’re a misfit, do you?”