Erich Segal - The Class

The next morning, D. D. made no mention whatsoever of the trauma of the night before. In fact, he was exceptionally obnoxious, as if unconsciously informing Jason that what he had seen a few hours earlier was just a one-time aberration.

Still Jason felt duty-bound to say something to the dorm proctor, who was nominally supposed to be responsible for their welfare. Besides, Dennis Linden was a medical student and might understand the whole phenomenon that Jason had witnessed.

“Dennis,” cautioned Jason, “you’ve got to give me your word that this is strictly confidential.”

“Absolutely,” the soon-to-be-M.D. replied. “I’m glad you called this thing to my attention.”

“Seriously, I think D. D. will go bonkers if he doesn’t get all A’s. He’s got this wild obsession that he has to be first in The Class.”

Linden puffed his Chesterfield, blew rings into the air, and answered casually, “But, Gilbert, we both know that’s an impossibility.”

“What makes you so sure?” Jason inquired, puzzled.

“Listen, let me tell you something in confidence. Your roommate wasn’t even number one in his own high school, which sent half-a-dozen guys here with much higher averages and board scores. In fact, the Admissions Office only rated him a little over 10.5.”

“What?” Jason asked.

“Look, as I said, this stuff is really classified. But Harvard calculates the future standing of each student they accept —.”

“In advance?” Jason interrupted.

The proctor nodded and continued. “And what’s more, they’re almost never wrong.”

“You mean to tell me that you know what grades I’m going to get this January?” Jason asked with stupefaction.

“Not only that,” the future doctor answered, “we know pretty much just where you’ll graduate.”

“Why not tell me now, so I won’t bother studying too hard,” Jason said, only barely joking.

“Now come on, Gilbert, what I said is absolutely off the record, And I only told you so you could be ready to support your roommate when he wakes up to discover that he isn’t Einstein.”

Jason suddenly erupted with angry resentment.

“Hey, listen, Dennis, I’m not fit to act as a psychiatrist. Can’t we do something to help this guy now?”

The proctor took another puff and answered, “Jason, young Davidson — who, between the two of us, I find a little twerp —i s here at Harvard precisely to learn his limitations. That is, if I may say so, one of the things that we do best. Let this ride till midterm. If the guy’s unable to deal with the fact that he’s not on top of the mountain, then maybe we’ll arrange for him to talk to someone in the Health Department. Anyway, I’m glad that you called this to my attention. Don’t hesitate to come again if he starts acting weird.”

“He’s always acted weird,” Jason responded with a half-smile.

“Gilbert,” said the proctor, “you’ve got no idea what whackos they accept at Harvard. D. D. is a damn Gibraltar compared to some of the nutcases I’ve seen.”

I never thought I was a good student and I didn’t mind getting C’s for all my hour exams. But I did think of myself as a pretty good soccer player. And that illusion’s just been dispelled.

The damn freshman team is so packed with all kinds of international big gunners that I could barely get a chance to put my toe in.

Still, there is a little solace in this truly Harvard lesson in humility. As I sit there on the bench awaiting my dispensation of three or four minutes’ play during the final moments (if we’re leading by enough), I can console myself with the reminder that the guy who plays ahead of me is no ordinary jock.

Maybe his corner kicks are so lofty because he is descended from the Almighty.

Still, if I have to be a second stringer it might as well be to the likes of Karim Aga Khan, who is, as Professor Finley put it, “the great, great, great, great, and ad infinitum grandson of God.”

And he’s not the only dignitary who has relegated me to being practically a spectator. Our center forward is another divinity — a genuine Persian prince. And we’ve got ringers from places as exotic as South America, the Philippines — and even public high schools. All of whom have contributed to my sedentary status.

But at least we’re undefeated. There’s some comfort to be found in that. And if I get to play another seven minutes, I’ll have earned my freshman numerals.

As if the flower of my confidence has not been sufficiently wilted by the heat of these guys’ talent on the field, I grit my teeth as I report that Bruce Macdonald, the best player of them all, is perhaps the greatest genius in the whole damn Class.

He graduated number one at Exeter, was captain and high scorer of their soccer team, ditto for lacrosse in springtime. And just to keep him busy in the evenings, he’s so terrific with a violin that, as a freshman, he’s been chosen concertmaster of the Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra!

Thank God I arrived here with a well-developed feeling of inferiority. Because if I had come as cocky as most guys were on the first day we were kicking soccer balls, I would have thrown myself into the Charles.

The rabbi stood at the podium and announced:

“After the concluding hymn, the congregation is cordially invited to the Vestry Room for wine, fruit, and honeycake. Now let us turn to page one hundred two and join in the singing of ‘Adon Olam, Lord of the Universe.’”

In the organ loft above, Danny Rossi picked up his cue and struck the opening chords with a gusto that delighted the worshippers.

After the rabbi’s benediction, they filed out as Danny played the recessional. The moment he finished, he grabbed his jacket and hurried downstairs.

He entered the Vestry Room unobtrusively and headed for the abundantly laden tables. As he was filling a paper plate with slices of cake, he heard the rabbi’s voice.

“How good of you to stay on, Danny. It’s certainly beyond the call of duty. I know how terribly busy you are.”

“Oh, I enjoy being involved in everything, Rabbi,” he replied. “I mean, it’s all very interesting for me.”

Danny was being quite sincere. Although he did not mention that what he most appreciated about the Jewish festivals was the plentiful food, which usually enabled him to skip lunch.

This particular Saturday would be especially hectic for him, since the youth group of the Congregational church in Quincy, which he also served, was holding its Fall Hop. And he had persuaded the minister to hire “his” trio (quickly calling the Union for a young drummer and bassist). It would be tiring, but that fifty-buck fee would be a great consolation.

It seemed pointless to go all the way back to Cambridge to pass the time between sacred and secular gigs, especially since Harvard would be caught up in Saturday football mania and it would be too noisy to work anyway. So Danny took the MTA to Copley Square and spent the afternoon studying in the Boston Public Library.

There was a plumpish brunette sitting at the end of his table, with several notebooks emblazoned BOSTON UNIVERSITY. This gave the timid Casanova a clue of how to engage her in conversation.

“Do you go to B.U.?”

“Yeah.”

“I go to Harvard myself.”

“That figures,” she said dismissively.

With a sigh of anticipated defeat, Danny returned to Hindemith’s Craft of Musical Composition .