Erich Segal: The Class

But Papa Lambros was unswervingly optimistic. He was confident that Ted’s letters of recommendation from the “gigantic personalities” who dined at The Marathon would have a magical effect.

And in a way, they did. Ted Lambros was accepted — albeit without financial aid. This meant he was condemned to remain in his cell on Prescott Street, unable to taste the joys of Harvard life beyond the classroom. For he would have to spend his evenings slaving at The Marathon to earn the six-hundred-dollar tuition.

Still Ted was undaunted. Though he was only at the foothills of Olympus, at least he was there, ready to climb.

For Ted believed in the American dream. That if you wanted something badly enough and devoted your heart and soul to it, you would ultimately succeed.

And he wanted Harvard with the same “unperishable fire” that drove Achilles till he conquered Troy.

But then Achilles didn’t have to wait on tables every night.

The newest Eliot to enter Harvard continued a tradition that began in 1649.

Andrew had a privileged childhood.

Even after they had gracefully divorced, his parents lavished on him all a growing boy could wish for. He had an English nanny and a horde of teddy bears. And from as early as he could recall, they sent him to the most expensive boarding schools and summer camps. They established a trust fund, making his future secure.

In short, they gave him everything except their interest and attention.

Of course they loved him. That went without saying. Perhaps that is why they never actually said it. They simply assumed he would know that they appreciated what a fine and independent son he was.

Yet, Andrew was the first of his entire family to feel himself unworthy of admission to Harvard. As he often joked selfdeprecatingly, “They let me in because my name was Eliot and I could spell it.”

Clearly, his ancestry cast giant shadows on his confidence. And, quite understandably, what he regarded as a lack of creativity only magnified his innate inferiority complex.

Actually, he was a rather bright young man. He had a modest way with words — as witnessed by the diary he kept from prep school onward. He played soccer well.

He was a wing whose corner kicks helped many a center-forward score.

That was an index of his personality — he was always happy when he could assist a friend.

And off the field he was kind, thoughtful, and considerate. Most of all, though he would not have arrogated such a distinction for himself, he was considered by his many friends a darn nice guy.

The university was proud to have him. But, Andrew Eliot ’58 had a quality that set him apart from every other member of his Harvard class.

He was not ambitious.

Just after 5:00 A.M. on September 20, a Greyhound bus reached the dingy terminal in downtown Boston and disgorged, among its passengers, a tired and sweaty Daniel Rossi. His clothing was a mass of wrinkles and his reddish hair unkempt. Even his glasses were fogged with transcontinental grime.

He had left the West Coast three days earlier with sixty dollars in his pocket, of which he still had fifty-two. For he had all but starved his way across America.

Totally exhausted, he was barely able to drag his single suitcase (full of music scores he’d studied on the journey, and a shirt or two) down to the subway for Harvard Square. First he trudged to Holworthy 6, his freshman lodgings in the Yard, then registered as quickly as possible so that he could return to Boston and transfer from his California branch to Local No. 9 of the Musicians Union.

“Don’t get your hopes up, kid,” cautioned the secretary. “We got a million piano players out of work. Actually, the only keyboard jobs available are holy ones. You see, the Lord just pays the union minimum.” Pointing her long, vermilion-painted fingernail toward the small white notices pinned on a bulletin board, she added wryly, “Choose your religion, kid.”

After a careful study of the possibilities, Danny returned with two scraps of paper.

“These would be great for me,” he said. “Organist on Friday night and Saturday morning at the temple in Maiden, and Sunday morning at this church in Quincy. Are they still available?”

“That’s why they’re hangin’ there, kid. But, as you can see, the bread they’re offering’s more like Ritz crackers.”

“Yeah,” Danny replied, “but I can really use whatever money I can get my hands on. Do you get many Saturday-night dance gigs?”

“Gee, you sure seem hungry. Got a big family to support or somethin’?”

“No. I’m a freshman at Harvard and need the dough for tuition.”

“How come those rich guys irs Cambridge didn’t give you a scholarship?”

“It’s a long story,” Danny said uneasily. “But I’d be grateful if you’d keep me in mind. In any case, I’ll stay in touch.”

“I’m sure you will, kid.

Just before eight the preceding day, Jason Gilbert, Jr., had awakened in Syosset, Long Island.

The sun always seemed to shine more — brightly in his bedroom. Perhaps it was reflected from his many glittering trophies.

He shaved, put on a new Chemise Lacoste, then hauled his luggage, as well as assorted tennis and squash rackets, down to his 1950 Mercury coupé convertible. He was looking forward to roaring up the Post Road in the buggy he had lovingly rebuilt with his own hands, souping it up and even adding a dual fiberglass exhaust.

The entire Gilbert household — Mom, Dad, Julie, Jenny the housekeeper and her husband Maxwell the gardener — were waiting to see him off.

There was much kissing and embracing. And a short valedictory from his father.

“Son, I won’t wish you luck because you don’t need it. You were born to be number one — and not just on the tennis court.”

Though Jason did not show it, these parting words had the opposite of their intended effect. For he was already uneasy at the prospect of leaving home and testing his mettle against the real big leaguers of his generation. That last-minute reminder of Dad’s high expectations made him even more nervous.

Still, he might have taken comfort had he known that his adoring father’s speech had been echoed several hundred times that day by several hundred other parents who were also sending their uniquely gifted progeny off to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Five hours later, Jason stood outside his assigned freshman dormitory, Straus A-32, on which a scrap of torn yellow paper was taped.

To my roommate: I always nap in the afternoon, so please be quiet.

It was signed simply “D. D.”

Jason quietly unlocked the door and carried his baggage practically on tiptoe into the one free bedroom. After placing his suitcases on the metal bed (it creaked slightly), he glanced out the window.

He had a view — and all the noise — of hectic Harvard Square. But Jason didn’t mind.

He was actually in a buoyant mood, since there was still enough time left to stroll to Soldier’s Field and find a pickup game of tennis. Already dressed in white, he merely grabbed his Wilson and a can of Spauldings.

Luckily, he recognized a varsity player who had defeated him in a summer tournament two years earlier. The guy was happy to see Jason again, agreed to hit a few, and then quickly learned how much the new arrival had improved.