Erich Segal - The Class

“It’s not hard if you’ve got the right teacher,” Bigelow explained.

“What?”

“Most of your classics boys have been terrific to us over the years,” Chet reminisced. “I mean, Henry Dunster’s absolutely fantastic. And, of course, we’ve played ball with him, too.”

“Coach Bigelow, I’m afraid you’re losing me.”

“All right, Teddie, lemme put it another way. If you suddenly got a lot more students taking Latin, you’d have to hire a lot more teachers . Am I right?”

“I don’t like your insinuation,” Ted said with disgust.

“Just what do you imagine I’m insinuating, Prof.?”

“Naturally, I’m just a dimwit from Harvard. But it seems to me you’re suggesting that if the football team increases our enrollments by sending us warm bodies, we should be so grateful that we should let them sail through without doing any work.”

There was a pause. The coach stared silently at Ted. And then he smiled.

“You clearly know the game, Professor. Now I suggest you go out and play by the rules. For, from what I gather, you do not yet have tenure at this place. And just like we need a good season, you need a good season.”

Ted stood up.

“If you want a war, Coach,” he whispered, “you’re gonna get one. Tomorrow’s the midterm exam. And if Jastrow flunks, he’ll be out on his ass.”

“Have it your way, Teddie. Just remember you’re dealing with a man who’s undefeated in six seasons.”

At the exam next morning, Jastrow did not appear at all. As soon as it was over, Ted Lambros stormed over to Barnes Hall and requested an audience with the Dean of Humanities.

“Tony, I’m sorry to barge in on you like this.”

“That’s all right,” the dean replied. “In fact, you might say your visit has been heralded.”

“Coach Bigelow?”

He nodded. “Yes, Chet’s a bit overprotective of his boys. Anyway, sit down and tell me about it.”

Thatcher listened as Ted went on like a prosecuting attorney. A frown gradually appeared on his face. There was a moment of silence before he commented, “Look, Ted, I don’t think flunking Jastrow’s the most prudent way of handling this.”

“Do you see any alternative?”

The dean turned his chair ninety degrees and gazed out over Windsor Green. “Well,” he mused, “as John Milton so eloquently put it, ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ ” He then swiveled back and looked at Ted.

“Milton was blind when he wrote that. But I’m not.”

Dean Thatcher gave this response careful thought, then smiled benignly.

“Ted, I want to talk to you for a moment off the record. You know how highly I regard you. And I feel you’re at the start of an extremely promising academic career.”

“What could this possibly have to do with my professional future?”

The administrator replied, unblinking, “Everything.”

“Can you explain that, please?”

“Listen,” the dean replied patiently, “you don’t seem to understand. If Jastrow can’t play, my head’s right there on the block with yours.”

“Why? You’re a full professor. You’ve got tenure.”

“I’ve also got three kids and a mortgage. They could freeze my salary forever. You’ve got to realize that Canterbury alumni are a very powerful group. And they feel pretty strongly about this place.”

“And its football team,” Ted added sarcastically.

“Yes, dammit, and its football team!” the dean shot back with exasperation. “Can’t you fathom that every time we beat Yale or Dartmouth, our grads interpret it as a sign that we’re superior in other ways as well? And let me tell you, the Monday after one of those victories, checks pour in like manna from heaven. An undefeated season can literally mean millions of dollars. And I’m not going to sit by and let a sanctimonious punk like you mess up the system. I mean, you don’t seem particularly grateful to be here.”

“Why should I be grateful, dammit?” Ted retorted. “I’ve already published more than the rest of the department put together.”

The dean shook his head. “You amaze me. You still have no idea what it takes to get ahead in the academic world.”

“I’m a good teacher and I’ve written an important book. I should think that would suffice.”

Tony Thatcher grinned. “It didn’t suffice for Harvard, did it? I mean, they didn’t seem to want to make a professor out of a Cambridge townie. And, frankly, neither do some of our boys.”

Ted had been in street fights. He had been kicked and punched and bruised. But now he felt inwardly lacerated. While he had already seen that a provincial place like Canterbury judged him on social grounds, he never would permit himself to think that his rejection at Harvard had been on anything other than academic criteria.

But he was suddenly uncertain about everything. He didn’t know whether to stay or leave. And so he remained frozen in his chair awaiting — fearing — what Thatcher would say next.

Finally, the dean addressed him in soft, paternal tones. “Ted, let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to pass Chris Jastrow. And he, in turn, is going to pass for innumerable touchdowns — to the delight of our generous alumni. Now, of course, you and I are aware that the boy doesn’t know the first thing about Latin. But we also know that in the scheme of things, it isn’t all that important. What matters is that nobody rocks the boat. That way, everybody’s future is brighter — including yours.”

He rose and held out his hand in amical valediction.

“I’m sorry,” Ted said quietly, “but you still haven’t convinced me.”

“Professor Lambros,” the dean responded cordially, “let me leave you with one little thought. If we should deny you tenure at the end of this year, you might not find another teaching job anywhere.…”

“That’s a crock.”

“No, that’s a fact. Because no matter how much you’ve published, the dean of wherever you apply is going to check with us for a character reference. You know, to find out if you’re ‘collegial.’ ” He paused and then added almost in a whisper, “Need I say more?”

“No,” Ted answered, barely able to hear his own voice.

Sara was livid.

“They can’t do this to you. It’s cruel, it’s barbaric — and it’s totally unethical.”

“You’re right. But it’s also frighteningly possible.”

He was sitting on their dilapidated couch utterly bereft of confidence. Sara had never seen him so shaken.

She sat down and put her arms around him. “Ted, Canterbury’s not the end of the world. There are other schools that would kill to get you, even if these guys here say you’re a total shit.”

He lowered his head for several minutes.

At last he spoke. “Suppose they’re not bluffing? Suppose Tony Thatcher does have the power to blacklist me? What then?”

Sara Lambros thought for a moment and carefully weighed every syllable of her reply.

“Ted, I love you because you’re brave and good and honest. And I’ll stick by you no matter what happens. Isn’t that enough?”

He raised his head and looked at her. “I can’t lie to you, Sara. I’ve never been so scared in all my life.”

Before either of them could say another word, their little son burst joyfully into the room. “Daddy, Daddy,” he chirped and ran to his father’s arms. “Jarnie Emerson tried to beat me up again.”

“Again?” Ted asked bemusedly, as he continued to embrace his son.

“Yeah,” said the boy, “but this time I did what you told me. I punched him right back in the belly. It made him cry.”

Ted smiled and thought to himself, At least there’s one fighter in the family.