Regina was my first, and yes, the most memorable; but she was by no means my last reward for being an athlete. It is one of nature's mysteries how high school and college girls would cream their pants over a jock and dismiss a straight A student as a nerd. I believe the poor dears are hard-wired somewhere in their gonads for this and cannot help themselves. Good eye-hand coordination combined with a bit of speed, and I was swimming in pussy.
My lackadaisical attitude, however, was driving the poor coach to conniptions. He could see I was capable of more and wanted me to work harder and train harder. He was convinced that I was a candidate for the majors.
"Damn it, Jimmy, all I am asking you is to show up for practice. A player like you comes around only once in a long while; you are a natural, you are a major league material Jimmy. A little hard work and you are in like Flint."
You already know my attitude about hard work. Hardly, not hard is my motto. Otherwise, what is the use of being lucky? I was finally able to convince the coach that I had no intentions to play sports as a profession. I could practically smell his disappointment when he realized that his dream of sending one his student to the pros wasn't going to pan out.
Pros or not, baseball was good to me. Because of baseball and my grades, I got a generous scholarship to college. Unfortunately, I had a similar problem with my baseball coach in college that I did with my coach in high school. He threatened to throw me off the team if I didn't show up for each and every practice session. I didn't and he didn't. All huffs and puffs aside, no coach is ever going to break up a winning team.
Then, there was the question of grades. State regulations require college athletes to maintain a minimum C average. Most of the players were barley making it and I was on the dean's list. The fact that my studies did not demand any more sweat from me than my hitting the ball clear into the bleachers, remained a secret between my luck and me. Whenever I missed a practice session, the coach automatically assumed I was somewhere in the library, cramming. Most likely, I was cramming, or if you prefer, creaming a co-ed, instead. I was the living proof of the anecdote that "You needs three things to succeed in life: talent, perseverance and luck; but if you have luck, you don't need the other two."
It was during my last semester that I ran into Margaret, literally. It was late winter afternoon and it being Friday, the campus was mostly empty of its normal throng of students. I was walking on one of the cement pathways meandering through the grassy area surrounding the library. I was in my normal slouch with my shoulders hunched and eyes to the ground. If I was not such a stranger to the emotion, you could call it my brooding posture because it was not, by any means, an athletic posture. Whatever it was, I was jerked out of it when I hit a wall of flesh and someone said,
"Damn it, watch where you are going!"
I looked up to see a co-ed standing in front of me no more than a foot away. Her thick blond hair were piled in braids on top of her head. It was her eyes, however, that absorbed my attention. I had never seen such blue eyes. They seemed brittle with color and looked as if any moment they will shatter into million blue shards.
"Look, what you have done." She pointed to the ground. There were books and notebooks scattered on the grass.
"Extremely sorry, I am extremely sorry!" I murmured and grabbed the loose-leaf notebook in most danger of blowing away by the brisk breeze. I gathered some of her books as she picked up the rest. As I was stacking the books in her arms, a five-year-old memory of Regina transferring her books onto mine, flashed through my mind, flooding me with memories. This one was about the same size as Regina with a similar built; even the eyes were alike in size and shape. Regina was a contrast in color to the woman standing in front of me.
"I am very sorry." I said, as I put the last book on top of all those she held in her arms.
"You should watch where you are going." She said severely and walked off.
It was only later the question came to mind to ask where was she looking when we collided. She was long gone by then. A memory of brittle blue eyes superimposed -like a negative of a photograph- on a memory of brown eyes lingered in my mind, a mix of nostalgia and longing.
Couple of weeks went by when I saw her again and my heart skipped a beat. She was sitting alone on a large table with library books spread around her.
"Hello, we meet again." I said.
She looked up at me but her brittle blue eyes held no recognition or expression in them.
"I am sorry; I have a lot of work to do. I have a paper due tomorrow." She turned her eyes back to her notebook. I was dismissed.
It is hard to describe my feelings as I left the library. I was stunned, not so much by her inaccessibility, but by my own feelings. I felt as insubstantial and see-through as a ghost. 'This is one rude bitch, best to stay away', was the only defense I could muster. However, for the first time, my outward brooding posture had an inner companion.
The third time I saw her, she was sitting under a tree. This time there were no open books in front of her. She sat leaning against the tree trunk, just staring into space. I tried to keep my promise to stay away but it was no use. I walked up and sat down beside her.
"Were you able to finish your paper on time the other day?"
She turned toward me. Her eyes were two feet away from mine and large as lakes. She looked at me with the same lack of expression she had in the library. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and even.
"Look, you already have a full calendar, more than full I should think. You don't need to waste any time on me, Jim."
My mouth fell open. "You know my name?"
"Yes, I know your name and whatever else I need to know about you. Now, would you go away and let me be?"
Her rudeness flooded me with anger.
