I did, of course! And I made some errors with names and numbers. I'll go back and fix them, but for those of you who wondered what's going on, here's some clarification:
Orange Heights Avenue is a dead-end street, but full of life.
Dead End is #219
Naomi & Ben Roth
215
Ann Geary (grandma)
Shannon Geary (her daughter, adult, preschool tchr)
Maureen (I wrote Eileen in the last post) Caprio
(daughter of Ann, mother of Dylan, ER nurse and couponer online)
Dylan Caprio, 6
directly across the street:
221
Constance Campbell (nanny)
Caroline Grayson-Block, 6
The Judge& the Dr(parents)
213
Joe Atkinson (sportswriter, father of Cole)
Cole, 16, attends CHS, athlete, pres of Umojaa Club
Daisy, their dog
223
Neil and Surya Poddar
Rohit, 14, Hampton Academy
Nana & Nanima, grandparents visiting
Jairaj "Jay" Mukherjee,
Rohit's cousin
Showing posts with label Columbia High School. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Columbia High School. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
Chapter 11: Love vs Sports. And the winner is...
Tuesdays, like this one, were slow mornings for Joe. He rose from bed after Cole was long gone to school, and made coffee in the kitchen. Joe put Cole’s cereal bowl in the sink and the milk in the refrigerator as he thought about his day. As a sportswriter, weekends were full of competitions and games. Later in the week, he had press conferences to attend – this Thursday he would learn which athletes were selected Prep B Conference First Team – and on Friday, he saw his weekly sports commentary piece into print. Joe knew that many of his younger colleagues at the Star-Ledger longer for seniority to relieve them of covering local sports, but Joe still attended high school games, and brought Cole along to scout the competition for Columbia High School. In writing, Joe described such meets, games and matches as “athletic contests.” He knew this was a formal term for sports writing, but he felt that it accurately described high school events, where luck and chance were as significant as any player on the team.
Joe had known snow in April that favored the underdog Piedmont High School track team, slow runners accustomed to rough terrain, and seen a powerhouse Seton Hall Prep quarterback derailed by the loss of a lucky sweatband. Like any serious sports fan, he appreciated the artistry of a well-executed play, but the athlete in him reveled in the joy of amateur sports, games played by kids who still knew how to play.
Still dressed in his robe, Joe walked to the living room and pulled back the curtains.
“What the hell is that?” he asked Daisy, who ran to the front door and barked at him.
“I’m guessing that you made your mess on the sunporch,” he said to the dog. “And that you’re looking for a meal.”
Joe patted the dog and looked out the window again. “What kind of project is that kid doing now?” he asked the dog, looking across the street at Rohit, now leaning on the side of the house staring into a wheelbarrow. He remembered science projects of past years and thought about the four rolls of toilet paper that Rohit had borrowed last night. Could this big pile of dirt and uneven rectangle be a school assignment? From what Joe could see, Rohit and another kid who looked just like him were spending a morning that most kids had school throwing yard equipment and dirt around the property. Now he watched as they began to measure the bare patch of earth.
“That’s stupid,” he heard Rohit shout.
“No, it’s metric,” replied the other boy, just as loudly.
“Metric is lame. No one uses it. How should I know how long a meter is?” Rohit threw a rake at the wheelbarrow.
Joe opened the door to reprimand Rohit or, more truthfully, to better listen to the conflict.
“Hey,” he called to Rohit across the street. “What’s all this?”
The boy looked embarrassed. “It’s a cricket pitch. Or it’s going to be.” After a long pause, he continued. “This is my cousin, Jairaj.” He turned to the other boy. “That’s Mr. Atkinson.
Jairaj nearly bounded across the street in his enthusiasm. “Call me Jay,” he said. “I understand that we have you to thank for the superior quality loo rolls that my aunt provided.”
Joe shook the boy’s hand. “Your cousin’s trying to brain himself with that hoe, it looks like,” he said, nodding in Rohit’s direction.
“He may prefer not to discuss lavatory issues,” said the boy in a whisper that carried across the street. “Do you play cricket?”
Joe nodded. “Let me get dressed and come over there to see what you’re doing.” He closed the door on Jay’s enthusiasm and walked up to his bedroom. He picked up yesterday’s jeans from the floor, pulled the belt from his straps and heard the thud of his Blackberry hit the carpeted floor.
When he picked it up, Joe turned it on to hear a series of noises, ping, ping, ping. He looked at the email log. You have a message from Match.com read a list of emails. He scrolled down further to see more of the same.
“Holy…” he said aloud, sitting on the edge of his bed in surprise. 172 messages. He clicked on the first, then another and another. He found messages from 172 women, women who collected Lucille Ball stamps and stock options; who played tennis and poker; who worked in finance and family farms. The emails were a virtual catalog of women, a collection of talent and beauty and, above all, thought Joe, words. He wondered how many words had been spilled in response to his advertisement, and he wished briefly that he had seen Cole’s final draft.
He heard the sound of raised voices again from the street. For an instant the pull of women competed with a sport. Joe pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt and switched off the Blackberry.
“Daisy, we’re going out, across the street,” he called, as he and the dog left the house, pulling the door closed behind them.
Joe had known snow in April that favored the underdog Piedmont High School track team, slow runners accustomed to rough terrain, and seen a powerhouse Seton Hall Prep quarterback derailed by the loss of a lucky sweatband. Like any serious sports fan, he appreciated the artistry of a well-executed play, but the athlete in him reveled in the joy of amateur sports, games played by kids who still knew how to play.
Still dressed in his robe, Joe walked to the living room and pulled back the curtains.
“What the hell is that?” he asked Daisy, who ran to the front door and barked at him.
“I’m guessing that you made your mess on the sunporch,” he said to the dog. “And that you’re looking for a meal.”
Joe patted the dog and looked out the window again. “What kind of project is that kid doing now?” he asked the dog, looking across the street at Rohit, now leaning on the side of the house staring into a wheelbarrow. He remembered science projects of past years and thought about the four rolls of toilet paper that Rohit had borrowed last night. Could this big pile of dirt and uneven rectangle be a school assignment? From what Joe could see, Rohit and another kid who looked just like him were spending a morning that most kids had school throwing yard equipment and dirt around the property. Now he watched as they began to measure the bare patch of earth.
“That’s stupid,” he heard Rohit shout.
“No, it’s metric,” replied the other boy, just as loudly.
“Metric is lame. No one uses it. How should I know how long a meter is?” Rohit threw a rake at the wheelbarrow.
Joe opened the door to reprimand Rohit or, more truthfully, to better listen to the conflict.
“Hey,” he called to Rohit across the street. “What’s all this?”
The boy looked embarrassed. “It’s a cricket pitch. Or it’s going to be.” After a long pause, he continued. “This is my cousin, Jairaj.” He turned to the other boy. “That’s Mr. Atkinson.
Jairaj nearly bounded across the street in his enthusiasm. “Call me Jay,” he said. “I understand that we have you to thank for the superior quality loo rolls that my aunt provided.”
Joe shook the boy’s hand. “Your cousin’s trying to brain himself with that hoe, it looks like,” he said, nodding in Rohit’s direction.
“He may prefer not to discuss lavatory issues,” said the boy in a whisper that carried across the street. “Do you play cricket?”
Joe nodded. “Let me get dressed and come over there to see what you’re doing.” He closed the door on Jay’s enthusiasm and walked up to his bedroom. He picked up yesterday’s jeans from the floor, pulled the belt from his straps and heard the thud of his Blackberry hit the carpeted floor.
When he picked it up, Joe turned it on to hear a series of noises, ping, ping, ping. He looked at the email log. You have a message from Match.com read a list of emails. He scrolled down further to see more of the same.
“Holy…” he said aloud, sitting on the edge of his bed in surprise. 172 messages. He clicked on the first, then another and another. He found messages from 172 women, women who collected Lucille Ball stamps and stock options; who played tennis and poker; who worked in finance and family farms. The emails were a virtual catalog of women, a collection of talent and beauty and, above all, thought Joe, words. He wondered how many words had been spilled in response to his advertisement, and he wished briefly that he had seen Cole’s final draft.
He heard the sound of raised voices again from the street. For an instant the pull of women competed with a sport. Joe pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt and switched off the Blackberry.
“Daisy, we’re going out, across the street,” he called, as he and the dog left the house, pulling the door closed behind them.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Chapter 9: Guess Who's Coming to Breakfast!In the morning, after his grandparents had hugged him and measured him against his father’s height and rese
In the morning, after his grandparents had hugged him and measured him against his father’s height and resemblance to his mother, Rohit heard the sound of a bathroom door closing. He looked around the small kitchen and mentally checked off: Mammi, Baba, Nana, Nanima. Yet the sound of the upstairs bathroom door, its hesitation as it scraped over the wooden doorframe and made contact with the metal latch, was unmistakable.
Before he could ask the question, it was answered. His cousin Jairaj appeared in the doorway. When Rohit watched “Seinfeld” on television and watched the characters Jerry and Newman greet one another with a snarled acknowledgement, he had always been reminded of himself and Jairaj. His maternal cousin, Jairaj and Rohit shared a striking resemblance, having inherited from their mothers, who were sisters, dark straight hair that fell to their eyebrows. They were both tall and thin, though Jairaj was beginning to fill out and develop a bit more poise. He stood now framed by the doorway waiting to be recognized and greeted.
“Hey,” said Rohit, raising a hand in greeting. “How’s it going?”
Jairaj strode across the kitchen to embrace his cousin in what felt to Rohit like an hour-long hug. He had time enough to see his grandparents beaming at their two grandsons, his grandmother dabbing at her eyes with – could this get worse? – pink toilet paper.
“Jairaj is here to visit,” said his mother. “He’ll be here for the year, so he came this summer to get used to us, to become adjusted to the school.”
Rohit stepped away from his cousin and studied him. Dressed in a red striped robe with his straight hair and loafers, Jairaj looked like a character from Brideshead Revisited. Jairaj returned the stare, reminding Rohit that he had slept in yesterday’s shirt and gym shorts from a pile he kept under his bed. His feet were bare and he needed a shower. By contrast, Jairaj looked shiny, almost glossy, as their grandmother handed him a glass of orange juice.
“What do you mean, to the school?” Rohit asked.
“Jairaj will attend Columba High School next year,” replied his mother. “And he will live here like a brother to you. You have always wanted a brother,” she said. “He has always wanted a brother,” she repeated in Hindi to her parents.
“Their English is better than mine,” snapped Rohit. “Why are you speaking in Hindi?”
“Your Hindi could use some work,” said his father. “Jairaj will help you with your language skills.”
The group of adults surrounding Rohit nodded.
“I’ll help you with anything,” said Arjuna, waving his arms. “English, Higher Maths, Computer Science, French, Hindi, even History.”
“Yes, that’s so,” answered Rohit’s mother. “Rohit has a project due in Ancient History. You can assist and perhaps you can help make the presentation.” She turned to Rohit. “Arjuna writes plays, you know.”
It was only the presence of his grandparents that kept Rohit from retorting, but his mother read his face.
“I know how happy you must be that your cousin is here this year,” she said in a voice that told Rohit to manufacture some pleasure.
“Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “So, Jairaj, you got a sport?”
“I watch WWF,” answered Jairaj. “And I am on the first team, all-school cricket. Do you have cricket teams around here?”
I actually know the answer to this, thought Rohit, and that’s scary. “There’s a club at my school,” he mumbled. “And there’s women’s cricket in Orange, the town near here. But I don’t think you can get cricket stuff here, like those helmets.”
Jairaj bounced up and down while Rohit’s mother clapped. “This is part of the surprise,” she said. “I brought everything you will need to play cricket in the front yard. It’s in the garage, in the yellow suitcase.”
Rohit felt his stomach sink. “I’m hungry, I think,” he said. “Maybe later, okay?”
“No problem,” said Arjuna. “I have rested well, so I’ll set up the pitch.”
Rohit was saved from replying by the sound of a siren passing close to the house. His grandfather, who couldn’t resist a gadget or a machine, especially one that made noise, rushed to the front door, followed closely by his grandmother.
Jairaj went downstairs to gather the cricket equipment followed closely by Rohit’s mother.
Rohit stared at his father. “Some surprise,” he muttered. “Hey, Baba, don’t tell her about changing schools yet. I changed my mind.
But his father was already following his in-laws to see the second fire engine charge down Orange Heights Avenue. From downstairs, Rohit heard Jairaj explaining cricket scoring to his mother. Sighing extravagantly, he gave up on breakfast and went back to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Before he could ask the question, it was answered. His cousin Jairaj appeared in the doorway. When Rohit watched “Seinfeld” on television and watched the characters Jerry and Newman greet one another with a snarled acknowledgement, he had always been reminded of himself and Jairaj. His maternal cousin, Jairaj and Rohit shared a striking resemblance, having inherited from their mothers, who were sisters, dark straight hair that fell to their eyebrows. They were both tall and thin, though Jairaj was beginning to fill out and develop a bit more poise. He stood now framed by the doorway waiting to be recognized and greeted.
“Hey,” said Rohit, raising a hand in greeting. “How’s it going?”
Jairaj strode across the kitchen to embrace his cousin in what felt to Rohit like an hour-long hug. He had time enough to see his grandparents beaming at their two grandsons, his grandmother dabbing at her eyes with – could this get worse? – pink toilet paper.
“Jairaj is here to visit,” said his mother. “He’ll be here for the year, so he came this summer to get used to us, to become adjusted to the school.”
Rohit stepped away from his cousin and studied him. Dressed in a red striped robe with his straight hair and loafers, Jairaj looked like a character from Brideshead Revisited. Jairaj returned the stare, reminding Rohit that he had slept in yesterday’s shirt and gym shorts from a pile he kept under his bed. His feet were bare and he needed a shower. By contrast, Jairaj looked shiny, almost glossy, as their grandmother handed him a glass of orange juice.
“What do you mean, to the school?” Rohit asked.
“Jairaj will attend Columba High School next year,” replied his mother. “And he will live here like a brother to you. You have always wanted a brother,” she said. “He has always wanted a brother,” she repeated in Hindi to her parents.
“Their English is better than mine,” snapped Rohit. “Why are you speaking in Hindi?”
“Your Hindi could use some work,” said his father. “Jairaj will help you with your language skills.”
The group of adults surrounding Rohit nodded.
“I’ll help you with anything,” said Arjuna, waving his arms. “English, Higher Maths, Computer Science, French, Hindi, even History.”
“Yes, that’s so,” answered Rohit’s mother. “Rohit has a project due in Ancient History. You can assist and perhaps you can help make the presentation.” She turned to Rohit. “Arjuna writes plays, you know.”
It was only the presence of his grandparents that kept Rohit from retorting, but his mother read his face.
“I know how happy you must be that your cousin is here this year,” she said in a voice that told Rohit to manufacture some pleasure.
“Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “So, Jairaj, you got a sport?”
“I watch WWF,” answered Jairaj. “And I am on the first team, all-school cricket. Do you have cricket teams around here?”
I actually know the answer to this, thought Rohit, and that’s scary. “There’s a club at my school,” he mumbled. “And there’s women’s cricket in Orange, the town near here. But I don’t think you can get cricket stuff here, like those helmets.”
Jairaj bounced up and down while Rohit’s mother clapped. “This is part of the surprise,” she said. “I brought everything you will need to play cricket in the front yard. It’s in the garage, in the yellow suitcase.”
Rohit felt his stomach sink. “I’m hungry, I think,” he said. “Maybe later, okay?”
“No problem,” said Arjuna. “I have rested well, so I’ll set up the pitch.”
Rohit was saved from replying by the sound of a siren passing close to the house. His grandfather, who couldn’t resist a gadget or a machine, especially one that made noise, rushed to the front door, followed closely by his grandmother.
Jairaj went downstairs to gather the cricket equipment followed closely by Rohit’s mother.
Rohit stared at his father. “Some surprise,” he muttered. “Hey, Baba, don’t tell her about changing schools yet. I changed my mind.
But his father was already following his in-laws to see the second fire engine charge down Orange Heights Avenue. From downstairs, Rohit heard Jairaj explaining cricket scoring to his mother. Sighing extravagantly, he gave up on breakfast and went back to his room, slamming the door behind him.
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