I first met him at a children's camp. I was 13 then and I guess he was about the same age. We were in the same bunk. When our counselor, Sid, called us together the first day, he asked what name we wanted him to call us, and what activity we would like best to do at camp. In my turn, I said my name was Aaron, and I liked my name. What I wanted to do most at camp was to play baseball. My new friend said his name was Israel, but he liked to be called Sport. Everyone laughed.
"Wait a minute," Sid said when the laughter broke out.
"As long as you give yourself a decent name, we owe it to you to use it, and not make fun of it."
Sport wanted baseball. In fact, everyone chose the game.
"We can't play ball all day long," Sid said. "We'll try other things the first few days, and then decide."
Sport was a strange-looking guy. He must have been my height, but his head seemed too large for his body. He wore glasses with thick lenses. His every movement was awkward, jerky. He spoke in a hesitant and apologetic manner, as though we were doing him a favor in letting him talk to us. Pretty soon, everyone in camp was calling him "Sport". If he met a camper, he would say, "how ya doing, sport?" I once asked him where and why he got to love the name so much.
"That's a good question, sport. I read it in a Merriwell book. Frank had thisfriend at Yale, and that's how he talked. I liked it. Makes me feel like I'm up there with all those sports."
Early on, Sid began putting the team together. He asked each one whatposition he wanted to play. Sport asked to play first base. That was a bad choice. He could not hold on to the ball thrown to him, and he missed almost every grounder. As a batter, he had a weak, clumsy swing. Sport did not do well in any of the games we played. He committed errors in the field and rarely got a base hit. But Sid always used him for several innings, and he succeeded in teaching us to praise Sport for his efforts. Although we showed in many ways that he was part of our gang, Sport invariably tried to woo us with gifts. Bunk leaders were singled out for these rewards. Bernie, the best baseball player, was his favorite. When Sport got a package from home, he would rush to Bernie's side.
"Take a coupla pieces of cake," he insisted. "Pretty good, huh? Send it around. It's my party."
When the package came back, there was little or nothing left for Sport. Sid put a stop to that.
"It's nice of you to share with your friends. But you're not sharing; you're giving it away. Next time, take enough for yourself. Then pass it around."
It was a wonderful summer. When it was time to go home, some of the guys were holding back tears. Funny thing though, Sport had a fixed smile on his face, as he ran around shaking hands.
"We've had a great time," he said to all. "See you later, sport!"
That was the last camp summer I saw him. Some of the gang came back for the next few summers as busboys and counselors. I did not think about Sport at all. Then, incredibly, we met again. It was registration day for my freshman college year. I was wandering around, trying to fit the courses I needed into a schedule. A tap on my back, I turned around, and it was Sport. I recognized him right away--the large head, the thick lenses, the fixed smile--and the greeting.
"Hey, sport," he exclaimed, "remember me? We're in the same class! Let's lunch together. C'mon, my treat."
We did eat together, but I had my own lunch from home. As we talked, it was clear that we would not share many classes; he was into math, and I was a history major. He asked, though, that we try to meet at other activities. I agreed. When I thought about it afterward, I realized that I had been doing him an injustice all along. Subconsciously, I had labeled him as retarded, probably because of his behavior and appearance. I decided then that I would try to be with him more often. We soon found a program in which both of us were interested, the Social Problems Club at school.
The club was a gathering place for radical students. Meetings were held twice monthly, and usually one of the members led a discussion on political or social issues. Sometimes outsiders were brought in, and they were always controversial figures. Such occasions set administrators' teeth on edge. The Board of Trustees consisted of important business executives, and public officials who aimed to please their fellow trustees. In my sophomore year, I had a first-hand view of the administration's opinion if our club. I was elected to the group's steering committee and helped to get an outside speaker. The choice was in the club's tradition; he was the leader of a radical third-party movement. I was one of the three students who signed the announcement we distributed to the student body. The day after the leaflet appeared, there was a note in my mailbox from the school president's assistant, asking me to come to his office.
I came at the appointed time, but I had to wait an hour before the secretary allowed me to enter the sanctum. The assistant was seated behind an imposing desk, and all I could see was a smallish face, with piercing eyes staring through eyeglasses. It was as though he was trying to find his way into my mind and soul.
"Aaron," said the official, as he waved the leaflet in my face, "I see that you have let your name be used by the radicals who run the Social Problems Club. Why do you associate with them?"
I was confused, yet also angry. "I have known these people for some time," I responded. "I find the club's meetings interesting, and I learn a lot from the discussions."
"You need to understand that your leaders hold dangerous views," said the official, in a hostile tone. "If you continue with them, we will assume that you share their opinions. That can hurt your standing in the school. I'm telling you this for your own good."
As I walked to my next class, I felt both angry and scared. I was determined to stay with the club, but I was also going to tell the committee that I did not want to be in the leadership group. When I explained to them why I was doing this, no one questioned my motives. I sensed, however, that they felt I could not stand the heat. Some weeks later, the faculty advisor to the club called a special meeting.
"I'm very busy with my research and my teaching," he said. "Frankly, I'm out on a limb being connected with you. I have to give up the job. You will have to find someone else."
We tried hard, but the result was as we expected; no faculty member wanted to challenge school officials. So we just held a meeting with a member leading the discussion. The next day, each member of the club had a note in his box from the president's office: According to school regulations, no club Can function on campus without a faculty advisor. There will be no further meetings of the Social Problems Club in this schooluntil you comply with the rules.
At an unauthorized meeting in the student lounge, members decided to distribute leaflets, calling students to join a demonstration of protest against the suppression if free thought and free speech. We decided to hold the demonstration on the street adjoining the entrance to campus. Soon afterward, there was a note in my box from Sport. He wanted to see me. I met him in the cafeteria.
"Aaron, I need your advice," he said. "I've been asked by the guys to keep the leaflets for the demonstration in my locker. Do you think I should do it?"
"Why did they ask you? Why can't Jim keep them?"
"He has the placards," Sport replied. "Others took on other jobs, like contacting the police for a permit. Everyone will be doing something."
I felt bad about being excused from any tasks. "I'm glad they didn't ask me; I don't know what I would have done. My parents would feel awful if I were expelled. You know, they will do that to you if the stuff were found in your locker."
Sport shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "I won't worry about that. I feel good being up there with the leaders."
Maybe the police informed the school about the demonstration, or maybe one of the guys succumbed to the pressure and told the school who was doing what. Administration action was swift and decisive; lockers were broken open, including mine, but I had only schoolbooks there. Everyone with 'incendiary' materials, and all known leaders, were ordered to the president's office and suspended, Sport among them.
By word of mouth, the 'unsuspended' members of the club called a meeting to protest the school's action. We met on campus without asking for permission. School police watched on the outskirts of the crowd that assembled. Several members, I among them, addressed the audience and denounced the fascist methods used against free speech and assemblage. The crowd even applauded the fiery denunciations. I guess those of us who spoke were repenting our failure to be bold when it would really have counted. In any event, our protests did not help our friends. All were expelled. I wrote to Sport to tell him how sorry I was about the school's action, and I asked him to write and tell me when and where we could get together. He never replied.
Some three years later, I stood on a subway platform, waiting for a train. I became aware of a familiar, high-pitched voice, hawking newspapers at the other end of the platform. I walked over. There was Sport, handing out Yiddish newspapers to whoever would take them.
"Hey, Sport," I exclaimed, "it's good to see you."
He recognized me right away. "Same here, Aaron, but I don't have time to talk with you. I'm working for the circulation department of the newspaper. I get assigned to different jobs. You still at the same address? I'll write to you soon."
I left him standing there, but I was determined to pursue the contact. The next day I called the newspaper.
"
"I would like to talk with Israel Cohen. He works in circulation."
" I don't know anyone by that name," a woman's voice replied.
"I saw him yesterday on a subway platform, handing out your newspaper topassengers," I said.
"Oh, I understand," she replied. "We hired some people for a two-week promotion campaign, and your friend was probably among them. The campaign is over. I'm sure he isn't with us now."
I wrote to him at the old address, hoping that he would respond. Two weeks later, an answer came, suggesting a meeting in a cafeteria for lunch. "It will be like old times," he wrote. "I have something important to tell you. And it's my treat."
He was waiting at the cafeteria when I arrived. "Hey Sport," I said. "My treat this time."
"Okay," he laughed. "I'll let you be the big shot."
After we ate, Sport began speaking. "Jim and most of the guys who were expelled, including me, have been seeing each other pretty often over the past few years. What I wanted to tell you is that we are now talking about going to Spain."
"But there's a civil war going on there," I protested.
"That's why we're going," he said. "A number of people all over the country
are forming an American brigade to fight for the government against the fascists. I've decided to go too."
I sat there stunned. "Hey," Sport exclaimed, "don't feel bad about what I'm
doing. No one talked me into this. When Jim brought it up, I was the first to say it's the right thing to do. And don't feel bad that you can't go. We need people here to rally support for the antifascist fight."
I sat quietly for a few minutes. Then I put my hand on his shoulder, whispered "good luck" as my eyes welled up with tears, and walked out.
I received the letter from Jim about a half-year later. When I opened the envelope, a small pin fell out. On the face of the pin, a likeness of Abraham Lincoln was engraved. Dear Aaron: I have sad news for you. Sport was killed in battle yesterday.
I need to tell you how it happened. Our company was pulled back because of a heavy enemy attack. Sport and a few others volunteered to stay in place and cover the retreat.
A few hours later we regained the lost ground. We found Sport and the
others where we had left them. They were all dead.
A long time ago, Sport told me that you were his closest friend. He also told me that if anything happened to him, he wanted me to send you the emblem of our brigade.
He said that you were an inspiration to him since your childhood together at camp. The guys over here will miss him. I know you will too, Jim. I sat there holding the pin in my hand. Flashbacks of our past encounters flooded my mind. He was always so eager to give. Now he had given all.
