Ham by Sam Harris Read Free Book Online Page A

strong-minded, and she was always fashionably outfitted in the way I imagined stewardesses dressed when not in uniform as they sipped olive-brimmed martinis and drew on Virginia Slims. On top of all that, she worked in politics, causing the housewives of Sand Springs to actually whisper in her presence. “You’ve Come a Long Way, Baby” could have been her theme song.
    I was highly attracted to Lance’s scandalous family history, his mother, and, well, him. Even at seven years old, he had a dry, witty quality and I could picture him in a smoking jacket with a satin lapel and really shiny shoes. He had a rebellious devil-may-care attitude, so he was the perfect person to understand my deep concern about morning prayer in school ending with “in Jesus’ name.” He supported me when I complained to Mrs. Maule that the Jews and Muslims were not represented so I didn’t feel comfortable joining the class in the ritual. After reminding me that there wasn’t a Jew, Muslim, or anything other than Southern Baptist Christians in our little town and no one was being excluded, I think she must have admired my gumption, so she allowed me to sequester myself in the bathroom during the prayer. I took Lance in tow and we practiced tying our shoes until the reverent “Amen” was heard through the door.
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    More and more, my father was a stew of confusion. While I sensed that he was proud of my talent and that I questioned the status quo, he looked at the extremity of my obsession as something that made me different from the other kids, rather than simply unique. It’s one thing for a seven-year-old to love the stage—it’s another for him to spend hours a day perfecting an Anthony Newley impersonation and then performing it door to door for confused neighbors. When I was eight, my dad signed me up for Little League baseball and, wanting to please him, I dove in full force.
    Our coach was Mr. Flynn. He was broad and tanned and manly. His wavy black hair fringed slightly over his ears and into jaw-length sideburns that framed his chiseled, pockmarked face. He dressed in an adult version of the Little League uniform, which I suspected he wore at home, where I imagined he also slept with his mitt under his pillow and ate all of his meals from an actual home plate. He was baseball.
    Coach Flynn felt that the tradition of tryouts and winning a position on the team was important for morale, so every afternoon that week, all of us pitched and caught and batted and grounded and fielded. I hadn’t much experience at this kind of thing but was a fast runner—if not a great pitcher, catcher, batter, grounder, or fielder. Still, I gave it my all.
    At the end of the week, we gathered in the dugout as Coach Flynn called out our names one by one.
    â€œMorgan!”
    Russell Morgan threw his cap in the air and ran to the field, overjoyed. “Patterson! Cook! Moss!”
    They tossed their caps and joined Russell to play catch with boyish elation at being chosen. Chosen? We were eight years old, who wouldn’t be chosen? It was the ritual, the accomplishment, the deserving of the title. Finally all the names had been called. Except mine. With the cheering boys in view, playing in the background, Coach Flynn swaggered up to me and bent down, placed his palms on his grass-stained knee breeches, and, in a broad and tanned and manly whisper, said, “You can be water boy if you want . . .”
    My father was parked fifty feet away in our imitation-wood-paneled Ford station wagon. I glanced over in time to see him absorb what had happened and then drop his hands and head onto the steering wheel in disgrace or submission or something in between. He didn’t get out and question the coach. He didn’t put his arm around me and offer me a Life Saver. He didn’t even look at me. I picked up my mitt and walked to the car, and we drove home