Tail Gait

April 14, 2015

Marshall Reese’s business was located on Pantops Mountain and was filled with six of his former teammates. The UVA alumni had gathered in short order to discuss a proper memorial to the professor they loved.

Pantops Mountain, on the eastern edge of Charlottesville, was once home to just one large, pleasant home, then a private school, and was now filled with modern buildings. The upscale location of his office was as important for Marshall, a real estate developer, as it was for some doctors, lawyers, or investment firms. Part of success is appearing successful.

Marshall’s personal office easily accommodated the assembled alumni, which, given the time during which they had matriculated at the University of Virginia, were all white and male. Behind the partner’s desk, specially imported from England, a Fry-Jefferson map hung on the wall. Showing the roads in 1755, the facsimile gave the viewer a good idea of roads still in use. Back then, coach travel was uncomfortable but had to be endured. Rivers offered better transport, but usually heading only toward the Atlantic Ocean. In order to move up and down the coast, or due west, one had to go by coach, on horseback, or on foot.

“Would anyone care for a drink?” offered Marshall, still plenty fit despite the passing years.

“I know where it is. I’ll tend bar.” Lionel Gardner took a few drink orders. He was class of 1961 and had flown in from Los Angeles after hearing the horrible news about Professor McConnell’s death.

A large leather couch and leather club chairs bore testimony to Marshall’s success, just in case you’d missed his name on signs in front of numerous high-end developments, all with a historical theme. Finally settled, Nelson Yarbrough’s distinctive gravelly voice opened the gathering. Once a quarterback, always a quarterback. “Marshall, thank you for allowing us to use your office, and Lionel, thank you for flying in from the coast.” The two men nodded to the acknowledgment. “I’ll get right to the point: What can we do to honor a good man and a great professor?”

A brief silence followed this, then Lionel said, “To start, we should send a wreath from the team.”

“Does Trudy want flowers?” asked Rudolph Putnam, fullback 1960, now a rich paving contractor.

“She and the kids,” said Marshall, “felt this was more important to the giver than to them, but Olivia wishes we will distribute to the hospitals afterward.” The McConnells had two children, one now in her late fifties and another in her early fifties. He then added, “They’re worried there isn’t room for all the people who will attend the service.”

“Hadn’t thought of that.” Paul frowned, picturing the small chapel.

“Can they mic the service for those standing outside?” Lionel had picked up a few media terms in L.A.

“Yes,” Marshall simply said.

Nelson added, “We also have the use of the lawn and Pavilion Seven after the service. It’s all arranged.”

Recently, there had been an uproar over the university president being ousted in 2012. She was then reinstated, thanks to a revolt of students and faculty, prompting Willis’s question, “Is the president going to attend?”

“Not only is Teresa Sullivan going to attend, most of the Board of Visitors, past and present, will be there; former university presidents; both Virginia senators; the governor; a smattering of representatives, as well as state officials. David Toscano is leading the state group, as you would expect. Everyone will be there. Larry Sabato, just everyone.” Marshall beamed. “The Richmond Times Dispatch, of course, already printed a fulsome obituary, but a reporter will also be at the service and at the Pavilion.”

“If we could announce at the Pavilion that we are endowing a chair in the history department in his name, I can’t think of any more fitting tribute.” Nelson’s voice carried conviction and emotion.

Paul Huber gasped. “We’ll need millions.”

“Tim Jardine, class of ’72, made a great deal of money in Wall Street. He’s pledged one million to get us started,” Nelson informed them. “And Tim also pledges to lead the drive.”

All of a sudden, everyone was talking at once.

“I pledge another million.” Marshall’s voice rose. “Ginger is one of the main reasons for my success.” Indicating the Fry-Jefferson map on the wall, he said, “I constantly study that map, which was a gift from Ginger. In my work, I’ve always studied the early landowners, tried to keep a bit of the history with the demand for new housing, new people. I put up a marker at the entrance to each development, giving the history of the place. It’s the least I could do.”

They all knew this, but Marshall was proud, ever reminding people.

Nelson smiled. “Gentlemen, you can see how important this is, and few of us can give millions. I know I can’t, but Sandra and I will do our best to be generous. I will work with Tim in the drive for funds, but I will need your help—”

Marshall interrupted. “Tim Jardine says he will also take care of the endowment once we have the monies.”

“Well, what do we need? I mean, do we need, say, twelve million dollars all at once?” Willis, an artist, made a decent living, but he earned nothing like the others. He did, however, live an exciting and full life. This was a man not suited for business or compromise.

Marshall spoke again. “Endowing a chair essentially means providing a high salary to attract a leading professor to the school. A star professor in the sciences or medical research might command a million dollars with additional benefits, research assistants, et cetera. For a nationally significant history professor, we have to compete with Yale, Harvard, Stanford, Princeton, you name it. I would like the salary to be commensurate with those in medicine or scientific research, to announce our steadfast belief in the humanities. Mr. Jefferson certainly believed in them.”

Although most of these men had made careers in medicine, law, or business, their educational underpinning in the humanities had served them well. They had a long view of human affairs, thanks to Ginger McConnell.

Lionel threw in his lot. “Nelson, I think Jennifer and I can scrape up fifty thousand dollars. That might pay for the phone bills, the trips to talk to people personally.”

“Hear, hear!” the others cheered.

“I assume the history department will be the ones hiring this person. Why can’t we save money by hiring a young man or woman,” Lionel said, adding hastily, “one on the way up, with salary escalators?”

“That’s part of a discussion with the university,” Rudolph remarked. “We can’t do anything without their being on board.”

“I doubt they would pass on such a generous offer,” Lionel wryly commented.

“Well, we know the university can’t endow a chair. Chairs are always endowed by individuals. Then, too, the budget is approved by the legislature.” Willis sourly added, “That’s the damned trouble with state schools.”

“So it is, but state school or not, this is one of the leading universities in America,” Marshall proudly stated.

Rudolph waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, but it’s so difficult for a state school to compete with a private institution like Yale or Stanford.”

“That’s a discussion for another day.” Nelson guided the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Are we all together on this? The goal is to raise initially ten million, and we’ve already got two.”

“I’m in.” Willis nodded. “I always do what the quarterback tells me.” Willis was a good fullback in 1959, a position somewhat in flux today with the various offensive formations.

The rest of the meeting was taken up with each man agreeing to fund-raise from a list of names given to him, all known to him. As the meeting was breaking up, Paul said to Nelson, “What about Ginger’s publisher? He won award after award, so he had to have made them money.”

“He did, but a history bestseller isn’t like Fifty Shades of Grey.”

Marshall, overhearing the query, stepped in. “Given some of the punishment out there on the field, I think we could write Fifty Shades of Black and Blue.”

Nelson smiled slowly.

Marshall smiled back. “With Trudy’s permission, I did contact his publisher. They will give us one hundred thousand dollars, a goodly sum for them.”

Paul shook his head. “Strange business. I don’t understand it.”

“I’m not sure the people in it understand it. Probably what makes it exciting. Building a high-end home is fulfilling, some creativity is involved, but pretty much, it’s cut and dried. I prefer more of a sure thing,” Marshall remarked.

“Well, you sure hit it,” Paul replied.

As the men filed out, Nelson began to clean up the glasses, not many.

“Nelson, the cleaning service will take care of that,” Marshall said, then changed the subject. “I thought that went very well, did you?”

“I did. I just want to make sure that everyone feels included even if they can’t write a check.”

“You thinking about Frank Cresey?” Marshall mentioned a spectacular failure from the seventies, now a homeless resident of the Downtown Mall. “You know, Frank wouldn’t give us money even if he had it. He always blamed Ginger for his flameout.”

Nelson quietly agreed. “No, he wouldn’t.”

“If Olivia had been my daughter, I would have done the same thing.”

“Yes, I think most of us would. Frank drank too much, even when he played football.”

“Drank, hell! He had FUTURE ALCOHOLIC tattooed on his forehead. But he was handsome. All-American. A fun party boy. Olivia thought he was a knight in shining armor.”

As Marshall closed the door to the office, he flicked off the lights, one of which shone directly on the Fry-Jefferson 1755 map. “On today’s date, Lincoln was assassinated.”

Nelson murmured, “You always remember historical dates, but I suppose we should all remember that one.”

“Ginger’s murder doesn’t have the repercussions of a presidential assassination, but it’s terrible. Can’t get it out of my mind.”

Walking with Marshall to their cars, Nelson agreed that he couldn’t get it out of his mind either. What he didn’t say was that one of the things he had learned in Ginger’s history class was that violence is like a firecracker. One pop sets off explosions. He truly hoped that was not the case now.