“I’m pretty certain that ball is good and dead by now,” someone behind me said, then coughed.

I turned to find Finley Huckster, that really was his name, standing on the other side of the plexiglass wall, a towel draped around his neck, wet from perspiration and drinking water from an old military canteen.

“And by dead I mean you killed it,” he said. “What’s got you so mad?”

“I’m not mad,” I said. “At least, I’m not angry. Just trying to work up a decent sweat.”

“I see.”

“What are you doing here? Certainly you don’t exercise.”

“It’s true that we English professors are not famous for our athletic prowess, but I am an exception.”

“How is that?”

“I am exceptional.”

I opened the door and ducked out to stand with him. We sat on the lowest level of the small bleachers. We stared at the empty court.

“How are you?” Finley asked.

“Tired.”

“So, what do you think of our new dean?”

“We have a new dean?”

“Yes. Yearlong search. A thousand emails asking for our inconsequential input. You don’t recall any of this?”

“Sounding a little familiar.” I looked at his olive drab rubber canteen. “Why do you drink out of that thing?”

“It allows me to recall my Marine days. The rubber taste reminds me of how much I hated them.”

“So, what’s the new dean like?”

“She’s a political scientist from Stanford. You know the type: Ivy bred, overachieving, no doubt smarter than the rest of us, or at least she thinks she is. You know, a dean.” Finley offered me a pull on his canteen.

“No, thanks.”

“And young. Very young. All the deans seem so young these days.”

“Finley, it’s not that they’re that young. We’re that old.”

“That’s true, but we ain’t dead yet.”

“Aye.”

I taught my class, did a better job than I expected, considering that I essentially stood in front of them like a robot, opened my mouth, and let years of rehearsed lecture spill out without interest or passion. To my surprise, more students than not complimented me as they filed out.

“Great lecture, prof.”

“Awesome lecture.”

“Cool.”

“Sick.”

Grunt.

I then walked across campus. Clouds had gathered, but the sky was again making promises it couldn’t keep. I dodged the bicycles and skateboards and made my way to my office, and there I waited for students that never showed up for my hours. This day one student did. It was Rachel Charles. She sort of sidled into the room.

“May I help you, Rachel?”

“I wanted to apologize,” she said.

I remained in my chair, looked at her.

“About what happened out in the desert. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t fret over it. Believe it or not, I was young once.”

“I feel like such a fool. You must think of me as just a stupid little girl.” Her words held some subtext that was simply not available to me.

“Okay. It’s over now. Let’s just move forward. Thank you for coming in and saying something.”