I Hate Duke - Short Story

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A short story about fandom, work, and the people who do not care about your bracket. In “I Hate Duke,” Greg Luti follows a passionate St. John’s basketball fan as March Madness collides with the tutoring center, coworker small talk, and a game night that matters more than it should.

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The day of schedule changes and constant messages from parents was done for, and whatever else was to be done would be completed later, by a more energetic version of myself. I picked up my bag and headed towards the door. I thought of the previous conversations I have had with a few co-workers about the current March Madness tournament, and who they feel would make a run in it.

To my surprise, not a single person I asked knew anything about March Madness or what it was. They didn't know what a bracket was to be filled out. Why Cinderella is in the tournament, or what the Madness even means. They could barely name a school in the tournament. I didn't go into details with them once I learned none of them knew about it. I find that when I am speaking about a topic where I wish for an opinion from the listener, giving background information ruins the experience. I don't want to explain the entire thing to you; I want you to already come to the table with a take, I can then bounce off of, so we can have a back and forth.

Conversations are ruined with too much explaining, in the same way that jokes are ruined if explained. The more I learn about the world, the more I wonder where exactly explanations are even needed. For if you understand the topic, you don't need an explanation, and if you don't understand, then you only need experience or exposure to it, rather than an explanation.

Because I wish not to confuse or lose the reader, as I did with many of my co-workers, I will take a moment to explain what March Madness even is. Every March, there is a basketball tournament for the college basketball championship. 64 teams in the nation are in the tournament. Whoever wins this tournament is declared the winner of that year. The reason there is Madness in the tournament is that there are many times in the history of the tournament that the teams of less skill and from schools unknown to the masses win a game they are not supposed to win. David strikes Goliath in the history of the tournament, to use the more frequently referred to character, Cinderella. Why her? Because the winning by the unknown team is seen as unlikely or very similar to the story of Cinderella becoming a princess.

I like to fill out a bracket every year in order to have some fun with the tournament and keep myself engaged. I put down the teams I believe will win, and somehow I am always out of contention to win my pool, or where my bracket is submitted by the end of the first weekend.

Luckily for me, I did not have the printed form of my bracket on hand when I was talking to my co-workers who know nothing of the sport, for that would have been quite embarrassing.

Like a typical sports fan, I was disappointed in the engagement from my fellow co-workers about the tournament. I even remarked to the last one, "My god, do none of you watch sports around here?" I did not include the thought of me questioning the time they have by themselves, for I am not even sure what one does in March without the tournament. I avoid trying not to be a jerk whenever possible, and not asking what my co-workers even do in their spare time, and being highly critical of their hobbies is not a good look. I have not addressed their lack of sports involvement yet, since there is no way for me to bring it up without having strong feelings about their dismissal of the current tournament going on. I guess I will have to imagine that all my co-workers are living morally righteous lives and preparing for their next day of work when they are off. Or they could be enjoying the nightlife and being friends with beverages that, after one too many sips, open one's lips and ruin their balance. If I like the co-worker, I will imagine they are doing good when not around me. If I don't, then I will accept that they not only know sin, but fully accept it into their lives like a family does a newborn child.

I had already said goodbye to the workers and was ready to leave for the day when I saw a worker, Priya, signing out. She is a medical student who teaches a few days during the week. She is quite smart, and some may say too smart, in that she lacks empathy for those who lack any form of intelligence. Her brain knows math, so she assumes her students will as well. I have told her a few times that she needs to understand that everyone is not as smart as her. Despite her exhaustion from the hospital job and pompous attitude, she is a kind girl, one that I can see myself having a drink with, if not for her status as a taken woman.

As she signed the attendance sheet, I asked, "Do you have any idea about March Madness? Do you have any idea what it is?" I expected her to say no, and then move on with my day, but she did know of the event.

"Oh yeah. I am so upset North Carolina lost."

"Why? They stink."

"I went to North Carolina, so I always root for them."

"Oh, so you know that the coach is probably getting fired."

She opened the door to leave, and I followed behind her, as we continued to talk about the tournament. We walked down the stairs and into the parking lot, about to go towards our cars.

She spat, "I hate Duke."

"Yeah, me too. I never liked them."

"Well, you know, I can't ever like them, and I never will."

"Same. See you tomorrow."

I walked back to my car, wondering where I had missed on her resume that she went to North Carolina.

The next day at work, I made a point to leave early because that was when Saint John's and Duke were playing each other. I am a Saint John's fan, so I was going to get everything that needed to be done by the time the game started.

I opened my Word document and wrote down a few things that I was to do before I could leave: make the schedule and teach Christian. The making of the schedule was a part of my job, and involved me going over any minor details that were needed in order to make sure that the teachers were all assigned to the proper students. Teaching Christian was not a usual maneuver, but since his teacher was not available, I had to fill in for the hour and a half.

I was to do the schedule until 4:30, then teach Christian from 4:30 to 6, and then clean up anything about the schedule that I missed, and then get out of there by 6:30. Game time was 7:10.

I opened the program we use for the schedule and started to look at every day to make sure that nothing was wrong with it.

Monday: nothing was wrong there.

Tuesday: Done.

Wednesday: Mostly done. I had to move around a tutor to give him more time. We don't like to have the tutors be at the center for only an hour. We don't pay them very well to begin with, to have them only show to teach a student for an hour seems to be a rather cruel move, so we avoid it as much as possible.

Thursday: Done.

Friday: Not done. Not even close. We lost a recent tutor who normally worked on Fridays. I have to replace him with someone. I needed someone to teach for two hours. Despite the fact that you would think most teachers can teach every day of the week, the reality is that most do not want to, and if they could, the financial situation is not something they wish for anyway. If the tutor is working 40 hours a week with us, they are still not getting paid all that much.

We actually had a tutor during the summer do that, a math tutor by the name of Fred. He had these large glasses and was awkwardly tall, in that he didn't seem to know how to hide his height, but was trying to. He always stood in the middle of the hallway where students walk down to get to their desks. I joked with him about it, "You have to stop standing in the middle of the aisle. You are too tall and make people uncomfortable." That is one of those lines I think in my head, and when I think it out, it is funny, but when I say it to someone, it is not as funny as I imagined, and I am forced to play it all off as though I was kidding. I wasn't, though. He took up half the way to walk.

Fred, despite his glasses that made his face look like a fish, and unusual positioning in the hallway, was one of our best teachers, working over 30 hours a week during the summer. Why he ever agreed to such hours is something I never asked the man, but I do know he was fine with all those hours. Of course, one day at the end of the summer, he mentioned he would be leaving to go to Washington, so I suppose he was never all that worried about his hours, never seeing them as more than a temporary solution to a long-term problem. He was a math person, an engineer, I believe, so teaching was never truly in his career anyway.

The teacher who recently left us was not Fred. He was Tom, and worked only a few days a week, both of the days that no one else really worked: Fridays and Sundays. No one likes to work on those days, which is why I was having a hard time finding someone to replace him. Most of those tutors who would be considered replacements are already on for Fridays.

My mind shuffled through the tutors and who could replace Tom for his Friday hours. As great as the computer program is, the program does not know everything about the place and the tutors. For example, if the tutor is only able to work half of a day, the program can't show that, and sometimes the program is just a pain in the butt to use, frankly. I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to complain about its functionality. Of course, I complain when I am not doing the work on the program, for complaining as I need it and am using it is counter-productive.

As I was deciding on who to put in place of Tom, I was answering a few parents' questions via text messages. Some of the parents of the students of the center are very straightforward with their texts, while others write me a novel (and that is coming from me) I answered back all the messages changing the program as I did so, for it is no help if I tell the parent that I will take the student off the schedule, and then not actually take the student off the schedule.

Then the name of a new tutor hit me, Malak, who can be on for Fridays. He can teach in Tom's times. I put him on Fridays once before, when Tom was out, so he should be able to do it, although I am not sure how comfortable Malak is with those students Tom had. It was worth a shot.

Saturday: I forgot if one of the tutors was able to be in on Saturday, so I left him in anyway. If he can't do it, then he will tell me. Saturday is also a problem since we frankly run out of tutors for the students on that day. I decided that for the schedule next week, I would assign one student to take a progress test while they are there, so they don't really need to be with a tutor at that time. Problem solved.

Sunday: Done, quickly too.

Before I knew it, the time was around 4:00, and I knew I had only about half an hour to get the rest of it done. "Almost done."

I printed out a copy of the schedule and looked it over to make sure that none of the teachers had any gaps in their time. It is cruel to put someone on from 4 to 5, and then from 7 to 8. No one had that problem, so I moved to writing up the closing list, which is a document I leave out for those who are closing for that week. I don't always want to stay too close, so I like to assign two tutors for the job.

I cross-checked the closing list for the current schedule with the one I am sending out. Not much was changed. Once the tutors and their closing times for each day of the week were written out, I was ready to send out the schedule.

Then I remembered that we had a new tutor, but he was not in the program yet, so I had to add him to the schedule I sent out, without actually having him in the program. The trick there is to modify the PDF file of the schedule, so he gets the message he is teaching, even though in the program, it will say something else. I did just that and opened the email to send out the schedule to all the tutors.

I used to give long threads of what we expect from the tutors and how they should conduct themselves, and other things they should keep in mind, but I have stopped doing that, finding the closing list more than enough information to add to the email.

I wrote up the email, attached the schedule, and sent it out.

It was 4:20 PM.

"Son of a gun," I said aloud. "I still have some time before Christian shows."

I took it easy for the next ten minutes, cleaning up my desk and getting ready to teach the high school senior who has the mental capacity of a third grader. I am not entirely sure what Christian has, but he is not what anyone would call a regular student. He doesn't speak when spoken to, and cannot go anywhere without much assistance. I am not a trained special education tutor, but I am the boss, and have no one else to teach the child at that time. I was thrust into this position when two of the other tutors who taught Christian left the center, and the third one called out for today.

Despite my lack of background with special education students, I have found that treating the student more strictly than others is actually beneficial. I have to push him along verbally when we are doing things. I also try to get the student to move as much as possible, since movement can be good for any child, especially one who has a hard time thinking. Today was not the first time I have had Christian, so teaching him is not something above my expectations. Plus, I have taught at the center to various degrees for the past three years, so I can do it.

The last time I taught Christian, the student was unable to write index cards on his own. The student can't study independently. I made notes on this in the lesson plan for that day and spoke to the other tutor, the one who still teaches Christian about this, "I don't know how he expects to learn, if he writes down a word every 3 minutes."

She agreed, saying she wanted Christian's mom to see how slow a student he is, for she fears the mom is in denial about her son's mental state.

When Christian showed up, I was very cordial with him. "Hey, buddy. How are you doing today?" The student didn't respond. "Does he have any homework today?" I asked the mom.

"No. No. He is all yours today."

"Okay, Christian. You are stuck with me today. Let's go get your binder." I motioned the student towards the hallway where Fred used to stand too much. "Bye." I waved to the mom, who then left.

Christian walked slowly towards our bookshelf that held all the binders of the students, and I again instructed him, "Christian, we are getting your binder now. Can you find it?" He didn't say anything. Without waiting for the student, I grabbed his binder from the bookshelf and directed him towards the room we were going to be in. "Let's go, Christian. We are in the room all the way in the back." He started to enter the first room he saw. "No Christian. I said the last room. Last room. Walk all the way down." I grabbed a laptop from the shelf close to the binder shelf, and then I continued to give directives until we got to the room, never being more than a foot away from the student.

I put down the binder and told Christian to take a seat. "So how is school going?" He didn't say anything. "Christian… how did school go today? Did you learn anything?"

"Math…" he mumbled.

"Oh, math? What did you learn in math?"

That was about as much of a conversation as I could have with the student. He said nothing.

Then I realized I needed the books he would be working on for the day. I opened up the laptop and decided I would start vocabulary with the student. "Christian, you stay here while I get your books." I ran out of the room to get the vocabulary book.

When I got back, he was using the eraser from the pencil to erase on the table. I covered his hand from erasing. "No, Christian, we don't use the eraser on the table."

I introduced the book to him. "Christian, this is vocabulary. Pick the right choice for each word, okay?"

He started to flip to the answer sheet on the back of the page with the assignment on it, but I stopped him, "No, Christian. You are not to look back when doing this. Okay? No looking back. Cheaters never prosper, Christian. Don't cheat."

The student did poorly on the assignment in that he didn't know many of the words, but he did not look back at the answers for this one, which I consider to be a success, since the other tutor mentioned he always cheats when he does vocabulary.

I decided to add a new exercise to the vocabulary since he always takes a long time to write out his answers. I took out a blank piece of paper and instructed Christian about the new exercise.

Before I could get to explaining myself, Christian was erasing the table. "No Christian. We don't use the erasers on the table. Don't make me take away the erasers from you. If you do this again, I will take away the erasers from you." He continued to erase, and I took the erasers off the two pencils he had. "Nope, I told you not to do it, and now you don't get an eraser. Don't worry, I will take good care of the erasers." I focused my attention on the blank piece of paper in front of me. "Okay, Christian, this assignment is a little different than the last one you did. You will have thirty seconds to write down the vocabulary words you just learned. I will time you. If you do not write down the words in thirty seconds, then it is considered wrong. We want to get you to write a little bit faster. You are not in art class, Christian. You are trying to write down the answers so that you can move on to the next one, okay?"

The student mumbled, " Okay, " and we began. I set my phone timer to thirty seconds, and at the end of every thirty seconds, I told Christian to move on to writing the next word. There were twelve vocabulary words, and he spelled them correctly for only five of them.

When we finished the exercise, I reiterated the goal to the student, "Remember, Christian, we want to write faster the next time you do this, okay? That is what we are trying to do. I know you can improve on this for next time. For now, good job."

We did another book before he was done with his session. I had to prompt him throughout and never got much more than a word out of the student. We finished the session five minutes before the scheduled end time, so I sat with the student in the lobby. We had already put back his binder, which was me telling him where the binder was, more than him doing it himself.

"I got some bad news, Christian: the label maker ran out of labels."

He mumbled, "What?"

"Yeah, we don't have any more labels. Sorry about that, buddy. You were the first one I thought of when I saw we were out of labels." The student likes to make labels of the letters of the alphabet, and this is really how I got to know him more than teaching him at first. One of the tutors would be done teaching him, and ask me if I can watch over the student until his parent shows up to pick him up, as he printed labels from the label maker. Although he is wasting labels, the benefit of him being occupied is worth it, in my opinion.

I showed him the label maker, just to prove I wasn't lying to the student.

"No slime. No labels. Boy, this is a tough day for you, kid." When we were putting back his binder, the student observed we had no slime in our prize area. For some reason, the student enjoys slime, and I have not ordered new slime in quite some time.

The mom walked in, "Hey, how did he do today?"

I jumped out of my chair and explained, "We focused on writing a little faster today. I wanted him to get better at writing down the words in less time."

"Oh, okay."

"I told him that we don't have any labels or slime for him. It was a tough day."

"Oh no… no slime or labels. How are we going to make it?"

"We may just have to write a few more words next time is all.

"Okay, thank you. See you tomorrow."

"Yes, Tomorrow he is with Kate. Bye, Christian."

"What do you say, Christian?" The mom directed her words towards the student who was standing between us.

"Bye…" he mumbled.

"Bye, Christian. Great job today. See you tomorrow."

The two exited the center, and I scanned the clock in the lobby. It was a little after 6. I can get out of there by 6:30.

I went back into my office to get ready to leave. I cleaned up my desk and contacted a few parents who had messaged me while I was teaching. I left some notes to myself for what I was to do the next day, knowing that the current day was all but done. For a brief second, I took pride knowing that I got the schedule done already. I sent out the schedule on a Friday. When I originally started sending out the schedule, it was on a Saturday afternoon.

I grabbed my jacket and my bag and started to head towards the door. Then a tutor came up to me, "Hey, are you busy?"

"You better make it quick, because I am heading out of here. What do you need?"

"I want to change Ariel's program."

I grabbed a piece of paper. "What do you think we should change it to?" I listened and wrote down as she told me the few things to be done to the student's program. I then repeated back what she said to me, and she confirmed it.

"Great, I will change this tomorrow. I have to watch the Saint John's game tonight." She didn't say anything as though she didn't know they were playing. "Wow, none of you watch college basketball, I guess."

I walked around the center to say goodbye to the four other tutors in the place, reassuring the two who were closing that they were in fact closing, and then I headed out, knowing if I spent another minute in the place I would be caught in another task and miss the game.

I texted my dad that I would be home in a few, and I saw a parent of a student in the parking lot, and waved to them. As I buckled my seatbelt, I muttered to myself, "Damn, can't I leave this place without having people needing something from me?"

I pulled into the driveway, and my dad was already waiting for me by sitting on the stoop. He waved at me and entered the car.

For a brief moment, we sat in the car, wondering where we should go to get a bite for the upcoming basketball game.

"What do you want to get for the game?" My dad asked.

"Eh, I don't know. What are you thinking?" I responded, not having thought about it all day.

"I am up for McDonald's."

"The one close by or the one in Syosset?"

There is a McDonald's right down the road from us, but the one in Syosset is much better, in that whenever we go to it, the fries are fresh, the burgers are delicious, and the overall experience is more pleasant. There have been one too many times when we complained about not getting our food when we go to the local McDonald's, so we try to avoid it when we can.

"Local. We want to catch the game."

We drove off, agreeing that the game was more important than any actual order.

I turned on the radio, and we both gave our different takes on the upcoming games.

"They need to hit threes. That is what the guy on the show said." My father commented, although I was not aware of the show he was talking about, for I rarely watch sports shows, for reasons I don't wish to get into at the moment.

"Yeah, but if Duke controls the paint, then that is the game. The Johnnies can't get pushed around. If they do, the game is over."

"Hopefully Pitino can come up with something." Rick Pitino was the St. John's head coach and a legendary coach already. He recently got the job because he is trying to bring some credibility to the local school that was once good at basketball.

"Yeah, hopefully."

We got to the parking lot, and I asked, "Are we going in to order or are we going through the drive-through?"

I didn't hear what my dad was saying, and went into one of the drive-through lanes that had just opened.

Now, when I order at McDonald's and other fast food places, I am very easy with my order, in that I never really ask for more than whatever is on the menu. If I ask for a large instead of a medium, then I would say I am really adding a lot to my order. My dad, on the other hand, feels fine with customizing his order for every item. The burger has no pickles or onions, and light ice.

What exactly does light ice even mean? Is there a number to represent that? Once I gave my order, my dad repeated his order to me, and I put it in. I made a wiseass remark to him about his order. "Bro, this is McDonald's. Why is your order so obnoxious?"

He said nothing, and we continued to wait to move along in line. The game was on the radio, and just as I moved the car in line, the radio got all staticky, and neither of us could hear it. We tried to act normally as though nothing had happened for the first twenty seconds, but then we started to look at each other, like we knew we could not hear what was going on in the game. I moved the car ahead in line, and I don't know what happened in the game, but all I can say is that Duke was up 11 to 4, and then it was 14 to 14.

We got to the window where you pay, and I handed the guy my credit card. I find it a bit strange that we all use drive-through, yet there is no common name for the window we use to pay for the actual food. Are they all called drive-through windows? Is there a difference between the drive-through window where I pay and where I pick up my meal? That is what happens when we allow common customs to dictate our lives; there are inconsistencies we never address because they don't really affect our day-to-day. Sure, I may be asking you, the reader, this question, but does it stop me from getting my food? No, it does not.

I handed over the drinks and the bag to my dad, and I drove off. "Make sure you check the bag so that there is enough food in there. We are going to be fine if they miss something."

Without really looking in the bag, he confirmed. "It looks good to me."

We listened to the game on the radio, not getting any more interference. As we got into the house, we continued to speak of our talking points on how Saint John's can win the game.

"They need to hit threes." He said.

"They need to control the paint," I responded.

What they actually needed was both, and for the refs not to blow the whistle so much.

Every time Duke players went to the hole, the whistle blew, and yet when Saint John's did the same thing, nothing happened. We kept shouting at the screen as though they could hear us. "Call a foul! Call a freaking foul!"

On what seemed to be the tenth play in a row, my dad finally called out what we were both thinking, "Duke gets every freaking call! Goddamnit! The refs know! They have to know! They are Duke, the great Duke, and who are we? Shitty freaking Saint John's!"

I quietly agreed, not wanting to, but seeing it with my eyes. "Yeah…"

Aside from our frustration, we spoke strategy during the game, as to what Saint John's should do in order to beat their opponent, more than the quick comments made while driving for the food, which was now gone at that point in the game.

All the back and forth got us down to the last play of the season, where Saint John's ran a play to hit a three-pointer. We both looked on, waiting for a good shooter to get the ball, but that never happened. The point guard threw up an airball, and the game was over. Saint John's had lost by three points to Duke.

I was not sure what frustrated me more, the fact that Duke won, or Saint John's lost.

And just like that, the season was over. All the potential of having a run. All the intrigue in the building of the program. All the hype, all the talk. Everything. It was all over. There would be no game next week or the week after that. We would all have to wait another year to see what the team can do then, and by that time, the roster may look so different that we may not even notice it.

After all the jumping up and down, all the frustration, to have the season end is a state of aggravated tranquility. As though you are done with a storm, but still have to deal with all the pain of it afterward. Sure, the journey is over, but the mental tear it had on you is not.

"Well, there goes my interest in March Madness. I am already out of the pool we are in. Freaking Gonzaga. You know, one of these years they have to win." I stated.

"It is wrong. It is just wrong."

"I don't get it. What was the play at the end? They let the guy who can't shoot a three, who has not hit a freaking three this year, shoot one? What is that about?"

"They had it. They really did. They blew it. And damn Duke. They always get the calls."

I picked up my garbage from my meal and headed towards the kitchen. "Yeah, I am going to bed."

"Night. I am so pissed right now."

When I got into my room, I wasn't mad or frustrated anymore. I didn't feel anything. I didn't really wish to spend too much time thinking about my self-awareness. I reached for my phone and texted three words that my North Carolina friend would understand.

"I hate Duke."

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