Our Story .... Chapter 2 ...

Martin, who played for the England International Team, had landed in the U.S. only two weeks prior on the promise of a full-ride tennis scholarship to an American university — the same system that put Connors and McEnroe on the professional tennis map - a dream come true, so he thought. But, little did he know. Morehead State University was a far piece of real estate from UCLA or Stanford and certainly not a mecca for tennis. All the team players were recruited from other countries, there were no indoor courts, and the tennis program limped along on a shoestring budget. Oh, and full-ride did not mean all expenses paid. His first two weeks in the U.S. must have been sobering, in more ways than one. Morehead was also in a dry-county which meant alcohol was illegal. So, when his roommate Tom asked if he wanted to go to a party for free beer and pizza, for Martin, who only had $100 in his pocket to last the entire semester, it was a no-brainer.

Ellen was obviously an insider. Everyone seemed to know her and pulled her in. Within seconds of walking through the door, she was swallowed up by the crowd. As warm and welcome as she must have felt, I, in equal measure, was awkward and alone. Surely, there is someone here I know, I thought, as I scanned the room for a familiar face, but there was no one. Also, I didn’t drink, so there was that. I looked around for a makeshift bar where I could possibly get a Coke or a cup of water, but that was not how things were done. Cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon, bottles of Wild Irish Rose, and jugs of moonshine had been purchased across county lines or boot-legged and smuggled inside. And, since the party only lasted as long as the supply of alcohol, it was a precious commodity. So, I made my way to an empty corner near an open window and parked myself for what I thought would be a long night.

Going to parties like this one wasn’t something I had done very often, and I’ll admit, I was interested in just observing. I was amazed how girls, some overdone in short skirts and black leather jackets and some plain in denim overalls and Henley’s, seemed to thread and weave with ease through the throngs of plaid flannel shirts and John Deere hats. I just didn’t have that kind of confidence.

“There you are, Diane!” Ellen suddenly appeared. “I want to introduce you to my husband, John. He is president of the fraternity.”

“What? Husband? You’re married? President? You didn’t tell me ….”

Then, she pulled a couple of guys free from the mob … “This is Tom Peters.”

“Hello,” I said.

“And, his roommate, Martin Watts. He is new here …. from England, a tennis player.”

Wow, I thought. He’s different. The first thing I noticed was his thick, black hair that rested on his shoulders, only because the curls caused it to rise. He was tall and thin … not the corn-fed country boy build I was used to. He wore a light blue Oxford cloth shirt, gray V-neck sweater, tight-fitting navy corduroys, a boiled wool blazer, and gray flannel neck scarf. His style was as pointedly European as his Italian leather shoes.