tablish the facts—just four days prior. It
was Boeheim’s chance to retain his driving
privileges.
A newspaper account reported that the
judge warned Boeheim that the proceed-
ings might be painful. As the accident was
recounted, the local paper said, Boeheim
laid his head on his arms as he listened.
Whether Boeheim is feeling any tension
as we bounce from the Boys Club to an out-
door basketball court to a First Tee golf cen-
ter, he does not say.
In any case, at one point Boeheim says,
simply, “Dancing in the Dark.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“I like that one song,” he says. “I do lis-
ten to that one.”
It’s not a song I know well. Top 40 Bruce.
And the word “Seriously?” slips out. I re-
gret it immediately. “I mean, when do you
listen? After games?”
Boeheim doesn’t seem to notice my re-
sponse, or my question. He’s regarding the
street in front of us. It’s a song about hating
the place you are, the place you find your-
self. I can remember one line: “There’s a jokehere somewhere, and it’s on me.”
“No,” he says, as we pull into the park-
ing lot of the Boys & Girls Club. And that’s
it on the song.The Boys & Girls Club is a rough busi-
ness, the edges a little frayed, well-used. It
provides meals for neighborhood kids twice
a day for the entire summer. The floors are
polished by the shoes of a thousand run-
ning children on a hundred afternoons.
The Boeheim Foundation rebuilt this place,
but it hardly looks flashy or overdesigned.
We traipse from the computer room to the
gymnasium and back out to the cafeteria,
such as it is. At one point, Boeheim stands
in front of me with his hands in his pockets.
“The roof was a wreck when we started
this,” he says. “And the HVAC needed to
be replaced. No one much wants to step in
and build a new roof in a facility like this.
It’s not hard to fund a basketball court. We
knew someone would step in for that. So we
did the roof. This place has to be here. These
kids use it all year.” He shrugs and stares at
me. “We redid the electrical, too. And the
wireless or something. It might be hard to
see the impact,” he says.
It is not. The place is solid, permanent. It
feels like it has always been here. It is just a
modest surface, like the man who’s talking.Boeheim looks at the city, a bit dislocated
as passenger. Each time we stop for a look at
one of their foundation’s many good proj-
ects, I ask him what neighborhood we are
in. That seems to puzzle him.
“This is western Syracuse,” he says at one
point. He looks at the sky. “I don’t know what
they call it.” Boeheim settles in the passen-
ger seat, reaches for the stereo once or twice,
turns it down. He’s a known Springsteen fan.
And on our way to a Boys & Girls Club on
the southern side of the city, I ask him, What
Springsteen does he usually play?
“Nothing,” Boeheim says. “I mostly lis-
ten to sports. Or the golf channel on my way
to work.”
“I thought you liked the Boss,” I say.
“Nah,” Boeheim says, demurring. He
sniffs after a second, having rethought. “I
mean yeah.” Another pause. It seems that
he’s grinding out an answer.
“Once in a while, I’ll listen to him,” he al-
lows. “I may put on the Springsteen station.”
That’s as specific as he gets. He doesn’t want
to grasp for song titles, or lyrics. “But I’m not
big on tapes and...I have his albums, a couple
of them, but...I mean tracks, but I just never
really play... .” He drifts away then, looks out
the window, takes a breath. “I don’t play mu-
sic. I really don’t. I used to. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” I tell him.
The moment is uncomfortable, and again
it occurs that driving itself may be the is-
sue. He sat through the hearing—two hours
during which the February accident was re-
constructed, and recounted, in order to es-
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