Hulking, round-shouldered Ted Schmitt pulled on his basketball shoes. It was after 5, cocktail hour along to River, but at the gym it was conditioning time. He grunted as he bent over.

"You'll miss my biggest class," he said. "Really pack em in on Friday." He leaned his body against the locker room door. It swung open, and we started up the stairs to the main floor. "End of the week, you know. Get a big rush for that final p.t. on Friday."

The varsity line coach wandered from group to group around the floor, checking off names. Sweaty basketball players leaned momentarily over his clip board, mumbled impatiently, then continued shooting.

When Schmitt reached the far side of the court, he pulled a canvas curtain out from the wall to divide off his corner. No one took notice until he laid down his board. Then freshmen began filling up his corner. As he began to swivel from his hips, they followed suit. A couple of twists to set the pace, and Schmitt began wandering again, studying the rubber caps on the toes of his shoes. The squad kept on swivelling.

"O.K., everybody Jumping." Everybody jumped. The room resounded with the steady thump. The line coach watched a boy try to sink a basketball at the far end of the court.

Abstractly, he began to swing his arms like propellers. The "team" began swinging, except for two guys talking in the back row. Schmitt walked on. He turned around briefly to initiate knee-bends in four counts, then jumping-jacks in two counts, then rotations in on counts.

The coach moved on to his football specialties. His lines surged forward in a duck-walk, then faltered, and broke-Schmitt backpedaled to avoid the onslaught. Only a few duck-waddled back into place; the rest walked with their instructor.

Back and stomach now: push ups, sit ups, leg lifts. Schmitt moved among his boys, counting in monotone . . . "lift, spread, together, down; lift, spread, together, down . . . one, two, three, four . . . up, down, up, down, up . . . hold it now, hold it . . . All right, up running in place for 20 counts."

That was the signal. Effort suddenly increased. The two in the back stopped talking and began running. ". . . 18 19 . . ." On "20" the group immediately broke up.

Six or seven late-comers crowded around the clip board; the rest disappeared down the stairs. A few started throwing basketballs again.

"Come on out," a red-faced figure panted, brushing past me. "it's great. Thirty minutes and you're through for the day."

The line coach had wandered back to the locker room. "We've got all kinds," he said. "Fencers, swimmers, they all wander up. I've get a few slacker-offs, but most work at it pretty hard." He unlaced his shoes and headed for the shower.