by Barry Wolfe
The next time I have the ball Whee’s covering me so closely that I can feel breath on my forehead. His sunshiny grin never leaves his face. “Come on, white boy, show me your stuff.” It ‘s a gentle taunt, just enough of a challenge for me to relax and get into my rhythm. After giving an unconvincing fake left I dribble to the right, behind a teammate who blocks Whee Willie from me. I know my jump shot is good as soon as it leaves my hand. It’s a beautiful soft parabola from 24 feet. The “regulars” start laughing and hooting, and getting on Whee Willie.
“Hey Whee, you gonna let that little white boy show you how to play?” Whee just laughs, but a look of caution appears on his face. I let some time pass before I challenge Whee Willie again. Instead, I try to concentrate on setting up plays and good shots for the other players. I know if I have any chance at all for making the team, it is as a playmaker, not as a heavy scorer. But Whee Willie’s gentle taunting continues and it’s infectious. I start talking back. “Listen here, Whee Willie,” I say, “I’m gonna beat you at your own game. I’m gonna blow right by you on your left side.”
“Listen out there all you niggas,” Whee calls to his teammates laughing. “Listen to what the man say.” I use Whee Willie’s own move on him—a hip fake to the left and a quick move to my right. I manage to get a step on him. He’s surprised by my quickness, but his own speed allows him to recover before I can reach the basket. Frustrated, I pass the ball off to a teammate. “You move mighty quick for a white boy,” he says, still smiling. I can’t remember the last time anyone recovered from my usually quick-enough-first-step the way Whee Willie has just done. The next time I have the ball I fake to my right and go left. Just as before, Whee Willie recovers before I can advance any closer to the basket. But I pull up short after my first step by Whee and loft a soft jump shot from 15 feet. A lovely swishing sound can be heard as the ball touches nothing but the strings of the basket. Whee Willie’s teammates begin hooting once more.
“Hey white boy, you all right,” Whee says.
“You’re not bad yourself…for a Black boy.” I can’t believe I have just said what I said. It spills out of me like a leaky faucet. Everyone in the gymnasium stares at me wide-eyed with perplexity. The place is eerily quiet for what seems like a millennium. Whee gives out with a raucous laugh, and the rest of the players soon join him. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder and yells over to the coach. “Hey coach, if this white boy don’t make the team, can we keep him as a mascot? We’ll call him the Albino Bison.”
“It’s alright with me as long as I don’t have to sit at the back of the bench,” I retort. Even the coach joins in the players’ laughter.
The coach blows his whistle and calls the scrimmagers over to the bench. “That’ll be it for today, men. Same time tomorrow! First cut will be next Monday and the final cut will be the Monday after that. We eventually plan to carry no more than 13 players. Unfortunately, that means we’ll have to get along without the services of 12 of you hotshots. On Monday, however, we will trim down to 17. Then we’ll take another look at those of you who make the first cut for a week and make the final cuts the following Monday. That’s all, gentlemen!”
We file out of the gym, heads down, shoulders sagging, tongues hanging out, a poignant tableau of exhaustion. I notice the coach watching us with a worried look on his face. Only Whee retains his bounce. “Hey White,” he calls, “How about a beer after a shower? Rise up in the world, my man, and join the stars of the team at the Kenyon.”
“Sounds great!”
When I enter the shower room I immediately go into traumatic shock. There I face 20 brown men in their astonishing birthday suits. I cannot believe what I see. There’s Gavin Dillard with what appears to be a huge, black rubber hose between his legs. Henry Brown, who has been stimulating himself possesses a large brown member now curved like a sickle. Thank God for Harry Gaines who seems to possess a more normal sized organ. Little rainbows are hazily visible through the billows of steam that rise from the showers. I can barely see several of the players—on the pretext of washing—pulling on their organ so that it would show as long as possible without being erect. This masculine competition requires consummate skill in self-manipulation. I turn my body to the wall and wash myself.
Four of us walk the three blocks up Georgia Avenue to the Kenyon Grill. It is dark, smoky and small. We sit at the bar and order beers. We split into two conversations, Linc Haskins and George Black and Whee Willie and me. While Linc and George are engaged in their usual mutual putdowns about who’s the better rebounder, Whee leans over toward me, his face almost touching mine. He seems to prefer this physical almost Bedouin closeness when he talks. “You’ve got a nice little game,” he begins. “Fact, I don’t recall ever seein’ white boys move the way you do. Where did you learn your game, anyway, in New York?”
“No, like you, on the DC playgrounds. Probably spent more time playing with Negroes than with whites. In fact, I originally copied my shot from a fellow from Roosevelt High that I used to play with.”
“Is that where you went to high school?”
“No, I went to Coolidge, but I played pick-up games with guys from all over the city. You went to Spingarn, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Yeah, I remember seeing you play in high school in the interhigh finals against Dunbar.”
“Oh yeah. Whee Willie put on a show that day, didn’t he?”
“You were mighty sharp, Whee Willie.”
“So was you today, my little white flash. You made a mess of me out there. What you doin’ at Howard anyway? Most white folk I know of want to get away from niggers as fast as they can.” I laugh at the way he phrases it, but there’s nothing in my experience that tells me he’s wrong. I spare him my idealistic rap and tell him that the price was right. “Tuition is only $200 a year.”
“What about an athletic scholarship?” I look at him perplexed. “You know Howard doesn’t give athletic scholarships.” His face takes on a pained look suggesting that I’m missing the obvious.
“I don’t mean Howard, man. I mean a scholarship to one of those big white schools.” Now I look at him like he’s missing the obvious. “I’m not that good, Whee. At my height, I’d have to be someone extra talented for say a state university to give me a scholarship.”
“Oh shit, man, I’ve seen sorrier players than you on fine athletic scholarships!”
“Well, nobody’s been knocking down my door to make me an offer.”
“What you need my man is a public relations agent to make you a star.”
“Are you applying for the job?”
“Sure enough, white stuff. The Whee Willie Watson Public Relations Corporation is gonna make you a star!”
“It’ll take more than public relations, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t you worry about that. Don’t you know behind every great white man is a nigger doing his dirty work?” The remark itself stuns me, but I’m even less prepared for the malevolent smile on Whee Willie’s face. It suggests to me that there is a well of bitterness in him that I don’t particularly want to get to know. So I ignore the smile. “Listen Whee, all I want to do is make this team. All I want is to be a Howard Bison.”
“That’s my loyal white boy.” I’m growing more anxious. I can’t follow Whee’s sudden shift from gushing support to implacable sarcasm—a sunshiny smile alternating with darkening clouds of hostility. Whee lights a cigarette and proceeds to puff small billows of smoke. He never inhales in training, but seems more comfortable with a cigarette in his mouth. Whee stares at me for what seems like forever and then assuming the voice of a conspirator, he asks, “Have you ever been with a Black woman?”
“No I haven’t.”
“There’s nothing finer than a Black vagina,” he says with a low conspiratorial cackle. He chug-a-lugs his beer and, without waiting for me to ask, Whee adds, “White women love me! They just love my lovely brown ass.”
“How nice for you,” I retort with some sar
casm of my own.
“Here’s what I’m gonna do for you,” Whee says, totally ignoring my sarcasm. “If you fix me up with one of your white girlfriends, I will find you the finest piece of Black ass in DC.” I start laughing because Whee is asking a 19-year-old virgin to procure a white woman for him. Up to this point in my life I have been unable to find any girl white or Black to be my girlfriend much less a sexual partner.
“Why are you laughing?” Whee asks in a hurt and angry tone. “Ain’t I good enough for your snooty white girlfriends?”
“It’s not that, Whee.” I’m eager to drop this topic of conversation. I sure as hell don’t want to tell him the truth.
“What is it then?” He won’t change the subject.
“It’s not that easy,” I lamely argue.
“You won’t be breaking no law. This is DC, not Mississippi!”
“I know that, Whee,” still trying to beg off. Now he’s really pissed. “You know, you come to Howard and you give everybody the impression that you’re not a racist. But you’re just like every other white man I’ve ever known. You can’t stand the thought of me or any other nigger getting next to a white woman. You people are crazy. You think civilization is gonna come to an end if a Black man and a white woman get together.”
“It’s not that, Whee. I could care less who you’re with. That’s not the problem!”
“What’s the problem then?” I’m utterly stuck. I’m completely out of evasions. “God damn it, Whee, I’m a virgin! I can’t find a girl for me, much less you!” His laughter begins with a low hum and builds to a cackling crescendo. “A virgin?” The rolling laughter continues. “Look, don’t say anything to anybody, will you? I’ve got enough on my plate here.” I try to keep a begging tone out of my request. Whee’s laughter catches Linc and George’s attention. Linc yells over, “What’s happenin’ there?” Whee, still laughing, says, “Aw nothing man, Izzy just told me a wild joke. It’s a gas man, a gas.” Whee turns his attention back to me and says, “No problem, Izzy, I just have to school you in the fine art of pressing women.”
“I’ve signed up for enough courses, thank you very much,” I protest. “Oh no, it’s my solemn duty now to help you find a woman you can bust a nut with.”
“Yeah, what’s your fee?” I say with a smirk.
“Already told you. You find me a fine white girl and I’ll fix you up with a very willing Black girl.
“Well, I hope hell freezes over!”
On Monday, I learn that I have made the first cut. The eight guys who are let go are all would-be forwards or centers. As the rumor mill has contended, no guards would be cut. The rumors help staunch my fear, which has been bleeding out of me since the coach first mentioned the word “cut”. My joy, however, is muted by the realization that the final cuts will primarily focus on the guards. The week of practice features a virtual war among the guards who are on the bubble. You might think there are no rules in the game of basketball the way the guards claw, paw, bump, and hammer one another. Since I am the smallest of the guards, I take a real pounding. But every time I get hit, I pledge to myself that I will out-quick, out-score, and outwit my competition.
At the end of the week I am battered and confused about my chances. The weekend is a welcome relief from the physical punishment, but the mental punishment I put myself through is even worse. By Sunday night I’m an utter mess. All I can think about is the list I’m going to see the next day. “Will I make the cut?” is the question I ask myself a thousand times over the weekend. I can’t eat or sleep. I just don’t know what to do with myself. When I began the tryouts, I told myself that I would give this my best shot, but it was no big thing if I didn’t make the team. But my initial nonchalance melted in the heat of battle, and the thought of being cut is now unbearable. At this moment I want nothing more out of my college education than to play varsity basketball for Howard University.
Mom is busy making a pot roast that I usually salivate over. It was the one dish that she cooks with some skill. Tonight the smells increase the queasy feeling that settled in my stomach at daybreak. I keep playing over and over in my mind every play, every shot, every defensive gaffe and gem that I can remember. I try to compare these with my competition. I wince at every memory of another guard’s triumph and secretly draw hope from my competition’s mess-ups.
There are six other guards who along with me are contending for two guard spots. One of them is my old nemesis Jason Sharpe from Cardozo High. He’s still talking trash to me, but I have become inured of its effects. However, there’s one jibe that does get to me. He is so convinced of my inferior talent that he frequently and vociferously offers his considered opinion that if I do make the team, it’s because the coach wants a token white player. That comment, I must admit, really burns my ass.
What Howard needs most is a respectable point guard to quarterback the offense. My dilemma is that, although I’m a fair point guard, I much prefer playing shooting guard. But everyone knows that’s Whee Willie’s spot. So it’s point guard or oblivion. At dinner I’m in a zone. My parents attempt to engage me in conversation and on their fourth attempt, I respond with monosyllables.
Dad: “Do you think you’ll make the team?”
Me: “Maybe.”
Mom: “How do you like your dinner, dear?”
Me: “Fine.”
When I finally hit the bed at around 1 a.m., I just lay there trying to find a way to minimize the pain and shame of being cut. In a reverie I imagine several scenes of my explaining to friends and relatives the reason why I was cut. (a) Everyone is right. I am too short to play college basketball; (b) Coach is prejudiced against whites; (c) I never told anyone I was injured; (d) Coach seized on one bad play I made; (e) I pissed Whee off and he told the coach he won’t play with me on the team; (f) Since I knew the coach would never choose a short Jewish boy, I didn’t try my best; (g) It was an administrative error. Coach really meant to cut someone else; (h) Coach took umbrage when I told him I thought Jerry West was better than Oscar Robertson.
Not a convincing rationalization in the bunch so my ruminations continue into the wee hours in the morning. I finally fall asleep for about two hours; and when I wake up, I realize I’m in danger of being late for my 8 am class. I scarf down my breakfast that I don’t taste at all, jump into my 1954 Plymouth, and race onto New Hampshire Avenue in a high state of terror. Because of my preoccupation with the “list”, it’s a wonder I make it to school in one piece. The problem is the list won’t be posted until 4 pm when we all show up for practice. The long day stretches before me like an endless sojourn in the desert.
I’m not much in the mood for plumbing the depths of Beowulf, our current reading assignment in my 8 am English class. It is nearly impossible to focus on such jaw-breaking names as Hrothgar, Hrothulf, Hildebuhr and Wiglaf. I recently heard of an English professor who named her son Hrothgar in honor of Beowulf’s king. My thought is that such an act in the 20th Century constitutes a serious form of child abuse. But there is one passage that catches my ear given my current state of mind.
Each of us must one day reach the end
Of worldly life, let him who can
Glory before he dies: that lives on
After him, when he lifeless lies.
I hate to admit to myself, but I want the glory of making the team and not just because of my love for the game. I really do want to be the first white varsity basketball player at Howard. And I want to be picked on merit, not as a token white. Echoes of Jason’s jibe continue to wound me.
Analytic Geometry is no better. I could care less about turning graphs into algebraic formulas and vice versa. I call this course Descartes Ravings in honor of the antiquated French philosopher who created this misbegotten math. Worse yet, I’m saddled with a professor who promised to fail 80% of the class, and judging by the several posted grade sheets under his name, he usually keeps his promise. In one course he failed everyone in the class and then apparently changed his mind (or was fo
rced to). The tell tale smudge of an eraser makes clear that he had converted one “F” to a “D”. I don’t remember a thing that went on in class today.
By lunchtime I’m experiencing some hunger pangs that are shouting down my queasiness. I take myself to Ben’s Chili Bowl down at 12th and U. I’m in no mood for conversation, and I need to stretch my legs. Ben’s Chili Bowl had opened last summer. A husband and wife team, Ben and Virginia Ali, had renovated a building that had been the Minnehaha, Washington’s first silent movie house. It was later taken over by Harry Beckley, one of Washington’s first Black police detectives who turned it into a pool hall. Mind you, the Alis took this risk at a time when the national business failure rate was 60%. Anyway, they make the best Chili Half-Smoke in the city, and the restaurant is fast becoming a major icon in the city. My lust for the half-smoke completely eliminates my queasiness and is also an effective antidote to my anxious cogitating about who did or did not make the team.