by Barry Wolfe
Hampton’s campus is an exquisitely beautiful peninsula surrounded on three sides by the Chesapeake Bay. The school opened a year after Howard as the Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute for former slaves. It was renamed Hampton Institute in 1930.
Holland Hall looked even bigger to me than Lincoln’s gym. Most seats are taken and that’s no surprise to anyone. The rivalry between Hampton and Howard dates back to the 1920s. We even have the same colors, blue and white. They are in their home “whites”. Their jerseys have blue numbers on a white field. We have the reverse. But I’m focused on the size of the court. We now have played four games on courts larger than our practice court, and we are just beginning to adjust our shooting to the more spacious dimensions of our opponents’ courts. We spend extra time during the warm-up period on our jump shot drills. Whee Willie has found his sweet spot on the left wing and is dropping in rainbow jump shots in bunches. However, there’s practice and then there’s the game. During the first half, Whee Willie would go to his spot, but the ball would not drop; and Linc is being bottled up inside by two big men. The points are hard to come by. Home court advantage is real this night. For every shot that Whee Willie misses, Hampton’s star guard, Walker Winslow makes his. At the end of the half, Hampton is up by seven, 33-26. Early in the second half, much earlier than I’m prepared for, the coach puts me in. As I make my way onto the court, I quickly scan the crowd of dark faces and the realization finally washes over me that I am the only Caucasian in the building. As I continue to look at the crowd, Whee Willie somehow intuits that I am petrified by my minority status. He walks over to me and says, “Come on, White, pretend you’re in Mississippi.” I crack up and in the process lose my heebie jeebies. I feel a surge of confidence and energy suffusing my body. Unfortunately, the energy is accompanied by delusions of grandeur. It’s up to me to save the team, I think. The first time I touch the ball, I make a 15-foot jump shot from the corner. As I trot down the court, I see members of the crowd looking at each other and I hear them asking, “Is that a white boy?” Two minutes later, I fake a jump shot from the same corner and drive by my defender for an easy layup. In seven minutes, I score 11 points. The team greets me at the next Time Out with surprised glee and enthusiastic high fives. Even Jason Sharpe. The coach is more ambivalent about my scoring and says to me in a voice loud enough that the entire team and some nearby fans can hear, “Now maybe, my little white star will do his job and pass the ball?” “Yes Coach,” I reply, still reveling in my performance and the cheers it brought me.
In the fourth quarter, we catch up with Hampton and we are trading baskets until the final minute. Hampton’s second string forward is fouled with 30 seconds left, and Hampton is up by two points. He makes one of his two free throws. Whee Willie scores our final jump shot from 25 feet and we lose by one point, 58-57. That shot is from so far out, it should be counted as three points; then Whee Willie’s Rainbow Beauty would have tied the game.
Several of my teammates are originally from Virginia and are very much craving “Southern Black Food”. So they talk the coach into having the entire team go for dinner at Mama Hannah’s, the best restaurant of its kind in Hampton, Virginia. It is a cold December evening when the 14 of us (12 players, the coach and the team manager) enter Mama Hannah’s. Although the decorations are nondescript, the place has a warm and cozy feel. There is even a small room in the back in which all of us are barely able to squeeze into. As we pass the other diners, they all seem to be staring at me. Their gaze is not hostile, more curious, as if they are collectively thinking, What’s this peckerwood doing in this part of town? There is no serving off the menu for us. Dinner was pre-planned. I am starving, but also nervous about what I am about to eat. The aromas seeping in from the nearby kitchen are promising. Out comes a traditional southern Black Meal: fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, hominy grits, collard greens, fried okra, and corn bread. Although I have recovered from last year’s debacle in chemistry class when I panicked as Courtney Cartwright handed me a doughnut, I still am a little anxious about eating traditional black food. I no longer fear becoming “nigrafied”, but I have my doubts whether I will like the food. And as I said, I’m starving. Wrong again! I loved everything. The food is a revelation and I keep asking for more. Mama Hannah comes out of the kitchen. She wants to see who is eating so much. She looks at me stuffing my face. She howls with laughter, “Oh my, that little white boy sure can eat!” Everybody in the small room laughs as I continue to eat. The one dish I cannot get passed my lips is chit’lins. Nothing about it attracts me. Whee Willie leans over and whispers in my ear. “I know white people make fun of all this nigger food, but the irony is that a lot of this food originally comes from Indians-Cherokees and Choctaws mostly. And chit’lin's are originally from Europe. Go ahead and give it a try.” He could neither convince me that he is telling me the truth or to eat them.
“Aw Whee Willie, you’re always making up stories.”
“No, Izzy, I’m not jiving you. Look it up.” Later, I do look it up, and I learn Whee Willie is telling the truth.
We return to our assigned dorm rooms on the Hampton campus. A half a dozen of us are stuffed in an upper level room that looks and feels like an attic. The radiator heat is going full blast; and when we try to turn the heat down, nothing works. So we open the windows and a cold blast of air hits us in the face. We try to position ourselves in a way that balances the cold blast with the high heat. Needless to say, it is difficult to get any sleep. Since we cannot sleep, we have only one option: engage in the traditional college bull session. And as all college bull sessions must, the topic soon turns to sex. Yet our discussion combines race and sex. It quickly becomes apparent that I, a 19-year-old virgin, am designated the spokesman for the sexual habits of white people.
“Hey Izzy,” asks Henry Gaines, “Is it true that white men like to eat pussy?” Now what do I say? “So I’ve heard,” I reply authoritatively.
“Why man? It’s disgusting.” Hmmm, he might have a point.
“I think because they find it pleasurable. Or at least the women do?”
“Yeah, but the pussy is so near the ass it must smell terrible.” With hand on chin, I pretend to ponder his answer. Finally, I say, “Men do many strange things for love.”
“Or for a piece of ass, “ Henry, says, cackling wildly. “OK, tell me this. Why are white women frigid?” They are? I ask Henry for elaboration. “You know, cold. They don’t get into sex. They don’t move, and they don’t come. I mean I’ve only been with a couple of white women, but that’s how they do.”
“Well, Henry ‘a couple’ is a small sample size. We need more data.”
“What we need is more ass, but that’s why I’m asking you. You’re the expert.” I’m so happy that Whee Willie’s not in the room, because he’s the only one who knows that I’m a virgin.
“You’ve got to realize, Henry, that there are lots of differences among white women. Some are hot and some are cold. You need more experiences with different types of white women.” I’m really on a roll now. Henry leans in closer to me and in a conspiratorial whisper asks, “Can you help me get some?” This sends him into prolonged, high-pitch laughter. “OK, Henry, let me ask you a question. “Are Negro girls easy?” “Naw,” he says, it’s just that Howard boys talk more. To tell you the truth, Howard girls are tough. Very few ‘give it up.’” I can’t help myself. I retort, “They don’t give it up in general or they don’t give it up to you?” Several guys nearby laugh at my comeback. One of them says, “Look at Izzy playing the dozens on Henry. Laughter fills the attic and Henry is not happy. “Kiss my ass, White,” Henry replies emphatically, and moves away from me.
I love being the sexpert, cause I’m learning a ton.
Fourteen sleepless members of the Howard University basketball team stumble zombie-like onto the bus that will take us home. We fall into our seats hoping not to fully awake so that we can finally acquire some elusive shut-eye. The cacophony produced by the snoring pass
engers resembles a lumber mill and eventually wakes a few of us up. Since sleep is impossible, those who are awake start complaining about another missing vital necessity. “I’m hungry!” comes a cry from the back of the bus. “Me too!,” complains another. Still another says, “Can’t we stop and get some food?” Coach, who was the last to awaken says, “Can’t you guys wait until we get home?” A chorus of grumbles erupts. “Come on, Coach, we’re starving.” “Listen, men, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Come on, Coach, we had no problem at the Richmond Greyhound station,” Linc Haskins implores. “Yeah, but we’re not near any major city. Petersburg is the nearest and that’s a hour away.” Linc has become the self-appointed spokesman for the team. “We can’t wait that long, Coach.” “Alright, it’s your funeral.” I wonder if the coach is speaking literally. Ten minutes later we see a diner and the ravenous group convinces the Coach that the bus should stop here. Thirteen black men and I pile out of the bus and head for the entrance to the diner. We are met by two of the owners. These two burly men in their 50s, I would say, bar the entrance. “Ahm sorry, but we don’t serve nigras here. You best be on your way,” says one of the burly men. I look inside and the same expression is plastered on the face of each and every patron. I don’t have a word for it, but it is a combination of intense fear and hatred. We don’t want to make a scene so we turn around and dejectedly make our way back to the bus. Coach turns to me and says,
”White, go order us some sandwiches.” “Me, Coach?”
“Yes, you, White. You’re the only white man here.” I head back toward the diner and, once again, the two burly bouncers greet me. “Ah said, we don’t serve nigras here.”
“But, I’m white.”
“Ya caint be if you’re with that group. You is either a high yaller or a nigger-lover and we don’t serve neither.” It’s all I can do to keep my cool. “Look, all I want to do is order some sandwiches for my team. You don’t want to lose the money, do you?” The two men confer with one another. “Alright, go around to the back and we’ll make you your damn sandwiches.” “Pardon me, I think I said ham sandwiches, not damn sandwiches.” I look at the menu and decide to keep it simple. I order 14 ham sandwiches and 14 cokes. The menu says that ham sandwiches are 50 cents and a coke is a nickel. So I figure the bill should come to $7.70. The coach had given me a ten-dollar bill, which should have been enough. When the sandwiches and cokes come, I am handed a bill for $15.40. When I point out the disparity between the menu prices and my bill, I am told, “Take it or leave it.” When I tell the Coach I need more money, he says he doesn’t have any more money for those honky thieves. “I’m sorry, White.”
“Don’t be sorry, Coach, They are a bunch of honky thieves.” I have to go around to everyone on the bus in order to scrounge enough money to pay the rest of the bill. Two years ago when my cousin integrated Howard’s football team, he had to do the same thing. When the team went south, Jayson had to get food for the entire team. These Southern racist crackers are the pits!
Because of my scoring spree at Hampton, I’m promoted to first string, and I start my first college game a week later against West Virginia State. I mostly do my job in distributing the ball to our scorers, but as a scorer I come up with a big blank—zero. We were crushed 67-48. Our next game occurs ten days later during a Christmas tournament at Montclair State University in New Jersey. In the first game of the tournament we battle Albany State. As the game begins and I dribble the ball down the court, I’m suddenly overtaken by a feeling of disorientation. Here I am the starting point guard of a Black basketball team playing against an all-white team. The feeling passes, and we play hard against what I truly believe is an inferior team. Our shots, however, do not fall during critical moments, and we spend the entire game a few points behind chasing Albany State. The final outcome is 64-59. After the game, the five starters sit around long after our other players hit the showers perplexed by the loss and trying to analyze how it could happen. We all sit in the same position with our heads in our hands and elbows on our knees. I’m enraged at myself for missing so many shots, and in my rage I spontaneously cry out, “How could we lose to those CRACKERS?” My four fellow starters look at me with incredulous laughter. Whee nudges Linc and says in between his guffaws, “Look who’s calling who a cracker.” All four of them just laugh and laugh. Whee finally says to me, “You know what White. I’m gonna start callin’ you Izzy Black.”
On my 19th birthday, we begin playing our home games at the Capitol Arena, a 2,000-seat arena that mainly hosts wrestling and boxing matches and the occasional country music and jazz performance. We’re scheduled to play Lincoln University for the second time. We had lost to them in our first game of the season back in December, and we’re hungry for revenge and hungry to end our 6-game losing streak. As a birthday gift to me my parents decide to come see me play for the first and only time. I think they’re truly surprised by the royal treatment they’re given. They have a special welcoming committee who meet them at the entrance and accompany them to some of the best seats in the house. As we go through our lay-up drills, I can see them being ushered to their seats. My father is wearing a suit and my mother is in an evening gown. You might have thought they’re going to a nightclub instead of a basketball game. They’re able to see me clearly and wave to me. Although I can see them, I’m too embarrassed to wave back. Yet I’m so happy they have come that I find myself leaping as high as I can during the layup drill. A number of Howard students in the crowd begin to chant my name to a syncopated beat. “Dunk it White! Come on and dunk it! Dunk it White! Come on and dunk it” I’m so moved by this that I try as hard as I can to at least touch the rim and each time I fail by a few inches. I’m the only member of the team who cannot dunk the basketball, which—at that moment-- makes me feel odder than the fact that I’m the only white player on the floor.
The Arena is surprisingly well lit given that it is usually shrouded in darkness during wrestling and boxing matches. The lighting, I am convinced, improved our shooting accuracy by at least 10 to 15%. It’s the first time that as a team we are in good condition. We have finally shaken off the limitations of our practicing in the undersized Quonset hut at the University. During our painful and humiliating losing streak, we consistently can’t find the shooting range during the early part of the game and run out of energy during the last quarter of the game. I find the size of a regulation gym distorting after the Quonset hut, and I shoot many an “air ball” because my shooting position on a regulation court is further away from the basket than the corresponding spot in the hut.
By this point in the season, we’re feeling in top form and finally have learned how to play together. We jump on the Lincoln team very early and never trail. Linc is having a field day. It seems he is getting every rebound and making every shot. He ends up with 40 points and 15 rebounds. Whee Willie is unconscious with his outside shot. He sinks eight rainbow jump shots from over 20 feet. Even though I’m the point guard, I use set screens to hit my jump shot from long distance. Then when my defender tries to over guard me, I blow by him for the easy layup or dish-off to Linc. We are playing our best basketball of the season thus far. In one memorable play, I steal the ball from my opponent and race down the court. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Whee Willie trailing me on my left. As my defender commits to covering me on the developing 2-on-1, I fake going up for a layup and throw a behind the back pass to Whee Willie for an easy layup. The crowd roars its approval and the chanters begin again. “Alright White! White’s alright! Alright White, White’s alright!”
The other memorable moment of that game is also my most embarrassing. Early in the game I make the mistake of attempting to steal an offensive rebound. As I go up against the two 6’ 9” forwards for Lincoln to get the rebound of Whee Willie’s errant shot, one of the forwards grabs the ball out of the air and swings his elbow, which catches me right in the mouth. The impact of the blow dislodges my partial plate that houses my two front teeth, and the plate goes
flying onto the court. While the other nine players are racing down to the other end of the court, I’m on my hands and knees searching for my plate. The referee, thinking that I am hurt, blows his whistle to stop the action. A spontaneous search party forms and several players from both teams are on their hands and knees looking for my missing dentures. Some of them are not even sure what they are looking for. A great storm of applause erupts in the Capitol Arena when the missing partial is found. We win the game by the lopsided score of 101-59.
As the three of us walk out of the Capitol Arena, I feel like I am being mugged by the cold. The blast of frigid January air that attacks my face and ears fiercely contrasts with the heated confines of the Arena. Linc and Whee Willie are jumping up and down beating their hands against their upper arms. “Man it’s cold as a witch’s pussy out here,” says Whee. I look at him dubiously and question, “I thought the phrase was ‘cold as a witch’s tit’?” Whee looks at me as if I am a child needing instruction and opines in a mock professorial tone, “You see, Izzy, white men say ‘witch’s tit,’ but black men say ‘witch’s pussy’.”
“Really?” I ask. Whee replies, “It’s obvious that you have a lot to learn”. Then he looks at Linc, and they both roll their eyes and commence to cackle. They are doubled-over with laughter. After a moment of searing embarrassment, which brings back a flood of memories of my perennial gullibility, I start laughing too. Still laughing, we pile into Linc’s 1958 Ford Fairlane.