Never Ran, Never Will

by Albert Samaha

  HIGHLIGHTS FROM THE season flashed in his head as he sat in the back row of the classroom. The school year was nearly up, and Isaiah was daydreaming about football. It was still morning, but Isaiah was ready to get to the park for practice that evening. The stretch of warm, bright, dry days had brought many kids out to the park, and Isaiah hoped that meant his team wouldn’t have to forfeit this year.

  On the other side of the classroom, his teacher explained the equations she had drawn on a whiteboard. The twenty or so students, all in maroon polo shirts and khaki pants, were quiet as they watched the teacher. In most of his other classes, he could pass the time with his good friend Javon. They discussed NBA games, flicked crumpled scraps of paper at each other, and whispered about girls. They were in sixth grade now, and the girls had become more forward than in years past. They talked about the girls they FaceTimed on their phones over the weekend, the girls who had texted them that morning, the girls who liked the photos they posted on Facebook. But Javon was in a different math class, and so Isaiah had to get through the hour on his own.

  School was easy for Isaiah. He pulled passing grades without much effort and never had trouble organizing his time between homework and sports. Most days, he finished his homework before the end of the school day. He’d half pay attention in second period while burning through the homework assignment he’d gotten in first period. And this school was no joke. Intermediate School 392 was a gifted-and-talented school, which meant that a fifth grader had to score high enough on the standardized test to get in. Isaiah had qualified for both of the gifted-and-talented middle schools his mother had applied to. The other school was in Coney Island, two buses or three subway lines away, an hour commute. IS 392 was in Brownsville, a 10-minute walk from home. The choice would have been easy except IS 392 didn’t have a basketball team. Isaiah resisted at first, but his mother held firm and he gave in. Many of his friends from the neighborhood went to a middle school on Eastern Parkway, and they played together on the same basketball team. Sometimes Isaiah joked with his mother that he would fail out of his school on purpose so that she’d have to send him to his friends’ school. His mother gave him a sharp look whenever he said this, and Isaiah would keep the joke going long enough for her to catch the sarcasm in his tone.

  He liked his school. He heard from friends about their rowdy classrooms and indifferent teachers, about fights in the hallway and condescendingly simple homework assignments. When he looked around his own classroom, he saw his kind of people. He saw kids who thought about high school and college, kids who were eager to raise their hands and show off their knowledge, kids who went straight home after school. Most of his classmates lived in Brownsville, 96 percent of them were black or Latino, and 80 percent came from households that lived below the poverty line. And nearly all of them—9 out of 10 sixth, seventh, and eighth graders—passed the state and city reading and math exams, which nearly half of New York City students failed. The school’s hallway floor was polished to a shine and the walls were bright blue. The hallway was a showcase for achievement. Several book reports, on To Kill a Mockingbird and Of Mice and Men, hung from pushpins on corkboards. Photos of Nelson Mandela and essays about him lay on a shelf. A display case presented more than a dozen Ivy League diplomas from former students. During class time, the hallway was mostly empty and silent, and between classes the movement was brisk and orderly.

  Isaiah checked the clock behind him. Class was more than halfway over. He looked back down at his notebook then heard the door click open. The principal walked in, and Coach Chris walked in behind her. Isaiah’s eyes went wide. The principal introduced Chris. He gave the students the same speech Isaiah had heard from him dozens of times at Betsy Head. A rambling lecture about perseverance and work ethic and focusing on getting good grades because you shouldn’t dream of being an athlete or a rapper but should dream of becoming a businessman or a doctor or a lawyer. You all heard of LeBron James? Don’t be LeBron, he said. Be the guy who manages LeBron’s money. And then he went on about colleges and high schools and how he’s got connections to top high schools and if you’re interested in playing football, and even if you’re not but just need some guidance, you should come to Betsy Head Park at 10 a.m. on Saturday. Then he locked his eyes on Isaiah, whom he had spotted seconds after walking in.

  “I’m lookin’ at one of my guys,” Chris said with a smile. He called Isaiah to come up. Isaiah stood up slowly, eyes on the ground, and walked slowly to the front.

  “This is one of your guys?” the teacher said. “I need to talk to you.”

  Chris nodded. Then he told the class about how much potential he saw in Isaiah, how hard he saw him working on the field, how smart he was, how bright his future could be. Isaiah stood there, hands at his side, eyes shifting between the ground and his coach, face halfway between bashful and embarrassed.

  Chris turned to Isaiah and said, “I’ma stay on you because I love you, but I need you to love you back.”

  Somebody in the class giggled. Isaiah let out a smirk. Chris turned back to the class and said, “If you think it’s corny to be loved, I can take you to a courtroom and show you guys getting taken away from their parents.”

  Minutes later, Chris, Isaiah, and his teacher were out in the hallway.

  “He’s smart but lazy,” she said to Chris. “Always messing around with his friend. Always goofing off. I gotta drag him in from lunch.”

  Isaiah stood beside Chris. His head was bowed and his eyes were on his sneakers.

  “How’s his homework?” Chris asked.

  “Good when he does it.”

  “So it’s inconsistent. How would you rate how he’s doing in school, one to five?”

  “Potential is five.”

  “Everybody got potential. How is he doing?”

  “Three.”

  “So he’s not ready for Poly Prep.”

  “He can get there.”

  “I’m not gonna embarrass myself recommending a kid to Poly Prep who can’t handle it,” Chris said, this time looking at Isaiah. “Listen, I ain’t tryna put you on the spot, but you gotta step it up.”

  Isaiah nodded and let out a quiet, “Yes, sir.” Then Chris left and Isaiah walked back into the classroom. He looked straight ahead and walked quickly to his seat in the back, and it felt like every eye in the room was watching him.

  THE PLAYERS GATHERED around Coach Chris at the start of practice, and he asked them questions. He asked them about current events first. What Dr. Dre just do? Anybody know? Got three billion dollars for his headphones, Chris said. He ain’t get that money from rapping. He got that money from business. What New York City just do? What law they just ended? Anybody?

  “Stop-and-frisk!” Hart said.

  “That’s right,” Chris said. “Police can’t stop you unless they got a good reason.”

  Then he lined the boys up into an offensive formation and asked football questions. If the safety come up right here, how many guys they got in the box?

  “Eight guys,” said Isaiah.

  If the defensive tackle lines up here, what’s he playing?

  “One technique,” Isaiah said.

  What about if he’s right here, head-up with the center? What do we call that?

  “Bear,” Isaiah said.

  “Yup,” Chris said, then turned to Esau. “He could be a hell of a coach one day, huh?”

  At the end of practice, the players raced. They formed two lines on the track and ran two at a time, side by side. They began on their stomachs, palms on the ground, and at the whistle they shot up and sprinted to the finish line 25 yards away. Coaches called out matchups. Boys challenged each other. They had spent nearly two hours jogging through plays and cycling through blocking and footwork drills, and they were eager for the competition.

  “Let’s go!” Chris shouted. “Come on! Who want it more?”

  “He ain’t faster than you, right?” Esau said to a boy. “You better beat him then.”

  “Don’t
let him beat you!”

  “Catch him!”

  The boys ran hard. Winners taunted and losers demanded rematches. For Isaiah, though, it wasn’t much of a competition. No boy on the team could keep up with him. Even the faster boys, like Chaka and Time Out, could barely match him through 10 yards. The only drama in Isaiah’s races was how badly he would beat his opponent. To give Isaiah a test, Coach Andrell raced him. These races were always close. Andrell won most but not all of them. Yet even when Isaiah raced his teammates, he ran as fast as he could. He tried to finish each sprint faster than the last one. Isaiah took spring practice very seriously. When he thought back to last season, he realized that he’d been hesitant on the field. He’d often not run full speed because he couldn’t clear his mind. He had thought too much about his movements before he made them and second-guessed his decisions. He had worried about getting hit and tried to avoid contact whenever possible. He hadn’t learned to rely on his instincts until late in the season. It was a revelation. And this year, he’d get to unleash this new comfort on kids his own age.

  He was the oldest player on the Pee Wees. He was also, it was becoming increasingly clear, the best player on the team. Coaches expected him to be the team’s leader, and Isaiah embraced the role. He was normally a quiet boy, an introvert, but at practice he cheered on teammates who worked hard and called out teammates who messed around. His talent earned him automatic respect and deference from the other boys, but his focus and dedication earned him more. He arrived early for practice and knew every player’s assignment on every play. It was like having an extra coach out there, Chris said.

  So, Isaiah was disappointed that he had to miss so many practices that spring. His mother had signed him up for a high school entrance exam preparation class. He didn’t mind the extra work or spending Saturday mornings in a classroom, except that practice was on Saturday morning and every lost practice was a missed chance to get better. Isaiah’s seriousness both amused and impressed Chris. He had encouraged Isaiah’s mother to take him to the test prep classes. That’s where Isaiah needed to lock in his energies, Chris said. He’d be fine on the football field. Chris had seen hundreds of kids pass through his program, and maybe less than a dozen had as much natural ability as Isaiah. Fewer also had his intelligence, and fewer still his drive to improve. Chris was confident that Isaiah would be a football star beyond Mo Better, probably beyond high school, and maybe even beyond college. This, Chris thought, was what that gym teacher at IS 392 couldn’t understand.

  Chris had met with that gym teacher, a pony-tailed Romanian immigrant named Ovidiu Grozav, after passing by Isaiah’s classroom, on his way out of the building. Ovidiu had stopped Chris, as he walked through the gym, to shake hands and chat. He was also the school’s rugby coach, and he told Chris that Isaiah was a phenomenal rugby player, with the potential to be world-class. Isaiah, the gym teacher said, was perhaps the most talented rugby player to come through his program. Ovidiu had started IS 392’s rugby team in 2007. Ten kids made it to the first practice, but over the following weeks more came, until the team had around 40 players. They won the city’s Rugby Cup championship that first year, then won it again the next two.

  Ovidiu told Chris that he hoped to send Isaiah to some rugby camps this summer. Chris countered that Isaiah was a special football player and was more than good enough to get high school and college scholarships. But, the gym teacher shot back, wouldn’t he have a better chance at scholarships in rugby, which had a smaller pool of boys competing for spots?

  With football, Chris said, he’s got a good chance of going to Poly Prep.

  He’d also be able to get a rugby scholarship to Xavier High School in Manhattan, Ovidiu said, and didn’t Xavier have better academics than Poly?

  “Isaiah reminds me a bit of Issa,” Ovidiu said.

  Chris nodded but said nothing back. They both remembered Issa Sylla very well. He had starred on Ovidiu’s early championship rugby teams, while also shining on Chris’s championship Mo Better teams. Chris considered Issa one of the toughest players he had ever coached. Issa, a practicing Muslim, fasted for Ramadan––a 12-year-old kid running around the dirt field in late-summer heat, hitting and blocking, without having had food or water until the sun set close to 9 p.m. Issa was valedictorian of his eighth-grade class, and he went on to play football and rugby at Xavier, which granted him full financial aid. Then he got an academic scholarship to Dartmouth College, where he’d just finished his freshman year. He played rugby there.

  “Issa was a hell of a kid, man,” Chris said. “Real special kid.”

  The men went back and forth for 10 minutes. It’s all about what’s best for Isaiah, they agreed. I’m glad he has you looking out for him, they told each other and shook hands.

  Chris didn’t know it, but Isaiah had already decided which sport to focus on. He enjoyed rugby and planned to play whenever he could, but he loved football. He preferred its stop-and-go rhythms, its structure, and the armor that allowed for more satisfying collisions. He watched it on TV and played football video games, and his friends in the neighborhood played football in the park and talked about NFL players. Isaiah’s mother preferred rugby. She didn’t know much about either sport, just that they were both rough and they could both help get her son a free high school and college education. She knew enough to know that many more boys in America played football than played rugby, which meant less competition for athletic scholarships. “It’s not quite as rough as football and there’s more opportunity there if he starts now,” she said. But with how much Americans cared about football, there were undoubtedly many more athletic scholarships offered for football skills than for rugby. The math wasn’t simple, and the best path wasn’t clear.

  The deciding factor was that football made Isaiah happy in a way rugby didn’t. She rarely heard her son talk about rugby, but he talked about football all the time, at the dinner table and on weekend afternoons in the living room and on weekday evenings when he arrived home from Betsy Head. All the better that this game, which made him so happy, might also open doors to his future. Chris had told her many times that Isaiah was just the sort of kid Poly Prep and other high schools wanted. “Thank God for football,” she said.

  ISAIAH’S MOTHER, ROXANNE, had grown up in Guyana, a tiny country east of Venezuela, and left for America in her early 20s. She’d heard much about the United States over the years. Many of her relatives had already moved to the States. “Everybody want to come to America,” she said. “In my mind it was a such a nice, clean, beautiful place.” She had seen pictures of tall, shiny buildings and stylish people in New York City and heard stories about how even the poorest Americans drove cars, ate hamburgers, and wore leather shoes.

  She arrived in 1986. A cousin met her at the airport and accompanied her on the subway, which they took to Flatbush, Brooklyn. When she climbed the station steps and emerged above ground, the first thing she noticed was all the garbage on the sidewalk and streets. The smell of rot was strong on some blocks. She saw graffiti on nearly every building and dead-eyed men and women in tattered clothes staggering around. She found a job as a nanny for a family who lived on 44th Street and 9th Avenue in Manhattan, and on her way to the Times Square subway station every evening she passed prostitutes, sex shops, and porn theaters. The apartment she rented with two other women was much smaller than the home she’d left in Guyana, yet it ate up most of her salary. Many of the streetlights outside her front door were broken, and at night you could walk several blocks on Church Avenue in nearly pitch dark. Some nights, she heard groups of young people stampeding through the streets, chasing somebody or running from something. She heard gunshots several times a week. Practically everybody she knew in Brooklyn had been mugged, usually more than once. Some people she knew had overdosed or been shot or stabbed to death.

  At first, she’d been stunned and confused by what the country was offering her. Nobody had told her about this side of America. She felt she’d been cheated, tricked. This
new country seemed to have no less suffering than her old one. But after some months, she moved past her old image of America, realizing that it was a silly thought. She went to house parties and made friends, and they’d eat jerk chicken on their way home while watching the sunrise. Then she had her first child, Shaquille. She worked two jobs and found a one-bedroom apartment she could afford in Brownsville, three miles east of Flatbush. Shaq gave her some trouble when he was young. He was an energetic child and acted up at times. She believed it was because he had nothing, no siblings or activities, to take up his attention. Then, when Shaq was eight, Isaiah was born. Shaq took his role as an older brother seriously. He disciplined Isaiah when he misbehaved, picked him up from school when their mother was at work, and made sure Isaiah only saw him acting right, getting good grades and doing chores and coming home on time. Isaiah was at the top of his class from kindergarten on. Teachers complimented his mother on how obedient and quiet he was. Even as he neared his teens, Isaiah rarely gave his mother trouble. Sometimes she’d have to tell him to take the trash out more than once. Sometimes he’d ask her where the cereal was even though she had just told him the morning before. But that was about it.

  His mother and older brother built a protective household around him. “We’re indoor people,” she said. “We go about our business and come back. We don’t mix.” Isaiah looked up to his brother, and his brother was a homebody. Shaq never hung out on the streets, and Isaiah did the same. Shaq watched sports on TV and played video games, and Isaiah did the same. Shaq played football at Lincoln High School, and Isaiah watched every game. Of course Isaiah was soon telling his brother and mom that he wanted to play.

  COACH CHRIS FINISHED the prayer and the circle around him broke. Several boys ran back onto the field to throw a ball around. Several others raced to the chicken joint down the block to a buy slice of pizza or a box of wings. A few others found seats on the steps at the front of the park to wait for their parents to pick them up. Isaiah walked straight toward the tall, thick cement light post at the edge of the field, where the Pee Wees usually piled their bags before practice. It was past 8 p.m., and Isaiah wanted to get home. From yards away, though, he could see that his red backpack was not where he had left it.