Never Ran, Never Will

by Albert Samaha

  He circled the post, his eyes searching the grass. His bag was not there. He looked up and around, his head jittery as it turned, his eyes wide and brow raised. He looked toward the light post on the other side of the field, where the Junior Pee Wees and Mitey Mites stashed their bags. He walked over quickly, as quickly as he could walk without breaking into a jog, and when he got there he saw many bags in a pile, but none was his. He tried not to panic, but it was getting harder now. His books, his homework, his Kevin Durant sneakers, his wallet, his keys, his cell phone were in that bag. His mind wandered forward. How would he tell his mother? What would he tell his teachers? How long until his mom could afford to get him a new phone? Could he get a new school ID? What else was in that bag? Why didn’t he carry it with him into the prayer circle like other boys did?

  Isaiah ground his teeth and tightened his jaw, squeezing his lips together. He looked straight ahead and walked back toward where the coaches were gathered, near the front of the park. He’d tell Coach Esau. Esau was smart and practical and seemed to always know the next move. He’d shoot Isaiah that areyouforreal? look of disappointment and hiss out a short lecture at first, of course, but then he’d tell Isaiah how to handle this.

  Isaiah walked past the boys tossing the ball around and laughing. He weaved around the parents still standing on the track. He kept his face straight, almost hard. Esau was leaning against the fence and talking to a parent, so Isaiah stood off to the side and waited. He clenched and released his fists, which hung at his sides, tapping them against his waist. He cast his eyes downward. Then, there by Esau’s feet, he spotted his red backpack, and he felt his whole body relax. He stepped forward and picked it up.

  “Isaiah. Don’t leave your shit out there when we come over here next time,” Esau said sternly, and Isaiah nodded and said, “Yes, coach.” Then he slung his bag over his shoulders and left the park.

  He lived a 10-minute walk from the park, on the western edge of Brownsville, and when people asked him where he lived, he usually said Crown Heights. His daily routine was a tight circle, from home to school to park to home. He rarely strayed from that circle. Perhaps on a Friday night in the fall he’d head to Poly Prep or Lincoln to watch a high school football game with a few coaches and teammates. Perhaps on a Saturday afternoon he’d catch a movie with three or four friends at the big theater in East New York. Every now and then he might spend a few hours at a friend’s place playing Madden on PlayStation or at a park in Crown Heights shooting hoops. But these were special excursions. And while his mother believed that it was important for boys to develop independence out in the world among themselves, she felt relief each time Isaiah got back home, the one space in her control.

  To many in Brownsville, staying indoors was valued almost to the point of being a virtue. Staying indoors meant avoiding the risk of trouble, the older boys on the corner and the stray gunfire. Isaiah took this to heart, and he walked fast down the sidewalk, eyes straight ahead, leaning forward, hands high on his backpack straps, minding his business as he passed the young men leaning against a fence, smoking cigarettes, talking about whatever—their conversation nearly drowned out by the music bumping from speakers on a windowsill down the street, the youthful, intense voice of East Flatbush native Bobby Shmurda ringing through the block.

  Runnin’ through these checks ’til I pass out

  And shorty give me neck ’til I pass out

  I swear to God, all I do is cash out

  And if you ain’t a ho, get up out my trap hooooouuuse

  I been sellin’ crack since like the fifth grade

  Really never made no difference what the shit made

  The night was warm and comfortable, and people were out and about on Livonia Avenue, in and out of the corner store, the barbershop, the shoe store, and all the food spots that lined the sidewalks below the elevated train tracks. Light from inside stores poured out the windows, brightening the pavement. Isaiah walked past the panhandlers in front of a pizza place, past the dozen or so sleepy-eyed working folks standing at the bus stop. The train rumbled above, and soon a stream of people flowed down the subway station steps. Isaiah crossed the street and turned down the block on the next corner. A few streetlights were broken, and the sidewalk was darker and emptier. Other pedestrians looked straight ahead with hard faces, and so did Isaiah. He passed brick row houses with the blinds down. He passed an empty lot filled with overgrown grass. He crossed the street, not a car in sight, and reached the front gate to his building, a three-story brick walk-up. The gate clinked when he shut it behind him. He fished his key from the front pocket of his backpack, opened the door, and stepped inside.

  9

  GOODBYES

  June 2014

  SUMMER PRACTICE ON MONDAYS AND WEDNESDAYS began at 5:45 p.m., which was tough for Coach Vick. He had to hustle from class to the subway in lower Manhattan and was lucky to arrive less than an hour late. He sometimes showed up still in blue scrubs. April, May, and June were difficult months. Classes were three days a week, from 8:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. He’d never been a good student and found that he had to push himself very hard to keep up. He was normally a late sleeper and a late riser, and the new schedule drained him. He sometimes dozed off in class. When he caught his eyelids getting heavy, he’d tell the teacher he had to go to the bathroom. But really, he’d step into the hallway and pump out some push-ups to get his energy back up. “I need a Coach Vick to get on me,” he joked.

  To pass the medical assistant course, he would need to type at least 30 words per minute. He tested at 17 his first week. He struggled to focus on the lessons and retain the information. When he got home in the evenings, he studied for three hours. “I found I have trouble remembering stuff,” he said. “That muscle in my mind hasn’t been worked out in a while.” The young women he was surrounded by didn’t help either. Vick was the oldest in the class, older even than his teacher, and he was the only man. His classmates flirted with him. He loved to flirt, and it was so tempting to engage, but he resisted.

  His own children had inspired him to zone in. Two of his sons were graduating high school that spring and had been accepted into four-year colleges. Vick locked himself into a discipline he hadn’t known since his football days more than two decades earlier. He began waking up at 6 a.m. to squeeze in extra study time. By his second month, he’d gotten into a rhythm. He was proud of himself. But the dedication had come with sacrifices. He had midterms approaching in a few weeks, so he spent nearly all of his free time in the books. He missed Mitey Mite practice for more than a month straight, leaving his assistant coaches––Elsie, James, and Oscar––in charge. The kids didn’t respond to them the way they did to Vick, and practices became sloppy.

  Brownsville pulled at Vick even when his mind was on his own challenges. One Monday in early June, he got some terrible news. By chance, classes had been canceled that day, so Vick got to Betsy Head Park before many of his players. He walked quickly across the field, which was nearly empty. The air was warm and breezy beneath a clear blue sky. A nice evening that belied his despair. Vick made his way to Chris, who was leaning against the fence. Vick’s face was serious. He smelled as if he had rushed a few Newports on the way to the park.

  “Yo, is it true about Kameron?” he said to Chris.

  Chris looked at Vick and sighed. He pursed his lips and nodded.

  “Yup.”

  “Damn.”

  Chris had heard the news at church yesterday. Kameron McKay, 21 years old, a Mo Better football player for eight years, shot in the head at the Brownsville Houses on Friday night. They remembered Kameron fairly well. He played center. He wasn’t a kid who hung out on the streets. He wasn’t one of the kids they worried about. He had graduated high school, then went to work. He held maintenance jobs at an apartment complex and a packaging plant. Just weeks earlier, he had taken a test to get a commercial driver’s license and passed.

  “His mom was real strict,” Vick said. “I can’t understand how he ende
d up in that shit. It’s the neighborhood, man. You can be a good kid.”

  Vick and Chris were at the funeral three days later, at a big church in East New York. They stood in a long line that snaked down a hallway, around a corner, into a small viewing room, and to the casket, gray and shiny, with white roses on top. Kameron wore a blue denim button-down over a white crew-neck shirt. His hair was freshly cut into a mini Afro. He had a cherubic face. When Kameron’s mother had first looked into the casket earlier that morning, her knees had buckled and she had stumbled backward into the wall, sobbing and shaking as two relatives consoled her. But now, as the mourners filed into the church and lined up, she stood beside the casket, composed and graceful, greeting each visitor with a smile, a hug, and a thank you.

  From there, the mourners walked slowly into the sanctuary of the church and slid into the pews. Gospel music played on the speakers. Gray light from the overcast morning streamed through the windows in the steeple. Screens above the altar showed photos of Kameron: leaning against a pool table, sitting beside a birthday cake, swimming in a pool, dancing in a white T-shirt, holding baby nieces and nephews, wearing a tuxedo at a wedding, standing beneath the Borough Hall subway station sign with his arms spread wide, kneeling with a football in his arm wearing his purple and gold Mo Better Jaguars uniform. Dozens of young men sat in the pews watching the images flash across the screen. Some wore dress shirts and leather shoes. Others wore jeans, sneakers, and track jackets. After a few minutes, one of the young men, a lean 20-something in a long pinstriped shirt, stomped his foot on the ground—a loud echo through the quiet sanctuary—and buried his face in his hands. Then he stood up, turned, and marched down the aisle, his face flexed and hard as if trying to keep from crying. When he stepped out the front doors of the church, he released and burst into tears. He leaned forward against the brick wall and cried. On the sidewalk a few feet behind him, six police officers stood watch.

  WITH SCHOOL OUT for the summer, Gio’s mother feared what would happen to her son. He had already stopped coming to practice. His absences from home were becoming longer and more frequent. Now, he had two months of free time ahead.

  When she reflected on it, she was stunned by how fast things had gotten bad. She and her son could barely hold a conversation anymore—at least one that didn’t turn into an upsetting argument. She got stricter, held the line on the rules she’d set, made threats to send him away. He resisted her efforts. She was at a loss. All the more troubling were the vague anecdotes he told her about the boys who were trying to jump him. She came to the heartbreaking realization that she was no longer capable of taking care of her son. For the sake of his future, and her own mental health, she believed her son needed to live elsewhere. She believed it would only get worse if he stayed. Foster care was an appealing answer. There’d be guardians with experience handling problem kids and family court judges setting and enforcing boundaries. Perhaps it would be the shock Gio needed to get himself back on track.

  She wondered how different their situation would be if she’d landed in another neighborhood. It was a common thought. Many parents believed Brownsville was holding their children back. At least several others with kids on Mo Better were trying to move out of the neighborhood. Coach James saved money from his job as a late-night pizza deliveryman in hopes of getting his family a place in Crown Heights, Flatbush, or somewhere in Queens. Puerto Rico’s mother, Alicia, aimed to take her family to Miami, where her brother lived and affordable housing was easier to find. Many more wanted to leave one day, but had no immediate plans because they didn’t have the means to live anywhere else.

  GIO, LIKE EVERY kid in America, was excited for summer. He envisioned long, lazy days with friends in apartments free from adults, who were away at work. He’d had a hectic few months. Though he’d been skipping school on occasion, he had also recommitted himself to passing his classes. Coach Chris had convinced him that football talent couldn’t get him very far if he was a failing student. So, Gio made sure to do his homework, even if it kept him up late. He always showed up on exam days. He didn’t sacrifice his social life, but he worked hard, and by the end he had a decent report card to show his mother. She was pleased at the progress but believed he’d underachieved. He was smart enough for better-than-decent scores.

  Even without homework and daily responsibilities, Gio didn’t expect a summer without stress. His conflict with the rival boys had not cooled. He walked around the neighborhood with his head on a swivel and avoided being outside alone. It was possible the rival boys were just trying to intimidate him and had no taste for violence. But Gio had no desire to call their bluff. There were times, quite often actually, when he felt like he was drowning, swept up in a current, drifting into the deep middle of the river without first learning how to swim. He mostly kept these thoughts to himself, hiding them behind a mask of courage, toughness, and self-sufficiency. The mask had become such an essential tool that it was fair to ask if he still knew how to remove it.

  His mother had seen too much. Early in the summer, she decided on a plan for Gio’s future. He was unhappy with the plan but didn’t put up a big fight. His brother convinced him it was the right thing to do. Gio packed his clothes into a duffel bag, loaded it into his mother’s car, and they drove off, onto the highway and into Queens. When it was time to leave, he hugged his mother and brother, and they said their goodbyes. Gio made his way through the airport, boarded the plane, and, after a few hours, was back in Saint Lucia. He didn’t know when he’d see his old Mo Better teammates again.

  PART II

  FOOTBALL

  10

  THE DAYS AND NIGHTS OF SUMMER

  June–July 2014

  BOYS LEFT THE TEAM, BOYS JOINED THE TEAM. THE COMING season was on the horizon, the first game less than 10 weeks away. If Hart had learned anything from the past year, it was that success was never assured, a memorable lesson for an 11-year-old whose life experiences had otherwise provided much evidence that hard work and talent necessarily led to the achievement of goals. Circumstances, it turned out, could make all the difference—especially in a game where even the best player relied on the competence of his 10 teammates on the field. After the disappointment of the previous season, Hart entered the summer of 2014 feeling grateful for the circumstances around him. Though he missed Oomz, he believed that his Pee Wee team was good enough to win a championship even without his talented friend. Skilled players, some with years of experience, occupied nearly every position in the starting lineup. It was an opportunity Hart was determined not to squander.

  He arrived at practice with high hopes on this Wednesday in late June. School was out and the day was warm and clear. Cheerful and chatty, the Pee Wees stood and sat around the cement light post by the fence, pulling on their cleats, zipping up their bags, and arguing about basketball, a passionate debate triggered when Hart told his teammates that he didn’t like LeBron James.

  “What you think Coach Esau?” said Time Out, the shortest boy on the team.

  “LeBron played football,” said Esau. “Iverson too. That’s why they so tough.”

  “Michael Jordan didn’t play football,” countered Hart.

  “That’s why he soft,” said Esau.

  “Michael Jordan soft?” said Hart, his voice high pitched and skeptical, his eyebrows raised. “He got a lotta money, though.”

  “So what?” said Esau. “Bill Gates got a lotta money.”

  Hart nodded, taking in the information, crafting a response in his head. He’d spent the previous week out of town with his family. They went to Alabama, where his mother’s parents lived in a big house on several acres of land. Hart loved the space and lying in the grass. His dad was back on his feet, on crutches, and well enough to play catch. For Hart, the summer was relaxing, refreshing, filled with the uninhibited joy of knowing the good times of today were guaranteed to continue tomorrow. He was a happy child, and he felt right in his element, preparing to play football on a dusty field, engaged in a
battle of wits with his football coach. But before Hart could fire back a response, Esau shouted, “All right, on the track! Two laps!” The boys jogged off the field, formed two lines on the track, and began the run.

  The Pee Wees were halfway around the track when Oomz strolled into the park. He passed the benches, went through the gate, and stepped onto the field. His chest was puffed, his back straight, his head tilted slightly back and to the side, and his legs and hips waddled forward. Oomz had a walk like no other boy on the team. It was a confident, flat-footed walk, a walk in no hurry, and Oomz capped it with off the amused smirk he often wore. Miss Elsie spotted him first.

  “Oooooommzzzzz!” she shouted.

  She shuffled over to him and hugged him tightly, rocking side to side in excitement.

  “Hey, Miss Elsie,” Oomz said, grinning wide.

  “It’s been so long!” said Elsie, releasing him from the embrace, then straightening the purple pantsuit she’d worn to work that day. “Why we don’t see you no more? Why you don’t come say hi?”

  Oomz shrugged.

  “You here to pick up your birth certificate?”

  The coaches still had Oomz’s birth certificate, required to confirm a player’s age, in their files. Elsie and the others had figured he’d be back at some point to pick it up. He couldn’t play on his new team without it.