The Sixth Man

by John Feinstein

  “Still, we have to do something,” Alex said.

  “See what happens at practice today,” Matt said. “Maybe Coach Archer has already told White this is unacceptable. We can decide what to do next when we know more.”

  Alex noticed that Matt was taking charge of the situation even though he wasn’t even on the team, but he didn’t mind. That was Matt. He was a natural leader.

  Alex also thought he was right. They needed to see what Coach Archer had to say. They’d received another text from him after first period that said, Heading home for some sleep. Max doing fine. No setbacks. Regular time for practice today…But nothing since then.

  Alex wondered if he even knew about what Mr. White had said yet. They would find out soon.

  They were all dressed and ready to go when Coach Archer walked in the locker room door just before three-thirty. Alex could tell something was wrong. Then a few seconds later, Mr. White walked in, and Alex knew exactly what was wrong.

  “Fellas, grab your chairs and come on up here,” Coach Archer said, sounding as if it were a game night—only in a much grimmer tone. They all picked up their chairs and moved to the front of the room. On the grease board Alex could still see the blue “2–0” that Coach Archer had scrawled just before they had left the previous afternoon for King of Prussia. That was the message: their season was down to going 2–0. Now all they needed was 1–0, but the man in the doorway might make that impossible.

  “Okay, first things first,” Coach Archer said. “That was a great win last night. You really pulled together when it counted. No matter what happens from here forward, I’m proud of all of you. I am proud to have coached you. I never could have dreamed a season like this.”

  His voice caught a little. “Also, Max is home, resting right now.” Everyone in the locker room clapped on hearing that news. “He’s got no post-concussion symptoms other than a pounding headache. And the guy who threw the baseball is still in jail. They’re charging him with aggravated assault. Which is good news too.”

  Alex had seen that on Twitter earlier. He knew there was a bail hearing set for the next day and that the guy was apparently a member of an antigay group that thought homosexuality was a mortal sin. They’d been the ones who had organized the demonstration the night before. No one seemed to know why he had a baseball.

  Coach Archer paused for a moment. “Okay, as you can see, the principal has something he wants to say to you. When he’s finished, we’ll talk about what comes next.”

  Alex couldn’t help noticing that Coach Archer would only refer to Mr. White as “the principal.”

  Mr. White stepped forward.

  “Let me add my congratulations to all of you,” he said, forcing a smile. He looked over at Alex for a second, and Alex simply glared at him. “You’ve had a great season. We’re all very proud of you.”

  He paused as if expecting applause or some kind of reaction. The room was dead silent.

  “I’m afraid, though, that I have to be the bearer of bad news. I’m sure most of you have read about my conversations with Commissioner Telco. She and I have spoken again today, and we are in agreement that it would be dangerous for Mr. Bellotti to play Friday night. I thought you’d want to hear the news officially from your coach, but he seemed to think I should be the one to tell you.”

  “I wanted them to hear it from the one responsible for the decision,” Coach Archer said, causing Mr. White to shoot him a very angry look.

  “That’s right, Coach. I am responsible. I am responsible for the welfare of this school and of its students. Of course I want to see the team win as much as anyone in this room.”

  Alex was tempted to shout “Liar!” but resisted.

  Mr. White plowed on. “I consulted not only with the commissioner but also with my counterpart at Chester and with law-enforcement officials. Everyone was in agreement that it is simply too dangerous for Mr. Bellotti to play in tomorrow night’s game.”

  He tried to plow on, but he was instantly drowned out by a dozen angry, disbelieving voices.

  He held up a hand to ward them off. “Gentlemen, I understand how you feel. And I want you to know that I believe you can beat Chester without Mr. Bellotti, who I’m sure would want you to go out there and give one hundred percent—”

  “He’s not dead!” Alex yelled. He’d heard enough.

  That set off another angry chorus.

  “Of course he’s not dead, Mr. Myers,” White said, through what looked to Alex like gritted teeth. “But it isn’t safe for him or for you or for anyone else attending the game for him to play. You saw what happened last night.”

  “We saw it,” Coach Birdy said from the back of the room. “One nut lost his mind. So, make people go through a security check to get in the gym. Keep the nuts away from the game, not Max.”

  “It’s not fair to Max,” Jonas said, quickly backed up by other voices.

  “You’re right, Mr. Ellington,” Mr. White said. “It’s not fair. Sometimes life is unfair. But Mr. Bellotti made a decision to go public about his lifestyle. There are consequences that inevitably come with a decision like that.”

  “Like getting hit in the head with a baseball?” Tony Early said, causing everyone in the room to look at him in surprise. “That’s a fair consequence? That’s inevitable?”

  “Of course not,” Mr. White said. “That’s not my point.”

  Steve Holder stood up and walked to the front of the room. At six six, Steve towered over Mr. White. He gave him a look of utter disgust, then turned his back on him to address his teammates. He started to say something, then looked at Coach Archer. “Coach, okay if I say something?”

  “You’re the captain, Steve,” Coach Archer said. “The floor is yours.”

  Alex saw Mr. White start to say something, then hold it in.

  “Guys, I can’t speak for all of you, but as your captain, I can tell you what I think is right,” Steve said. He turned to Mr. White.

  “To me, Mr. White, this is simple,” he said. “If Max can’t play, I won’t play. One of my teammates was attacked, and you want to toss him off the team because of it? Well, I won’t do it.”

  There was a lot of murmuring then, which gave way to full-throated “That’s right”s and “Me neither”s.

  Steve nodded. “Okay, let’s have a vote. All of those who will not play tomorrow without Max, raise your hand.”

  Every hand in the room went up. Even Wakefield and Early. Coach Archer raised his too. And Coach Birdy.

  Coach Archer turned to Mr. White.

  “It’s unanimous. No Max, no game.”

  Mr. White glared at him. “I can fire you with cause for this,” he said.

  “Be my guest,” Coach Archer said. “For the record, I think every kid in here will tell you I in no way influenced their decision. But until you do fire me, I’ve got a practice to run.”

  Mr. White had his arms folded as if he was deciding what to do or say next.

  “Your move,” Coach Archer said. “We’ll be in the gym. Let’s go, fellas.”

  They all followed him out the door.

  Alex had grabbed his cell phone before walking out the door. As everyone walked or jogged in the direction of the court, he quickly tapped out the text he and Christine had decided would be her signal to swing into action if things weren’t looking good: Alert the media.

  Coach Archer called them together—without a whistle—at midcourt before they began warming up.

  “I’m not even sure what to say to all of you about what’s going on here,” he said. “I love the way you all stood up for Max in there. That was brilliant, Steve. But I don’t want it to come to that. I am going to fight to have Max play, assuming he’s up to it. We’ve got two days to get this fixed, and I believe we will, so don’t give up hope.

  “Meantime, we have to focus on getting ready to play Chester, because if we don’t—even with Max—we have no chance of winning the game. You all know how good they are.”

  They did
their best to focus. But it was virtually impossible. Jameer Wilson was playing in Max’s spot, and he wasn’t close to being the same player. For one thing, even though Jameer was a smart, heady player, he couldn’t shoot that well at all. The Lions’ offense was predicated on having three players—Alex, Jonas, and Max—who could make outside shots. Taking away one-third of that perimeter offense made them a different team—even when playing against the less-than-great defense of the white team.

  At one point, after three straight turnovers, Coach Archer blew his whistle and threw his hands up in frustration. “Fellas, you run the offense like that on Friday, we’ll get shut out,” he said. “You must concentrate right now on making plays. If the shots don’t go in, that’s fine. But we have to be sure we’re going to get good shots against their defense. Remember how they attack the perimeter. We have to be prepared for that.”

  It got a little better after that—but not much.

  Just before five o’clock, Alex noticed Christine walking into the gym accompanied by Stevie Thomas and a man he didn’t recognize.

  If Coach Archer noticed them, he said nothing. They sat in the bleachers and watched. A few minutes later the door opened again and Dei Lynam of Comcast SportsNet walked in, followed by a man carrying a camera. Dick Jerardi of the Daily News was with them. Then came another camera crew. And another.

  By 5:20 the gym was filled with media, and almost no one was paying attention to what they were doing on court. Coach Archer whistled them to the center-court jump circle.

  “Someone has apparently let the media know that there’s a story here,” he said. He looked at Alex. “Any idea who it might be, Myers?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but there was the slightest trace of a smile on his face. “Since you guys aren’t paying attention anyway, let’s call it a day. I know we’re all tired.”

  “Coach, what do you want us to do about all these media people?” Steve Holder asked.

  “Talk to them,” Coach Archer said. “Tell them the truth.”

  “Coach, if they’re still saying Max can’t play, do we practice tomorrow?”

  The question came from Patton Gormley.

  “If Max is healthy, he’ll practice tomorrow,” Coach Archer said. “No one said anything about him not practicing. We’re going to prepare as if he, and we, will be playing on Friday, because I believe we will be. Let’s get in.”

  They pulled into a tight huddle with their arms up in the air—Steve Holder, as always, in the middle.

  “Max,” he said simply. “On three.”

  Loudly, they counted to three and yelled, “MAX!”

  If the assembled media members had any doubt about where the Lions stood on the issue of their absent teammate, it should have been dispelled at that moment.

  Alex, Jonas, Matt, Christine, and Steve Holder were sitting at their usual table at lunch the next day when they heard a commotion at the door. They all looked up and saw Max Bellotti—wearing a baseball cap, but still eminently recognizable with his long dirty-blond hair and bright blue eyes—walk into the cafeteria.

  At first, as he went to pick up a tray, there were some pats on the back and offers of “Way to go, Max.” Then, from somewhere in the room, came clapping. Then there was more of it. Then people began standing at their tables and clapping.

  Alex saw a few pockets of kids—notably a table of his football teammates—sitting and staring at their food. By the time Max had walked to the pasta bar, just about everyone else in the room was on their feet.

  At first Max tried to pretend not to notice, but it was completely impossible. He turned and waved a hand and kept saying “Thank you” over and over again.

  Everyone in the school knew exactly what was going on. The story had been all over TV, the Internet, and the newspapers since the evening before. They had seen Mr. White and Conference Commissioner Alison Telco bleating about “student safety” and that this had nothing to do with Max’s sexuality but with, as Telco called it, “our very real fear that another of our student-athletes might be injured the way Mr. Bellotti was on Tuesday. Our first responsibility lies with protecting our student-athletes.”

  They had been debating who was the bigger jerk—White or Telco—just before Max walked in.

  “Anyone uses the term ‘student-athlete,’ hold on to your wallet,” Matt had said. “And if anyone uses it twice, call a cop.”

  “You don’t think she’s trying to ensure the conference is represented in the playoffs by a team that does not have a gay player in a key role, do you?” Christine said.

  “Whoa,” said Alex. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “I don’t know that I’d go that far,” Matt said. “I think she’s like White—a coward.”

  “Yeah, but what’s White’s motivation in all this?” Jonas asked.

  Alex shrugged. “I think he just doesn’t want a riot in his gym. And this seemed like the easiest way to avoid it.”

  “So maybe he’s happy you’re refusing to play without Max,” Christine said. “Maybe no game at all is just fine with him.”

  “You’re all being too kind,” Holder put in. “I’m betting he’s a closet homophobe.”

  “So, are you saying Mr. White is coming out as a homophobe?” Matt said, laughing.

  It was at that moment that Max had walked in.

  Now the applause had turned into a chant of “We want Max!” and it was clear it wasn’t going to stop until he said something.

  He finally put his hand up and asked for quiet. In an instant, the room was almost completely silent.

  “I hope you can all hear me,” he said. “First, I want to thank everyone for their support the last couple days. I’m not sure how everyone got my cell number, but thanks for all the texts and messages. It means a lot.”

  “We love you, Max!” someone yelled.

  “I love all of you too,” he said, blushing. “I want to thank my teammates for backing me. I know you all know what’s going on, so I want to tell you—I plan to play tomorrow.”

  That set off another round of cheering and clapping and stamping of feet.

  “But first I want to grab something to eat, because I don’t want to be late for fifth period.”

  There was more applause and more shouts of “Go get ’em, Max!”

  And finally, Max—after a couple dozen more pats on the back—was able to sit down.

  “How are you feeling?” Christine asked.

  “Exhausted—but better,” Max said. “The headache’s finally gone. I’m still a little sore where the stitches are, but nothing serious.”

  “Have you talked to Coach Archer?” Matt asked.

  Max nodded. “Yeah, my mom and I met with him just now. He told me he and Coach Birdy are submitting a formal protest to the school board, saying that I’ve basically been suspended without any grounds for suspension.”

  “That should be a no-brainer, right?” Alex said. “White and Telco can’t say that you should be suspended. What did you do wrong—get clocked by a baseball?”

  “Can the school board overrule a suspension?” Christine asked.

  “That’s the question,” Max said. “Jameer’s dad is a lawyer, and he’s advising Coach on this. He says the question won’t be whether I’ve done anything to deserve being suspended, but whether the board has the authority to overrule a principal who says he is taking action to protect the school and students—not just me but anyone who comes to the game.”

  “That’s bull,” Jonas said.

  “Of course it is,” Christine said. “But does the school board have people on it who will get that or who will be happy for an excuse to keep Max from playing?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t count on Wakefield’s father,” Alex said.

  “He’ll probably recuse himself since his son’s team is involved,” Matt said.

  “That might or might not be a break for our side,” Christine said. “There are nine people on the board. What happens in the case of a tie?
”

  “When do they vote?” Steve asked Max.

  “Coach Archer isn’t sure—about any of it,” Max said. “There’s no time to get all nine of them together, so they’re trying to set up a conference call for tomorrow.”

  “That’s cutting it close,” Christine said.

  “Very,” Max said. He smiled. “But Coach said we’re playing and that as far as he’s concerned, they’ll have to physically remove both of us from the court to keep me from playing.”

  “You okay with that?” Matt asked.

  “Yup,” Max answered.

  “Well, if they take you off, we’ll be leaving with you,” Jonas said.

  “Thanks, Jonas,” Max said. “That means more than you can possibly know. I just hope it won’t come to that.”

  Practice was completely closed to outsiders that afternoon. A couple of kids in the school had fathers who were Philadelphia city cops. They had rounded up a half dozen of their friends who were off duty to work the doors and keep media or onlookers out.

  The empty gym, along with Max’s presence, seemed to energize the Lions. It occurred to Alex that this could be their last practice of the season. It might have been their best.

  Max was as sharp as ever. The spot where his hair had been shaved for the stitches was highly visible, but it didn’t seem to bother him. His shots were laser-like, and he didn’t seem at all timid about mixing it up on defense or when rebounding.

  His enthusiasm fueled everyone else. There was even a funny moment when Max stole the ball cleanly from Wakefield and went in for a layup. As the ball went through the hoop, Wakefield yelled, “Dammit, Bellotti, can’t you feel just a little bit worse?”

  Everyone—including Wakefield—cracked up.

  At 5:25 Coach Archer gathered his team at the jump circle.

  “Okay, fellas, we treat tomorrow like a regular game day. Report here at five o’clock unless you hear different from me. I want you focused on one thing the next twenty-four hours: Chester. We must take care of the basketball and make them play half-court. We didn’t do that last time.