And so will begin the process, the one that will see him become dried and cured and hardened to it all. He’ll let that happen or he’ll fail. And this kid can’t fail. It can’t be allowed to happen. He’s got to be ours.
Monique won’t last. I know this, but I can’t tell him. He has to believe what they have to be invincible and true or he won’t commit to us. I see that. He’ll stay closer to home—Penn being the natural choice—because he’s that beautiful and foolish. A sweet fool. Another reason I love him.
They come to us as good kids, for the most part, and when they leave they’re probably still good people, but they’ve lost something. Or been given too much of something corrupting, perhaps, some uneven regard for what they do. They are told too much that they are better than other people. The best among them refuse to believe it.
I watch the rest of the day’s first game and most of the second, which again features two teams that aren’t Harrisburg. There are no Division I talents on display, just a court full of boys doing their best. The thought that someone might put in so much work simply to play without an expectation that it will lead them anywhere in life fills me with something like hope. It’s probably got to do with the way I felt when I played: never under the impression I’d ever be paid money to do it. For me, as it is for 99.9 percent of those who play, it was a game, and not a pursuit. They, like me, will never be approached by representatives of Duke, or Kansas, or anywhere else. They are free to play and try and sweat and fail, and to have those glorious failures forgotten by the larger world, or simply never seen at all.
But Robert Grainge, and select others like him, are never afforded that luxury, or not for long. They’ve been tabbed as talents from an early age, been told to concentrate on that one thing, drilled, coached, trained. Eaten, slept, breathed that one thing. Gone to bed in their shorts, worn tournament T-shirts everywhere, gone through a hundred pairs of court shoes. They’re the ones whose fathers and mothers we attempt to befriend, or at least whose trust we work to inspire. There’s no way around it: in most cases, you have to have their folks on board—the schoolteachers, custodians, bus drivers, cabbies, waiters, cooks, front desk employees, deliverymen, dishwashers, clerks, product testers, assembly-line workers—or you won’t get the player. Often as not I’m dealing with just a mom, Dad having exited the picture years earlier, but when you’re dealing with both you have to have agreement.
I don’t know if I’ll get that here. Claudette is warm, a kind, outgoing woman who’s clearly proud of her son and all he has done and will do. The attention of me and my ilk is for her validation for all the hours, all the effort, all the sacrifice. She’s been only too happy, as a result, to open up. I have been hugged by Claudette Grainge. I have laughed with her. I have eaten her carrot muffins.
Marvin, by comparison, has treated me from the start like someone out to swindle him in a very bad real estate deal. His suspicion is in some way warranted, given that we recruiters are agents of the organizations that seek to take his boy away from home for the first time, to replace his parents as the primary influence in his life. What father wouldn’t chafe at that? But most fathers I deal with are also giddy at the prospect of all that awaits their boys. There’s usually a point in the courtship process at which I feel I’ve won Dad over, praised him enough for the way he’s raised his son from boy to fine young man, presented him with a rich enough vision of what awaits not just the player but his whole family, and our interaction then passes from standoffish to cordial. Even if they don’t choose us, I never walk away feeling I’ve done anything to upset anyone. I don’t make enemies.
Something’s different with Marvin, though. It’s true enough that some people are suspicious by nature, and that might explain it, but there’s an edge to the way he talks to me—or refuses to talk to me—that feels personal. What I don’t know is whether he approaches all recruiters the same way, or if this is for me alone. Does he have a warm relationship with Bill from Duke? I’ve never seen him interact with any of the others enough to know either way. But Monique’s mention of Bill leads me to believe that, despite his telling me he had ruled them out, Robert is not so dead set against being a Duke Blue Devil after all.
Marvin has been reserved from our very first point of contact. It’s possible, I suppose, that he is slow to let anyone in—he seems to be a patient man—but I suspect otherwise. I suspect, and fear, that I’m not Marvin’s pick, and I’m being cut out.
Sometimes I need to remind myself that I have filled my assay bag with some rare minerals in the twenty-one years I’ve been doing this. I have recruited a third of a national championship team. I have recruited an eventual first overall pick, and six top tens. I have a commendable track record.
And yet my years of experience cannot help me predict which way Grainge will go, and it fills me with unease. It curdles the cream in my coffee to have come this far into the process and not have a read on things. It gives me honest-to-God pain to think that Bill might really be in the running, might even be out in front of this race.
Fucking Duke.
When the Cougars again take the floor on Saturday evening, against Freire, a charter school team from Philadelphia, they jump out early and never look back. Up twenty-one at the half, Coach Sykes elects to sit Grainge for the second. Groans rise up from the bleachers when play resumes and Robert remains in his warm-ups on the bench, but I can’t fault Sykes. They’ll win this game easily and earn a spot in Sunday’s tournament final. There’s no sense risking anything where Grainge is concerned. He’s got his future to consider. It’s just smart basketball.
I like Sykes. I like what he does with his boys. I like the way his team plays. It doesn’t differ too much from our own system. We’re known for a style of play that is tough, selfless, contained. Ruthless clampdown defence. There are occasions, admittedly, when our boys sparkle with something showier, a kind of ABA razzle, but usually only once that menacing defence has put the game out of reach. Our entire conference, in fact, is anathema to showboating. Duke, meanwhile, hails from a conference typically more amenable to speed, flash, highlight-ready dunks.
But Sykes is like us. He sees the game as a series of tasks, a set of goals to be attained no matter the score. Grainge is the product of that; the complete embodiment of it, really. I’ll say it again: it makes him perfect for us, and us perfect for him.
This has become my mantra. I’ve said it to Coach B, who needed no convincing. I’ve said it to the AD. I’ve said it to the endlessly patient Pam, in a performance that was half thinking aloud, half rehearsal. I’ve said it to Robert. I’ve said it to Marvin. I’ve said it until I was blue in the face. I’d be willing to say it more, to anybody who’d listen, but Marvin Grainge, I know, doesn’t want to hear it. And he may be the only person involved I’ve yet to convince.
I chew on this while I sit over a late night plate of spaghetti and meatballs at the Denny’s just off the expressway. Then it’s back to the Comfort for a fitful night, bad dreams of Grainge in blue instead of orange, and Pam falling ill with something mysterious. It is not a good night.
What I hope to see when I crack the thick, hotel-grade curtains early on Sunday morning: a fresh blanket of white glistening under a bright winter sun. What I get instead: rain, turning the ground to slush, slicking the streets, making a mess of everything.
I get up slowly, shower, dress, make my way out into the slop. I find a Starbucks, nab a corner table, and with a stack of newspapers, a coffee, and a giant muffin, I try to kill an hour. The consolation game is at two this afternoon, and my plans before then are blessedly few. I’ll find a bookstore. Maybe I’ll find a museum. I’ll have a long lunch. I’ll fire off an amorous email to Pam. I’ll ignore emails from upstate. If the weather weren’t so cold and greasy I might just walk around, discover Harrisburg a little bit. But I’ve got no interest in that today, not in this mess.
Christmas decorations linger. Cheerily inclusive HAPPY HOLIDAYS signs hang on tenaciously in the bad
wind. A dingy HAPPY NEW YEAR banner flaps over the street, lamppost to lamppost. Folks entering the Starbucks stamp their feet and shiver, shake water from their heads. Folks leaving pause to turn up collars, unfold umbrellas. It’s what my mother would call “raw” out there.
I must not be far from the Hilton, because as I gaze out the windows who should walk by but Bill, head bowed, cigarette a-dangle, talking to another man I don’t recognize but whose brushcut and clothing mark him as one of us. His jacket is red. Indiana, possibly. I hear they’ve been using somebody new. There are still other suitors, after all. Bill doesn’t see me, and for that I’m grateful. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if I make it through today’s games and maybe one more conversation with Robert or Marvin or both without having to swap barbs with Bill again. I’d be happiest if the next I hear from him is a begrudgingly congratulatory email.
I hold my newspaper up in front of my face, Clouseau-style, in case he doubles back, or suddenly decides he needs himself a grande dark roast.
By the time the consolation game tips off, Bill is in the front row, chatting, backslapping, guffawing. I’m halfway up the bleachers, down near the baseline and safely out of view. The also-rans, those Lions from Altoona and a team from New Jersey called the Bears, sprint and dribble up and down the floor, call out and shoot and clap. The buzzer sounds intermittently. Boys enter the game, other boys leave it. They sit leaning forward, their long arms folded over their knees. They are all limbs, these boys. These boys who will never play Division I ball, let alone pro.
Some of the Harrisburg players are milling around in a tight group down behind the near basket, some in warm-ups, some in street clothes, some in jackets with a menacing cougar spread shoulder blade to shoulder blade. All have headphones strung around their necks and cords snaking down to unseen devices tucked into deep pockets. They are slouchy and lackadaisical, conserving themselves. One feigns a punch at another; they laugh. They have a confident air. Robert is not among them.
Near the end of the third quarter he arrives. I actually see it while I am watching Bill from my spot. Bill’s head is scanning, and then it snaps, becomes attentive. I follow his gaze to the doors, and there is Robert, trailed by Claudette and Marvin. Robert, in sweats and with a gym bag slung over his shoulder, looks around, waves to teammates, takes in the score, then hugs his mother. He disappears inside the doors leading to the change rooms, tucking white earphones into his head as he backs through them. He ducks; the learned behaviour of the tall.
My scalp tightens. During the short break between quarters the PA system plays music, a thudding, indistinguishable mass of sound that seems physically threatening. The hair on my neck stands up. I peek over the sea of bobbing heads and I see Bill down there, his usually hunched back suddenly ramrod straight, hands on his knees. His gaze is fixed on those doors that just swallowed Robert. He almost appears hurt.
We’re pitching the woo here, hoping for the attentions of a young beau. It’s no different from that. I hope Robert will like me and all I represent better than he does Bill. Rejection threatens. That’s the basic truth of it.
Just before the buzzer signals the start of the fourth, Bill stands and makes a beeline for the gym’s main doors, pulling his phone from a coat pocket on the way. A moment later I see Marvin Grainge head out those same doors. Things are afoot.
The warm-ups start a half hour before tip-off of the championship game. The Cougars and their opponents, Akron’s St. Vincent-St. Mary, form neat lay-up lines, tight and geometrical. Marvin Grainge has returned to the gym and found a seat with Claudette, and Bill is back in his front row perch. Robert appears to be moving at half-speed during warm-ups, lugubrious and held back. I wonder for a moment if the weekend’s schedule has caught up with him.
But once the game tips off I see there’s no cause for alarm. Robert is a flurry. Every so often a player seems to dedicate a certain game to the perfection of a specific skill. By midway through the first quarter Robert has eight rebounds. No one beats him to a single ball. He appears light and springy, chasing balls into the air, meeting them exactly where he should. His feet hover over the polished wood floor, his elbows crook to protect his hard-won trophy. Then he stands, swivels his head, and fires off perfect passes to streaking teammates. The Cougars score half their points in transition, sparked by such plays.
The buzzer sounds to end the first quarter. Harrisburg holds a six-point lead on St. Vincent-St. Mary. The game has been fast and entertaining so far, a well-played game of basketball. It has been beautiful to watch, and it has me experiencing that bubbly feeling again.
Mr. and Mrs. Grainge have landed in a pair of folding chairs down near the baseline. From time to time I glance over at them to see what they’re up to. When the quarter ends Marvin pats Claudette on the knee, says something to her, and stands to make for the doors. A bathroom break, I’d bet.
My effervescence seizes me, and I rise quickly, clomp down the metal bleacher steps, and follow Marvin out the doors. I see his greying head moving away from me down a corridor and into the boys’ room.
I decide to wait, though it strikes me as a strange thing to do. But strange things are what’s called for in this strange business, so when Marvin returns a moment later, wiping his hands on the thighs of his dark pants, I’m leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded.
“Mr. Grainge,” I call. “Mr. Grainge!” He looks up, eyes me, and waves his hand in the air, swatting me away like a fly. But I pursue.
Turning his back, he says, “Mr. Eddie, there’s nothing to say. We know what you have to offer and Robert will make his decision as he sees fit. You’re wasting your time. And mine.”
“Mr. Grainge,” I say, “I don’t want to talk about that. I’m not giving you the sell. I’m not pitching today. I just want to ask you —”
“Ask me what?” he says, and wheels back toward me. His body language says he’s standing his ground.
“Mr. Grainge. I just wanted to know if I’ve done anything to offend you. You just seem, I don’t know, put off by me. I wondered if that was something I’d caused.”
“Mr. Eddie,” he says, then sighs, puts a hand to the back of his neck. “Well, alright, yes. You once said something that didn’t sit with me.”
“What did I say, Mr. Grainge?”
He exhales, looks into the middle distance over my right shoulder. “You once said a disparaging thing about my profession.”
“About bus drivers?”
“That’s right. You told Robert that driving a bus was a lousy job that he was lucky he’d never have to do.”
At this I give him a relieved smile, one meant to say, “Is that all?” I turn my palms upward and out comes this: “Mr. Grainge, I apologize if anything I said was misconstrued, I honestly do. But the truth is I couldn’t have any more respect for what you do.”
“It certainly didn’t sound that way.”
“Mr. Grainge, my father drove a bus for eighteen years,” I say, and it’s nearly true. “Cincinnati. ATU Local 627.”
At this, Marvin Grainge, the toughest nut I have ever had to crack, straightens his shoulders and stands a little taller. His face softens into something very like a smile.
“That so,” he says. “Well, Mr. Eddie, I’m afraid I had you wrong.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Grainge,” I say.
“Yes,” Marvin says, then makes as though to say something further, but stops himself.
“Okay,” I say, and the short buzzer sounds, calling the players back to the floor for the second quarter. It is muffled through the gym’s heavy doors, but we both hear it, and take it as our signal to head back inside. I hold my arm out indicating Marvin should go first, and he does the same to me. A ref’s whistle blows. We chuckle, then Marvin relents, hurries ahead of me.
As we walk toward the doors and the charged artificial light beyond, a gasp goes up from all those assembled. We can hear it through the doors. It’s theatrical in quality, a remarkable sound, and
in its wake the very air has changed.
We both quicken, rushing inside, and see people converging all at once, as though the gym’s floor has folded in on itself. The area beneath the near basket is dense with humanity. Sykes is lying on his stomach next to Robert, who is on his back, clutching his left knee with one arm, the other slung over his anguished face. Marvin races through the crowd and out onto the court, and is immediately kneeling over his son. The Cougars’ manager, a young man with an overstuffed fanny pack, is crouched over Robert, his hands hovering over the knee in a shamanistic pose, but seemingly unable to touch it. Robert writhes.
People still in the bleachers stand with their hands atop their heads, or held to their faces. No one speaks. I am standing with my hands on my hips, wondering what’s left to see, when Bill shuffles past me and makes his way from the gym and out, out into the sleet-filled night. Headed, I can only assume, out of Harrisburg altogether, and back to North Carolina.
After a moment I too turn to leave. There is really nothing left to see. In my heart I know that. The early dark has fallen on Harrisburg, and the roads will be awful. I don’t look forward to what lies ahead, but it can’t be avoided. I turn to make for my car, for the dark and slick road. I’m already on my way back upstate, back to Pam, back to my home. Other young men in other gyms demand my attention now. In the morning I’ll start to put the press on the next names on our list. I just hope we aren’t too far behind on them now. We have holes that need to be filled.
FAT ALBERT
What had happened was that I had assembled a thermonuclear device in the garage, more or less accidentally. I guess I had some idea what I was doing, but I didn’t have a set plan, per se. It was just, what if I put this here? There were some instructions downloaded from the Internet, sure, and some books checked out of the library, but it wasn’t my intent to have it become a big deal. I certainly didn’t have a List of Demands, like they kept asking me.
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