by E. Clay
“Clay, get in touch with my dad. I don’t want him to worry about where I am,” he said as he was carted off.
“Promise!” I replied. I was scared. I didn’t know what was going on, and my father had a look of concern on his face as we watched the gurney disappear behind the double doors.
My dad went back to the school to see if J. P.’s dad was there, and I remained in the waiting room. About an hour later, my dad returned and said his dad wasn’t there. I called J. P.’s dad at home and was surprised when he answered the phone. As I was explaining the situation to his dad, the doctor came out and had a few words with my dad. I put J. P.’s dad on hold to find out what was happening with my best friend. I was reading my dad’s face to brace myself for the worst. My dad took a sigh of relief and turned to me.
“Dehydration. He’s dehydrated.” What a relief. I felt as though a tremendous weight had been lifted off my chest.
“Thank you Jesus!” I said. I went back to the phone to tell Jimbo’s dad the news, but all I heard was a dial tone. I called back.
“Mr. Pernelli, sorry. We must have gotten disconnected,” I said.
“No need to apologize, son. I just hung up. I didn’t know how long you’d be.”
I almost lost my Christian bearing for a split second. I didn’t know what to say to him after that.
“He was dehydrated, and he will be staying the night. But he will be fine,” I said.
“So I guess I have to pick him up in the morning. No problem. Thanks for the update, Clay.”
My dad checked with the doctors one last time before we headed home; J. P. was hooked up to an IV but doing fine. When my dad reached for his keys, he noticed that I remained seated.
“I guess I will pick you up in the morning, huh? You’re lucky tomorrow is Saturday,” my dad said. I thanked my dad and got as comfortable as I could before nodding off to sleep.
Chapter 12
1977 State Championships—Conflict of Interest
The week before districts, Coach Rosenthal gave us a pep talk to fire us up. The talk was about perception and how the way we view things affects our reality. He spoke about his experience as a senior preparing for his districts back in 1965. That year, he was seeded fourth at his weight class (155 pounds), but only the top two wrestlers advance to sectionals. He had lost to the top seed earlier in the season. The second seed was a kid who was undefeated but was 13–0–1. Psychologically, Coach said he was worried more about the undefeated kid. But then he realized he had wrestled the same kid to a tie earlier during the season. That dark cloud went away, and his perception changed. The top seed lost his first match, opening the door for a showdown in the finals between him and the second seed. Coach became the district champion by beating the undefeated second seed 13–7.
Regarding his seeding, Coach said, “It’s okay for others to underestimate you, but never underestimate yourself.” After practice, he told J. P. to meet him in his office. Later, J. P. entered the locker room ecstatic. Apparently, his ranking in the state had improved despite his loss against the wrestler from Westinghouse. J. P. had moved up two spots and was now ranked eighth in the state.
“Gimme five, Clay!” J. P. said. He was climbing up the rankings with every match, it seemed. His season thus far amazed me. Although he was a junior, this was his first year in high school wrestling.
J. P. advanced to the state championship meet with only one loss. Coach Pernelli’s team also advanced on the backs of stud wrestlers at 126, 138, and 155 pounds and his star, Richard Russell, at heavyweight. As J. P. and Richard advanced, the intensity in the building increased. No one said it, but you knew it was on everyone’s mind. Could Jimbo face Richard in the finals? Could Coach Pernelli coach against his son? I played that scenario out in my head. If it were me, I decided, I would let my assistant coach take over and I would watch from the stands. But that is not what happened.
Yes, J. P. did meet Richard in the state finals, but Coach P. remained in his position. He even gave Richard a pep talk before the match. There was no conflict of interest for him; his sole objective was to win. The announcer called for the two wrestlers to report, and it was show time. It was all or nothing for J. P., both as an athlete and also a son seeking validation. For Coach P, it was a chance to cement his wrestling legacy.
During the first two periods, J. P. demonstrated absolute dominance. J. P. was on a mission, not giving up a single point. To be honest, I had thought Richard would challenge J. P. more, but J. P. was just too strong and relentless. It was so odd to see Coach Pernelli rooting against J. P. and cheering on Richard. Actually, it was more than just odd; I found it disturbing.
At the beginning of the last period, J. P. chose the bottom position. While in the bottom position, J. P. was facing his dad, who was standing alongside the mat. It was breaking J. P.’s heart to see his dad in that vulnerable state. When the whistle blew to start the final period, Coach P. was yelling at Richard, “You have to pin him. You have to pin him!”
J. P. didn’t try to escape. I thought he was just trying to ride the clock out, but he had other plans. After being completely immobile in the bottom position for the first thirty seconds of the final period, he intentionally grabbed Richard’s head. Richard immediately seized the opportunity and rolled J. P. onto his back, straight into a pinning combination. The crowd jumped to its feet in shock. There were just seconds on the clock. The referee signaled that a pin was imminent and slapped the mat, ending the match. I couldn’t believe what had just seen. J. P. had it! J. P. knew he had it too, but obviously there were other factors in play.
When the referee raised Richard’s hand in victory, Jimbo kept wiping the tears away from his eyes, but the tears didn’t seem to stop. It was painful to watch, and yet it was one of the most unselfish acts I had ever witnessed. After Richard’s hand was raised in victory, Coach P. and the other wrestlers ran onto the mat and lifted Richard up onto their shoulders. This was a particularly sweet victory for Coach P. because he now was tied with Coach Pingatore from Northwestern with nine wrestling state championships.
The interesting fact was that Jimbo and Richard were both juniors, and it was very possible that they would meet up again next year in the state finals. Coach P. was now one state championship away from having sole possession of the most wrestling state championships in the state’s history. After the ceremony, Coach P. told J. P., “You tried your best, son, but today Richard was just the better man.”
They say that business and family don’t mix. Well, if there was ever a case to support that assertion, this would be it.
As athletes, we learn to be warriors, but ultimately we are raised as sons.
Chapter 13
Coach’s Decision
School was out, and it was the middle of our summer vacation. J. P. and I had returned to his house from the bowling alley, and his dad was watering the front lawn. Richard showed up in a brand new red 1977 Ford Mustang. J. P. and I laughed as we walked toward his house. This was the worst year ever for Mustangs. They were officially branded as ladies’ cars when Farah Fawcett had one in Charlie’s Angels. Richard honked at us as he drove up toward the house.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in that car. I can’t believe he had the nerve to put a spoiler and racing stripes on it. What a waste of sheet metal,” J. P. said.
We just waved and gave him a thumbs up with fake smiles. We then darted into a convenience store to buy some shrimp and fries. We saw Richard and J. P.’s dad just chatting away, and Richard was revving the engine the entire time. What a poser. Anyway, Richard said goodbye to Coach P. and sped off. As he crossed the intersection, his car was hit by a drunk driver. I could hear the brakes screeching and the crash from inside the store. It sounded like an explosion. Somehow, I knew it was Richard.
Coach P. heard the crash and yelled, “Richard! Richard!” Richard responded, “Coach, I’m all right. I’m all right.”
We were all glad that he had escaped injury. I looked at J. P. and w
e both breathed a big sigh of relief. But within a split second, another car rammed the one that had hit Richard, and we saw Richard slump forward onto the horn. Coach P. called 911, and the ambulance arrived within minutes. They rushed Richard to Gottlieb Hospital. J. P. and I accompanied Coach P. to the hospital, trailing behind the ambulance in his car. I had a hard time grasping what had just happened. Here was a guy about my age, hanging on for dear life. It made me think of my own mortality. It was creepy knowing that just ten minutes ago he had been fine.
Richard was admitted immediately into the emergency room, and the doctors began working on him. The crash was worse than anybody had imagined. Richard turned out to have suffered severe brain damage. He was unable even to speak in an intelligible manner. Richard’s accident would ultimately affect all of our lives—Coach P., J. P., and even me. At that time, I just didn’t know how much or how soon.
On the first day of school, I told J. P. during lunch that I had seen his dad during second period in the principal’s office. J. P. acted somewhat surprised; his dad never visited Westside. At dinner, J. P. told his dad that I had seen him at school. His dad then told him that he was transferring J. P. to Triton, where he taught and coached. J. P. literally begged his dad to reconsider, but there was no chance of that.
When J. P. broke the news to me, I was stunned. I had thought we would graduate together. I didn’t have many friends at Westside; J. P. was my main man. I knew from that day forward, life at Westside would be different—very different. It was obvious to me and everyone familiar with the situation, Coach P. was motivated by his insatiable desire to scoop up another state crown. On J. P.’s last day of school, the school had a scheduled assembly. At the end of the assembly, they announced the departure of Joshua Pernelli. He marched down from the bleachers and presented a polished and very articulate speech thanking all of his teachers, coaches, counselors, and even me. I have to say, I was really impressed; he came across as very witty and even quite humorous at times. I didn’t know he had it in him; his jokes were actually really funny, too. Some people are just natural-born speakers, and I guess J. P. was one of them. The school presented a framed picture of him in his wrestling uniform that would be mounted permanently on the Athletic Wall of Fame.
Everyone cheered and chanted, “Jimbo! Jimbo!” Then he became somewhat emotional, and I became sad. To me, at that moment, it was like a funeral and he was giving his own eulogy.
The school staff smiled on our friendship because we demonstrated that ethnic divisions were not drawn by race; they were drawn by people. I was going to miss my friend, and it was hard to imagine him being in a different school.
At the end of the assembly, J. P. approached me at my locker. The only thing he said was, “Dap? Can I get a dap?”
I finally realized what he was talking about. My mind was elsewhere, but surprisingly; he knew it! J. P. was dappin’ like one of the brothas, and he didn’t miss a beat. Before, J. P. had never been able to get past the third movement. In fact, the dap we did wasn’t even the dap I had showed him; it was the extended version I used to do with Kenny James every now and then in the cafeteria during lunch. J. P. must have been practicing, a lot. That afternoon, J. P. really amazed me; it was a side of him I hadn’t seen before.
Chapter 14
The Stone the Builders Rejected
Two weeks later, Jimbo honored his promise to accompany my family to Sunday service at church. When we pulled into the church parking lot, Jimbo pulled in right behind us. I was glad to see him. We could hear the choir rehearsing from the church parking lot. They were just warming up for Sunday service. My dad’s church was named Plymouth Rock, and it was renowned for its gospel choir, Aeolian Phi, and my dad’s captivating and inspiring sermons. The choir was so animated and lively that it was rumored you had to pass a physical to join. One of the gospel selections Aeolian Phi sang during service was ‘The Blood,’ led by the organist Mrs. Guy. Whenever she sang that particular song, it was as if God was speaking through her. Just the first few bars of the song made the hair on my arm stand up. I have heard dozens of renditions of that song, but none ever moved me quite the same.
My dad was old-school: he believed in conducting the church in an orderly fashion. He had very little tolerance for sleeping in church or distractions during service, especially while the sermon was being delivered. If you had to vacate your seat during service, an unwritten rule dictated that you had to raise your forefinger and keep it raised until you were out of the sanctuary. Women didn’t wear pants to church, and men wore suits and ties. I wore a navy blue leisure suit with white stitching around the collar seams. I liked the suit a lot, but I had gotten it two years before, when I was fifteen, and the trousers were constantly riding up my backside. After every ten steps or so, I had to adjust, but I always made sure no one was looking.
I had missed Wednesday choir rehearsal, so I wasn’t permitted to sing. But that was okay, especially since Jimbo was tagging along. Clifton, our choir director, was in the spirit and had the choir rocking left to right and clapping in sync. Sometimes it seemed as though he was a front man for my dad, like a warm-up act for the headliner waiting behind the curtain. As the almost frenzied atmosphere inspired by the choir subsided with the music, Reverend T. approached the pulpit with great poise.
“Let the church say ‘Amen.’” My father asked if there were any new visitors in the congregation, and I looked at J. P.
He whispered, “No way man, I don’t do the public speaking thing…bad nerves.”
I didn’t understand that at all; he had given an impressively eloquent and polished speech in front of the entire sophomore and junior class just a few weeks ago. My dad scanned the congregation, and his eyes fixed on J. P.
“Well, I think we have a visitor. Will the gentleman sitting next to my son please stand up? Tell us who you are and if you have a church home.”
Yeah, my dad was good at calling you out like that. J. P. nervously stood up and looked around. He put his hands in his pockets and could barely speak his name. His voice was weak and cracking; his face was beet red. I noticed that his hands were trembling badly, even though they were hidden in his pockets. I was so embarrassed for him because it was obvious he was out of his comfort zone. He quickly sat down and lowered his head into a hymnal. I was sort of disappointed; I knew he was an excellent speaker… just not that day.
About halfway through the service, J. P. looked at the church bulletin and read the title of the sermon, ‘The Stone that the Builders Rejected.’ J. P. looked at me questioningly. I just shrugged my shoulders, not knowing where Dad was taking this particular sermon.
The sermon highlighted the peculiarity of Christians, emphasizing the persecution and rejection we sometimes face. My dad said that sometimes Christians are dismissed by the world in the very same way a mason would discard a broken brick. My dad also emphasized how unique we are and how important we are to God’s work. He further added, “As Christians we stand out and must stand up for our beliefs.”
My father went on to say God loved us despite our imperfections. I loved my dad’s sermons; their messages uplifted and recharged anyone in earshot of his voice. He made us understand life was not meant to be perfect. When my dad got to the heart of his message, the cadence and volume of his voice became melodic and beckoning. Sometimes he would become animated and making commanding gestures. My dad was a brilliant orator and exuded much spiritual charisma from behind the pulpit.
This particular message struck a chord with J. P., and I could see he was fixated. I think he felt like he was one of the rejected stones my father was preaching about. J. P. often spoke of not being like everyone else, but I never understood what he had meant by that. At the end of the service, my dad had an altar call. Some new visitors came forward, and for a minute, I thought J. P. would too.
After service, I would always go downstairs and play ping-pong with the deacons. I was pretty good, too; I had placed third in the church tournament the previou
s year and designed my own paddle. Anyway, that day Jimbo was particularly quiet after service; I think my dad’s message really must have affected him. He didn’t say much at all. To lighten things up, I challenged him to a game of ping-pong, and he accepted. I asked if he had ever played before, and he said that he hadn’t, but he would try. It was nice finally to compete with him in a sport where his strength was not a factor. We volleyed for about five minutes since he was new to the game. I would have volleyed longer, but he said he was ready. I beat him the first game, but I wasn’t too thrilled that the score was 21–18.
“I thought you had never played before,” I said, unnerved.
“This is my first time,” he replied.
He beat me at the next two games, 21–10 and then 21–5. I won the last game 21–19, but then I realized he was playing me with his non-dominant hand.
“Are you ambidextrous?”
Before he could reply, my dad said, “Clay! It’s time! Let’s go.”
I slowly put the paddle down on the table and just kind of scratched my head. For someone who had never picked up a paddle, Jimbo had skills—amazing skills.
Chapter 15
For Whom the Bell ‘Towles’
It was Jimbo’s first day at Triton High. Jimbo was comforted by the fact that he knew most of the kids in the school because they lived in his neighborhood. In fact, he lived so close to school that he could have just walked every day; it was less than a half mile. But that wasn’t going to happen. Jimbo was proud of his ‘69 Charger, and he drove it everywhere. He was sad to leave Westside, but he was looking forward to seeing his dad more and leading the wrestling team to the state championships. For most kids, it would be a nightmare to have a parent teaching at your school, but not for Jimbo.