Drive

by Rob Roberge

  “I’ll live,” I say and sip my coffee. “You ever heard of Lobster Boy?”

  “Of course.”

  “I hadn’t. Never heard of the guy, and then I find out he’s famous.” I shake my head. “You ever feel really out of touch with the world?”

  “Every day,” he says. “What are you getting at?”

  “You know, like you read in the paper that some song’s been number one for 10 weeks or some movie’s set all kinds of records. And you’ve never heard of them. I don’t mean never heard the song or seen the movie, I‘m talking never even knew they existed, when the rest of the world is nuts for them.” I tap on the bar with the back of my hand a couple of times. “It’s like I took ten years off from everything, and now I don’t know anything. Like I missed class, and everyone’s ahead of me.”

  “You got all this from Lobster Boy?”

  “It’s just an example. I feel slow when I‘m around Parcell, Sean, you—even Bone. Everyone seems to know more than me—probably even Billy,” I say and point to the six-string outlaw who’s asleep in his chair.

  Terry frowns in thought. “Hoops. You know the game.”

  “Not as well as you.”

  “I disagree, but thanks. You’re where you belong, Bomber. You can coach.”

  I take a deep breath. “Maybe, but I could use some help.” I look up at him. “What do you say?”

  “To what?”

  “You want to coach with me?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You won’t think about it?” I say.

  “Don’t need to,” he says. “Have thought about it—don’t want any part of it anymore.”

  “You’re a great coach,” I say. “I know.”

  “A matter of debate, but you might be tight.” He pours himself another cup of coffee. “Took me till I was forty to realize that just cause you can do something don’t mean you should do it.”

  “You’d relate to the players better than me,” I say.

  “Because I’m black?”

  “Partially, There are areas of common ground I don’t have with most of my players. Plus, you played pro. That carries weight I don’t have.”

  He looks down at the bar and doesn’t say anything.

  “We can’t talk about this?” I say.

  “We are talking about this,” he says. “You just don’t like the results.”

  I look behind Terry to the wall of bottles. There’s a mirror behind them, and I see myself, fragmented between all those pretty colors. “Why?” I say. I move back and forth and watch as I swell and shrink in the warped reflection. It’s like a fun house mirror.

  “I can’t do it. Bomber. It ate me up.”

  I stop moving and look at him. “It doesn’t have to. Plus, this isn’t college—there’s less corruption.”

  “Corruption doesn’t have degrees.” He rubs his forehead with his palm. “You really want to have this discussion?”

  “I do.”

  “You know Len Bias, right? You know we recruited him?”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “OK. He ends up at Maryland, playing for Lefty Drissell. Everyone says what a great kid he is, pulling a B-average in his classes, drafted second overall for the Celtics. Going to take over for Bird and carry the torch.”

  “And drops dead of a cocaine OD the next night,” I say. “Everyone knows Bias.”

  Terry nods. “So he’s dead and all of the sudden, we find out the young man didn’t have a 3 0 in his senior year, but a shiny GPA, and he hadn’t finished his Sophomore year of classes, let alone Junior and Senior. Turns out it wasn’t the first time he’d tried blow, like they first said. And everyone comes down hard, real hard, on Drissell. Say he ran a corrupt program, say he gave players grades and used them like pieces of meat, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’m reading the papers, reading all this shit about how bad the Maryland program was, how it should have never happened, and it hits me that if we’d gotten Bias, the same thing would have happened. And if he went somewhere else, the same thing. Wherever that young man went, the results would have been the same. You use people—you get what you can—and then you use new people. That’s athletics. We would’ve given him grades and a car and whatever other shit he wanted and put the carpet out the whole way, and he would’ve dropped dead.”

  “There’s no way to know that,” I say,

  “There is. Maryland wasn’t the problem—the system’s the problem. I can’t feel clean in this game.”

  “So, I’m not clean?”

  “This isn’t personal. Why do people always take your decisions as a statement on theirs?” he says. “Why don’t you drink?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “Do you think alcohol is evil? Do you that no one should drink?”

  “No,” I say.

  “I can’t be in the business. Simple as that. I don’t like who I am when I’m coaching.” He raises his hands. “Got nothing to do with you, or anyone else.”

  “But you know the game.”

  “And that’s why I want no part of it. The game is easy. Stay between your man and the hoop, see the ball, hit the open man, drop it in the basket. The game’s beautiful. It’s all the shit around it I don’t want.”

  Terry goes to take care of the couple at the bar. He comes back. “You’re making me feel kind of sleazy,” I say. “I’m part of this now.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t mean it that way. You can help people. You can be good—it just takes an amount of work I’m not willing to put in.” He takes a sip of coffee. “I gave the game all I had for thirty years. My body aches every morning. I can’t sleep in one position for more than a couple of hours at a stretch. Thirty years, playing and coaching. Everything I had. Why do you think great players make shitty coaches and mediocre players make good ones? The great ones are done—they’ve done everything they can do.”

  “So I was mediocre? Thanks.”

  “No, but you were incomplete. You didn’t get the career you should have. I did. Coaching was gravy. You’re not done with the game.” He shrugs. “I am. ‘

  “I wasn’t mediocre,” I say.

  “Didn’t say you were. That’s not where I meant it to go,” he says. “You were a hell of a player.” He puts out his hand. “So, no. I’m honestly flattered, but I won’t coach. Are we cool?”

  I shake his hand, “We are. But I guess I should’ve asked my other question first.”

  “Which was?”

  “I need a ref for tomorrow’s scrimmage. Darnell’s resting his legs and I only have ten bodies, so I have to play. I need someone with a whistle.”

  He thinks it over for a second. “You’re not trying to sucker me?”

  “I’m not,” I say.

  “OK. In a pinch, I’ll help. Just no full time stuff.”

  “You’re sure?” I say. “I don’t want to force you into doing something you don’t want to do.”

  “No one does, Bomber. Like I said, I got no trouble with the game, just the shit surrounding it. I can blow a whistle, play a little ref.” He makes the offensive foul sign, the traveling sign. “No problem. You can play on that leg?”

  “I rested it. The fluid’s down. Just going to run up and down. Nothing fancy.”

  “Uh-huh. And when Money isolates on you on a wing, you going to do the smart thing and let him go? Or hurt yourself trying to prove you can still play with the kids?”

  “Think I learned that lesson last time,” I say.

  40

  I go up to my room and there’s a message from The Chicken Man.

  “Ben Thompson, do you play poker? My game needs a fourth for tomorrow. Call the office for directions to the house.”

  I flop on my bed and wonder what stakes Parcell plays for. He pays me—he knows I can’t be losing money to him and his friends. Maybe he just wants to show off this toy. I turn on the TV and flip through the channels. Some sports cable station is showing some women’s bodybuilding competi
tion. I stop and watch for a while. The women, all muscled and oiled under the light, remind me of Sean.

  Hard cut woman after hard cut woman poses out on the stage. I pick up the phone.

  “Dream Dates,” a woman says. “How may I help you?”

  I feel stupid and awkward, like a kid calling for his first date. Like I’m going to get caught for doing something wrong. I hang up.

  I mute the sound and watch for another minute before dialing again. The same woman answers.

  “May I speak with Cassandra, please?” I say, wondering what she must think of me, and feeling like an idiot.

  She pauses. “Cassandra’s not here tonight. I could direct you to another lady who’d love to speak with you, or I could take your name and number for a call back.” She says it all like the script it is—boredom tinged with annoyance. It’s sad and arousing at the same time, her boredom.

  I give her my name and number, even though Sean has the number.

  “And a time?”

  “Time?” I say.

  “A time she can call you,” she says.

  “This time tomorrow should be fine,” I say.

  “Discretion?” she says.

  “I don’t follow,” I say.

  She takes a deep breath, acts like it’s taking all the patience in the world to coach me through this. “Is there anyone there who, perhaps, shouldn’t know Cassandra is calling you?”

  On the TV, some woman accepts the heavyweight trophy. The screen reads: Next: Women’s Pose Down.

  “Discretion’s not an issue,” I say.

  41

  I drive Terry to practice. When we get there, Darnell’s out on the floor with Money playing HORSE. Money’s at the top of the key and calls a bank shot. He releases, takes a little arc off and it drops.

  Terry whistles. “I love to watch him shoot.”

  “So does he,” I say. “One of his problems—doesn’t get back in transition quick enough. Too busy watching his shot.”

  Darnell bricks his. It gets glass and a little rim, but it’s offline.

  “Game, D,” Money says. “You owe me twenty.”

  Terry and I walk up.

  “Two-on-two?” Money says. “A buck a point?”

  I turn to Darnell. “Thought you were sitting it out.”

  “Trying to play through it,” he says.

  “Don’t push,” I say.

  “What about a game?” Money says.

  “No,” I say. “I can’t afford you.”

  “I’ll take you on my ream, coach. I’ll carry you. You’ll make a few bucks.”

  “No go,” I say.

  Terry and I sit on the bleachers watching Money launch shot after shot until the team arrives and practice starts.

  About five minutes into the scrimmage, I’ve got the ball on the left wing on a break. I don’t know why, but instead of shooting a lay-up left-handed, I cut middle and go for the dunk. Everything feels great—all I can see is the rim—until I reach the peak of my jump much earlier than expected. I’m trapped in the air and I come at least four inches short. The ball hits the rim and I get snapped back on my ass. My head hits the wood hard. Play stops while I writhe around on the floor. The wind’s knocked out of me and I see black. I hear voices, and I’m sure my eyes are open, but I can’t see.

  “Take five,” Terry says. “Give him some air.”

  Slowly, shapes form and it’s only dark in the corners of my vision like there’s no floor or walls. Terry and Money help me up and over to the bleachers.

  I nod, my sight returns to close to normal. I shake my head. “The basket’s high.”

  Money laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. “One way to look at it, coach.”

  “You hurt?” Terry says.

  “Just embarrassed,” I say. Now that it’s obvious I’m not hurt, everyone starts to laugh at me.

  “What were you thinking?” Darnell says.

  I feel stupid. “I don’t know. Thinking it was ten years ago, I guess.”

  “It’s not.”

  I tap my head. “Know that now. Just need these humiliating reminders.”

  The scrimmage starts again. Money’s taking it easy on me. He’ll beat me right, stop and pass off. He’ll up-fake me, get a step, and pass off After a while, he gets bored and takes a couple of shots. He hits two going right.

  “Those decorative left arms cost less than the functional ones?” Terry says to Money. Money glares at him, and then at me.

  The next time down the court. Money fakes me right and I take the bait. He blows by left on a pretty crossover and dunks over Darnell left-handed.

  “Ain’t no decorative fucking arm,” he says as he runs up court. He points at his left arm.

  “Great,” I say to Terry. “He was going easy on me. Now you got him mad.”

  Terry shrugs. “He plays pretty when he’s mad. I wanted to see it.”

  I turn and see Darnell limping off the court.

  “You OK?” I say when I get over to him.

  He winces with every step on his left leg.

  “Knee?” I say. “Achilles?”

  He drops to the floor. “Knee. Feels like razor blades in there.”

  I turn to the team. “That’s it,” I say. “Hit the showers. I’ll see you at the shoot-around tomorrow.”

  I bend down. “Can you walk?”

  He looks at me, then hangs his head. “Wouldn’t be on the fucking floor if I could,” he says quietly.

  42

  I call Parcell and get directions and ask if I can bring Terry. He says he’d like that, he never got to thank Terry for the scouting trip. I ask Terry and, once I convince him that it’s not another attempt to get him to coach, he agrees. We get to the house—a modern white three story overlooking the water—at seven-thitry. Parcell meets us at the door. He wears jeans and a white silk shirt that’s untucked. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in something other than a business suit or his TV Hee-Haw outfit. He looks strange.

  “Ben Thompson, I’m glad you could make it.” He shakes my hand and smiles. He looks at Terry. “Mr. Willis, good to see you.”

  Terry shakes his hand. “Same here, Mr. Parcell.”

  “Rube,” he says and takes Terry by the shoulder. The house is spare and light—it’s like one of those House Beautiful pictorials. It’s as manicured as a golf course. The wall colors are all bright off whites and coral pastels; the furniture is chrome and black and modern. It’s more casual, less imposing, than I’d imagined. He leads us through the living room and past a big-screen TV. Next to the TV are a stack of video tapes, all with Sarasota Sun and a date written on the spine.

  “You have the games?” I say.

  “Watch them all the time,” he says. “Only a fool doesn’t keep track of his investments. My secretary tapes them.”

  He leads us to a room off the main one.

  “Ben Thompson, Terry Willis,” he says. “John Parker and Leonard Craig.” We shake hands. Parcell goes to the bar, pours himself a drink and gets me a mineral water.

  “Mr. Willis?”

  “Beer and Jack Daniels, if you’ve got it,” Terry says.

  Parcell smiles. “A man who drinks.” He looks at me. “No offense, Ben Thompson.”

  “None taken,” I say.

  We sit and I look around. It’s a game room with a nine foot Brunswick pool table, speed and heavy bag, a Soloflex machine, and the large round poker table. It’s darker than the other rooms. A room of wood and green felt. Above both the pool table and poker table are old lights that look like the ones from Hollywood’s version of a pool hall. Looks like we’ve walked onto the set of “The Hustler.” A picture window overlooks the water. A lighthouse blips out on the horizon.

  “Small stakes game,” Parcell says. “Buck, five, ten. Hundred limit for the first two hours.”

  “ This is small stakes?” I say.

  “It is,” Parcell says. “Just enough to make it interesting. To make it gambling. If there’s nothing to lose, there�
�s nothing to win.” He shuffles. “How’s my team?”

  “Been better,” I say. “We’ve lost Latimore for a week or two.”

  He frowns. “The heel?”

  I shake my head. “Knee. He’s pretty beat up.”

  “How bad?”

  I shrug. “Bad enough.”

  “Should we cut him?”

  I look at Terry and then hack to Parcell. “What?”

  “Should we fill his roster slot, Ben Thompson?” He leans forward. “You’re headed for a championship in this league. Do you need another body?”

  “He’s not a body,” I say. “He’s my second best player and this is his last shot. There’s no way I cut Darnell.”

  Parcell looks up at Craig and Parker. “Loyalty,” he says.

  I think I’ve passed another of Parcell’s tests. He looks back at me.

  “Loyaltry’s stupid.” I shrink back in my chair and he deals the cards. “What would you do, Mr, Willis?”

  Terry picks up his cards. “None of my business.”

  “You must have a opinion,” Parcell says.

  “I might,” Terry says. “But that’s none of your business.”

  “No offense,” Parcell says. He holds his hands out in this I-won’t-hurt-anyone gesture. “I asked your opinion. We’re just talking.

  “No.” Terry says. “You’re talking about someone’s career. That ain’t just talking.” He looks at me like I’m part of this, like I knew the conversation would make this turn.

  “I’ll stick with what I’ve got,” I say. “No new players.”

  We play a few hands. Parcell passes out cigars—Belicosos—and we all smoke around his sucking ashtray—it’s like the one from his office, but it’s black. It whirls beneath the conversation. Smoke leaves my mouth, hovers for a moment, and disappears toward the table like it’s jumped off a cliff. Around the tenth hand, I finally win a few bucks, but I’m still down.

  Parcell sips his drink. “So, you’re seeing the topless cleaner?”

  “How did you know that?” I say.

  He taps his head. “A man that doesn’t keep track of his investments is a tool, Ben Thompson.”

  “She’s not really a topless cleaner,” I say. “She’s a writer.”

  “I stand corrected,” he says. “No one is what they are. All the supermodels—they think they ‘re actresses. The actors? They’re directors. The bag boy at your supermarket? He’s a screenwriter. She’s not a topless cleaner, she just plays one on TV.” He looks at Craig and Parker. “This woman young Ben Thompson is seeing, she has holes all over her body.”