by Rob Roberge
I shake my head. “Too young. Too much pressure for a kid. He should go to junior college.”
“Yes, I agree, Ben Thompson. We should have world peace, too. Weatherspoon should get an education and become wise and poised and mature.” He holds his hands out. “But he’s not going to. That’s his decision. He’s going to play in the CBA or Europe.”
“It’s not a good move,” I say.
“That’s not up to you. What are you worried about, Ben Thompson?”
“Another Latimore.”
He winces.
“Hey, you asked,” I say. “That’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want to be part of that.”
“Well you are. You were part of it. It’s over and done with.”
I sit there for a minute.
“Did it ever occur to you that he might be another Kenny Cash, Ben Thompson? Why must you always, always focus on the negative?”
“Guy hangs himself—it’s a pretty easy negative to focus on,” I say.
“Kenny Cash had a college coach, a USBL coach, and two Italian league coaches. None—not a single fucking one—of them got him invited to NBA camps. You did.”
“I don’t want to argue, “ I say. “I’ll look at the kid.”
“Good. If he’s a real player, sign him on the spot.”
“No way to tell from one game, “ I say.
“Go back and look some more. When you decide, sign him.”
He leads me to the door and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve had people take care of the arrangements with Latimore’s family. Didn’t want you to have to deal with it.” He leads me to the elevator. “I am sorry, Ben.”
“Me too.”
72
I tell Terry about my meeting with Parcell. The bar is dark and he’s got CNN playing with the sound muted.
“You’ll look at the kid?”
“We’ve got four days off around his all-star game,” I say. “I’ve got the time.”
Terry cringes a little. “Summer league all-star game’s no place to check out talent. Too much show-time, not enough ball.”
“I may go, I may not,” I say. “He’s too young—should be in college—and if he was as good as advertised, he’d skip the CBA.”
“Twenty years ago, maybe thirty, I would have agreed with you. But there ain’t no difference between college and the pros now. He’ll be paid wherever he goes, and he won’t learn anything but basketball wherever he goes.” Terry plunges a couple of glasses into the washing sink. “He might as well take the money.”
“You think so?”
“Hate to say it, but I do.”
I look up at the TV. I don’t know the topic, but it’s one of those call-in shows. Monty from Topeka voicing his opinion on something. The host looks like Dinah Shore.
I shake my head. “The kid may he something. 67” and only 180. His body hasn’t caught up to itself yet. Could be a player.”
Terry frowns. “You’re keeping Keller?”
“Yeah. Going with quickness. Weatherspoon’s supposed to be quick.”
“Check him out.”
“And if he’s great, so what? I had the best player—the best—I ever saw, and I couldn’t get him where he should have been.”
“Latimore did what he did to himself And he had no right to do it—not to you, not to the team.”
“You told me so, right?”
He shakes his head. “Not happy about being right.”
I look up at the TV. George Kennedy is selling something. Breath mints, I think.
“Darnell’s game—back in Chicago, not here—was so beautiful.” I take a sip of coffee. “I’ll never see another player like him.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Terry says. “You’re a good coach, and I think you should stick with it. But know this going in—you’re going to see Darnell Latimores for the rest of your life.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
“They may not end up dead—it’ll be quieter. Washing dishes, hanging around playgrounds and street corners telling everybody how good they were. But you’ll see it—huge, disgusting wastes of talent—all the time. It might be next week with Weatherspoon, it might be next month, but you’ll see it again and again.”
I take a sip of my coffee and don’t say anything.
“Not trying to scare you, Bomber. But if you’re in it as a career, you’ve got to get used to great talent that won’t pan out. And when you think they won’t—know they won’t—pan out, you’ve got to cut the cord.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
73
Sean and I are in bed watching TV. Not much is on, so we settle for “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” on TNT. We make fun of it, she calls Clint Eastwood Squint Eastwood, mimics all the tough-guy posturing. It’s long, longer than I remember, and when it’s over, the meat dehydrator infomercial comes on.
“Can we stay at my place tomorrow?” She says.
I’ve never seen her place, so I take this as a good sign. “I’m in Miami, tomorrow,” I say. “Scouting.”
“Right,” she says. “Next time, then?”
“You OK?”
“My dad left a note,” she says. She’s been a little off-balance since Darnell’s suicide, but I figured it was none of my business unless she brought it up.
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s not a problem,” she says. “This just brought it back.” She rolls a cigarette.
“Can I have one of those?”
“You don’t smoke.”
“I used to. I miss bad habits.”
She rolls me one. I light it, and it’s amazing—it tastes as good as the last one I had five years ago.
“‘Dissonance,’” she says.
“What?”
“My dad’s note. Dissonance. He was a musician—prodigy, boy genius, the whole bit. He had perfect pitch—a lot of people claim that—but he had it. He used to quiz me when I was a kid. A car horn would beep in traffic and he’d say ‘what note?’” She takes a drag of her cigarette.
“He could tell?”
“Trick question,” she says. “All car horns are in A or F#. But he could tell jackhammers, people’s voices when they talked, anything. Everything was notes to him.”
“And?”
She shrugs. “And he went nuts. He sat me down when I was ten, maybe eleven and he told me to picture a note as an inch. Perfection was the center of the inch. If everyone were in tune, they would all be at the center of the inch. But he said there was no center. That’s what his ear led him to-—nothing was ever in tune—everything in the world rattled against him.”
“How long did this go on?” I say.
“A year, before be killed himself, It got ugly. He sound-proofed his studio. If you talked, he’d put his hands over his ears and shriek. He couldn’t handle sounds.” She takes a drink of water. “Everything became noise.”
“Sounds awful.”
“It was,” she says. “Words, voices, hurt the most. When people talked, he just screamed and ran away.” She looks at the TV. “He shot himself.”
The guy on the TV is turning a hunk of wet meat into jerky. The sound is off, but I’ve seen it before, and I know he’s going on about the outrageous prices they charge for store-bought jerky and how that’s a thing of the past with your new dehydrator.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be,” she says. “I thought you should know. I’m not right, Ben—I flip out and can’t sleep sometimes and all I want to do is shut off my brain. I have dreams where I smash my head against a wall until I’m dead.”
“That’s what I miss about drinking,” I say.
“What?”
“Being able to shut off my head. Everything else is cool—I don’t miss drinking the way I used to. But some nights, I can’t slow down. Can’t stop.”
“Do you think you’d kill yourself?”
“Not so much anymore,” I say. I picture Darnell
, hanging from that ceiling and wonder what he was thinking, wonder how bad and empty he had to get before that made sense. “Sometimes.” I lean over to her. “Are you OK?”
“No,” she says. “Sometimes I am and sometimes I’m not. Can you handle that?”
“What?”
“Me. I’m giving you an out here. I know you’re having a hard time—I’m kind of high-maintenance.”
“Who isn’t?” I say. I finish my cigarette. “I don’t want an out.” She puts her head on my chest. “You want to come to Miami?”
“No,” she says. “I’ve got to work, and then I promised Bone I’d help out with his sweat thing.”
“You’re sure? You can come.”
“We don’t have to go everywhere together,” she says. “That’s not what I meant—I need a lot of space. I just wanted to warn you—if I go through a hard time, don’t take it personally. If my problem’s with you, I let you know.”
“Fair enough,” I say. I tend to take things personally and wonder if this is going to work. I feel uneasy, but I don’t say anything.
She flips the sound back on the TV. She needs the sound on to fall asleep, so the set stays on. I’m watching old government films of duck-and-cover drills on the Discovery Channel when she falls asleep.
74
We beat Baton Rouge and Mobile at home—close games, but Money’s finishing with a flourish. He hit for 32 against Baton Rouge, and then had an unstoppable game against Mobile. He put on one of the greatest jump-shooting shows I’ve ever seen. I yanked him mid-fourth with 51. A league record. A shitty little league, with no history, bur 51 is a night in any league. Scouts from New Jersey were at both games and he’s got the official invite—-in four weeks, he’s in Jersey’s rookie camp.
I fly to Miami to check out Weatherspoon. Before the game, I’m watching him run some shooting drills and Jake Stuart—my old agent—comes up to me courtside.
“Ben. Back in the game I hear,” he says.
I shake his hand. “Back in the game.”
“Who you looking at?”
“No one specific,” I say.
He smiles. “Bullshit. Weatherspoon’s mine,” he says. “I’m the one that got Parcell to get you down here.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“We didn’t have the best parting of the ways,” he says. “I wanted to apologize, but I wanted to make sure you were here first.”
“No hard feelings,” I say. “I was washed up.”
“You didn’t want to hear it,” Jake says.
I remember me calling his office, screaming at his secretary, calling him every name in the book. “I know.”
“So, we’ve got a clean slate? You won’t squeeze my client over something between us?”
“There’s nothing between us,” I say. “History.” I take a seat. “Tell me about him.”
“He can play,” he says. “Cocky, but a good cocky. Good kid. Good family. Can swing between the two and three spot. Slasher. Can get to the rim on anybody. Dr. J ability.” He points out to the court at Weatherspoon. “A blue chip.”
“He’s so perfect, why are you talking to me and not Jerry West?”
“His body’s not ready for the big-time.”
“The body? That’s it?” I say. “What about the grades?”
“He’s sharp, Not a dumb kid.”
“Coachable?”
“He is. A little bit of a floater—too good for his own good. Needs someone to focus him.”
I watch him shooting 15 footers. Nice rotation; decent form. The horn sounds and the teams head to the bench.
“I’ll look,” I say. “If he’s got anything, I want to meet him.”
“You’re our first choice, Ben.”
Mid-first quarter, Weatherspoon starts to take over. He gets to the rim well—has a tearless drive. He’s all grace and no power, but that could be fixed with time and a weight room. His dribble’s too high—he’s a forward, not a two guard. His legs are great—he can jump out of the gym, and his lateral quickness is awesome. On his first step, he’s got a minor foot hitch—when he’s going to drive, he pulls one foot back before he pushes off. That won’t hurt him in the CBA. but it’ll kill him in the big leagues. He plays a kind of defense that’s rare in such a raw player.
“Well?” Jake says at half-time.
“We’ve got first look?”
He holds his hand up in the scout’s-honor pose. “You do.”
“I’ve got three days off before our next game. I’d like to get him up for a scrimmage before I lose Cash. This week, or next—whatever works. See what he does with a real hand in his face.”
Jake frowns. “He won’t travel without his parents.”
“Fine,” I say. “I want to talk to them, too. Call Parcell. Let’s get him up and have a look.” I get up.
“You’re taking off?”
“I’ve seen enough,” I say. “Let’s see some more up in Sarasota. Too big a fish in too small a pond here.”
“Moby Dick in an ice cube tray,” Jake says. “This kid’s special.”
I hold up my hand. “I’ll see him next week.”
75
I get back from Miami and the sweat lodge’s about halfway done—the glass brick shines like diamonds in the sun. Hedda, Bone and Sean, sit in the middle of the circle of glass, passing around a bottle of wine. All of them are naked from the waist up. Sean’s wearing cutoff jeans and cowboy boots. Bone’s in his cutoff Chinos and Hedda’s got a pair of boxers and nothing else on.
“Am I interrupting?” I say.
Bone is on his back with his eyes closed. “You got a gutter mind, Ben,” he says. “We’re communing.”
I look at Sean. “A place of peace?”
“It is,” she says.
“Hey, coach,” Hedda says. “What’s the word?”
I look at her and look away. I feel awkward seeing her naked. “The word is you and Money just became the old folks on the team.”
She looks sad. “Lewie’s gone?”
I forgot Lewie was the oldest with Darnell gone. “No. Didn’t mean to scare you. Lewie’s still here. But I think we’re signing some 18 year-old.”
“Eighteen?” Hedda says.
“Just turned,” I say.
“Eighteen,” she says and whistles. “So when do we see this boy wonder?”
“A few days. Maybe next week,” I say. I look around. “Place looks good.”
Bone looks up at me. “Getting there.”
Sean pokes Bone in the side, takes the bottle from him and drinks. “Ask him,” she says.
“Ask me what?”
“You want your navel pieced?”
“Hadn’t thought about it,” I say. “This been a topic of conversation?”
“My idea,” Sean says. “Bone found a cleansing stone and set it in a hoop.”
“A cleansing stone?”
“Your aura,” Bone says. “Cleanses your aura.”
“Please,” I say. “My aura’s fine—just had it checked.”
“What could it hurt?” Sean says.
“Me,” I say. “It could hurt me.”
Hedda stands up and points to her mid-section. In her navel is a silver hoop with a black ball. “Got mine.”
“If you jump off a bridge, do I follow you?”
“It’s quick—not much pain,” Bone says.
Sean takes a sip of wine and passes the bottle to Hedda. “I’d think it was sexy,” she says. She lights a cigarette and sits with her legs wide apart, her elbows on her knees.
“How sexy?”
“Worth-your-while sexy.”
I look around at the candy cane Bone has turned The Palms into. The deck chairs, and all their colors. He’s got two neon palm trees—about six feet tall each—by the entrance. It’s gaudy and beautiful in an odd way.
“What the hell?” I say. “I suppose my aura could use a little cleansing.”
It’s over in less than fifteen minutes. We do it on the ground inside the
sweat lodge. Bone wipes my navel down with this yellow/orange fluid that I think is iodine. He sticks a hollow point needle—it’s not that big, a lot smaller than the ones they use to drain water off the knee—up through the belly button, and slides a silver hoop through. It stings, but it’s not too bad. The ring is almost a full circle, and the stone fits in the space in the ring and is held there, I guess, by tension. Sean takes pictures the whole time—when I wince as the needle pulls through the skin, she says, “That’ll be a good one.”
Bone holds a mirror to my torso. “What do you think?”
I feel a little silly. “I’m too old for this.”
“You’re younger than Rodman,” Hedda says. “And he’s full of piercings.”
“He’s still playing—when a millionaire does it, he’s quirky. I do it, I’m just dumb.”
“It’s hot,” Sean says.
“Talk like that could change my mind.”
“Be careful with it,” Bone says. “It’s all muscle—the risk of infection is bigger than with the nipple or the genitals.”
“Really?” I say.
“Muscle rejects,” Sean says.
Bone gives me a little tube. “Put this on it every few hours, and keep it clean.”
Money pulls up on his bike and comes over, a basketball under his arm. He looks at all of us half-naked in a dirt pit surrounded by glass walls.
“Do I want to know?” He says.
Hedda points to her stomach. “Bone’s doing them for free. You want one?”
Money shakes his head and laughs. “Fuck, no.” He turns around and walks toward the pool. “Another day in Freakville,” he says.
76
Sean has to work late so I stay home alone. I think of going down to Terry’s—Money’s trying to organize a nine-ball tournament—but I’m tired, my stomach’s hurt and swollen from the piercing, and I sit in bed with the TV on and the sound off. Every few seconds the neon palm trees light up and hum—the room flicks green and dark, green and dark. Behind my drapes, I see the bugs smashing themselves against my porch light. Some make a noise when they hit the glass.
I rub my stomach and it’s warm to the touch. A crazy thing to do—I’m not sure why I let Bone do it, other than that I feel at home here. I take a deep breath and start thinking back—where I was a year ago tonight, two years ago tonight, and so on. I get to six years ago Linda and I were married and falling apart in South Miami.