by Rob Roberge
I rummage through my wallet for Linda’s number—she’s remarried and living somewhere in California. It’s not too late there, so I call.
“Linda?” I say. “It’s Ben.”
There is a pause. “Are you in trouble?”
“No,” I say. “The opposite, I think. I’m OK.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Because I’m all right. Things are working out,” I say. “I’m a coach—a CBA coach. I got my navel pierced today.”
“That’s,” she says and breathes hard into the phone. “That’s good for you. You’re happy?”
“Overall, I think I might be,” I say. “One of my players killed himself,” I look at the TV and Andy Griffith is giving Opie some fatherly advice out on the porch. “Darnell Latimore. Do you remember him? He and I played at Chicago in ‘84.”
“That’s a long time ago, Ben. I try not to remember anything.” She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I know the look I’m getting. I’ve seen this look, she’s got the phone cradled on her shoulder and her arms crossed—I’d bet my life on it. “Another lifetime. Why, really, are you calling me?”
This isn’t going the way I’d planned. I wanted some cloSure. some we-had-some-good-times, some good-lucks. “To tell you everything was OK—I’m not a total fuck-up anymore—and to see how you were. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“You are no longer capable of bothering me.” I hear her breathing and some motion and clanging—it sounds like she’s in a kitchen. “I’m fine. And I’m glad, honestly, that you’re OK. But I dont know you and you don’t know me. We are not part of each other’s lives. Take care of yourself, Ben. Be happy. But leave me out of it.”
She hangs up.
I hold the phone after she hangs up. There’s the click, a few seconds’ pause, and then the dial tone. I put the phone down, light one of the half-cigarettes Sean left in the ashtray and stare at the ceiling fan. Linda stops talking when there’s nothing left to talk about. Me? I’ll talk shit to death, getting nowhere the whole time. I should never have called. The room’s quiet again, and I hear the buzz and hum of the neon palm trees.
77
For some reason I wake up real early—the sun’s not up yet—and I’m wide awake. I flip through the early morning news shows, but they’re depressing as all hell—shootings, murder stats, the whole bit—so I make some coffee and head down to the pool. I sit in one of the yellow recliners and wait for the sun to come up. There’s noise coming from Bone’s work shed. I walk over and knock.
“You’re up early,” I say to Bone.
He’s welding something. He shuts off the flame, and lifts his eye shield. “Up late,” he says. “Haven’t been to bed.”
“Really?”
“I’m full of energy. I’ve got nothing but plans for this place.” He stands up and walks to the door, pointing to the abandoned half of The Palms. “After the sweat lodge, that’s next. Blowing out the walls—turning it into three apartments.”
“No more small rooms?”
“On this side, I’ll keep them small—maybe double them and make them art lofts.”
The sun begins to peak up behind Toller’s farm. “Sounds good.”
“You can have one of the big rooms,” Bone says. “If you want to stay.”
“That’s cool?”
“I’d like it if you stayed.”
The new team’s going to up in Tampa, and it’d be more logical to live there. I think about Sean, about the way she said we’re not married, when I got upset at her, and wonder what I should do. She and I might work; we might not, but if I move to Tampa, we’re probably done. “I’d like to stay here,” I say. “I can help out. I can still hold a brush.”
“You going to have much free time?”
I think about it. More traveling, more games, more players. “No,” I say. “Not a lot.”
We decide to have some coffee out by the pool while Bone shows me his plans for the place. I get the coffee and he meets me at the pool with a banana box.
“What’s up?” I say.
“A gift,” Bone says. “Sorry about the wrapping.”
“A gift?” I say and open the top of the box. Inside is a small scale basketball court—the floor is hardwood, the rims are black metal with little glass backboards. The detail is great—he’s painted in little three-point line and lanes. At center court are two figures on crucifixes. Down by the time-line, it’s signed The Two Thieves. Glass, wood, and metal. Bone. On the other side of the little court, the whole team has signed their names, with the exception of Money, who always uses the dollar sign on his autographs. “Thanks. It’s great.”
“Do you get it?” He says.
“I didn’t know it was something to get,” I say. “I’m a little dumb about art.”
“No,” he says. “That’s a good impulse. Most of my stuff works against meaning, but this one’s a message for you. You know the two thieves?”
“No.”
“Dismas and Gestas. They were crucified along with Christ,” he says. “Think about it. Christ up on the cross. Dismas asks what he’s there for and Christ says I’m dying for your sins. And Dismas and Gestas say, our sins? Everyone’s sins, Christ says.” Bone takes a sip of his coffee. “So Dismas and Gestas are thinking: If he’s dying for my sins, what am I dying for?” Bone stands up. “So, even if you buy the whole Christ dying for our sins, son of god bit—which I don’t—you have to see that even he let a few slip through the cracks.”
“I’m still unclear on the message.”
“The message is some of us go south on our own—no one to blame, no one to take the rap,” he says. “You can beat yourself up forever about what happened here.” He points up to Darnells room, which still has strips of yellow police tape around the door, flapping in the wind. “Or you can move on.”
“You got the dimensions perfect.”
“Hedda helped me out there,” he says and sits in the candy apple red recliner. “I’m sorry if it’s preachy—I don’t usually work with a message. In general, I hate them.”
“No,” I say. “It’s great. I love the way it looks.” I look down at the ground. “I’m touched.”
“Everyone was worried about the way you were taking it, Ben.” He points at the side of the floor with all the signatures. “People care about you.”
And I’m thinking back to my first meeting with Parcell and him making me say people love Ben Thompson. I think about Linda and Leon Garriss, and a bunch of others and think and people hate Ben Thompson.
I’m still unsure of which category I fall into.
“You OK?” Bone says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good. Thanks.”
“How’s your navel?” he says. “Any infection?”
“No,” I say. “Hurts a lot, though.”
“It’s a cleansing pain.”
“Really?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Bone says. “Just trying to put a good spin on it for you.”
I look at his chest. He’s wearing a blue checked flannel shirt, but it’s not buttoned and you can see the nipple rings and the navel hoop. “The pain doesn’t bother you?”
“I like it,” he says. “It’s a high. My cock bled a lot, though.”
“You have a ring in your dick?”
“Ring and a post,” he says. “You want to sec?”
“That’s a little personal, no?”
“Don’t go prude on me, Ben.”
“OK,” I say. “Whatever.”
He pulls his shorts up and pulls his dick down his thigh. He’s got a little hoop through the slit in the penis, and a rod behind the head. It looks kind of nice, but I hope it’s not something that turns Sean on. “Bled a lot there,” he says, pointing to the hoop. He pulls his shorts back down over his leg.
“Didn’t that hurt? I mean really hurt?”
“The hoop did. The post, I got it done right by some voodoo woman in New Orleans. Very spiritual,” he says. “I had spontaneou
s orgasms for two days afterwards.”
“No shit?”
“I stopped counting at twenty-five. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t leave the house, for obvious reasons.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“I’m not. The body does strange things.”
“I guess,” I say. Some birds chase each other in circles above the buildings. “What does Hedda think of those?”
He shrugs. “She seems to like them.” He finishes his coffee and puts the mug on the ground.
“You going to miss her?”
“She’s got to do what she does. And Spain’s the place for it,” he says. He looks sad. “But, yeah. I’ll miss her.”
78
Tucker Weatherspoon and his parents come up to Sarasota. His folks are up in Tampa at some posh hotel that Parcell owns. Before practice, I walk over to Money.
“I’m putting you on the second team,” I say. “Putting the kid at the two, and I want you to work him.”
“How much?”
“Work him.”
“Don’t give him anything easy, work him, or send him crying into his momma’s arms, work him?”
“Let him play,” I say. “But make it hard.”
I blow the whistle and the scrimmage stairs. It’s a little harder on Weatherspoon than it was in Miami, but not a lot. He works Money well on defense, and holds his own on offense. He gets a couple of good picks and absolutely explodes to the hole. He’s shy of his jumper—if I’m going to have him and Lewie together, I’m going to have to find someone with a jumper to take the pressure off them.
We go all out for half-an-hour and I tell them to hit the showers. I pull Money aside.
“What do you think?” I say.
“He can play. He’s no me, but he can play.” Money mimics Tucker’s high dribble. “You know I could have picked that any time I wanted?”
“I know,” I say. “Puts his head down when he drives. Did you catch the hitch?”
“That’ll hurt him,” Money says. “Used to getting to the rim too easy.”
“So what do you think?”
“You’re asking my opinion?”
“I am.”
We’re by the corner—out of bounds about five feet behind the three line. Money launches a jumper that hits nothing but net. “I’d say you’ve done better,” he says smiling. “But, with me gone, he might be your best bet.”
I shake his hand. “You are gone.”
“I am, and no offense, but as long as you’re minor league, I don’t want to see your face unless again unless you got tickets.”
“No offense taken. I want tickets, though. You come down and play Orlando or Miami, I want to watch.”
He motions to the locker room. “You going to sign the kid?”
“I think so.”
He looks out at the practice court. “He could do worse,” he says, which is as close to a thank you as Money gets, I think. He thanks people the way golfers hit those dinky little two inch putts—like it takes all the effort in the world and they shouldn’t have to bother with it.
“Thanks,” I say.
Money walks out onto the court and starts his shooting drills.
79
I call Parcell after practice and give him the go-ahead on the paperwork. We talk a little about details, and he asks me to come up later in the afternoon.
I’m the last one in Parcell’s office. Jake’s there with Tucker and his parents. Parcell is behind his desk. He welcomes me into the office, tells me to grab whatever I want to drink.
I shake Jake’s hand, and he introduces me to the parents.
“So, where are we?” Jake says.
Parcell leans forward, and addresses Mrs. Weatherspoon. “I’ve talked this over with Coach Thompson, and we’re prepared to offer Tucker $25,000 for the season.”
“Way too low,” Jake says.
Parcell smiles, but it’s a condescending smile. “I was not talking to you, Mr. Stuart. Nor was I finished.” He looks back at Mrs. Weatherspoon. “$25,000 for signing. If he will agree to certain incentive clauses, the figure could be bumped up considerably.”
“What are the clauses?” Jake says.
Parcell looks at him, and then back to the parents. “The $25,000 is guaranteed. If Tucker agrees to have a tutor—at our expense—and get his test scores up to college standards, we’re prepared to add another $15,000.”
“I like that,” his mother says.
Parcell points to me. “Thank Ben Thompson. We both feel it’s important that you get your degree,” he says to Tucker.
“I understand, sir,” Tucker says.
Parcell waves the sir away. “Call me Rube, son.”
And I’m thinking, I don’t get to call him Rube.
“What else?” Jake says.
“A signing bonus if he agrees to the terms. And a bump if he gets called up.”
“You’ll pay him more if he gets the call?” Jake says. “Makes no sense.”
I lean my chair toward Jake. “It’s important that this is a stepping stone. No one—including us—wants Tucker to be a career CBA player.”
We go over more details and I begin to get bored with the money talk and the insurance talk. It seems over and Parcell turns to me.
“Anything to add, Ben Thompson?”
I look at Tucker. He really is a kid—bone-thin, his suit hangs from him like a scarecrow. He’s trying to grow a beard, but his hair is all patchy. “You can play. But you have a ton of bad habits. That’s not your fault. If you don’t listen to me, though, it is. My job is to make you the player you can be. I’m not promising you anything except a spot on the team. I’m not even promising you’ll start. You’ll get a chance to play pro ball, and I’ll work you harder than you’ve ever worked.” The kid nods after every sentence. “I need to know you want this. I’m not going to invest my time in someone who doesn’t work.”
“I’ll work,” he says.
I shake his hand, and then his parents. “As far as I’m concerned, you can start now—with this team—or wait a few weeks and start fresh in the CBA. Whenever you’re ready, you’re on my team.”
Tucker smiles. “There’s a game tomorrow, right?”
“There is,” I say. “And I could use you. I’m down to eight players.”
Mr. Weatherspoon shifts in his chair and looks at me. “You had a player commit suicide,” he says.
“Yes,” I say.
Tucker shakes his head, and Jake looks upset. Mr. Weatherspoon looks at both of them. “I need to know this,” he says. He looks back at me. “What happened?”
“I’m still not Sure.” I say.
Parcell says, “Darnell Latimore was a drug addict. He’d probably started using drugs again. There was nothing we could do.”
I look at Parcell and want to punch him. But it wouldn’t solve anything, and I begin to realize that’s how people are going to talk about Darnell from now on, if and when his name comes up. And ten, twenty years down the road, I’ll probably still be wondering if I could have changed any of it. “We dont know if he was on drugs,” I say and look at Parcell. “I don’t know what happened, Mr. Weatherspoon.”
He sits back in his chair and looks satisfied with my answer. “I had to ask,” he says.
“Of course you did,” Parcell says.
Jake leans forward. “There are still a few things we need to work out.” Jake and Parcell start haggling over little details again, and I excuse myself, say my good-byes, and take off for home.
80
Sean and I stay at her place—which is brighter than my place, and has more books than I’ve ever seen in an apartment—and lounge around most of the day. I’ve missed this—doing nothing with someone you’re comfortable with. Around three, she tells me she’s got writing to do and she’ll see me tonight for dinner. I drive to Terry’s. My car’s driver side door has stopped opening, so I have to crawl in through the passenger side. By the time I get the car started, I’m drenched in sweat.
“Called you last night,” he says.
“Wasn’t home.”
“With Sean?”
“I was. We’re going to dinner out on the bay tonight. Watch the pelicans and the dolphins.”
“Good for you,” he says and gives me a cup of coffee. “What’s the news?”
“I’m staying put,” I say. “Bone and I talked about it. Staying at The Palms for the season.”
“Glad to hear it. It’s been good,” he says. “Having you here.”
“Same here,” I say. “You’ve helped a lot.”
He shakes his head.
“Listen,” I say. “I know we’ve talked about this, but I want you to reconsider about the job.”
“Please, Bomber.”
“I’ve got a real team. I need another pair of eyes. I need a scout and a coach. You’re perfect.”
“I am not,” he says. “Man who doesn’t want the job is not perfect for the job.”
I take a sip of coffee. “Listen to me,” I look at him. “Will you listen to me?”
“You’re not listening to me.”
“Parcell and I are on the same page. I took the Weatherspoon kid, and he’s got clauses in the contract for education, for incentives. Parcell did it my way.”
“For now,” Terry says. “Young man pops a tendon, you call and tell me how nice your boss is.”
“You said I’d see another Latimore, and I did. This kid’s special.”
“Being special don’t make him special. You don’t know what it’ll take to keep him on track.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “That’s why I could use you.”
“The minute you lean too hard on him—for his good—-you know who’s going to be talking to him?” He counts on his fingers. “His agent, his family, his girlfriend, and every single hanger-on in his little world.” He leans forward. “And all of them will be telling a young, impressionable man, that you’re wrong, he’s right, and that you’re just out to get him. The worst thing you can do to an eighteen year-old is give him a ton of money and tell him he’s always right. That’s what you’re up against.” He stands back and shakes his head. “You can’t do it, anymore. You can’t coach when the player is worth more than the coach.”