by Bryan Mealer
But the win did not come without some pain. Just before halftime, running back Neville Brown and Mario were injured on the same play. First Neville went down screaming with a dislocated shoulder, which the Tiger trainer reset on the field with a sickening pop.
Mario went down as well, but before he could get to his feet, a Tiger linebacker speared him in the helmet just above the face mask, rattling his brain. Dazed and disoriented, the quarterback said nothing and remained in the game for six plays, even managing three completions. Finally he broke from the huddle and stumbled toward the sideline, weaving across the field like the town drunk. He braced himself against Hester, then staggered to the fenceline and stared into the crowd with blank, childish wonder. By the time the trainer reached him, Mario was slack-jawed and gazing up at the moon.
On Monday after the game, a doctor took scans of Mario’s brain and diagnosed him with a concussion. The quarterback was ordered to sit out for at least a week to recover. The second half of the game still remained blurry in his mind; he didn’t remember wandering off after it was over and having to be guided back to the bus, or how he’d swayed like a bowling pin through an entire interview with a clearly alarmed Post reporter. For days after the hit, the sun burned his eyes and gave him headaches.
Monday’s practice also found Neville Brown with a busted shoulder; Boobie’s shoulder was sore and wrapped with a sling; Page had a quad contusion; and Kelvin Benjamin was gone. Luckily for Mario and the Raiders, the next Friday was off, allowing two full weeks to heal and come together as a team minus the figurehead star.
The game in two weeks against Suncoast would be the last of the regular season at Effie C. Grear Field. It was also Senior Night, when seniors from the entire maroon-and-gold machine—football, band, and cheerleading—got to honor their families before the fans and announce their future plans.
Jonteria Williams imagined the evening with both giddiness and trepidation. She felt excited to be recognized as head cheerleader, to be front and center under the lights instead of second fiddle to the football boys. Plus, she had good news to share: Florida Atlantic University had accepted her for admission in the fall. It was the only school to respond so far, and just in time. Jonteria was getting worried that Senior Night would come and find her empty-handed, with nothing to share but empty hopes: “Jonteria Williams … hopes to attend the college of her choice.”
That’s how Coach Dennis Knabb would say it on the PA system. It was the stock line they used for graduating cheerleaders who were too preoccupied with boys and looking pretty to bother with college. Out of the entire squad, only three ever made the honor roll. That included her best friend, Walkeria Carter, who was also in Ms. Canty’s medical science academy and had been accepted to FAU. Walkeria was president of Twenty Pearls, while Jonteria was vice-president. Walkeria had also won Miss Glades Central.
“Walkeria’s very outspoken,” Jonteria said. “And everything she competes in, she wins. She’s been winning ever since we’ve been in elementary school.”
Theresa had been ecstatic when Jonteria got the news about FAU. It was the school she privately hoped Jonteria would choose in the end, just because it was so close to home. But there was still the University of Miami.
The application deadline for UM was January 1, still over a month away, and Jonteria refused to rush. When she hit Send, the formal request of Jonteria Williams to attend the school of her dreams would be nothing short of perfect.
So, in terms of Senior Night coming and not looking like a fool: check. But there was something else about the evening that left a queasiness in her stomach. Jonteria had asked her father, John Williams, to walk the field with her and Theresa. It would be the first time in her memory the three of them had stood together in Belle Glade in public since his release from prison—a five-minute game of pretend unhindered by the pangs of betrayal and bitterness.
“I’m just so happy he said yes,” she said, sitting in her dark living room one Saturday after an eight-hour shift at Winn-Dixie. “Football has never been his thing. I think he’s nervous.”
Since Jonteria was only five when her father decided to involve himself in a robbery, the details of his going to prison were foggy in her mind. She just remembered him being gone. And her memory of him before that moment was merely a stark composite, constructed from her own limited recollections and the stories her mother told.
“I remember the gifts he would bring because he was always up in Georgia working,” she said. “A gift you could remember. A balloon and a bike on my birthday, even though he just left the money for my mom. But we would take family trips. Once we went to Disney World in Orlando. And Boomers in Boca. That’s an arcade.
“How did I see him? He was this person who could give me anything in the world. But after a while you start to notice it’s not all about gifts and stuff. After a while he just wasn’t there.”
Jonteria had seen her father once in prison, right around the time her mother broke the news. John’s old girlfriend Shirley, who also had a daughter with him, had taken the kids to the facility near Atlanta. The guards took them to a large empty room, as big as a gymnasium, where her father sat wearing a white jumpsuit. They formed a circle around his chair and John informed them that he’d been saved and wanted to become a preacher. He talked about Jesus the entire time, she remembered, then insisted they all pray. It was disorienting and confusing, and it wasn’t until they were driving home to Florida that Jonteria realized she’d forgotten to ask her father what he’d even done and when he was coming home.
Seven years later, at a Christmas party at her house in Belle Glade, John walked through the door a free man. He’d recently been released from a halfway house in Georgia and had settled in with a new wife, whom he’d married while in prison. The seven years had turned Jonteria into a young woman; her father hardly recognized her.
“When I saw him, I thought, ‘I look just like this man,’ ” she said. “We had this blank moment where we didn’t know what to say to each other. Finally I just hugged him.”
After being gone a decade, the reacquaintance period with his two daughters had been slow and awkward. As the oldest child, Jawantae still harbored unresolved feelings and remained reluctant. Theresa had simply been there and done that.
But Jonteria hoped for a relationship and worked tirelessly to make it work. It wasn’t that her father didn’t want one, she said, it was that he couldn’t remember how. He was a man who’d been gone too long. When he and Jonteria spoke by phone, he mostly wanted to talk about church and Jesus, as if using her to practice a sermon. But it was a start.
“He’s getting better at conversations,” she said. “It’s just different from what I thought a father would be like. I wish he were more like my mom. She’s more enjoyable. You can enjoy her. You can hang out.”
They’d had a series of breakthroughs. The first came on Jonteria’s seventeenth birthday, when John had taken her to Red Lobster in West Palm. Theresa had driven Jonteria, then joined them for dinner, which was awkward, but something Theresa needed to do.
“It was a chapter in my life that I never closed, and I finally closed it when I saw him,” she said. “It gave me a sense of release to know it was really over.”
Their relationship never came up. The two just talked about their daughter and all she’d accomplished, one of Theresa’s favorite subjects anyway.
Then one night John came over to the house. He brought steamed crabs, and he and Jonteria spread out a blanket in front of the television and had a picnic.
“It was just like I remembered as a little girl,” she said.
She knew that her father probably felt ashamed about the past and worried that people in town still judged him for what he’d done. So when Jonteria called and asked if he’d escort her and Theresa down the field on Senior Night, before the eyes of Belle Glade, she was nervous he’d say no. And even though he’d agreed, seemed flattered even, she still wouldn’t feel totally at ease until she saw hi
m at school, in the flesh. “That’s when I’ll relax,” she said.
• • •
FOR THE RAIDERS, the game against Suncoast held far more importance than just the Senior Night ceremony. A win over the Chargers would give Glades Central the 7-2A district crown and home-field advantage in the first round of the playoffs, just three weeks away. Suncoast was a magnet school and, in terms of academics, was ranked one of the ten best high schools in America. The Chargers were a perennial “A” performer and certainly a powerhouse at statewide Brain Bowl competitions. But when it came to football:
“They garbage,” said Coach Randy, watching film of the team.
But what about Davison Colimon, the six-foot-two free safety and wide receiver?
“Garbage.”
And the Granger brothers, Abiade and Timotheus, a power duo on both ends of the defensive line, who’d combined for a dozen tackles a game and also played offense?
“Garbage, too.”
After the week off, the players also seemed little worried about Suncoast. But instead of their usual cocky ambivalence preceding such a “stat game,” the Raiders entered the week like a team starting to find its groove.
On Monday the two-minute drills, while usually high tempo, grew tense and violent. The Raider defenders, led by Boobie, Jaja, and Don’Kevious, were feeling well rested and took the field snapping on the leash, ready to hit. They quickly grew agitated by the usual sluggishness of the offensive line, the inability of Brandon, Corey, Salt, and the rest to block and remember play calls, and began punishing them with force. Hester approved and began ordering blitz after blitz. Each one was carried out with maximum strength, leaving linemen flat on their backs. The usual soft touch of practice was temporarily forgotten.
Between plays, Don’Kevious bounced behind the line, barking like a dog. He and his boys wanted more. At 6:00 p.m., they begged the coach for an extended practice. The next day was a teacher work holiday, they said. Let them punish these boys a little longer. The coach agreed. The OL’s suffering would not end soon. “No school tomorrow,” Don’Kevious shouted. He was only getting warm. “So we gonna play till yall get it right.”
As the sun began to set, the hits became so raw and painful that two fights broke out that cleared the sidelines and took every coach to stop them. Then it began to rain, the drops falling like rocks from the darkening sky and bringing a cold wind. The boys loved to play in the wet. The click-clack chewed up the field, leaving them sliding in the black muck until the light finally vanished.
“Great practice,” Hester told the team afterward, standing in a downpour. “That’s the kind of intensity I like to see.”
Coach King added that in 2006, the last time the Raiders won the championship, there were fights like that every day—fights for all the right reasons.
• • •
THE SENIOR NIGHT ceremony took place before a small pregame crowd as the sun sank behind the cane. Junior players lined up to form a tunnel through which the seniors walked to meet their families at the other end. Each carried a carnation tied with ribbon for the proud parent or grandparent waiting with open arms. Coach Knabb read prepared notes over the PA regarding each boy’s plans after high school, and which college programs had extended offers.
For those who did not know which college they’d be attending, yet who still wished to play the game, Knabb provided the stock line: “… who hopes to attend the college of his choice and to play the game he loves, football. And if God blesses him so, a career in the NFL.”
Hoping that God would bless him so, Mario ran out of the tunnel and presented his carnation to his sister, Canisa. Davonte, with his offers from Marshall, West Virginia, and others, embraced his mother, Delia. For all the other players, the ambitions varied: Dion Blackmon was headed to the Air Force; Rashad Darisaw wished to become a sports agent; Robert Burgess had dreams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation; Courtney Porter had the humble hopes of returning home after college to teach math at Glades Central.
The last player to be called was Benjamin, who sauntered down the tunnel to the wild applause of the crowd. He would attend the college of his choice and major in criminal justice, said Knabb. But Belle Glade would have to wait until the first week of February to find out where God would bestow his blessing.
Benjamin was out of uniform, wearing a white T-shirt and a Phillies cap turned backward. He’d appeared only once that week at practice, just to say hello, and stayed less than an hour. For the rest of the week, he’d gone home straight after school, not answering calls or returning messages.
The Saturday after his last game, he’d turned up at a picnic in Pioneer Park hosted by Pastor Dez. He was moody and withdrawn and admitted that his season had been a letdown. For this, he blamed Hester.
“It felt like he didn’t like me,” he said. “When I first started, he would stay late after practice and coach me one-on-one. But then when I got so good, and blowed up and stuff, it’s like he stopped trying to coach me. So by my last game, I was ready to stop playing. It wasn’t as exciting as I thought my senior season was gonna be.
“I was promised a bunch of touchdowns,” he added. “And when I didn’t get the touchdowns, I didn’t say nothin. Life goes on. I was just going through the motions.”
He’d positioned himself near the ticket booth before the Senior Night ceremony began, chatting with teachers and greeting fans as they walked through the gate. Showing that he was still there, that he’d not disappeared. As his Raiders wrapped up the first quarter already up by two touchdowns, KB stood alone on the sidelines, staring into his phone, as if trying not to seem invested. When he sensed someone watching him, he turned around and gave a goofy grin. By halftime, with the Raiders coasting to an easy victory, he was long gone.
Up in the stands, Frank Williams was sipping gin and juice with the other Raider fathers. He’d also been watching KB down on the sidelines and acknowledged that he was feeling down. All week KB had come home and played video games with his little nephew, Willie. “Not being part of the team, it’s hurting him on the inside,” said Frank. “He didn’t even come out of the house.”
Frank planned to get a family friend, James Jackson, to start conditioning KB for summer training camp, wherever he decided to go. Jackson himself had played for the Miami Hurricanes and Cleveland Browns and now ran a fast-track program in Wellington. “I told KB he’s gotta start running and lifting or his body’s gonna go to waste,” he added.
KB had just nodded.
• • •
ALSO SEATED IN the stands during the first half was John Williams, there to escort his daughter. He wore a four-button pin-striped suit and a blue tie. His hair remained styled in the classic Jheri curl with enough sheen to make it sparkle under the lights. He sat with Theresa while Jonteria led the cheerleaders through their routines on the track below, wincing after she fell down from an awkward jump. “Shake it off, baby,” he muttered under his breath. Then, to Theresa, “I think she’s jumping too high.”
The Senior Night ceremony for cheerleaders took place at halftime at midfield. There was a chill in the air, so John held his daughter close to keep her warm. Theresa, dressed in a brown pantsuit, stood with them smiling, waving to friends in the stands. When Coach Knabb announced their daughter’s future plans, Theresa and John walked proudly on either side, as if the past had never happened. And for a moment, as the three of them posed for photos under the lights, Jonteria let herself imagine that it had never changed, and that it would stay this way tomorrow and forever.
After beating the Suncoast Chargers 39–0 and capturing the district title, the Raiders arrived at Monday practice to a changed reality. Hester gathered the team under a crisp, blue November sky and told them to forget about the past nine games. The time for handholding was over. Moving forward, only the best eleven guys would take the field.
“Right now, we in the playoffs,” Hester said. “Aint no more regular season for us.”
Technically, there w
as still one more game remaining on the schedule. But it was no ordinary game, nothing to take lightly. In fact, many would argue that nothing beyond this game even really mattered. The Raiders could win state and send twenty kids to Division I, but history would regard the season as a failure if Glades Central lost to Pahokee.
“It’s Muck Bowl time,” Hester reminded them. “Nothing more needs sayin.”
• • •
IN ADDITION TO sending an extraordinary number of players to college and the NFL, Pahokee and Glades Central were known for one other thing, and that was their annual shoot-out against each other. Touted as one of the greatest high school rivalries in America, the Muck Bowl drew thousands of fans and practically emptied both towns. In addition, there were those in the Muck City diaspora who treated the game as an annual pilgrimage and traveled from as far away as Alaska. The tailgating began early Friday morning and didn’t end until Sunday night, leaving lower Okeechobee hidden from space under a hazy cloud of pit smoke.
Reporters from the major papers, magazines, and networks also arrived looking for good color; over half the stories ever written about Glades football in the national press were written during Muck Bowl. Even ESPN had once televised the game. More important, the matchup between the Raiders and the Blue Devils also drew a throng of college coaches and scouts looking to maximize their time. In past years, both schools reserved entire sections of bleachers just to accommodate them.
The rivalry dated back to 1943, the year Belle Glade High first opened its doors and invited the inevitable pissing match with its bean-picking neighbors to the north. For decades, the annual meeting was called the “Bean Bowl” or “Everglades Bowl” and was played on Thanksgiving Day. It was the premier social event of the season, as described in an editorial in the Belle Glade Herald on November 22, 1957: