“You can have all you want, but they’re probably not thawed yet. What about the potato chips?”
“I want somethin’ else. I’m still hungry.”
“Have all you want,” T.J. said, motioning.
Tyron had four, crunching them like candy bars, all the while extolling their virtue with his mouth full.
The Full Court campers got to stay in the conference center part of the complex. It was a package of creature comforts far beyond what T.J. expected; it was even air-conditioned. They were housed three to a room, and each room had its own bathroom. Downstairs, in addition to the cafeteria, was a large conference room and a rec room with big-screen TV and several video games.
When T.J. and Tyron unpacked their stuff, T.J.’s only dilemma was where he should put his diary. It was the only thing in his possession that demanded privacy. He finally decided to take it back to the parking lot, where he could leave it in the glove box. Keep the car locked.
They met their roommate, a player from Peoria named Obie Williams. They had played against him junior year, but they hadn’t ever talked to him. Obie wasn’t bashful. He asked T.J., “What color are you, anyway?”
It was a question T.J. got asked frequently. He smiled before he answered, “Sort of light brown; beige, you might say.”
“Say what?”
“Color. You know, color?”
“I’m askin’ you what color are you?” Obie persisted.
“I’m tryin’ to answer. My father was Italian, and my mother is Puerto Rican. Actually, she’s not Puerto Rican, but her parents were. You could say she’s Puerto Rican, except she’s never been there. She’s never been out of Illinois, I don’t think.”
“That ain’t no kind of answer, I’m askin’ are you black or are you white?”
“It’s the best answer I’ve got. I’m a hybrid, sort of.”
This wasn’t going to satisfy the perplexed roommate either. “What’s a hybrid?” Obie wanted to know.
“It’s okay, you can call me bro if you want.”
“Say what?”
The high school coaches and college students who stayed in first-floor rooms were in charge of the building—they were the chaperones, more or less. There was a lot of commotion because there were more than two hundred players moved in or moving in. T.J. felt like he was the only one who didn’t have a Discman.
In the cafeteria, a schedule was posted; it informed them there would be an orientation meeting at 3:30. Once he discovered the video games in the rec room, Tyron was mellowed to the max. He couldn’t have been more at home even back at home. T.J., though, took off on his own. He felt the need to conduct a more personal, private orientation, one that could establish his sense of place.
He found his way to the parking lot, where he secured the diary in the car. He walked along the footpath that led in the direction of the huge footbridge in the distance. He passed six tartan-surfaced basketball courts where they would be playing their games; coaches and officials were setting up water tables between the courts, along with folding chairs. Shortly after, he passed the swimming pool, which was full of younger children squealing and hollering. He wondered briefly if Full Court campers would get to use the pool.
When he reached the footbridge, he saw how large it was, and how crude. It reached a distance of some two hundred feet or more from the bluff where he was standing to the bluff on the other side. It was put together with telephone poles and rough planks, but it looked very sturdy.
T.J. was standing on the high ground, where he could see. It felt reassuring to stand here; every army commander who ever lived, he knew from reading military history, proclaimed the advantage of the high ground. Looking back and to the right, he could see the facilities he had passed shortly before, even the conference center where they were staying. Looking across to the other side, he could see clusters of buildings in the distance, big ones and small ones. He realized there were more people and organizations here than Full Court could account for.
Reconnaissance had always been crucial to T.J. Nucci. You had to know the dimensions of the system within which you were supposed to function. You had to know the boundaries and the limits, as well as the gaps that created opportunities. In order to establish control of situations, you had to have bearings. And bearings were based on information.
Even when he was as young as twelve, he had learned the surveillance habit of sniffing out potential danger posed by his stepfather (ex-stepfather, actually). It wasn’t unusual for Lloyd to break the terms of the judge’s protection order by returning to their apartment to harass T.J.’s mother. Usually before he even turned the corner on their block, T.J. had learned to be alert for details. Was the Cougar parked along the curb near their building? If not, were there any cars he didn’t recognize? Any police cars? When he got closer, he would look for beer cans or wine bottles on the stoop. If he saw any, what kind were they? If it was after dark, he looked to see which lights were on, or listened for pitched voices.
The bridge smelled strongly of the creosote used to weatherize it. T.J. lit a cigarette as he started to cross it. It was a long way down to the bottom of the gorge, where a nearly dry creek bed gurgled, barely, in some rocky shallows. With no breeze, it smelled brackish. On the other side he discovered, among other things, a group of shop and equipment buildings where maintenance workers were hanging out. Several of them were seated at a pair of picnic tables beneath a huge oak tree, drinking coffee and telling jokes. It brought back the unpleasant memory of last summer’s job, when he had been on a weed-cutting crew out at the reservoir.
He got back to the conference center in time to participate in the team selections, which were made along regional lines. He and Tyron were on the same team, which was the thing he cared about most. Ishmael Greene, a superstar by reputation, was also selected for their team. So was Obie, their roommate. Each team had a total of ten players. T.J. could only hope the rest of his teammates were guys who could play, or else he would be expected to play more minutes than he wanted.
When it was time to name the team, Tyron suggested they should be called the Blue Stars. T.J. recognized it as a space ranger group from some SEGA game, but it turned out to be a popular suggestion. The Blue Stars they would be, and the positive reinforcement of receiving early approval could only be beneficial to Tyron at the camp.
Their first game wasn’t until after supper when the heat was down, but it was still too warm to go full out, as far as T.J. was concerned. He was in over his head here, anyway; if it hadn’t been for the need to ride herd on Bumpy and keep him encouraged, he wouldn’t have been here at all.
It didn’t take more than five or six minutes of the first half for T.J. to realize how overmatched he was by these other players. These guys were essentially all-stars, the elite players on their high school teams. They were showcasing their skills for the benefit of the many college recruiters on hand.
On his own team, in addition to Tyron, Ishmael Greene demonstrated in a hurry why he was rated among the best players in the state. Ishmael was an incredible leaper with amazing skills; it was nearly impossible to guard him because he was also a deadly shooter from the perimeter. It was rumored he was leaning toward Notre Dame, but the rumor didn’t stop the multitude of other coaches from hovering close to the court. In any case, it was a welcome benefit to T.J. having him on the team, because all you really had to do on offense was get the ball in Ishmael’s hands and then relax.
Tyron was playing extremely well; the atmosphere of big-time teammates and college recruiters seemed to inspire him. In the second half, T.J. welcomed the opportunity to sit on the bench while other guys played. It wasn’t appropriate that he was chosen to be in the starting lineup, anyway; he wasn’t even a starter for his high school team. Not that he wanted to be.
From the bench, he watched the activity around the courts more than the game itself. In addition to all the college coaches and recruiters, there were a number of other guys he didn’t recognize,
some young and some not so young. Some of them must have been coaches he didn’t know about, but they couldn’t all be; there were too many of them. A lot of them wore caps from pro teams like the Magic or the Hornets. Others wore shorts and shirts with Nike logos or Adidas symbols. T.J. guessed they were friends and relatives of players, or other players not signed up for the camp.
Once, when Ishmael Greene went out of the game to take a breather, T.J. saw the Notre Dame coach have a brief conversation with him. T.J. knew, from his conversations with Coach Lindsey at North State, that such a conversation was illegal. It was a violation of NCAA rules. College coaches were allowed to be present at Full Court and watch the players for purposes of evaluation, but the rules said they couldn’t make contact. T.J. wondered if he should write it down in his diary, but then he remembered it had nothing to do with Tyron, so what would be the point? But it would be exactly the kind of thing the sportswriter Gaines would want to hear about. T.J. had to giggle, in spite of himself; was this supposed to be basketball, or espionage?
Other teams played at eight o’clock, so they got to rest for an hour before their second game, which was under the lights. It was somewhat cooler after sundown, but not nearly enough to satisfy T.J. For some reason, the coach started him again. He was expected to try and check a jet-quick guard from Chicago named Ronnie Streets. It was hopeless. In addition to his fatigue, T.J. was annoyed. If he had fully realized the level of talent he would be expected to compete against, and the intensity of physical exertion involved, he would have stayed at home and let Tyron fend for himself.
After about six minutes or so, he turned his ankle trying to chase Streets down the lane. It was only a mild turn; T.J. knew it was far removed from an actual injury like a sprain, but he was grateful for any chance to lie on his back and look up at the stars.
“You okay, Nucci?” It was their coach, Buddy Ingalls, asking him. Ingalls was actually a player from Bradley.
“It’s my ankle,” T.J. replied.
The coach fingered his ankle. “Is it bad?”
“I can’t say yet.”
“Do you need to see one of the trainers?”
T.J. was disappointed in himself for not thinking of it sooner than his coach did. The trainers were good-looking college babes, and their building was air conditioned. “Maybe I ought to,” he said, “just to be safe.” He wasn’t proud of the fraud, but sometimes duplicity was the only option you had.
Both of the trainers in Room A were blondes with dark tans, Southern Illinois University students majoring in leisure studies or sports medicine. The one named Nola removed his left shoe and sock, while the one named Bridget was working a crossword puzzle. The room itself was big-time cool, and the table he lay on was cool vinyl. When Nola probed his ankle with her fingers, T.J. felt very little pain. He could only hope there might be at least a little swelling to make this encounter seem legitimate.
“I can’t find any swelling,” said Nola flatly, “but I’ll ice it for you, anyway. You can probably play the second half of your game if you feel up to it.”
“Thanks. We’ll see.” There was nothing to see, though. The ice pack would be as compelling as a written pass from the dean’s office.
Nola was applying the Freezepack and using an Ace bandage wrap to secure it around the ankle. Looking up from her puzzle book, Bridget asked, “Have you ever heard of a word called feckless?”
“Called what?” asked Nola.
“Feckless. Have you ever heard of it?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, it fits in here. It fits in eighteen across.”
“I never heard of any word like that. You must have a mistake in there someplace.”
“I don’t think so,” Bridget insisted. “I think all the other words are right.”
Now that Nola was finished with his ankle wrap, T.J. was free to turn onto his side. He had never heard of feckless before either. “It sounds like it might be a real word,” he said, “But there would be a problem with it.”
“What problem?”
“Well, think about it. A word with less on the end means you don’t have any of something. In this case, it would have to mean you don’t have any feck.”
“But what is feck?” Bridget asked him.
“Exactly. What does it mean to have no feck? What does it mean to have feck? I mean, compare it to a word like helpless or painless. You see where this is headed?”
She was trying not to giggle. “More or less.”
“So the problem would be, if you don’t have any feck, what is it that you’re missing? Is it a good thing to have, or a bad thing?”
“Are we done now?” asked Nola, with an officious tone of voice.
T.J. ignored her by asking, “Is feck something you’re born with or is it something you acquire? Are there people with lots of feck only they don’t know it? Is there like a standard range for it, like you could be hyperfeck or hypofeck?”
Bridget was laughing out loud, but Nola wasn’t finding anything amusing about T.J.’s malingering. “I think we’re done here,” she declared.
“Okay, okay.” T.J. swung himself into the seated position on the edge of the table. The ankle wrap felt secure. Still in a playful head, he asked Nola, “Are you busy later tonight?”
“Too busy to baby-sit,” she replied, without missing a beat.
“Ouch. Maybe you’d like to think it over.”
“I’m sure.”
When he was courtside again, he found Tyron sitting on the bench. He had taken himself out of the game.
“Why?” asked T.J.
“I’m so goddam tired, T.J. Let’s go back to the rec room and play those video games.”
“When?”
“Now. Let’s go now.”
T.J. was flabbergasted. “We can’t go now! We can’t just leave in the middle of a game!”
“But I’m so goddam tired.” Tyron was quaffing Gatorade in huge cups, one after the other, while the sweat poured down his face.
And this is only the first day, T.J. reminded himself. “We can play video games later tonight. No pain, no gain, Big Guy. Remember, if you want to be a star, you have to pay the price.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be a star.”
“What about the slam-dunkin’ Hawkeyes and the slam-dunkin’ Hoyas?”
“But maybe I don’t want to be a star. Maybe I want to spend my time at the mall, hangin’ out.”
“Are you crazy? Look at me, I’m the one with the injury, but do you hear me talkin’ about quittin’?”
Now Tyron was ashamed. “No,” he said.
T.J. pushed the advantage: “Even with this ankle, do you hear me say anything about quitting? Do you?”
“I said no, didn’t I?”
“Then take five and go back in. What will Coach Lindsey think if he sees you bein’ lame like this?”
“Okay, okay.”
THREE
They had two games the next morning. Since it wasn’t the hottest part of the day, T.J. played as much as he was asked. The ankle wasn’t hurting him; if it needed to be a factor somehow, he could wait until the temperature got up to ninety degrees or higher.
Tyron was playing extremely well. So well, in fact, that at times he seemed to dominate, at least on the inside. He was also wearing a brand-new pair of shoes, some top-of-the-line Nikes that T.J. didn’t recognize. When there was a break between games, he asked Tyron about the shoes.
“Bee Edwards gave them to me,” replied Tyron. He was short of breath, but smiling.
“Who’s Bee Edwards, and why did he give you shoes?” T.J. was looking closely. They were the Nike Magic Carpets, with the distinct amber bubble nestled in the crook of the swoosh. “You know how much these shoes cost?”
It was too many questions at one time for Tyron, whose confusion was apparent.
“Okay,” said T.J. “Who’s Bee Edwards? Tell me that.”
“He’s just a guy. I don’t know who he is.”
T.J. tho
ught he might know the man to whom Tyron was referring. “Not the guy with the hat. You don’t mean the guy with the hat.”
“Yeah, that’s the guy. He gave me the shoes.”
“Why did he give you the shoes?”
Tyron was toweling off his face. “You could slow down with the questions, right?”
“Why did he give you the shoes?”
“He gave Ishmael a pair of shoes, and I said I’d like to have some too.”
“So he gave them to you? Just like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus Christ,” said T.J. He turned to Ishmael Greene and asked, “That’s the way it happened, he gave you a pair of shoes, so then he gives Bumpy a pair too?”
“Who’s Bumpy?”
“I meant Tyron. Is that how it happened?”
“That’s how it happened, man. Bee gave me a pair, then he gave Tyron a pair. It’s no big deal. He gives me shoes from time to time, but he’s not the only one. Know what I mean?”
“I don’t have a clue what you mean,” T.J. answered. But for the exasperation he was feeling, he might have taken the time to write some of this stuff down for Gaines, the sportswriter. He dismissed the thought as fast as it came. “What are you supposed to do for the shoes?” he asked Ishmael.
“Do?” said Ishmael. “Say do? Don’t do shit, man. Nada.”
T.J. really did want to get a handle on this, even though he was already tired of hearing about it. “Bee Edwards gives you shoes. Then he gives other people shoes. In return, he expects nothing for it.”
“That’s it. I think he used to hope I’d go to Kentucky, but that’s not it anymore. I think it’s just that he likes me.”
“Why would he care if you go to Kentucky? Never mind, don’t answer that.”
Their coach for the week, Buddy Ingalls, who stood only about five eleven, was a varsity guard for Bradley. He was a noisy, scrappy type; T.J. recognized him as the kind of player who was usually called a spark plug. Ingalls told them to shut up so he could give them their second-game strategy. But he had heard enough of the conversation to warn, “Street agents, man. Fucking hustlers. Keep away from them.”
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