She paused before she answered. “LuAnn,” she told him. “What’s yours?”
“T.J. Nucci.”
She asked him if he was in the basketball camp. It seemed to T.J. like she never stopped smiling.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Sometimes I can see across. There’s a high place just outside our meeting shelter where you can see a long way. I can’t see every court and every player, but some of it. Whenever I see the players, I think how hot it must be.”
“Hotter ’n hell,” T.J. agreed.
LuAnn giggled again. “I doubt that. I’m sure the fires of Hell are much hotter than anything we could ever imagine. You must be a real good player if you’re in the Full Court camp.”
“You know about basketball?”
“I used to be a cheerleader. Besides, everybody knows about Full Court.”
“I wouldn’t say everybody.”
“You’re probably right. Just people with an interest in basketball. You must be real good if you’re in it, though.”
“Not really.” Briefly, and without going into too much detail, T.J. explained his relationship to Tyron. How he was here basically to keep Tyron motivated so he might get a college scholarship if the opportunity ever presented itself.
LuAnn listened with wide eyes. “I’m sure the Lord will bless you for it.”
“Do you have to keep saying that? And how come you smile all the time?”
“I smile because I’m happy. I smile because I’m saved.”
T.J. groaned in his mind, Oh God. The enthusiasm he’d been cultivating for her tits and legs fizzled like a doused charcoal briquette. I suppose she’s going to try to convert me.
“Sister Simone teaches us that we can serve Him in all things, no matter how great or small.”
“Who’s Sister Simone?” asked T.J. Not that he really wanted to know.
“She’s our counselor. She teaches us that all our problems, even the ones that seem most serious, can really be opportunities to glorify the Lord. But we have to seek His will and put our trust in Him.”
And does she ever tell you to use your own brain for thinking? T.J. wondered. For the briefest moment, maybe no longer than a split second, when she spoke of Sister Simone he was reminded of Bee Edwards. Why, though? The thing he was sure about was that he didn’t want to listen to a sermon about how he ought to turn his life over to the Lord. Wasn’t he sitting on this bridge specifically to avoid Digger Phelps’ sermonizing?
He couldn’t tell for certain why he didn’t leave at that point. It would be the easiest way. Instead, he took out a cigarette and lit it. When he offered her one, she said, “No, thank you.”
“I don’t suppose that would work with Sister Simone, would it?”
LuAnn was smiling. “It wouldn’t work with me. It wouldn’t work with who I am. It would only work with the old me.”
“The old you?”
“Before I was saved. Before I turned my life over to the Lord. I used to smoke those things.”
“You used to smoke and you used to be a cheerleader.”
Her face was propped on her forearms, which were propped on the lower railing of the bridge. He liked her face at this three-quarter angle. She said, “I used to be a lot of things. Mostly, I was willful.”
T.J. took a drag before he asked, “What’s that supposed to mean, willful?”
“It means I wanted my own way. I had to be a cheerleader with a spiral perm. I smoked cigarettes and drank beer. I did some marijuana at parties. I skipped a lot of school, so my grades were low.”
“What school do you go to?”
“Peoria Roosevelt. I’ll be a senior next year.”
“Yeah, me too. At Burton. So what happened to the cheerleading?”
“I was kicked off the squad.”
“That’s too bad,” said T.J.
“Not really,” LuAnn explained. “I think it’s what I wanted. I wanted my parents to suffer. I thought all the bad things I was doing would punish them. It was so stupid how I was willing to mess up my own life just to pay them back for something I couldn’t even name. That’s what I mean by willful.”
T.J., who was habitually guarded with the private aspects of his own life, wondered why LuAnn would be so open with all this negative personal history. “Do you always just blurt out the personal stuff?” he asked.
“I do now.”
“Why?”
“Because telling other people I’m a sinner reminds me of the fact.”
“You want to be reminded you’re a sinner, is that it?” T.J. had no idea why he was even extending this conversation. He threw the spent Marlboro down the gorge.
“If you know you’re a sinner,” declared LuAnn, “it reminds you that you can be redeemed.”
“So if you’re bad, that’s good.”
She lifted her head to say, “If you acknowledge your sins and confess them, then God’s grace can save you. If you don’t understand your own sinful nature, then you can’t understand the path to redemption.”
“So you can’t be saved if you don’t admit you need it.”
“Exactly.” LuAnn smiled wider.
“Have you ever read 1984?” T.J. asked her.
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “Why?”
“Oh, you know, war is peace. Freedom is slavery.”
“That sounds weird, for sure. Is it a good book?”
Now she sounded a little bit like Tyron, but it didn’t matter. Looking straight into her face, he wondered what he ought to say next. About all he could want from this girl was a good lay, but what he’d most likely get would be a session of scripture reading.
“I asked you, is it a good book?”
“Yeah,” answered T.J., with no thought about books. “Lots of people think so.”
“Are you a Christian, T.J.?” was her next question.
“No, no, nothin’ like that,” was his quick reply.
“Because our meetings are open. I’m sure Sister Simone would be glad to have you, or any of your friends.”
“Do you think I need to be converted, is that it?”
“Who said anything about that? I just want you to know you’re invited.”
“Yeah, well, thanks but no thanks.”
On Wednesday morning, Tyron told T.J. he was considering Notre Dame.
“Why is that?”
“Ishmael says I should think about it.”
“Ishmael can go anywhere he wants,” said T.J. while toweling his sweat and drinking cups of Gatorade. “Any college in the country would want him.”
“Yeah, I know. He says I should think about it, though. That’s why I’m considering Notre Dame.”
“You can consider any place you want, but it’s North State that made you the scholarship offer. They’re the one that’s considering you.” Saying this, T.J. paused to speculate if there might be any connection between Notre Dame and Nike. He didn’t know, though. He was beginning to wonder what was connected to what in order to form what networks.
“Ishmael thinks him ’n’ me would make a great combination.”
“You probably would. Hell, you already do; why do you think we’ve won six games the last two days?”
Tyron’s grin seemed to reach from the left ear to the right ear. “You see me dunk on that gold team yesterday?”
“I saw. Listen, Bumpy—”
“No Bumpy!”
“Okay, sorry. Listen, Tyron, you have to think about loyalty too. Who was it that made you the first offer, huh? It was North State. Who was it that told us about Public Law 504 so you can have the ACT read to you?”
“I know, I know. It was Coach Lindsey at North State.”
“Exactly. With all the bullshit that goes on, you have to think about loyalty.”
“I still have the right to think about Notre Dame if I want to.”
“Nobody says you don’t.” T.J. was fishing his watch from his athletic bag. He had at least forty minutes before the next game. “Do me a favo
r, though?”
“What favor?”
“Just keep away from Bee Edwards and those other street agents. Be sure you spend your time with Buddy and the guys. No hustlers.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with takin’ shoes. Everybody gets shoes.”
“Nobody gets shoes for nothin’, Tyron.”
“Nothin’. Not a cent, not even a nickel.”
“It may not have anything to do with money. It might be a different kind of payoff; just keep away from the street agents, okay?” Then T.J. left for the courts before he could hear what the answer might turn out to be.
The second game of the morning was another easy victory, but a disturbing clash developed between Tyron and Ishmael Greene. The other team was playing a box-and-one defense so as to free one man to shadow Greene wherever he might go. That wasn’t a problem in itself, for no one person could cover Ishmael alone.
But the other players, none more so than Tyron, were enjoying their huge lead. They were basically standing around playing out the string, which left their defenders free to double- and even triple-team Ishmael. It was Ishmael alone who couldn’t seem to find a way to put it on idle; it was a gear he didn’t possess. He played with the same level of intense fury he might have needed in a tie game. With no warning at all, it seemed, he was all over Tyron for loafing. “How’m I s’posed to beat three guys?” he demanded to know.
“Huh?” said Tyron. He was grinning large and slapping high fives with his sated teammates.
“You need to house that motherfucker out the way; how’m I gonna drive the lane against my own man plus a three-man zone?” Ishmael was breathing hard, but he didn’t appear tired. It was almost like he couldn’t get tired, T.J. thought to himself. He also wondered why Ishmael chose to target Tyron, when the other players were on shutdown the same as he was.
“You don’t need to get on Tyron’s case,” he said to Ishmael. “The game’s over, for Christ sake.”
“You see time left on that clock or not?” was Ishmael’s response.
There was one minute and twelve seconds remaining on the small electric Scoreboard next to the scorer’s table. “I see a minute,” T.J. replied. “I also see a thirty-point lead. Why don’t you chill?”
“You see time on the clock, the game ain’t over. You got that big ass of yours,” he said to Tyron, “so house him out the lane. I need the lane, you understand?”
Tyron didn’t understand. “Fuck you,” he told Greene while gasping for breath. “I’m tired.”
Buddy Ingalls interrupted when he declared, “That’s enough. You all shut up. You don’t coach, Ishmael, you just play. Any player needs to be told what to do, that’s my job.”
Ishmael flung down his towel without speaking and headed for the court. Before he sent him back into the game, Ingalls reminded Tyron, “Ishmael’s right, though, Tyron. Coaches are everywhere you look; they don’t want to think you’ve got quit in you.”
“I’m so tired, though,” said Tyron with the sweat running rivulets down his face and neck. “It’s hot as hell.”
“You heard what I said.”
There were no more sparks after that, but T.J.’s relief was tempered by a measure of wariness. He was beginning to understand that it was more than talent alone that set Ishmael apart on the court. It was his unlimited intensity, his passion for competition that elevated him to the next level. But it was the same characteristic that could bring him into conflict with Tyron again.
FIVE
When he went to the cafeteria, T.J. sought out a corner table that was a dumping ground for old newspapers. What he wanted was a place where he could be by himself and read sections of the Peoria Journal-Star and the Chicago Tribune, even if they were a day or two stale. He ate alone while reading an article about football players at Southeastern Conference schools who were suspended for betting on football games. After lunch, he made his way to the parking lot so he could spend some time in the Toyota. He flung the doors open for ventilation, sat in the passenger’s seat, and opened the glove box. There were Marlboros in it, so he lit one up while he took out his diary. He turned to a fresh page, the one right after his record of the call Tyron had received from the De Paul coach. He decided to make a record of the information about Bee Edwards and the shoes, as well as his Notre Dame conversation with Tyron. As usual, he didn’t know whether these entries would ever prove important or not; he simply wrote them down.
The voice he heard startled him: “Paperwork is never done, huh?”
When T.J. looked up he saw it was Coach Lindsey. He smiled. “I guess not, Coach.”
Lindsey made a face. “Oh, Nucci, you’re not smoking those things?”
“Not me, no sir.”
“You don’t want to, do you? Weren’t you told it’s against the rules?”
“I think I remember hearin’ somethin’ about it.” Lindsey was wearing a white polo shirt with an Adidas logo. No wrinkles. No sweat. He was evenly tanned and handsome. T.J. said, “Okay, how about this? If you don’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you.”
“Tell on me for what?”
“You’re talkin’ to me. Coaches aren’t allowed to do that. Even if it’s only to me, a guy who doesn’t have a college future as a player. I’m still one of the participants.”
“Strictly speaking, that’s right,” confirmed the coach.
“Strictly speaking.”
Coach Lindsey asked him, “Is that the diary?”
T.J. glanced down at the open book on his sweaty knees. “That’s the diary,” he acknowledged. “I was just reading the place where Tyron got a call from the De Paul coach.”
“A call, you say?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You’re not saying a letter, T.J.? You’re saying Coach Kennedy called him on the phone?”
“He called him on the phone.” The mysteries of the recruiting game were numerous, but T.J. didn’t need to be told how important it was to receive a phone call from a major coach; a letter was just a matter of form, but the telephone was always the signal of serious interest.
Lindsey took a minute or two to absorb this information, as it was significant. Then he asked T.J. where Tyron stood relative to the ACT.
“That’ll be up to Mrs. Osby,” T.J. replied.
“Who’s Mrs. Osby?” asked Lindsey, leaning against the car with his arms folded on his chest.
“She’s a counselor at Burton. She’s a kind of formal prude, but her heart’s in the right place. At least I think it is.”
“So what does she have to say about Tyron and the ACT?”
“You want to hear about this?” asked T.J.
“I asked, so I guess I do.”
T.J. stubbed out the cigarette. He thought to himself, as long as we’re breaking the rules, why not do it large? “Okay, here’s what happened,” he began.
His conversation with Mrs. Osby had occurred on a warm spring day on his very own front porch. He had simply been sitting there, reading a book for English class, when he chanced to see Mrs. Osby enter Tyron’s huge, hodgepodge house on the corner. It was possible to see that far in spring before the trees were leafed out. He wondered why, exactly, Mrs. Osby would be there, but then she was a counselor at the high school where Tyron was a student. She probably had a place on the roster of all the advocates and specialists and social workers who managed the lives of young people living in group homes.
He had continued his reading long enough to give the porch post time to carve a sharp pain in his back. He would have gone inside, but he wanted to stay put until Mrs. Osby came out of the big house. When she finally did emerge, not until after 10:30, T.J. submitted to the urge to wave to her. Seeing him, she had crossed the street. She asked him if this was where he lived. He told her yes. She asked him if his mother was inside. He told her yes, but she was still in bed. “She works the night shift at Oblio’s,” he added.
“The pizzeria?”
“Yes. On weekend afternoons, she cleans office
buildings.”
“A hard worker. A very hard worker. Salt of the earth, it sounds like.”
“I guess.”
“May I join you for a few minutes?” Mrs. Osby had taken from her bag a cloth napkin with blue fringe, which was nearly as large as a dish towel. She shook it before she spread it carefully on the floorboards of the porch. When she seated herself squarely, she asked T.J. how long he’d known Tyron.
T.J. wondered about the big napkin, how she happened to have it ready like she knew she might need it. There were sharp creases in the legs of her navy blue pants suit. He thought of the woman lawyer in one of John Grisham’s novels who wore camisoles all the time; it was an undergarment she wore to make sure her bra wouldn’t show through her blouse. He figured Mrs. Osby would be no less circumspect in her manner of dress.
“Actually, I knew him back at Douglass High, in the city. I didn’t know he was moving in that house until last summer.”
“So the two of you were reunited, then?”
“In a way. I’m a lot closer to him now than I was back then.”
“You want to advocate for him. You want to help him.”
T.J. had realized quickly that her questions were going to require careful answers, and it wouldn’t help matters much if they continued to come in the form of statements. The bottom line, he reminded himself, was that this was a woman you wanted on your side. He said, “It seems like somebody needs to give him a little help.”
“Indeed. I’m afraid I don’t know much about basketball. I take it Tyron is a good player?”
If you don’t count the mental part, T.J. had thought to himself. “He’s so good, he’s had college coaches from all over watching him play. He’s only a junior, but he averaged almost twenty-three points a game this season.”
“He certainly is large. It would be basketball, then, which presumably would get him into college?”
“He’ll get basketball scholarship offers,” T.J. had replied.
“May I ask which schools are showing interest?”
“There’s so many, it’s hard to count. North State seems to be after him more than the rest.”
“That’s a major university. High entrance requirements and academic standards.”
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