I jammed Malcolm in the back seat and slid in next to him. Mary got behind the wheel and started the car. We drove past the Beamer where Jamal was stretched over the hood as handcuffs were snapped in place. He locked eyes with Malcolm and mouthed a threat as we drove away.
Mary, Malcolm and I sat in a Denny’s on 38th street. The place was quiet and Mary and I were having coffee. Malcolm was having coffee and a slice of apple pie. The pie was untouched and he sat with his folded arms resting on the table. His red-rimmed eyes were dry.
“He handed me over like I was nothing,” he said.
“He was using you,” I said. “That’s what guys like him do, Malcolm.”
Mary put her arm around him.
“I was stupid,” he said.
“No,” I said. “You were seventeen and you did a stupid thing. But you can recover from it. You have a second chance. Your father had big dreams for you, Malcolm. But you have to have dreams for yourself. You have to keep those close to you and never let anyone take them from you. Jamal had dreams once and could have played basketball for I.U. And who knows? He may have been good enough for the NBA. But he blew his chance and he knows it. You still have yours, but it can slip away from you if you’re not careful.”
He lowered his head and began to weep. I glanced at Mary and saw in her eyes what we both knew. Malcolm had crossed the threshold and returned to tell about it. He hadn’t lost his dream.
Damon Bailey
Brenda Robertson Stewart
Damon Bailey is from Heltonville, Indiana, a very small town east of Bedford. When he was an eighth grader, he was recruited by Indiana University legendary coach, Bob Knight, and drew national attention. Damon became almost a cult figure when he played for Bedford North Lawrence High School. Little old ladies formed car pools and drove to whatever city Damon was playing in. The fans supported Bailey with zeal.
Sports Illustrated listed Damon Bailey as the country’s best ninth-grade hoopster in 1986. That year Damon led BNL to the state Final Four averaging over 23 points a game in the process. His team lost to two-time defending champion, Marion, in the semifinals.
Bailey was named First Team Indiana All-State that year, and every other year of his high school career. As a senior, he led his team to the 1990 state championship before a crowd of more than 41,000 people at the Hoosier Dome in Indianapolis — arguably the most people to ever attend a high school basketball game.
Bailey finished his high school career having appeared in three state Final Fours and scoring a record 3,134 points. He was named Indiana Mr. Basketball, earned McDonald’s All-American honors, and was the 1990 consensus National Player of the Year. Bailey was a four year starter for Bob Knight and the Indiana Hoosiers. The team won two Big Ten championships in 1990-1 and 1992-3, and reached the Final Four during the 1991-92 season.
Damon Bailey retired from professional basketball in 2003.
GIVE AND GO
Marianne Halbert
“But what about the dead homeless guy? Or the cafeteria food poisoning?” Josie Morton said. “Interviewing Gard is just fluff. We’ve got nepotism in the cheerleading squad, banned books…I already have stories to investigate.” She was getting no response, and growing desperate. “I’m even pretty confident there’s something suspicious going on with those marching band kids. I mean, who would voluntarily march for hours each day unless they were under duress?”
Og Henderson shoved his way into the room, banging his knee on the door, and his tripod on the doorframe. “Hey, Mr. B.,” he said, eyes focused on the equipment he was carrying, “I got some great shots at—,” then he looked up. Josie drooped her head to one side, her razor-cut bangs hanging like blond daggers over her eyes. She glared at Og, seething. Og took a step back until his lanky frame bumped the wall, then stood silent. Mr. Bovine had never taken his eyes off Josie.
“When it’s March,” he said, “and we’re in Indiana, nothing takes precedence over basketball. And there’s nothing more important in basketball than a star player. Besides, he’s got a great story. Raised by a single mom. Top of his class. A shoo-in for Mr. Basketball. Every college team in the NCAA is going after him. The town’s dying to hear what’s inside that boy’s head. God willing he’ll stay with the Big Ten, but he refuses to talk. I want that Gard Calway interview, and I want it by Monday.”
Josie Morton stared at Mr. Bovine, unbelieving. Some faculty advisor. What’s the point of being on the high school paper if I can’t do any investigative reporting? I should’ve stuck with volleyball. She let out a breath, looked to the stained ceiling tiles for backup, then back to Mr. Bovine.
“Fine.”
Mr. B. smiled.
Squatty old bald guys must have no idea that when seventeen-year-old girls said ‘fine,’ things were anything but. Josie was pretty sure Og tried to say something complimentary about her pink highlights as she stormed out, but the words he spoke were dwarfed by the ones in her head.
She slammed her locker door shut, ignoring whatever fell inside. Seven kids sent to the hospital after eating Pot-Pie Surprise two days ago. Seven!
Josie shoved her backpack into the corner of the bus seat, causing her window to slide down an inch. Mrs. Dearing chooses her niece to head the cheerleaders.
She slammed the head of broccoli onto the cutting board in her kitchen. Dead guy found in the ravine behind the cross country track. Chop. On school grounds. Chop. But nooo. Chop. She had to interview—
“Gard Calway?” Josie didn’t like the way the smile slinked across her mom’s face later as she said the name. “You two were so close in first grade. Remember that volcano proj—”
“Yes, Mom. I remember the volcano project.” Josie plunked ice into two tall glasses. “And second grade when you and his mom were room-mothers together, planned all the class parties.” She filled the glasses with water. “You know what else I remember?”
Her mom opened the oven door, easing her head away to avoid the heat.
“Third grade. When I was rollerblading and fell in front of his house. My knees were bleeding.” She set the glasses down on the table, maybe a little too hard. “I remember how he and his friends laughed. Sixth grade, when he stole my iPod—”
“Which you’d leant him—”
“Which he denied, and never gave it back.”
Her mom put the broccoli-stuffed chicken breasts on their plates, and sat down at the table. “Boys lose things: iPods, their homework, their temper. He was probably just too embarrassed to tell you.”
Josie plopped down into her chair, and used her fork to pierce the chicken. Creamy sauce spilled out and pooled on the plate. Josie’s voice was low, speaking more to her fork than to her mom. “Seventh grade. When I ceased to exist.”
“Oh, Honey, lots of kids grow apart in middle school. But that was five years ago, and he’s a big star now.” She passed Josie a napkin. “And you’re a star reporter,” she said, almost as an after-thought. She placed her elbows on the table and folded her hands together. She closed her eyes, steam still rising from her plate. “Shall we say grace?”
Josie sat alone in the bleachers, netbook on her lap, while the team practiced on the court below. She pulled up the story from yesterday’s town paper.
Student Finds Unidentified Body on School Grounds: According to officials, a freshman training for the 5K discovered a body when his attention was drawn by something shiny in the ravine that skirts the edge of the school property line. The deceased is presumed to be homeless. The cause of death remains unknown, pending an autopsy. Homicide detectives were called to the scene. Anyone with information is asked to contact the Sheriff’s office.
Sneakers squeaked on the gymnasium floor as Gard’s opponents scrambled toward him for the ball. Gard tossed the ball away to a teammate, then raced, unhindered, toward the basket. The ball whizzed back toward him. He caught the pass. Josie watched him. He’s not even worried they’ll stop him. It was probably only a second or two, but he took the time to plant hims
elf, to focus on the net. His body moved, arms pulling the ball toward him before thrusting them up and out, release. The ball soared in a perfect high arch, falling through the net with a soft swish as she held her breath. A whistle blew. The coach used some hand gestures and another player took the ball outside the lines, bounced it a couple times, then tossed it back into play.
She read over the newspaper article again. Why do they presume the guy was homeless? Her eyes kept going back to the word shiny. What did you have that was so shiny?
The practice broke up, and she scrambled down the steps.
“Gard, wait up.”
He turned, a few of his teammates giving him a look. He used a towel to wipe sweat from his face, then tossed it across his shoulder as he walked up to Josie.
“Mr. Bovine wants an interview for the school paper,” she said.
Gard smiled and shook his head, with a not this again look. “Josie, you know I don’t give interviews.”
Wow, she thought as he headed toward the locker room. He still remembers my name. That took her off guard, just for a second. After he’d walked through the door, Josie could hear the muffled sound of good-natured rough-housing coming from the locker room, but as she stood alone on the gymnasium floor, it was the sound of the ticking clock that echoed in her ears.
“And, Gard, you know I don’t give up so easily.” She hefted her backpack over her shoulder, and exited through the back door, leaving the testosterone-laden boys, and the ticking clock, behind.
“They say it’s because he’s afraid of what they’ll ask. About his mom,” Og said. He sat on top of a picnic table behind the school, the sunlight making his mop of red hair seem even brighter than usual. Josie had her netbook open again, and was shuffling through photos Og had taken.
“Is that what they say?”
She continued to click through the images. The faÇade of the Health Department. A close-up of today’s cafeteria lunch on a tray. Were those the tips of Og’s orange sneakers poking out in the background as the shot zoomed down on the tray in his hand?
“You know,” he said, “about her drinking.”
Josie looked up for a moment. “She doesn’t drink. I used to be fr…, I used to go to school with him. She never drank.” The track kids came around the corner of the building and ran past. “I’ll be right back.”
She ran to catch up to Mark Santos, and came up alongside him.
“Hey, Mark. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions. About the body.”
Mark kept running, looking straight ahead. But it didn’t escape her notice when he tightened his jaw. So the rumors are true. He’s Anonymous Freshman.
“The paper said the guy seemed homeless—”
“I’m not supposed to discuss it.”
“He’s probably got a family somewhere,” Josie said, panting. “Any details could help identify him.”
Mark kept a steady pace, but glanced over for a moment, annoyed. “I didn’t look too close. He had on a ratty coat. That’s all I saw.”
A stitch in her side was getting worse. Josie slowed, letting Mark pull ahead. She stepped to the edge of the path to allow other runners to go by. She bent over at the waist, breathing hard, then headed back toward Og. She dropped down onto the picnic table bench, her chest heaving.
“You…camera people…have the easy job,” she wheezed.
Og shook his head. “No, we have to make everything around us seem more than it is. More dramatic, more sinister.” He was focused on the computer screen. “More beautiful.”
Josie sat up, and saw a candid shot of herself near her locker. She was in mid-laugh. He really did make her look beautiful.
Og fidgeted. “Sometimes, there’s not much room for improvement.” He switched the screen to another photo. “Oh, I love that one,” he said, pointing at the screen. “If you do get the interview, that’ll be a great shot.” Josie looked back at the screen. There was Gard, brooding, leaning back against a bright red sports car. She shook her head.
“Yeah, but if he scratched that guy’s car, he’ll forfeit his first year’s salary to pay for the paint job.”
Og furrowed his red brows. He reached over, and tapped the arrow. The pictures forwarded. Gard opening the car door. Gard driving away.
“You did surveillance on him?” she said, genuinely surprised.
“I prefer to call it research.”
“That’s not—” she breathed, then went through the photos again. “Is that a Ferrari? That’s not possible. How does a kid with a poor single mom afford a car like that?”
“He’s poor?” Og said. “I just figured, you know with that car, and the club, well I just thought he was one of the richies.”
Josie shut the netbook, stood up, and looked directly at Og.
“What club?”
They spent the afternoon trying to find out if anyone at the club remembered seeing Gard there. After a few misses, they found a waitress that recognized him from the photos. He’d dined there for lunch with one other person. A man who flashed a bright smile and a lot of cash. And she remembered the man handing a set of car keys over to Gard as they stood up from the table, and saying “It’s a deal.” Og drove Josie home. They sat in his car in her driveway.
“I hate to believe it,” she said. “I know every college in the Big Ten and beyond wants him. But this is illegal. If he’s being courted, bribed, by some scout, we’ve got a scandal on our hands.”
Og thumped the steering wheel a few times. “I don’t know Josie. We’ve got no proof it was a scout. Since it wasn’t a group of old men, probably not alumni. Could be a sports agent.”
“Oh, please. Scout, alumni, agent? What’s the difference? If he takes a bribe, he loses his eligibility. He’s got to make a decision soon. The guy wines and dines him, well, maybe just dines him, but then gives him a car? My gut is telling me something is way wrong with this picture. And even with your mad skills, it’s looking ugly.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We don’t do anything. I’m going to get him to talk.”
Josie slipped the note, written on bright orange paper, through the slats in Gard’s locker door. I know your secret. I’d like to hear your side before I print the story. He approached her in the hallway after fifth period.
“The terrace. After school.”
Josie hadn’t been to the terrace in years, even though it was within walking distance from her house. She couldn’t even remember how it had gotten that nickname. It was just a small blacktop court, crumbling even more now than she’d remembered. There was a brick wall with a concrete top that they had walked on as kids. It had seemed so tall then, but now it didn’t even come up to her waist. Disintegrating strands of string clung to the rim of the basketball hoop. A faded yellow hopscotch board was barely recognizable. Gard was sitting on the brick wall.
“How did you find out?” he asked.
“The lunches at the club. The car.”
Gard slumped, as though the weight of the world was pulling him down. Josie sat down on the brick wall next to him.
“This is where I learned,” he said. “Right here. Shooting over and over. And here you were, walking along this wall, arms out to your side for balance. I wanted to impress you. I wanted you to see me.”
Josie’s eyes scanned his face. He’s telling the truth. He…wanted to impress…me. She had to remind herself to keep her breathing steady. Get the confession.
“Then there was that day,” he said, his voice cracking. “Behind my garage. We were finishing sixth grade. Dad had been gone almost a year. I was listening to his favorite song on your iPod. “We Are the Champions.” It was the first day of March Madness. He and I always watched the games together. You know, when we made our brackets, he talked about some of the players like he knew ‘em. It was weird. He put them on a pedestal, but the way he talked, he was right up there beside ‘em. Anyway, it was the first day of the tournament. And he hadn’t come home. That’s when I knew. He wa
s never going to come home. And as that thought is settling in my gut, my mom stumbles to the curb. She’d bagged up her empties, along with all the clothes he’d left, and set them out in the trash. I pulled out a jacket, a khaki raincoat sort of thing, and slipped it on. Hung down to my knees. The sleeves swallowed my arms. I ran down that alley toward the terrace, and from the shadows, I saw you. Right here on this wall.”
He shook his head, angry with himself. His lower lip quivered for just a moment.
“All those times I’d wanted you to see me. And in that moment you did. Me, tear-stained face, dirty from digging through the trash, dwarfed inside the jacket of a man who no longer existed.”
Josie pulled her legs up onto the concrete and hugged her knees.
“I remember.” He had run away. She followed, but he ducked into his garage, and she’d turned around and walked home. They never spoke again until this week. “Gard, I know growing up without your dad had to’ve been hard. But you’ve come so far. I just don’t get why you’d throw it all away, for money, for things.”
“You think it was about the money?” he spat. “I told him what he could do with his money. If he thought that would make up for what he did to me, to Mom…”
Mom?
“He was waiting for me after practice one day. Had heard what a star I’d become. Had even watched a couple of my games. Said nobody was as good at the ‘Give and Go’ as I was. Toss it away, move in for the easy score. The key was making sure my enemy kept his eye on the ball, and not on me. Said he wanted back in my life. Took me to a fancy lunch and gave me a car. I told him I’d accept it, on one condition. He’d shown me the good life. I brought him back to the house to show him ours. The torn screens, the stains the leaky roof left on our ceilings, the food stamps. Mom’s AA tokens. I asked him to slip the jacket on. The one I’d pulled from the trash. The one I’d worn hundreds of times when I was alone. It was moth-eaten, musty.”
Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks Page 11