“OK,” she said, “I will marry you, but if you had told me this a month ago instead o’ the day before our weddin’, I wouldn’ta done it. I’m only gittin’ married ‘cause I don’t wanta disappoint everybody.”
“You still love me?” Adam asked sheepishly, hopefully.
She hesitated. “Yeah, I guess so,” she replied, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before getting out of the car. “See you at the weddin’ tomorr’.”
“OK, see ya tomorr’,” Adam replied. He drove off. He was relieved. She still wanted to marry him. He was madly in love with her. She was, simply, the most beautiful woman that he had ever dated. He had been awed by her red-haired beauty from the first moment that he saw her, leading a cheer before the West Elkton fans. He determined to make himself a part of her life in whatever form she would accept him. He still could not believe that she had agreed to marry him—him—a country bumpkin from Hazard, Kentucky. He was glad that he had taken the advice of his sister.
He wondered if she had red pussy hair. He was eager to see her naked. Tomorrow night all his dreams would come true.
On the first day of school, Devon found his way to the sixth grade classroom at Grafton-Kennedy Elementary School and sat down in the back, out of the line of sight of the other students. He was five feet, ten inches tall and did not want to make himself conspicuous by sitting anywhere except in the back row. He did not wish to evoke any derisive comment from anyone on the first day of school. He knew that that would come later, when the other students saw how clumsy he was in physical education class or playing on the playground.
The teacher was Mr. Wilson, a ruddy-faced, slender man with an aquiline nose, narrow eyes, reddish hair, and a pointy chin. He was six feet tall, two inches taller than Devon. He began by welcoming them all and stating that there were many fun activities he had planned for the year. He said that he was the coach of the sixth grade basketball team and expected all of the boys in class to try out for the team at the end of October; there would be a talent contest in class in the spring and he expected everyone who was talented to join in; also in the spring, the class would participate in the school spelling bee, and he absolutely knew that the winner was sitting in class right now.
Devon doubted that, but the teacher’s list of activities was interesting, although he knew that he would not try out for the basketball team or enter the spelling bee. He would be forever haunted by other children laughing at his clumsiness and ineptitude involving sports and was terrified of being pointed to and laughed at for his tallness if he stood in front of an audience. He would sit quietly in the back unobserved (he hoped) and never voluntarily stand in front of the class, so the talent show was also out. In his wildest fantasies, he could never imagine himself dancing or singing in front of an audience.
On Monday morning in the third week of school, he had just grasped the handle of the southwest door of the school to open it when a voice behind him said, “Hi there, Elvis.”
He turned to see who was being addressed with such a compliment. He saw a boy about six inches shorter than himself. His round face was smiling up at him.
“You mean me?” Devon asked incredulously.
“Yeah, I mean you. You look like Elvis.”
“I do?” I do believe in the Holy Ghost.
“Yeah, you do. You’re tall like him an’ have the same color hair.”
It was the first compliment Devon had ever received in his life. And for his being tall! This was something different. This was something new. This was something good.
The boy’s name was David. He was in Devon’s class and sat on the opposite side of the room from him, next to the windows facing the grassy playground. Devon had not noticed him before. Now, he would never forget him.
They became friends. Often after school, they would wander through the streets of the plat on their bikes, racing each other to the stop sign at the end of the block or, if they had some change in their pockets, stopping at a convenience store to buy orange pop or Royal Crown Cola in glass bottles and a package of Hostess chocolate cupcakes, which they shared. David was the first friend Devon had had since Willie, his black friend with whom he had shared recesses and lunch times in the third grade at the northeast corner of Central School, alone together in their ostracism.
This was the beginning of a sea change for Devon vis-à-vis the world. He was no longer laughed at for being tall. Besides having David as a friend, he began to associate with other members of the class, especially Joe Ryker, a swarthy, dark-haired boy who was nearly as tall as Devon. They spent their recesses and lunchtimes playing together. School was no longer a misery for Devon. Because he was taller than everyone except Mr. Wilson, he was admired and looked up to, literally and figuratively.
On the first Friday of the school year, the Northridge High School polar bears met their longtime rivals, the Vandalia High School aviators, on the football field to determine who would have the bragging rights for the remainder of the academic year for the title of Kings of the World. Traditionally, if Vandalia lost, the Northridge High School students arriving at school on Monday morning would discover that the white polar bear statue standing proudly atop its base on all four paws in front of the school on North Dixie Drive would now be besmirched with purple and gold paint, the school colors of Vandalia.
Devon and Rig were in the middle of the last row of stands on the Northridge side, eating popcorn and drinking Coke through plastic straws from paper cups. They had each been given two dollars for the game by their parents. Rig was there because he was in the sixth grade at Morton Middle School in the Vandalia School District, of which Vandalia was the only high school. Devon had come to watch Del play his trombone in his first performance with the Northridge marching band. Neither boy was much interested in what transpired on the field or even knew what was going on, but they cheered when the fans on their side stood up and yelled. They lived much closer to each other now that Adam and Marie had moved, only three miles apart, and would be seeing each other more often than when the family lived in Franklin. Both boys were slurping the last of their Cokes and had finished their popcorn before the end of the first quarter.
At halftime, the Vandalia marching band took the field first and formed a “V” and then an airplane as they marched and played in formation facing their fans on the opposite side of the field. The fans on the Northridge side applauded politely but without enthusiasm when they finished.
When the Northridge band took the field, there was a huge roar from the Northridge fans and everyone stood for its entire performance. Devon could see perfectly well, but Rig had to peer around the shoulders of the people in front of him. The band first formed an “N” to match the “V” of the Vandalia band, and then created a bear that walked across the field. As the bear walked, the fans exploded in a paroxysm of approval, stomping their feet, whistling, yelling, and clapping their hands. Devon and Rig followed the crowd and screamed, grinning widely at each other. Devon finally located Del in the horn section and yelled, “There he is!” I do believe in the Holy Ghost.
“Where?” Rig asked.
Devon pointed. “He’s the third trombone back!” I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost.
Rig shook his head. “Oh, yeah, I see ‘im!”
Devon shifted his attention from Del to the drill team performing in front of the band, moving its flags in synchrony with the music. He looked at their long hair and their white, bare legs below their short skirts. He focused his attention on one girl on the left with long blond hair who was bustier than the others. He liked her best, without quite knowing why. He forgot about Del and just watched her.
Vandalia won, fourteen to six, so the newly vestal polar bear (Northridge won last year) would remain untouched this year.
Devon and Rig followed the drill team as it exited behind the band, which was marching to the tattooing of the drums. Devon and Rig were close to the girls, so close that Devon could smell the perfume of the bl
ond girl he had watched during the game and could see how shapely and soft her legs looked this close. For some indiscernible reason, this was oddly thrilling.
That night, just before he fell asleep in his twin bed next to Del’s in their bedroom, a memory flashed into his consciousness. Dollie, Rig, and he were on the back porch of Dollie and Rig’s house which, at that time, was on Payne Avenue, fronting the ever-flowing current of cars and trucks on Interstate 75. They were young. Dollie, who had been running her hands through some uncooked pinto beans which were in a pot on the seat of a wicker chair, turned to Rig, smiled, and said, “Put some o’ these up my butt.”
“What?” Rig asked, his voice rising.
“I wanta see if I can poop ‘em out.”
“Oh . . . OK,” he replied, as though the request made perfect sense to him.
Dollie handed him some pinto beans, leaned over the arm of the chair, pulled up her dress and held it against her waist, and rolled down her panties. Rig got behind her, pushed one cheek of her bottom to the side, grasped a pinto bean between his forefinger and thumb and proceeded to comply with her request. Devon sat down on the top step of the porch to watch. The first bean having been inserted successfully, he took another bean and placed it behind the first one. He was just about to insert the third bean when they heard movement behind the door. Dollie quickly stood up and let her dress fall. Rig sat down beside Devon on the step. Uncle Rufus put his head out the door. “What are you young’uns doin’ out here?” he demanded.
“Nothin’,” Dollie replied, as she turned to look at him. “Just talkin’.”
“Well, come on in. It’s supper time.”
“OK,” she assented.
Rig dropped the rest of the beans into the pot as he entered the house.
Devon fell asleep.
At the end of October, Mr. Wilson announced that basketball practice would be starting on Tuesday after school, and he expected all of the boys to come and try out for the team. He asked Sandra, a blond girl who sat in the front row next to Mr. Wilson’s desk, to pass out the permission slips to all of the boys. She had shoulder length hair and blue eyes. Devon liked her.
When the dismissal bell rang, as Devon stood up to go, Mr. Wilson called out to him, “Devon, you comin’ for the tryouts tomorr’?”
Devon blushed. “I . . . I ain’t no good at sports, Mr. Wilson.” He did not want to tell him in front of everyone that he had always been laughed at whenever he had tried to participate in sports that other children enjoyed. Sports were to be avoided, not willingly volunteered for.
“Aw, come on. You’d make a great center. Git your parents to sign the slip an’ we’ll see you tomorr’, OK?”
Everyone had stopped leaving and was listening to the exchange between Devon and Mr. Wilson.
Feeling the pressure of all eyes on him, he reluctantly said, “OK.”
Mr. Wilson smiled. “Good. You’ll be great.”
Devon doubted that.
As he rode home on his bike, he tried to figure out how he would ask his parents to sign the permission slip. They did not believe in participating in the things of the world, and basketball was definitely a thing of the world because it was on TV. “I know,” he thought, “I’ll tell ‘em that it’s no different than Del bein’ in the band. He has to stay after school to practice, an’ I’ll also be stayin’ after school to practice.” He was confident that this reasoning would work until he turned right onto Hiawatha Drive and saw his house. Then his confidence evanesced, and he approached the front door with trepidation. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost.
Somehow, Marie gave him permission, and he was on the polished hardwood floor of the cafeteria Tuesday night after school listening to Mr. Wilson talk about the fundamentals of basketball.
“Now, when you’re guardin’ somebody, you don’t cross your legs. Your opponent’s gonna git away from you if you do that. You shuffle, like this.” He spread his legs, crouched low, opened his arms wide and shuffled back and forth, to the left and then to the right. “Now, you follow me. Git in the same position I’m in, an’ then follow me.”
All of the boys assumed the position that Mr. Wilson had taken and awkwardly shuffled back and forth as he did. Devon did not trip, as he expected that he would.
“That’s it. It’s gonna feel strange at first, but watch basketball on TV. All the players do it, an’ before long it’ll be second nature to you.”
Devon didn’t tell him that his family did not own a TV out of fear of being laughed at by the other boys.
After several minutes of shuffling, Mr. Wilson said, “Good! We’ll be doin’ this at the beginnin’ of every practice. Now let’s try sump’n’ else.” He walked to a wire bin in which the basketballs were stored, picked up the top one, spun it on his right forefinger for several seconds, and turned to face them as he spun it.
“Wow,” David said softly. He was standing beside Devon.
“Now, in basketball, you can’t just pick up the ball an’ run with it without dribblin’. That’s called walkin’ an’ it’s a violation an’ you’ll git a whistle from the ref every time you do it. So every time you git the ball passed to you, you haf to dribble it, like this. An’ you only use one hand.” He ran the length of the court while bouncing the ball with his right hand. He switched hands on the way back and bounced it all the way back to them with his left hand. “To be a really good player, you haf to learn to dribble with either hand, but for right now, I wantchou to just dribble with the hand you use for writin’, whichever that one is. OK, six o’ you take balls outa the basket an’ dribble all the way across the court just like I did an’ then come back.”
Devon went to the basket and picked out a ball. He walked the length of the court, carefully watching his hand as he walked. It felt strange to bounce the ball and walk at the same time. Most of the other boys also awkwardly moved their balls downcourt, except David, who ran down the court like Mr. Wilson had done. He had been playing basketball since he was five with his father and brother. He had a hoop and backboard attached to the front of his garage.
“Good!” Mr. Wilson said. “Now give your ball to someone else an’ you go.” He looked at David. “How long you been playin’?”
“Since I’s five,” he replied.
“It shows. I think I have my first guard.”
David smiled.
For their last routine, Mr. Wilson had the boys dribble the ball with one hand towards the basket and do a layup with their dominant hand. Most of the boys walked to the basket tentatively, watching their hand and the ball as they moved. David didn’t. He ran towards the basket, dribbling the ball quickly, jumped when he was close to the basket, banked the ball perfectly off the backboard with one hand, and swished it through the hoop. Mr. Wilson smiled. He knew he had a winning team this year.
He chose Devon to be the center for his team and David to be a guard. He chose Devon not because he was particularly adept at any skill, but because he was tall. He hoped that by the time he entered high school, his skills would have improved enough so that he could be on the high school basketball team. Joe Ryker and Richard Booher were the forwards, and Timothy Fugate was the other guard. All of the other boys in class would substitute for those five players when the need arose. The team’s opponents would be the two other sixth grade classes at Grafton Kennedy and the three sixth grade classes at John Morrison Elementary, so the basketball season would last five weeks.
At the end of the five weeks, their record was three wins and two losses, which was good enough for second place. Devon had not scored many points, but he had learned to be a fair rebounder and was credited with many assists, and he was beginning to trust that his body would do what he wanted it to do. It was the first time in his life that he had participated in a team sport and not been laughed at. It felt good.
At the close of the last game of the season against Mr. Farber’s class, Mr. Wilson asked Devon to stay after the other boys had gone home.
He handed him a towel to wipe the sweat off his face and arms. “You had a good season, Dev,” he said. “You’ve really improved a lot since that first night you came out.”
“Thanks.”
“The high school is playin’ Tipp City on Friday. You wanta come? I can pick you up around six an’ we could git sump’n’ to eat before the game. I’m also takin’ my son. Wha’da ya say?”
“I’ll haf to ask my parents.” I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost.
“Sure. Just let me know tomorr’. Finish dryin’ off an’ I’ll put the balls away an’ lock up.”
“OK.”
Marie was thrilled and flattered that Mr. Wilson wanted to take Devon to a basketball game. No teacher had ever asked any of her children to go anywhere with him or her. Indeed, there was no one besides medical doctors that either Adam or she knew who had a college degree. She immediately consented, and Devon grew more excited the closer the week got to Friday. Mr. Wilson liked him! He could not recall any teacher except Mrs. Smith, his first grade teacher, who had considered him to be special.
Mr. Wilson picked Devon up at six p.m. on Friday in his Ford Fairlane. As Devon opened the right front door of the car, he glanced into the back seat, where a chubby boy sucking a lollipop glared at him from the corner behind Mr. Wilson.
“Hi, Dev. Glad you could make it. This’s my son, Tommy.”
“Hi, Tommy,” Devon said, turning his head to look at the boy.
Tommy just grunted.
“Tommy, answer right!” Mr. Wilson commanded.
“Hi,” Tommy managed to croak weakly.
“That’s better,” Mr. Wilson said. “So, Dev, you ever been to a high school basketball game before?”
“Nope. Never.”
“They’re fun. Tipp City has a good center who’s six eight. Be good for you to watch ‘im. You might learn sump’n’.”
“OK.”
After a few minutes of palaver about other teachers, the basketball team’s wins and losses, and Devon’s one spectacular rebound that saved the game for Mr. Wilson’s team against Miss Dluhy’s, Mr. Wilson asked, “You kinda like Sandy, don’tchou, Dev?”
Fiery Rivers Page 17