The Squared Circle

by JAMES W. BENNETT

  It seemed like Minicams were perched on a hundred shoulders. Student assistants and S.I.D. staff kept trekking back and forth from Lingle, the office complex, bringing the coffee and donuts, publicity material, and stacks of printed handouts. It was the biggest media event for SIU basketball that anyone could remember. So big in fact that none of the conference rooms was spacious enough to accommodate the throng of reporters and photographers. Everything would be held in the arena, including the press conference. The entire event was open to the general public, who filled nearly half of the lower-level seats on both sides.

  For the interviewing, a long table was set up beneath the north goal. There were eight microphones spaced along it. Facing the table, the semicircular rows of folding chairs for reporters reached almost to the center line. In addition to the media people who traditionally covered SIU athletics, there were scores of reporters who represented a wider publicity range. Even the Tribune, Sports Illustrated, and ESPN were there.

  Before the formal stuff started, Sonny made a try at small talk with Uncle Seth and his friends. Seth wanted to introduce him to Hufnagel.

  “We’ve met before,” said Hufnagel to Uncle Seth. He told Sonny, “I saw you in the Mount Vernon game when you were a junior. You scored forty-seven points. I think you made nine threes in a row.”

  “Right,” said Sonny, shaking Hufnagel’s hand. He tried to remember exactly who Hufnagel was, or what it was that he did, but Uncle Seth had introduced him to so many guys, all the way back to ninth grade. Sonny was pretty sure about one thing, though: He’d never made nine treys in a row, at least not in a game.

  “Look at this,” said Uncle Seth, waving his hand at the congregation of media visitors. “This is recognition. This is respect.”

  “I never saw anything like it,” said the man named Grant.

  “Nobody has,” Hufnagel observed. “Your team is going to put us on the map, Sonny. We haven’t had any real recognition since the NIT team of ’67.”

  Grant, an insurance man who’d followed Sonny’s high school career like a homing device, was one of the biggest honchos in the SIU booster club. He said, “Maybe this year we won’t be suckin’ hind tit to the Big Ten and the Big Eight.”

  “There’s a thought,” said Uncle Seth. “You’re going to be playing Michigan in the Big Apple NIT, Sonny. Do me a favor, huh? Don’t just beat the sonsofbitches, bury ’em.”

  “You do that, and you’re on the map right away,” said Hufnagel. “I mean, beating Michigan on national TV.”

  Hearing this kind of talk was no source of comfort, especially since he hadn’t even played a single college game yet. “We’ll have to see,” said Sonny, “I know Michigan’s really good.” He thought to himself, We’re supposed to make these men feel important.

  For the press conference, Sonny sat near the end of the head table, Luther on one side and Robert Lee on the other. It wasn’t possible to be far away from the microphones, but Sonny made sure he was no closer than he had to be. Robert Lee nodded his head at the huge gathering and said, “This is intense, man.” But he was clearly enjoying it. Luther, who had a grin a mile wide, leaned back in his chair and locked both hands at the back of his neck. “Ain’t it a rush?” he chuckled.

  To begin with, Coach Gentry made a brief statement about how hard the players had been working in practice. He talked briefly about the schedule. Coach Gentry was only in his second year as SIU head coach, but he was a sophisticated, polished man, at ease even in this much limelight. His three-piece suit was stylish, and not a hair was out of place. When Sonny looked at him, he couldn’t help but think of Brother Rice, his old ninth-grade coach, that other time he was a freshman. Rice was a crude, blunt slob who let it all hang out, while Gentry was like a corporate executive. Even in practices he was detached and low-key, like a CEO handing out duties to his vice presidents.

  Coach Gentry drank some water and leaned over from the lectern while the sports information director whispered in his ear. He nodded his head several times before he straightened up to tell the reporters, “Jesse informs me that the only home games with tickets remaining are three conference games in late February and early March.”

  The first question was one about pressure. A reporter asked, “Some publications are ranking you as high as ninth or tenth in their preseason reports. What kind of pressure does this put on you and your players?”

  “None on the coaching staff, and we hope none on the players,” the coach answered. “We want to be the best team we can be, but we don’t talk about polls or media expectations. We can’t stop players from watching television or reading newspapers, but any pressure they feel will be self-generated; none of it will come from me or my assistants.”

  “Is it fair to say you expect to win the Missouri Valley Conference without much difficulty?” It seemed like a loaded question and it came from a reporter Sonny didn’t recognize; he wondered if the guy came from Chicago.

  Coach Gentry’s crisp answer was, “It’s fair to say we expect to play hard in every game and do our best to win.”

  Someone asked the coach if he knew who his starting lineup would be, but he answered, “It’s premature for that kind of speculation. We’re just evaluating at this point, trying to determine our strengths and weaknesses.”

  A few of the reporters chuckled in a smug kind of way, and the group as a whole seemed somewhat restless. One of them stood up and asked, “What kind of a contribution should we expect from Luther and Sonny?”

  Coach Gentry adjusted his necktie before he said, “Let’s start with the obvious. Luther has the advantage of two years’ experience at the junior college level, while Sonny is a true freshman. They aren’t at the same point in their development. They’re both excellent players, as you know.”

  “Are you saying they might not start?”

  Gentry took off his glasses. “Luther and Sonny are both outstanding talents, players any program in the country would be delighted to have. But everyone needs to remember that we were seventeen and eleven last year, and most of our veteran players are returning. Let’s not forget that Otis Reed is one of the best point guards in the league, and Royer is one of the best centers in the league.”

  “But your returning players are going to be much better with Luther and Sonny on the floor at the same time.”

  Gentry got a big laugh when he said, “Is there a question in there somewhere?”

  Sonny could hear Luther whistling with his tongue along the roof of his mouth; this was all like a party to him. The first question directed at a player went to Royer, a six-foot-ten senior center. He was asked how he liked having Luther and Sonny on the team.

  “Who wouldn’t like it? I’ll probably go through the whole season without being doubled down.”

  “No jealousy on the team?”

  “None that I know of.”

  The questioning rotated to Luther Cobb and he was asked how many games he expected the team to win. Luther said, “Might as well win ’em all.”

  “Every game?”

  “Ain’t no reason to be losin’ any of ’em.”

  It didn’t take the reporters long to warm to Luther’s absence of caution. A writer from the Post-Dispatch wanted to know, “You’re predicting an undefeated season? Are we talking national championship here?”

  Luther’s grin was ear-to-ear, his straight white teeth gleaming in high profile against his ebony skin. “All I’m sayin’ is, ain’t no reason to be losin’ any games.”

  The writer from the Sporting News asked Luther, “Do you think you have the potential to play in the NBA?”

  Luther Cobb’s facial expression was an unlikely blend of humor, contempt, and astonishment, as if the reporter had asked him if he could touch the rim. “Potential? I can take those guys down in the summer leagues right now. Potential.”

  Everyone was laughing by now, including Sonny. It would suit him fine if Luther’s brashness preoccupied the reporters altogether. But he didn’t expect it; he knew
he wouldn’t be overlooked in this setting, and he wasn’t. The next question was for him.

  “Sonny, you scored over three thousand points in high school, one of only five players to do that in IHSA history. Do you have any goals for yourself this season?”

  All these eyes suddenly on him and Sonny couldn’t think of a thing. Ballpoints poised everywhere he looked. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said quietly.

  “Personal goals. Scoring, rebounding, that sort of thing. Have you set any?”

  It seemed like a long time he had to think. Finally he said the only thing that came to his mind: “I just want to play.”

  A reporter near the back shouted, “Louder, please? Could you speak into the mike?”

  Sonny leaned forward to pull the mike closer. “I just want to play,” he said again, this time loud enough for everyone to hear. It was the reporters’ turn to be astonished, and their guffaws revealed just how much.

  A woman reporter, one of the few present, asked Sonny, “Is this something you enjoy, Sonny?”

  It was a curious question for sure. Sonny said, “You mean press conferences?”

  “I mean press conferences.”

  Sonny wasn’t sure, but he thought she might have been from the Chicago Tribune. “No, I don’t. I just want to play.”

  So she turned to Luther. “Luther, you seem to enjoy what we’re doing here. How would you evaluate Sonny Youngblood as a player?”

  Luther sat up straight and didn’t flinch. He took back the mike. “Sonny’s the best white boy I’ve ever seen. He can play.”

  This remark brought down the house, but it also brought Coach Gentry back to his feet. Luther’s brashness was the kind of color to gratify the media, but clearly not the press conference mode the coach preferred. For the next 30 minutes he restored equilibrium by answering questions about injuries, offensive and defensive strategies, and the strengths of other teams in the conference.

  It was much less formal after the press conference. With the warm-ups on, and then off, the players posed for picture after picture. Still pictures, action pictures, group pictures, and posed pictures. The videocams wanted action footage of dunks, shot-blocking, and three-pointers.

  But the more time passed, the more they wanted Sonny and Luther. Luther was basking in the singular attention, but Sonny felt sorry for the team’s veterans, the guys who played last year, especially C.J. Moore, a stylish six-foot-five swingman who was a big-time talent. Media folks had none of these concerns; they wanted Sonny and Luther together, spinning basketballs on their fingertips, dunking each other’s lobs, until the two had in fact worked up game-condition sweat. The cheering coming from the assembled spectators seemed gamelike as well.

  A final dunk-off between Sonny and Luther, requested by ESPN’s Chris Berman and cleared with Coach Gentry, was set up for any technician with a videocam on his shoulder.

  Luther went first. He came in from the side, along the baseline, and hammered home a two-handed reverse slam. He even hung briefly on the rim before he jackknifed himself up and away. In his wake, the backboard was shaking like a leaf. The crowd erupted like a conference championship had just been claimed.

  It was competition now, so when Sonny’s turn came he passed quickly into the zone that left everything behind. No more regrets for last year’s players, no camera lights, no residual tension from the ordeal of the head table with microphones. No nothing.

  He stood on the spot where his heels covered the free throw line. If he looked straight at the rim, ignoring the net, the circle met the square. Sonny never did have a way with words, but something about it was perfect. If he looked straight at and through the rim, it formed a kind of flattened disc framed just exactly right by the square on the backboard behind it. Not too big, not too small, the outer edges of the circle made just the barest contact with the four edges of the square. It was all within, but just.

  In place at the free throw line, six feet five inches and 206 pounds. Where his long, sinewy arms hung at his sides, each large hand palmed a bright orange basketball casually. The crowd of onlookers, quiet as a church and without access to the inner chamber where Sonny was locked in his vision, might have been looking for sure at one of God Almighty’s lightbulb afterthoughts: Hot damn! Before I call it a day, I think I’ll just sit me down and design the perfect basketball player!

  But if Sonny looked to others like a pilgrim standing reverently before a shrine, he didn’t linger long for meditation: The floorboards squeaked as he vaulted himself suddenly forward. He launched like a missile, two quick strides and a flight at the iron. He dunked both balls in a blink, first the right and then the left, in a succession so rapid it looked like an optical trick. It took a moment to absorb, but then the crowd’s astonished approval erupted like a volcano.

  It was the mystery of Checkpoint that made it a source of apprehension. For his own information, Sonny wanted to know if Coach Gentry was going to be present, but Gardner told him no.

  “What about Coach Price?”

  “Coach Price won’t be here either. This is strictly routine, Sonny. It’s not like you’re in any kind of trouble.” While he was offering this reassurance, Gardner was directing people to be seated by gesturing at the chairs around the table. As compliance officer, Gardner was a member of the athletic staff, but not a coach. Sonny assumed his basic duties were to monitor all the rules and regulations published by the NCAA in order to guard against possible violations.

  “Shouldn’t I be at practice?”

  “Would you relax, Youngblood? Coach Gentry knows where you are, you’re covered.”

  The setting was a conference room on second-floor Lingle. Maria, one of the basketball secretaries, was bringing ice water and coffee in thermal pots. Quackenbush and Burns were from NCAA headquarters in Kansas. With their short haircuts and their crisp suits and shiny briefcases, Sonny thought they looked like FBI agents or Mormon missionaries. They were polite, though, when they asked Sonny if he wanted these proceedings taped.

  Sonny said, “I don’t know.” He looked at Gardner, who squinted his face, then shook his head back and forth.

  “I guess not,” said Sonny.

  “We’ll be taking notes,” Quackenbush told him, “but it’s your right to have all you say on tape if you request it.”

  “I guess not,” Sonny repeated.

  “Fine. Checkpoint doesn’t presume any wrongdoing. It’s strictly routine, just as your compliance officer is telling you.” He meant Gardner.

  Quackenbush went on, “We’ve been conducting exactly the same interview procedure with incoming freshmen all over the country. We were targeting football players during the summer, but now we’re concentrating on basketball players. The object, of course, is to help maintain the integrity of NCAA athletics. I’d like you to have this pamphlet, which explains the history of the program, its goals, and its development. Maybe in your free time you can read it over. We advise that you do.” He pushed the pamphlet across the table.

  Sonny picked it up indifferently. It was a simple trifold in red and black. The word Checkpoint was printed in large letters on the front. He put it down; maybe there was no reason to be nervous, not with Gardner right there to oversee everything.

  The format they followed had Quackenbush asking most of the questions, while Burns took most of the notes. Right away, they wanted to know about academics. A composite score of 20 on the ACT and a high school record where C’s prevailed, wasn’t exactly a “strong academic history.” They wanted to know how his classwork was going.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Have you received midterm grades yet?”

  “Yeah, we got them.”

  “And how’s your progress? Are you doing well?”

  Sonny thought of his English Comp and the Intro to Anthropology. These questions seemed personal and embarrassing. But when he looked at Gardner, he was smiling comfortably. “Go ahead, Sonny, you can answer their questions.”

  “Can I have som
e water?”

  “Sure.”

  After he drank half a glass, Sonny said, “I need to pull up my grades in a couple of courses.”

  “Not flunking anything, are we?”

  “No.” But he wasn’t positive.

  “Have you declared a major yet?”

  Sonny shook his head. “I don’t have a major. Just general studies.”

  “Fine,” said Quackenbush. It seemed to be a word he liked. The questions turned to recruiting. Burns asked him if any coaches or institutions ever offered him any illegal inducements.

  Sonny wasn’t precisely sure what the question encompassed. “I doubt it,” he said.

  “Did anybody buy you anything or offer to buy you anything? Think before you answer.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Sonny glanced sidelong again at Gardner, who was amusing himself by twisting rubber bands.

  “Did any coach or institution promise you anything if you signed a letter of intent?”

  It seemed like the same question. Sonny thought for a few moments. “Most of them told me I could start if I came to their school.”

  “We don’t mean that,” said Quackenbush. “Were you ever promised cash, or a vehicle, or special living privileges? That kind of thing.”

  “No.”

  “Sonny, do you have adequate spending money?”

  “I guess so. I don’t buy much. Just drugstore stuff, maybe a few meals.”

  “Girls? Dates?”

  “Not very often. Probably more if I had the time.”

  “But you have enough spending money to meet your needs.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “And where does it come from?”

  “Mostly from my uncle Seth. I have a savings account, but it isn’t much. I didn’t earn a lot of money during the summers because I was in so many camps.”