“You don’t see the humor in this?” she asked him. “I would say it’s downright comical.”
“All I said was, it might be against NCAA rules.”
“Come with me, Cuz.”
They sat in the student center McDonald’s, but Sonny paid for the two soft drinks. “Let me see your hands,” Sissy said.
“What?”
“Put your hands on the table; I want to look at them.”
The long, strong fingers he spread covered nearly half of the Formica top on the tiny table. “Why am I doing this?” he asked Sissy.
“You’re probably strong as an ox, aren’t you?” she asked. When she said “Okay,” Sonny put his hands back in his lap. She wanted to know if he’d ever done any carpentry.
“Some, at Uncle Seth’s. I always got A’s in shop. So what’s the point of these questions, anyway?”
“The point is, I may actually have something, unlikely as it seems.”
“Have what?” Sonny asked eagerly.
Sissy was rubbing her closed eyes. He noted the long fingers with the irregular nails. Other than the gray in her hair, and the well-defined crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, she didn’t really look her age.
“Have what?” he asked again.
“Do you know anything about art?” she asked.
Even if he needed a favor, Sonny wasn’t prepared to lie. “Not actually. I always took shop instead of art.”
“I need some help with a restoration project,” she said. “I have to get some fresco panels taken down and transported from Pyramid State Park. I’m working on a grant from the National Endowment.”
Words like fresco panels and national endowment didn’t mean much to Sonny. “And you could give me credit for helping you?”
“I could give you an hour of independent study. The panels have to be transported safely by second semester. I have a seminar that’s going to work on restoring them. It will be hard work getting them here, worth an hour’s credit at least.”
“Don’t forget, I only need one hour.”
“I’m not forgetting. I had an art major picked out for this, but he dropped out of school.”
“So let me do it,” said Sonny.
Sissy searched his eyes for several moments before she answered. “You’re so young, aren’t you?”
“I’ll be nineteen at the end of next month. You know how old I am.”
“How’s your mother?”
“She’s the same, I suppose.” Why is she changing the subject with a question like this? “I see her about once a month, but I don’t think she recognizes me. She’s been catatonic. This is off the subject, isn’t it?”
“Maybe and maybe not.” Sissy was smiling, but it wasn’t teasing. It seemed like a patient and fond smile. “Actually, it might work out nicely. You’re strong and you have some experience with tools and materials.”
Where she was headed seemed promising, so Sonny didn’t say anything. Sissy added, “It would take us clear through December, I imagine, which is well past the end of the semester.”
“I don’t think that would be a problem. I’d have the team, but no classes; there should be enough free time.” In spite of himself, he was starting to breathe a sigh of relief. He waited a moment before he added, “It seems perfect to me, Sissy. You’d have your project ready to go and I’d be eligible. I know you’re eligible if you’re carrying twelve hours.”
“It’s perfectly political, that’s for sure,” she replied. “I have no interest in basketball, and you have no interest in art. What could be better?”
It wasn’t the first time in his life he’d observed her sarcasm, which could just about blow you away. “It just seems to me like we’d be helping each other out,” he said quietly.
“And it seems to me we’d be using each other. Would it bother you at all to earn credit if you have no real interest in the subject matter?”
“No,” he said without hesitation. “That’s what I do every day. What would bother me is going ineligible. Basketball is my whole life.”
She reached upon the table to touch his hand, which was wrapped around his Coke. She gave a long sigh. “Cousin, Cousin. I’m going to need a little time to think about this. There are art majors who could help once the semester is over, but I can’t wait that long to get started. Besides that, I have the go-ahead from my doctor to start working on the project. Give me a day or two to see if I can lock my conscience up in the closet.”
“Okay,” said Sonny. He chose to see this as extremely hopeful.
She searched his eyes again. “It might be nice to get acquainted, huh?”
“Yeah, that would be nice.”
“No promises,” she reminded him. She was taking a small spiral notebook and a ballpoint from her large canvas bag. “I’ll need your phone number,” she said.
3
It was Robert Lee’s opinion that there were better ways to spend Thanksgiving Day than sitting on a charter flight, but Sonny knew they were headed for New York City and the Big Apple NIT. “No, there aren’t,” was his terse reply.
Luther announced with contempt that the Salukis were ranked 21st in the country in USA Today’s preseason poll. It seemed like a pretty high honor to Sonny, but Luther threw the paper aside. “Shit, man, say twenty teams better than us? No way.”
On the trip, Sonny would be rooming with Robert Lee. Snell was left at home because only 12 could make the traveling squad. When they reached their midtown Manhattan hotel, Robert Lee flopped himself on one of the two queen-size beds and wallowed in the luxurious spread. “I could get used to this, man.”
Sonny laughed, but his interest in their accomodations was minimal; standing at the threshold of his collegiate career, he was too much on edge. His interest in the sights and sounds of Manhattan was only slightly higher. This was just a town for playing basketball, like Mounds, Illinois, or Cobden.
Madison Square Garden, however, was a different matter, an awe-inspiring shrine permanent on the pilgrimage of basketball holies. “Jesus Christ,” said Robert Lee. “I thought our arena was big.”
“The Assembly Hall at the U of I is as big as this,” said Sonny. But that fact didn’t mitigate the reverence he felt. He spent so much time gawking worshipfully at the height and breadth of this basketball mecca that Workman, one of Gentry’s assistants, told him, “Time to get in your game head, Sonny. This is just another gym.”
“Right.”
“Baskets here are ten feet, free throw line is fifteen. This is the same as the playground.”
“Right.” Sonny began pouring in three-point arcers. The photographers and the Minicams seemed to grow out of the floor like crops.
A free copy of The New York Times was perched on each table in the hotel dining room. Tournament coverage in the sports section included pictures of Sonny and Luther, as well as high profile players from some of the other teams. When they were finished eating, Sonny folded the page to take home for Aunt Jane’s scrapbook.
The game against Miami was an easy 95–77 win, but the crowd was small. Even though the Salukis had some substantial preseason recognition, Miami had none at all, and neither team was likely to spark a great deal of interest in this east-coast setting.
Nervous during the first half, Sonny relaxed later on and nailed a few threes. He finished with 19 points, but late in the game, a Miami jumping jack named Jerome Williams blocked his shot. It was a breakaway, which Sonny nonchalanted in a finger roll, but Williams swooped from the side to swat it off the court.
Luther Cobb was a monster on the boards. At six feet seven inches and 235 pounds, he pounded out a performance to match his image. After the game, he and Coach Gentry were the postgame interview for ESPN. Coach Gentry observed that “It was gratifying for an opening game. The rough spots were to be expected.”
When asked about the large margin of victory, Luther told the interviewer, “Ain’t no big thing.”
The 88-channel capability of the cable TV in their room
held a powerful fascination for Robert Lee, who manhandled the remote like a video game. “Check this out,” he said to Sonny, when he located the late-night triple-X movie channel.
“Who cares?” The restless Sonny Youngblood prowled the room and brushed his teeth three times.
“I know what it is,” said Robert Lee. “You’re all unglued because you got your shot blocked.”
“Nobody ever blocks my shot.”
“You scored nineteen points, am I right? You know what your problem is, Sonny? You’re just not used to screwing up. You’re too good.”
“Nobody blocks my fucking shot! The next time I think finger roll, I’ll just dunk it. If I’da dunked it, that never could’ve happened.”
“Right,” said Robert Lee, who had just located a Cuban channel. “Can we kiss it off now?”
“There has to be another notch in the switch,” Sonny muttered. “There will be.”
“I said, can we kiss it off?”
The following night, for the Michigan game, the crowd was large, although less than capacity. Rated number three in the country, the Wolverines were heavily favored. During warm-ups, Sonny felt his tension increase when he looked in the direction of Michigan’s senior all-American, Alonzo Lipes. “How good is Lipes?” he asked Luther.
“I played against him in a summer league two years ago,” Luther replied. “Lipes can play.”
When the teams were at the bench for last-minute instructions, Sonny had to go to the locker-room toilet to throw up. A security man was staring at him until Sonny told him to get out. Scarlet-faced, hanging on the porcelain, heaving up phlegm when it was all that was left in his tract, Sonny missed the starting lineup introductions.
He was shaky in the early minutes, but it was a disastrous night for Michigan. The Salukis buried them 102–65, in a game that wasn’t even close at halftime. Michigan tried zoning for a while, but zoning a team that counted Sonny Youngblood among its members was a futile proposition. His accuracy from outside the arc was uncanny, while C.J. Moore on the other wing was a deadly perimeter shooter as well.
When Michigan went to the man-to-man, it merely revealed the Saluki balance. Luther’s power moves underneath demanded double-teaming, which left the six-ten Royer free for a string of uncontested short jumpers in the paint.
For his part, Sonny was on fire. He led all scorers with a 40-point game. In addition to his breathtaking demonstration of three-point shooting, he ripped home a pair of reverse slams off the half-court trap. Even Robert Lee got enough playing time to root around for 11 points and shake the ball loose several times with his physical, nose-to-nose defense.
With six minutes remaining, and the lead mounted to 40 points, Sonny caught the substitutes lined up at the scorers’ bench from the corner of his eye. He stole an errant pass and bolted for the Michigan basket. Just this one more before Coach takes me out.
The frustrated Alonzo Lipes flew at him while Sonny soared at the iron, the ball cocked in both hands behind his head. He powered home his monster dunk an instant before Lipes’s left hand delivered a glancing blow against the back of his head.
He made his free throw pure to complete the three-point play. As soon as Sonny came out of the game, he went straight to the locker room for more vomiting. It was a different security guard this time. Sonny had the shakes and some uncomfortable palpitations as well. Drained of color and energy, he lay on one of the benches with a wet towel over his face.
A minute before the game was over, Workman came in and said they wanted him for an ESPN interview.
“Forget it,” he told Workman, without lifting the towel.
“You okay, Sonny?”
“I’m fine. No interview though.”
There was a big party in the hotel ballroom with refreshments, reporters, and photographers. Most of the reporters learned soon enough that Sonny wasn’t a good interview, so it wasn’t surprising when they tended to gather around Luther and Coach Gentry. One reporter, however, a man from Newsday, asked Sonny what he thought about New York City.
“Not much,” he replied. He was drinking a large glass of punch and gobbling French pastries on his still-queasy stomach.
“You don’t like the Big Apple?”
“I didn’t say that. I just don’t think about it much.”
As poised as Coach Gentry was in the press conference environment, he never seemed comfortable when his players hobnobbed with the media. This time was no exception. At 11:45, he told Price to herd them to their rooms. Even before Sonny and Robert Lee got inside the room, the phone was ringing.
It was Uncle Seth, drunk and in the company of several cronies. He told Sonny, “We’ve been sitting here counting the rings. We got up to one hundred and sixty before you answered.”
“Hi, Uncle Seth.”
Seth and the other revelers took turns on the receiver, proclaiming the glory of this moment in loud, slurred syllables. Sonny held the receiver three feet from his head so Robert Lee could hear as well.
To win the finals the next night, they had to beat St. John’s. Not regarded as a great team, St. John’s had upset favored Louisville to reach this title game. Since St. John’s was a New York City team, the Redmen would enjoy a huge homecourt advantage. Before the game even started, the noise level from the 16,000 partisans was like a tidal wave, and it was hostile. Sonny could feel his stomach churning, but it wasn’t enough to give him nausea.
The intimidation generated by the roaring crowd didn’t endure past the 14-minute mark, when the score was 15–14. At halftime, the SIU lead was swollen to 47–25. By the time the blowout was over, 94–63, the crowd had thinned out considerably; Madison Square Garden was as quiet as a practice gym.
Reporters swarmed the locker room, but Coach Gentry moved everyone quickly in order to meet the midnight flight from La Guardia. Because he was chosen the Most Valuable Player for the tournament, Sonny did have to stick around for a center-court ceremony and a brief interview with cable hookups. One writer described his style of play as that of a “dervish.” Another labeled him the “Tasmanian Devil of the hardwood,” whatever that meant. But at 18 years and 11 months, Sonny Youngblood was averaging 32 points a game against high-level competition, and bringing home the MVP plaque from the Big Apple NIT.
Lights out on the plane, but it seemed to Sonny that he was the only one having trouble sleeping. He twisted his long limbs this way and that in search of a comfortable space. His stomach was still queasy from game-generated tension and gorging on available snacks. His racing mind permitted only intermittent dozing, in and out.
In the disorientation of this racing mind, he found himself out of time and place. The vivid images in his brain were not of the NIT, but somehow of the freshman team back in Abydos. He wasn’t on a plane at all; he was back on the bus to Tamms, in the ninth grade. It was a long and winding ride in the dark, especially after the driver, who was new, got lost and ended up in Thebes. They had to use secondary roads cutting through the Shawnee National Forest. There were patches of frozen snow along the shoulder and every once in a while Sonny caught a glimpse of the naked trees along the bluffs.
Most of the other guys didn’t seem as tense as he was, but then he was the only one with no previous game experience. Butch Cross played a battery-operated video game, while Julio was listening to a tape on his Walkman. Sonny had a seat to himself, but across the aisle was One Gram, who kept a steady stream of small talk going. With his attention primarily out the window, Sonny didn’t hear much of what he said, so he just grunted yes or no every so often.
Brother Rice, who was hulked up in the front seat, wouldn’t tolerate a lot of noise on the bus. At the moment, he had Dick Lynch in the “seat of honor,” the one right behind the driver. He was talking to Lynch in a conversational tone, while pointing to diagrams on index cards. Sonny couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he had Lynch’s undivided attention.
When it was his turn, Sonny felt proud because Brother Rice didn’t put you in the seat
of honor unless he thought you were a significant player. Nerves took over in a hurry, though, and his heart began to thump in his chest. Rice leaned close to tell him, “If we get ahead of this team, I want to use the diamond press in the second half. I want you on this wing.” He showed Sonny the index card with the diamond press configuration. He pointed to the X on the right wing.
Rice’s labored breathing smelled like cigarettes; there were droplets of perspiration formed on his forehead.
“Okay,” said Sonny.
“What did we say about the press in practice?” Brother Rice asked him.
Sonny licked his dry lips. “We have to put pressure on the ball all the time,” he said.
“Some of the time?”
“No, all the time.”
“And you remember what I said about fouls.” Rice’s voice was like gravel.
“I remember.”
“Okay, tell me. What did I say about fouls?”
Sonny had to lick his lips again. “It’s okay to foul because you have to find out what the refs will let you get away with.”
“Exactly. A press that doesn’t intimidate in every way possible is not worth a shit.” Then he clapped Sonny on the knee and said, “Good concentration, Youngblood; just be sure your head is in the game.”
During warm-ups, Sonny was careful to shoot only conventional layups, soft off the glass. No finger rolls. Dick Lynch tried a semidunk which was a big failure; all he did was more or less pin the ball dead on the front of the rim. Then he had a sheepish grin when some of the guys hooted him. Sonny didn’t say a word. He thought he could outjump Lynch anyway.
The gym was about half full of spectators, which Sonny thought must be a good crowd for a freshman game. He said so to Julio.
“It is a good crowd,” said Julio. “But that’s what you get when Abydos plays.”
“Really?”
“Damn right. You’ll see.”
When the game started, Sonny was on the bench, about three down from Rice himself. Rice’s “head in the game rule” meant that even though your ass was on the bench, your mind better be on the court. You weren’t supposed to do any gabbing or goofing off, you needed to concentrate 100 percent on the game, especially on the guy playing your position.
The Squared Circle Page 5