“Yes.” They spoke as one.
“Third. The rules I give you, you will follow to the letter. The first time you break a rule, you will take ten additional laps at every practice. The second time you break a rule, don’t bother coming back. Your ass will be off the team, and I will expect never to see your dumb face around this gym again. Is that perfectly clear?”
More silence, for more sinking in.
“The first rule is this: When I’m talking, you are listening. You won’t be clowning or making noises or staring around the gym. Look at this ball. Are you looking at it?”
Sonny stared at the seams that patterned the leather grain, rotating slowly in the fat hands. He wondered if there was anything else Rice could do with a basketball; there was no way to imagine him dribbling or shooting.
“If you look at the ball at all times, you won’t be distracted. Look at the ball, keep your mouth shut, and listen carefully. It’s the first and simplest way to learn something about concentration. When I tell you to do something, I expect to tell you once and only once.
“The second rule is this: You will never miss a practice, not for even one minute. At three-forty I expect to see you running laps. That means three-forty, not three-forty-one.” After a long pause, Rice said, “Those are the rules, the only rules, and you will follow them to the letter. Are there any questions?”
Sonny couldn’t imagine the nerve it would take to speak up with a question, but after a moment or two of silence, Dick Lynch held up his hand and Rice nodded to him. “Does it matter what we wear to practice?” Lynch asked.
Rice shook his head. “It doesn’t make any difference. What you’re wearing right now is fine. As long as your dick’s not hanging out, I don’t care about your appearance.”
Some of the guys laughed, but Sonny only smiled. It was nervous laughter anyway. There weren’t any more questions so Rice said, “We’re going to work on defense today. Fifty percent of the game of basketball is defense, but players don’t want to work very hard at it. They’d rather be down at the offensive end, sucking up all the glory they can. You don’t play for me, though, if you don’t play defense. Take five laps, hard ones, then stand under the south basket and I’ll tell you what comes next.”
Sprinting his laps as hard as he could, Sonny came in near the front. Lynch was first, so he got to lead the first drill. It was running in place in your defensive crouch, going right or left according to which direction Lynch pointed the ball. Left, right, forward, back, in place. Over and over until Sonny’s legs shook heavily and he was so winded a sharp pain scorched in his chest.
Rice then ordered them to pair off and get a ball from the rack. One Gram, Sonny’s partner, held the ball. Some of the guys bounced their ball on the floor until they got a good look at Rice’s face.
“Now listen up. If it’s your turn for offense, dribble the ball against your partner and try to advance it toward the north end. Half of you can go the other way, so we’ve got some room. Okay, let’s see if you’ve got anything at all. Go ahead.”
The fifteen pairs went at it. Guarding Warren felt familiar from the times of one-on-one in his driveway, but Sonny felt shaky indeed. After fifteen seconds, Rice blew the whistle. He bellowed at the guys playing defense. “Look at you, for God’s sake! You’re slouching like you’re in line for movie tickets! Some of you are even crossing your feet! Get your feet apart and get balanced. Get squared up to your man and turn it up a notch. Now move it.”
Another quick whistle after another fifteen seconds. “Don’t look at his head and don’t look at his feet. Those are the things he can fake with. Look straight at the pit of his stomach, and I want to see some concentration. Do it again!”
Sonny guarded Warren with Rice’s guidelines firmly in mind. From a balanced crouch, he concentrated hard on One Gram’s stomach. He moved his feet quickly right or left, straining to keep himself balanced. He couldn’t help but notice, when he moved up close one time to try and poke the ball away, that he and his friend were now the same height. Warren was more muscular, but they were both six feet one.
This time nearly thirty seconds passed before the whistle sounded. “I’d like to know the purpose of the three feet of daylight between you and your man. Is your arm four feet long? Do you honestly think you can put any pressure on the ball from back there? Think again, girls. When you play defense for me, I don’t want to see any daylight. I want you in his face and in his shirt.” On the coach’s harsh face was an expression of long-suffering; he shook his head wearily. “Let’s try it again,” he said.
Sonny got right up on Warren’s chest and slapped at the ball, but it was harder to keep his man from going around him. With his feet moving furiously, he fought to keep his balance. About 20 seconds’ worth before the next whistle cut them off. “You guys aren’t even close; you don’t have a clue. You play defense with your feet, not your hands, not by reaching and grabbing. I told you you don’t know anything about defense; maybe by now you’re starting to believe me. We better say it again, girls. Tell me how good you are.”
“I’m not worth a shit,” they said, only this time angry and frustrated. Sonny wanted another chance, but Rice told them, “You guys are hopeless. Let’s see if your partner is any better.”
One Gram handed the ball to Sonny. “Okay, go ahead,” ordered the coach.
When practice was over, they took five hard laps before heading to the locker room. Sonny could even remember how Julio had scampered down the row of lockers, snapping jockstraps as he went.
But a custodian was disturbing this reverie by tapping Sonny on the shoulder. “We’re going to be working on this floor, Sonny. I guess you’ll have to leave.”
Startled, Sonny turned to look. The custodian’s name was Gus, it said so on his shirt. “What?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now.” He spoke so politely.
Sonny stood up. “No problem,” he said. Of course the custodian named Gus would be polite. He was speaking not to a shaky ninth-grader in fear of Brother Rice’s wrath, but to Sonny Youngblood, SIU all-American, the MVP of the Big Apple NIT, and star of the third-ranked team in the nation.
“Sorry,” Gus repeated.
“No problem,” Sonny repeated. “I was just thinking of Brother Rice.”
“He’s in a nursing home now.”
“That’s what I heard. It’s not surprising if you think about his lifestyle. Maybe the surprising thing is, he’s still alive at all. I have some place I have to go now anyway. See you later.”
The place Sonny had to go was the Abydos Community Library, and with a surprising sense of purpose. The quiet library was dark wood and low lighting. His only real memories of the place were associated with Barb, doing homework together.
Using an encyclopedia of mythology and a book called The Golden Bough, Sonny needed the better part of three hours to write a report on Isis and Osiris. The focus he needed to find was all the more difficult because there seemed to be two distinct tales: the one where Isis recovered the coffin of Osiris and brought him home, and the other where he was dismembered, so she had to locate his body parts and reassemble them. Then there was the nasty problem of simply writing it all out, because writing was never easy for him.
At 4:00 the library closed, but he was nearly finished anyway. Outside it was dusk, but the drizzle had stopped and the temperature hovered near 40 degrees. He stopped at Goldie’s to see if anyone might be hanging out. Besides some guys from the implement plant who wanted to slap his back and talk about Saluki basketball, Julio Bates and Andrea were in a corner booth.
First they wanted to see his new car, but he talked them out of it. “You can see it before I leave,” he said.
“Oh, just another RX-7,” joked Andrea.
“You know how it is with my uncle, the cars are always coming and going.”
“I wish I knew.”
Julio and Andrea were both enrolled at Shawnee Community College in Ullin. Andrea said, “Barb’s in
Europe right now on a choir tour.”
“You see her often?”
“Hardly ever. She’s written me a couple of letters.”
Sonny asked Julio about basketball at Shawnee.
“It’s okay. I’ve been playin’ sixth man, but there’s a guy who’s goin’ ineligible. I might get to start this semester.”
“That’s good, Julio.”
Julio laughed, then he shrugged. “Well it ain’t the Salukis, amigo. I’ve been watchin’ you guys on the tube.” He stopped long enough to shake his head and make a whistling sound through his teeth. “What can I say?”
Andrea made a groaning sound. “Are we going to talk about basketball now?”
“Chill out,” Julio told her. “We’re talkin’ about numero uno here.”
“Not in the polls.” Sonny smiled at him.
“Yeah, don’t tell me. I’ve seen with my own eyes.”
“We are going to talk about basketball.”
“You want to come to a game?” Sonny asked Julio.
“Sure, but there’s no tickets. There’s never any tickets.”
“I get comp tickets for every game. I can get you free tickets.”
“Are you serious?”
“Would I kid about a thing like this? Just pick your date.”
“He picks me,” said Andrea.
“Not that kind of date, a date on the schedule.”
“Can you get two tickets?” asked Julio.
“Not a problem,” Sonny assured him. “I can get up to six tickets.”
Julio laughed, then reached across the table to give Sonny a high five. They knocked over a Coke. Andrea started blotting furiously with a handful of napkins. “Let’s leave before we get thrown out,” she said. “Can we see your car now?”
The cake that Uncle Seth custom-ordered for Sonny’s birthday covered most of the surface of a card table. Baked in the shape of a huge number one, it was decorated to include a clumsy likeness of Dick Vitale, who had long been proclaiming that the Salukis were the best team in the nation regardless of what the polls said.
Aunt Jane took a Polaroid photograph of the cake before cutting a portion of it into generous squares. With his beer in hand, Uncle Seth asked, “How does chocolate cake go with the king?”
“You mean the king of beers?” asked Hufnagel.
“That’s the one.”
“Not too good, as I recall.”
“Then you better eat your cake before you get too much brew in you,” Uncle Seth cautioned him.
“It’s a little late to be telling me now.” He laughed out loud and so did Uncle Seth.
The TV was turned up loud. It was halftime in the Georgetown game, and the ESPN anchormen were reporting scores and highlights from around the country. It was unlikely that Georgetown, ranked number one in the nation, would blow its 12-point lead. Paepke was a real estate developer from Mount Vernon. His view was, “If we were in the Big Ten or the Big East, we would’ve been number one a long time ago.”
It was the prevailing opinion. “You got that right,” said Seth.
“It wouldn’t even be close in the polls.”
“It’s enough to make you puke, isn’t it?” said Hufnagel.
“It’s too bad we aren’t in one of those holiday classics,” lamented Paepke.
Sonny reminded them, “We were in the NIT and the Memphis Invitational.”
“That’s not the same. It’s these Christmas holiday tournaments where you get the most exposure.”
“Yeah,” said Oscar. “Look at Georgetown.”
When the second half started, Sonny took the rest of the cake up to the kitchen, where Aunt Jane was mixing a large bowl of trail mix to supplement the potato chips. “I don’t think you’re enjoying the party much,” his aunt said to him.
Sonny shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s lots of grins for the good old boy network.”
“It gives them a chance to let off steam.”
But where does the steam come from? he wondered. What does it mean? “Right,” he said.
“Take these downstairs for me?”
“Sure.” He took the bowls down to the den, where a Rutgers comeback was stirring some excitement. Sonny took an empty chair and munched on potato chips. He was familiar with Georgetown, having watched them on TV several times before.
Rutgers cut the lead to six points before Georgetown’s six-foot-eight all-American, LeRoy Jackson, took over the game with a couple of leaners in the paint that he converted into three-point plays, three blocked shots, and a breakaway dunk. The lead was back to 14 points. With less than six minutes remaining, the game’s outcome was not in doubt.
“They’re not that good,” Paepke said of Georgetown. “Jackson’s not that good either.”
Sonny couldn’t believe it. “Are you serious? He’s a first-team all-American. He’s only a sophomore, but he could probably come out after this season.”
“He’s not ready to come out,” Paepke insisted. “What makes him think he’s ready for the NBA?”
“That’s what I say,” Oscar agreed. “You can’t believe everything the Eastern press wants to tell you, Sonny.”
“I don’t care what sportswriters say. I’ve seen him play enough with my own eyes. Workman says he’ll be a lottery pick.”
“Could you guard him, Sonny?” asked Uncle Seth.
“He’s six eight,” Sonny reminded him. “I might be able to check him out on the floor, but not posted up.” At times he got impatient with their remote expectations. Where was reality?
“Luther Cobb could guard him,” said Oscar. “Luther would shut him down.”
“Georgetown’s not on our schedule,” Sonny pointed out.
“We’re talking about the tournament,” said Hufnagel to Sonny. “The Hoyas’ll be on our schedule in the NCAA tournament.”
“If they’re lucky enough to get that far!” exclaimed Uncle Seth. Then the two of them laughed out loud and clinked their beer mugs together.
After the game, when all the guests were gone, Uncle Seth was sound asleep in the easy chair. A monster truck rerun was showing, but Sonny didn’t touch the set. He went up to his room. He found a paper clip to fasten together the five loose pages of his library report. Then he went to bed.
The two dreams, which were on the lip of consciousness, merged at times to seem like parts of the same dream: LeRoy Jackson soaring like a hawk to pin his finger roll against the backboard, and Sissy swallowing his finger wet and wild. He awoke with a sweat and a start; the nightstand clock told him it was only three A.M.
On the night of the 30th, it was dark as pitch, but the rain had slowed to a drizzle as Sonny guided the Mazda along the ruts and slush in Sissy’s lane. He was relieved to see lights on in the house.
She was wearing her bathrobe. She only opened the door partway, but at least she left the porch light off. “This is a surprise, Cousin. Tell me what’s up.”
“I came to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Liar. How did you even find out?”
“Aunt Jane told me.”
“Still a liar. What’s on your mind?”
His hesitation was caused by the foolishness he felt. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to visit.”
“Life in the fast lane must be slowing down; you came all the way up here for the sole purpose of visiting moi?”
“I guess.”
She reached to open the screen door so he could come inside. Lamplit from behind, like a silhouette, she seemed large. But it was probably only because she was on the step up. Before Sonny could get inside, it started to pour again. The rain pounded the porch roof like falling marbles. “Oh, the plaster!” Sissy exclaimed.
“What plaster?”
“I put four bags of plaster by the barn; I couldn’t get them any farther. The rain will ruin them.”
“I’ll put them away.”
She smiled. “We can pretend you came for my birthday and you want to give me a present.”
“What p
resent?”
“Not goods, services. Putting the plaster away.”
She turned on the porch light while Sonny jogged through the downpour. The barn door padlock was troublesome because it was partly iced; he was soaked to the skin getting the bags inside.
When he stood on the throw rug inside her door, he was dripping like a wet tree. Sissy brought him a huge towel, so he took off his sweater and shirt to begin rubbing dry. Sissy held the wet garments, so drenched they were heavy. “You’re soaked, Sonny. Let me put your clothes through the dryer.”
His hair was plastered to his face. His teeth were chattering even though he stood near the heat from the fireplace. “I’ll probably be okay.”
“Don’t be absurd. This isn’t the locker room, you don’t have to be tough here.”
He started to answer, but his teeth were chattering too much from the wet and cold.
“I have a house rule,” Sissy went on. “No superstar leaves the premises with pneumonia.”
Sonny had to laugh. He found himself in her large bathroom, under the bright ceiling light fixture. He took off the rest of his soggy clothes and handed them out to her around the small door opening. “Run yourself a hot shower,” she instructed. “These are so wet I’m going to put them through the spin cycle of the washer first.”
He called after her, “There’s a report folded up in my back pocket. Take it out first, okay?”
Her distant voice was playful: “Have no fear, I never deal in laundered reports.” She sure seemed in a good mood.
For nearly five minutes he simply stood still under the hot water with the steam rising. When his skin began turning pink, he started soaping himself. It was only rote shower behavior, though, because he wasn’t even dirty. Because of his height, Sonny could see over the top of the shower curtain. He watched the bathroom door swing open, and he could see the top of Sissy’s head as she entered the bathroom.
When he heard the toilet lid clunk down, he realized that she had chosen a place to sit. “I brought you some wine,” she said in a voice loud enough to clear the shower.
The Squared Circle Page 11