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- serialized short story by Jarrett Fulton
"Biggins, pass the ball!"
"Get open and shut up!"
"Hey, this isn't the time nor place to put my foot up yours!"
The game was up to 5. We were on defense winning, 4-2. Drew takes a jump shot and scores, 4-3. Biggins, our team captain, inbounds the ball. He tosses it to Michael who brings the ball up and passes it back to Biggins. I was open underneath the basket, but Biggins passed it to Jack in the corner; he shot it?-an air ball.
Drew grabs the rebound, dribbles up the court, and scores again, tied at 4. This time, I receive ball up court and accidentally pass it to Biggins. Knowing that I made a mistake, I cut to the asket-being open as usual-yet not getting the ball. Our beloved captain takes it upon himself and dribbles the ball to the free throw line. The idiot shot it and missed. That causes Drew to snatch another rebound, run down court; dishes it to an open teammate and scores, game over.
"What's the problem? Your country behind can't see!" I scream.
Biggins stands on the sideline waiting for next game. "You are not the star on the team!"
Before I knew it, I was screaming harsh obscenities and headed toward the exit. I kicked the door vigorously, causing the cheerleaders practicing in the hallway to scream. I didn't understand why I was so upset; maybe it was sexual frustration. This frustration only led me to the boy's locker room.
Why was Biggins shutting me out? He knew I was better than him and I needed a scholarship. This is my final year in high school with no future, accept the illegal obligations that mean nothing to me. Leaving the gym did not bother me since it was only the first day of try-outs. Luckily, the coach was out of town for personal reasons. Feeling a headache coming, I rested my head between my legs and cried.
My headache worsened until Drew entered the locker room. I tried as quickly as possible to hide my emotions, but he could still tell I was depressed. He took off his sweaty shirt and opened his locker.
"I didn't think kicking doors would solve problems."
"You saw how Biggins shut me out." I replied. "Even the coach said that if you and me make the team that we were to be managers or benchwarmers."
"You're the one who quit the team last year during try-outs." Drew responds.
"What do you expect?"
Drew takes off his shoes and looks at me, his eyes giving off a dark glow that stood behind its sockets. He only had one strain of hair that curled underneath his chin. His teeth were yellow and crooked. He was a punctilious adolescent. He played the role of watching people or being the class clown. Didn't care about school academics, which led him to getting cut from the team in the previous years.
"This basketball program sucks," I said getting anxious. "The only reason why I quit was because I hated the coach and I knew I wasn't going to play."
Drew laughs. "Man, if you haven't noticed, we have the same coach we did last year."
"True," I replied, deciding I needed to be alone, so I headed to my locker and picked up my book bag. "I'm not going to sit the bench 'cuz I need a scholarship and some colleges to notice me."
Drew kept talking about his hopes and dreams, but I wasn't listening. He looked disappointed when I told him I wasn't breaking into the gym tonight, but I lied. Later, I headed to the back steps of the gym without being seen. Once I got to the back door, there were dust and spider webs everywhere. I took out my knife and cracked open the door. The gym was gloomy and still inside. The wind hollowed blatantly outside, leaves brushed against the windows, and my footsteps echoed in the darkness.
I finally reached to the switch, turned on the lights, and plugged in the fan. The gym came to life spontaneously. Changed back into my gym clothes, I walked over to the free throw line. Did my typical routine, two dribbles and a shot. The result: Swish. I reminisce back to Emerson Junior High and wondered what went wrong. Like those high schools that kept calling, sending birthday cards, and coming to the games. Drew and I played on the same team that was ranked #1 in the area and finished the season undefeated. Ever since I left, it's been pure hell. Kicked off the team my freshman and sophomore years because of academic trouble, and just last year, I quit the team during try-outs because I met the Devil.
He was a short and husky man. An imperious coach and an insensitive human being. He left his wife and two kids for a white woman that was still in undergraduate school. Years prior to my arrival, there were investigations about an incident with a player. The player punched him during a game because of his "abusive" behavior. He's infamous for his fiery speeches and insatiable attacks on players during practice, but we called him Coach Fisher.
Swish. This school has turned innocent young black athletes into drug-dealers, drug users, and a few filed for unemployment. Oak Park is mostly a white community that is rich on tradition. We strive on excellence in the classroom and on the diamond field. In baseball, countless ballplayers went to college or even the pros. I'd be happy to land a scholarship at a community college in Mississippi. Tomorrow, Coach Fisher is my last hope, and praying means nothing when you're dealing with the devil.
"Put the balls up and sit down," Coach Fisher yells, looking down at his team list. "There is something I want to tell you before I go over the final team roster."
Coach Fisher takes off his glasses, sits down, pauses for a second and continues. "Now for the new guys that make the team this year," he stops and looks at me, "you will have the opportunity to be a part of a great program. As I said a week before, you will not play much, but you'll learn a team concept. Your goal is to make guys like Robert and Biggins better. I know this is hard to accept, but your chances to move up are possible. Now when I was in college…" I started to think why doesn't he shut up and call out the roster. "I was a benchwarmer and the only time I played was during the warm-up before the game. My father would come to the warm-up and when the game started, he would leave…." He continued like this but I just stared at the pretty girls outside the gym while Drew was hanging on his every word.
Coach Fisher finishes his speech and calls off names. Several
guys smile as their names were mentioned, while others just sit
there and show no facial expression. Two spots were left out of
20 that weren't called. "Perry and Jarrett Fulton are the
last to make the list."
I made it. I looked at Drew only to see a disappointed look on
his face. This is the third time in 4 years he's been cut. We
headed to the locker room in a dispirited mood. "You know
something," Drew seems bewildered, but caught himself. "Forget
Al. It doesn't matter no more. It's about money, clothes, and
hoes. I quit basketball."
I wish I could've said something reassuring, but couldn't. I just told him to wait until college, but he didn't care. He didn't want to admit that the only reason why he was cut is because he was failing 3 classes. After being here for four years, he still didn't learn. I only feared the worst and those illegal obligations that would pop up soon. I broke back into the gym only to get home about 2 o'clock in the morning. My father was upset.
"Son, where have you been? Today is your 18th birthday and you're out doing what, drinking?"
"I was in the gym working on my game."
"You still could've call and told me."
I headed to my bedroom and didn't get any sleep that night. I spent all night thinking about Drew and my final year playing for the devil. We call him Coach Fisher.
Story Copyright 2002, Author, Jarrett Fulton
E-mail:drumbeats@dvercity.com Snail-mail:DverCITY, Inc., P.O. Box 1244, Tallahassee, FL 32302 Questions /Comments: Webmaster Revised -- February 4, 2002 |
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