24

PRINCIPAL HERRON STIRRED IN HIS SLEEP, awakening as he turned over on the bed. He blinked open his eyes and noticed that his wife, Susan, was moving around uncomfortably as well. “Susan?”

“Hmmm?” Susan turned over on her side, her hand searching for her husband.

Principal Herron gazed at his wife in the semidarkness. A classic Southern belle, Susan looked beautiful in her peach-colored, high-necked silk nightgown. “Susan?” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Nuh-huhh,” she mumbled.

“Did you hear something outside?”

“Outside? Hear something?” she asked. “No, Dan, I didn’t.”

“I’m going to look around.” Principal Herron crept out of bed and threw on a robe over his pajamas and slipped his feet into the brown leather slippers he kept by the bed.

“Oh, no, Dan. Come back to bed.” Susan patted the still warm mattress where her husband had been lying.

“I’ll just be a minute.”

She rolled over and closed her eyes. “Okay. Try not to wake me when you come back upstairs, please.”

“I won’t,” he said. “And I’ll ask the intruder to be quiet as well.” Principal Herron stepped gingerly out of the bedroom and down the hallway toward the room of their daughter, Peggy Sue. He slowly opened the door and peeked inside. Peggy Sue was asleep, looking as innocent and peaceful as ever, lying in her white nightie, one arm draped around a teddy bear. Peggy Sue, an enthusiastic, almost starry-eyed Eddie Sherlin fan, had taped on the wall above her bed a picture of Eddie that she had cut from the sports page of the newspaper. Principal Herron smiled when he saw the clipping, but he scratched his head when he noticed her holding a bright green Sprite bottle close to her lips as she slept. The strict, former infantry colonel would not have been pleased had he known Peggy Sue had bought the bottle from one of Eddie’s sisters.

But while Principal Herron was trying to figure out the significance of the Sprite bottle, a flickering light outside Peggy Sue’s bedroom window snagged his attention. He heard the sound of male voices and feet running across the lawn and driveway. He closed Peggy Sue’s door and continued down the hall and on downstairs. Without thinking of his own safety, he hurried to the front door, threw it open, and stepped out onto the front porch.

Even with all his experience in the racially charged community, the sight that met his eyes stunned him. Standing in the center of the Herrons’ front lawn was a large flaming cross.

Dan quickly assessed the situation, determining that the flames from the cross were not a threat to the porch or to the trees or shrubbery in his front yard. As his eyes adjusted to the flickering light from the fire, he spotted several figures in white hoods and white sheet-like outfits running toward a parked car in the distance.

One of the figures turned and looked at Dan on the front porch. “This better be a lesson to you!” the figure bellowed.

“We’re comin’ for you next,” another sheet-covered person yelled.

One of the figures took off his hood and dove into the driver’s seat. Principal Herron couldn’t make out the person’s face, but he looked a lot like Terry Poster. The engine roared, and the car sped away into the night.

By then Susan had roused and run downstairs. When she saw the burning cross in their front yard, she nearly fainted. “Oh, God, help us! Who did this, Dan?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m going to call the police right now. Or the fire department. Or both!”

“No, Susan,” Dan said firmly. “Calm down. We’re okay.”

By now a large group of neighbors—many of them dressed in only pajamas and slippers, others in robes, and some in overalls and T-shirts—had gathered out in front of the Herrons’ home. Not wanting to get too close, most huddled at a distance—out near the street. “What’s going on?” a neighbor asked aloud to anybody listening, even though he probably knew the answer to his question.

Some of the onlookers bore scared expressions. Others scowled in obvious outrage. Most displayed a mixture of both emotions. “My Lord!” a deeply troubled older gentleman declared. “What is happening to our town?”

Others were more fearful. “I can’t believe this!”

“A man can’t even fall asleep in his own bed anymore without this whites and coloreds stuff spillin’ into his dreams.”

Many of the women whispered among themselves, “Who did this?”

Then a man dressed in only pajama bottoms expressed the fear that was probably in most of the neighbors’ minds. “If they will burn a cross on the Herrons’ front yard, what’s next? Who’s next?” A hushed murmur of agreement swept through the group.

“But I thought those Ku Klux Klan people were good, godly Christians,” a naive woman said to the man in pajama bottoms.

“What does it look like to you?” he responded. “Does this look like somethin’ Jesus would do?”

The woman shook her head and put her hands to her cheeks, acknowledging the truth.

The neighbor turned away from her and called out to Dan Herron, who was still standing on the front porch. “Hey, Dan! It’s Pete from next door. Y’all okay in there?”

Principal Herron, his eyes still fixed on the burning cross, had hardly noticed the gathering crowd of neighbors. Hearing his name and the question, he peered into the darkness and saw the group at the end of his yard.

“Yes, we’re fine,” he called back. “Just a little surprised, being awakened in the middle of the night and all. Yes, thank you. We’re okay. This thing will burn down in a while.”

“Anything we can do?” the man asked.

“No, thanks. It’s okay. Go on home. We appreciate your concern.”

Peggy Sue heard the commotion on the porch and came running downstairs. “Daddy, are you okay?” She ran to her father and wrapped herself around her father. “Mama, what’s going on? Who did this? What does this mean?”

“It means we have some bigoted, racist cowards in our town, honey,” he said. “That’s all.”

“I’m going to call the fire department,” Susan said.

“No, let it go,” Principal Herron told her.

“Call the sheriff, Mama!” Peggy Sue urged. “And the fire department. We have to put that thing out before it catches the house on fire!”

“No. No, let it go,” he said. “There’s no danger of that. Don’t worry. Peggy Sue, you and your mama go back inside. I’ll stay out here and keep an eye on things.” He stared intently at the burning cross. “Don’t worry. It will burn itself out.”

But deep inside the principal knew that what the burning cross represented in Gallatin would not burn out on its own, that the wretched evil it represented would continue to smolder and reek long after the smell of the burning wood had subsided.

Gallatin pulsated with excitement all week long leading up to the district basketball championship game. Like many folks in small-town America, people in Gallatin and the surrounding area took their high school sports seriously. In 1970, Nashville did not have any major professional sports teams, and Southeastern Conference college teams such as the Tennessee Volunteers, the Alabama Crimson Tide, and the Georgia Bulldogs seemed like untouchable gods who deigned to let outsiders attend their games; therefore, local spectators got wrapped up in high school sports. Football, of course, was king, but when basketball was hot, it was a close second. And in the spring of 1970, basketball was hot in Gallatin!

“Good mornin’, Gallatin!” Jesse hooted into the WHIN microphone. “What do we got today, Al?”

“Well, you don’t even need me to tell you,” Jesse’s cohost teased. “Everyone in these parts is talking about only one thing—the big district tournament championship game coming up this weekend. And we’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that Gallatin can’t lose! We have two—count ’em, Jesse—two teams from Gallatin schools in the district finals, Gallatin High and Union High, so we have a lock on the division title, folks. Someone in Gallatin is gonna be taking home a big trophy on Saturday night. That’s the good news.”

“And what’s the bad news, Al?” Jesse set up his partner.

“Well, the bad news is we’re talking about Gallatin High School playing Union High School, and, folks, it ain’t never happened before and ain’t never gonna happen again because, as most of you know, the school district is closing down Union after this term. So this is the very first and the very last time these two teams will meet! And they aren’t gonna meet in just a scrimmage game. Not even in a regular season game. No sirree, Bob. They’re meetin’ in the District Twenty tournament championship game.”

Don Savage, the owner of the pawn shop, sat in his rocking chair behind the counter and smiled as he listened to Jesse and Al and thought about the chain he had helped Eddie pick out for his girlfriend. I hope that gold chain with Eddie’s ring hanging on it made her happy, he mused.

Down at the whites-only barbershop, Bob White unlocked his door and turned on the red, white, and blue barber’s pole outside the doorway to let people know he was open for business. He adjusted the volume on the radio so his customers could hear Jesse and Al, but not so loud that the radio hosts would impede customers’ discussion of the game while in the shop. After all, arguing over high school sports was a barbershop tradition in Gallatin.

On the other side of the street, Roscoe Robinson, the owner of the Negro barbershop, did much the same thing. In almost every store in town, radios blared. All were tuned in to one topic—the big game.

Jesse pitched his partner a cue. “Yes, sir, Al. Gallatin and Union took care of their semifinal opponents in such convincing fashion it almost made folks feel sorry for Springfield and Westmoreland. Those are two mighty fine teams, but Gallatin and Union are simply a cut above.”

“You are right, Jesse.” Al picked up the banter. “And this Saturday night, these two teams are going to be evenly matched. The oddsmakers don’t even know which way to call it. You’ve got five future college starters on the Union team, with Bill Ligon leading the way and captain Roy Jackson providing the fire. And then you have Gallatin with Eddie Sherlin, one of the leading scorers in the entire state. In fact, for most of this season, Eddie has been among the top scorers. In mid-February, our hometown boy took the lead, becoming the number one point producer, scoring more than 800 points—33.5 points per game—more than any other high school basketball player in all of Tennessee. I mean the boy can plumb shoot the eyes out of the basket!”

Over at the Dari Delite, Jim Scanlin smiled. He knew Eddie would be ready for this game. And Bo would be right there on the sidelines rooting him on. Jim sincerely hoped Eddie could win this one for Bo.

And down at the Drive-In, all the waitresses were decked out in the colors of Union High School.

Out on the tobacco farm, Mr. Bonner and Roy Jackson’s grandfather both sat down to breakfast with the radio tuned in to basketball talk. Farther out of town up on the hill, Charles Hamilton Sr. sat down in the sunroom of his sprawling Southern mansion with the Nashville morning paper and turned not to the stock report but, rather, to the sports section.

Principal Herron walked outside onto his porch to retrieve the morning paper. He stopped short and glared at the blackened cross standing on his lawn. He made a mental note to call someone before leaving for work to have the eyesore hauled away.

At the Ligon home, Bill, Tyree, and Delores listened to the radio as they gulped down their breakfast before heading off to school. “Hear that, Bill?” Tyree asked. “It is anybody’s basketball game.”

“Hmm, that’s profound,” Bill replied whimsically.

Tyree nudged Bill playfully. “Well, it’s better than them saying that Gallatin is gonna whip our butts!”

Bill smiled. “Oh, no, they wouldn’t say that. They know better.” He got up from the table, ready to take on the day.

At the Sherlin home, Bo and his parents listened intently to Jesse and Al’s analysis of the upcoming game. Delilah and Debbie scanned the newspaper for new pictures of Eddie.

“You can’t take those guys too seriously,” Eddie said as he walked into the kitchen. “They’re just drumming up conversation.”

Al intoned, “We’ll be open all day for ‘Sports Beat Call-In,’ so y’all give us a jingle and tell us who you think is gonna win the big game and why. We already got one caller on the line. Go ahead, caller.”

“Gallatin’s going to win,” the caller said.

“Why do you think that?” Jesse asked.

“Because of Sherlin. He’s got the touch. Eddie Sherlin is going to score thirty or more points all by himself. That’s about half of what they need to win.”

Eddie cocked his head and smiled. “Mmm, maybe they know more than I thought they did. See ya later, everyone. We’re practicing late tonight.”

By Wednesday, besides bubbling with the normal excitement over the basketball game, the entire town of Gallatin braced itself for potential racially motivated problems. Mayor Knapp called for a meeting with Principal Malone and Principal Herron, as well as the chairman of the city council. The mayor welcomed his guests into his office and sat down behind his desk, with his secretary, Elizabeth, poised to take notes.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Mayor Knapp began. “I do appreciate it. I’m sure you are quite busy this week. First, congratulations to both schools and your fine athletic programs. Gallatin is proud of all of our boys—our two favorite sons.” The mayor chuckled at his remark, but nobody else in the room did.

He cleared his throat. “Well, now, all right.” The mayor rustled some papers on his desk but didn’t even look at them. “Let’s get down to it. We have a situation comin’ up—the two schools playin’ on Saturday. ’Course, when you have crosstown teams, it’s natural to have a healthy rivalry. In our case we all agreed . . .” the mayor paused and looked up at Principal Malone. “Well, most of us agreed, that having the schools—a predominantly white school and a predominantly colored school—play each other might not be the best idea.”

The mayor stood up and walked around the room as he continued to speak. “Over the years, we thought it was prudent to avoid any undue pressure and let things flow their natural course. Take our time, you know, on all this integration talk. But now the government has mandated integration, so we no longer have a legal choice. We’ve tried the Freedom of Choice program, which allowed parents to choose to send their children to either school, and frankly, I thought it was doing fairly well. I thought we already were integrated in Gallatin. Why, we even have a colored woman on our city council.”

Principal Malone rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly. He was about to remind the group that Freedom of Choice was not, in fact, working, but the mayor continued.

“We’ve been making steady progress on white and colored matters, and things have been relatively peaceful around these parts, except for a short time after the assassination in Memphis a couple of years ago. But we’re back on track and doin’ well.” The mayor took a deep breath, sat back down in his chair, and folded his hands in front of his face.

“But now we have this game . . .”

Even through Mayor Knapp’s fake smile, both principals and the chairman of the city council could tell the mayor was worried.

Mayor Knapp picked up a pencil and idly tapped a coffee cup on his desk. “So I ask you, gentlemen, what can we do to help make this an exciting and safe event—something the good city of Gallatin will be proud of for years to come? What are your thoughts?”

Nobody said a word. The mayor looked from person to person. Each face bore a glum expression. “Please,” said the mayor. “Mr. Herron, if you will.”

Principal Herron sat even more rigidly than usual, his back pressed against his chair. He answered in firm, terse statements. “Sir, in one word: discipline. We have instituted a strict code of conduct at Gallatin High. That includes all student activities on and off school grounds. I expect the basketball team, our teachers, and all of our students to adhere to that code. I have made that quite clear.” Principal Herron relaxed his tone and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “While I can’t promise 100 percent compliance, due to the unpredictable nature of particular individuals—some of whom are associated with unsavory organizations in our community and in various parts of Tennessee—any infractions will be dealt with harshly and in haste.”

“I see.” Mayor Knapp seemed taken aback by Principal Herron’s brusque, militaristic approach. His face wrinkled with concern, and he tapped the coffee cup more vigorously. But he quickly reasserted his political sensibilities and the politician’s smile popped back onto his face. “Well, then. Very good. Principal Malone?”

Principal Malone spoke much more softly but just as emphatically as Principal Herron. “As far as Union High is concerned, we will be meeting several times this week with our teachers and encouraging an open discussion with our students. Regarding the discipline of our team, I have every confidence that Coach Martin and his staff will bring out the best in our boys.”

The mayor seemed to relax somewhat. “Well, that’s fine. So—”

But Principal Malone was not done. “As far as the community is concerned, you are dealing with decades of anger, hostility, disappointment, and distrust. What kind of symbol this game is taking on beyond mere basketball, I cannot say.” Principal Malone looked around to each person in the room and then directed his comment to Mayor Knapp. “Mr. Mayor, we’ve brushed these issues under the rug for a long, long time. Now, we’re lifting up a corner of that rug. I’m not sure what we’re going to find or what might pop out.”

For nearly thirty seconds, the group sat silently as each person pondered Principal Malone’s statements. Finally, the mayor put on a happy face and broke the silence. “Okay. Well, thank you both for your thoughts. We have ourselves a busy couple of days, don’t we?”

The mayor stood and escorted his guests to the door, shaking hands with and thanking each person for attending the brief meeting. He smiled broadly. “I wish you all the best, and I look forward to an exciting exhibition of basketball over in Springfield on Saturday night. Good day.”

The mayor closed the door behind them. His smile disappeared instantly as he turned to his secretary and said coldly, “Get me Chief of Police Braden on the telephone.”