Cecil’s not even done with traction when that negro nursewoman sets to hounding him.
“The stronger you can be when the doctor lets you down from this trapeze,” Aura says, “the faster your rehab will go.”
Two-three times a day she’s breezing by and high-pressure him into one or another sissified form of toil. Deceptive chores, like tugging at a rubber band or holding a golf ball, each of which reveals some secret defect in Cecil’s constitution.
Today she has him holding both arms up. Nothing more. Even so, after almost two minutes of grabbing air Cecil’s really sweating it, both arms and his shoulders and entire torso joggling like a bowl of Jell-O.
Aura checks her watch and says, “Tustenugee.”
“What?”
“Tustenugee.”
“Is that a candy striper’s way of saying stick ’em up?”
“You’re working hard, so . . . tustenugee. It’s a compliment.”
“I must not be hearing you.”
“I used to date a trainer who stretched out the Cowboys basketball squad . . .”
“You date a lot of guys on that team, do you?”
“With a mouth that fresh, Mr. Porter, it’s a wonder your breath smells so sour.”
“It’s Cecil,” he breathes through his teeth.
“My diagnosis is those cigarettes. I’ll see you clean of them yet.”
Cecil doesn’t answer. He’s really hurting now and doesn’t care to show it.
“Anyway. Tustenugee. It’s a Creek Indian word Coach Sutton throws around,” Aura explains.
“I can tell you all about Eddie Sutton.”
“It’s supposed to mean warrior. But it’s just Sutton’s way of conveying anything about the game that isn’t easily communicated. If Reeves winds up with a triple double, that’s tustenugee. If Rutherford takes a flying leap into the stands, inbounds the ball so someone can convert for a three-pointer, that’s tustenugee.”
“Tustenugee. Never heard that one. I’ll tell you a thing, though. Eddie Sutton is the goofball spawn of Will Rogers and Yoda.”
“He’s a good coach.”
“He’s a great coach. But great’s not good enough by half and old Eddie knows it. He needs someone like a Reeves, someone like a Rutherford, to pull it all together. I heard him on the radio one time. Eddie said he tries to stack his squad with as many thoroughbreds and as few jackasses as he can find.”
Aura laughs and, sensing an opportunity, Cecil lets fall one of his noodling arms.
“You know Sutton has a body language teacher prep him for those press conferences?” Cecil offers. “He’s even got a competitive research firm that goes skulking about undercover before the big games. They file scouting reports on the tougher opponents so Eddie can fine-tune his strategy.”
“The team has a different game plan for every opponent?”
“Pretty near. Sutton’s talking Final Four this year.”
“That must be, wow. A lot of work. When I played basketball it wasn’t so . . . Machiavellian.”
“Eddie doesn’t put much stock in the happy accident. He’d probably like to loosen up a bit. Let the kids off their leashes every now and then. But the man came up under Iba. And Iba didn’t believe in the concept of free will where it concerned the game.”
“That trainer I mentioned, he told me the first thing those kids do when they roll out of bed in the morning is twelve jumping jacks, twelve burpees, twelve sit-ups. Repeat after every meal.”
“Those guys eat like seven times a day.”
“It adds up,” Aura nods.
“Why twelve?”
“Twelve’s the biggest number with one syllable. Easier to remember.”
Cecil is nodding in agreement.
“Eddie’s always wanting to simplify,” he says. “He’s got this defensive concept. The umbrella. Anytime the other team penetrates the paint, all five men on D are to collapse to the ball.” He splays the fingers of his right hand, closes them into a quick fist. “The way you shut an umbrella.”
“That makes sense.”
Aura still hasn’t noticed his sandbagging, so Cecil lowers the other arm.
“It does,” he says. “Simple. But it took a few years for them to figure out how to sell the idea. Sutton kept yelling from the sidelines, ‘Collapse to the ball! Collapse to the ball!’ But it wasn’t sticking. Eddie sounded like Louis Armstrong after those games. Plus more days than not the kids were forgetting anyhow. So after a few years of this, one night Eddie brings an umbrella to practice. He’s standing under it, looking like Mary Poppins on the basketball court, while the players scrimmage around him. First time the ball bounces into the paint Eddie screams ‘Umbrella!’ and starts flapping it about like a crazy person.”
“I imagine it would be a difficult image to forget,” Aura says.
“Watch any of those game tapes and you’ll see. Half these boys are mouthing the word ‘umbrella’ when they collapse to the ball.”
“Umbrella?”
“Umbrella.”
“Alright, Cecil. Why don’t you stick ’em up once more. Then I’ll be through with you for today.”
Cecil obeys the woman and after a few grueling seconds his arms and shoulders have again fallen victim to that disgraceful quaking.
Aura smiles and watches her watch.
“Tustenugee,” she says.
“What say we talk English from here on out?”