Jason didn’t say anything to Tom, Billy Bob, or Anthony in the locker room or at lunch—too many ears, many of them unfriendly, were around.
They had the afternoon off, presumably to spend on schoolwork, so they retreated to Jason and Billy Bob’s room—it was bigger than Tom and Anthony’s—so that Jason could fill the other three in on his conversation with Coach Cruikshank. When he finished, they all sat in silence for a while.
“There’s a message in there,” Jason said finally, “but I’ve got no idea what it could be.”
Tom nodded and let out a deep sigh. “You’re right about the message,” he said. “I think Coach C’s a good guy, don’t you, Jason?”
“I do,” Jason said. “He’s about the only coach who’s been even a little bit sympathetic since we got here.”
“Which is why he’s trying to send you a message without jeopardizing his position with Coach Johnson,” Tom said.
“Yeah, but what’s the message?” Anthony said.
“I’m not sure you want to hear it,” Tom said. “I’m not sure, for that matter, that I want to hear it.”
“I’ve got a theory,” Billy Bob said. “And I bet it matches your theory, Tom.”
“What are you talking about?” Jason asked. He was worried about the expression he saw on his friend’s face, a mix of anger and something else—sadness?
“Jason, tell me honestly, who do you think is a better quarterback, me or Ronnie Thompson?” Billy Bob asked. “You’ve seen us both play now for a week.”
“You,” Jason said. “The only reason he was with the second team today was because—”
“He’s a junior and I’m a freshman, I know,” Billy Bob said, finishing his sentence. “But now answer this one for me—and be straight: You’ve seen me for a week, you’ve seen Tom all your life. Which one of us is a better quarterback?”
For a moment Jason didn’t answer.
“Go ahead,” Billy Bob said. “The truth.”
“Tom is,” Jason said. “You’re a little faster than he is, and your arm strength is pretty close. But he’s a lot more accurate than you are.”
“Am I that bad?” Billy Bob said, grinning for an instant.
“No!” Jason said. Then he smiled, too. “He’s that good.”
“Okay, if that’s true and if we assume that the coaches ’round here know football—which I think they do—and they want to win games, why in the world is Tom playing wide receiver? Why is he playing a position where he ain’t all that good?”
Jason and Anthony both started to answer, but Billy Bob interrupted.
“Hang on, not finished yet. Tom, you’ve seen all the receivers on the team this week, right?”
Tom nodded.
“If Jason was playin’ receiver, where would he be on the depth chart?”
“He might be second for the same reason you’re only third—he’s a freshman,” Tom said. “But he’s the fastest guy on the team, and I’d guess once the games start, they’d want him on the field because he’ll be our best deep threat.”
“Exactly,” Billy Bob said. “So let’s add this up. We’ve got a head coach who wants to win this year more than ever because, if what I read back home is true, he could be makin’ a lot of money next year at Alabama. We’ve got a coaching staff that knows if the head coach moves up, they all move up in the pecking order—one way or the other. We’ve got one kid who could easily be the starting quarterback, but he’s at receiver, where he’s probably third team. We’ve got another who is, without doubt, the most dangerous deep threat on the roster, who—at best—will be fourth-team quarterback but might not even be that.” Billy Bob stopped to take a breath. “Somethin’ don’t add up here. We’ve got two plus two equaling five. Or six.”
“So what’s the catch?” Jason asked. “What’s the message?”
Billy Bob looked at Anthony. “What about you, Anthony? Old football saying is that O-linemen are the smartest guys on the team.”
Anthony squinted. “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, then we’ve got a serious problem,” he said. “I just have trouble believing it. We’re almost two decades into the twenty-first century.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” Jason asked.
“I think Billy Bob and Tom are saying that Coach Johnson doesn’t want an African American quarterback,” Anthony said.
His words hung in the air for a moment. Jason looked at Billy Bob.
“You advance to the lightning round, Anthony,” Billy Bob said. “Boys, we’re through the looking glass. I think we’ve landed smack in the 1960s.”
“Maybe he’s worried I wouldn’t be smart enough to play quarterback,” Tom said. “I might have a strong arm, but I’d probably throw the ball to the wrong guy most of the time.”
“Nah, that wouldn’t be it,” Anthony said. “You just wouldn’t be able to learn the plays.”
He wasn’t smiling when he said it.
* * *
They talked about it for a good long while. On the one hand, it seemed impossible for someone who worked with young people—even a Southern good old boy—to be that backward. After all, Bobo’s own alma mater had played African Americans at quarterback.
And yet …
“Do you have a reason for all this that makes more sense?” Billy Bob asked. “I’m gonna guess y’all ain’t the first guys to show up here and not be happy with the position they’re assigned to on the first day. You’re probably not the first ones to bring it up to your coaches. But look at how they reacted.”
“Like we hit a nerve,” Tom said.
“Yup,” Billy Bob said. “Because you did. Look, you two have led sheltered lives up there in New York.”
Tom scoffed. “Not as sheltered as you might assume,” he said. “You don’t think Jason hasn’t been given a hard time at school about always hanging out with the black kid? You don’t think I haven’t been in a million situations where I walk in the door and nobody looks like me—or where I make a person jump out of their white skin just walking down the street toward them at night? You don’t think I haven’t stepped into advanced math or history courses and gotten looks as if to say, What are you doing here? Hell, last year I had an advanced algebra teacher say, ‘Young man, I think you’re in the wrong room.’”
Jason was surprised by the passion in his friend’s voice. He had never heard Tom speak so strongly on the subject.
“Bet the teacher apologized, didn’t he?” Billy Bob said.
“He did, but…”
“But you’re right, there are racists everywhere—unfortunately,” Billy Bob said. “I reckon that, even up north, the color of your skin has led to problems that a white boy like me can’t even begin to imagine. All I’m sayin’ is, you can’t go and broadcast your racism up there—especially if you’re a public figure.” He shook his head. “But where I come from, there are folks who get put on pedestals for being racists, still today. Look at that guy from South Carolina, the congressman who called President Obama a liar. If he’d done that to a white president, he’d have had to resign that night. But what happened? He gets reelected with like ninety percent of the vote—or something close to it. What’s that tell you?”
“He’s right,” Tom said. “Guy’s name is Joe Wilson. He ran unopposed in 2012 and was reelected in 2016. He’ll be in Congress for life. He was actually formally rebuked by Congress, but the vote was along party lines. In other words, the Republicans thought it was okay to scream ‘You lie!’ at a president of the United States. Imagine what would happen if an African American congressman yelled that at President Trump.”
“Heck,” Billy Bob put in, “imagine what would happen if a white congressman yelled that at any president—other than Obama.”
“That’s pretty scary,” Jason said.
“It’s also scary that a prep school coach might not play a guy at quarterback because he’s black,” Anthony said. “I mean, seriously, I’m having trouble believing this, even though I hear what you’re saying, Billy Bob. I look at pro football today, college football even more—it’s almost hard to believe there was a time when black guys didn’t play QB. You’re talking stuff out of history books—like segregation or slavery.”
“There’s a lot of folks in this country who miss segregation and, for that matter, slavery,” Billy Bob said. “Believe me. I know some of them.”
“And one of them may be our coach,” Jason said.
“I’m still confused about one thing,” Anthony said. “They recruited you two guys. They offered you scholarships. Why would they play you at wrong positions and then, like Coach Cruikshank seemed to say, want you to walk away?”
Before Jason or Tom could answer, Billy Bob jumped in. “I think they honestly believed Jason and Tom were good enough to play at the positions where they’ve put them—and, you know what, they might be. But now they’ve made themselves headaches—asked too many questions. They overrecruit here at TGP on purpose. They run some people off every year, just like the colleges do. They just made a decision on Jason and Tom earlier than usual because they opened their big Yankee mouths.”
“One black, one Jewish, to boot,” Tom said.
“Hard to believe that matters,” Billy Bob said. “But apparently it does.”
“The question, then, is, What do we do about it?” Jason asked.
They all sat there looking at one another.
“First thing we’ve got to do is some homework,” Billy Bob finally said.
“Homework?” the other three said at once.
Billy Bob smiled. “Not school homework—history homework. We need to know more about Coach Bobo.”
“Like, has he ever had an African American quarterback here at TGP?” Tom asked.
“That’s the first question,” Billy Bob said. “Then we need to know more about how he grew up, who he’s been friends with, who he has worked with and for, and who has worked for him.”
“That’s quite a research project,” Jason said.
“I know,” Billy Bob said. “Good thing we’ve got four of us to work on it.”
* * *
By the time the afternoon was over, a plan was in place. Tom, the research wonk, would go through the school’s archives—the student newspaper, anything online about TGP, yearbooks, newspaper clippings in the school library—to compile a list of all those who had played quarterback for TGP.
Billy Bob would talk to his father, who would know the names of people familiar with Coach Johnson’s history at Alabama.
“Don’t you think your dad will want to know what you’re up to?” Jason asked.
“Oh, he’ll definitely want to know,” Billy Bob said. “But he won’t have a problem with it. He’s the editor and publisher of the Gadsden Times. He knows a story when he hears one.”
“Does he protect his sources?” Tom asked.
“Not a lot of investigative reporting goes on down there,” Billy Bob said. “But I think when the source is his son, Dad will be sure to protect him.”
Anthony’s job was to talk to some of the older African American players on the team about their experiences with Coach Johnson and the other coaches, and find out what they might have heard from those who had come before them.
“What you want to know is if there’s ever been a sense that he treats his white players any different from his black players,” Tom said.
“Haven’t seen any difference so far,” Anthony said. “He doesn’t talk much to any of us—white or black.”
“We still haven’t played a game,” Billy Bob pointed out.
Jason’s job was to contact people in the Virginia media who had covered Coach Johnson and TGP—the longer the better. TGP had gotten a lot of attention, both locally and nationally, because it was so much like the IMG Academy and because it had turned out nationally recruited players in both football and basketball.
“Just go online and type in Coach Johnson’s name,” Tom said. “That will give you a good starting point. Read the bylines and go from there.”
Before they broke up to go and do some actual schoolwork—Jason was already starting to feel as if he was falling a bit behind—Billy Bob added one more word of caution.
“Not a word about this to anyone,” he said. “Even if this is going on, there are probably a lot of guys who will think the coaches have it right. Regardless, we can’t have anyone whispering to anyone about it. If y’all are talkin’ to someone on the phone, make sure it’s in a place where no one except your roommate might be listenin’. We get caught doin’ this, we’re all done here—whether they kick us out of school or not. Might be better to get kicked out of school, come to think of it.”
“What happens if you’ve got this right?” Tom asked. “What do we do then?”
Billy Bob smiled. “We’ll blow up that bridge when we come to it,” he said.
When he heard that, Jason smiled, too, thinking about a movie he’d watched a few months earlier with his dad. “Ever hear of The Bridge on the River Kwai?” he asked the others.
“The movie?” Tom said. “Yeah, my mom loves William Holden.”
For once, Billy Bob looked puzzled. “What about it?” he said.
“It’s about a bunch of guys who have to blow up this bridge in the jungle during World War Two. In the end, the guy who blows it up is the guy who built it. He accidentally falls on the detonator after he’s wounded.”
Billy Bob grinned. “Well,” he said, “let’s hope we can get to the detonator if we have to—and live to tell about it.”
* * *
Jason was in his room Sunday morning trying to decide what to do first: conduct some online research on sports reporters who covered the TGP Patriots, or catch up on his reading for English lit—specifically, Romeo and Juliet, the Shakespeare play they had been assigned.
Tom had left for the library shortly after they’d gotten back from breakfast to begin his research into TGP’s football history. Billy Bob and Anthony had gone to church. Jason remembered one of the forms he had filled out before coming down to school that had said that if the Protestant services offered on campus on Sunday were not deemed appropriate, transportation to churches of other denominations in the area would be supplied.
Billy Bob had told him that several busloads of TGP students were going to St. Michael’s, the Catholic church on the other side of Scottsville. He and Anthony were among them.
With quiet time on his hands, Jason had just reached a compromise on what to do first: before doing work of any kind, he would read the sports section of the Charlottesville Daily Progress. He had just sat down in the one comfortable chair in the room with the paper on his lap when there was a knock on the door and Coach Ingelsby, the less-than-friendly offensive coordinator, stuck his head inside.
“Church check,” the coach said.
Jason nodded in the direction of Billy Bob’s bed.
“Billy Bob left for the bus a while ago,” he said.
Coach Ingelsby pushed the door open and walked into the room. “And you?” he said.
Jason was baffled. “Coach, I’m Jewish,” he said. It had never occurred to him that someone wouldn’t know that.
“So Jewish people don’t go to church?” Coach Ingelsby asked.
Jason didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Several wisecracks crossed his mind. He resisted them all. “Coach, if you’re Jewish you go to temple, not church. And, generally speaking, you go on Friday night or Saturday morning.” He decided not to mention that he and his family did neither.
Coach Ingelsby crossed his arms. “Jewish people don’t believe in Jesus Christ, do they?” he said.
“Most Jews believe he existed,” Jason said. “They just don’t believe he was the son of God.”
Coach Ingelsby stared at him in what appeared to be disbelief. “Well,” he said, “I guess that’s your right. But it’s pretty sad.”
“Sad, Coach?”
“I just feel sorry for you, missing out on salvation. Nothing personal, of course.” The coach glanced at his watch. “Have to go,” he said. “I’ve got fifteen more rooms to check before the bus leaves for the ten o’clock service.”
Jason was tempted to ask Coach Ingelsby why he—or anyone else—felt the need to check on whether or not students were going to church. But he resisted. He already knew the answer: they were trying to save people.
“Nice going in the scrimmage yesterday,” Coach Ingelsby said as he backed out the door.
“I didn’t get in,” Jason said.
“I know,” the coach said with a smile, and pulled the door shut.
“Go with God, you jerk,” Jason said to himself when he was alone again. He tossed the newspaper down and walked to his computer. It was time to get to work.
The newspaper—and Shakespeare—could wait.