Twenty-One

Erin

Jazmine comes in on Monday morning in a really different kind of mood. She’s not rude or unusually demanding or anything. But she’s definitely strung more tightly than usual.

“Do we have the scouting information on the wide receiver I . . .”

I hand her the file on Isaiah Booker before she finishes.

“And what about the contracts from Sony for . . .”

Ditto for the file on Tyrone Browning’s endorsement deal. “Ready to be signed.”

This gets me a smile and the nod of surprised approval that I’m always working for.

“You’re set for lunch at South City Kitchen and a three o’clock coffee at Seven Lamps,” I say. “And your father called and said that he’d take Maya to practice and have her home in time for dinner.”

She sighs, which is not her usual response to a mention of her father or her daughter. She doesn’t dismiss me or give me anything else to do, so I stay where I am.

“Did you play sports at all?” she asks.

This is not a question I’m expecting, and I have no idea why she’s asking it. I take a second to consider how to explain the role that sports played in my family. “I’m kind of athletic, and I’ve got good hand-eye coordination—my whole family does. But I’m short and I’m a girl. I started gymnastics when I was in kindergarten, and I’m practically built for the top of the pyramid—so I went with cheerleading. I enjoyed the competition, and it wasn’t like I didn’t know how to cheer others on—I’d been watching my older brothers play one sport or another since I was in the womb, you know?”

I don’t mention how much I’ve always envied my brothers’ size and athletic ability. I think it kind of goes without saying.

But Jazmine says, “Mother Nature can be a hard lady sometimes. The gifts she bestows on us aren’t always the ones we want or even know what to do with.”

She studies me long enough to make me brace for whatever’s coming. “Did you talk back to your mother when you were thirteen?”

I almost laugh before I realize that she’s serious. It’s a little bit world rocking to see Jazmine, who’s always so strong and opinionated, seeming unsure. Not to mention speaking to me as if I’m an adult or a peer. “Absolutely. I think it’s a requirement, isn’t it? I mean, I can do a mean eye roll and a pretty withering death stare. I’ve even refused to speak to my mother a couple of times. But most of the time my mother and I were so glad to have another female in the house that we were more of a team.”

Jazmine nods in understanding because of course she and Maya must feel the same. “What did your mother do when your behavior wasn’t up to par when you were a teenager? How did she punish you?” She’s staring past me, to something I can’t see, thinking about something she’s uncomfortable expressing.

Wanting to lighten the mood, I say, “She locked me in a cage and refused to feed me until I begged for forgiveness.”

Jazmine’s head jerks up.

“Sorry. I was just trying to pull you back from wherever you were.”

One eyebrow goes up, and I know I need to offer a real answer. “Let’s see. Usually, I got grounded. Or assigned extra chores. Or I had something I cared about taken away for a while. You know, like my phone. Or driving privileges. Once, I wasn’t allowed to go to a sleepover.”

“And did those punishments help you to change the behavior?”

“Well, I was always upset that I had so many rules that my brothers didn’t—there was a total double standard in our family. I used to get pissed off that I had a curfew when my brothers, and a lot of my girlfriends, didn’t. And I hated always having to finish my homework before I could go out or meet up with friends. But, honestly, I’m glad my parents didn’t let me get away with stuff.

“They’ve been there for me during this whole thing with Josh, and even when we’ve argued, I’ve never doubted how much they love me. So, although I wouldn’t have said so when I was thirteen, I appreciate that they set rules and boundaries. I think discipline and consequences are important.”

She’s studying me now, and I get how much this matters to her, so I try to pick my words with care.

“If I ever get married and have kids—and that’s not looking like a slam dunk anymore—I’m going to be a tough-love mom like mine.” I meet her eyes. “And like I think you are.”

Her smile is kind of sad at first, but the way she looks at me is different than in the past. I hope that’s a good thing. I’m never going to be Louise. But maybe, just maybe, there will be other kinds of things that I can bring to the table.

Jazmine

It’s a beautiful mid-March evening, but it is possible that hell has, in fact, frozen over. Because at this very moment, Rich Hanson and I are in my BMW—together—on the way to the home of Yvonne Booker and her nephew, Isaiah.

I have agreed to this meeting because the man in my passenger seat has sworn that our only goal is to urge the wide receiver not to declare for the draft this year. We’re in my car because letting him drive might make him think he’s in charge. Plus, if anything doesn’t play out as promised, I will be free to go and leave his ass behind.

“You are absolutely certain that we have no motive other than what’s best for this player at this time?” I ask for what may be the hundredth time.

“Yes, I’m certain.”

“And if I had a stack of bibles in the back seat for you to swear on?” I press.

“I would be impressed that you own a stack and carry them with you. But the bibles aren’t necessary. You are a damned hard sell, Jazmine Miller. I never thought you of all people would need this much convincing.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re an intelligent, highly educated former athlete and successful sports agent whose personal history is a perfect example of why it’s important to have an education to fall back on in the event of injury.”

I can’t argue with this answer, either. Which is kind of disappointing. I do enjoy a good argument. Especially, I am discovering, with Richard Hanson. “I’m assuming there’s a reason we didn’t ask them to come to the office?”

“Yes. Yvonne has a lot on her plate already, and I didn’t want to ask her to have to come to us. Plus, we’re not going to be saying anything Isaiah is going to want to hear. I’d rather not bring him into the office under what might feel like false pretenses.”

I make no comment, but I’m almost surprised by how carefully he seems to have thought this out. There’ve always been so many rumors and stories about his ability to outmaneuver other agents or strike better deals or opportunities for his clients that I’ve always ascribed his success to underhanded tactics and a willingness to cross the line to get what he wants. But maybe that’s just sour grapes on my part.

Yvonne Booker’s home is in a neighborhood called Bedford Pine in the Old Fourth Ward, an area that’s become increasingly popular as the BeltLine—built on what was once old railroad track—has begun to link city parks and neighborhoods in the southwest corridor of Atlanta. It’s not far from Collier Heights, where I grew up and where my parents still live. The tennis court I first learned to play on is maybe ten minutes from there.

I pull into the driveway of a 1950s brick ranch-style house with a small picket-fenced garden in the front. Two massive cherry trees are just beginning to blossom. A basketball hoop hangs above the double garage door.

Isaiah answers the door and invites us in. He’s a nice-looking young man of twenty with a shaved head and a wiry, streamlined body that is built for speed. His aunt, who is built a lot like her nephew, is waiting in the living room, which has been recently vacuumed and cleaned within an inch of its life. I can’t quite pin down her age, but I’m thinking late fifties to early sixties.

“Thank you for coming out to see us.” Yvonne Booker shakes both our hands before inviting us to sit, side by side, on a floral chintz sofa.

A pitcher of iced tea and what look and smell like homemade chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven sit on the coffee table. “May I offer you a glass of tea and a cookie?”

“Thank you. That would be great.” I learned long ago to never turn down offered food or drink. Especially not something someone has taken the time to bake for you.

“Richard?”

“Absolutely, thank you.”

She nods and pours tea and passes the plate of cookies while I try not to look surprised at Rich Hanson’s manners. She and Isaiah sit in chairs directly across from us. She does not invite us to call her Yvonne.

There is silence while we sip our tea and take bites of the cookies, which are truly heavenly and well worth the calories.

“Thank you for seeing us, Miz Booker,” Rich begins. “As you know, I’ve watched Isaiah play, and I think he’s got a bright future ahead of him.”

“Yes,” she replies, her eyes on Rich Hanson’s face. “I’m very proud of my nephew. He’s always been a good boy and has grown into a fine young man. Earned himself a college scholarship. In another year, he’ll have a degree. I’m not keen on anyone trying to talk him into doing anything that might jeopardize that.”

I barely breathe while I wait to see whether Rich will keep his word or reveal some less noble agenda. I brace as he smiles and leans forward. Relief courses through me as he says, “I couldn’t agree more. In fact, I believe it would be a big mistake for him to declare for the draft as a junior. He’s not ready, and there’s no reason to rush things.”

Yvonne’s face reflects only mild surprise and something else I can’t quite make out. Her nephew’s is mottled with shock and anger.

“What?” Isaiah glares at us. Whatever he was expecting, this is not it. “Then what in hell are you doing here? Grant Peters at AMI told me I can make good money if I go high enough in the draft this year,” Isaiah sputters. “And I think it’s time I pay back some of what my aunt has done for me.”

“Oh, Isaiah,” his aunt sighs. “I did not work two jobs all these years for you to leave college before you graduate.”

“I know what’s going on here,” Isaiah says, his gaze, and fury, focused on Rich. “You’re just here to make sure I don’t compete with your boy Ellis Cosgrove; he’s a client of yours, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is,” Hanson says smoothly. “And you are not in his league right now. But you will be.”

“That’s not what Grant Peters says.”

“Have you researched Grant Peters? Read about what’s happened to most of the athletes he’s signed?” Rich asks.

Isaiah’s chin juts forward in anger. His body is tight, as if he’s holding himself back.

“Because Grant Peters is all about grabbing up low-lying fruit. Selling young talent that hasn’t ripened yet for ten cents on the dollar. What he is not about is fertilizing and pruning and watering and helping the fruit get bigger and stronger.”

“I don’t care about all this fruit shit. I am not fruit! That is a damned stupid example.”

I’m actually enjoying watching Rich Hanson get swatted around. Except of course for the ways in which Isaiah reminds me of Maya. All headstrong and sure of her talent, with no idea of how easily it can all be smashed to pieces. Or yanked away.

“I’m talking about the fact that there is no reason to rush this, Isaiah,” Rich continues calmly. “Juran will be gone next year, and you will be starting every game. People that matter will know who you are and what you can do. Teams will be fighting over you. You will be invited to the Combine and not some small pro day. If you go now, some team will pick you up just to have you around, and you’ll get a pittance compared to what you could command next year. Plus, if you wait, you’ll have a degree to fall back on.”

“I don’t plan to be falling back a single step.” Isaiah folds his arms across his chest.

“No one ever does. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen,” Rich replies with a depth of feeling I’ve never heard from him before.

Isaiah’s aunt turns to me. “I’m curious. What do you think, Miz Miller? Why are you here today?”

“I’m the cautionary tale. The person who discovered first-hand how important a college degree can be. I was a college athlete—I played tennis at Georgia Tech and was looking to turn pro as soon as I graduated. I was on my way, dreaming about being the next Serena Williams, when I . . . I was involved in a car accident. My chance to compete professionally was over in an instant. I lost somebody I loved.” I don’t mention that I lost the love of my life. Or that I also became a single mother. “Fortunately, I had a degree. And I went on to law school. I represented a few athletes who needed help with their contracts, and ultimately, although I hadn’t planned it, I became an agent. So, as far as I can see, I’m here to make sure Isaiah understands how important it is to have a degree when and if the ability to play football is taken away. And frankly, it doesn’t even take an injury to make that happen. According to the NFL Players Association, the average career of an NFL player across the league is 3.3 years. For wide receivers, it’s 2.81.”

“Aw, hell!” Isaiah says. “Those are just numbers. I’m not worried about any of that shit. Nothing’s going to be happening to me.”

“You’re not the first athlete to believe that. That doesn’t make you right,” I reply as calmly as I can.

He snorts in disagreement. The only reason he hasn’t stormed out of the room is the hand his aunt has placed on his shoulder.

“And if Isaiah was your son?” Yvonne’s voice breaks on the last word. “If you’d raised him up and you knew how much he wanted to be a professional football player?”

“I’d be every bit as proud of him as you are, Miz Booker. And I would absolutely want him to have a college diploma. Once he’d earned that diploma, I’d want him drafted as advantageously as possible.”

I glance over at Rich, who’s watching Isaiah’s face carefully, almost as if he’s searching for something in it.

“There are a number of really strong receivers in this draft class. Next year, there are only one or two. If Isaiah has as good a senior year as we think he can”—am I really presenting Rich Hanson and me as a team?—“he’ll be much more valuable. He’ll be totally ready and in the front of everybody’s minds. Not an afterthought. And he’ll have an education no one can take away from him.”

I’m starting to wonder why Rich isn’t chiming in as I wrap up.

“I think that makes a lot of sense. We’re only talking about a year,” Aunt Yvonne says quietly.

Isaiah’s chin juts angrily. His body language is as closed off as it’s possible to get. “With all due respect to you, Auntie, this is total and complete bullshit. I don’t want to wait and waste this time on a degree I’m not ever going to need.”

The young man glares at me and then at Rich.

Yvonne cups his cheek with one weathered hand. “You need to listen to what they’re saying, son. You need to stay in school and get that degree and show all those scouts who you are and what you’re made of. You do not need to settle for what you can grab right now. That’s the easy way, the lazy way. And I know I taught you better than that.”

She drops her hand but holds her nephew’s gaze. I am so impressed by this woman, I’m barely breathing. This is the very kind of tough love Erin and I were talking about the other day.

Finally, Isaiah nods. He closes his eyes briefly. It’s clear he’s still not happy about waiting, but he’s not going to buck this woman who has raised him and done so much for him.

As we prepare to leave, I notice what seems like a silent conversation taking place between Yvonne and Rich. A relieved smile. A nod of the head. I look more closely as she packs up a small bag of cookies for the two of us and hands them to Rich along with parting words I can’t hear and another look I don’t fully understand.

“Thank you so much for coming out. And for . . . explaining things,” she says as we walk toward the door. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jazmine.”

Moments later, we’re outside and heading toward my car.

“That went well,” he says. “And you didn’t even have to pull the single-mother card. Thanks for coming with me.”

While I back down the driveway, I catch a glimpse of Rich Hanson’s face. He’s wearing a satisfied smile, but there’s something more there. Something that doesn’t quite add up.

My foot finds the brake as realization dawns. I wasn’t there today to impress or convince Yvonne Booker of anything. Just the opposite. This was all a show. Performed for Isaiah’s benefit.

“You could have told me why you wanted me to come with you today, you know. Instead of playing me.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but his indignation is feigned.

I shake my head, mashing my foot on the gas as I put together the signs I missed. “She reached out to you, didn’t she? To try to talk some sense into her nephew. And for some reason, you decided to add me to the cast.”

I drive, watching the small, neat houses go by as I try to work it out. “Seriously. How do you and Yvonne know each other?”

For a minute, I think he’s going to try to deny it. Then he says, “Her son was an old friend of mine. The very first NFL player I ever signed.”

“Hiram Booker.” The name slips out of my mouth, the final puzzle piece. “Wide receiver, UNC, two-time All-American. Went to the Atlanta Falcons in the second round. Injured in a playoff game in 1997 and never walked again. Died in . . .”

“In 1999. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head,” Rich finishes. The sigh that follows is heavy. “That was the year Isaiah was born. Yvonne took him in when her younger sister died in childbirth. Gave her a purpose and him a home.” Another sigh. “Yvonne did everything she could to keep Isaiah from playing football—there’s not a single photo of Hiram in a uniform or a plaque or anything else from his football days anywhere in that house. But Isaiah has the same kind of speed and talent. He reminds me so much of Hi.”

For the first time, I feel the urge to comfort this man. I push it aside. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”

“Not knowing allowed you to be yourself and speak more convincingly.”

I take my eyes off the road long enough to give him a steely look.

“And I think it was really more of an omission than a lie.”

“If you’d told me that you were doing a good deed and you needed my help, I would have said yes.”

“Probably.” His smile is a far gentler version than I’m used to. “But where’s the fun in that?”

I know I should give him some shit. Tell him how and why I object to the manipulation.

But even as I consider what I might say, I accept the fact that today was not at all about me.

“Let’s just say your plan worked. And I’m going to forgive you this one time. Because I understand where Yvonne is coming from. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to help my daughter make the right choices. And Isaiah has the makings of a great athlete.”

“That’s very . . . big . . . of you,” he concedes with a far more familiar tone.

“Yes, it is,” I reply, glad to be back on familiar footing. “But there’s a price to be paid for tricking me into something that I would have done gladly if only you’d treated me like a colleague rather than a mark.”

“And what would that price be?” His eyes are on my face. A smile tugs at his lips.

“When Isaiah signs with StarSports Advisors, he belongs to me. You will keep your thoughts about how he should be handled to yourself.”

His smile grows. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says. “Besides, before we left, Yvonne told me that she already likes you better than she ever liked me.”