Nathan
As the referee’s whistle echoed across the gymnasium, I rubbed my bald head. Frustration filled my heart, as another team ran circles around my boys. We were giving it our best shot, but we just couldn’t seem to score the points. Collier was even exercising his interpretation of what a team player was, by passing the ball to his teammates, and actually running the plays that we’d practiced. His game tonight had been the best I’d seen it all season. He was the high scorer for the team and had more rebounds than any other player in the game. Had me feeling proud as I watched him run down court, tired and frustrated.
I folded my arms across my chest and watched as the other team took the final shot just as the clock buzzed. The swish into the basket put them ten points ahead of us, instead of the steady eight that they’d been all night. I grabbed my forehead for a moment, but then changed my posture as my team rushed toward me. Their heads hung low, they quietly strolled to the locker room.
“I know it’s frustrating to lose, guys, but I have to tell you that you played a good game out there tonight. I’m proud of every one of you.”
“Thanks, Coach,” they said dryly.
“We did everything we could out there, but sometimes there’s just a better team.”
“We lose to them every time,” Nelson complained.
“It’s okay, we just need a better strategy next time, that’s all.”
“I couldn’t even get the ball down court, their defense was so tight,” Freeman said.
“And their center was slapping down every shot.” Mitchell shook his head. “What is he, like seven feet tall or something?”
“Nobody on the team was under six-four.” Douglas groaned.
“A bunch of corn-fed boys from somewhere down in the country,” Jenkins said. “I never played so hard in my life.”
“We need to work on our defense.” Edwards pulled his jersey over his head, used it to wipe sweat from his forehead. “That’s what they had on us, their defense.”
“That and their rebound ability.”
“They beat the brakes off of us.”
“They may have won the game, but you played a great game,” I told them. “You can’t win every game, but as long as you do your best, that’s all that can be expected.”
There was silence in the locker room as they took my words in.
“Get dressed and I’ll see you all at practice tomorrow.”
In my office, I packed up my briefcase, loosened my tie.
“Coach, can I talk to you for a minute?” Collier stood in the doorway of my office. His jersey swung over one shoulder, his gym bag swung across the other.
“What’s up?”
“He’s here.”
I stared at him silently for a few seconds, trying to understand what he was talking about.
“Who’s here?”
“My pops,” he said, and frowned.
“Your father was in the stands tonight?” I asked.
“Yep, he was out there. Why couldn’t we have won tonight?” he said, and turned to walk away. “The one night he shows up and we get spanked.”
“Collier, wait,” I called to him. “Let me tell you something, son. You played a good game tonight. You implemented all the plays we practiced, you had more points and rebounds than anyone on the team. You did everything you were supposed to do out there tonight. It’s not about winning every game, but how you play.”
“You think he was proud of me?”
“If not, he should be,” I said, and grabbed his shoulder. “I certainly was.”
“Really, Coach? You were proud of me?”
“The best game you ever played, in my opinion.”
“Thanks,” he said, and almost smiled. He wasn’t completely convinced, but at least it sounded good.
I followed Collier out into the gymnasium where Mr. Collier, his father, pulled his trench coat tighter. His face like stone; thick eyebrows and a mustache that reminded me of what Collier might look like someday. His arms folded across his chest, he stood patiently waiting for his son.
“Mr. Collier. How are you?” I asked, and held my hand out to him. “I’m your son’s coach…Coach Sullivan.”
“Pleased to meet you, Coach.” He took my hand in a strong handshake.
“Good game my boys played out there tonight. Particularly Collier here.” I slapped Collier on the back. He grinned until his eyes met his father’s.
“You lost.”
“Yeah, we lost, but as I tell my kids…it’s not about winning or losing, but how you play the game.” I said, “And Collier here played a good game. He was my highest scorer tonight.”
“His jump shot is sloppy. And he’s too careless with the ball.” His posture never changed, he just continued to stand with his arms folded across his chest.
“His game has improved quite a bit over the season.”
“Can’t get a scholarship like that,” Mr. Collier barked. “Gotta be the best.”
“Like your other son, right?” I asked.
“Dre is in a class all by himself.” He stated proudly, and at that comment, he smiled, and loosened his stance. “He’s running circles around them boys down there in Athens, Georgia. On a full scholarship. That boy got skills.”
“Your son here has skills,” I said, and was really getting perturbed with his attitude. “They just need to be developed.”
“Skills are not something that can be developed at this point, Coach. He either has it or he doesn’t. When I was his age, I was headed for the NBA. If it weren’t for this injury to my knee—which never healed, by the way—I’d be retired pro right now.”
“Collier, do me a favor.” I turned to my student. “I left my yellow notepad on my desk. Can you run and get it for me? It’s got some important notes on there that I need.”
“Yeah, Coach.” He looked at his father for approval, and Mr. Collier nodded his head. “Be right back.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, I started into Mr. Collier.
“Are you trying to live out your aspirations of being in the NBA through your children, Mr. Collier?” I asked frankly.
“Excuse me?”
“Is that what this is all about? Are you hoping that one of them becomes the NBA star that you never were? And since you’ve pinpointed the one you want to carry it out, the other one is of no use to you?”
“I don’t appreciate your tone, Coach Sullivan.”
“That boy of yours is a fine ball player, regardless of what you might think. He works hard at every practice, and is very skilled in the game. The only problem is, he’s so busy trying to vie for your attention, that he can’t focus on his game. He resents you for not showing up at his games, and he resents his brother even more for capturing all of your attention.”
“He told you this?”
“Doesn’t have to. I spend enough time with these boys to know exactly what they’re thinking and feeling. I know them well.”
“I’m a good father, Coach. I provide for my family and I’ve raised my sons to be good men.”
“Your ability as a father and provider is not in question here.”
“What is in question?”
“He needs your support. Needs to know that you value his skills as a ballplayer, just as much as you do your other son. That you might show up at a few of his games, regardless of whether or not he’s NBA material,” I said. “His future depends on it. His future in basketball and his future as a man, depends on your acceptance. He loves this sport and wants to excel in it.”
“His future depends on whether or not he gets a scholarship, and I just don’t see that happening in basketball,” he said. “Maybe he can get an academic scholarship or one in music. He likes music. But basketball…he’s just not good enough.”
“I disagree.”
“We can stand here all night and disagree with each other, Coach Sullivan. But the bottom line is, his game is not that good.”
“You’re right, Mr. Collier. He’s not that good,” I said. “It was nice meeting you. Glad you could make it out tonight. You have a good evening.”
I turned to walk away from him. Went to say hello to another parent. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my head as I walked away. My conversation with him was done. All I could do now was keep coaching Collier, be a positive influence for him, and at the end of the day, hope that I’d left him with something to motivate him. Whatever happened to parents supporting a child’s dream, simply because that’s what parents did? Everything in me wanted to grab Mr. Collier in a headlock and instill the answer to that question in him, but I knew I couldn’t engage in physical contact with a parent. I’d be arrested. It was hard, but I restrained myself.
I took the long way home. Ended up in Alpharetta somehow, sitting outside of someone’s house like a stalker. My dreams of her cinnamon-colored skin and light brown eyes, had me yearning to see her. Wanted to hear her laughter. Wanted to tell her that I’d missed her and that I needed her in my life. Needed her like the air I breathed. But I needed permission first. Permission to love her. How did I get that? I needed permission from Tracee, my daughter who felt as if her mother had been taken from her, and I was to blame for it. Needed permission from Helen and Poppa Joe, my in-laws who loved their daughter to death.
And from Mama. I could hear her now, “Baby, it’s too soon to be taking up with another woman. You’re still healing. You don’t wanna be on the rebound, do you, son?”
Daddy would just shake his head and say, “I don’t know, son. I just don’t know. What ya mama say?”
Thoughts of my family had me wanting to sneak around; have a secret love affair until it was safe to tell them the truth. Wanted to see if our love for each other was true or if it was just based on our unfortunate circumstances. We’d both been hurt and devastated by all of this, and that was enough to make anyone seek refuge in another person. We were safe for each, had the accident in common. We were good support for each other, but could there really be more to what we felt for each other?
As I sat in my pickup truck and contemplated whether or not I should knock on Lainey’s door, a silver Mercedes pulled into her circular drive. The windows were tinted and it wasn’t until the person stepped out of the car, that I knew it was a man, wearing a very nice suit. A businessman, I thought. Insurance man, or someone there to discuss her estate. Common sense ruled that thought out; it was too late at night to be conducting business. He headed for her front door, rang the bell. There she was, in her bathrobe, beautiful as ever, as she swung the door open. The man hugged her waist and kissed her on the cheek. Definitely wasn’t the insurance guy, I thought, as jealousy rushed through my veins. Had she started dating someone…so quickly?
Blue lights flickered in my rearview mirror.
“I’m just sitting here, man!” I shouted to nobody in particular. “What is it?”
The officer sat in his car for a few minutes, obviously calling in the tag on my truck. He stepped out of the car and walked up to my window. I let it down.
“Evening officer,” I said.
“You live in this neighborhood?” he asked.
“Uh, no, sir. A friend of mine lives there.” His eyes followed my finger as I pointed toward Lainey’s house. “I was about to go up and ring the bell.”
“I need to see your driver’s license, please.” The white officer, with his Southern drawl, shined the light of his flashlight in my face.
I reached into my back pocket, grabbed my wallet. Slipped my driver’s license out and handed it to the officer. He took it; studied it for a moment.
“This your correct address on ya license?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Long way from home, ain’t ya?” he asked.
“Just visiting a friend.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said, then disappeared.
I could see him in my rearview mirror as he sank into the driver’s seat of his patrol car, called in my license, making sure it was legit and that I didn’t have any warrants. After what seemed like a lifetime, he returned to my car. Handed me my driver’s license back.
“Look, Mr. Sullivan, this neighborhood is very serious about their Neighborhood Watch system. One of the neighbors thought you were a stalker,” he said. “If your intent is to visit your friend, please don’t sit in your car two houses away from the house. Go up and ring the bell. I don’t know what’s going—whether this friend is really an old girlfriend that you had a big fight with. Maybe you suspect her of cheating, and you’re waiting for the guy to show up or something. I don’t know. But it ain’t a good idea to sit out here in your car like this. The neighbors are nosy and they call the police. Go knock on the door next time, ya hear?”
“I will,” I said. “Thanks.”
I waited for him to pull off, and then I pulled off, as well. Found my way back to the expressway—Riverdale bound. What was I doing on the other side of town anyway, looking for a woman who had obviously moved on?