6

Even though Coach Gentry was a composed and sophisticated man, the strain he felt was evident in his answers to reporters. He turned aside all questions about the impending NCAA investigation with a brusque “no comment.” After two easy road wins at Tulsa and Wichita State, reporters asked him if the SIU schedule was holding the team back.

“We make no apologies for the Missouri Valley Conference,” Gentry replied. “We think the teams in our league are quality opponents, and we expect we’ll have to work extremely hard to beat them.”

Sonny, squirmy in his seat at the press conference table, wasn’t surprised at this line of questioning. It was becoming routine. Besides, it was standard grist for the discussion mill among Uncle Seth and his cronies.

But the reporter persisted, “Apparently, the national polls are suspicious of your schedule, or you would be rated number one by now.”

“We don’t spend our time worrying about the polls,” Gentry said. “Polls are fun for the fans.”

“Do you think you’d be undefeated playing a Big Ten schedule?” asked another reporter. Sonny recognized him as one of the Chicago writers. The question was obviously loaded.

Gentry had a smile on his face, but not in his voice. “I’ve already stated how much respect we have for our opponents. Our hands are full taking care of business in the Missouri Valley. The teams in the Big Ten and the Big Eight will have to take care of their own business. What happens in other conferences is not something we can control. Neither is what goes on in the polls.”

Then another man asked Sonny what he thought when people impugned the quality of Saluki opponents. Sonny’s heart beat a little faster, the way it always did when he was asked to give public answers. Why couldn’t it be Luther’s turn, or Hooker’s? He licked his lips, then said, “Well, we beat Michigan and we beat Arkansas. We won the Big Apple NIT and the Memphis Invitational.”

Sonny assumed it must have been a very good answer, because Gentry was smiling ear to ear. “Out of the mouths of babes,” he said, and the reporters had a good laugh. The rest of the questions were for the coach, so Sonny tipped back comfortably in his chair.

On a free Saturday in the middle part of January, Sonny helped Sissy crate two large and awkward fresco panels in the Pyramid lodge. They transported them in the Bronco to Willie Joe’s spacious workroom. From his wheelchair Willie Joe instructed, “Just push that shit out of the way. Take all the space you need.” Sonny and Sissy got the crates into the flat position on one of the worktables.

“Are they airtight?” Willie Joe wanted to know.

“It’s touching of you to ask,” said Sissy, “but rest assured that the packing meets the highest professional standards. Our point guard sees to that.”

Sonny had no comment; he’d given up correcting her basketball terminology. But Willie Joe asked him why he was free on a Saturday.

“We’ve got the Virginia game tomorrow,” said Sonny. “They changed the date so the game could be on CBS.”

“Oh, man, kick their ass on national TV.”

“We’ll do our best,” said Sonny. “They’re good, though.”

“Would I ever like to see that game.”

Sissy said, “He just told you the game’s on television.”

“No,” said Sonny. “He means in person. Willie Joe, if you wanta go, I’ve got two comp tickets left.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. Uncle Seth usually uses them but he’s in Florida this week. You can have them if you want them.”

“You better believe,” said Willie Joe.

Then Sissy said, “I’d like to come too, Cousin.”

“You want to come to the game?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I need to find out firsthand what this madness is all about.”

“I just didn’t think you’d want to.”

“That’s because you always underestimate me,” she said. Sonny looked to see if she was teasing him, but her back was turned.

By this time, Willie Joe was utterly psyched up: “Hey Sonny, you wanta take five and shoot a few?”

“What d’you mean?”

“You’ve seen our court; it’s called Makanda Square Garden. Let’s put a few up.”

“Right now? It’s cold, Willie Joe.”

“It ain’t that cold, and there’s no wind.”

“Aw, it’s cold. Anyway, what about a ball?”

“In the corner there, behind the scrap box.” Willie Joe pointed and Sonny looked. It was a bright orange playground ball with a rubbery, pebbled surface. Sonny walked over and palmed it up like a cantaloupe. “So who’s gonna play?” he asked.

“You, me, and the man-eater. We go three-on-three.”

Sissy stuck her tongue out at him, but Sonny doubted if Willie Joe saw it, as he was pulling on a heavy blue sweatshirt. Sonny felt like pointing out it would take six people to go three-on-three, but a bigger mystery was how a legless man expected to play at all.

It was amazing to watch, though, the way Willie Joe slalomed his way on his crutches across the intersection and the railroad tracks. He went clear to the court without breaking a sweat, so obvious by then was the powerful muscular strength in his arms and back. It was cold, but cloudless, and Willie Joe was right about the wind: There wasn’t any.

Sissy held the ball against her bulky leather flight jacket, which she wore over her sweatshirt. “Is it necessary to say an invocation, or is it acceptable to just go ahead and take a shot?” Without waiting for an answer, she took a two-handed push shot with no arc; it banged hard off the rim and caromed clear into the street.

Astonishingly, Willie Joe could somehow balance himself on one crutch only, while shooting push shots next to his right ear. Then he would snatch the other crutch quickly to balance himself. The evidence of his playing days was in the rotation of the ball as it released along his fingertips. If the shot made or missed, Sonny retrieved the ball to hand it back to him. Sissy was bouncing up and down in a guarding posture, but asking for the ball all the same.

Willie Joe missed a ten-footer, but Sonny tipped it in gently. “Shit,” said Willie Joe. “Go ahead and tell me this is cold.”

Sonny grinned at him. “Okay, it’s not cold.”

“Tell me this is cold. How many times you been on a playground in weather ten times worse?”

“Hundreds,” laughed Sonny. “Okay, a thousand.”

“You get to be a superstar, and you want carpet in the dressing room. Am I right?”

“Okay you’re right.” Sonny passed the ball to his cousin, who tried another of her flat push shots. It made contact with the chain net, but not the rim. Sonny watched his breath hang in the still air. Oddly enough, there was something about this moment that he found liberating and exhilarating.

“You shoot like a girl,” Willie Joe said to Sissy, and then he laughed.

She was retrieving the ball. “I do lots of things like a girl,” she responded. “But thank you for noticing.”

Sonny kept tipping in Willie Joe’s missed shots, but then the black man said, “How ’bout a dunk?”

Sonny jumped up slightly to snap the ball down politely. The chain net made a soft chunking sound. None of it satisfied Willie Joe: “I don’t mean that pussy shit, I mean a slam. I mean a gorilla slam.”

“Come on, Willie Joe.” This was embarrassing.

“You come on.”

“Go ahead, Sonny Youngblood,” said Sissy. “We want a gorilla slam.”

“Do you even know what a dunk is?” Sonny asked her.

“Of course I do. It means forcing the ball down through the ring instead of allowing it to drop through by means of gravity.”

Sonny had to pause a moment. “You think that’s it?” he asked Willie Joe.

“Who gives a shit how you describe it? You know a slam when you see one.”

Okay, Sonny was convinced. He pivoted quickly to lob the ball underhand, so that when it made contact with the backboard, it caromed upward at a 45-degree angle. The moment it reached its highest point, when it would have begun its fall, his hands were there to seize it and drive it down through. The basket vibrated while Willie Joe howled his approval.

Sissy shook her head. “Is there an adolescent fantasy anywhere that doesn’t torment you?”

But Willie Joe was hollering much too loud to hear her. When Sissy tried another push shot, Sonny blocked it by snatching it clean with one hand. She tried to get the ball back, but Sonny teased her by holding it too high. Sissy doubled her fist and took a swing at him, but he ducked it. Her momentum lunged her off balance, and she fell in a heap on the concrete.

Willie Joe’s uncontrolled laughter echoed down the silent main drag of town. There were tears in his eyes. From her prone position, Sissy kicked his crutches out from under him. Two bodies on the pavement now, and Sonny wondered who might be hurt, or at least pissed. But they were both laughing their heads off, from flat on their backs. What a hoot, Sonny thought.

He jumped up swiftly to drive down a two-handed tomahawk so vicious it left the backboard swaying like a willow in the wind. He sat down on the pavement and pulled his knees up under his chin. Willie Joe’s blue jeans, where they stopped, were folded and safety pinned. In the sunlight, Sissy’s hair showed traces of red that Sonny had never noticed before.

In the cold but peaceful moment, Sonny had no desire to be anyplace else.

Gentry’s game plan for Virginia was unusual. “Coach wants you to post up every chance you get,” Workman explained to Sonny. “We want to run every baseline pick we can. Down low, posting up. Okay?”

Sonny knew it was because the Virginia guards were so short. Coach wanted to capitalize on the height advantage he would enjoy. “What if they zone?” Sonny asked.

“If they zone, you’ll go back to the wing. But they won’t. They’ve only played eight minutes of zone in twelve games. They would have to be in extreme foul trouble before they would go to a zone.”

The huge and noisy crowd filled the arena thirty minutes before tip-off, partly in anticipation of CBS personalities and game-of-the-week preparations. It seemed so odd to Sonny, jogging through the pregame drills, to look at the comp seats where Uncle Seth and company were usually in place, and see instead Sissy and Willie Joe. Right next to them, Julio and Andrea. The two other seats were occupied by businessmen from Marion with familiar faces, but Sonny didn’t remember their names.

Even before the ball went up for the tip-off, as the players pushed and shoved for circle advantage, the refs made it plain that they meant to keep the game under control. The oldest one paused before tossing the ball to say to both teams, “Let’s get it together right now. Keep your hands off. We’re here for basketball, not football. Are we okay?” This well-intentioned speech was essentially a waste of breath. The Salukis concentrated on pounding the ball down low to Sonny on the blocks, but the Cavaliers weren’t surprised. They doubled down at every opportunity and thrashed him.

At the first TV time-out, Sonny had five points, but it felt like twice as many bruises, especially on his wrists and forearms. The restless, angry crowd made it hard for him to concentrate on Coach Gentry, who was saying, “Just keep your composure. They’ve got fouls to give, so that’s what they’re going to do. All of this is predictable.”

Sonny nodded, while taking deep breaths. He wiped his dripping sweat and tasted the blood from the cut inside his mouth. The coach continued, “From now on, when they foul you, they’re going to put you on the line. Just stay cool and make your free throws.”

Gentry was right, but Sonny had to wonder if it was worth it. By halftime he had 20 points, 13 of which had come from the free throw line. But it felt like his nose was broken, and the ringing in his ears from an elbow shot wouldn’t go away. The Virginia guards were short, but they were strong; they were powerfully built like fullbacks. They could dish out physical punishment and so could their backups, who were like clones coming off the bench.

Sonny even had to wonder about the strategy itself. Virginia couldn’t stop him, but it took the Salukis out of their regular offense, and the game was too close for comfort at 45–36. For the first time in his life as a player, he had the urge to tell his coach to change the game plan. They didn’t need this offensive gimmick to beat this team. Maybe not any team. Instead, he sat still and took deep breaths while the trainer painted his cuts with a styptic pencil and applied Vaseline.

The second half was more of the same. Sonny was so wired up late in the contest, it felt like high voltage galvanizing every pore of his body. He pounded home two monster dunks with the fullbacks hanging on him; each time, the bellowing crowd seemed to rend the air. The third time he tried it, though, he was undercut off the end of the court. He bounced up with his fists clenched and went chest-to-chest with Greene, one of the Virginia hatchet men.

“Go ahead, you pale motherfucker,” Greene hissed at him.

“Fuck you, nigger.”

“Ooooooeeeee!” exclaimed Luther Cobb, with a grin on his face. Luther was bending over and grabbing at his shorts, exhausted; if there was going to be a fight, it seemed as if he would use it as an opportunity to get a breather.

The refs stepped in quickly to separate Sonny from his stocky tormentor. On their feet, the 11,000 spectators were deafening, yet the referee’s words were somehow audible: “Both of you come with me.”

This referee stepped between them while the other two kept the rest of the players apart. Two Virginia players restrained Greene, while Hooker, with a firm grip on Sonny’s arm, followed along to the scorer’s table, where both head coaches were waiting.

“I want these two on the bench for a while to cool off,” the ref informed them. But it was hard to hear him above the din.

“That’s five on Greene anyway,” someone from the scorer’s table shouted. “He’s out of the game.”

Taking him by the other arm, Coach Workman helped Hooker lead Sonny toward the bench. “Just be cool, man.”

“Is that fuck out of the game?”

“Just be cool.”

Sonny felt the shakes. The trainer stuffed a gauze cylinder up his left nostril to stop the bleeding. “Leave me in. If Greene’s gone, just leave me in.”

“I can’t leave you in with this blood, you know that.”

He pushed the trainer away. “Just leave me in.”

“Just be cool, Sonny,” Workman told him.

The ref wouldn’t hear it anyway. Coach Gentry told Sonny, “Just have a seat and cool off. I haven’t got a choice here.”

By the time Gentry finished his statement, it didn’t matter anymore; Sonny’s shakes turned to weightlessness again. He was floating, his feet weren’t making contact with the floor. He was cut loose, out of himself, precarious. He got to the bench somehow and sat down while the game resumed.

He felt his skin burning. The team manager draped a fluffy towel across his shoulders and gave him a cup of water. He was still floating and shaky, though. Sonny swallowed all the water in two gulps, then blew some bloody snot into the empty cup. Some of the Vaseline was smeared into the corner of his right eye; it filmed his vision.

Sonny didn’t re-enter the game. The final score was 83–68. Georgetown was still number one in the nation, but the Saluki hold on number two was solid as a rock.

After the game he had recovered enough to do a post-game interview with Jack Sikma, who did the color for CBS. Sikma asked him if he liked playing low post in a game this physical.

“Not hardly, but it’s what Coach wanted.” At least his nose wasn’t bleeding anymore.

Sikma said, “By consensus, you’re the number one freshman player in the nation. How does that make you feel, Sonny Youngblood?”

“It’s fine, I guess,” answered Sonny, feeling bored. “I just have to play. We have to keep winnin’.”

“You made twenty-eight free throws today. Did you know you set a school record?”

“What else could I do? They were poundin’ ass on me in there.”

After they went to commercial, Jack Sikma told him, “You can’t say pounding ass on the air. But nice game, man. We’ll be seeing you down the road, I’m sure.”

Sonny shook his hand, then jogged to the locker room. There was some reassurance: He was surefooted again.

“I never knew,” was what Sissy said. And then she added, “I never understood.” These were her words of introduction as she slid beneath the covers to lie beside him.

“You didn’t understand what?” He was now wide-awake. Had he heard the floorboards creak beneath her feet?

“The report you wrote on the Isis legend was the first thing.”

In the dark. “You read it?”

“Right away. Just as soon as I realized what it was. Oh Sonny, there’s no written work required for independent credit.”

“I know that. I wanted to write it anyway, maybe even because it wasn’t required. What did you think of it?”

No hesitation. “I thought it was deliciously childlike, like a junior high report taken from an encyclopedia.”

Sonny lifted his head to protest, but Sissy pushed it back down onto the pillow. On his arm, he felt her skin brushing. Was she naked?

“Hold still,” she insisted. “It was so touchingly naive and literal I almost cried when I read it.”

He wondered why she was using words of admiration to describe a report she found so juvenile. “I just didn’t think it could ever really happen,” he said. “A woman goes around the world collecting her husband’s body parts, or her brother’s, or whatever, and then putting them back together until he’s healed. Are there people who actually believe that happened?”

“Probably. Regrettably.”

“Regrettably?”

“If they believe that resurrections literally happen, they can never understand them.”

“Why not?”

“Because they can’t see through to the meaning that may be there. Do you understand?”

“Not hardly.” He also didn’t understand why she was in his bed, although there seemed to be a remote corner of his deep-down self that did know. Not in a way that went into words, of course. By this time Sonny’s eyes were accustomed to the dark so he could see, but her abundant hair concealed most of her face.

He tried to lift his head again, but with the same result. “Hold still,” she told him. “The report was only the first thing. I haven’t told you the second yet.”

“You might as well, since I don’t understand the first one.”

“You understand more than you know, Sonny Young-blood, which is the whole point. The second thing was your game—the one I came to watch.”

“What about it?” Even though the Virginia game was three days ago, the emotional drama of the second half was still vivid to him.

“It was the intensity, Liebchen. That’s what I didn’t understand.”

“You have to play hard. When you come out of high school you think you know how to play hard, but you really don’t. I can always turn it up another notch; that’s maybe more important than talent.”

“I’m sure that’s how your coaches motivate you, but I’m talking about the expectations of thousands and thousands of people. The unspeakable pressure to succeed and never fail, and then to have your success or failure so public and so immediate.”

Sonny fumbled for words. “We do have good crowds.”

“Not to mention the millions of dollars hanging in the balance,” she said. She turned on her side. “The rest of us can’t comprehend that kind of pressure. Even those of us who are given major responsibility, so-called, don’t have to perform. We are expected to succeed, but it’s all so conditional.” Sissy’s voice was now scarcely more than a whisper. “We don’t have to be heroic.”

“I don’t like being called a hero,” Sonny answered right away.

“Unfortunately, you aren’t given a choice. It’s called the hero’s burden.”

He could feel the warm flesh of her thigh. “Are you naked, Sissy?”

“No, I’m wearing my nightgown. Are you naked?”

“No.”

At this point, Sissy sat up to take a sidesaddle position on the edge of the bed. “I had to be at your game to truly understand the dimensions of the burden. To expect all of this from willing young men and then to pretend, somehow, that they can function as college students.”

“I got a two-point-five, don’t forget.” He was still smarting a bit from her condescending description of his report.

“I’m not forgetting.” Playfully, she reached over to scratch his head like a dog. “The hero’s burden is that he’s expected to compensate for those thousands if not millions of empty lives. People who are hibernating, as Anaïs Nin liked to put it, in monotony, boredom, and death. You are the children asked to fulfill the fantasies of the childish.”

Then she stood up.

“Children?” protested Sonny. “Only three of us are freshmen. You saw Luther Cobb. Did he look like a child to you?”

Sissy didn’t answer right away. She was looking out the window, apparently lost in thought. Most of her face was concealed by her hair and shadows, but the strong moonlight that framed her torso turned her nightgown semitransparent. Sonny had a clear view of her full breasts and generous hips. His moment of arousal was embarrassing and would have to be perverse, he thought.

Sissy finally said, “The very same boy who wrote the report has to be the hero for the legions who have gone to sleep in the snow and never awakened. You will make them feel significant for a brief, shining moment but no one will count the cost. Do you understand?”

Sonny had no interest in understanding, but instead in suppressing the surge of testosterone that was claiming him. And shaming him. What did she expect of him? What did he expect of himself?

She turned her face in his direction. “You’re looking at me.”

“I suppose I am.”

“If I’m old and fat, let the darkness hide it.”

“You’re not old and fat.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Cousin. Sorry I woke you. Sweet dreams.” And then she was gone.

It was a long time getting back to sleep. Disconcerted by the welter of emotions stimulated by this encounter, he tossed and turned. Eventually, remembering how the moonlight silhouetted the contours of her torso, he relieved himself the tried and true way, with swift and careless strokes. His good fortune was the box of tissues on the nightstand.

Before he fell asleep, though, he took offense once again at her description of his report.