7

Of the two men, Yates and Brosky, the latter was the older. It also seemed to Sonny that Brosky was the one short on patience. Especially when Sonny said he couldn’t remember details. Yates was asking him about a conversation he’d had with Gentry at Abydos High when he was still a junior. “You say you don’t remember what was said, but do you remember where the conversation took place?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I remember it. I talked to Coach Gentry in the hall outside the coach’s office in the gym.”

“What did you talk about?”

Sonny stared out through the conference room window at McAndrew Stadium across the way. He wondered why Coach Gentry wasn’t here, but not really; they wanted to find out if his story would be different from that of the coach.

“Did you hear the question?” Brosky asked. “Mr. Yates asked what the two of you discussed.”

Sonny looked back. He didn’t like the way Brosky’s eyes were hidden by the reflection from his glasses. “I heard the question. I can’t remember, but we probably talked about basketball.”

“You think this is funny, Mr. Youngblood?”

“Okay, we probably talked about SIU basketball.”

Yates asked him, “Do you remember how long the conversation lasted?”

“Are you serious?”

“Very serious. What we’re trying to determine, if we can, is whether the contact was simply a case of the two of you exchanging pleasantries in passing, or if it was an actual recruiting visit.”

Sonny couldn’t remember. “I can’t remember,” he said. He looked at the slow-moving wheels of the tape cassette. Whenever there were long silences, Brosky tended to shut the recorder off.

“Then let me ask you this. You had recruiting visits from Gentry that spring in your home. Is that correct?”

Sonny shook his head. “I have no idea. Probably. What is it you want from me?”

“Some straight answers, for one thing,” Brosky declared.

Gardner interrupted: “Do you really expect a high school all-American to be able to recall this much detail about his recruitment during high school? Don’t you realize we’re talking about hundreds, maybe even thousands, of phone calls and visits?”

Brosky sniffed again. “What we expect, Mr. Gardner, is to be stonewalled. It seems to be the nature of our business.”

“Nobody’s stonewalling you. Please turn the recorder back on.”

Yates said, “We always ask. Sometimes it’s amazing the way people can recall details when they really try. Sonny, we understand your uncle was very active in your recruiting experience.”

“That’s true.” The difference between this investigation and the Checkpoint procedure was the focus. This time, all the questions were aimed at learning information exclusively about the SIU basketball program. Mr. Ernst, the university attorney, was present but he didn’t speak; occasionally, he made notes.

“Your uncle Seth spent a lot of time associating with businessmen from other cities while you were in high school. Is that correct?”

“Yeah, I s’pose he did. Still does.”

“Did you ever wonder about that?”

“No, why? They’re all men in the booster club.”

Reading from his index cards, Brosky said, “An insurance man from Mount Vernon, another one from Belleville, a Buick dealer from Carbondale, the list goes on and on. You never wondered about your uncle’s far-flung network of friendships?”

“Why should I?” Sonny found himself getting annoyed. “Booster club members are from all over; they don’t all live in the same town.”

Gardner had a smile on his face. Sonny assumed he appreciated the answer.

“Did your uncle screen your phone calls?”

“In my junior and senior years he did.”

“How?”

“He set up an answering machine to take calls from recruiters. For his own calls, for him and Aunt Jane, he got an unlisted number.”

“Didn’t you think that was a little odd?” Brosky wanted to know.

“Not really,” answered Sonny. “The calls were coming night and day. I think it was really my aunt Jane’s idea to have the unlisted number, just so she could get a little relief. Besides, I’ve heard of other players doing the same thing in their families, just to deal with recruiters.”

“So have these gentlemen,” said Gardner wearily. “Don’t you think we’ve plowed this furrow long enough?”

Brosky turned on him: “I’ll tell you what, since Mr. Yates and I are in charge of this investigation, we’ll be in charge of deciding what information we need. I’m not particularly fond of your tone of voice, either.”

“I’m not particularly fond of your investigation,” was Gardner’s crisp response. “Is it just a coincidence that this inquiry comes within two weeks of our number one ranking? All those weeks that Georgetown was number one, did you have them under investigation?”

The attorney, Ernst, removed his glasses and began squeezing the bridge of his nose. Sonny wanted to think Gardner was on his side, but what kind of an ally would he be if all he did was get the investigators pissed off? Yates asked Sonny, “Do you understand NCAA policy governing complimentary tickets?”

Gardner interrupted again. “All our people are thoroughly briefed about matters of NCAA compliance. It’s my job to keep players and coaches updated.”

Ignoring the interruption, Yates repeated the question. Sonny squirmed a bit before he answered. “Some of the rules get pretty technical. The way they nitpick, I get confused at times, to tell you the truth.”

“I’m asking you about complimentary tickets. Are you clear about the rules?”

Sonny shook his head. “Not exactly. Sort of. I think a certain number are for relatives, and a certain number can be used by other people.”

“You know this stuff, Youngblood,” Gardner declared.

Great. Now Gardner’s against me too. “I’ve been told all of it,” Sonny admitted. “It gets confusing after a while. Who can give you a ride, or buy you a Coke, who you can talk to, who gets the tickets, et cetera.”

“Don’t play dumb, Sonny. You’re not stupid.”

“Mr. Gardner, please do us all a favor. Let Sonny provide his own answers to the questions.”

Gardner sighed, took off his glasses, and slumped in his chair. Yates asked Sonny, “For example, can you remember who used your comp tickets for the Virginia game on January tenth?”

“Are you kidding?” asked Brosky sarcastically. “Do you expect him to remember something from three weeks ago?”

“I do remember,” said Sonny.

“Hallelujah!” exclaimed Brosky.

Sonny was beyond irritation; he felt humiliated. “Why don’t you kiss my ass?” he snapped at Brosky.

“What did you say to me?”

Sonny could feel his own flush. “You heard me, kiss my ass.”

Yates was holding his two hands up like a third-base coach stopping a runner. “Equilibrium please,” he begged.

“Right.”

“May I ask why you remember?”

It seemed like an odd question. “Because my uncle Seth didn’t use them. He and my aunt Jane were in Florida.”

“Does your uncle ordinarily use your tickets?”

“Yeah, I usually give him all six. He distributes them how he wants.”

“Okay,” said Brosky. “Let’s go back to the tenth. And I apologize for being so sarcastic.” He sniffed.

“It’s okay,” said Sonny. “Sorry I lost my temper.” He told the two of them that for the Virginia game, his tickets were used by Sissy, Willie Joe, Julio, and Andrea. The remaining two by his uncle’s booster friends.

Yates asked, “How many of those people are members of your immediate family, Sonny?”

With a knot forming in the pit of his stomach: “Well, Sissy’s my cousin.”

“We don’t consider cousins immediate family.”

“But she’s my first cousin. Uncle Seth is her father. The others were friends from high school or just … just friends.”

“Do you understand you’re not in compliance with NCAA rules when you distribute tickets in that manner?”

Sonny was looking down. He made a sidelong glance at Ernst and Gardner, but they were looking at their hands. Before he answered, Sonny drank some of his water. “Yeah, I knew. I just gave the tickets to Uncle Seth all the time so I wouldn’t have to think about who would use them.”

“I appreciate the honesty of that answer,” said Yates, who seemed, in spite of the circumstances, to be a fair-minded guy. At least to Sonny.

Yates continued, “Is it fair to say that your uncle has always been glad to have your tickets?”

Sonny shrugged. “Yeah, I’d say so. He almost never misses a game and there are plenty of people who always want to come.” Then Sonny had a start. “Are you going to be talking to my uncle Seth?”

Yates smiled. “Who knows? We never know for sure where an investigation will lead.”

It was a remark which gave Sonny a burning sensation in his chest like angry bile. Do they know things that I don’t know? “I’m telling you the truth here.”

“I believe you are, Sonny,” Yates admitted. “We’d like to ask you just a couple of questions about Erika Neil, and then we should be finished.”

“Sissy? You’re not going to talk to her, are you?”

“Like I said, we can never predict exactly where the trail will lead, but it isn’t likely. Okay if I ask you one or two things?”

“Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

“First of all, you earned one hour of independent study credit from Ms. Neil in art history. Is that correct?”

Gardner broke his long silence to interrupt again. Sarcastically. “You’ve seen his transcript, why the charade?”

“Excuse me,” said Yates. “Am I correct, Sonny?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Brosky added, “An hour of A, and she made it retroactive.”

“Teachers do it all the time. It’s not unusual.”

“Tell me if this is accurate,” said Brosky. “You got an hour of art history credit retroactively, from your own cousin. And she gave you an A. Is that an accurate statement?”

Sonny squirmed and fumed. “If you put it that way, it sounds totally lame.”

“You said it, not me. Is it also true that this particular hour of credit kept you eligible for basketball?”

“I worked my ass off for that credit. Sissy told me I did enough work to earn two or three credits. Look it up somewhere, teachers make that arrangement all the time. You’re pissing me off, so get off my case.”

Yates took a pause long enough to drink some coffee. For his part, Brosky worked his right nostril with the nasal mist. Then he asked Sonny, “You don’t live with your cousin, do you?”

“No, I don’t live with her. I live in the dorm.”

“It’s true though, isn’t it,” asked Yates, “that you spend a great deal of time at her house?”

“That would depend on what you mean by a great deal of time.”

“You don’t live with her, then. Do you ever spend the night at her house?”

Before he answered, Sonny wondered where this was headed. “Sometimes, if it’s any of your business. Is that a violation too?”

“I wouldn’t know,” answered Brosky. “What does your uncle think about it?”

“I’m not sure what he thinks, if he even knows about it.” But even as he was giving this answer, it made him uneasy the way their questions seemed so rooted in information. “Let me ask you a question: Why are you wasting your time asking me about Sissy? I thought you wanted to know about basketball and recruiting.”

“Is that what we’re doing? Wasting our time?”

“If you think my cousin Sissy gives a shit about basketball, or who plays for who, you’re wasting your time for sure.”

“Why don’t you tell us about that aspect of it, then?” asked Brosky.

“That’s what I’m trying to do. My cousin hates basketball almost as much as she hates football. If she had her way, the only college teams would be debate teams or scholastic bowl.”

“This is too funny,” said Gardner, who was trying not to laugh. “Too, too funny.” He asked Yates and Brosky, “Do you honestly think Erika Neil had something to do with recruiting a basketball player for the SIU program?” But Gardner couldn’t go on; he was laughing too hard.

The Bradley game was when it first happened. Round one of the Missouri Valley Conference tournament in the St. Louis Arena, a game in which the Salukis coasted by the Braves by 30 points. At the ten-minute mark of the first half, Sonny was floating again. A cold, clammy sweat in his palms was followed by shortness of breath. His legs went wobbly like he just missed a head-on collision on the highway. He went to the locker room, light in the head and with a towel draped over his shoulders. Daley, the team trainer, walked beside him.

Before the rest of the team came in at the half, there was time for Dr. Kelso to take his temperature and use the small flashlight to look in his eyes, ears, nose, and throat. No apparent abnormalities, so the doctor told him to rest up and get ready for the second half. Sonny lay flat on his back, listening to the distant, muffled roars of the crowd above. He thought to himself, This is all in my head. The most mysterious part seemed to be found in having knowledge of something so unfamiliar.

He felt strong enough at the start of the second half to swish a pair of quick three-pointers, but with 16 minutes showing, his legs were suddenly full of sand again. He was drained of color and drenched in sweat. For precautionary reasons, Gentry took him out of the game; it was a blowout in any case.

Sonny slumped on the bench with towels draped and his head in his hands. Workman took the seat next to him and said, “What’s the matter, Sonny?”

This is all in my head, Sonny thought again. But instead of answering, he simply shook his head.

“You’re not out of shape, are you?”

“Are you serious? You see me in practice every day, how could I be out of shape?”

“Okay, okay, I take it back.”

The next night Sonny sucked it up as best he could. Tulsa played a 1-2-2 zone, so there were open shots on the wing, especially off Otis’s quick penetrations. Sonny’s jump shots were true as crosshairs, but they were only the stationary type; against a man-to-man, he wouldn’t have had the strength to get a shot.

His defense was enervated. During time-outs and free throws, he clutched at his shorts and fought for breath. Mopped his sweat while trying to conceal his low-level case of the shakes. Sonny had 20 points, but only because the Tulsa defense was tailor-made for a series of undemanding jump shots. He breathed relief when the lead reached 30 points and Gentry began clearing the bench. After the game, Sonny threw up in one of the stalls, but nobody saw him.

Getting two days of rest seemed to help. By Monday night, when the Salukis played Creighton in the conference championship game, Sonny felt stronger. It seemed providential to be renewed in front of the 12,000 noisy fans and a national television audience.

He was quick to the basket against Creighton’s overplay man defense, although he did pick up two charging fouls. They ran the double stack for a while, which freed him up for 15-footers near the free throw line. By halftime, when the lead was ten, Sonny had 21 points. He felt like he was all the way back.

But then came the second half, when the inexplicable weariness invaded his limbs. It was as if all his bodily fluids were much too heavy. He was about to get the shakes again, and he had some minor vertigo. His slow-motion defense led to two more fouls, which forced Gentry to sit him on the bench.

The lead was safe, although Creighton made a couple of runs late in the game. Sonny sat in his impotent cell of frustration and bewilderment, broken in a cold sweat. His legs shaky as pudding, a towel across his lap, and another around his shoulders. Grateful, as his teammates put the game away at the free throw line, that Gentry wouldn’t send him back into the game.

During the post-game celebration, while his teammates cut down the nets, Sonny held the ladder. Or it held him. There would be no postgame interviews, in compliance with Gentry’s current policy that made the players off-limits to reporters.

In their locker room, the players watched Gentry’s press conference on closed-circuit TV. It didn’t take long for the reporters to raise the issue of the NCAA investigation, but Gentry turned it aside with a crisp, firm disclaimer. “I don’t intend to answer questions about that subject. Even if I wanted to talk about it, I’m not allowed to. I’ll be happy to answer questions about the game, or about our team.”

After that, it didn’t take the press very long to resurrect the strength-of-schedule agenda. A reporter wanted to know if SIU’s “soft” schedule would hurt the team’s chances in the NCAA tournament.

His struggle for patience clearly visible, Gentry answered in monotones. “Okay, let’s do this one more time. ‘Soft’ is your word. We won the Big Apple NIT, the Memphis Invitational, and the regular-season Missouri Valley championship. Now we’ve won the MVC tournament. We’re the only undefeated major in the country and we’ve been number one in all the polls for nearly three weeks. Now you people tell me: Who votes in the polls? You do. If you don’t think we’re that good, then I suggest you exercise your ballot-box rights and vote us lower.”

“Tell ’em, Coach,” said Robert Lee, who was seated next to Sonny. “These fucking writers. What the hell did they ever play except maybe a few games of pocket pool?”

Sonny didn’t say a word. He watched the monitor as one of the reporters asked the coach, “Can you tell us anything about Youngblood’s condition?”

“He may have a touch of the flu. Our team physician is working with him. He’ll have a few days of rest now, to get ready for the first round of the tournament.”

“If he were unable to play, how would that affect your team’s chances in the tournament?”

Gentry smiled for the first time. “How much would it help any team to lose a key player? But we don’t expect anything like that. A little rest and Sonny should be just fine.”

A writer wanted to know if Gentry thought it was important to be seeded number one by the NCAA selection committee.

“Only because our fans would benefit. It would mean they’d put us in the Indianapolis regional,” the coach replied. “It’s close to home, so our fans would be able to watch us play.”

Robert Lee was wearing an uneven necklace of nylon net. When the press conference was over he asked Sonny, “Are you okay, man?”

Sonny didn’t feel the shakes anymore, and there was no floating. But he was still cold and clammy. “I’ll be fine,” he said. Most of the players, having lost interest in the press conference, were in the showers. The steam crept like fog to permeate the locker-room area, but Sonny felt like the real fog was wrapped around his brain.

“Come on,” said Robert Lee. “Let’s hit the showers.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“He knows, Sonny.”

Sonny switched off the radio and lifted his turn signal lever before he made an answer. “You mean Uncle Seth.”

He used his side mirror to merge while Aunt Jane said, “Yes.”

Before he said anything, Sonny got the car into the left lane flow of traffic. “He was bound to find out. Nobody’s been trying to hide anything.” At the edge of the highway, some dirty residual slush clung to its position, but the pavement itself was merely wet. The wipers were on intermittent.

“I didn’t tell him, Sonny. He found out on his own.”

“Like I said, nobody tried to hide anything. Is he pissed?”

Aunt Jane popped a Life Saver before offering him one, “Of course he’s upset. Of all times for you to be spending time with Sissy, the worst would be right in the middle of all this SIU basketball glory. At least that’s how it would seem to him.”

“You’d think it might make him happy. Me and his own daughter getting to know one another.” Not that he believed his own words for a minute.

“It makes me very happy,” Aunt Jane said, “but it will only make Seth angry.”

“Why does he hate her so much?”

“It isn’t hate, Sonny. It’s rejection.”

“Okay then, why does he reject her so much?”

“Once upon a time there was a condition known as the generation gap.”

“I’ve heard of it. You’re talking about that Vietnamera protest stuff from the sixties.”

“You’ve heard of it, but you never lived through it. He just can’t forgive her for rejecting his way of life.”

Sonny turned the heater fan up to the next number. “That’s a lot of grudge for a long time just over a different view of life.”

“You can say that again.”

When they got back, the part of the driveway nearest the road, where the lindens were clustered, was a partly frozen, treacherous surface, covered by an inch of water. Further back, by the house and shed, the gravel was simply wet. It was starting to rain again.

The blue Olds was parked beside the back porch. “He’s back home,” his aunt observed. “Are you coming inside?”

“Hell, yes. I’m not gonna start hiding from my uncle just because he might be pissed.”

They were only at the kitchen table long enough for Aunt Jane to get the pot boiling when his uncle lumbered in. He slumped in one of the kitchen chairs, only half recovered from his nap on the den couch. Seth fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket before he said, “Just tell me why, Sonny. Tell me why.”

“Why what?”

“You know what. I mean, why Sissy?” Seth was rubbing his sleepy eyes with his fists. Trying to flatten down his scattered, thinning hair.

“I like Sissy, Uncle Seth.”

“Oh, God. You have no idea.”

“No idea of what?”

“No idea the trouble you’re askin’ for. You know what a ball-buster is, Sonny?”

Aunt Jane at the stove had tears in her eyes. “That’s enough of that kind of talk.”

“You’re talking about your own daughter, Uncle Seth.”

“I know goddamn good and well who I’m talking about!” He lifted his eyes for the first time to look Sonny in the face. “The thing is, Sonny, she just doesn’t have regular values.”

“Let’s say she has different values. Isn’t that a right people have?”

“What are you, living with her?”

“No, I’m not living with her. I spend time at her house, but I’m not living with her.”

“Don’t you know what we’re talking about here? My God, you guys are on target for a national championship! You can’t let people like Sissy distract you from something this big!”

Sonny was losing patience with this. It felt like another NCAA grilling. “When we lose a game, we can worry about it. You better think about this, Uncle Seth: If it wasn’t for Sissy, I probably wouldn’t even be eligible.”

This reminder gave Uncle Seth reason to pause. He got a beer from the fridge before he said, “Are you going to tell me that Sissy cares about SIU basketball all of a sudden? She’s been an anti-sports fanatic for twenty years.”

“No,” answered Sonny evenly. “I’m telling you that Sissy cares about me.”

“Aaaaach!” his uncle exclaimed. Stood up abruptly to put both hands on top of his head and begin pacing. “I have to take a piss. Don’t go away.”

“Why should I go away?” While Seth was gone, Aunt Jane brushed her eyes once or twice, then poured two cups of steaming cocoa. It looked like Seth would be drinking beer. Sonny warmed his fingers by wrapping them around the ceramic blue mug, but he didn’t say anything.

When Seth returned, the first thing Sonny said to him was, “Do you want to hear about my mom?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We just got back from visiting her in the hospital. Don’t you want to hear how it went?”

“Is there somethin’ to tell? I’m trying to help you out of a situation that could be a lot worse than you realize.”

“I’d say it’s my mom who’s got a situation. She’s in the loony bin.”

Uncle Seth looked embarrassed. He lit up another cigarette and played with his lighter by adjusting the flame up and down. “So what’s to tell?”

“She’s taken up smoking.”

“What are you saying to me?” So tortured was his body language that his to-and-fro shifting nearly thrashed his chair. On his face was an infinitely pained expression. “How can she smoke? Does she have enough wits about her to light a cigarette and smoke it?”

Aunt Jane said, “Not really. You remember the blue cashmere sweater we got her for Christmas?”

“Let’s say I do. What about it?”

“She’s burned some holes in it. Apparently, when the cigarette burns her fingers, she lets it drop on her clothing.”

Seth was holding his head again. “Are we going nuts here? Why would they let her have cigarettes in the hospital, or something to light them with?”

“That’s what we said,” Sonny answered. “It was like they didn’t even know she had them or where she got them. Someone probably smuggled them in. They promised it wouldn’t happen again.”

“Okay, then it’s taken care of.”

Finished with his cocoa, Sonny stood up to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to Carbondale,” Sonny replied.

“Just like that? I thought this was your spring break.”

“It is, but I’m going to spend it on campus. We’ve got practice, don’t forget.”

“Are you gonna be with Sissy? Is that the part you’re not telling me?”

“That, too,” Sonny admitted. He was zipping his coat. “We’ve only got two more fresco panels to bring up from Makanda, and then we should be done.”

“Fresco panels,” said Uncle Seth. “Great.”

When Sonny got the car started, he looked up to see Uncle Seth stumbling toward the passenger door, in the rain. Now what? He put the window down. Seth said, “I forgot to tell you something. Brother Rice died last night.”

“Rice is dead?”

“He died in the nursing home.”

Sonny was surprised, but he felt neutral about the information. For several moments he didn’t speak. Seth just stood in the rain, breathing hard, but with no other apparent discomfort. He finally said, “End of a legend, huh, Sonny?”

“End of a douche bag would be more like it.”

“How could you say a thing like that?”

“If I can’t, who can?”

Seth was shaking his dripping head. “I just don’t see how you could say that.”

“You should go inside now, Uncle Seth. You’re getting soaked.”

Sonny spun gravel on his fishtail path out of the driveway. He got the car up to speed and turned the wipers on medium. If Rice was dead, he asked himself, why should it be a surprise? Carrying around that extra 150 pounds, smoking his three packs a day, sitting around on his fat ass instead of getting any exercise. Why would his death ever be unexpected? The only surprise would have to be that his death didn’t come years earlier.

Maybe Uncle Seth was right: Maybe Rice was a legend. People die, but legends don’t. Was that it? Maybe he and Seth were both right: Brother Rice was a legend and a douche bag.

Whatever, this new information was a distraction. Sonny meant to concentrate on the road, but he kept seeing the interior of the old gym. The day Brother lost it in practice. Was that a good day or a bad day?

He listened to the wipers whining his windshield. He watched the broken white line at the center of the wet pavement. He didn’t see them though. He saw only that afternoon in practice, four years earlier. The fat man on the bleachers who was pissed because they were screwing up the fast break.

“Goddamnit! When I say fill the lanes, I mean fill the lanes! You stand around with your thumb up your ass, how d’you expect to get it done? Do it again, and this time, move!” Thursday practices were always the worst because they usually came just before game day. Rice was working them on the fast break following a missed free throw. Butch Cross was the shooter.

Hands on hips, Sonny took the third spot along the lane; Mickey Stanley and Dick Lynch had the lane positions under the basket.

Butch made six free throws in a row, but Rice seemed patient. “It’s okay,” he said to Butch. “Just keep shooting. Don’t miss on purpose.”

The next time he missed, Mickey Stanley grabbed the rebound. He turned to make the outlet pass, but only after a moment’s hesitation did the players start to break for the other end of the court.

Brother Rice blew his whistle with a special fury. “Goddamn! How many times do you people have to be told?!” He walked heavily over to the free throw line. He took off his glasses, then used his shapeless handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose.

“Listen to me and get this straight. When we have to practice the same things repeatedly, we waste time. Wasting time means we’re inefficient, and inefficiency makes losers. Am I making myself clear to you?” He paused, for breathing and for sinking in. He put the glasses back on.

At the top of the circle, and outside Rice’s range of vision, Julio arched his back to stick out his scrawny belly as far as he could. As soon as Sonny saw the mockery, he felt a frightening impulse to start giggling. He turned his head away so he could stare at the bleachers and bite down on the insides of his mouth.

“If you people can’t learn this by five o’clock, then we’ll stay till six. If you can’t learn it by six, then we’ll practice till seven. Whatever it takes. Do it again and this time fill the lanes. You see where Julio is? By the time the ball is rebounded, you should have the lanes filled this far out. Now goddamnit, get it right or I’m going to start kicking some ass!”

Sonny watched him walk to the side of the court where two players not involved in the drill were standing.

Butch Cross missed the next free throw, and Lynch grabbed the rebound. This time, the other players bolted instantly. Lynch snapped the outlet pass to Julio on the left wing; he took two quick dribbles and fired a long pass to Sonny, who was in the middle. The pass had perfect lead time. When Sonny gathered the ball in, he was closing on the free throw line at the other end.

Rice blew the whistle. “Fair. C-minus. Do it again.”

They did it again, and again, and again. It was obvious to Sonny by this time that Butch was missing free throws on purpose, but if the coach noticed, he didn’t seem to care.

Then another break that was too slow to develop. Rice blew the whistle in rage, but Julio dribbled on anyway, with weary body language, to the other end. He shoveled a feeble layup off the glass. Coach blew the whistle again. “Goddamnit, Chico, give me the ball!”

In his flushed face, Julio’s frustration was evident. When he threw Rice the ball, he threw it too hard, from too close. The ball smacked onto the fat man’s belly before he could react with his hands. He went red in the face and doubled over, fighting for breath.

It was 30 seconds, but it felt like 30 days to Sonny, watching the disabled coach sink to his knees. All the players stood so motionless and silent it was as if mannequins had replaced them. Sonny felt his own pulse pounding in his head. He couldn’t imagine what the consequences would be for Julio.

When Rice finally recovered, he was flushed and sweating. Slowly, he pulled his huge carcass erect. His eyes like two pinpoints of metallic light, he approached Julio deliberately, without a word. The closer he got, the more Sonny sucked in his breath, certain he wasn’t the only one. When Rice stood in front of him, Julio, five feet six inches and 120 pounds, stood like a condemned criminal with head hanging and hands on hips.

There was one more moment of terrible silence before the coach drew back his right arm and delivered a powerful slap upside the head, right on the top of Julio’s left ear. Crack!

Julio fell to the floor like a doll. When he landed, he thumped. He stood up slowly with his eyes brimming and the left side of his face bright red.

In a ringing voice, Rice made an announcement: “I should be kicking this little spic sonofabitch off the team, but instead, I’m going to do him a favor. I’m going to teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.”

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he hit Julio again, in the same spot, maybe even harder. Again, he was knocked off his feet.

“Get up, Chico!” commanded the coach. “Get on your feet.”

When he stood up the second time, Rice didn’t hit him, but instead gave him an order: “Take off your shoes and socks.”

The wiry point guard stood with slumped shoulders and a look of bewilderment. He had the guts to meet Rice’s eyes, even while wiping tears with the back of his hand, even with the rose-colored swelling that was already smoothing out the left side of his face.

“You heard me. I said take off the shoes and socks.”

Standing and watching, Sonny felt his stomach tighten by the moment. Moving slowly, as if in a trance, Julio removed the shoes and socks. He stood barefoot in the center circle.

Coach Rice turned to speak to the other players. “We’re going to have a scrimmage. Full scrimmage, red against gold! During the scrimmage, you’re going to step on his feet. You hear me? Step on his feet!”

Sonny heard, but he didn’t understand. Whatever it meant, since he was wearing a gold jersey, the same as Julio, it probably didn’t apply to him.

But as if he could read minds, Rice declared, “I don’t care if you’re on his team or not! Step on his feet! Every chance you get, step on his feet! You’re not hurting him, you’re doing him a favor! He’s not worth a shit now, and he never will be without humility!” With no further guidelines, the furious coach blew his whistle and ordered them to start the scrimmage.

Sonny’s dilemma was no less than anyone else’s. It was an acute one, to somehow participate in the scrimmage while looking for opportunities to stomp on the unfortunate teammate’s bare feet.

“Step on his feet!” screamed the coach.

Julio moved aimlessly about the court, his left eye purpling into a slit, the right one liquid with tears. Some players made a halfhearted attempt to step on his feet, but faked it like pro wrestlers, anything to avoid the coach’s wrath. Sonny decided if he ran the fast break like they practiced, it would keep him away from Julio, but at the same time send Coach Rice a signal of his dedication.

“I told you to step on his feet!” the frantic coach screamed again.

The one thing you couldn’t do, though, was disobey Brother Rice. Sonny wasn’t sure when his confusion turned to rage, or how, or why. He only knew that inside he felt like a simmering volcano. Each time down the floor he was more desperate to target his anger and frustration. This is the switch, he thought to himself, in an unexpected and incongruous moment of reflection. This is turning it up a notch and maybe even more. This is the switch.

“Goddamnit, step on his feet!”

It was Dick Lynch who stole the ball and headed for the other basket. Gliding on the dribble, he might try one of his semidunks, or he might just lay it in soft, but there would be no reason to expect any interference. Sonny felt electrified; he bolted down the lane with the quickest acceleration he’d ever known. His attempt to block the shot would be too late, but it would be extra effort, and it would let off steam. He left his feet from ten feet out.

The ball traveled gently from Lynch’s fingertips to kiss the glass eight inches above the rim. Sonny flew from behind like a blur, barely brushing the back of Lynch’s head. With his left hand, he spanked the ball savagely against the glass. It ricocheted all the way to the free throw line. Sonny’s left-handed blow left the backboard vibrating.

“Jesus Christ!” said One Gram.

The stunned Dick Lynch yelled, “Goal tending! Coach, that’s goal tending, you saw it!”

Brother Rice only threw back his head and laughed savagely. “Way to go, Youngblood!”

Most of the players were standing around in the aftermath, trying to absorb what they’d seen, but it was more humiliation than Lynch could endure. He turned to Sonny, “You dumb fuck, you ever do that to me again, I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

Sonny felt out of control. He just laughed and said, “Piss off.”

“Are you crazy? You say that to me?”

They were faced off, but Rice’s whistle re-established his agenda. “I told you girls to scrimmage full-out. Now get moving.” He blew the whistle to restart the scrimmage, but the stress of it was reduced now that Julio was no longer the exclusive focus. He was still barefoot, but there were no further orders from the coach to step on his feet.

When the practice was finally over, Rice sat them down on the first row of bleachers. “You have just had a demonstration of what happens to a player on this team if he is insubordinate. The only way to win is with total discipline, and total discipline is what we will have. Is that perfectly clear?”

No one spoke.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said, is that perfectly clear?”

“Yes,” the players mumbled.

Then Rice laughed, but it was still the savage laugh, the one without humor. “I presume,” he said, “that our little Chico will want to wear his shoes and socks the next time we practice.”

It was supposed to be funny but no one laughed.

“We’re going to take all twelve of you to Dongola tomorrow. The bus will leave at five-thirty sharp. I expect a big lead at halftime because I want to get some more playing time for the reserves. Are there any questions?”

When no questions were forthcoming, Rice dismissed them.

It was a very subdued locker room. Butch Cross spoke softly, but in the quiet moment his voice was clearly audible: “I’m quittin’.”

“You’re quittin’, Butch? Come on.”

“Buc-buc,” said Lynch.

“Kiss off.”

Could you just quit? It was a shocking idea to Sonny, who was slowly peeling off. Did Butch really mean it? Could you just quit and that would be that? Why not, though, maybe it was that simple.

“Come on, Butch, you can’t quit,” said Mickey Stanley.

Butch looked up at him. “Who’s going to stop me? Not even Brother Rice can force you to stay on the team. It’s my decision, right?”

Sonny wondered again if he really meant it, then turned to look at Julio, sitting in his jockstrap. Head bowed down, elbows resting on the thin but sinewy legs. Even with his face lowered, the swelling around his left eye was still visible.

Sonny asked him quietly, “You’re not quittin’, are you Julio?”

Julio answered without looking up. “Are you kidding? The fucker’s not scaring me off the team.”

Uneasy, Sonny pulled his car off the road. He left the engine running and the wipers wiping. Are you kiddin? The fucker’s not scaring me off the team.

If he was going to sit in his car and think, he decided he should turn his hazard lights on Was that what Brother wanted all along? Was that what made him a genius?

It was a curiosity to him how his flashbacks assumed a pattern. They weren’t random phenomena, they had focus. Rice might be dead, but this latest memory conformed to the pattern. Almost exclusively, it seemed, the events of his past that came a-calling were ribbed into a spine of events that occurred during March of his ninth-grade year.

That meant Brother Rice and Barb, basketball, and his mother’s slow but sure slide into final madness. The vividness of this cluster of memories convinced Sonny they must be important. Was Sissy like Barb? He had to wonder if his current malaise of floats and shakes and disorientation was somehow the flip side of wiring it up over and over, turning the switch ever one notch higher and then higher still? But if he felt disposed to look for parallels, where would he find one between Brother Rice and Coach Gentry?

When the rain stopped, Sonny turned the wipers off. It was his plan to drive clear to Carbondale, but the Makanda turnoff was just ahead. It would be more convenient to spend the night at Sissy’s.