The Outside Shot Read online

  “Don’t intimidate him.”

  This is from his mother. She started from the other direction.

  “She must be on your side, Eddie. Here she comes to help you.”

  She moved faster and I moved faster. Eddie shifted his feet. “Don’t intimidate him, don’t intimidate my son. You don’t know a thing about …”

  I jumped in front of her as she neared her son. She tried to get around me, but I kept blocking her out, blocking her out.

  “She must be on your side.”

  “What are you doing? Are you crazy … are you cra— What are you doing?”

  “I know you want to pass the ball to her, Eddie, but I won’t let you do it, man. I’m not going to let you do it, man.”

  “You get out of my way.”

  Eddie turned and threw the ball up against the backboard. The ball rolled around the rim and I said a quick, quick prayer. “Lord, PLEASE, let it roll in.”

  The Lord did a cool thing, as the ball fell through the hoop.

  Eddie looked up at the basket and then he glanced over at me.

  “Good shot,” I said. “You got a nice touch.”

  I went and got the ball. Eddie’s mother stood still for a long moment in the middle of the floor, and then she went back to where she had been standing near the wall. I didn’t try to force Eddie to shoot anymore, and he didn’t. Once, when the ball landed near him, he picked it up, held it for a second or two, and then threw it to me.

  I felt relaxed with Eddie. I felt like just hanging around the gym with him and shooting baskets. I didn’t know exactly how Eddie felt, but I knew that at that moment, standing in a gym in Indiana, he wasn’t feeling great about himself. I knew the feeling.

  “The subject, ladies and gentlemen”—I watched Dr. Weiser as he wrote his name on the blackboard—“is American history, and I am teaching it. That’s Dr. Weiser, W-E-I-S-E-R. Many of you believe that you know a great deal about American history, but let me assure you that you don’t. When you leave my class, however, you will understand the subject.”

  The desks were arranged so that we were all looking down at Dr. Weiser. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk. I looked around to see if there were any other blacks in the room. I spotted three. One guy from the football team, a big heavy guy from Alabama, looked like a mountain. There was a guy with horn-rimmed glasses and a cute brown-skinned girl who sat near the front of the room.

  “American history is a sadly neglected subject,” Dr. Weiser went on. “Many people feel that because our history does not extend as far back as European history, it somehow doesn’t have the same merit. I feel just the opposite. I feel that because it is relatively short we can get a better grasp on it than we can, say, on the history of older countries. Plus, the importance of American history is often overlooked. We have in the two hundred or so years of our existence influenced the world more than any other culture in the known history of man. As far as this point in time is concerned, there is no other history as relatively important as our own, an opinion with which, I am sure, you will all soon come to agree.”

  Dr. Weiser stood up and began walking around the room. Some feet started shuffling under the chairs.

  “I see that Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Smith are with us again.”

  Dr. Weiser walked up to the football player and shook his hand. I could tell that the football player didn’t want to shake Dr. Weiser’s hand. Then he walked up to a white guy and shook his hand.

  “Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Smith were with us last year for American history, but somehow didn’t feel that they had to learn it then.” Dr. Weiser smiled.

  I could definitely tell this was a guy I was not going to like.

  “They felt,” Dr. Weiser went on, “that because they were athletes it wouldn’t be required of them to learn how their country was formed. It was an unfortunate situation; therefore, it has become necessary for them to repeat this course, and if they decide somewhere along the line this year that they do not have to learn the subject, I am sure that they will see fit to repeat the course again. I understand that we have two other athletes in the class. I would strongly advise them to consider the case of Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Smith and learn what I expect from all of my students regardless of their musculature, regardless of their ability to run, or to jump, or to do whatever it is they do in the course of the triviality in which they choose to engage.”

  I looked at the white guy and tried to imagine what he played. He wasn’t big enough for football. And I hadn’t seen him on the basketball squad. Maybe he played baseball.

  Weiser went on about what books to buy and then gave us a long reading assignment. Then he went into a lecture about the reasons why Europeans had chosen to come to America instead of Africa or the East Indies.

  “Believe it or not,” Dr. Weiser said, “some of the African countries were more civilized than the United States in many respects; however, at that juncture of history it was the European culture that was in the ascendancy, and any culture that was not touched by it suffered a period of stagnation. Stagnation, I might add, that still afflicts India and much of Africa.”

  I saw some of the other students taking notes. I wrote down a few things myself, but the cat was talking so fast I didn’t know what was going on. The girl in front of me was writing a mile a minute. I couldn’t figure out what she was putting down in her notebook. Also, I was wondering how much of the stuff that he was talking about I was supposed to know. When he finally ended the class with a little dig at the athletes, hey, I felt glad.

  I was supposed to go to basketball practice, then to a psychology class. When I first got to Montclare and registered for classes, I told myself that I was going to really do it. I was going to buckle down and do this heavy education number and not jive around like I did in high school. But after taking Dr. Weiser’s class, and seeing how this dude was so cold, I had my doubts. I tried to get it out of my head as I walked out of the class.

  “Hey, what’s your name?”

  I turned and saw the brown-skinned girl who had been sitting in front of the history class. I nodded to her. My mind was still on how I was going to make it here at Montclare.

  “You do have a name?” she asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, hey, I’m sorry. I got a name, it’s Lonnie.”

  “Lonnie Jackson, right?”

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  “My name is Sherry, Sherry Jewett,” she said, “and I work in the administration office. I checked out all the athletic scholarships to see if there were any bloods. I figured you were a blood ’cause you were on the basketball team. You’re from New York, right?”

  “Yeah, right. You have a thing for athletes or something?”

  “You remember Dr. Weiser making that crack about there being two other athletes in the class?”

  “Yeah, I heard it.”

  “I’m the other one.”

  “You? You’re an athlete?”

  “That’s right. I’m an athlete.”

  “What do you do? I mean, you know, you play volleyball or something?”

  “I run track.”

  “Oh, you any good?”

  “Yeah, I’m some good,” she said. “I’m some good.”

  “I thought you would be, as fine as you are and everything.”

  “Oh, come on, all right?”

  “Okay. Your show, mama. Where you from?”

  “Milwaukee.”

  “Milwaukee? I didn’t know they had black people in Milwaukee. I mean, they don’t have that many, right?”

  “There must be a wall around New York or something,” Sherry said. “You have got the most ignorant people in New York City.”

  “Hey, we’ll do,” I said.

  “Anyway, I’m trying to get a study group up with some of the black athletes. So far I have spoken to ten. There are twenty-five in all. There are only three freshmen, including you and Juice. You want to join?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “How many
people are in it so far?”

  “Two.” Sherry smiled. “The rest don’t have the time. Are you in Orly Hall?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, I’ll check you out later. See how many more people I can get together.”

  “Hey, how come you’re doing this?” I called after her as she started away.

  “ ’Cause it sounds like a good idea,” Sherry said. “So I thought I’d do it.”

  “All right, okay.” I watched as she cut across the grass toward some white girls headed for the science building. She caught up with them, and in a moment they were all talking. She was really fine. She had to be at least five feet seven, or five feet eight. That kind of soft brown complexion that always turned my head a little bit. But the best thing about her was her smile. She had a wide mouth and full sensuous lips, the nicest dimples I had ever seen in my entire life. I couldn’t imagine her doing no heavy athletic number.

  I got to the gym and practice was stiff, lifeless, man. I had these figures in mind that Leeds told me I had to get before the practice began. “We are going to have a scrimmage game,” he had said. “You have to get seven rebounds and five assists in the scrimmage.”

  “Yeah, okay, right, bet.”

  They had some plays they wanted to work on. One of them had Sly going to the corner and passing it out to Larson, cutting across the high post. They didn’t tell the whole play, they just told Sly to go out and pass the ball to Larson. But Sly’s man heard the whole thing and he kept backing off Sly and waiting for him to make the pass so he could switch to Larson. But Sly faked the pass and threw a jumper, which went cleanly through the net. They ran the play a second time and the same thing happened. Coach Teufel blew his whistle and asked Sly if he had a problem.

  “No, man,” Sly said. “But I’m open for the shot and the cat is laying off of me so I had to put it up.”

  “You have to put it up again,” Coach Teufel said, “and you won’t be putting it up for this team anymore, do you understand that?”

  “I do indeed understand it, Mr. Boss,” Sly said.

  The rest of the practice was even more nothing, with the team running plays for Larson and only Hauser being allowed to drive, unless it was a set play. I didn’t even get to work up a sweat during that part of the practice. Then they went into a scrimmage game and, hey, that was okay. They put all the regulars against the rookies and they just about tore us up. But I still got some of my stuff off. I tried to remember those figures that Leeds gave me. But after a while I just forgot them and went on and played my game. We lost the scrimmage, but I felt okay because I thought I had done all right.

  Sly was good. He had a lot of moves and went to the hoop as strongly as anybody I had ever seen. Juice was strong inside, but he wasn’t that quick. I could see him backing off plays and going for the rebound when he should have been trying to stuff his man. He had a nice outside shot but he wasn’t quick enough for anybody to let him play outside.

  Colin surprised me. His game looked a little awkward, but he didn’t miss anything either from outside or inside. When he walked on the court it looked like he was coming to take care of some heavy business, and he did it.

  It wasn’t a good kind of ball, I could tell. Playing ball had always been the most important thing in my life. What it had always been about, what it was still about, was beating another man. You had to be quicker, and stronger, and able to concentrate better than whoever it was you were playing against. I had seen coaches like Leeds before. Coaches that talked about running patterns on the floor and setting up screens and a lot of other things that made it a team sport. But a good offensive team would always be neutralized by a good defensive team if it wasn’t for the idea that some guys could do more with the ball. Whoever held them would be beat often enough to throw the team defense off. People who couldn’t do the things on the floor, people like Leeds, were still trying to make it into their kind of game.

  After the scrimmage I took a shower and put my clothes back on. Larson came over to me.

  “Hey, man, you got any money?”

  “Couple of dollars,” I said.

  “Look,” Larson said. “We got a little thing that we do every year. There’s these guys out at the mill and we play them a few games. We play for twenty dollars a man. If you want to play, I’ll put you up.”

  “Twenty dollars a man? Who are these dudes, man?”

  “They’re just a bunch of stiffs, jim. Every year they play us a few games. They lose their money and they’re happy.”

  “Hold time, hold time, if they lose every year, why they playing?”

  “They’re like groupies, man. They play and then they can sit back a little later on and watch us on television and say ‘I played against these dudes.’ You know, it helps them get their dreams off.”

  “It’s that easy, huh?”

  “Hey, we can take them, man, it’s no big deal.”

  “Well, I got a psychology class,” I said. “I don’t think I can make it. When you say you playing?”

  “About an hour from now.”

  “No, I can’t make it, man.”

  “Who you got for psychology, Mrs. King?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No sweat, man. Everybody passes her class. Come on. You can play.”

  “Who’s all playing?”

  “A couple of guys from the team and this guy who hangs around the team sometime, named Ray,” Larson said. “Don’t say anything around Leeds or the coach. We’re playing this team on the q.t. They’re kind of physical and the coaches are afraid we’ll get an injury. But the way I figure, twenty bucks is twenty bucks.”

  I said, “Okay.” I didn’t really want to play that much, but another thing I didn’t want to do was go to any more classes that day.

  We played outdoors in a playground. There were a lot of factories around the playground but it really wasn’t run-down or anything like that. The team we were supposed to play was already there, warming up. They were older guys. Most of them were dressed in dungarees and sweat shirts. They didn’t look like much. Too short and too heavy to be playing against us. We warmed up for about five minutes. I didn’t recognize any of the guys that were on our team. As soon as Larson gave me their names I forgot them. They were all younger guys, but they looked like ballplayers anyway.

  Except for one older brother, I remembered his name. It was Ray. We started the game with him taking the ball out. The winner was the first team to reach twenty baskets. When one team reached ten baskets, we would change sides and that would be the half.

  When they took the ball out I could tell right away that it was no contest. They were slow and none of them were that good. But Larson was right, they did beat the heck out of us physically. Every time you grabbed the ball you would get hit at least twice. You had to call your own foul because we didn’t have a referee and the most you could get was to take the ball out of bounds. They kept up with us for a long while, just beating on us. But the brother named Ray, he kept them off our backs pretty good. He looked at them a lot and swung elbows with them under the boards.

  I noticed Larson played it cool. We got out in front of them on a series of fast breaks and Larson told us to cool it. Keep the score down so they would play us again. I said, “Okay, sure.” I could use the twenty dollars. The pocket money I got from the school was just about gone and I wasn’t supposed to get paid for working at the hospital until the end of the month. They made a little comeback, but it wasn’t enough. At the end of the game my arms were sore from the beating they gave us, but we had won. We all shook hands and they started to leave, thanking us for the game. I went over to where Larson sat against the fence taking off his sneakers.

  “Hey, man, what happened to the bread?”

  “You’ll get it,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Larson said that he was going to go get his car, which he had parked about a block or so away. I was still thinking about the money, wondering
if I had been conned, but I just played along with the program.

  “Hey, you got a nice game, brother.” Ray, little drops of sweat collecting on his brows and dripping down into his face, came over. “You got a real nice game.”

  “You’re the man,” I said. “I thought they were going to do it to us for a while.”

  “They just rough,” Ray said. “You know, they try to intimidate you. Beat on you and whatnot. A lot of them played ball for different schools a few years ago, and that bald dude even played pro for a while.”

  “That bald dude with the set shot?”

  “Yeah. He’s in his forties now, but he played pro for a while. He spent some time on the bench in Cleveland, but he was still pro.”

  “Where did you play?”

  The brother took his wallet from his pocket and pulled a square patch of plastic from it. He unfolded the plastic and I saw that there was a yellowed newspaper clipping in it. He did the whole thing so carefully, I could tell it was important to him. He wiped his hand on his sweat pants and handed me the clipping.

  Ray York, All America candidate, scored thirty points as Montclare upset a highly favored Purdue team. The Boilermakers found themselves in early foul trouble but it was York’s rebounding and scoring under the offensive boards that set up the last second shot possibility which eventually won the game as Powers scored at the buzzer in the 86–84 upset.

  “Hey, I didn’t know you played for Montclare,” I said.

  “I don’t make a big thing of it,” Ray said, taking the clipping and refolding it into the plastic. “I still work out with the team once in a while.”

  “When did you graduate?” I asked.

  “I had a little trouble.” Ray was leaning against the fence. “Got a girl pregnant and had to go out and work. I’m thinking about playing some ball in Europe. I heard they pay pretty nice.”

  “Yeah, I heard that, too,” I said. “Some dudes from the Knicks went over there last year.”