Tyler Buckspan Page 10

  I nodded.

  "It's a compound fracture of the tibia; he'll wear a cast two months, at least."

  I lowered my gaze and didn't say anything.

  "You still want to play ball for me?"

  A shiver ran up to my shoulders from my feet. Me on the team? For a moment I thought I might wet my pants. Lifting my gaze, I opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn't think of what it should be, so I simply nodded again.

  Leaning forward, Ebersole placed his elbows on his desktop. Then he formed a steeple with his fingers.

  "Do you want to know why I cut you in the first place?"

  Of course I wanted to know.

  "Yes, sir," I said.

  "It wasn't the quality of your play; you have talent, Buckspan. But at tryouts, every time I looked at you, you glanced away like you were scared."

  Ebersole narrowed his eyes.

  "I don't need bashful players on my team. Understand?"

  I drew a breath. It's a test, stupid. Keep looking him in the eye and say something.

  My knees shook and my voice quivered, but I kept my gaze fixed on Ebersole's flinty stare. I felt I was peering into an ice cave.

  "Coach, I'll work hard; I promise I will. I'll work harder than anyone else on the team."

  Ebersole pointed a finger.

  "You'll have to, Buckspan, 'cause you've already missed three weeks of practice. Our season starts in another month; that means plenty of catch-up on your part."

  "I can do it, Coach."

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "Be here tomorrow, at 6:30 a.m., dressed out and ready to work."

  "Thanks, Coach, I--"

  "Time's up, Buckspan. Now, get the hell out of here before I change my mind."

  I felt like I was high on narcotics. Jolts of electricity coursed through my limbs while my lips spread into a smile as broad as a basketball hoop. While walking through the gym, I felt as though I floated above the concrete floor. I traced the court's perimeter, hearing the ball's thunka-thunk, and the squeak of rubber soles against hardwood. The ten players sprinted past me, and then Jacob called out my name.

  "What's going on?" he cried.

  I flashed him a thumbs-up.

  "I made the team," I hollered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  And so I became Ebersole's indentured servant.

  I'd rise before dawn and pack my gym bag with necessaries: T-shirt, gym shorts, jock strap, wool socks, Converse high-tops, and a bath towel. Caffeine helped wake me up, so I'd brew a few cups in Grandma's electric pot. Then I'd pour the steaming liquid into a thermos and take it with me in the Chevy. I'd roll down the County Road, passing farms and slash pine forests. My radio would blare numbers by The Beatles or The Yardbirds while I'd sip from my thermos. The sun would shine so brightly in the east, I'd have to wear sunglasses, just to see the road ahead of me.

  Once at school, I'd join my teammates in the gymnasium's locker room. The heat wouldn't yet be turned on. We'd shiver as we undressed and slipped into our practice clothing. The smell of sweat-stained gear and mildew would be strong in the room. Few words were spoken as we did this, I think because everyone was sleepy, and also because we all knew what lay in store for us.

  Each morning, first thing, Ebersole made us run wind sprints from one end of the gym to the other, back and forth, full speed, until at least two of us puked. The first guy who vomited got to clean up everyone else's mess, as well as his own.

  I quickly learned to skip breakfast, sticking to coffee only.

  Every morning, during practice, we did push-ups 'til our arms became rubber. Ebersole kept barbells at one corner of the gym. We used these to build up our leg strength, doing squats and calf raises until our thighs and calves burned.

  Ebersole told us, "You knuckleheads think winning is all about shooting and ball handling, don't you? Well, you're wrong. Fitness is the key to success on the court; you must build your strength and stamina.

  "I swear, I'll get you in the best shape of your lives; count on it. We will outrun our opponents from tip-off to final buzzer. We'll fry their lungs; their legs will wobble before halftime."

  Mornings, after an hour of fitness training, we'd do drills: layups, dribbling, defensive maneuvers, but never any shooting practice. "Do it on your own time," Ebersole said.

  Afternoons, after dismissal bell, we'd return to the locker room, change, and then run eight laps around Deland High's track. Ebersole always joined us; he'd bark at any player who wasn't keeping up with him. Then we'd hit the court for five-on-five competitions. Ebersole substituted players frequently, making sure each team member had equal time on the court. He'd march up and down the sideline, hollering instructions and blowing his whistle if something offended him.

  Ebersole rarely gave compliments, but his criticisms were frequent and withering. "Numbskull" and "idiot" were epithets he often hurled when a player missed a foul shot, flubbed a rebound, or lost control of the ball while dribbling. Sometimes Coach would charge onto the court. He'd seize a player by his shoulders and shake him like a rag doll, while cursing a blue streak, right in the kid's face.

  Coach tagged each player with a degrading nickname, used when Ebersole and his team members were the only persons present. Mark Maggert was "Faggert," Charles Sweeney was "Weenie," and Jacob was, of course, "Jackinoff."

  Me? I was "Fuckspan."

  Mostly, I played forward, a spot I preferred. I could sometimes employ my reverse layup, plus the position gave me better opportunities to rebound.

  Ebersole was merciless when judging my performance on the court.

  "You're a lazy piece of shit, Fuckspan; a total pussy. I don't know why I put you on the team. Get your ass in gear or, I swear, you'll join the cheerleading squad. I'll even buy your pom-poms."

  Sometimes I'd ask myself, Why do I subject myself to this guy's abuse? But, of course, I never considered quitting. I loved being part of the team: the prestige it lent me, the thrill of competition, and the comradeship of my fellow players.

  I got along well with most all my teammates, especially the juniors. Our common dislike of Ebersole's torments only cemented our brotherhood. Behind his back we called him "Asserhole," but I'll say this: Coach knew his basketball. He taught us faking techniques with our heads and shoulders, defensive maneuvers and ball-stealing tricks, all of it subtle stuff. While demonstrating, he moved quickly but delicately, like a ballerina. His ball handling was impressive; he ran circles around any of us when he played one-on-one with a team member. His jump shot was smooth and artistic, and I would often shake my head while watching him perform. How could a guy so bulky, a guy at least forty years old, leap so high?

  Coach would not tolerate cigarette smoking.

  "If I catch you once, you're off the team. Do you want your body to perform? Then treat it with respect. Cigarettes are garbage, even the Surgeon General says so."

  Another thing: Ebersole practiced what he preached. Mornings, when I'd arrive at the gym, Ebersole's shirt was always sweat-soaked because he'd just run five miles on the school's outdoor track. Afternoons, I'd find him doing sit-ups in the gym with his feet hooked under the first row of bleachers. His face would shine with sweat.

  Seniors on our team tended to be cliquey -- they treated us younger players with mild derision -- so the junior players formed a sort of clan. We ate lunch in the cafeteria together. We met for pickup games on weekends. One Saturday evening, after sundown, the seven of us met at Jacob's house. Everyone piled into my Chevy, and then we visited a drive-in theater for a double feature. We guzzled Cokes and wolfed down popcorn. We told jokes and swapped gossip about kids at school.

  During the movie, some guys talked about girls they'd dated or girls they wanted to date. They discussed the girls' bodies, and how far the girls would go in the backseat of a car. When this topic arose, I kept my mouth shut. I had no interest in women -- I had no experience with them either -- and I wasn't about to lie and say I did.

  Mark Maggert,
especially, had a reputation as a stud horse; one girl or another always clung to him in the hallways at school. A bit taller than me, with chestnut hair and dark eyes, he moved with a fluid grace I envied. When we showered after morning practice, I couldn't keep my eyes off his athletic physique; it reminded me of Devin's body, how Mark's muscles rippled under his skin. He spoke with a syrupy drawl -- pronouncing my name "Tah-lah" -- and he never failed to greet me when we passed each other between classes.

  Of course, my favorite teammate and closest friend was Jacob; we talked on the phone most every evening. Saturdays, after sundown, when the Jewish Sabbath ended, Jacob's dad would drop him off at my house. He'd spend the night, and we'd play one-on-one on Grandma's driveway, under the glow of the gooseneck light fixture. Our breath would steam in the chilly night air.

  My bed was a three-quarter -- a tight fit for both of us -- and it felt nice, lying with Jacob in the darkness, feeling the warmth of his body. Both of us would wear only briefs, and our leg hairs would commingle while we talked into the wee hours.

  Mornings, I'd often wake before Jacob did. I'd lie there and stare at him while sunlight burnished his hair and eyelashes, while his chest rose and fell. I'd study the peach fuzz on his upper lip and wonder how it might feel to kiss him.

  It seemed as though Jacob and I never ran out of things to talk about. I'd been starved for friendship, ever since Eric's departure, and now Jacob's companionship was like a balm. We discussed current events in the paper, incidents occurring at school, popular music, Jacob's friends in Skokie, and the mischief they'd gotten into. I spoke of my days in Decatur and my deceased dad, of my grandma's psychic powers, and my trips to Daytona Beach. We talked about college and what majors we might pursue.

  Jacob had an uncle named Sid, a Skokie divorce lawyer who Jacob spoke of as if his uncle were a king.

  "He drives a Sedan de Ville. He lives in a split-level house with a pool and wears two hundred dollar suits, each tailor-made. He's been board chairman of Skokie's B'nai B'rith forever. Whenever a wealthy Jewish couple decides to divorce, it's a race to see who hires Sid, the husband or the wife."

  Jacob said he planned to attend law school, hopefully at University of Chicago, after completing his undergraduate studies in Florida. He hadn't decided on a Florida college as yet. Jacob's grades were as good as mine. Most all our classes were labeled "accelerated" -- for studious kids only -- and we both figured we'd have our pick of the state's universities.

  I told him about my discussions with Peter Bohannon, omitting any mention of the theater incident.

  "Peter said University of Florida and Florida State are equally good schools, but neither is easy."

  Jacob said, "Maybe we should enroll at the same university. We could room together in the dorm."

  The thought of sharing living quarters with Jacob made my pulse race. Imagine, falling asleep next to Jacob each night, then waking next to him each morning. Of course, I knew we'd occupy separate beds, but still...

  Jacob and I both enjoyed reading fiction. Jacob introduced me to a Jewish writer: Isaac Bashevis Singer. Jacob lent me two of Singer's novels, The Magician of Lublin and The Spinoza of Market Street. I liked them both immensely. He also lent me a book called Herzog, written by a Chicago Jew named Saul Bellow, whose style I liked. Jacob and I enjoyed anything by Hemingway. Sometimes, after Jacob had spent the night with me, we'd wile away Sunday afternoon on my front porch, reading and sipping from glasses of iced tea. Both of us would sit on the glider sofa; we'd sway back and forth while turning pages.

  Some things, of course, I kept from Jacob. I didn't tell him I kept a daily journal; I feared he might ask to read it. Too much personal information dwelt in the pages of those spiral notebooks. I never told Jacob of my relationship with Eric, and my discussions about Devin I kept to a minimum. I explained how Devin had stoked my interest in basketball, and how he'd taught me auto mechanics, but nothing else.

  On the Saturday night following Thanksgiving, while we lay side by side in my darkened bedroom, Jacob brought up Devin's name.

  "I've heard things about him -- not all of them good. Are the stories true?"

  My scalp prickled while I shifted my hips on the mattress.

  "What have you been told?"

  "People say he's a convict. They say he's homosexual, that his boyfriend killed himself when they broke up. He's also a suspect in a kidnapping and murder case."

  I moistened my lips, while trying to think of the proper way to respond.

  Of course he knows about these things. Folks here gossip like crazy.

  I said, "He didn't kill that girl; I'm sure of it."

  Jacob kept quiet a minute; then he said, "So, what's he like?"

  I didn't think before answering.

  "He's my half brother. He's not perfect, but I love him anyway."

  Neither Jacob nor I had ever talked about girls, and I sometimes wondered if Jacob might be gay like me. I longed to ask him about it, but didn't want to risk losing his friendship. What if he reacted in a negative way?

  I kept my hands to myself whenever we slept together. Jacob's friendship was a blessing, something I cherished. I loved his voice, his lanky physique, and his bumpy, freckled nose. When we lay in bed, the scents of his skin and hair enchanted me. When we showered together in the locker room, my heart thumped while I watched water sheet off his limbs. We'd chat while soaping ourselves in the steamy air, and then my gaze would slide over Jacob's frame.

  Honestly, as much as Eric's physicality had thrilled me, no one had ever made my heart race like Jacob did. I longed to touch him, to hold him in my arms, and stroke his shiny hair.

  We'd make perfect lovers, wouldn't we?

  Of course, we came from contrasting cultures. I knew nothing of Judaism; I didn't understand its curious language and rituals, or its strange attires.

  Once, we visited the Rexall pharmacy Jacob's father operated in Deland. Jacob had introduced me to his dad, a man as tall as Jacob, with a rust-red beard. He wore a tasseled, cloth belt and a circular cap that looked like it was made of silk. When he spoke, his English was flavored with an accent -- Russian I later found out. As a boy, he'd immigrated to the States in the 1930s, along with his parents.

  "The cap's called a yarmulke," Jacob told me, when I asked about the clothing his dad had worn. "On Saturdays, I wear one to temple. The tasseled thing around Dad's waist is a prayer belt; we call it a gartel."

  When I told Jacob about Grandma's occupation, and about my personal experiences with spirituality, he looked at me like I was nuts. I couldn't blame him, really. Cassadaga was a freakish place full of weird people who harbored unorthodox beliefs. I was hardly in a position to view Jacob's religion as strange.

  Aside from our talk about Devin, homosexuality came up in our conversation only one other time, when Jacob told me about his gay uncle named Isaac.

  "He's a handsome guy with a great singing voice. He performs in musicals, up in Chicago, and my family never misses his shows. Ever seen South Pacific?"

  I shook my head.

  "Isaac played the part of Lieutenant Cable. His character falls in love with a Polynesian girl -- a daring thing to do in the 1940s."

  I wondered how his family would feel about us falling in love, but dared not ask the question. Showering next to Jacob, and sleeping beside him, would be as far as things between us would go.

  And that was enough, right?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Our opening game of the 1965–66 season, we played at home. Our opponent was Mainland High School from Daytona Beach. By then, I'd gained six pounds -- all of it leg muscle. I could run two miles around Deland High's track in thirteen minutes.

  In the pregame locker room, I felt like a kid at Christmas when I slipped into my satin uniform. My forest-green jersey and shorts featured white lettering and stripes on the flanks. My player number was ten. I wore a new pair of canvas, high-top sneakers I'd bought with money I'd earned at the Sinclair station, and stripe
d knee socks.

  Ebersole had us form a circle in the locker room. Each player held hands with the guys to the left and right of him. Ebersole stood in the middle. He spoke to us in a tone far gentler than normal; it almost sounded like he was saying grace before dinner. Gone were the bark, the snarl, the derisive sneer, and insulting nicknames.

  "I know I've been harsh on you guys, demanding too. It's because I wanted each of you -- even our latecomer, Buckspan -- to be the best you possibly could. I'm proud to say you've all risen to the challenge. You're fit and well-trained. Believe me, you can beat these guys -- you'll run them right out of the gym -- but only if you have the will and the desire to do so. I can't win this game for us; my work's done. I'll be on the sidelines and nearly helpless.

  "You must win this victory. In order to do so, each of you must make a commitment to yourself and your teammates. Each of you must tell yourself, 'This is what I've worked for.' This is what everyone in this room has worked for. Not just in recent weeks, but ever since the first of us picked up a basketball, as a child."

  Ebersole pointed a finger at the ceiling.

  "Don't let me down, gentlemen. Win this game for me, for your school and your families, and, most of all, for yourselves. Concentrate on the fundamentals: ball handling, setting up shots, and lay-ups. No fancy stuff. I want dogged defense: full-court press the entire game. Make these guys sorry they ever walked onto our campus; send them home exhausted and whipped."

  A preacher from Deland's First Baptist -- an old guy in a white shirt and tie, with a widow's peak and skin as pale as cake flour -- said a prayer while everyone bowed their heads. The preacher intoned Jesus' name, referring to him as "Christ our Savior," and I wondered how Jacob must feel, being forced to participate in something he didn't believe in.

  When we trotted onto the gymnasium floor, the Deland High marching band, seated in the bleachers, played the Florida Gators' fight song. A crowd of eight hundred rose to their feet, hollering and clapping their hands so loud I swear the building shook. A shiver ran through me while I scanned the spectators. When I spotted my mom and Grandma, I waved to them. Cletis Hyde and Blon O'Keefe, both wearing their Sinclair uniforms, were there as well. Mike Scheevers, his leg still in a cast, sat behind our bench.