Tyler Buckspan Read online

  The players from Daytona's Mainland High School were all bigger than Hartmann -- our tallest player -- and I wondered if Ebersole had really believed what he'd said in the locker room. Could we beat these guys?

  It seemed so.

  Halfway through the first quarter, we'd already stolen the ball from Mainland five times, and we'd outscored them sixteen to seven. The guys from Daytona were simply too slow. Our full-court press flustered them, and despite their height advantage, we continually out-rebounded them. Ebersole's weight training had paid off: our guys jumped like crickets; they plucked the ball from the backboard, and then sent it screaming down the court.

  I spent the game's first half on the bench, as did Jacob and all the other juniors except Mark Maggert, who played most of the second quarter. I itched to appear on the court, to show my teammates, my family, and everyone else just how committed I was to winning.

  In the locker room during half time, Ebersole paced the concrete floor while my teammates and I sat on benches. The seniors and Maggert toweled their sweaty skins, drank water from paper cups. Their jerseys stuck to their torsos. We held a 36–17 lead, and every face in the room was afire. Our first string had performed as smoothly as a Porsche's engine.

  "We've got them on the run," Ebersole said. "Their legs are already rubber. But don't get overconfident. In basketball, a nineteen-point lead can vanish quicker than a rainbow. You must stay focused. Keep up the full-court press; it's driving them nuts. I can see it in their faces."

  By third quarter's end, the score was 52–28. The crowd, mostly Deland supporters, roared every time we stole the ball or scored points. By now, all of Mainland's first string had left the game. They sat on their bench, their shoulders sagging, their forearms resting on their knees, heads hanging. Mainland's coach, a skinny, hatchet-faced man with thinning hair, seemed on the verge of apoplexy. His complexion was brick-red and shiny. He paced the sideline, twisting a spiral notebook in his fists; he shouted at his players. The armpits of his dress shirt were damp, and his necktie was askew.

  Ebersole called a time-out. He squatted, while our team gathered around him, our hands on our knees. Each player's gaze was fixed on Ebersole.

  "I'm taking the first string out," he said. "You guys need a rest."

  Ebersole ordered five juniors onto the court, me and Jacob included. I was assigned forward, as was Jacob. My heart thumped in my chest; for a moment I feared I might hyperventilate. I had dreamed of this moment for so long. Was I up to the task?

  Calm down, Tyler. Concentrate.

  Mainland's second stringers were all bigger than us, but like their first-string teammates, they were slow. Their ball handling wasn't too agile, and our full-court press confused them. They kept trying to set up shots, but we wouldn't let them. Twice I stole the ball from a kid I'd been assigned to defend, a lumbering giant with a shock of red hair and legs like tree trunks.

  We scored thirteen points during the fourth quarter, three of them mine. I sank a jump shot, a beauty that swished through the net. Just after I released the ball, the red-haired kid slammed into me, and knocked me to the court. When I made my free throw, moments later, the crowd went crazy and a shiver ran through me.

  This is what victory feels like.

  The final score was 65–35.

  In the locker room, Ebersole was strangely subdued. All he said was, "Good game, gentlemen. Now hit the showers."

  By the time I'd dressed and packed up my gym bag, Ebersole had disappeared into his office and closed the door.

  In the school's parking lot, Jacob and I stood beside the Chevy, discussing the game and our own, personal performances. The night air was crisp, the moon was up, and a multitude of stars dotted the sable sky. Beams from headlights swept over us while cars left the lot. I felt exhilarated, so keyed up I couldn't stand still. I wanted to seize Jacob by his shoulders. I wanted to pull him to me, to kiss his lips, and slip my tongue inside his mouth.

  Wouldn't it be a great way to celebrate our win?

  But how would he react?

  We both wore letterman's sweaters, forest green with white numbers and letters, and the Deland High Bulldogs mascot above the breast pockets. Jacob looked regal in his, I thought, and I felt proud to wear mine.

  I thought of Devin and wondered how he might feel, if he could see me now. I was his basketball protégé, now turned victor. I thought of the first day we'd played one-on-one, and how awkwardly I'd performed. Under Devin's patient tutelage, I had learned so much on Grandma's driveway.

  I pictured Devin in my mind's eye, recalling the first time we'd visited the spring. I thought of his emerald eyes, his smooth skin and rippling muscles, his velvety baritone voice.

  Oh, Devin, how I miss you.

  Another pair of headlight beams passed over us, and their brightness snapped me from my reverie. The light reflected in Jacob's eyes, in his teeth when his lips parted. I studied his lanky frame, recalling how sexy he'd looked, minutes before in the locker room showers, the water streaming off him.

  Did he ever think about me in a sexual way? Who knew?

  "Got plans for Saturday night?" he asked.

  I shook my head.

  "Mind if I sleep over?"

  My belly fluttered.

  "That'd be great," I said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  After months of cajoling, my mom had finally convinced Grandma a television would not poison our home. Now, a black-and-white console, as big as Grandma's cookstove, with knobs the size of hockey pucks, occupied one corner of our living room, purchased by Mom with her beauty shop earnings. And despite Grandma's declaration that she'd never watch the thing, I often found her seated in her new Barcalounger, with her legs crossed at the ankles on the raised footstool, and her gaze fixed on the flickering screen. She particularly liked movies shown after the eleven o'clock news.

  On the Saturday night following our contest with Mainland High, after Jacob and I finished our one-on-one contest, we found Grandma in her robe and slippers, watching Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo. Our sweatshirts were damp; they clung to our chests.

  Grandma looked at us and sniffed the air. Then she shook her head. "You boys need a shower."

  My mom was in St. Augustine for the weekend, staying with relatives, so Jacob and I had upstairs to ourselves, for the moment at least. We took turns showering; then we lounged about my bedroom with the door closed, wearing only our briefs. We thumbed through back issues of Sports Illustrated. We talked about school, about the Mainland game and, most of all, about Ebersole's transformation from tyrant to inspirational speaker.

  "Was all that yelling and name-calling just an act?" Jacob said. "Do you think, deep down, he's a nice guy?"

  I stole glances at the bulge between Jacob's thighs while I told him what I'd overheard Hartmann say in the locker room, right after the Mainland game. "Hartmann told Maggert, 'Last year I hated Ebersole -- at first, anyway. Then, just before our first game, he spoke to us like he did here tonight, and I realized he wasn't really an asshole. I love Coach now. He cares for us more than he ever lets on.'"

  Jacob shook his head while a smile crept across his face.

  Around midnight, we killed the bedroom lights. We crawled under the covers, and our shoulders and hips touched. Jacob's leg hairs tickled mine. I smelled the soap he'd bathed with earlier. The scent of his hair reminded me of freshly mown grass. He crossed his arms at his chest and closed his eyes.

  "Good night, Tyler."

  "Sleep well, Jacob."

  I closed my eyes, and soon drifted into sleep.

  I woke to the sound of Jacob's voice. He wasn't in bed any longer. He stood near a window, staring through the pane, his hands hanging at his hips, his fingers flexing. Moonlight gave his pale skin a ghostly appearance. He spoke in a language I didn't recognize, and his voice trembled as he cried out. He pointed at something or someone I could not see.

  I glanced at my alarm clock's illuminated face.

  It's 3:00 a.m.
<
br />   "Jacob," I whispered, "what's going on?"

  He didn't respond; instead he kept on pointing and crying out.

  Rubbing my eyes with my knuckles, I rose in the chilly room. Goose bumps popped up on my arms and legs. I shuffled across the prickly carpet, placed a hand on Jacob's shoulder. I spoke his name, but he didn't seem to hear me; he kept on babbling.

  I raised my voice and shook his shoulder.

  "Jacob, what the heck are you doing?"

  Flinching, he jerked his head and looked at me. Then his gaze traveled about the room, as if he didn't know where he was. He looked like a child lost in a department store.

  "Come to bed," I told him.

  Under the covers, we spoke in whispers. Jacob lay on his back with his arms folded behind his head. I lay on my side and facing Jacob, my elbow bent, my head resting on the heel of my hand. Moonlight allowed me to see Jacob clearly: his eyes and eyelashes, and his shiny hair.

  His voice trembled while he spoke.

  "I'm a sleepwalker; I always have been. Sometimes my parents will find me in the yard -- in the middle of the night -- talking to a tree or a shrub."

  Jacob moistened his lips.

  "I just had the strangest dream: I was in the army -- not here but in Israel. I fired a machine gun; it sat on a tripod. I killed soldiers; I don't know who they were, but I could see them fall when I shot them."

  When I asked what language he'd spoken in his sleep, he said, "Hebrew, I'm sure."

  I placed a hand on Jacob's shoulder. He trembled so badly the bed shook. I said, "You're frightened, aren't you?"

  He nodded.

  "It was scary watching men die and knowing I might die too."

  "But it was only a dream, and now it's over."

  I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling. We lay in silence a few minutes. Jacob's breath whistled in his nose. His trembling continued, and I wondered if he might hyperventilate.

  "Tyler, if I turn on my side, will you hold me 'til I calm down?"

  My heart skipped a beat.

  "Sure," I said.

  The sheets and blanket rustled, as Jacob turned away from me. I draped an arm across his chest and pulled him to me. My pectorals met his shoulder blades, my hips pressed against his buttocks, and I felt a stirring in my groin. Physically, this was as close as I'd ever been to Jacob. His skin felt warm and smooth.

  Don't get stiff. Don't ...

  I counted to twenty inside my head while Jacob drew a breath, and then let it out. He spoke to me in a whisper.

  "Tyler?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thanks for being my friend."

  My eyes itched and my nose filled up with snot.

  I cleared my throat.

  "You're welcome, Jacob," was the best I could manage to say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Monday following the Mainlands game, I entered Deland High's gymnasium at quarter past six in the morning.

  Jacob was already in the locker room, changing into his practice clothing. When I looked at him, I recalled waking next to him, the previous morning, in my room. My arm had still been draped across around his chest. The tip of my nose was buried in his hair, and my hips rested against his buttocks.

  Now, just thinking about it made my crotch tingle.

  I undressed while Jacob laced his sneakers. Other team members filed in, their eyes swollen from sleep, voices croaky, and cowlicks standing up from the crowns of their heads like apostrophes. No one said much; the exhilaration we'd all enjoyed Saturday night was gone, replaced by sober anticipation of this morning's practice session.

  Ebersole burst from his office, his T-shirt damp in the armpits, his hair matted.

  "Fuckspan," he hollered.

  Then he tossed me the keys to our locker room closet.

  "Monroe's home with the flu. Fetch a dozen balls and take them to the court."

  Ebersole pointed at Jacob.

  "Find the air pump, Jackinoff; make sure every ball's properly inflated. Move it, you two numbskulls."

  While Ebersole stormed from the room, Jacob and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Over in a corner, Hartmann grinned and shook his head. As soon as Coach was out of earshot, Hartmann sang to us in falsetto.

  "Asserhole's back, girls."

  Indeed he was. Six guys puked during wind sprints, including me. We worked our legs with barbells until our muscles ached, until they felt like hot coals burning beneath our skins. We ran drills, double time, while Ebersole barked and taunted us.

  "Fuckspan, you're slower than molasses in January. Pick up the pace or, I swear, I'll jam a broom handle up your lazy ass."

  When we hit the showers, my legs wobbled so badly I feared I might fall down. I stood under a nozzle. The air about me steamed. Jacob joined me and soaped his limbs, but I felt so tired I couldn't even think about sex.

  Jacob looked at me and worked his jaw.

  "So much for 'Coach Nice Guy,' huh?"

  I couldn't help myself.

  I laughed until my eyes crossed.

  ***

  By Christmas break, we'd won six games and lost only one -- to Boone High School in Orlando. The Boone team had had three black guys on their first string -- all of them huge. Their fluid style of play baffled us. They weren't the least bit intimidated by our full-court press; they simply dodged past us. They passed the ball back and forth, moving so quickly I could barely keep my eye on the ball. They sank twenty-five-foot jump shots as easily as free throws.

  Two of our starters fouled out before half time.

  When Ebersole put me in the game, the guy he assigned me to defend kept blowing past me as if I weren't there.

  The final score was 68–40. In the locker room afterward, a couple of guys wept and we all hung our heads. We had tasted defeat for the first time.

  Ebersole did his best to console us.

  "We got beat by a better team, and there's no shame in that. I don't care how fit we are, or how much we practice, there will always be squads better than us. Boone has two thousand students -- three times our enrollment. You fellows did your best, and that's all I can ask from you. Grab a shower, now. Then let's climb on the bus and go home."

  ***

  On a Saturday in mid-December, I Christmas-shopped in Deland, at stores on New York Avenue. I bought Grandma a new robe, Mom a small bottle of Chanel No. 5. Afterward, while I walked down the sidewalk with my purchases, I saw a familiar sight: Byron Teague's Fleetwood, with its Confederate flag license plate; it hulked before Mr. Rachinoff's drug store. Sunlight glanced off the Fleetwood's massive chrome grille and front bumper and off the windshield I'd cleaned so many times.

  Above the drug store's alcove entrance, the orange-and-blue Rexall sign gleamed.

  I stood at a corner, waiting for the light to change so I could cross the street, and wondering what Teague was up to. It had been months since I'd last seen him.

  Teague and Jacob's dad emerged from the Rexall. Teague led with his arms chugging, his chin lowered, and his ever-present fedora perched on his head.

  Mr. Rachinoff wore his prayer belt and yarmulke. His beard was a splash of color against the drabness of New York Avenue's brown brick storefronts. He spoke to Teague, but Teague kept his back turned to Mr. Rachinoff, until Teague reached the Fleetwood. Teague turned to Jacob's dad; he pointed a finger, and then said something I couldn't hear.

  Teague's face was flushed. While he spoke, Mr. Rachinoff listened; he tugged at his beard, and he did not say anything back.

  Teague shook a fist in Mr. Rachinoff's face. Then he climbed into the Fleetwood and slammed the door. The Fleetwood's engine roared to life. When Teague pulled from the curb, his tires squealed, and then the Fleetwood's rear wheels fishtailed.

  While I watched the Fleetwood careen down New York Avenue, I thought of my conversation the previous summer with Cletis, in the bay at the Sinclair station. What was it he'd said about Byron Teague?

  He's not someone you want as an enemy.


  Now, the memory made me shudder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The second week of January, just after Deland High's dismissal bell rang, I walked toward afternoon basketball practice with a stack of books under my arm. I heard shouting; it came from behind the gymnasium.

  "You fucking kike. You chickenshit sheenie."

  A crowd of students, mostly guys, had gathered, forming a semicircle. Inside it, Butch Delay, the ruffian from Deland's infamous redneck clan, had backed Jacob up against the gym's cinder block wall; Butch used both hands to shove Jacob in his chest. Jacob's books lay scattered on the asphalt. His face was crimson, his eyes bugged. When I drew closer, Butch slapped Jacob's cheek.

  Jacob's head jerked from the blow.

  "What's the matter, Jew Boy? Don't they teach you how to fight in Kike Country?"

  I'd never been in a fistfight in my life -- I knew nothing about combat -- and I was certain Jacob didn't either. Despite the fact Jacob was taller than Butch, I knew Jacob wouldn't stand a chance if he tried defending himself, not if I didn't help him.

  Hurry up, Tyler.

  After setting my books down, I felt my heart bang against my rib cage while I pushed my way through the crowd. I approached Butch from behind. My gaze met Jacob's. I drew a breath, and then I rushed at Butch, tackling him at the waist and driving him to the asphalt, facedown.

  Behind me, someone hooted while Butch squirmed beneath me, cursing. He turned onto his back and looked into my eyes. A grin spread across his pimply face when he saw it was me. His breath smelled like peanut butter and pickles.

  "Goddamn Buckspan," Butch said. He shook his head while his chest rose and fell.

  "What're you, some kind of Jew-lover?"

  I felt Butch's muscles tense. Then he pushed me off him like I was a rag doll. I fell onto my back, while kids in the crowd hollered. Butch rose. When I tried to get up, he kicked me in the stomach and knocked the breath out of me. I fell onto my back again. I looked at the sky, at passing clouds, while Butch towered over me, his fists at his hips.