Advantage Disadvantage

By Yale Jaffe

Greed, corruption and betrayal of the adults surrounding a high school basketball phenom are examined in this who-dun-it thriller. A neighborhood bookie tries to fix the betting on a high school game to ripoff the local gangs. A sportswriter covering prep sports struggles to advance his career, despite his editor's misgiving. The player's coach must make tough choices which test his morality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yale Jaffe
• Release date: Apr 29, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452313443

Yale Jaffe

I grew up loving the rythym, grace and beauty of well played basketball. In order to stay connected to the game long after my playing days were over, I began to referee games. I have continued to officiate high school games for over 20 years. I love the positive aspects of amatuer athletics, despite the dark sides. Many of the stories told in the book are based on actual events that I have observed. Advantage Disadvantage examines the greed, corruption and betrayal of the adults who are associated with a high school basketball prodigy. I'd like to think that the book is about the strengths, weaknesses, triumphs and failures of the characters. Secondarily, it is an expose of high school sports.

Book preview

Chapter Thirty-three. Super (Sectional) Betting Action

Chapter Thirty-four. Pregame at the United Center

Chapter Thirty-five. It is Just A Game – A Super Sectional Game

Chapter Thirty-six. For Mutual Benefit

Chapter Thirty-seven. The Gem of South Chicago

Chapter Thirty-eight. Where Have You Been?

Chapter Thirty-nine. Information, Please

Chapter Forty. Presenting to the Board of Directors

Chapter One. Cook County Lockup

Sweat poured down Marcus Imari’s face the entire ride from O’Hare Airport to the Cook County lockup on Chicago’s south side. Stuffed into the back of a beat up squad car with tight handcuffs, he could not wipe off his face. He was embarrassed and scared about what was to happen. Cook County lockup was a god-awful place. Marcus grimaced in the back seat as the car returned from the airport into the city. His disposition became worse as his two escorts joked and laughed in the front seat. The only question they asked Marcus was whether he was ready to talk about his alleged crime. He found no comfort in their sarcastic conversation. His heart was racing. Marcus never experienced an arrest before. His hands were throbbing from the painfully tight handcuffs. He recognized the blighted neighborhood near 26th and California. They were taking him to be booked. The patrol car drove around to the back dock where several cops were unloading similarly bound, angry men and women. He saw the dedication plaque on the cornerstone, which read, Established 1928. Huge, foreboding cinder blocks stained with years of iodized rust created a gritty orange and red pattern on the building. This was no Club Med. Originally, the prisoners housed in the lone building were hardened criminals. This place saw the most rotten of Chicago’s bad apples. Built with locally mined limestone blocks, the prison was ominous. It regularly expanded to accommodate an ever-increasing number of multi-purpose guests. On the day Marcus arrived, the facility had a census of about 10,000 men and women.

Like all recently arrested people, Marcus entered the large staging room. A guard separated his hands from behind his back. One of the cuffs was immediately unlocked and hooked to an eyelet attached to one of many cement benches. Marcus sighed with temporary relief granted to his arms and wrists. A guard fixed an encoded band containing his name to his arm just above his wrist. The place was full of people in motion, cops escorting suspects to open bench posts or re-cuffing people on the way to the next station. Marcus listened to the clanging of metal constraints and he looked around in horror and shock. It was a horrible collection of people: drunks laughing and yelling, hookers jokingly trying to seduce the police officers, drug addicts screaming for relief and a few quiet introspective folks like Marcus. It smelled horrible, a combination of sweaty body odor and the consequences of perhaps several too many beers. The police worked the room with certain precision. Female officers grouped eight to ten women at a time and escorted them to their next station. Screaming rang in Marcus’ ears as wild out-of-control fools resisted the guards’ demands. Marcus was not sure if he wanted to move on to the unknown or stay where he was, except for the smell – that was the tiebreaker.

The primary role that Cook County Lockup had adopted over the years was to prepare newly arrested people for their first hearing in front of a judge. No regard for courteous manners could be found here, inmates and guards alike. They called Marcus’ name and he subserviently identified himself. The guards trusted no newcomers as they processed so many agitated citizens. He was unshackled from the cement bench and immediately guards locked his hands in front of him.

Follow the blue line into the next room, one of the guards ordered.

He obeyed quickly. Those who did not comply could expect a swift swat on the back of the knees with a nightstick. Marcus scanned the snaking human train along the blue marks on the floor. Several gigantic, surly guards watched the line edge forward. Each of these men could have played for a professional football team, and several of them towered over Marcus’ six-foot-three body. He looked up at the serious men hoping to find a semi-friendly face. They were huge, scary, and inhospitable. Guards cut no slack to anybody. It was clear who was in charge.

The next stop was the fingerprint station. Conformity was the order of the venue, everyone was processed the same. Procedures required new prints for every man, women and juvenile who entered these doors. Marcus stepped up to the station and found an unsympathetic prison worker taking fingerprints. He yanked Marcus’ wrist forward and dipped one of his hands onto the black inkpad. Marcus felt a vice-like grip moving one hand towards the sponge. His fingertips plunged downward to ensure adequate transfer of ink. One by one, the guard grabbed his digits and forced them down onto marked positions on the fingerprint cardstock. The fingerprint technician pressed his entire palm and fingers firmly onto the cardboard. The same procedure followed for the other hand. Finally, the guard read his ID band and scribed his name above the print area on the card. Next, each prisoner submitted to a test for drugs with a non-invasive eye scan before removing the chains and handcuffs.

Step up, boy, the overly enthusiastic guard demanded of Marcus.

Marcus was not used to this kind of treatment. He had never been in trouble before and being treated this way brought fire to his eyes. As a grown black man, he was not used to answering to boy. But here – the guards were solidly in control. His heart was pounding with anxiety.

Get up here, boy. Look into this machine and keep your eyes open, he ordered.

The machines looked like the Department of Prisons had stolen them from the Department of Motor Vehicles. A bright light blasted toward his face as he peered into the huge tube with a binoculars-like port. Marcus’ cheekbones pressed against the cold metal casing of the machine. The sensation of the metal sent a chill down his spine. This device measured the dilation level of his eyes. Any positive result on this test removed the prisoner into a separate process designed to diagnose the presence of drugs. Some of these inmates shipped off to the maximum-security medical center where they were bound bedside to detoxify and suffer through severe withdrawal. Marcus’ eyes were bloodshot but not dilated. It was on to the next room.

The scary journey continued for those men checking in without positive drug identification. Sadistic guards removed the chains as Marcus crossed through a large wooden doorway; the putrid stink of mildew was wafting into his nose. The room accommodated 12 prisoners at a time. This place shocked one’s sense of civility. Each person lined up in open-door stalls, equipped with a metal table. Marcus gagged quietly as he tried to breathe clean air. He was standing in front of one of the stalls nervously. A person in an orange jump suit moved past each stall and dropped-off a laundry bag for each inmate. Apparently, he was a jail trustee.

One of the overgrown guards belted out orders to the men. Take your fucking clothes off and put them in the bag. Hurry up scumbags – shoes, socks, underwear and everything. I want to see your birthday suits, now!

Marcus understood that he had no options here. He stripped down to the bare bones. It was shower time. A couple guards holding high-powered hoses stood ready to spray the men clean.

Boys, welcome to the Poor Man’s Polar Bear Club, a jovial guard snickered. Your initiation is about to begin.

One of the arrestees in the room refused to strip down. They sprayed him first, forcing him to remove his wet underwear. One sadistic guard took pleasure as he clubbed him a couple times into submission. If the loss of freedom had not yet set in to anybody in here, this room was convincing. The guard operating the hose drilled Marcus with ice-cold water from head to toe. After the shower, guards with examination gloves conducted humiliating body cavity searches to limit the contraband smuggled into Cook County lockup. Intimidating guards seemed to take perverse pleasure in roughly performing these searches. Despite this precaution, once inside, inmates could find a thriving underground market for drugs, vanity items and even female hormones.

After he shut off the water, a guard with a digital camera snapped body shots of each prisoner from head to toe. He took six photos of Marcus’ body, the least of the twelve prisoners in the room. The guard with the camera called out each scar and tattoo found on each guest, which was then documented into each arrestee’s record and used for further analysis. For Marcus, only the scar on his knee required notice. Police analysts were developing some of their best gang reconnaissance using this tattoo documentation. Information gleaned from these reports developed into family trees and gang organization charts. After photographing the prisoners, they put on the prison-issued orange jumpsuits.

Already sentenced prisoners, from other jurisdictions, moved directly to the permanent cellblocks and assigned roommates. Those who waited for bail hearings or arraignments moved on to large cages rimmed with permanently mounted metal benches. Two guards monitored each cage. They mostly ignored the men until one of their attorneys showed up for a conference or a judge summoned a prisoner for a hearing. Guards sat across from each other playing cards or watching television until called to action. When a captive needed to exit the cage, one guard cautiously opened the cell door while the other stood back with firearms drawn.

Marcus entered one of these holding cells. There were several inmates already sitting inside the cage on the benches. This was a terrible place to find one’s self. How could a loving husband and decent father end up in this Chicago hellhole?

Chapter Two. The Imari’s

Marcus Imari was born thirty-five years ago to an unwed teenage mother. Despite her own academic shortcomings, no one valued education more than this young mother did. She was determined to guide Marcus to become the first descendent in her African-American family’s history to attend college. Her perspective was nothing short of remarkable because she had zero understanding of any college experience. Instinctively, she presumed that Marcus’ quality of life would advance if he attended college. Living in the south side, Robert Taylor projects was dangerous and tough. Losing groceries or newly bought clothes to the building’s gangbangers was common. Marcus’ father dropped out of sight when he was a toddler so his Mom began working several jobs to make ends meet. She started out as an assistant at her church’s day care center so that she could be with her son as much as possible. She often worked evenings cleaning apartments in Chicago’s Gold Coast and Hyde Park areas, alternatively swapping babysitting duties with her neighbor across the hall. Perhaps working for upper-middle class white clients with college-bound offspring inspired her desire for Marcus to become educated.

Marcus’ inner city grade school was sub-standard. Half of the teachers could not substantiate their teaching credentials if the Chicago Board of Education bothered to enforce its own rules. With his mother’s guidance, Marcus was out of place in this poor classroom: he had an inspired lust for learning, and did not mind doing homework. His mom was usually one of the few parents who bothered showing up at school open houses or parent-teacher nights. Other than his daily trek to school and organized after-school activities, Marcus mostly stayed inside the apartment to avoid the harsh gang-tainted realities of the Chicago projects.

Marcus’ mother allowed him to play organized baseball and basketball. After a few futile years, Marcus completely lost interest in baseball, but he loved basketball. He was a decent player in his project’s peewee leagues, but never the best on his team. He did not excel until his first year of high school when a growth spurt propelled him to six-foot one-inch tall. Suddenly, he lost his baby fat and blossomed into a terrific high school athlete. In his sophomore year, he earned a spot on the school’s varsity squad. His mom demanded that he never permit his sport to get in the way of his college goals. When he was a high school junior, a few Midwestern colleges expressed interest. His height ultimately topped out at 6 foot 3 inches. One college coach asked to meet Marcus’ mother after a basketball game. These coveted home visits gave the coaches a chance to sell the family on the college’s merits and reassure them that they would meet the player’s off-court needs. This was a promising time, and the Imaris enthusiastically anticipated using basketball to fulfill Marcus’ educational destiny. The coach was not so concerned that his inner-city education was stereotypically sub-par. He promised tutors, study halls, and personal curriculum counseling to ensure Marcus’ collegiate success.

Disaster struck in his senior year when an out-of-control opponent crashed into Marcus tearing the ligaments and cartilage in one of his knees. At the time, the repair of an ACL meant the surgeon ripped open the knee and rebuilt it on a best effort basis. The operation was problematic for wealthy people using the finest doctors. For patrons of the Robert Taylor Clinic, the quality of care and the results were predicatively much worse. Arthroscopic surgery was on the drawing board, but not approved. Rehabilitation involved hard work and a low chance of recovering complete range of movement. After his surgery, the limping Marcus missed the rest of the season. More importantly, he could not regain his quickness and his college scholarship opportunities evaporated.

Graduating from high school was an anti-climatic event for Marcus and his mom. Overwhelmed with the disappointment of losing his ticket to college, he made plans to enroll in Burnham Junior College. He could live with his mom to save money and perhaps play for Burnham’s team. This was like trying to make lemonade out of a lemon. His mom was able to get Marcus a kitchen helper job at one of her housecleaning clients’ restaurant. He spent all summer working the dinner shift for low wages to save money for school. During the daytime, he was in the park trying to get his basketball legs back. He worked hard at both.

The junior college coach knew he was enrolling and invited him to walk-on tryouts. Marcus made the team, but he was definitely slower than the other guards were and not big enough to play forward. Six-foot-three players needed to be quick, even on the junior college circuit. Academically, he struggled. Without the bright lights and advantages of a Division I school, he was on his own without tutors and academic advisors. Despite his advanced raw intellectual capacity and above-average IQ, his weak primary school education had taken its toll. It was hard to keep up with the better-prepared students in his classes, and he had become a practice player landing ninth on the team’s depth chart. Marcus was put in games only after the outcomes had been determined, otherwise known as garbage time. He dreaded the day he had to tell his mom that their dream had ended. He dropped out of junior college and began looking for a job.

***

He walked around the tall buildings in Chicago trying to secure employment. With his high school certificate in hand, he was out of place in the bustling downtown Chicago area. He was imposing, but soft spoken. The Board of Trade was located at the base of LaSalle Street, in the heart of Chicago’s financial district. He wandered in to use the bathroom and followed the rope lines to the guard station. Before he could ask about public washrooms, he noticed a posting entitled, Now Hiring. The list below had several job descriptions. He did not know what most of these positions meant, but when the guard behind the desk offered to help him, Marcus said he was there to apply for a job. He called someone on the phone and after a couple minutes directed Marcus to an elevator bank taking him to the Human Resources Department.

He was so nervous he almost wet his pants. Sitting across from a person who reminded Marcus of his junior college teachers, he reviewed the openings: Mailroom and Security Guard. The HR recruiter liked Marcus’ gentle demeanor and was conscious of his large body frame. He offered Marcus a job as a security guard.

Of course you’ll have to pass a background check. Then, we will send you to the county’s firearm training session. Assuming you pass this course, we will get you outfitted with a uniform and secure a firearm, handcuffs and other tools of your new trade. How does that sound young man?

Outstanding, Marcus replied without hesitation. When can I start?

***

He quickly cleared the background check and easily passed the firearms training course. He worked the same guard desk where he first stumbled in looking for work. Marcus was the first contact that traders saw every morning as they entered the coliseum of commodity trading.

How ‘bout them Sox? he learned to say to the south side traders.

This is the Cubbie’s year, right? he said to the north side folks.

In the fall or winter he would ask, When are we going to get a QB for ‘da Bears’? or Did you see how many points Michael scored yesterday?

Many employees traded sports barbs with Marcus. He became so beloved that around Christmas time he had the most gifts and holiday tips of any employee at the Board. He occasionally had to break up heated disturbances by angry traders in the pits. He was big

Reviews for Advantage Disadvantage

[slarsoncollins · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I must say I never knew some of the stuff that apparently goes on the high school basketball world. While I'm sure there was a bit of creative licensed used in the writing of this book, there surely is a fair amount that is true to life. While I had some difficulties with the dialogue, I loved the characters and the story they told. What a shocking insight into the prep world of basketball in the Chicago area.