Respect

By David Engel

“Horn, lineups, anthem and final words, it was game-time.  As the starters jumped up from our bench and ran to center court for the toss, Coach lifted his fist towards me and I bumped it with a grin.  Feeling the same pulse of energy that he was, I looked around to the growing crowd.  Young, old, black, white, and every age and shade in between, they came to support their school, students, friends, and sons; they came because it was Friday night, and the week, with all its ups and downs, was behind them; they came to see feats of skill and moments of beauty, as well as heartache and pain; they came for the pure thrill of unadulterated competition.  They would not be disappointed.”  

And neither will the reader as he follows senior point guard, Nate Parker, and the boys of the Central High basketball team in their struggle for respect on and off the court.  After a slow start, the team comes together to make a push for the title, but first Nate must learn to accept his new role. It doesn't come easy, but nothing worth having ever does.  For the game, his Coach, his teammates, even his opponents, but mostly, for himself; to get respect, he first, must give it!

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Engel
• Release date: Mar 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386373407

Book preview

Chapter 1

What you got?

Arms out in front with palms up and quick feet moving side to side like a mosquito skimming the surface of a pond, Silas pressured the ball up the length the court.  Just before the top of the key, his man attempted to fake right and cross over left, but he dribbled the ball out a little too close to Silas, who made him pay.  Then, after picking his pocket, Silas quickly stepped around him and pushed the ball out in front as he headed up the floor.  Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the floor, Eric, who had dropped back to the paint to guard the bucket, immediately broke up the sideline when he saw Silas strip his man.  Both of their defenders lamely attempted to recover, running only half speed after them.  A third defender, who had been hanging court, momentarily rushed to stop Silas, but seeing Eric out of the corner of his eye, attempted to backpedal to stop the pass. 

The stage was set, and the boys who were watching greedily from the sidelines began to raise their arms in anticipation of what was coming:  it was what they all dreamed of, even the skinny white boys who lived on the three-point-line—not your basic run-of-the-mill one-handed dunk, or a two-handed upgrade, not even the super-sized tomahawk, cocked back for emphasis; this was the time-honored Alley-Oop, an act of aerial artistry punctuated with an in-your-face slama-jama over a sadly humiliated defender.  The trash talking would be heard for months, yo!  Baring the slightest of grins, Silas scooped the ball one-handed and lofted it up toward the rim, leaning left and rocking back on his heels as he did.  With the Oop, the pass is just as important as the slam, and this gem was perfect.  All Eric had to do was rise to the occasion, and to the great satisfaction of the entire gym, he surely did; catching the ball a foot above and just off to the right of the iron, he flushed it in one beautiful, swift and thunderous motion. 

As the kids went crazy with their ohs and ahs, Coach stepped briskly onto the court and immediately started ragging on Maurice and Wayne for not getting back on defense. 

The line, Even white boys got to shout, from that goofy song Baby got back suddenly came to mind, and I couldn’t help smiling, thinking, Young boy had some serious ups. 

Eric, who was standing under the basket with his arms raised out in front of himself like a conductor before his orchestra, had a bright smile a mile wide across his face while nodding his head and repeating his mantra, Yeah, that’s right.  His salivating, knucklehead buddies were enjoying his performance even more than he was. 

We had been having open gyms two nights a week for the past month.  Practice was due to start in a week, and we were as anxious as the players for the season to start.  Technically we were only permitted to watch, but from time to time we couldn’t resist dishing out a little instruction or discipline.  Coach and I would watch them play for an hour or so, usually just long enough to be disgusted with their sloppy play; then we would go down to the office and plan for the season.  But every now and then, one of the boys would do something that would give us pause; even demanding coaches could occasionally be rendered speechless in admiration. 

I moved over to Coach as he backed off the court.  I wondered if he might be getting old because he only ragged on Maurice and Wayne halfheartedly.  Then I nodded towards Nate as I got Coach’s attention, and said, Think Nates’ feeling a little pressure; that was a hell of a steal and pass by Silas.

Coach raised his hairy eyebrows and nodded.  He damn well should.

THE EASY-GOING ATMOSPHERE of the open gym workouts was a mere echo of the evident pain ringing in the ears of the 32 sorry butts standing before us, bent over with hands on knees, as they struggled to keep their heads up and face Coach.  The veterans knew what the rookies were quickly learning: no matter how tired you are; you better keep your head up and face Coach when he’s talking.  We were only ten minutes into practice and Coach already had them on the line for four separators (conditioning drills), or suicides as they’re also called—peculiar name, considering it’s we the coaches who decide whether to run, not the player choosing some self-inflicted punishment; maybe they should be called homicides instead?  The rule was everyone under 30 seconds, or run again.  This would drop to 28 once the riff-raff was gone and we were able to run regular practices. 

We had started with 35 hopeful hoopers.  Unfortunately, this wasn’t rec-ball, and hope alone wasn’t enough.  Two kids had left after the second suicide, and Coach kicked another out after he started cursing.  We would push them hard to weed out the ‘wannabes,’ and at least get the returnees into some kind of shape. 

A necessary evil, tryouts and cuts are something every coach and player must deal with.  It’s probably one of the most difficult things for a coach to do, cut a player.  Actually, for many of the kids, it’s painfully obvious they don’t have what it takes after the first five minutes.  We would give them two days, and often they would be able to admit to themselves they weren’t ready.  Then there are the knuckleheads whose inflated egos are light years ahead of their limited ability.  They bitch and whine, which isn’t really much more than an unpleasant distraction; it’s their parents who can be the real pain.  The tough ones are the last two or three players cut.  There may be very little difference in ability between players 10 through 15, and sometimes even 16, 17 and 18.  But a limit has to be set.  Some coaches keep 15—very tough, way too many knuckleheads to keep happy.  Twelve is a nice number.  Ten would be ideal, but we always have to be mindful of injuries, sickness, and of course, grades and eligibility.  This is a school team and we truly are interested in helping these boys become responsible men.  So the last few picks often come down to other things besides talent, something a 16-year-old kid or 40-year-old parent may not want to understand.  And what do the last two or three kids who make the team get from us?  The sobering message that, although they’ve made the team, chances are slim to none of ever stepping foot on the floor in any game other than a blowout. 

Now, as they stood pathetically panting on the end line, facing at least one more suicide, assuming everyone made it on time, Coach was in no mood to let up.  Tryouts had started out bad and quickly got worse.  Eric, a senior and returning starter, showed up late, and several younger players didn’t have their parent permission forms.  When they started simply going through the motions of the drills, well, it was just a matter of time. 

What are you going to do when we’re down at Southern and its close in the fourth quarter?  Huh? Give up?  Every year we talk about what you guys need to do to get ready for the season, and every year you come in here talkin’ stuff about how good you are—but within two minutes you’re all sucking wind!  Throwing his hands up in the air and then forcefully waving them at the players, Coach turned around towards me.  Coach Andrews, I thought we had some athletes on this team!

Just as I started to open my mouth, Coach quickly turned back around and blew his whistle.  Several kids had relaxed and stood confused as the others sprinted off.  Coach didn’t comment on the profanity heard as those left behind finally start to run; there was no way they would make it on time and they knew it.  What was worse, the others knew it, too!  Man, I used to hate it when coaches would do this when I played.  You suck it up and run hard, no matter how tired you are, make it on time, only for some sorry, lazy slug to cause everyone to run again.  And these first days of tryouts were worse because there were so many bodies.  I strained to keep a straight face as I listened to the grumbling increase; the tension was ready to explode.

After the last player crossed the end line, unfortunately as Coach yelled 32, I started to walk down the end line, talking the guys up as they waited for the whistle again, hoping Coach would call a drill instead. 

Come on now.  Heads up!  Everyone in here can make it under 30.  No excuses, no whining - just do it, I exhorted them as Coach began to rant about the lack of intensity and subsequent lack of leadership by our seniors.  No one seemed to be willing to push his teammates to pick it up without our having to put them on the line.  As Coach’s assistant, I was able to be a kind of conduit between him and the players.  Without lessening the demands, I could perhaps temper them somewhat.  Yet, at the same time, and in our constant effort to keep the kids focused, when Coach did relax, I was ready to jump in and kick some butt myself—Gotta love it!

So what’s it gonna be?  Coach asked them, his face contorted as if he had just smelled some strong, stinky cheese.  Are you girls going to make it under 30 seconds so we can get on with practice, or are we going to just run for two hours?  Coach paused and allowed the silence to envelop them.  Cause, dammit, I’m not tired at all?  He was playing with them, pushing them to see what they were made of; who would give in; who would tough it out.  And more importantly, who would not only tough it out, but, in a positive manner, help his teammates to do the same.  In short:  Who were our leaders this year? 

He moved forward and wandered among the players, putting his face up close to several of them, asking each if they were going to quit, if they were ready to go home, and each, in turn, quickly answered No.  Then, walking back out in front of them, Coach continued, though looking at no one in particular, What happens in a game if only three or four guys box out for a rebound?  What happens if you come out of a game and you don’t tell your sub who you’re covering?  Or, the sub wasn’t paying attention while on the bench, so he doesn’t even know what defense we’re in, or whether we’re pressing or not? 

Though all the veterans knew the answers, no one spoke up, but merely nodded their heads.  A few cries of Come on! and Damn, we can do this were heard.

What happens if someone gets beat, but no one picks up the man, and he drives all the way to the bucket for an uncontested lay-up? Coach continued.

Finally, Nate yelled out one word, Team! 

Coach raised his eyebrows as he nodded.  Team, he repeated softly, and then, once again louder as he looked around.  He took a deep breath, looking as if he was ready to ease up and get back to drills.  But just as he was about to speak, some knucklehead opened his big mouth and said the worst possible thing, for his teammates that is, because Coach and I can only laugh. 

Hell, if someone gets beat, ain’t the team’s fault yo.  It’s his!  Damn! 

The collective groan was not without hostility.  Several of the older players began chiding the bigmouth.  Eric, trying to defuse the situation, quickly spoke up, loudly and animatedly, Coach, Coach, he don’t know no better.  He can’t help it, he’s always been stupid! Flashing his teeth, Eric punctuated his remark with his brightest smile.  The others chuckled nervously, hoping for Coach’s laughter as well.

Coach Andrews, Eric called to me, Tell Coach we get it. Then, staring hard at the offending teammate, he exclaimed, It’s the team’s fault for not playing help defense, yo, not picking up the player before he gets to the hoop! 

Hey, talk is cheap, I said flatly to Eric’s chagrin. 

Coach nodded as he turned to Eric.  Hm, so you claim that you get it.  A sly grin formed on his face.  Like you get making it to practice on time, or like really getting it, yo!

Laughter broke out at Coach’s cut on Eric.  Although it was at his own expense, Eric had gotten the desired response.  Yet, although the tension was diffused, and Coach was laughing, he wasn’t quite ready to relent. 

Leroy, what do you think?  Coach called out.

I must have groaned louder than I realized because Leroy quickly glanced towards me before he faced Coach.  More than one pair of eyes rolled in drooping heads.

Huh, about what? Leroy asked, in a hollow voice.

Someone scores an uncontested lay-up.  Whose fault is it - - the guy who got beat or his teammates for not picking up his man?  We seem to have two differing opinions. 

Leroy felt the obvious displeasure of the other kids at having their fate his hands, and his face hardened as he sneered at those around him. 

Man, this nigga gonna make us run again, one of the scrubs standing close to me muttered under his breath. 

A knot in the back of my neck tightened.  I got on these boys often about using ‘nigga’ the way they do; even the white boys let it slip out now and then.  Yet, as much as I wanted to jump on this boy, I held back, wanting to see how Leroy would handle this situation.  Coach and I had debated at length whether to keep Leroy or not.  And as much as I would have liked to see him turn it around, I told coach I would just as soon cut him.  The word from his teachers had been mixed – a slight improvement in grades, but still nowhere near his potential; unfortunately, his behavior and attitude were still unsatisfactory.  Yet, as usual, it was Felicia’s voice that now came back to me: 

Give him time, Peyton.  You know it’s only a front.  He’s just a boy. 

Yet, if I’m honest, I guess it wasn’t her words exactly that got me.  Hell, I’d just as soon hit him as hug him!  He might be a boy, but he was two years from finishing school, and there weren’t any hugs out there.  But damn it, how did I get so hard, so quickly?  No, Felicia didn’t have to remind me that I was getting like the bitter teachers I would tell her about when I first started coaching.  I had tried explaining to her that it was similar to parents who complain about their own children.  Parents don’t give up on their own kids; maybe not, but a good teacher knows he can’t save them all.  Yet, the disapproval I’ve seen in Felicia’s eyes about my lack of hope for Leroy is a bitter pill to swallow.  What gets me... is my feeling, that perhaps she is the one who needs to take it.

Then, as if reading my mind, and proving me wrong, Leroy allayed my fears for the moment and gave Coach exactly the right answer: It’s all about team defense, Coach.  Everyone gets beat from time to time, but if the team is playing help defense, the team never gets beat.  Leroy even produced a smile, with something close to pride in his eyes, as opposed to his usual defiance.  His smile brightened