A Hopeful Hero: The Hero Book Series 3

By Jerald LeVon Hoover

Kirby's life has come full circle. Ten years ago, he was on top of the world. His best friend Bennett was one of the top basketball prospects in the nation. Instead of moving on to college, Bennett died. The following years passed in a haze but Kirby's desire to find out why Bennett died has consumed him. Now, Simon, a one-time enemy turned frie

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jerald L. Hoover Productions, LLC
• Release date: Jun 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781737518020

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

A Hopeful Hero is the third book in the acclaimed The Hero Book Series authored by Jerald LeVon Hoover. THBS series was conceived by Hoover in the 1980s and was not published until the 1990s. The story of how the series came to be is as riveting as all four novels. So, this introduction is more about the Heroic journey than the actual works. It (the journey) is about Hoover’s penchant for learning, abundant tenacity, and desire to make a difference.

Hoover was more writer than reader growing up. In fact, his first novel was written at the early age of eight. I was a Sad Boy was a novel about a young boy going through tough times that the young Hoover penned as a way of channeling his frustration. Though I was a Sad Boy was never published, it set the stage for what would be his life’s ambition—to write novels that shed life on the trials of young people.

When Hoover (who was Bronx-born) moved to Mount Vernon, New York, he saw another side of life. The Bronx was a fairly rough place (and some would argue that it still is), so the move to Mount Vernon was a welcomed change of pace. The school system was more nurturing, and the children tended to be friendlier. In fact, one of his elementary school classmates was none other than comedian, actor, and product pitchman JB Smoove.

Hoover developed a love for sports. He played as well as watched incessantly. However, even as his devotion for sports increased, so did his desire to write. Instead of playing or hanging with the fellas, Hoover spent every free moment writing. Even though he was teased at times, he used the wisecracks as fuel and stayed on mission to the point where the catcalls and jeers eventually shifted to admiration and cheers.

The ironing board became his desk, and the pen became his partner.

Hoover wrote and wrote and wrote. Before school. During school. After school. Before church. After church. He wrote. He wrote past his curfew regardless of the punishment. He wrote. And wrote some more. He finished—what he thought was his first completed novel—My Friend, My Hero.

Hoover was proud of himself and rightfully so. He showed his book to a close relative, older cousin, Ron Stephenson. Sternly but compassionately, Stephenson cousin scolded Hoover, How are you going to write a book when you don’t read them? It shook Hoover to his core. His manuscript broke every known literary rule except one—there was a great story in there; somewhere in this mistake-laden, mess-of-a-manuscript, there was a great story.

Stephenson mandated Hoover to read five books before he gave him his manuscript back. And to make sure that Hoover indeed did read, Stephenson promised that he would ask questions of each of the books that he read. Hoover read all five books within ten days and was armed and ready for the questions to come from Stephenson. The questions never came, but the manuscript was returned. Lesson learned.

Hoover realizing what he needed to do to become a great writer became a voracious reader, and all the while, he continued to pump out drafts. With each draft, he got better technically; his vocabulary expanded; and he learned the art of storytelling. Hoover rewrote the manuscript nine times—by hand. He submitted it to various publishers. Forty-two to be exact. And he got forty-two rejections. On the forty-third submission, he got, not so much an acceptance as a let’s see. The publisher made a deal with him. Can you guarantee me that you’ll sell 500 copies? The question was an insult, at least in Hoover’s mind? Of course I can. I have a bestseller. You’ll see.

Hoover sold 975 copies between family members, church members and neighbors. At the family reunion he sold nearly three hundred books, and he has been selling ever since. His books have sold in Asia. His books have sold in Africa. His books have sold in Europe. His books have sold in the Caribbean. And he may have sold some book on Mars.

Hoover has adapted the first novel, My Friend, My Hero to the stage and screen. He was arguably the first to put learning activities in the novel and he had a full curriculum component: Student Success Workbook, Teacher’s Edition, and Unit Assessments. He has visited countless schools and churches across the country reading, participating in Q&As, and/or teaching novel writing as well as pointing out the life lessons in the book.

He continues to work with young people, especially those who face harsh challenges. He also finds time to teach as a college professor. And he also finds time to cover sports as one of the premier sports journalists in the country for the past two decades.

Hoover directed the first documentary about hip-hop icon Kool Moe Dee for Reap and Sow Media, A Life in the Day of. Hoover has received various awards and speaks regularly at graduations. On weekends, Hoover travels across the country with the church band as an accomplished trombonist, leaving on Friday evenings, and returning early Monday mornings just in time to go to work.

Jerald LeVon Hoover. Persistence incarnate. A great husband. A great father. A great man. A great Hero.

Professor Clifford Benton

Author/Educator/Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

The air reeked with the smell of sickness, overpowering the pungent hospital smells of alcohol, disinfectant, and medicine. Kirby entered the room quietly and set the hospital pass on the cabinet, amidst the clutter of hospital items. He gazed at his friend, lying so still. An array of plastic tubes draped from his body orifices like tentacles. A soft persistent beep reminded him that Simon was still alive.

He watched his friend’s breath, shallow and strained and only there because of the respirator. Simon was comatose. The gunshot wounds to the chest and lower abdomen had been near fatal, and the outcome was still in doubt. As he looked at Simon, equal amounts of fear and anger filled him.

Who did this to you, man? Kirby murmured. I mean; you were just trying to help. You were just taking care of business, and someone pops you and takes out Harry. He hesitated a moment. This place gives me the creeps.

Just as he was about to break down, a nurse entered to check Simon’s vitals. She was fortyish, slim, and competent.

When she began changing Simon’s blood-stained bandages, Kirby asked in a tremulous voice, Before you leave, ma’am, is my friend going to be okay? Is he going to make it?

The nurse’s smile was neutral, neither fatalistic or benign, but rather, matter of fact. We’ll have to just wait and pray. We’re doing all we can.

I understand, thank you.

As Kirby sat slumped in the visitor’s chair, his mind drifted back. He was visiting his childhood friend Bennett in the hospital, whose room was just two doors down. It would be for the very last time.

******

Kirby walked in and placed Bennett’s diploma by his bedside. Bennett was still able to focus, and as he eyed his best buddy, he weakly said, Kirby, you still owe me a couple burgers.

Kirby smiled cheerfully. Man, you don’t know how glad I am to hear you say that.

But when Bennett added, Let Yvette know that I’m sorry I won’t be there for her birthday in October, Kirby began to get nervous.

But Bennett, the doctors say you’re makin’ great progress. Don’t talk like that.

I can’t fight much longer.

But—

Listen . . . look after Momma and Tara for me, Bennett had said as his eyes began to water. And tell Dannon that I said it’s not always how long you live but how well. He’ll know what you mean.

Bennett took time to breathe as he watched tears stream down Kirby’s face. He then took Kirby’s hand and held it as tightly as he could. I love you, man.

Kirby, not able to take it anymore, capriciously changed the subject. Man, he said as he wiped his eyes, you look great.

They talked nonstop for hours, before Bennett finally said he was very tired and wanted to go to sleep. He never heard Kirby say goodnight. Bennett just closed his eyes and smiled. Kirby knew he’d never open them again.

Rest in peace, my friend, my hero.

******

Kirby snapped out of his trance and looked worriedly at Simon.

Lord, I know you don’t put any more on us than we can bear. So why am I here? Am I here to watch another friend take his last breath? Lord, I know I’m not religious, not like I should be, and I haven’t been to church in years. But if you’re out there listening, and I know you are, please spare Simon’s life. He doesn’t deserve to die like this.

As Kirby lowered his head in despair, an announcement was made over the PA system that visiting hours were over. Kirby felt a sense of relief as well as anguish. He dreaded having to witness another friend expire. On the other hand, he felt that if Simon’s last day on earth was the present, he should be there.

Kirby strolled past the room, the room where Bennett had passed on. At first glance, he was afraid to look inside, but when he did, he saw an elderly gentleman hooked up to a mass of tubes. Kirby’s mind drifted again. This time, he jettisoned to twenty years ago when he, Bennett, and Bennett’s little sister, Yvette, were school-aged children

******

One snow-covered afternoon in late November, the three of them were playing on the staircase in their project building. The staircase was made of steel, with chipped paint that barely covered them. The thirteen-story edifices had two sets of staircases that most of the time reeked of urine from unclean tenants.

As the three frolicked up and down the staircase and all around the building, Bennett somehow lost track of his four-year-old sister. Bennett and Kirby nervously began looking for the missing girl. The search took them from corner to corner and floor to floor. They were almost tempted to go door to door, until Kirby had an idea to look in the back of the apartment where he overheard the screams of other kids playing.

That’s where they found a cold and crying child, doubled over on one knee. Bennett put his arms around his sister, kissed her, and said comfortingly, I was lookin’ all over for you. Where were you? And why are you out here with no coat on? You know Momma told us to stay inside. You scared me. Don’t do that again. Then Bennett kissed and hugged her again, but when there was no reaction the second time—Yvette loved being kissed on her forehead by her big brother, and it usually calmed her fears—Bennett got curious.

At that time, Big Cheryl, who was eleven years