Tucker's Angels

By Jim Reedy

The college experience can challenge the mind, prepare one for a career and/or, since away from parental supervision, provide an open invitation to frivolity, partying and ribald behavior. That may include the dream or, in most cases, the delusion of finding the love of one's life.

Tucker's Angels provides an intimate look into the mindset of one such student, who is quickly seduced by the campus lifestyle. He soon believes he has landed in heaven on Earth: dorm mates with whom to fraternize, coeds just across the quad, three squares a day in the dining hall and a new gymnasium open into the night.

Yet Tucker McKay's story is also one of discovery and transformation, until playing basketball may not be the most important thing to be experienced in the Halls of Ivy. His journey is also about the many (earthly) angels in disguise who help lead him toward enlightenment, including an equally competitive coed who ties him in such emotional knots that he once again must rethink his priorities. She turns Tuck's academic awakening into an adventure, flavored with the mysteries of romance, the excitement of first love and the thrill of passion.

Whether you wish to learn more about campus life or just to relive the college experience, Tucker's Angels welcomes you along for the ride, through the fun, the challenges, the lessons learned and the formation of lifelong friendships in this rite of passage from naivete into adulthood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662463945

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Tucker's Angels

Jim Reedy

Copyright © 2022 Jim Reedy

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-6393-8 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-6395-2 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-6624-6394-5 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Bookin', Ballin', and the Babe

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Real Life

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Academic Epidemic

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Epilogue

For Mary McKay, our delicious Ms. Piggy

An angel on this earth, who was a paragon of kindness…and fun just waiting to happen.

Part 1

Bookin', Ballin', and the Babe

Chapter 1

Sometimes, you just want to get away from it all, at least for a little bit.

Tucker McKay guessed that almost everyone had a favorite retreat of some kind. In his mind, if they didn't, they should. He believed all humans need at least one such haven. It should be a safe space in which they can insulate themselves from the inherent concerns of daily living. Such environments should quiet those inevitable, disturbing intrusions into one's emotional equilibrium and well-being. Perhaps they can even elevate the spirit. At the very least, one should feel a temporary respite from the anxiety and worries of the world.

Tuck had friends that seemed to find such retreats in the glow of family firelight. Others sought the calmness and serenity of a church pew. Some even used yoga and meditation. He knew at least one who'd found it at a favorite drinking establishment, though it did seem to require the assistance of some pacifying lubricant. One group of retired gentlemen from Tuck's church met for breakfast at the local Mickey D's, to chew the fat and solve the world's and each other's problems. They called themselves the Romeos, an acronym for Retired Old Men Eating Out.

Over the years, Tuck had also utilized several such environments, though none involving inebriation. Some had come and gone. Yet he was presently occupied in one which had persisted through most of his life. However, the ambiance was anything but serene. Rather, it was characterized by the smell of sweat and the reverberating sounds of basketballs and squeaky rubber soles against a wooden floor. Added to that were periodic vocal outbursts of competitive zeal. For Tucker, an hour or so of physical exertion in this place of refuge invariably relaxed him and freed up his mind…and it was invigorating! Over the years it had become a healthy and rejuvenating habit. It was one he hoped he wouldn't abandon until he just couldn't do it anymore.

Certain other old habits continued to die hard. He threw the pass behind his back, then watched the ball sail by its speeding target and out of bounds. Immediately in his head he could hear his basketball coach, all the way back in high school, quietly admonishing him about never using a fancy pass when a simple one would do. That was usually followed by an unwelcome invitation to come and sit beside him on the bench. Tuck just couldn't help himself. Besides, there was no conference championship at stake here. If the odd assortment of fellow faculty members participating with him couldn't find a way to appreciate adding a few style points, in his mind…they should. Really, would a ballerina simply leap and not try to land a spectacular arabesque? Would a baker not add pecans to the cream cheese icing on his carrot cake?

After all, this was just noontime recreation hoops with the basketball for lunch bunch. In fact, in that setting, Tucker felt it would've been far more egregious not to try that pass. If not then…when?

Once a hotdog, laughed the intended recipient of the errant pass. It was his longtime friend and basketball running mate, Rosey Jackson, as they trotted back toward the defensive end.

Tucker McKay had known Rosey for more than a decade. They'd met during their freshman year of college when they both had come to Highlands to play basketball.

I saw Jo Jo White do it in the game on TV last night, Tuck lied, so I had to try it.

What about the other thousand times? accused his grinning friend.

I watch a lot of games, said an incredulous Tuck.

Rosey's brown face shone with perspiration. The front of his T-shirt and shorts were both soak-stained, dark gray with sweat. The wetness accentuated the muscularity of his arms and legs. Yet any envy on Tuck's part had long ago dissipated. He'd accepted that his own physique was comparatively definition deficit anyway. Not to say he was a skinny runt or anything. A lifetime of sports activities had kept him trim and fairly fit.

Other than an occasional handball game or tennis match, the thrice weekly basketball games were the one competitive activity in his lifestyle. It kept his health-seeking pursuits in the realm of fun rather than drudgery.

Tuck had long ago decided it just wasn't very affirming to his self-image to dwell on physical comparisons with Rosey. That's why he tended to avoid standing in front of the same mirror with him. For example, even though it had been banned in games since sometime in the '60s, Rosey could still dunk a basketball. Tucker had long since lost that ability. He'd also lost the mini-trampoline that had made it possible in the first place. Of course the tramp had been his hedge against a slightly over six-foot frame and a severe shortage of pigmentation. Though he was taller than Rosey, rather than muscular, at best he could be thought slender. At worst, well, he'd rather not think about that at all.

In addition to the pickup games, he and Rosey had started to compete in the university intramural league. They'd been invited by some of their noontime colleagues to join the faculty entry at the highest level of competition. Anyone who'd played intercollegiate basketball was technically ineligible for the league. It had taken a special dispensation by the Intramural Council to allow their participation. Evidently, the students had either welcomed an opportunity for student-faculty fraternizing…or perhaps a few had relished the chance to extract some measure of retribution for those unreasonable reading assignments. More likely, their young opponents were convinced that a decade was enough time to sufficiently erode the skills of two has beens, so they couldn't dominate the league.

The games had turned out to be a surprisingly positive experience and a whole lot of fun. Most of the time, neither he nor Rosey went at it full speed, usually deferring to their less skilled teammates. Every once in a while, they would turn it up a notch. Rosey would steal the ball for a breakaway semi-dunk or Tuck drop a long bomb or two, just to prove they still had game.

What the whole experience seemed to have done was generate a lot of goodwill between faculty and students. Perhaps it was from their charges interacting with them in those competitive, nonacademic circumstances.

Added to Tuck and Rosey dialing down their competitive instincts, even the name chosen for their faculty team had successfully communicated that they were just in it for the fun. All the teams, both dorms and fraternities, had matching T-shirts worn as uniform jerseys. Yet, right there among those identifying Sigma Nu or the Heritage East wing of the residence hall were the bright orange shirts of the faculty team. Emblazoned on the front were words proclaiming Geriatric Flatulence. When first playing against them, few opponents had understood the name. Then someone must've checked the dictionary. Word quickly spread that they had indeed been competing against a bunch of Old Farts. But basketball was basketball, and for most of his life Tucker had trouble getting enough of it.

Chapter 2

Highlands University was nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians in the western part of the state. It was a beautiful, idyllic setting. Its red brick buildings and white columns were ensconced among the oaks and pines and framed by the mountains in the background. Now that's surely what a college is supposed to look like. At least that's what Tuck thought the first time he laid eyes on it in the recruiting brochure their coach left for him. A campus visit with his parents only further substantiated its beauty and proved that pictures could not do justice for the real thing.

The school had tried to maintain an undergraduate enrollment at around four thousand students. Yet, not unlike many other private institutions, it had been difficult. Therefore, during one of the periodic economic downturns, the college had been upgraded to university status in a semi-desperate attempt to attract more students. So Highlands had been reorganized into several colleges. They now offered some program tracts that led to graduate degrees, even a couple of doctorates. That was quite a contrast to the much smaller institution Tuck had attended years earlier as a student. Back then, the school was largely grounded in the liberal arts and still giving more than lip service to its affiliation with the Presbyterian Church.

Because he was a church kid, Tucker had chosen Highlands at least partially for that very reason. He and his family had felt it was the type of environment best suited to his educational goals and lifestyle preferences. As he'd grown up, the road getting there hadn't been an ambivalent one.

He and his younger sister didn't have much choice but to embrace the faith and to attend church services. That is unless, of course, he wanted to abandon his parents' domicile or be put up for adoption. More importantly, he wasn't about to jeopardize the affection of the two people he most loved and respected in the universe.

The seeds of faith had been planted with such force and in doses so heavy that not only had strong religious beliefs evolved, but most of the uncertainties had been resolved. Indoctrination is a strong word. Yet Tuck accepted that it probably best described his faith journey. That was okay with him. He'd held a front-row seat for years in observing how the joy of his parents' beliefs had impacted their lives, as well as how others reacted to that faith. The hook had been set so deeply in him that he couldn't recall it ever having been tested. By the time he was ready for college, there was very little skepticism in his rock-hard Presbyterianism.

Tucker had also known well before college what he wanted to do for a living, and Highlands had a strong reputation in teacher training. His choice of vocation had been born of (and nourished by) his association with a favorite educator in high school. He was an inspiring biology teacher named Harris Hap Hoffman, who was also his basketball coach. In the beginning, Tuck's admiration for Coach Hap had grown from observing his modus operandi. Once his teacher had become a mentor to him, their discussions about the profession had further fueled his interest. Eventually, the lure of teaching and coaching had gradually become intellectually ingrained in him.

Tuck had watched the apparent pleasure Coach Hap had taken from working with him and his fellow classmates and teammates. He'd asked his teacher/coach if he truly enjoyed what he did as much as it appeared. Tuck's demonstrated interest brought forth a flood of affirmation and encouragement that had reinforced and buoyed that interest. Coach Hap had talked about the two most important factors in choosing a vocation: what did he enjoy doing and where did his talents lie. He'd assured Tucker that if he could find something that merged those two, as he had, Tuck would never have to work a day in his life. However, the clincher in Tuck's decision to attend Highlands University was neither the campus environment nor their College of Education. It consisted of two more important factors: the completion of a brand-new gymnasium on the Highlands campus and the coach asking him to come there and play basketball in it. Tuck loved the sport…perhaps irrationally.

Chapter 3

As a youngster, Tucker had first been totally into baseball. He religiously followed his favorite major league team and player, the Giants and their star center fielder Willie Mays. In his opinion, not only had Willie been the greatest player alive, he also had flair in his game. In addition to being a five-tool player (batting average, homers, stolen bases, superb fielder, great arm), Willie performed with a certain enthusiasm that Tuck really admired, making his patented basket catches and his hat flying off as he flew around the bases. During the season, the first thing Tuck had done when he got up each morning was to check the major league box scores in the newspaper to see how Willie and the team had fared the previous night.

Tuck had loved baseball. He had also become very skilled at it. When he was still a small boy, his father would often come home from work to throw and catch a tennis ball with him, including grounders and fly balls. Even though no longer a professional educator, his dad was not only smart but a naturally gifted teacher. His method to instruct Tuck how to catch a ball had been ingenious. In the beginning, the ball had been bouncing out of Tuck's hands. Using elementary physics to explain rebound, his dad had dropped a tennis ball on the concrete sidewalk to demonstrate Isaac Newton's action/reaction third law.

Your hands are like the concrete, his dad had told him.

Then he put down a pillow on the sidewalk, dropped the ball on it, and it didn't bounce at all.

His dad said Your hands need to be the pillow and had proceeded to show him how the pillow had absorbed the energy of the ball, preventing it from bouncing.

When you catch, his dad had continued, just move your hands in the same direction that the ball is traveling. They'll absorb the energy, preventing rebound, just like the pillow.

So Tucker had learned to give with the ball. Not only did his newly implemented soft hands start to catch it, even fast throws no longer stung them. Soon he had progressed to the point where he could catch about anything. That is with the exception of a young Tom-girl named Phyllis Atwater, on whom he had a crush through the grades and high school.

There were seven boys who lived on his block, so games popped up almost every day. Anytime they could, after school, weekends, all summer, he and his friends had played stickball in the street. When derailed by bad weather, they substituted dice baseball, including keeping homemade scorecards. One day, they were playing a street game of Work Up, in which you continued to hit until they got you out. Unfortunately however, Tuck had been unwilling to yield the bat to the increasing discomfort of a full bladder. Instead of going inside to relieve himself, he'd just peed in his pants and kept on hitting. Afterward, when his mother had recovered from seeing the huge, dark urine stain in his Sears denims, she'd berated him unmercifully about an eight-year-old soiling himself.

Nathan Tucker, what in the world has gotten into you? she'd implored of him. Have you lost your mind?

No, Mama, but I would've lost my spot at bat, had been his defense.

Of course it had fallen on deaf ears, and he'd immediately become familiar with how to operate a washing machine.

Tuck's inclination to make better decisions in such situations had gradually been refined with the help of his dad's unusual disciplinary measures. When he was very young, his parents had occasionally spanked him. Once he'd reached school age, he'd often wished for such punishment, rather than that administered to him for occasionally sassing his mom or some other offense. He'd come to hate hearing the old, Just wait 'til your father gets home! That was because his dad's methods, although fairly effective as a future deterrent, probably had bordered on mental cruelty.

His dad would take him upstairs to his parents' bedroom, close the door, sit him on the bed, and begin the inquisition.

Tuck, do you know what you did to upset your mom? he'd asked.

Yes, sir, he'd answered, already beginning to tear up. I think it was because I back-talked to her.

Why did you do it? his dad asked in a soft, calm tone.

I don't know, Daddy, he'd replied, now sniffling and his voice trembling a little. I guess because she wouldn't let me finish what I was doing.

Tuck, do you love your mama?

Yes, Daddy! Now the actual crying had begun.

Then why would you talk that way to someone you love? asked his father in his calm, quiet way.

I don't know, Daddy!

Tuck, do you think your mother loves you? Tuck only nodded his head.

How do you know that? asked his dad.

Be-because she tells me so and…and…she hugs me every day…and she does a lot of stuff for me.

Tell me some of the things your mama does for you, said his dad.

So in between sobs, Tuck had begun to enumerate them. His dad hadn't laid a hand on him, but by that time, he was bawling. He'd wished his father would've just taken a belt or strap and beaten him with it. Anything would've been preferred to end the emotional torture and get him out of that room! The tearful apology and hug with his mom had been the easy part. His dad was so smart.

Tuck had remained devoted to baseball. More than once, he'd dreamed of finding a cache of the old, discarded but highly valued, skinned tennis balls that were used in their stickball games. When mostly devoid of their fuzzy surface, the balls could be made to curve, sail, and two knuckle drops, rendering them very difficult to hit, even with a light bat. Compared to that, hitting a baseball, much less a bigger, slower softball, wasn't really much of a challenge. In one dream, he'd even imagined discovering a tennis ball tree from which he could pluck as many as he wanted. So valued were the balls that when one would roll into a city sewer along the curb on either side of the street, the heavy metal top was cooperatively lifted, and a usually reluctant volunteer went down into the stinky muck after it.

Playing in the middle of a city street also necessitated a variety of ground rules. Home plate was the round sewer cap in the center of the cross section with a side street. Thus, an occasional vehicle approaching from any direction temporarily halted the game. The street was lined with trees, small front yards, and usually a couple of parked autos. Deflections off any of them, including the curbs, which altered the direction of a batted ball, were automatically limited to two bases. If the ball were hit into a tree, it could be caught on the first bounce for an out. Fly balls off house roofs could also be caught for outs. However, if it cleared the roof into a backyard, it was an automatic out because of game delay to find it. The only other automatic out occurred when the ball was hit into the third yard on the right side of the street.

An older couple named Griffin lived there. Her husband was nice, but old lady Griffin took pride in her shrubs and didn't want a pack of wild youngsters messing up the lawn. Not only would she confiscate any ball hit into her yard, she could end the game merely by sitting on her small, front porch because they were afraid to go in there after it.

Chapter 4

From pictures he'd seen on the covers of the Saturday Evening Post magazine, Tuck figured his life must've been about as Norman Rockwell-ian as anyone's. The ball games had been just one aspect of a beguiling childhood filled with warmth and happiness. Those developmental years had been defined by love…and family…and fun. And there was no doubt all that affection he felt toward his parents and sister was fully reciprocated. Yet other than the parents who loved them, he had little else in common with his younger sibling. Aside from a few board games when they were housebound, they rarely played together. McKenzie McKay, who most everyone called Mac, also had several neighborhood girlfriends. The girls played with the girls and the boys with the boys. While his group was usually in a ball game of some kind, their female counterparts were often in pretend mode with dolls and their miniature houses or playing dress up. Then came hopscotch, jump rope, roller skating, dancing, even piano lessons.

Though the two groups had little to do with each other, Tuck had realized very early that girls were not yucky. Every once in a while, usually on a summer evening, the entire neighborhood would gather for a game of fox in the water, prisoner's base, Annie over, or kick the can. In one such game of the latter, he had chosen to hide in a very small tool shed off the garage. Upon closing the door behind him he'd found himself in a very confined space and pressed tightly up against someone who'd beaten him there. It was Mac's friend, Bobbi Williams, from next door. Since he could run so fast, it was more likely she had remained hidden there from before the can was last kicked.

Bobbi was petite with dark hair and eyes, had pigtails, and was very cute. He'd never before been that physically close to any girl (not named McKenzie). The intimate contact had immediately triggered some pleasurable sensations in him. She certainly didn't smell the same as his boy playmates, when they would wrestle or play tackle football. More interestingly, her proximity had given him a funny feeling inside that he'd never before experienced, and it was not unpleasant. Looking back, perhaps he now better understood what had prompted the I'll show you mine, if you show me yours incident with another of Mac's friends when even younger.

Then in fifth grade, the coordinated Phyllis Atwater had shown up and legitimized those feelings. That attraction for the fairer sex had persisted, even after he'd been kissed on the mouth by a boy classmate that same year. He was certain he was only into girls. Of course he'd been much too shy to do anything about it. He'd continued spending most of his fun times playing ball and other gender-segregated games with his buddies.

Chapter 5

Once Tuck found basketball, however, the stickball/baseball games, and most other athletic endeavors, gradually succumbed to the constant movement and almost instantaneous feedback of his new addiction. Although more than proficient at baseball, by the time he reached the organized youth leagues, the sport had become mind-numbingly boring. There was all the standing around in batting practice, waiting for everyone to hit. Then the games weren't that much better. Unless you were the pitcher or catcher, there was more standing around, not knowing if a ball would ever be hit in your direction. Then if it were, and maybe you booted it for an error, you might not get a chance to redeem yourself for the remainder of the game. It was much the same when batting; make an out and then not getting to try again for another three innings. More time in games was spent spitting, scratching, chattering, and pawing in the dirt than playing. The best description of the game Tucker had heard was twenty minutes of action packed into a couple of very long hours. In comparison with the constant and often frenetic pace of basketball, there was none.

One of the most attractive aspects about his new obsession had been the practice sessions. They involved almost perpetual motion and required him to be totally engaged, eliminating the boredom. They were actually fun. In addition, unlike baseball, which depended on at least one or more other people to practice or play, he could shoot at a hoop by himself for hours.

Then there were games of one-on-one, two-on-two, and three-on-three. Baseball required a whole group to play a game. If you missed a shot in basketball, it might not take twenty to thirty seconds before you got another chance at personal validation. Around age twelve, Tuck had finally decided that although baseball was a sport better suited to a moderately sized, semi-athletic white boy, which he was, he would devote all his free time to becoming a better basketball player.

Perhaps that wasn't totally accurate. On what he'd really concentrated was becoming a good shooter. At just over six feet, he wasn't tall enough to be a strong rebounder, so he had practiced shooting for hours, days, months, and eventually years. He'd persuaded his dad to put a goal up on the end of the garage. His persistence in trying to put a ball through it had known no bounds. Neither dark of night nor inclement weather had deterred him. There was always the outdoor light and the snow shovel. Even the complaints of the Widow Vanover about the incessant pounding noises coming at all hours from the next-door driveway hadn't stopped him. She had eventually acquiesced to their inevitability. Upon encountering her after he'd been sick with the flu for three days, she even asked him if they'd been out of town. Evidently, she'd missed the steady tattoo of ball against asphalt and backboard.

When the basketball goal had first gone up, Tuck was small and not very strong. His shots were flat-line drives that he heaved toward the basket. Most all were unsuccessful and had induced some frustration. One day, his dad had come home after work, sat down on the back steps, and had begun to give him a tip or two.

After he'd demonstrated the shooting motion, he asked, Tuck, have you heard of the famous Englishman, Sir Archibald?

No, sir, he'd said, having no idea what that had to do with the task at hand.

His father formed a circle with his arms at Tuck's eye level so it was parallel to the ground then tilted it slightly. How much of that circle can you see? he asked.

Not much, replied Tuck.

Well, when you shoot with a low or flat trajectory that's what the ball is seeing and trying to enter, not a very big target.

His dad had then tilted his arms until the circle was perpendicular to the ground. Now, how much of the circle can you see? he asked.

All of it, replied Tuck.

If the circle were the basket, would you rather try to put the ball through a small opening or use the whole circle?

Obviously, the whole thing, said Tuck. It's a much-bigger target.

"Then, arch the ball, sir! his dad said, laughing, Because the hole is on top. Most people also don't realize that the basket is twice the diameter of the ball, so there is quite a bit of leeway for error. Why not take advantage of the whole thing?"

His dad moved him in a few steps closer where he wouldn't need to strain to get the ball up to the rim. Then he showed him how to put a higher arc on his shots, so they would fall through the basket. Eliminating the flat trajectory had yielded almost immediate results. As the successful attempts had begun to replace the misses, self-satisfaction had begun to replace Tuck's frustration. His dad was so smart.

Days later, his father had taught him to bank the ball off the backboard, not only on layups but on any close-range shot launched from an angle approximating forty-five degrees. Again, Tuck regressed to a flatter trajectory, trying to hit a spot on the board where the ball would ricochet into the hoop. His line drives had been banging off the board with so much force it had prevented much success. His father, recognizing another teachable moment, had again gotten up off the porch steps.

Tuck, he said, don't forget Sir Archibald. The bank shot is actually an easier shot, but you need the same high arc. I'll tell you what. Why don't you just imagine that the backboard is Marilyn Monroe's lips. You certainly wouldn't want to bruise those lips, now, would you?

Aw, Dad, he'd replied, you know I don't know nothin' about that?

Know anything, his father had corrected before continuing, Just shoot a nice, soft, high arcing shot that gently kisses against Marilyn's lips and falls through the basket. His dad then demonstrated a few such shots, which Tuck mimicked. A progression of successful layups and bank shots had soon begun to come.

The only obstruction to an unencumbered practice goal was a large cherry tree that hung over part of the garage and driveway. His dad had trimmed it back far enough for an unimpeded ball flight from most angles. However, during the harvest season when the tree began to drop its fruit, dribbling had become more challenging. His old Voit basketball was made of rubber anyway, so a little moisture or cherry juice wasn't going to hurt it. His mother, however, had been less than enamored with him tracking dark red stains into the house.

In winter, he'd even talked his mother out of a pair of her thin cloth, church gloves to protect his hands against frigid temperatures. His dad had teased him about someday becoming a postman because neither rain nor snow nor dark of night… But as in baseball, where if you could hit, they'd find a position for you, Tuck was fairly sure that if you could put the ball in the basket, you were going to get to play. By his senior year in high school, he'd become so proficient at it that the Highlands coach had come calling.

Chapter 6

Noah Roosevelt Jackson had been born and raised in Cumberland County. He and his brother, James, had been playing on the Highlands University campus most of their lives because both their parents worked there as cooks in the dining hall kitchen. Due to the inferior quality of the local segregated high school for the Black children, Rosey's parents had scraped and saved to send them both to a private military academy for Negro students, run by the Catholic Church. After graduating, Rosey had completed a two-year stint in the US Army. When he returned home, he'd taken advantage of the college's tuition remission program for employee dependents, as well as the G.I. Bill, to enter Highlands.

Rosey was a day student at the college. He lived with his parents on the edge of town in the same house in which he'd been raised. He and Tucker had hit it off almost immediately after Tuck had arrived on campus his freshman year. It happened during their first encounter on the basketball court in a pickup game. He'd never played against any Black players in the segregated high schools. Tuck had been such a strong offensive player and shooter he'd eventually become fairly confident he could hold his own against anyone. In the summers while in high school, he'd played with and against many college-level players. He'd learned what it took to compete against older and bigger opponents. That included shooting his jump shot before reaching the apex. Ah, the joys of the quick release.

Rosey on the other hand was quick and powerful and excelled at defense and rebounding. As it happened, they were paired against each other right off the bat in that initial pickup game. The first time Tuck thought he'd gotten by him when driving to the basket, Rosey had stripped him of the ball and made an easy layup at the other end. From that time forward, Tuck had made sure in those informal games that Rosey was a teammate rather than an opponent.

Tucker had never been around Black people, much less had a friendship with one. Growing up in a totally segregated society in the South, he'd been part of a culture in which many considered the Negro the lowest and most inferior human being among God's creatures. They were the butt of all jokes. Among many White people, to be accused of being a Nigger lover was the worst of possible insults. When choosing sides or deciding who would bat first in baseball or get the ball first in pickup basketball, it was often done with Eenie, meenie, minie, mo…catch a Nigger by his toe…if he hollers, let him go…

When he was age fourteen, Tucker had allowed a small group of older friends to talk him into the biggest mistake of his life, both then and since. Due to his precocious skills, they'd often allowed Tuck to take part in their sports activities because he could hold his own against them. It also meant he could hang out with them afterward. On one such occasion, after visiting a fresh produce stand on a summer evening, he had accompanied them into Jackson Ward, the colored section of his hometown. They'd proceeded to throw overripe tomatoes at houses, cars, and Black residents. Being the youngest, Tuck had kowtowed to group pressure and gone along with it.

Yet even while committing the act, he'd begun to question his own morality. He'd known it was wrong and had ever since regretted his abhorrent deed.

The four boys had jumped out of an old '66 Dodge four-door to launch a fruity assault on a house with an older Black man sitting on the front stoop. Tucker hesitated and couldn't bring himself to throw a tomato at a person.

He threw one at the house and a car parked in front at the curb. They all piled back into the car and sped off in search of a new target. However, about fifteen minutes later, they'd made the mistake of returning to the same street. In the interim, the victim had gone inside and called the police, who had arrived and blocked their escape. The doors of the Dodge