Hometown Favorite: A Novel (16 page)

"When Mr. Hickman announced my name, my best friend
gave me a big hug and said that I deserved this. Well, now that
I've got this beautiful trophy in my hands, I kind of have to
agree with you, my man. This does look good on me"

Sly took the pause for polite laughter, more forced than
spontaneous.

"I'll start by thanking my teammates and the coaching staff
at Miami. All props to you for giving me the opportunities I
needed to make the plays. I thank my hometown of Springdale,
Mississippi. The Springdale Tigers rock! And I thank my best
friend, Dewayne Jobe. I felt the East Coast guys have been
supporting me this whole season. They've given the team and
me some great coverage and early on were holding me up for
this award. Props to them all around. I knew the West Coast
would go to my man here on the front row with me, and he
deserves every vote he got. So my thanks especially go to the
sportswriters in Middle America for swinging their votes my
way. Thank you for honoring this small-town boy who always
had big dreams. You have made one of his biggest dreams
come true today."

Dewayne and Rosella could not get to each other fast enough.
By the time the ceremony was over and Robert Hickman had
signed off the air, Rosella was happy to be held in the strong
arms of her husband. They were unmindful of the cameras
flashing all around them, snapping their strobe light pictures
as if they were some celebrity couple.

"Stop this now. You're hogging my camera time," Sly said.

He stepped in between them, giving Rosella a kiss on the
cheek and slapping Dewayne's arm.

The cameras continued to click and brighten the room
with their constant blaze. Rosella wanted to flee, but Dewayne
scooted around Sly and locked his arm around her waist.

Sly kept pumping the air with his trophy and muttering
under his breath, "This is my night."

Reporters began to ask their questions.

"You two say you are best friends, but you're both pretty
competitive. Does that have any effect on your friendship?"

"There is nothing wrong with healthy competition," Sly
said.

"Not at all, but it has never hurt our friendship," Dewayne
said. "Remember, we grew up together. That's where the bond
grew strong, and nothing will change that."

"You two looking forward to the combines and the draft?"
another reporter asked.

"Bring it on;' Sly said.

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to both, but I've got a bowl game
coming up and that's my focus;' Dewayne said. "We'll cross
those bridges when we come to them."

"Dewayne, are you disappointed not to win?"

Dewayne could feel Rosella grow tense, and he just pulled
her closer to him.

"It is always nice to be honored with awards and especially
to receive college football's highest honor like Sly here. But my
friend will go home tonight with a hard, cold bronze statue,
and I will go home with a warm, loving wife. Now, you tell me
who the real winner is"

This time the laughter from the crowd was authentic and
unprompted, nothing polite or forced because of a lame comment, but genuine and sustained for several seconds with some
reporters punctuating the laughter with applause. Before departing, Dewayne threw his arm around Sly and kissed him
on the side of the head, then let him go. He and Rosella began
to move toward the banquet room, giving Sly time with the
press to revel in his night alone.

Bruce stared into the flame of the candle on the coffee table.
He had closed the blinds and drawn the curtains so the tiny
flame was the only light holding back the darkness in the filthy
living room congested with trash, half-eaten food, and beer
bottles. He had complained of stomach cramps and parlayed
this into an excused absence from school.

Sabrina had gone to school. She maintained her commitment to get an education if for no other reason than to be
away from the apartment. The only thing keeping her from
leaving altogether, other than her love for her brother, was
her boyfriend, Tyler Rogan. He provided masculine comfort,
steadiness, and affection that could be brutal at times, but still
made her feel needed. He was a male presence in her life who
would say "I love you" at unexpected times and in such a way
that made her believe he meant it. So she tolerated the chaos
Tyler brought into her life, tolerated the drugs he gave her
mother and sold out of the apartment for the cash it provided
... and she tolerated the sex Tyler demanded and the occasional
bruises he left when his temper got the best of him. It was the
price she paid to have a family.

Bruce watched Bonita tie the rubber tubing around her arm,
then lean back in an easy chair that Tyler and his crew had found in a Dumpster. Bruce's gut tightened. His mother was
leaving him again. How many times had she left him before?
He had lost count, and when she came back to the world, she
was always on the edge of falling off at any moment. He could
call out to her, but she would not hear. He could touch her,
begging for attention, but she would not respond. Whenever
she departed on these drug-induced journeys, she left behind
a wretched, breathing corpse.

It felt like a punishment, Bonita's frequent escapes, but what
had he done to deserve this? He tried hard to be good. He
tried hard to deserve his mother's love. He did not want to
do anything to drive her away. What had he done to make his
mother leave him behind again and again?

Tyler was slow roasting the crumbs of heroin in the tablespoon over the flame of the candle. When the chunks boiled
into liquid, he set the spoon on the coffee table and brushed a
cockroach onto the floor that had been feasting on food particles
before he smashed it with a ferocious stomp of his foot. He examined the smashed cockroach on the grimy carpet and cursed
it before he kicked the small carcass under Bonita's chair.

"Hey, little cockroach;" Tyler said. He snapped his fingers
just inches from Bruce's hypnotized face. "Little cockroach,
someday you can have a taste of this. Go bye-bye with your
mama.

A wicked laugh burst from Tyler's mouth, causing Bruce to
grip the sides of the easy chair.

"Hurry up, baby. Mama's ready," Bonita said.

The demand to feel the immediate ecstasy was making her
anxious.

Tyler filled the syringe, and with the precision of an expert
caregiver, he tapped the inside of Bonita's arm to raise a deflated
vein and injected the drug.

Bruce had seen enough. He began to pace as he watched
his mother descend from reality like a deflated balloon. Tyler
shouted that Bruce's frantic pacing was annoying, but the
adrenaline rushing through Bruce's body would not allow him
to keep still. For not obeying the order, Bruce dodged a beer
bottle hurled at him by a volatile Tyler, and he ducked into the
kitchen just as the crew came through the door, flush with cash
from the latest drug sales.

After brooding on the perennial emptiness of the open
refrigerator, Bruce spied some cash on the kitchen table. He
slammed the refrigerator door, stuffed the few dollars in his
pocket, and then slipped out of the apartment. No one noticed
him go. No one called out after him. No one cared whether
he stayed or went, whether his stomach was empty or full,
whether he lived or died.

Dewayne had completed his eighth and final week at the SportsPlex in downtown Los Angeles, a premiere facility devoted to
taking young college athletes who were in line for the draft and
getting them into optimum shape for the combines held in Indianapolis. By going to school year-round, Dewayne had worked
out with his faculty advisor a way to have only one class his final
semester in order to graduate. The easy economics class that he
and Rosella took together required minimal study so he could
have the time to train at the SportsPlex in preparation for the combines. Even though USC had won its bowl game and Dewayne
had received the MVP award for the game, he chose not to snub
the combines. He was looking forward to meeting coaches and
managers from the different franchises so when it was time for
the draft, he would know who was talking about him and whom
he would deal with during negotiations about an offer.

After winning the Heisman and leading Miami to victory in
its bowl game, Sly had put himself in the elite category of those
who skip the combines. Dewayne just laughed at his friend's
inflated self-importance when he told Dewayne to be prepared
for yet another disappointment when the sport's world heard
Sly's name called as the number one draft pick.

Dewayne and Rosella agreed they would not rush into making a decision about whom they might hire as a sports agent,
even though several agencies were making inquiries. Rosella
proved a perceptive negotiator when she worked a deal with the
SportsPlex management to cover Dewayne's training expenses.
Once drafted, Dewayne would pay the costs of his training, and
as a bonus to the SportsPlex for its kind treatment of him, he
would be a representative for the center for one year.

This success began to build a confidence that they could
handle many of the business decisions regarding Dewayne's
career. They knew the value of athletes endorsing a product
or a company, and the millions that come with it, but they
also knew that unless they were generous to those people who
had helped him along the way, no amount of wealth would be
worth it.

The couple had not purchased a second car. They were trying
to live off Dewayne's scholarship stipend, so Dewayne often
took the bus to and from the SportsPlex. Part of their agreement with the SportsPlex was to do interviews with sports news
outlets whenever requests came in, which was often.

One day Dewayne was surprised to enter the lobby from
the training center and find no reporters waiting to ambush
him. The receptionist stopped him as he headed out the door,
however, and pointed to a little boy sitting in the corner.

"He says he's your nephew;" the receptionist whispered.

Dewayne went over to the boy, who kept his eyes focused on his shoes. He did not recognize this undersized, ragged
kid at first. There was a sports magazine in the boy's lap with
a picture of Dewayne on the cover. He thought this kid might
have used the uncle ploy to sneak into the facility and get an
autograph.

"You want me to sign that for you?" Dewayne asked, expecting to see the boy's sullen face transformed into elation.

"You really my uncle?" the boy asked. "Do I really have an
aunt Rosella?"

Dewayne took a step back as he recognized the boy.

"Bruce? Is that you, Bruce? Is your name Bruce?"

"Yeah, don't wear it out;" he said.

With Bruce's sullen answer, Dewayne knew immediately he
was the smart-mouthed kid who lived at Bonita's apartment.

"How'd you find me? How'd you get here?"

"I can read the newspapers. I know how to catch a bus:"

Dewayne looked back at the receptionist, who was busy
talking on the phone.

"You hungry?"

The boy gave Dewayne a look of desperate expectancy.

"Come on."

Bruce followed him through the double doors back inside
the training center. Several tables filled with food were set up
on both sides of the hallway. Dewayne pointed to the tables,
and Bruce attacked, stuffing handfuls of food into his mouth
right off the trays like a starving animal. A couple of trainees
walked by, and Dewayne explained that Bruce was his nephew.
Bruce paused from gorging himself and an odd look of surprise
crossed his face.

The reaction mystified Dewayne, but only for a moment as
it occurred to him that Bruce was shocked to hear him admit
to being his uncle. There was hope in the boy's eyes.

Dewayne watched the boy satiate his appetite until he was
out of breath.

"You need to leave something for the players," Dewayne
said with a half smile.

The sight of the lavish spread had deafened Bruce to Dewayne's casual joke. He was in shock from this new experience
... the shock of a full stomach. Dewayne told him to grab some
granola bars and fruit for the road.