Iceman, they start to call him, his senior year. Cause he's so cool and controlled and deadpan no matter what he's thinking or feeling or the voices inside his head. Hey, Jinx. Iceman. Baby, you beautiful.
The college scouts from Syracuse, Cornell, Seton Hall, Villanova, Penn State, Ohio State: Iceman's name and photograph in the local papers from the start of basketball season to the close.
Ain't nobody gonna touch that boy. Yah, he the man.
Dribbling the ball right handed, then switching to left. Trying a lefty hook shot, getting it on the re bound if it misses.
Nobody can come near Iceman when he's got the beat. In motion, he's safe.
Except: sometimes at the foul line, breathing in slow and deep, steadying himself for a free shot, there's too much space for him to think in and he might miss. And everybody watching. And the hush and expectancy of the crowd, twenty rows of bleachers rising against the walls. White faces, black faces, so many eyes.
And the white girl's among them. staring at him.
At such moments Iceman breaks out into a sweat. In his armpits and in the small of his back.
So many willing Jinx Fairchild to sink the shot as the ball snaps spinning from him to arc through the air. and so many willing Jinx Fairchild to miss. Hey, nigger boy. Hey, coon. 1 The Negroes roll their eyes white shrieking Ohhhhhhh, Iceman! He's known in Hammond for his professional style, his deadpan cool. Eye always on the ball and on the other players. Concentration only for the game. Not acknowledging the crowd or the applause wild as torrents of rain drumming against the roof and the walls and the barred windows of the brightly lit gym. Even the cheerleaders' parrot cries are not for Jinx Fairchild's ears: J I!
N!
X JINX.
JINX.
JINX.
And the voices bounding and re bounding in the gym as if amplified by the powerful lights, the gleaming hardwood floor, the fact of no shadows and no cracks to seep into.
There are nine white cheerleaders on the varsity squad, all so pretty, and one high yalla. first time in school history that a nonwhite girl has been so honored. Of course she's the cutest thing you ever saw: dentist's daughter, nice clothes, snubbed nose, and smooth glossy brown black hair bobbing in a ponytail just like the white girls'.
Iceman isn't interested in what occurs beyond the margins of the court; he's the kind of player, so rare, who can play an entire quarter without glancing at either the scoreboard or the clock.
It's the game that has him in its grip, tight as a python. or maybe he has the game in his grip. His hands and feet are so fast people say they blur, when you watch. There's that liquidy motion to his body as if it comes to re st only in the spectators eye but, there, it's deceptive, never comes to any re st at all: you're watching the action, the ball being dribbled; then Jinx Fairchild has stolen the ball and is off running down the other side of the court. the home crowd's on its feet. how did he do it? What happened? The split second steal is Jinx Fairchild's specialty, executed with such apparently effortless grace the college scouts' eyes mist over. They don't know that, not consciously but by hours of absorption, Jinx Fairchild has committed to memory the uneven hardwood floor of the basketball court at Hammond Central, sensing where the ball will go dead to the bounce. where, in the heat and frenzy of the game, he'll instinctively channel any opponent dribbling the ball.
Iceman steals the beat of their faltering dribble for a second or half second before his long fingers reach out, snaky quick, to steal the ball.
Then it's a pounding drive to the other basket, the home crowd on its feet, cheering, screaming no matter that Hammond is ahead by twenty points, or thirty four, or as much as sixtyjinx Fairchild's head is up and his eye resolutely off the ball that's magic to his fingertips; he comes at the basket from the side with a leaping shot as if his muscled legs can bear it no longer and must uncoil, spring out, upyou'd swear, watching him, he leaps three feet into the airand the opposing team plods in his wake, the hapless rawboned boy who is Jinx Fairchild's guard shows his shame and bafflement and rage in his face, he's a white boy, good looking and sandy haired, beefy in the torso, sweat gleaming on his body like grease. Fucker. Could kill that fucker. Stinking nleger, dirty filthy stinking nigger tricks.
The clapping and cheering like Niagara Falls, you could drown in.
Drown in and be washed away.
And her eyes. the white girl's level narrowed eyes. the eyes he knows are icy gray green because he has looked into them and shivered.
Except, on the court, during clocked time, Jinx Fairchild is safe.
His white teammates aren t jealous of Jinx Fairchild this season.
No point to it. Only makes them look bad. Nor Willis Broadman, who's black. Nor Lonnie Jackson, Black Lightning when he's playing his best.
The coach, Hank Breuer, no longer addresses Jinx in his nasal reproachful manner, misreading Jinx Fairchild for his insolent older brother Sugar Baby, who'd let the team down at the state quarterfinals two years before. No longer feels obliged to say for the others' benefit, I'm talking to you too, Jinx, or You listening, Jinx, or you know all this already? his ruddy bald looking face growing ruddier still. Now Hank Breuer is likely to sling an arm around Jinx when he comes off the floor, his other arm around another player: Beautiful play! A One! Happiness like first youth bubbling in him, Breuer's the coach of a winning streak team, his name prominent too in the papers, the other coaches frank with envy and the college scouts profuse with praise. He's a Seton Hall graduate himself; he has already directed more than one promising athlete to the school, why not Jinx Fairchild?
He'll note, Hank Breuer will, and speak of it afterward to his friends, how the white kid is drenched with sweat and panting like a dog and the Negro kid is practically dry or at the most cool damp like the underside of a leaf.
Sugar Baby Fairchild was bad business on the team, strutting his stuff in high topped black sneakers, yeah, you'd have to say he was uppity, damn uppity nigger, cutting classes and failing his academic subjects just to see, maybe, what Breuer would do, what
Breuer could do; but Jinx takes his subjects almost as seriously as he takes basketballthough nothing so compels him as basketball, of course, that fire blazing bright, and brighter still, into which the boy stares mesmerized; if he isn't playing or practicing he's thinking about it, the court, the hardwood gleaming floor he has memorized, the bounce of the ball, the ball at his fingertips, the ball at chest level, the ball lifted in one graceful hand and thrown though it looks like tossed, airilyinto the basket: in his twenty three years of coaching at Hammond, Hank Breuer has never witnessed anything quite like it.
He seems to re member, though, that Jinx Fairchild wasn't always quite so serious about basketball; this new seriousness began suddenly, over a year ago. Suddenly the kid is practicing by himself after school and even after his summer job: eight hours at Cassadaga Gravel, then home to eat, then out to a playground or to the park to practice more hours, the sign of a sure professional, and if Hank Breuer senses from time to time that there is anything excessive or troubling about the boy's dedication to the sport he isn't going to inquire, isn't that kind of coach, and especially not to the black boys on his teams What he likes about Jinx Fairchild is Jinx is the kind of natural athlete so good at what he does there's no need for boasting and strutting and hogging the ball; it's a sweet thing Jinx Fairchild will do, shrugging off his teammates occasional blunders, the way sometimes they'll let him down during a game, clumsy passes, stupid fouls, Jinx will say it's an off night for the team, shrugging, saying, Yah, we all got a lot to learn, we ain't the Harlem Globetrotters. Hank Breuer likes it too that Jinx Fairchild can subordinate himself to the team and to the needs of the team: gifted with eyes in the back of his head and always quick to pass the ball to the open man, no matter if the open man isn't going to handle it the way Jinx Fairchild might but he's generous that way, the other boys respect him for itso there goes one of the eager white boys leaping for the basketespecially if Hammond is far enough ahead, the game is winding down.
On the court, Jinx Fairchild is safe.
He's safe, on the court. Running with the team. The green and white Hammond uniform. The time clock ticking high overhead and every minute on display.
All things about Jinx Fairchild that are in the public eye he takes pride in. His white sneakers he keeps clean and dazzling white.
white socks, a double pair, that never droop down his calves like most of the other boys'. shirt straps never twisted or slipping off a shoulder. hair trimmed short but those sideburns growing two inches below his ears for a sharp arrowlike look. And the set of his shoulders, and his backbone, and the way he holds his head up high; even dribbling the ball he doesn't look down at the floor or at the ball the ball is his if it's at his fingertips there's a feeling of pride in it, and control, Iceman style, Iceman cool.
It's no surprise that the college scouts and recruitment officers are drawn to Jinx Fairchild like a magnet cause surely this Negro boy is going to be a credit to his race like Joe Louis, Jackie Robinson, Henry Aaron, Sugar Ray Robinson, someday? Eighteen years old and six feet three inches and still growing, one hundred eighty pounds lean, muscled, loose limbed, a star who's willing to be a team player, precious as gold. And soft spoken and gentle off the court, or seeming so.
If Jinx Fairchild takes note that there are never more than two or three Negroes on any Hammond sports team, football, basket ball, volleyball, nor, during basketball games, more than four Negroes on the court at a single time, he says nothing to his white teammates or to his coach but wonders is it a written down rule the Man abides by here in upstate New York or maybe everywhere?
Except in the South, where naturally there wouldn't be a single nigger on any team cause there wouldn't be a single nigger at most of the schools? A written down rule or just some belief or custom or superstition or instinct the Man abides by without fail?
He doesn't ask, though. That's not Iceman cool.
Like say some white boys on some opposing team, Lebanon, for instance, or Wrightsville, big hulking farmboy fuckers they're frustrated seeing Hammond score so they start in taunting nigger during the game, say it's an away game and the crowd is restless and hostile, if Jinx Fairchild hears hey, nigger, hey, shine, hey, coon he doesn't give a sign, or even if he's getting fouled accidentally on purpose, elbowed in the gut or neck, stiff armed when he jumps to shoot blocked by some hefty bastard so hard he's knocked to the floor tries not to show his hurt or pain or worry or fear he's been injured. or if he's angry enough to tear out somebody's throat with his teeth. He'll tell the referee his side of it but won't ever raise his voice to argue, that's mister Breuer's job; slow and collected cool he gets to his feet long legged as a colt, holding his head steady in dignity, shifting his shoulders to loosen the muscles, and takes the ball from the referee and goes to the foul line to take his free shot. and maybe at this time, at this moment, like sunshine pricking its way through a worn out shade, he'll have a thought of Little Red Garlock, whose head he bashed in, Little Red Garlock grinning at him, showing his crazy teeth, and the hair lifting in snaky tufts in the moonlit water, and the eyes, the wide open dead eyes. but if Jinx Fairchild breathes in deep and easy, once, twice, three times, his fingers gripping the ball at mid chest, his eyes unblinking on the basket, if Jinx Fairchild steps into his own secret space where no one can follow or even perceive him there, seeing merely the outermost husk of his bodily form, under standing he's safe on the court, under the principle of the brightly clocked time, if he directs the ball in his fingers to rise and arc and fall into the basket in a trajectory determined by his eyes.
he can't fail.
And applause or groans and jeers, he won't hear.
That's Iceman cool.
On the court, Jinx Fairchild is safe.
I believe we are born with Sin on our head and must labor to cleans ourselves all the days of our life. It is not a matter of Gods punishment but of Conscience, if there is no God nor Jesus Christ there is still Human Conscience.
Jinx Fairchild spends days on the assignment, a five hundred word composition for his senior English class on the topic I Believe, writing it out in large looping letters in blue ink, writing and rewriting in a ferocity of concentration nearly as singleminded as his concentration on basketball. The effort is exhausting. He has never thought of words on paper as expressions of the soul, the voice on paper a silent rendering of his own voice.
When he gets the composition back he sees to his shame that his teacher missis Dunphy has marked it in re d: numerous grammatical errors, several run on sentences, a fatal lack of clarity.
The grade is D , one of the lowest grades Jinx Fairchild has received in English, in years.
Ordinarily I would give a paper like this an F, missis Dunphy says, peering up at Jinx over her half moon glasses with a steely little smile of reproach You know the rule, Jinx, don't you? No run on sentences.
