The Squared Circle (14 page)

Rice seemed preoccupied with his clipboard, but Sonny ran hard laps all the same, in case the coach ever looked up. Julio Bates was doing a little clowning as he ran, swivel-hipping like a girl; some of the guys were giggling, but it made Sonny nervous. From everything he'd ever heard, you couldn't clown around where Rice was concerned.

When he blew the whistle, the coach told them to stop the laps and take a seat on the first two rows of bleachers. Sonny sat next to One Gram. As soon as Rice stood up to speak, it got silent as a church. When he started talking, he only needed a quiet voice: “It's obvious already that some of you are lazy. If you cut corners with me, I'll cut you off this team so fast you won't even see it coming. You'll be spending your afternoons down at Goldie's playing video games.” Then he picked up the clipboard again to write something brief.

So he
was
watching
, thought Sonny.
He must have been watching from the corner of his eye
. Sonny was breathing harder than he should have been; part of it was nerves.

No one talked while Brother Rice was writing. It was the first time Sonny had ever taken a long look at him. He was over six feet and more than 300 pounds. He was bald, except for some slicked-down hair above his ears. He had to be in his sixties, at least. His glasses had wire rims, and his long, sharp nose didn't seem to fit with the rest of his fleshy face.

After Rice put down the clipboard, he got a basketball from the ball rack. He stood in front of them again. “There are a few things each and every one of you had better understand right away. If you can't get yourself straight on these few things, then don't bother showing up tomorrow; we'll just wash your ass out of here right now.”

He paused for a moment, spinning the ball in his fat hands. No one made a sound.

“The first thing you have to understand is that as basketball players, none of you is worth a shit. Absolutely not worth a shit. Make certain you understand this simple premise.
Do
you?”

No one uttered a sound, especially not Sonny.

“I said, do you?”

“Yeah,” muttered the boys meekly.

“Then say it.”

Still, no one spoke.

“All of you. Say, ‘As basketball players, we are not worth a shit.'”

Keeping their eyes lowered and using quiet voices, they all repeated the sentence.

“That's the first thing,” said Rice. “I've seen most of you play, on last year's team, or in P.E., or even on the playground in some cases. You might think you're hot stuff, but you're not. You're not worth a shit. If you bust your ass in practice every day, which I will make certain that you do, if you listen and learn something about concentration, you might be worth a shit by the end of the season. But right now, you are not worth a shit. Say it again.”

They said it again. “I am not worth a shit,” said Sonny.

“You start with humility and there's a chance you might learn something.” He spun the ball some more.

“Second. We're not here to have fun. We're not here for a good time. We are here for one purpose and only one, and that is to win. We are here to win every game. If fun is what you want, go join the Boy Scouts or diddle your girlfriend.”

It was Rice's pattern to make frequent pauses so that things could sink in. Sonny couldn't take his eyes off the seams of the rotating basketball.

“In the past four years,” the coach continued, “the Abydos freshmen have won ninety-two games and lost eight. The eight losses disgust me; I resent them. In the past four years, we have won two state championships. I find it annoying that we didn't win all four years. What are we here for?”

“We're here to win,” the boys responded.

“Don't mumble, say it loud.”

“We're here to win!” Sonny could feel his own surge of adrenaline, even though he feared he wouldn't make the cut.

“Make certain you understand that. I'm not interested in a lot of horseshit about sportsmanship, or doing your best. Leave sportsmanship for the girls; if the cheerleaders want to deal with it, that's their business. Your business is finding what it takes to win, and nothing else. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Yes.” They spoke as one.

“Third. The rules I give you, you will follow to the
letter
. The first time you break a rule, you will take ten additional laps at every practice. The second time you break a rule, don't bother coming back. Your ass will be off the team, and I will expect never to see your dumb face around this gym again. Is that perfectly clear?”

More silence, for more sinking in.

“The first rule is this: When I'm talking, you are listening. You won't be clowning or making noises or staring around the gym. Look at this ball. Are you looking at it?”

Sonny stared at the seams that patterned the leather grain, rotating slowly in the fat hands. He wondered if there was anything else Rice could do with a basketball; there was no way to imagine him dribbling or shooting.

“If you look at the ball at all times, you won't be distracted. Look at the ball, keep your mouth shut, and listen carefully. It's the first and simplest way to learn something about concentration. When I tell you to do something, I expect to tell you once and only once.

“The second rule is this: You will never miss a practice, not for even one minute. At three-forty I expect to see you running laps. That means three-forty, not three-forty-one.” After a long pause, Rice said, “Those are the rules, the only rules, and you will follow them to the letter. Are there any questions?”

Sonny couldn't imagine the nerve it would take to speak up with a question, but after a moment or two of silence, Dick Lynch held up his hand and Rice nodded to him. “Does it matter what we wear to practice?” Lynch asked.

Rice shook his head. “It doesn't make any difference. What you're wearing right now is fine. As long as your dick's not hanging out, I don't care about your appearance.”

Some of the guys laughed, but Sonny only smiled. It was nervous laughter anyway. There weren't any more questions so Rice said, “We're going to work on defense today. Fifty percent of the game of basketball is defense, but players don't want to work very hard at it. They'd rather be down at the offensive end, sucking up all the glory they can. You don't play for me, though, if you don't play defense. Take five laps, hard ones, then stand under the south basket and I'll tell you what comes next.”

Sprinting his laps as hard as he could, Sonny came in near the front. Lynch was first, so he got to lead the first drill. It was running in place in your defensive crouch, going right or left according to which direction Lynch pointed the ball. Left, right, forward, back, in place. Over and over until Sonny's legs shook heavily and he was so winded a sharp pain scorched in his chest.

Rice then ordered them to pair off and get a ball from the rack. One Gram, Sonny's partner, held the ball. Some of the guys bounced their ball on the floor until they got a good look at Rice's face.

“Now listen up. If it's your turn for offense, dribble the ball against your partner and try to advance it toward the north end. Half of you can go the other way, so we've got some room. Okay, let's see if you've got anything at all. Go ahead.”

The fifteen pairs went at it. Guarding Warren felt familiar from the times of one-on-one in his driveway, but Sonny felt shaky indeed. After fifteen seconds, Rice blew the whistle. He bellowed at the guys playing defense. “Look at you, for God's sake! You're slouching like you're in line for movie tickets! Some of you are even crossing your feet! Get your feet apart and get balanced. Get squared up to your man and turn it up a notch. Now move it.”

Another quick whistle after another fifteen seconds. “Don't look at his head and don't look at his feet. Those are the things he can fake with. Look straight at the pit of his stomach, and I want to see some concentration. Do it again!”

Sonny guarded Warren with Rice's guidelines firmly in mind. From a balanced crouch, he concentrated hard on One Gram's stomach. He moved his feet quickly right or left, straining to keep himself balanced. He couldn't help but notice, when he moved up close one time to try and poke the ball away, that he and his friend were now the same height. Warren was more muscular, but they were both six feet one.

This time nearly thirty seconds passed before the whistle sounded. “I'd like to know the purpose of the three feet of daylight between you and your man. Is your arm four feet long? Do you honestly think you can put any pressure on the ball from back there? Think again, girls. When you play defense for me, I don't want to see any daylight. I want you in his face and in his shirt.” On the coach's harsh face was an expression of long-suffering; he shook his head wearily. “Let's try it again,” he said.

Sonny got right up on Warren's chest and slapped at the ball, but it was harder to keep his man from going around him. With his feet moving furiously, he fought to keep his balance. About 20 seconds' worth before the next whistle cut them off. “You guys aren't even close; you don't have a clue. You play defense with your feet, not your hands, not by reaching and grabbing. I told you you don't know anything about defense; maybe by now you're starting to believe me. We better say it again, girls. Tell me how good you are.”

“I'm not worth a shit,” they said, only this time angry and frustrated. Sonny wanted another chance, but Rice told them, “You guys are hopeless. Let's see if your partner is any better.”

One Gram handed the ball to Sonny. “Okay, go ahead,” ordered the coach.

When practice was over, they took five hard laps before heading to the locker room. Sonny could even remember how Julio had scampered down the row of lockers, snapping jockstraps as he went.

But a custodian was disturbing this reverie by tapping Sonny on the shoulder. “We're going to be working on this floor, Sonny. I guess you'll have to leave.”

Startled, Sonny turned to look. The custodian's name was Gus, it said so on his shirt. “What?”

“I'm afraid you'll have to leave now.” He spoke so politely.

Sonny stood up. “No problem,” he said. Of course the custodian named Gus would be polite. He was speaking not to a shaky ninth-grader in fear of Brother Rice's wrath, but to Sonny Youngblood, SIU all-American, the MVP of the Big Apple NIT, and star of the third-ranked team in the nation.

“Sorry,” Gus repeated.

“No problem,” Sonny repeated. “I was just thinking of Brother Rice.”

“He's in a nursing home now.”

“That's what I heard. It's not surprising if you think about his lifestyle. Maybe the surprising thing is, he's still alive at all. I have some place I have to go now anyway. See you later.”

The place Sonny had to go was the Abydos Community Library, and with a surprising sense of purpose. The quiet library was dark wood and low lighting. His only real memories of the place were associated with Barb, doing homework together.

Using an encyclopedia of mythology and a book called
The Golden Bough
, Sonny needed the better part of three hours to write a report on Isis and Osiris. The focus he needed to find was all the more difficult because there seemed to be two distinct tales: the one where Isis recovered the coffin of Osiris and brought him home, and the other where he was dismembered, so she had to locate his body parts and reassemble them. Then there was the nasty problem of simply writing it all out, because writing was never easy for him.

At 4:00 the library closed, but he was nearly finished anyway. Outside it was dusk, but the drizzle had stopped and the temperature hovered near 40 degrees. He stopped at Goldie's to see if anyone might be hanging out. Besides some guys from the implement plant who wanted to slap his back and talk about Saluki basketball, Julio Bates and Andrea were in a corner booth.

First they wanted to see his new car, but he talked them out of it. “You can see it before I leave,” he said.

“Oh, just another RX-7,” joked Andrea.

“You know how it is with my uncle, the cars are always coming and going.”

“I wish I knew.”

Julio and Andrea were both enrolled at Shawnee Community College in Ullin. Andrea said, “Barb's in Europe right now on a choir tour.”

“You see her often?”

“Hardly ever. She's written me a couple of letters.”

Sonny asked Julio about basketball at Shawnee.

“It's okay. I've been playin' sixth man, but there's a guy who's goin' ineligible. I might get to start this semester.”

“That's good, Julio.”

Julio laughed, then he shrugged. “Well it ain't the
Salukis, amigo
. I've been watchin' you guys on the tube.” He stopped long enough to shake his head and make a whistling sound through his teeth. “What can I say?”

Andrea made a groaning sound. “Are we going to talk about basketball now?”

“Chill out,” Julio told her. “We're talkin' about
numero uno
here.”

“Not in the polls.” Sonny smiled at him.

“Yeah, don't tell me. I've seen with my own eyes.”

“We
are
going to talk about basketball.”

“You want to come to a game?” Sonny asked Julio.

“Sure, but there's no tickets. There's
never
any tickets.”

“I get comp tickets for every game. I can get you
free
tickets.”

“Are you serious?”

“Would I kid about a thing like this? Just pick your date.”

“He picks me,” said Andrea.

“Not that kind of date, a date on the schedule.”

“Can you get two tickets?” asked Julio.

“Not a problem,” Sonny assured him. “I can get up to six tickets.”

Julio laughed, then reached across the table to give Sonny a high five. They knocked over a Coke. Andrea started blotting furiously with a handful of napkins. “Let's leave before we get thrown out,” she said. “Can we see your car now?”