The Squared Circle (23 page)

She said to him, “Sonny, I know we've talked about this before, but you think you'll be somebody if you're a basketball star. That's not what makes a person important, it's what they are on the inside.”

Her tone was sincere, but he hated the way she didn't understand. “Before basketball, what was I? Who cared about me then?”

“
I
cared about you then.”

“Why?”

“Because of who you are; who you were.”

She didn't get it. He got up to pace some more. “I don't know how you
could
understand. Your father's rich and your mother's the PTO president. You've been somebody your whole life.” They were his honest thoughts, but he was surprised by the bluntness of his words. He unhooked the chain from behind his neck.

He was standing in front of her with the chain and ring hanging from his index finger. “There's no way you can understand this,” he said.

When she reached for the ring, she had tears in her eyes. “Like I said, Sonny, sometimes I feel like I don't know you anymore.”

The ring and chain nestled into the hollow of her open palm. He would go home now, make himself a peanut butter sandwich, and eat a couple of bowls of stale butterscotch pudding. He would get to school ten minutes early for the tournament bus.

He might have two black eyes, but the tender swelling across the bridge of his nose was reduced. He might even play without the face mask. With or without it, though, it wouldn't matter; he knew all of the teams in the tournament and all of their personnel. No one could stop him. No one from Cairo, or Egyptian High, or Mounds Meridian, or Anna-Jonesboro. No one could stop him.

The national pollsters might have been slow to recognize the achievements of the Salukis, but not so the NCAA selection committee when tournament pairings were announced. Their number one seed in the Midwest guaranteed them a spot in the Indianapolis Hoosierdome if they won their two subregional games in Louisville. Since Louisville and Indianapolis were both relatively close to Carbondale, SIU fans could participate in large numbers.

For nearly a week, the campus was a media blitz. The hysteria that gripped the region seemed to intensify with the arrival of each new contingent, whether from
USA Today
, ESPN, or CBS. In the midst of all this glory, though, Sonny felt alienated. His heart was not in it, could not get in it. Instead, he found himself lost in the peculiar and mystifying malaise that he labeled “the float,” the ongoing condition of distracted ennui.

His heart was not in the photo sequence arranged by
Sports Illustrated
and neither was his head. The sequence, which
SI
editors intended to call “Jam Session,” required Sonny and Luther to wear tuxedos and hold trumpets or saxophones while dunking basketballs. He had no focus in the press conferences, each one of which opened with Coach Gentry's disclaimer that he would not answer questions about the NCAA investigation into the Saluki program, nor would he answer any more questions about SIU's so-called “soft” schedule.

At Wednesday's press conference, the day before their first tournament game, Warner the sportswriter rescued him by taking him for a walk around McAndrew Stadium.

According to Warner, the SIU basketball program was in line for some severe NCAA penalties. His candor in saying so in his columns made him
persona non grata
with Coach Gentry; Warner was no longer allowed to travel with the team.

“You really pissed him off, I guess,” said Sonny.

Warner just shrugged. “It's not my job to make Gentry happy. Athletics has a sports information office to take care of the propaganda. What's the story on your slump?”

“I'm in a slump,” Sonny agreed.

“You haven't had one all season, so I guess you're entitled.”

“I guess,” Sonny mumbled.

Warner was walking with his hands wrapped around his Styrofoam coffee cup. No notebook and no ballpoint. “You know what it looks like?”

“No, I don't.” Sonny replied. “You're not writing any of this down.”

“This is just between you and me. I'm only curious about what's going on with your game.”

“Okay, what does it look like?”

“Like you're sleepwalking. Like you're not motivated. It looks like you're gliding, just on talent.”

How much does he know?
Sonny wondered. “Some games you get pumped more than others, Warner.”

“Bullshit. Not you, Youngblood. I've been watching you play for four years. You never put it on idle. Never.”

Sonny tried to brush him off. “If you say so.”

“Are you losing your nerve?”

“What's that supposed to mean? Are you a psychiatrist or something?”

Warner laughed before he said, “No, just a Wal-Mart psychologist. Are you going to answer the question?”

But before he could even try to answer, unexpectedly and abruptly, Sonny was whisked in memory to eighth-grade football. In a game hopelessly lost, Coach Risby had assigned him to kick-off return. When the ball tumbled fearfully out of the sky, Sonny's main concern, other than fumbling, was keeping his loose-fitting pants from falling down. With his head down, he hoped to more or less fall to the ground, so someone could drop on him. But there was no contact.

“I guess there must've been some pretty good blocks,” he said to Warner. “By the time I got my head up again, I was in the clear. I was all the way to the forty, and the only thing in front of me was sixty yards of green grass.”

“I can't picture you playing football, Youngblood.”

“Not after the eighth grade, not after I discovered hoops.”

“So what happened? Did you take it all the way?”

“Not hardly. It was too scary, because it was too unexpected. By the time I got across the fifty, I could feel my legs start to shake. I knew there was a guy chasing me from behind, and I didn't want to get tackled by someone I couldn't even see. I started stumbling at about the forty, but it took at least ten yards before I went down completely. I was flat on my face, and nobody touched me.”

“You didn't fumble, though?”

“No. I probably would have, but I landed right on top of the ball.” Sonny listened to his own words resonating remote, like an unfamiliar echo.

“That's losing your nerve,” said Warner. “I think it's called the fear of success.”

“Okay, Mr. Psych.”

“What does your cousin tell you?” Warner asked.

Sonny looked him in the eye. “Do you know my cousin Erika?”

“I know
of
her.”

“Then you don't know her,” Sonny declared. “Let me ask you a question, Warner. In your articles, you keep saying that the NCAA has got the goods.”

“Is that the question?”

“The question is, how do you know?”

“I know from gathering information. From talking to lots and lots of people, then putting two and two together.”

“You know more than you're saying, then. Right?”

Warner smiled and answered, “Doesn't everybody? Sonny, when they interviewed you, did it seem like they were on a fishing expedition?”

Sonny thought of Yates and Brosky and their intentional questions. “No. It seemed like they already knew a lot of stuff, which made me feel like I was gettin' jerked around.”

“Exactly. They
do
have a lot of stuff; they may have more stuff than they need.”

“They asked me so many questions about my uncle Seth.”

Warner's head was bobbing. “What they're doing at this point in time is gathering additional information to corroborate the charges they're planning to bring against the program. You could say they're strengthening their case. Just one man's opinion, of course, and I could be wrong.”

Sonny doubted if Warner was wrong. “Are you saying they're going to put us on probation? Are you saying it's already decided?”

This time Warner shook his head. “Nobody knows what penalties the committee on infractions will impose, but there will be some. No doubt the NCAA has a prepared list of allegations; in my opinion, they have the goods to make the allegations stick.”

“And what if they don't?”

“I don't think it matters. It's their game, and their rules. If they want to stick you, there's nothing to stop them.”

“Terrific.” Sonny glanced around to see if there was anyone within hearing distance before he said quietly, “Robert Lee says they're going to get Luther for using steroids.”

“Is that what Robert Lee says?”

“Yeah. He also says that Luther's transcript from junior college was doctored.” Sonny watched Warner's face to see if there was any reaction, but the sports-writer was simply using his tie to clean his glasses. “You know all of this, don't you?”

“I know a few things, and I've heard a lot more things. You can't really know about a transcript unless you've seen it.”

More impatient, Sonny said, “Okay, what
can
you tell me?”

“What can I tell you for sure? I can tell you this, Sonny: Get yourself a good attorney.”

His heart sank. “We have Ernst.”

“I don't mean the university attorneys. I mean your own personal attorney. The last thing I want to do is alarm you right before a tournament game, but you asked what I can tell you. Get yourself a good lawyer.”

The first-round game, against Texas A&M, was a blowout after eight minutes. Weak as Sonny felt, he scored comfortably from the perimeter against a sagging 1-2-2 zone. His three-pointers were effortless smart bombs. It was junior high P.E. Under no duress, he scored 19 points, then spent most of the second half on the bench with the other starters.

But the second-round game was scary, and not just to Sonny. Matched against the intelligent efficiency of Princeton, the Salukis were missing shots and losing composure. They lost composure on the defensive end mostly, where Princeton's methodical passing game ran as much clock as possible. A crew-cut guard named Applegate was swishing threes, and Sonny was too shaky to stay with him. The Tigers had a six-eight grunt player as well, who used his body skillfully to get Luther into foul trouble.

The lead at halftime was only three points, and to make matters worse, Luther would have to sit out much of the second half. “At least you don't have any fouls,” Workman said to Sonny.

Sonny might have told him,
I'm too weak to foul anybody
, but he didn't. When Workman asked him if he was feeling okay, Sonny replied, “I'll be fine.” With a stomach that felt like it housed a shotput.

His shakes got so bad in the second half that Sonny started faking it and grabbing onto his shorts. For only the second time all season, SIU was behind in the second half. Most of the neutral fans cheered even louder for the underdog Princeton Tigers, while the lethargy of the large SIU contingent testified to a condition of shock.

Sonny's frustration brought tears to his eyes. The body that refused to do what he commanded. When C.J. Moore shook the ball loose in a corner trap, Sonny snatched it and drove straight to the hole. He cocked the ball behind his head, preparing to slam it, but the takeoff in his knees was weak as pudding. It devastated him in his airborne impotence to realize that he was going to come up short.

When a Princeton forward collided with him from the side to knock him from the end of the court, he almost felt relieved. He hit the floor with a thud that hushed the crowd, then lay still on his back. Even though his collision with the floor was a shock, Sonny knew at once he wasn't injured. Neither did he feel the urge to get up. Inexplicably at peace, he stared into the huge circle of ceiling lights and watched them coalesce like distant traffic. But surely he must have heard the shower of boos pouring forth from the SIU section to remind the Princeton culprit of his sin.

“Are you hurt, Sonny?” It was either Workman or the trainer; they were both crouched over him.

“I'm not hurt.”

“Don't get up in a hurry, just lay still.”

Sonny wasn't in a hurry at all; just the opposite. He felt numb but relieved, like someone just pulled the plug. A burning line of sweat entered the corner of his eye from the bridge of his nose. With the back of his hand, he wiped it clean.

“I'm not hurt,” he repeated.

It was a long time before they finally got him to his feet to lead him to the bench. When they did, the roaring crowd's approval was distant and muffled. He slumped on the bench as the game resumed. The trainer looked into his eyes, then Dr. Kelso did the same thing, except with the small flashlight. Gentry checked Sonny briefly before asking Kelso, “Can we put him back in the game?”

“We need to hold him out. I'm going to have to examine him tomorrow. Couple of X rays probably, just to play it safe.”

Without a word, Gentry returned to his seat. He sent Luther back in to play with four fouls.

Dr. Kelso asked Sonny if he felt well enough to stay on the bench or if he needed to go to the locker room. Without looking up: “I'm fine right here.” He used the towel to sop some of the sweat from his face.

“I know how disappointed you are, Youngblood.”

Sonny nodded but didn't speak; disappointment was the farthest thing from his mind. The only feeling he still had was the relief. Luther and C.J. led a comeback that won the game, 81–74, in overtime.

Naturally, whenever the ball bounded off the court and into the ditch, the job of retrieving it was Sonny's. Under clear skies, the temperature reached into the fifties; it was only in the low-lying ditch with the northern exposure where traces of slush clung stubbornly. Sonny palmed up the ball, then used his sweatshirt to wipe the dirty ice crystals from its pebbled surface.

Even while in the prone position, Willie Joe could make chest shots from out near the free throw line. Sonny could do it, too, but with the added advantage of leg whip for extra leverage.