The Squared Circle (25 page)

Without turning in his direction, his mother blinked. Sonny couldn't be sure, but it looked as if her eyes moistened and her crow's-feet softened.

Sonny said to Sissy, “Are you sure you don't want to come with me?”

“Thank you, but I'm sure I've had all the basketball excitement I can stand for one year.”

“I better be goin'. I'll pick you up afterwards.”

“I'll be here.”

When Sonny got to the house, Uncle Seth was keen to discuss his malaise and the team's apparent decline, but Aunt Jane told him to hush. “This is Sonny's special night. If you want to talk about problems, that can wait.”

Uncle Seth drove. When they got to the parking lot outside the gym, the crowd surged close to the car. Sonny got his back slapped so many times by well-wishers he got separated from Seth and Jane, but it was okay since he wouldn't be sitting with them anyway.

He took his place on the temporary stage beneath the south basket, which was winched up out of the way. By the time the festivities began, the bleachers were filled, along with 500 folding chairs arranged in rows on the gym floor.

The costumed cheerleaders led the crowd through an earsplitting chorus of the standard Abydos cheer:

Rah! Rah! Go, fight Ras!

Go, fight, win,

Go, fight, win,

Rah! Rah! Go, fight Ras!

After the roar subsided, the first order of business was to honor the Abydos High team on its recent third-place finish in the state tournament at Assembly Hall in Champaign. All 12 players came on stage, wearing their tournament medals, as their names were called. The last one up was Bobby Reed, the captain. A wiry forward who'd been Sonny's backup one year ago, Reed was a 17-point scorer and honorable mention all-state. With the help of Collins, the new coach, Reed hoisted the massive trophy on high. The standing ovation, which was deafening, lasted more than two minutes. Sonny wondered how the roof stayed in place. Finally, when the players and coaches left the stage, the cheerleaders twirled their way through two more rounds of cheers.

Mr. Doyle, the principal, approached the microphone and waved for quiet. Eventually, the crowd honored his request. “I don't have to tell all of you how proud we are at Abydos of our rich basketball history.”

The principal was interrupted by loud applause, so he paused long enough to take a drink of water. “Even by our standards, however, Sonny Youngblood's chapter in that history will stand out in boldface.”

Again, he was interrupted by enthusiastic applause, as many in the crowd came to their feet. Sonny squirmed in his chair. He looked down at his feet and wished there was some way he could become invisible. As soon as the quiet was restored, Doyle went on: “The thirty-five hundred points he scored in his career at Abydos places him second on the all-time IHSA scoring list, just behind the legendary Charlie Vaughn. To put this achievement in some kind of perspective, let me just point out that further down the scoring list, looking up at Sonny, are such names as Cazzie Russell, Quinn Buckner, Isiah Thomas, and Mark Aguirre.”

Listening only with part of his focus, Sonny was searching the crowd for familiar faces. There were many, of course, but the person he was surprised to locate was Barbara Bonds. Seated with her parents, she was high up in the balcony at the far end. Sonny wished their eyes could meet, but it was difficult to make out her face, which seemed partly occluded by one of the hanging banners. Or maybe it was simply looking over too much time and space. The twist of regret he felt had no chance to develop, though, since Doyle was asking him to come forward.

Sonny got to his feet. The loud and long ovation gave him time to lick his dry lips and swallow several times. Doyle presented him with his high school jersey, the shiny gold with the maroon number 14, and a large plaque of glossy wood with a brass plate affixed. The plate listed Sonny's most singular scoring records.

“You can take the plaque home, Sonny, but we'll keep the jersey here, safe in our lobby trophy case. From this time forth, no player at Abydos will wear the number fourteen; it is officially retired to its place of honor.”

Doyle sat down while Sonny stepped to the mike in the eye of an ovation that seemed to shake the building. It went on and on. It was good in a way, because it gave him time to try and establish some emotional composure. He draped the jersey over his shoulder and when the noise died down enough that he might be heard, he adjusted the mike upward. It squealed with feedback on the way up, which set his teeth on edge, but also turned down the volume of the crowd.

When there was enough quiet that he might be heard, he said, “I want to thank you all for this honor.” But his mouth was so dry he had to swallow again before continuing. “I guess you all know we're in the NCAA tournament.”

The huge applause that interrupted him gave him a chance to drink from the glass of water at the podium. “I don't know how far we'll get, but we're ranked number one in the country and we've made it to the round of sixteen. That ain't too bad.”

Another raucous ovation gave him a chance to drink more water. He looked up to the far corner of the balcony but he still couldn't make out her face, at least not distinctly. He felt a sudden urge to say something
meaningful
; was it her presence that precipitated the impulse?

When the noise subsided to only a few lingering hoots and whistles, he found himself saying, “I think I've learned a little something this year.”

Now the crowd was quiet. Sonny felt his heart pumping up but he went ahead: “We're all crazy about basketball. Sometimes it's almost like if there was a nuclear war, everything would still be cool just as long as the gym wasn't blown up. We eat basketball, and we drink it, and we sleep it; but the truth is, there's more to life.” He had to stop for more water. His knees were suddenly shaky. The crowd was gone now from quiet to silent, but it wasn't the whoop-it-up kind, the kind that simply anticipates the next opportunity to explode. It was now the uneasy, curious kind.
Why am I doing this?

“What I'm trying to say is, your whole life can't be just one thing. A person's life can't be just one thing because there's more to every person than just one thing.” More dry mouth now, because it all seemed so absurd; this huge throng was programmed to go crazy, not listen to a jock with a 20 on his ACT reflect on the meaning of life. Sonny turned to look briefly at Mr. Doyle, who had a knit in his brow.

He turned back to the five thousand faces, now gone a little bit blurry. They were silent as a Sunday morning congregation about to begin the pastoral prayer. Was it simply the fact that he would probably never again in his life hold the undivided attention of thousands of people? Was it Sissy's influence? Was it an unexpected opportunity to get it right with the girl (now a woman) seated in the far end of the balcony? These were some of the questions, but what were the answers?

And what would he say to the people about the
other things
, the
important
things? Would he tell them about his cousin Sissy who hated big-time college sports but was nevertheless important in his life somehow? Would he tell them about the legless black man with oceans of humor and generosity of spirit whose success in life was rooted in his refusal to be a victim? Or maybe the meaning of murals rescued tediously with skill and courage but without recognition or public spotlight?

Or maybe something else altogether? But by this time the silence, extended past two minutes, was thoroughly embarrassing. He felt woozy. From behind, he could hear Doyle's voice: “Are you okay, Sonny?”

“I'll be okay,” he murmured.

“Are you sure?”

“I'll be okay.” Still woozy, Sonny looked up again at the blurry crowd. There was a way out of this. He wouldn't say the important things, but he knew the way out. He breathed deep before he spoke into the mike again: “Most of you know me,” he said. “You know I'm no good with words. What I know how to do is play, so let's leave it at this: See you at the Hoosierdome. Who knows, maybe we'll kick some ass.”

Quickly, although not immediately, the crowd's recognition of Sonny's return from the brief sojourn into pensiveness generated a long, firm swell of applause that was somehow still polite. He shook hands all around the stage, then was almost grateful for Uncle Seth's scheduled bash back at the house, since it gave him the opportunity to whisk away in the car.

As soon as he hung up his coat, Uncle Seth went right on past the kitchen refrigerator to the one in the pantry, where the open door revealed how the cases of beer were double-stacked.

“You want a cold one?”

Sonny shook his head.

Seth took a seat at the table and snapped back the pop-top on his gold can of Miller's. “Maybe you can tell me what's goin' on with you.”

Sonny stretched his legs. “Maybe I could. If I knew, maybe I could.”

“That's exactly what I'm talkin' about, remarks like that. What the hell were you trying to do in the gym? I couldn't believe it was you up there.”

“Me neither.”

The interruption was Aunt Jane's voice from the bottom of the stairs. She wanted to know how many people he expected.

“Maybe a couple dozen,” Seth hollered.

“How soon?”

“It'll be a few minutes anyway.”

So she asked him to take the pizza rolls out of the freezer. While he was getting them, Sonny said, “I've got a question of my own, Uncle Seth.”

His uncle thunked the frozen cartons on the counter, then sat down again. “You changing the subject on me?”

“I guess so.” The question wouldn't come easily, though; he had to clear his throat before he asked, “My question would be, how much?”

“How much what?” Seth was fishing a cigarette from his shirt pocket.

“How much money, Uncle Seth? When I signed my letter of intent at SIU, how much did you get from the boosters?”

“What, are you serious?”

Sonny thought for a moment. “I must be.”

“What is this shit?” Uncle Seth flattened his thin hair at the crown and lit the cigarette before looking up again. “Sonny, what is this shit?”

As nervous as he was, Sonny said anyway, “I'm askin' you a simple question. How much money?”

“Why are you talkin' to me like this?”

“Because I have to know. They're putting us through a meat grinder; it's called an NCAA investigation. The other question would be, what about the comp tickets? How much do you broker them for?”

“Where are you gettin' ideas like this?”

“A little at a time. I'm not as stupid as some people think.”

“I don't know anybody that thinks you're stupid.” Seth downed the rest of his beer aggressively, then broke open another. “Sonny, you don't really believe all the rumors the NCAA investigators are stirring up?”

“Are you gonna answer the question? Fifty thou is the figure I hear the most.”

“
Fifty thou
. Jesus Christ, listen to it. I don't know where you get stuff like this.” Uncle Seth looked so pissed his eyes were filmed over, but he also looked frightened.

“I've heard it even higher than that,” Sonny declared. “I've heard it all the way up to a hundred thou. I don't know what to believe, so you tell me. How much?”

Without a word, Seth stood up to go to the counter. With his back turned, he started breaking frozen pizza rolls apart by rapping them on the Formica. “Sonny, you got something to complain about? You got a complaint about the team you're on?”

“That's got nothing to do with it. Why would I complain about being on the number one team in the country?”

“Exactly. That's the bottom line, isn't it? Wasn't I with you every step of the way when it came to recruiting? Did I ever leave you hangin' out in the breeze?”

“You're not gonna answer me, are you?”

“You're a superstar on an undefeated team ranked number one in the country. You're on ESPN more often than Dick Vitale. You're drivin' a new car. I swear, it's getting so I don't even know you anymore.”

“Uncle Seth, you're not going to lay a guilt trip on me.” This hiding from the question seemed to Sonny the same as admitting the truth. “I'm just going to have to believe the most common rumor: thirty thousand for the booster club payoff, and twenty for the tickets.”

Uncle Seth let go of the pizza roll boxes and spread his hands on the counter, but he didn't turn around. “What do you want from me, Sonny?”

“Just the truth, is all.” Sonny answered. None of this was easy, but he didn't feel nervous any longer. The several moments of silence caused him to notice his own even breathing. Then he said, “You brokered me, didn't you, Uncle Seth?”

“Don't say that.”

“That's what you did, though. When I didn't have any parents left, you took me in and I'll always be grateful. So maybe you had the right. Who knows? But the fact is, you brokered me.”

“Don't say this, Sonny. Not tonight.” His uncle sat down in the chair again and slumped. He kept running the thick fingers through the thin hair. His western string tie was caught in the cuff of his shirt.

“For fifty thousand bucks,” said Sonny. He stood up and arched his back to get the stiffness out. “That, and the chance to feel like a big deal, like you're somebody real important. Are you gonna get fifty thou for my sophomore year, or does the price go up?”

“You're just not gonna get off of it, are you, Sonny?” Then he asked, “Why are you getting up?”

“I'm getting ready to leave. I'm picking Sissy up at the hospital, then we're going back to Makanda.”

“Jesus Christ. You can't leave now, what about the party?”

“Leaving is what I'm doing.” He took his coat from the doorknob on the back porch door and began putting it on. “It'll be a better party without me, because like you said, you don't know me anymore.”