The Squared Circle (7 page)

Luther Cobb was a monster on the boards. At six feet seven inches and 235 pounds, he pounded out a performance to match his image. After the game, he and Coach Gentry were the postgame interview for ESPN. Coach Gentry observed that “It was gratifying for an opening game. The rough spots were to be expected.”

When asked about the large margin of victory, Luther told the interviewer, “Ain't no big thing.”

The 88-channel capability of the cable TV in their room held a powerful fascination for Robert Lee, who manhandled the remote like a video game. “Check this out,” he said to Sonny, when he located the late-night triple-X movie channel.

“Who cares?” The restless Sonny Youngblood prowled the room and brushed his teeth three times.

“I know what it is,” said Robert Lee. “You're all unglued because you got your shot blocked.”

“Nobody ever blocks my shot.”

“You scored nineteen points, am I right? You know what your problem is, Sonny? You're just not used to screwing up. You're too good.”

“Nobody blocks my fucking shot! The next time I think finger roll, I'll just dunk it. If I'da dunked it, that never could've happened.”

“Right,” said Robert Lee, who had just located a Cuban channel. “Can we kiss it off now?”

“There has to be another notch in the switch,” Sonny muttered. “There will be.”

“I said, can we kiss it off?”

The following night, for the Michigan game, the crowd was large, although less than capacity. Rated number three in the country, the Wolverines were heavily favored. During warm-ups, Sonny felt his tension increase when he looked in the direction of Michigan's senior all-American, Alonzo Lipes. “How good is Lipes?” he asked Luther.

“I played against him in a summer league two years ago,” Luther replied. “Lipes can play.”

When the teams were at the bench for last-minute instructions, Sonny had to go to the locker-room toilet to throw up. A security man was staring at him until Sonny told him to get out. Scarlet-faced, hanging on the porcelain, heaving up phlegm when it was all that was left in his tract, Sonny missed the starting lineup introductions.

He was shaky in the early minutes, but it was a disastrous night for Michigan. The Salukis buried them 102–65, in a game that wasn't even close at halftime. Michigan tried zoning for a while, but zoning a team that counted Sonny Youngblood among its members was a futile proposition. His accuracy from outside the arc was uncanny, while C.J. Moore on the other wing was a deadly perimeter shooter as well.

When Michigan went to the man-to-man, it merely revealed the Saluki balance. Luther's power moves underneath demanded double-teaming, which left the six-ten Royer free for a string of uncontested short jumpers in the paint.

For his part, Sonny was on fire. He led all scorers with a 40-point game. In addition to his breathtaking demonstration of three-point shooting, he ripped home a pair of reverse slams off the half-court trap. Even Robert Lee got enough playing time to root around for 11 points and shake the ball loose several times with his physical, nose-to-nose defense.

With six minutes remaining, and the lead mounted to 40 points, Sonny caught the substitutes lined up at the scorers' bench from the corner of his eye. He stole an errant pass and bolted for the Michigan basket.
Just this one more before Coach takes me out
.

The frustrated Alonzo Lipes flew at him while Sonny soared at the iron, the ball cocked in both hands behind his head. He powered home his monster dunk an instant before Lipes's left hand delivered a glancing blow against the back of his head.

He made his free throw pure to complete the three-point play. As soon as Sonny came out of the game, he went straight to the locker room for more vomiting. It was a different security guard this time. Sonny had the shakes and some uncomfortable palpitations as well. Drained of color and energy, he lay on one of the benches with a wet towel over his face.

A minute before the game was over, Workman came in and said they wanted him for an ESPN interview.

“Forget it,” he told Workman, without lifting the towel.

“You okay, Sonny?”

“I'm fine. No interview though.”

There was a big party in the hotel ballroom with refreshments, reporters, and photographers. Most of the reporters learned soon enough that Sonny wasn't a good interview, so it wasn't surprising when they tended to gather around Luther and Coach Gentry. One reporter, however, a man from
Newsday
, asked Sonny what he thought about New York City.

“Not much,” he replied. He was drinking a large glass of punch and gobbling French pastries on his still-queasy stomach.

“You don't like the Big Apple?”

“I didn't say that. I just don't think about it much.”

As poised as Coach Gentry was in the press conference environment, he never seemed comfortable when his players hobnobbed with the media. This time was no exception. At 11:45
, he told Price to herd them to their rooms. Even before Sonny and Robert Lee got inside the room, the phone was ringing.

It was Uncle Seth, drunk and in the company of several cronies. He told Sonny, “We've been sitting here counting the rings. We got up to one hundred and sixty before you answered.”

“Hi, Uncle Seth.”

Seth and the other revelers took turns on the receiver, proclaiming the glory of this moment in loud, slurred syllables. Sonny held the receiver three feet from his head so Robert Lee could hear as well.

To win the finals the next night, they had to beat St. John's. Not regarded as a great team, St. John's had upset favored Louisville to reach this title game. Since St. John's was a New York City team, the Redmen would enjoy a huge homecourt advantage. Before the game even started, the noise level from the 16,000 partisans was like a tidal wave, and it was hostile. Sonny could feel his stomach churning, but it wasn't enough to give him nausea.

The intimidation generated by the roaring crowd didn't endure past the 14-minute mark, when the score was 15–14. At halftime, the SIU lead was swollen to 47–25. By the time the blowout was over, 94–63, the crowd had thinned out considerably; Madison Square Garden was as quiet as a practice gym.

Reporters swarmed the locker room, but Coach Gentry moved everyone quickly in order to meet the midnight flight from La Guardia. Because he was chosen the Most Valuable Player for the tournament, Sonny did have to stick around for a center-court ceremony and a brief interview with cable hookups. One writer described his style of play as that of a “dervish.” Another labeled him the “Tasmanian Devil of the hardwood,” whatever that meant. But at 18 years and 11 months, Sonny Youngblood was averaging 32 points a game against high-level competition, and bringing home the MVP plaque from the Big Apple NIT.

Lights out on the plane, but it seemed to Sonny that he was the only one having trouble sleeping. He twisted his long limbs this way and that in search of a comfortable space. His stomach was still queasy from game-generated tension and gorging on available snacks. His racing mind permitted only intermittent dozing, in and out.

In the disorientation of this racing mind, he found himself out of time and place. The vivid images in his brain were not of the NIT, but somehow of the freshman team back in Abydos. He wasn't on a plane at all; he was back on the bus to Tamms, in the ninth grade. It was a long and winding ride in the dark, especially after the driver, who was new, got lost and ended up in Thebes. They had to use secondary roads cutting through the Shawnee National Forest. There were patches of frozen snow along the shoulder and every once in a while Sonny caught a glimpse of the naked trees along the bluffs.

Most of the other guys didn't seem as tense as he was, but then he was the only one with no previous game experience. Butch Cross played a battery-operated video game, while Julio was listening to a tape on his Walkman. Sonny had a seat to himself, but across the aisle was One Gram, who kept a steady stream of small talk going. With his attention primarily out the window, Sonny didn't hear much of what he said, so he just grunted yes or no every so often.

Brother Rice, who was hulked up in the front seat, wouldn't tolerate a lot of noise on the bus. At the moment, he had Dick Lynch in the “seat of honor,” the one right behind the driver. He was talking to Lynch in a conversational tone, while pointing to diagrams on index cards. Sonny couldn't hear what he was saying, but he had Lynch's undivided attention.

When it was his turn, Sonny felt proud because Brother Rice didn't put you in the seat of honor unless he thought you were a significant player. Nerves took over in a hurry, though, and his heart began to thump in his chest. Rice leaned close to tell him, “If we get ahead of this team, I want to use the diamond press in the second half. I want you on this wing.” He showed Sonny the index card with the diamond press configuration. He pointed to the X on the right wing.

Rice's labored breathing smelled like cigarettes; there were droplets of perspiration formed on his forehead.

“Okay,” said Sonny.

“What did we say about the press in practice?” Brother Rice asked him.

Sonny licked his dry lips. “We have to put pressure on the ball all the time,” he said.

“Some of the time?”

“No, all the time.”

“And you remember what I said about fouls.” Rice's voice was like gravel.

“I remember.”

“Okay, tell me. What did I say about fouls?”

Sonny had to lick his lips again. “It's okay to foul because you have to find out what the refs will let you get away with.”

“Exactly. A press that doesn't intimidate in every way possible is not worth a shit.” Then he clapped Sonny on the knee and said, “Good concentration, Youngblood; just be sure your head is in the game.”

During warm-ups, Sonny was careful to shoot only conventional layups, soft off the glass. No finger rolls. Dick Lynch tried a semidunk which was a big failure; all he did was more or less pin the ball dead on the front of the rim. Then he had a sheepish grin when some of the guys hooted him. Sonny didn't say a word. He thought he could outjump Lynch anyway.

The gym was about half full of spectators, which Sonny thought must be a good crowd for a freshman game. He said so to Julio.

“It is a good crowd,” said Julio. “But that's what you get when Abydos plays.”

“Really?”

“Damn right. You'll see.”

When the game started, Sonny was on the bench, about three down from Rice himself. Rice's “head in the game rule” meant that even though your ass was on the bench, your mind better be on the court. You weren't supposed to do any gabbing or goofing off, you needed to concentrate 100 percent on the game, especially on the guy playing your position.

Sonny rooted for Abydos to get a big lead, so he would get to play. It wasn't necessary, though; when the game was only four minutes old, it was only a matter of
how
big the lead would be, and how soon.

The Abydos defensive pressure produced lots of turnovers, which led to easy baskets. On offense, Julio was like lightning at the point guard position, dropping off pinpoint passes for easy baskets by his teammates, mostly Lynch and One Gram. Abydos had a lead of 24–9 at the quarter; by halftime, the score was 44–24. Watching his team execute and dominate, Sonny felt his adrenaline flow like a river.
It almost takes your breath away
, he thought.
I've got to be a part of this
.

Halfway through the third quarter, Sonny got in. It didn't help his nerves any when Rice started squalling at him to play tougher defense. “Get in his face, Young-blood, what the hell do you think you're gonna do from back there?? You're not playing pocket pool, you're
trapping
!”

Embarrassed and shaky, Sonny took deep breaths. The only sliver of consolation was knowing Rice wouldn't get on your case unless he decided you were worth it. The next time an Egyptian player got trapped on his side, Sonny went straight at the guy and raked the ball loose with both hands. But he also bodied him out-of-bounds and got whistled for a foul. Sonny quickly looked at Rice, but there was no reason to be shook; the coach was grinning the crooked grin and giving him the thumbs-up.

One Gram, who was seated next to the coach, shouted encouragement: “In his face, Sonny, in his face!”

While they were lined up to shoot the free throws, Sonny watched as the Egyptian coach, Barnes, walked over to Rice. Barnes wanted to know why Rice was putting on the press with a 30-point lead.

“Kiss my ass,” was all Rice said to him, without even looking in his direction.

On offense, Sonny turned down several jump-shot opportunities. It felt safer just to make quick passes; it got him into the flow of the game and over feeling stressed. Twice in the fourth quarter he anticipated the path of the pass that the trapped Egyptian player would have to make. Both times he stepped up easily to intercept, and with two quick strides and a single dribble, made the soft layup. Both times it all happened so fast there was no time to think, like it was instinct, like it was
inner
.

What was
not
inner was the air turbulence over Cleveland. Sonny sat up straight in his seat, along with several of the other players. There was some low-level murmuring and grumbling. He was surprised to find Coach Workman sitting beside him, but maybe he shouldn't have been; of Gentry's three assistants, it was Workman whose emotional bond with players was most secure. “You okay, Youngblood?”

“Yeah, why not? Is this okay?”

“It's just a pocket of turbulence, nothing unusual. Have you done much flying?”

“No. Only when I made a visit to UCLA. That, and the flight back.”

“You want something?”

“Have you got something?”

“Just these. They help sometimes.”

Sonny looked at the two tiny white pills. “What is this, Dramamine?”