Up at the College (37 page)

And as Charles Robinson and Bay Bowzer had recently discovered, many of Sonny Todd’s wins were actually losses. Bay Bowzer
had gone down in the back alleyways of black college basketball. He discovered that Sonny Todd had a very elaborate system
of picking and buying off the referees for each game he was concerned about losing. Consequently, Bay and Charles managed
to get a jump on old boy when they bought back the refs for Tuesday’s game—paying them double to be honest over what Sonny
Todd had paid them to cheat, and therefore tripling their take at this next game.

Charles and Bay had Pierre cracking up when they told him what they’d done. Then Charles said, “I cannot wait to see old boy’s
face go old-school-white-boy red when those referees get to making the right calls during the game. You know the red-face
flush I’m talking about when a white boy like Sonny Todd gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

Pierre pulled out a C-note. “My bet is that he’ll lose at the end of the third quarter.”

“I’ll raise you a hundred. Because it’ll happen somewhere during the second quarter,” Charles said and laid two hundred-dollar
bills on his desk.

“You both are going to lose your money,” Bay told them and laid five hundred dollars on the table. “He is going to bust a
gasket towards the end of the first quarter. Y’all in or are you too punked out to go there with me?”

“Oh … Hell naw …” Charles said and laid another four hundred dollars on the table. “I ain’t nevah skeered. What about
you, Pierre? You want to teach this youngblood a lesson or two about doing business with us?”

“I’m in, Boss,” Pierre said, and put down five hundred dollars.

“All I can say,” Bay told them as he put down his extra hundred dollars, “is that I am going to have a very very merry merry
Christmas on da house.”

The team was hyped about this game and had done and was doing everything that Coach told them to do. There was too much to
lose if they didn’t win this game—and so much to gain from a win over Bouclair College. First, due to Bouclair’s high ranking
in the league, the team who beat them automatically won that spot in the Conference play-off games. And second, the team knew
that such a win would raise their status in their league—which translated into attracting NBA scouts from across the country.

Because what a lot of folks didn’t know about Curtis’s best players was that they all had NBA potential. His top draft picks
were Apostle Grady Grey’s son, Sherron, who although only six feet six was the top center in the state. Then point guard Kaylo
Bailey, at five foot ten, would bring back fond memories of the days when Spud Webb set the courts on fire.

Curtis and Maurice glanced up at the clock. It was eight-thirty, the team had just completed their warm-up routine, and Coach
Bivens and Coach Palmer had yet to arrive. Maurice pulled out his cell phone but Curtis shook his head. He needed them to
be more than an hour late to make his next move.

It was the oddest feeling to experience God moving in his life in such a powerful and provocative manner through a basketball
game. Curtis would have thought that “a mighty move of God” such as the gospel artist Norman Hutchins sang about with such
fervor would come about through something dealing with traditional church life. But as Gran Gran had to tell him, this was
not about “church” but the Kingdom of God. And since the Kingdom could not be confined to a building, no matter how sacred
the edifice, it shouldn’t have surprised him that the Lord wanted to play this one out on center court.

The side door of the gymnasium opened. June Bug and DeMarcus strolled in, dressed to the nines in full-cut baggy designer
jeans, their leather team jackets, and throw-back jerseys. Two of the cheerleaders that Maurice swore were the long-lost descendants
of the biblical Jezebel were hanging on their arms. The squad captain, ShayeShaye Boswell, and her best friend, Larqueesha
Watts, gave the other players a
y’all are so lame
sneer, and then went to sit on the benches even though this was a closed practice.

As Curtis made his way over to where they were sitting, he thought that those two had to be some serious skoochies. Because
only overheated hoochie mamas could wear those tight lowrider jeans with identical black sweaters that came off the shoulder
and stopped right under the curve of their breasts, revealing some buffed and cut abs and waistlines. As much as he couldn’t
stand those little heifers, he had to admit they did look hot and good—and it was cold outside.

“You and your skoochies are excused,” Curtis told the four of them in an icy voice that made the brisk winds outside feel
like a warm Caribbean breeze.

DeMarcus, who looked so much like his father, Reverend Marcel Brown, it was uncanny, stood up and stepped up to Curtis. “We
have practice, Coach.”

“No, you don’t have practice, son. But we do,” Curtis told him firmly as he got up in DeMarcus’s face. He didn’t know who
this little boy, with milk still on his breath, thought he was. But he was getting ready to find out who he wasn’t.

DeMarcus backed down and moved away from Curtis.

“My grandfather is not going to be happy,” June Bug said, trying to pick up where he felt DeMarcus should not have left off.

When he stepped up, Curtis put the palm of his hand on June Bug’s chest and shoved him back onto the bench with so little
effort it scared the other players. They knew you didn’t mess with Coach Parker. But they didn’t know he had it like that.

Curtis pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. He stared down at June Bug, who was trying desperately to collect himself
and act as if that shove hadn’t hurt.

“Now you really have something to tell the bishop.” Curtis held the phone out toward June Bug. “Here, call him. It’s on me,
son.”

June Bug didn’t say a word, just glared at Curtis with pure venom in his face. He hated Coach Parker and would have done anything,
including throwing that game, to get back at him. He got up and said, “Let’s go. We don’t need to practice for the game ’cause
we got plenty of game.”

“The only way any of you will be at that game is if you buy a ticket. You are no longer benched. You”—Curtis pointed to June
Bug—“and you,” he continued, and pointed at DeMarcus, “are permanently dismissed from my team. So take your little hoochies
and get out of my gym.”

Curtis walked off without so much as a thought to giving them a backward glance. The team had been glued to the middle of
the gym, watching all of this play out. When Coach kicked them out, Sherron Grey said, “
For the Lord Most High is awesome. He is the great King of all the earth. He subdues the nations before us, putting our enemies
beneath our feet.
”

“Amen,” Maurice shouted out, to be followed by several more “Amens” from the team. He loved it that the team captain was so
filled up with the Word that he could pull those verses from Psalm 47 at the most perfect time.

Curtis waited until the side door slammed shut and then blew his whistle to get the team ready for the real practice. Quiet
as it was kept, he was glad those two little negroes had shown their butts like they did. He hadn’t just wanted to bench them.
He didn’t want them anywhere near this practice session because he did not want June Bug and DeMarcus watching their moves
and strategies. He knew they couldn’t stand the ground he walked on, and they would sell out their entire team if it meant
getting back at him.

He was about to do a practice run with half of the team pretending to be the most intimidating players on the Bouclair side,
but was stopped dead in his tracks by Maurice. Kordell and Castilleo had just walked in through that same side door, and Curtis
and Maurice didn’t want those two to watch this practice, either.

Maurice leaned over to Curtis and whispered, “Is that particular door some kind of portal to the Devil’s family room?”

Kordell walked over to Curtis and Maurice, adjusting his coach’s whistle as if he were really getting ready to do something.
He said, “Why are your grandmother and her girls walking around the grounds of the Athletic Center with huge bottles of oil
in their hands, praying and speaking in tongues?”

“If you want to know the answer to that question, I suggest you get on your knees and take it up with the Lord,” was all Curtis
said.

“He can’t do that, dawg. Because he don’t know God’s number,” Maurice said.

“Oh, you got jokes, huh?” Kordell said.

Maurice didn’t answer him. He didn’t want this next level of business to take any more time than necessary.

Curtis started over to where Castilleo was still standing. He turned back and beckoned for Maurice and Kordell to follow him.

“We have some quick administration business to take care of before we get into the practice.”

Castilleo sat down on the bench and stirred his coffee.

“So, what is so important that we can’t get practice going in a timely manner?” Kordell said, as if he were the one running
the show.

Curtis could not believe the presumption of this negro. He had planned to handle this matter in a professional manner but
thought,
Bump that
, and said, “You and your boy here are fired.”

“You can’t fire us,” Castilleo protested. “We have contracts.”

“Not anymore” was all Curtis said.

Kordell’s eyes narrowed. He was playing it cool but he was panicking inside. He knew that if Curtis fired them like this,
he had done his homework and his decision was based on an airtight contingency clause. He just wanted to know what it was.

“Castilleo’s right,” Kordell said calmly. “You can’t just up and fire a man with a contract without due cause. We can sue
you and this entire university.”

Curtis glanced over at Maurice, who retrieved two envelopes from his coach’s playbook. He handed one envelope to Kordell and
another one to Castilleo, and then waited for them to open them and study the photos.

“I see you went out to Sock It to Me last night.”

“And what if we did,” Castilleo spat out at him. He couldn’t see what pictures of them getting lap dances had anything to
do with their jobs.

“Well, what if I told you that those girls on your laps are only fifteen years old? And then, what if I told you that the
next set of photos shows you, Kordell, and your boy Rico pouring liquor for these little teenyboppers? And what if I told
you that a sting is going down right now as I speak, out at Sock It to Me?”

“And what if I told
you
that if we were in trouble, we’d be in handcuffs about now,” Kordell shot back at Curtis, who just started laughing and then
said:

“Okay, so what if I told you that the only reason you have on a black coach’s warm-up suit instead of an orange jumpsuit is
because Yarborough Flowers is running the sting and will leave you alone if you and your boy pack up your mess and get to
stepping to wherever it is that chumps like y’all go to?”

“He can’t do that without any real evidence.”

“So you think a fifteen-year-old giving you a lap dance and drinking liquor out of your pimp glass isn’t any real evidence
in the eyes of the law?”

“Why don’t we start with statutory rape,” Maurice said.

“We didn’t sleep with those hos,” Kordell said smoothly.

“You didn’t but he did,” Curtis said, wondering why Castilleo couldn’t tell that little girl was underage. Everything about
her screamed jailbait.

Castilleo’s eyes got real big and that fool blurted out, “But I paid her, man. I thought—”

Before Castilleo could finish, Kordell hopped up and knocked him to the floor. Hot coffee went everywhere.

“I told you,” Kordell said in between a series of blows. “I told you not to pay that girl and to wait …”

By now the team had gathered around to watch this fight. They were athletes and a good coach-to-coach fight didn’t upset them
much. They’d seen a few good ones between Coach and one or two coaches Curtis didn’t like. But a fight between coaches on
the same team? And over some underage booty? That was a fight worth seeing.

As far as those young men were concerned, both Coach Bivens and Coach Palmer deserved to be fired and have a foot crammed
up their butts. They were all under the age of twenty-three, and they knew better than to pay for anything other than admission,
a dance, and for those twenty-one and over, something to drink at a strip club. And they also knew that underage girls slipped
in, and they had learned to spot them out.

Plus, Sherron Grey’s daddy had told him which clubs were breeding grounds for legal trouble. Sherron was saved and didn’t
go to the strip clubs but he made sure that his teammates knew where to go, and which clubs to stay clear of. And Sherron
knew, just from talking to his daddy and godfather, Big Dotsy, that if there was one place no decent, self-respecting, and
thinking brother should go to, it was Sock It to Me—
everybody on the club scene knew that.
It was a miracle that Coach Palmer wasn’t lying up in the morgue with his throat slit after laying up with one of the women
at that place.

When Castilleo’s voice reached a feminine pitch, Curtis and Maurice pulled Kordell up off of him. Maurice helped Castilleo
to his feet, and then smacked him upside the head.

“That was for the baby girl you should have kept your hands off of.”

“She was a ho,” Castilleo said.

“She was somebody’s lost child,” Curtis snapped. “And I guess you were dead intent on taking the baby straight to Hell. I
feel sorry for you. Because you have a lot to answer for.”

“I would, if I believed that hype about God and retribution. I’ve seen too many people do what they please and not have one
thing happen to them.”

“Keep living, son” was all Curtis said. “But in the meantime, you and your boy get out and don’t come back.”

Castilleo staggered out of the gym smelling like stale, dried-up coffee. Kordell made an attempt to walk out like all that
had gone down wasn’t about nothing he needed to be concerned about. But as soon as he got to his car, he put in a call to
his boys—Rico, Paulo, and Larry. Those pictures Curtis and Maurice had were just the tip of the iceberg. He grabbed a tissue
and wiped at the sweat that was dripping off his head.