Advantage Disadvantage

Advantage Disadvantage

Yale R Jaffe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2008 Yale R
Jaffe

Smashwords Edition, License
Notes

This ebook is licensed for your
personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given
away to other people. If you would like to share this book with
another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person
you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase
it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should
return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

For Sue.

For Bryan and Jason.

In loving memory of Shirley and Aaron.

Acknowledgements

This book is entirely and completely a work of
fiction. Any references within this novel to actual people in real
or fictional places are coincidental and not intended to imply
actual events or participation in such events. Descriptions of
buildings, parks, schools and other places have been modified in
fictional ways. Organizations, companies, and governmental agencies
are fictional or attributed with fictional characteristics. The
accuracy of all referenced locations has also been modified.

I want to thank a few of the many real people who
supported me in the development of this book, which has truly been
a project of much joy and satisfaction:

First, my wife Sue, who has occasionally questioned
the sanity of my hobby of basketball officiating, nonetheless has
been terrific in supporting the necessary commitments that
refereeing demands of me.

Next, a sincere thank you goes out to my sons Bryan
and Jason, who, over the years, patiently listened (and pretended
to be interested) to my repetitious recanting of basketball
experiences. They were essential to this book with their critical
suggestions. They have given me so much pleasure, as they have
grown into incredibly bright, engaging, and independent young
men.

To my brother Austin, who I have always looked up to
because of his brilliant mind – he is a trailblazer, a rock solid
support system, and an inspiring friend; his encouragement for this
project was predictably outstanding.

To Jason and Susie C., whose carefully crafted but
honest critiques, made this better with each revision. They put in
huge, unselfish efforts to assist with both significant and minor
details. In doing so, they improved this novel tremendously.

To my lifelong friend, Lee, for providing direct
inspiration for some of the anecdotes told within this novel, and
for his words of encouragement during a long eight-hour car ride,
which got this project moving. Everyone should be lucky enough to
have an unconditional friend as Lee has been to me.

Finally, I want to acknowledge the thousands of
basketball referees, coaches, players, and administrators whom I
have had the privilege of being around in my own officiating
career. Most of these people are pure in intention and heroic in
action, unlike some of the people depicted herein.

Table of Contents

Chapter One. Cook County Lockup

Chapter Two. The Imari’s

Chapter Three. The Cousins

Chapter Four. Bobby G.’s NAU Connection

Chapter Five. Amateur Beginnings

Chapter Six. What a Battle!

Chapter Seven. The Legal Strategy

Chapter Eight. Fixing Jamal’s Game

Chapter Nine. The Whistle Blower

Chapter Ten. St. Marlin’s High School

Chapter Eleven. The Windy City Daily

Chapter Twelve. A Cub Reporter Is Born

Chapter Thirteen. St. Marlin’s Locker Room

Chapter Fourteen. The East End High School Coach

Chapter Fifteen. Summer Strategy

Chapter Sixteen. Star Gazing

Chapter Seventeen. Marriage on the Rocks

Chapter Eighteen. A Mother’s Concerns

Chapter Nineteen. Jamal’s Girlfriend

Chapter Twenty. The Booster’s Shot

Chapter Twenty-one. Bobby G.’s Plan

Chapter Twenty-two. Windy City Daily’s Board of
Directors

Chapter Twenty-three. Love is in the Air(ball)

Chapter Twenty-four. Television News

Chapter Twenty-five. The Bridge

Chapter Twenty-six. O Captain My Captain

Chapter Twenty-seven. My Son’s Playing Time

Chapter Twenty-eight. In Search of a Bench Coach

Chapter Twenty-nine. The Referee’s Finest Season

Chapter Thirty. Big Deception, Higher Ranking

Chapter Thirty-one. The Regional System

Chapter Thirty-two. William Rechter’s Playoff
Assignments

Chapter Thirty-three. Super (Sectional) Betting
Action

Chapter Thirty-four. Pregame at the United
Center

Chapter Thirty-five. It is Just A Game – A Super
Sectional Game

Chapter Thirty-six. For Mutual Benefit

Chapter Thirty-seven. The Gem of South Chicago

Chapter Thirty-eight. Where Have You Been?

Chapter Thirty-nine. Information, Please

Chapter Forty. Presenting to the Board of
Directors

Chapter One. Cook County Lockup

Sweat poured down Marcus Imari’s face the entire
ride from O’Hare Airport to the Cook County lockup on Chicago’s
south side. Stuffed into the back of a beat up squad car with tight
handcuffs, he could not wipe off his face. He was embarrassed and
scared about what was to happen. Cook County lockup was a god-awful
place. Marcus grimaced in the back seat as the car returned from
the airport into the city. His disposition became worse as his two
“escorts” joked and laughed in the front seat. The only question
they asked Marcus was whether he was ready to talk about his
alleged crime. He found no comfort in their sarcastic conversation.
His heart was racing. Marcus never experienced an arrest before.
His hands were throbbing from the painfully tight handcuffs. He
recognized the blighted neighborhood near 26
^th
and
California. They were taking him to be booked. The patrol car drove
around to the back dock where several cops were unloading similarly
bound, angry men and women. He saw the dedication plaque on the
cornerstone, which read, “Established 1928”. Huge, foreboding
cinder blocks stained with years of iodized rust created a gritty
orange and red pattern on the building. This was no Club Med.
Originally, the prisoners housed in the lone building were hardened
criminals. This place saw the most rotten of Chicago’s bad apples.
Built with locally mined limestone blocks, the prison was ominous.
It regularly expanded to accommodate an ever-increasing number of
multi-purpose “guests”. On the day Marcus arrived, the facility had
a census of about 10,000 men and women.

Like all recently arrested people, Marcus entered
the large staging room. A guard separated his hands from behind his
back. One of the cuffs was immediately unlocked and hooked to an
eyelet attached to one of many cement benches. Marcus sighed with
temporary relief granted to his arms and wrists. A guard fixed an
encoded band containing his name to his arm just above his wrist.
The place was full of people in motion, cops escorting suspects to
open bench posts or re-cuffing people on the way to the next
station. Marcus listened to the clanging of metal constraints and
he looked around in horror and shock. It was a horrible collection
of people: drunks laughing and yelling, hookers jokingly trying to
seduce the police officers, drug addicts screaming for relief and a
few quiet introspective folks like Marcus. It smelled horrible, a
combination of sweaty body odor and the consequences of perhaps
several too many beers. The police worked the room with certain
precision. Female officers grouped eight to ten women at a time and
escorted them to their next station. Screaming rang in Marcus’ ears
as wild out-of-control fools resisted the guards’ demands. Marcus
was not sure if he wanted to move on to the unknown or stay where
he was, except for the smell – that was the tiebreaker.

The primary role that Cook County Lockup had adopted
over the years was to prepare newly arrested people for their first
hearing in front of a judge. No regard for courteous manners could
be found here, inmates and guards alike. They called Marcus’ name
and he subserviently identified himself. The guards trusted no
newcomers as they processed so many agitated citizens. He was
unshackled from the cement bench and immediately guards locked his
hands in front of him.

“Follow the blue line into the next room,” one of
the guards ordered.

He obeyed quickly. Those who did not comply could
expect a swift swat on the back of the knees with a nightstick.
Marcus scanned the snaking human train along the blue marks on the
floor. Several gigantic, surly guards watched the line edge
forward. Each of these men could have played for a professional
football team, and several of them towered over Marcus’
six-foot-three body. He looked up at the serious men hoping to find
a semi-friendly face. They were huge, scary, and inhospitable.
Guards cut no slack to anybody. It was clear who was in charge.

The next stop was the fingerprint station.
Conformity was the order of the venue, everyone was processed the
same. Procedures required new prints for every man, women and
juvenile who entered these doors. Marcus stepped up to the station
and found an unsympathetic prison worker taking fingerprints. He
yanked Marcus’ wrist forward and dipped one of his hands onto the
black inkpad. Marcus felt a vice-like grip moving one hand towards
the sponge. His fingertips plunged downward to ensure adequate
transfer of ink. One by one, the guard grabbed his digits and
forced them down onto marked positions on the fingerprint
cardstock. The fingerprint technician pressed his entire palm and
fingers firmly onto the cardboard. The same procedure followed for
the other hand. Finally, the guard read his ID band and scribed his
name above the print area on the card. Next, each prisoner
submitted to a test for drugs with a non-invasive eye scan before
removing the chains and handcuffs.

“Step up, boy,” the overly enthusiastic guard
demanded of Marcus.

Marcus was not used to this kind of treatment. He
had never been in trouble before and being treated this way brought
fire to his eyes. As a grown black man, he was not used to
answering to “boy”. But here – the guards were solidly in control.
His heart was pounding with anxiety.

“Get up here, boy. Look into this machine and keep
your eyes open,” he ordered.

The machines looked like the Department of Prisons
had stolen them from the Department of Motor Vehicles. A bright
light blasted toward his face as he peered into the huge tube with
a binoculars-like port. Marcus’ cheekbones pressed against the cold
metal casing of the machine. The sensation of the metal sent a
chill down his spine. This device measured the dilation level of
his eyes. Any positive result on this test removed the prisoner
into a separate process designed to diagnose the presence of drugs.
Some of these inmates shipped off to the maximum-security medical
center where they were bound bedside to detoxify and suffer through
severe withdrawal. Marcus’ eyes were bloodshot but not dilated. It
was on to the next room.

The scary journey continued for those men checking
in without positive drug identification. Sadistic guards removed
the chains as Marcus crossed through a large wooden doorway; the
putrid stink of mildew was wafting into his nose. The room
accommodated 12 prisoners at a time. This place shocked one’s sense
of civility. Each person lined up in open-door stalls, equipped
with a metal table. Marcus gagged quietly as he tried to breathe
clean air. He was standing in front of one of the stalls nervously.
A person in an orange jump suit moved past each stall and
dropped-off a laundry bag for each inmate. Apparently, he was a
jail trustee.

One of the overgrown guards belted out orders to the
men. “Take your fucking clothes off and put them in the bag. Hurry
up scumbags – shoes, socks, underwear and everything. I want to see
your birthday suits, now!”

Marcus understood that he had no options here. He
stripped down to the bare bones. It was shower time. A couple
guards holding high-powered hoses stood ready to spray the men
clean.

“Boys, welcome to the Poor Man’s Polar Bear Club,” a
jovial guard snickered. “Your initiation is about to begin.”

One of the arrestees in the room refused to strip
down. They sprayed him first, forcing him to remove his wet
underwear. One sadistic guard took pleasure as he clubbed him a
couple times into submission. If the loss of freedom had not yet
set in to anybody in here, this room was convincing. The guard
operating the hose drilled Marcus with ice-cold water from head to
toe. After the shower, guards with examination gloves conducted
humiliating body cavity searches to limit the contraband smuggled
into Cook County lockup. Intimidating guards seemed to take
perverse pleasure in roughly performing these searches. Despite
this precaution, once inside, inmates could find a thriving
underground market for drugs, vanity items and even female
hormones.