Blue Star Rapture (4 page)

Obie Williams, their roommate, was already there, taking a nap. He was snoring away. T.J. lay on his back with his hands behind his head. He wanted a chance to talk to Coach Lindsey before the week was out, but it was against the rules. It might happen anyway, though.

Because of Obie's snoring, T.J. knew he wouldn't be going to sleep, but he felt mellow enough to take a trip down memory lane, back to that night last season when he had talked to Lindsey for the first time.

It was right after the Champaign game. “We're very interested in Tyron,” Lindsey had said, “as I'm sure you know. We think you might be in a position to help us.”

“How would I do that?”

“Well, just having you in our corner would be the biggest help, of course. Besides that, we'd like to ask if you might be willing to keep a journal or a diary.”

“What diary?”

Lindsey had continued by saying, “If you'd be willing to keep a written log of who calls him, who visits him at home, who comes to watch him play. That sort of thing.”

“You're talkin' about coaches, right?”

“Mostly coaches, yes. But anyone else who might show an interest in him as well. You'd be surprised at what kinds of characters can surface in this business. We'd also like to know which schools appeal to him, and why. In recruiting, it's always an advantage to have information.”

T.J. didn't have to be convinced of the value of information, but he was already wondering to himself,
what would be in it for me?
This was a conversation where he would have to watch his step, so he had asked Lindsey, “If you want to recruit Tyron, why don't you talk to Coach DeFreese?”

“We already have and we'll continue to talk to him. But we also know you have influence with Tyron. He trusts you. We believe he would listen to your advice in connection with any major decision he might need to make.”

“How do you know so much about me 'n' Tyron?”

Coach Lindsey had smiled before crossing his leg. “I already told you: Information is vital to the recruiting process.”

Lindsey was a slick guy, which was as obvious from his personal appearance as from the way he talked. A pale blue collar, starched and crisp, emerged from the V of his maroon North State sweater. His shoes were ultra shiny like patent leather; maybe they
were
patent leather. But if slick was slick, then fair was fair; since this coach was asking him for a favor, and a big favor at that, he decided to find out if there was a next level. “Would there be anything in this for me?”

Lindsey's chuckle was the prelude to his answer. “We wouldn't ask you to do this for nothing, would we?”

“So what are we talkin' about?”

“You want a dollar amount? Is that what you're asking me?”

T.J. wasn't sure what his answer should be, but it seemed like this was another level, still. He retreated: “Do you have any idea how dumb Tyron is? What kind of a student he is?”

“We do indeed.”

“And that doesn't bother you? I mean, we're talkin' about a guy who's in over his head in Phase Three English. I don't get it.”

But Lindsey had replied, “We have a strategy for qualifying marginal students. It's called 504.”

“504?”

“Public Law 504 changes everything.”

“How does it change everything?” T.J. had asked. “What is it?”

“It's a public education law that allows students to be rediagnosed. It allows a student who hasn't done well in school to be classified as a student with a disability.”

T.J. wondered what would be good about being classified as disabled. But he wanted to hear more. “I don't get the point,” he admitted to the coach.

“If Tyron could somehow qualify as a learning disabled student, it would give him some leeway with standardized testing such as the SAT or the ACT.”

“What leeway?”

“He would be permitted to have the test read to him. The usual test advocate is a special education teacher or a school counselor.”

T.J. remembered when he had taken the ACT; it was a test to bust your balls. He couldn't imagine Tyron even taking the test, let alone getting a decent score. Then he tried to imagine him taking it if someone read it to him. “That would be an advantage, wouldn't it?”

“It's a huge advantage,” Lindsey had concurred immediately. “Especially since he could take it without a time limit.”

“No time limit?”

“None. He could take it a couple hours a day, spread out over a week or two if he wanted. Did you take the ACT?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I don't have to tell you how much easier it would be to get a passing score if you could work with no time limit.”

T.J.'s head was spinning with data and possibilities. “Why are you telling me all of this?” he had asked. “
I
can't read him the test, can I?”

“No, but you're a resourceful young man. Information, T.J. Just remember:
information
. You're his friend and you want to help him.”

It was the part they
weren't
mentioning, though, the dollar figures. But T.J. was clever enough to know it would be to his advantage to let the North State people name the amount. “Okay,” he had asked, “how do you get to be 504?”

Coach Lindsey had used a Chap Stick on the corners of his mouth before answering. “It takes an advocate. Someone who understands that students aren't necessarily dumb or lazy just because their academic performance is weak. They may be fighting a learning disability that nobody knows about because they slipped through the cracks.”

“What cracks?”

“It usually means that their disability was overlooked somehow or missed by school authorities. Tyron received most of his education in the Chicago public schools; so did you. I don't need to tell you how many cracks there are in that system.”

It sort of drew T.J. up in the pit of his stomach to understand that he was in a position to bargain with a major college coach. On anything. He had taken a deep breath before he repeated, “Because I'm his friend.”

“Because you're his
main man;
because you want to help him.” The coach was smiling.

It had been at this point in the conversation when Tyron approached, so they had gone their separate ways. On the drive home, Tyron had asked right away what Coach Lindsey had to say.

“You had twenty points, Tyron. He was impressed.”

“Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad at all. Like I say, Lindsey was impressed.”

“Jesus.” Tyron tried to stretch, but the car was too small. “So is twenty my average now?”

“Your average isn't the same as the points you got in your last game.”

“
Tonight
is my last game. I got twenty.”

T.J. let out a sigh before he had tried once more to explain the concept of a scoring average. Tyron listened briefly, but grew impatient. “Tell me what Coach Lindsey said.”

By this time they were in T.J.'s driveway. It was too cold to turn off the engine, so he left it idling. The bedroom lamp was on, which meant his mother was home. “Coach Lindsey says you have Division One potential.”

“Jesus.”

“Do you have to say
Jesus
all the time, Bumpy? It gets like tiresome, you know what I mean?”

“Okay, but don't call me Bumpy.”

“Sorry. Coach Lindsey also says you're a project. You have to remember that.”

“Okay, but I don't know what it means.”

“It means you're not ready yet. I showed you the column Gaines wrote. You remember, I cut it out for you?”

“I remember how complicated it was.”

“Let's boil it down. If you're a project, that means you have a lot of work to do. You could be a great player if you worked hard at getting in shape, spending time in the weight room, improving your grades, et cetera et cetera.”

“Yeah, but don't forget the payoff,” Tyron had reminded him, with his head down. The thought of hard work was always discouraging.

T.J. had sighed again while he cut off the engine. He was pretty good at avoiding the pitfall of physical fatigue, but befriending Tyron was an ongoing invitation to mental fatigue. He glanced sidelong at his mountainous
compadre
. Could block out the streetlight or the moonlight just as well as the sun, but trying to imagine him as a college basketball star, as a
student/athlete
, that seemed more far-fetched than a thing should be.

Nevertheless, hadn't Lindsey outlined for him the 504 concept? A coach at North State ought to know what he was talking about. T.J. said to Tyron, “The payoff is glory.”

“Glory.” Tyron repeated the word reverently.

Tell me about the rabbits, George. Tell me about the part where I get to tend the rabbits
, T.J. thought to himself. But he said, “Playing in places like Pauley Pavilion and Madison Square Garden. Playing on ESPN and CBS. Flying in jet planes all over the country and staying in fancy hotels. You get the picture, don't make me say it again.”

“Jesus.”

By this time T.J. had been too tired to continue the conversation; besides, it was getting cold in the car. “I'm goin' to bed,” he declared. “You better go on home before you miss your curfew.”

“Don't remind me about curfew. Curfew is a thing I hate.”

“Do me a favor, Tyron?”

“What favor?”

“Turn your hat around.”

The thing that woke him up was Obie Williams shaking him by the arm. “Let's go, Nucci,” Obie was saying. “Ingalls says we only got twenty minutes.”

The next game
, T.J. thought to himself. His stroll down memory lane had put him to sleep. He swung himself into the seated position on the edge of the bed and started rubbing his eyes. “You know what, Obie? You snore like a chain saw.”

“Is that it? You ready or what?”

“I'm ready, I'm ready.”

When they left the air-conditioned dorm, though, and walked into the teeth of the two
P.M.
heat, T.J. wondered if he really was ready. It was a distinct possibility that his ankle might be giving him trouble by the second game, if not by the second half of the first game.

The Blue Stars kept winning. Besides the incomparable Ishmael, Obie Williams was a good player, and Tyron was playing as well as T.J. had ever seen him. Once, when T.J. and Ishmael were sitting out at the same time, T.J. said it was amazing that Tyron wasn't worn out and discouraged.

Ishmael grinned at him. “Must be the shoes, man.”

T.J. had to laugh. “Must be.”

“Got to be the shoes, man.”

When T.J. entered the game, he had to endure the task of guarding Streets again. It was hopeless. Streets was tireless, quick, and strong. There was an upside to T.J.'s situation, though; Ingalls had figured out by now that he was one of the lesser players on the team, so he played him fewer minutes. Maybe a sore ankle gambit wouldn't be necessary.

Between games, T.J. mopped his sweat and drank a whole bottle of Gatorade. Buddy Ingalls was telling them, “If they're going to play that zone, you have to punish them for it. A zone is a cop-out; make them pay the price.” T.J. could tell what kind of coach Buddy would be one day. He would be one of those roosters with a flower in his lapel, prowling the sidelines with a steady chatter and a cock-of-the-roost sort of strut.

He tuned Buddy out so he could observe the crowd of adults hovering near the courts, the coaches, the assistant coaches, and the groupies. Even they were hot, wiping sweat and drinking Pepsis. T.J. picked out Bee Edwards talking to a coach from Purdue. He was wearing a hat that looked like an undersized cowboy hat, but it had the Nike logo on it. Every garment he wore had the Nike logo, even his socks.

He's a street agent
, Ingalls had said.
A hustler
. T.J. remembered Coach Lindsey's words too:
You'd be surprised at what kinds of characters can surface in this business
.

When the second game started, T.J. made sure he was sitting next to Buddy Ingalls. He asked him what a street agent was.

“A douche bag,” said Ingalls.

“Yeah, but what does he do?”

“Anything he can to score something with a prospect. He's into a power trip.”

“You mean like giving them shoes?”

“Yeah, like shoes, or sweats, or drugs, or helpin' out a family member. It's usually the kind of player who doesn't have parents to guide him, or a coach who's not heavy into the recruiting process. The street agent is lookin' to be the middle man. That way, all the coaches and recruiters will have to go through him.”

For a moment, T.J. was uncomfortably aware that Buddy might have been describing Tyron, or even—God forbid—himself. The naivete he felt was equally uncomfortable because it was the feeling of being in over your head. When you were in over your head, that was when you became a victim. Nevertheless, he asked Buddy, “So what about Bee Edwards?”

“Yeah, he's one of 'em.”

“Does he, like, work for Nike, though?”

“He will work for them if he thinks it'll get him ahead. He'll work for anybody as long as it puts him where he wants to be. Street agents work for themselves, that's the bottom line.”

T.J. knew he needed more information if he expected to really be in touch with this unwholesome plane. And it was obviously important. But he could tell from Buddy's tone of voice that he wanted to concentrate on the game itself instead of having more conversations about street agents. It was time to drop the subject.

FOUR

There were no games that night. Instead, they were having a film and a motivational speaker. The speaker was Digger Phelps, the former Notre Dame coach and current TV broadcaster, but T.J. had no enthusiasm for a bunch of rah-rah about staying in school, doing your homework, and keeping away from drugs. He'd never been a user in his life and as for schoolwork, he was already an A/B student.