One Safe Place (45 page)

The young men laughed. They understood that the coach's sternness came with humor.

“Coach, the phone is for you,” said a large, dumpy white male with a whiny voice.

“Okay, Meredith, do some extra footwork drills. Silly fouls are cutting into your playing time. I'll be checking your weight. Do you hear me?”

“I understand, Coach. I'll work harder.”

Coach Sparks did not understand why anybody would recruit Meredith; he didn't. The former coach had made a commitment that Ayman had to keep.

Ayman headed to his office and kept thinking.
Two hundred and eighty pounds of no defense and can't guard his own shadow. No wonder Bucket was a loser.
Ayman chuckled to himself.

Coach Sparks made his way through the weight room while giving instructions to some and praise to others. His attention bounced between evaluating practice and replaying the nasty attitude his wife had displayed earlier that morning.
What's her trip? Last night she was a freak in bed, then this morning she's the queen of the ice-asses.
He reached his office and punched the flashing line on the phone.

“Coach Sparks here.”

“Ayman.” He heard Vanessa's voice come through with sub-zero coldness. He knew right then he would stay at the gym and watch more game film.

“What?” His voice let her know he was annoyed.

“I'm going to the bank, and I'm going to take all the money out of the second account!”

“What?” Ayman's voice slowly slid through his teeth. He repeated, “What?”

“I'm moving back to Oakland. The second account is mostly mine anyway!”

“Why, and how many times have you threatened to leave? As much as I love you, I really hate…” Ayman took a big breath.

Ayman Sparks and his wife, Vanessa, had been acting out a deteriorating marriage for years. Threatening each other was almost foreplay. Sometimes, it was foreplay.

Ayman felt the anger heating his bald head. He turned the air conditioner on in his office. “I'm really tired of this,” he said.

“You're tired?” Vanessa screamed through the phone. “You don't have time for me, and you know it! We've had this black cloud hanging over our heads, and you don't even know it.”

“Black cloud? What the f—”

Vanessa quickly cut him off. “Don't dare curse at me! I'm not one of them referees.”

“Then tell me what you're talking about. Stop talking in code. If you have something to say, say it! Maybe we can work out whatever your problem is.”

“My problem, huh?” Vanessa made a sound that let him know she was disgusted.

Ayman spoke as if his nose was inches from hers. “Whatever it takes for you to stop all your trippin' over yourself; you need to reevaluate what you're doing.”

Sarcastic laughter filtered back through the phone. “You feel better now? That was like a halftime speech when you're losing, right?”

Ayman grimaced. He was always out for the win. He didn't know how to respond now. Vanessa had him off balance. “It sounds like the problem is money. Now, we both know I make plenty, but I have to work for it. If it's about time, my coaching career is about being successful. That means I have to put in the long hours. That's what a coach does. You'd rather I work in a straitjacket job. You know what? Most likely, I would come home and still hear you bitch.

“I never hear you bitching about the nice house you live in. I don't hear you complaining about the gardener or the woman who cleans your house twice a week. Oh, you fly home to Oakland and everywhere else you want. You're right, maybe it's time for you to step. If you're talking about my job and the money it puts into the bank for you to take out, I—”

“You egotistical son-of-a-bitch! Why do you think it's all about you and your money? I carried your ass when you went back to school to be a teacher. I've moved around the world for your dreams.” She cursed. Ayman's eyes blinked. The F-word was something she'd only said during sex. “You never spend any time with me.” Her voice lost strength.

Ayman was sitting on the edge of his desk, twisting and turning in one spot.

“We don't spend time alone unless it's alone in the bed, and I need more—more than sex.”

Ayman's jaw clamped tight, as if something with long fangs had bit
into his flesh. The pain of what she'd said dripped like venom, killing his ego. Silence over the phone let the emotional poison churn his stomach; he reached in his desk for some Tums.

“I'm sorry if it hurt, Ayman. Look, I need it as bad as you do, but having sex every night as our only connection has become hard on my soul. You got things going on that I didn't sign up for, and now that I know you about—”

“About what? You think there's another woman? Whatever. I'm not jumping off the Aurora Bridge for your insecurities.” His tone had no humor in it, but he snickered.

“Laugh, go ahead. You might be one of these fools here in Seattle who would jump if—” A minute-long silence ensued. “Ayman,” her voice cracked. He heard weeping. “Maybe you've forgotten all that I've done and been through with you.”

Ayman's defense was loud. “No! You can't let me forget it, not even for a week. You know, I don't need this shit today! I'm on my job!” he shouted. “The same job that keeps your ass in Nordstrom and Macy's.”

Ayman turned the air up higher. “Enough is enough! File for divorce. I'll sign anything to stop the madness. I'm getting ready for the season, and I don't need your bullsh—”

Ayman's assistant coach and best friend, Sterlin, walked into the office. “Ayman!” Sterlin called out in a hushed voice, trying to stop Ayman from raising his voice any louder. “Man, chill!” Sterlin put his hand up to signal for him to calm down.

• • •

A long wavering note of a saxophone solo flowed into Ayman's ears just as Sterlin reached across a table and tapped him. It was two years later. A lounge full of people came into view. They were not in a locker room and not in his office. Ayman had been daydreaming/nightmaring about the last episode of the breakup of his marriage.

The two coaches were in a jazz club in Lexington, Kentucky. They were drinking a little and listening to live entertainment. A sax player's solo had charmed him into his past.

It was Wednesday night. The players from East Seattle City University
were back at the hotel, on lockdown, resting for tomorrow's game. The two coaches were taking a break trying to relax. Ayman needed to unwind before the game tomorrow against the University of Kentucky.

A vocalist started singing Stevie Wonder's “Superwoman.”

Through the bitter winds love could not be found

Where were you when I needed you, last winter, my love?

The groove of the music was climbing up Ayman's past and present mental walls. The club was alive with people swaying, and fingers popping. Tall, red brick walls lined with staircases led to different levels for seating. There was no room for dancing other than standing at your table. A few ladies were standing and grooving in place. The two coaches were on the main floor. Two tables away stood a caramel-colored, shapely sister. Her red-apple lips and close-set eyes had helped to put Ayman into his hypnotic state. Her long, raven-black hair to the flowing tightness of her black silk dress and her feet, clad in thin leather-strapped heels, locked him into tunnel vision. Ayman was lost in her display of sexiness.

The red stage lights silhouetted her groove. She was joyriding his attention; she knew he was watching. She reminded him of a body he used to know, and her image helped burn a hole into his past. He rode a bumpy ride into a sad rhythmic pulse. Angry noises from days gone by had drowned out the jazz blowing in his ears.

There were other noises going on in his life. As the head coach at East Seattle City University, he was facing losing a third consecutive game. The team was having pre-season difficulties. They had played two games against Top Ten teams and lost both. Their wins had not been impressive. Uneasiness grew like mold when people started asking questions of why, and how come, and when.

ESPN-TV had done a segment on East Seattle City University and its slow start. ESPN wondered if Coach Sparks' last three Sweet Sixteen finishes in the NCAA tournament would be over-stating. “Coach Sparks, a preacher of defense, might have lost the attention of his congregation. The players might not be buying into his intense coaching style anymore.” In response, Coach Sparks told a local newspaper that he thought the article hinted of racism.

“How many white coaches are compared to preachers? In America, we seem to associate the Black men in different forms of leadership as some type of preacher. As a coach, unless I am a preacher, there should be no comparison. I am a man who believes in God, but there is no connection to me being a preacher.

Coach Sparks was quoted in the local newspaper: “Dean Smith, who coaches North Carolina, is a deeply religious man. Was he ever compared to or called a preacher? Why am I? We know the Bobby Knight types and other white coaches, are intense coaches, and no one calls them preachers. Could it be white men are just called leaders? Can Black men of leadership only be related to being some type of minister? This is the subtle type of racism that Black Americans are tired of.”

Ayman felt strong about what he'd stated, and he would not back down. He told friends, colleagues, and other news media, “If I don't speak up, I'm part of the problem.”

Shortly after arriving at the team hotel, he got a call from Coach Nolan Richardson, the former basketball coach at the University of Arkansas.

“Coach, you're a winner in my book for telling it like it is. The work you're doing is thankless,” Richardson commented.

“Thanks, Coach Richardson.”

“Call me Nolan. You know critics are snakes. They will build you up and tear you down. You must stand your ground as the man; let their crap roll off your back. Stay Black. You said what I wish others would say.” Coach Richardson continued, “Coach, at one time the white media hated Muhammad Ali and everything he stood for. Now they honor him for fighting against them. Life is a circle. Stay the course, my brother.”

“You're right. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!” Both men laughed.

“I had a lot of success at Arkansas, but I knew sooner or later they'd come after me.” Coach Richardson laughed. “Now you're playing the U. of Kentucky, and they aren't going to let you come in there and get a win on their home floor. Remember you're coach, first and last. Stay focused on your team and the game.”

Ayman reflected on the conversation while the crowd's conversation mingled with cocktail glasses clinging. Sterlin was perplexed that Ayman was so despondent.

“What is going on with you? Wake your dead ass up.”

“The boys practiced as if they know they're going to lose.”

“Oh yeah, right, as if that's what's going on with you. Look, we have the toughest schedule in the nation, but the schedule will pay off at conference time. You said so yourself before the pre-season started. You got another bug up your butt. What is it?”

Sterlin, tall and wide at the shoulders with a big baby face, was not looking at Ayman as he spoke. He was flirting with every woman in the club that he could engage with glances and grins. His physical stature and good looks received plenty of submissive expressions. Changing colored lights reflected the whiteness from Sterlin's smile.

Ayman leaned forward so he could be heard. “I'm all right, man. It's just that sister standing over there reminds me of Vanessa. I was just thinking—”

Sterlin cut Ayman off, “Don't even go there again! You've been divorced for two years. You should be over it, man.”

Ayman jerked his head back.

“You need to move on. What's it going to take? Everywhere we go, you got honeys checking your ass out, but you act blind. You may be known for ‘preaching defense,' but damn!” Sterlin smiled at his mocking statement, and Ayman chuckled a bit as his friend continued to talk. “Nigga, you need to go on the offense in the women's department.”

Ayman's stare became hard; he was upset. He leaned forward so the flickering candles highlighted the tightness of the lines on his forehead. “First of all, Negro, you need to quit saying ‘nigga' before you let it slip at the wrong time. These kids all ready think it's okay. I had to correct a white kid from saying ‘wigger' and ‘poor white trash,' even though their mommas and daddies got MO-money, MO-money.”

“You're right. It's an old habit.”

“Well, it's an old habit that sometimes I think of Vanessa.”

“Cool, but don't bite my head off. I'm not the one you were married to. How about you freezing all that past misery. You need to be over there talking to that fine female; she's dancing to get your attention. That's what you need—a woman. If I was you, I'd be all over her.”

Ayman laughed. “Excuse me, but unless my eyes are going bad, that
is a Black woman over there, and you don't do sisters…right?” Ayman knew Sterlin's lifestyle when it came to the type of women he pursued.

“Man, hold up! It's not that I don't do sisters. I like all women, and I mean all women, of every color and nationality.” Sterlin's voice was full of ego. He looked around the club, his eyes stopped, and he nodded at a not-so-thin, blonde woman. Ayman rolled his eyes in non-amazement.

A comedian had taken the stage and cracked a joke that had everyone laughing, but Ayman and Sterlin didn't pay attention.

Ayman leaned forward and said, “Just like I said, you don't do sisters. All the women I see you with seem to have blonde, brunette, or red hair. I find that a little strange, but whatever right now, watch your ass, man. We are down South.”

“Please! I ain't worried about nobody's South. Don't they call it the New South?” Sterlin smiled.