The Necessary Hunger

by Nina Revoyr

  "That's right, girl," said Rochelle. "Shit, the only thing you should explain is why you stayed with that damn fool Carl for so long. If I'd been married to him, I might've given up on black men too."

  "I'm not . . ." Claudia began, sounding frustrated. "I didn't 'give up' on black men. If you remember, Paula, all of the men I've dated before now have been black. Wendell just happened, and I fell for him. Is that so hard to understand?"

  Upstairs, I heard a door slam shut; it was Raina, going into the bathroom. Claudia and her friends must have heard it too; there was silence, and then a couple of sighs.

  "Anyway," said Kim finally, sounding like the mother she was, "the food's getting cold. Let's figure out what's happening with the conference."

  Slowly, awkwardly, they managed to switch gears; they left the talk of men behind, and moved on to the conference. I picked up that it was a weekend event in February sometime, and that their organization was inviting black women from all over the county. I wasn't sure what the purpose of the conference was, and I didn't stick around long enough to find out. Instead, I retreated up the stairs and into my room, thinking about what I had heard. It upset me that Claudia's friend didn't approve of my father. I was angry with Paula—she didn't even know him, who was she to judge whether he was good for Claudia?—but what confused me, what kept me up that night, staring at the ceiling, was that part of me understood.

  * * *

  In the next several weeks, our house became a showroom. The coaching staffs of about twenty different colleges came through our door, and Raina and I had each turned down requests from dozens of others. The first set of coaches appeared on September 15, just after Claudia and Raina finally finished unpacking.

  "I feel like we're about to be bombarded with traveling salesmen," complained Claudia, as we straightened up the house in preparation. Raina was vacuuming, I was dusting, and the parents were breaking down boxes from the move.

  "Hey! What's wrong with recruiters?" my father asked, pretending to be hurt. "You just don't like coaches, do you?"

  "No, dear," said Claudia, patting him on the head like a sad puppy. "I love coaches. I might even consider going out with one." She smiled. "I just don't want to sacrifice all my nights for the next two weeks."

  My father scratched his chin. "Well, maybe we should have a housewarming party and invite all of them to come at once."

  "Fine," Claudia said. "As long as you do the cleaning up."

  As we tried to make the house more presentable for the influx of coaches, I was suddenly very conscious of the way it looked. Our couch and our love seat didn't match—the former was a light tan, and the latter sky blue—and both of them dated from my babyhood, their cushions nearly threadbare in the middle. There was a green chair against the wall, which my father and I called the dog chair, because Ann had slept in it every day as a pup and had chewed one arm into a gnarled lump. An old, white piano missing two of its keys sat cringing in the corner by the window. There were two stains on the light green carpet where Ann had vomited, and an oval-shaped stain on the coffee table where I had once spilled a bottle of beer. My great-grandmother's scroll dominated the wall behind the love seat, but other than that, the only decorations were the framed pictures of Raina and me which my father had placed on top of the television. I spent fifteen minutes being terrified that the coaches would hate our house. Then it occurred to me that they'd seen places in far worse condition, and I managed to relax a little.

  While our parents may not have been excited about the home-visit process, Raina and I were looking forward to it. For one thing, it meant a narrowing down of choices—from here on out, we would only seriously consider the schools that made home visits. I was still nowhere near to making a decision, but it was a lot less overwhelming to hold twelve or fifteen schools in mind than the hundred-plus from whom I'd gotten letters. For another, it was mind-boggling to consider that all of these coaches—all of these folks I'd seen on TV and read about and watched from the stands—were going to be sitting there in the flesh, on our sofa. And I knew they'd be nicer now, while they were courting us, than any of them would ever be if we decided to play for them.

  The first visit was from USC, for Raina. Coach Linda Sharp and her assistants came right at seven, and Claudia showed them all into the living room. I'd been in the kitchen washing dishes, but then I went through the living room on my way upstairs, just as my father was giving the coaches the choice of coffee or Japanese tea. Coach Sharp turned as I passed.

  "Hi, Nancy," she said. "Good to see you. I'm sorry we don't need a forward for next year, or I'd want to talk to you tonight too."

  What she'd said was not exactly true—if she could claim now that they didn't need a forward, it was because they already had a verbal commitment from one of the top three high school forwards in the country. Still, I said, "No problem. Good to see you too."

  She turned back to Raina, and I was forgotten.

  I climbed the stairs, went to my room, and shut the door loudly while I stood in the hallway. Then I crept back over to the top of the staircase and sat down. The only thing I could see from there, besides the carpet and the back of the sofa, was the dog's butt. Coach Sharp was just beginning her pitch.

  "Well, Raina," she said, "I know you've been a USC fan for a long time. And in the last five years, you've had a lot to be excited about. I don't need to tell you about our two national championships, and of course you know about Cheryl."

  I stifled a laugh. For most recruits, Coach Sharp could have stopped right there. Who wouldn't want to sign with such a powerhouse team, and wear the same uniform as the greatest and most dynamic player in history? Watching Cheryl Miller play had been like seeing joy in motion. When she got the ball at the high post to start the USC offense, the entire crowd would hold its breath, waiting for her to jump high in the air and hang for a moment before sinking the shot; or swoop by her multiple defenders and invent a new way to make a layup; or see three moves ahead, like a chess player, and throw a pass to what looked like an empty space until her teammate magically appeared to catch the ball. Whether Cheryl was hurtling down the court, or diving six rows into the bleachers to make a save, or leaping high off the floor to block an ill-advised shot, everyone in the building, including her opponents, would watch her like a phenomenon of nature. I had worshipped her since she was in high school, where she'd once scored 105 points in a game. I had clipped articles about her from papers and magazines, gone to as many USC games as I could. I'd taped the Grammy Awards when she'd appeared onstage and dunked while Donna Summer sang, "She Works Hard for the Money." She played with such energy, style, and passion that it was impossible to tear your eyes away from her, and every young player I knew, as she shot around in her driveway, or in the park, or in her high school gym, dreamed that she could be like Cheryl Miller.

  Coach Sharp knew this, and it helped her tremendously in terms of recruiting. But I knew something that Coach Sharp didn't—that Raina wanted to get out of Los Angeles. She had no intention of signing with SC, and while she was still flattered enough by their interest to agree to a home-visit, she'd scheduled them first, as kind of a practice run, precisely because there was nothing at stake. While I was a bit jealous that they wanted Raina and not me, it didn't bother me as much as I expected—I knew I would never have wanted to play in the obliterating shadow of Cheryl. Besides, if I went to USC, it would change my feelings about the place. It would somehow taint Cheryl and my admiration for her; it would make her, and SC, less special. Eight years later, Cheryl Miller herself would be making these home visits as the head coach for USC, and to those recruits, who'd never seen her in action, she was simply another former player turned coach. I'd want to shake them out of their ignorance—this was Cheryl, the greatest ever, and none of them would be fit to carry her shoelaces—but by then, in the nineties, she was already old news; she was just a name in the history books, and Reggie Miller's older sister.

  "Now," Coach Sharp continued, "you can be
come a part of our great tradition. Cheryl graduated last spring, but we have some terrific young players coming up right behind her, and with you and another player or two of your caliber, we're sure to reach the Final Four again." She paused, maybe to take a sip of the coffee my father had brought her. "But let me put the basketball talk aside for a moment and tell you about our school. USC is a great learning institution, and it is one of the most famous universities on the West Coast. We have a wonderful faculty and a diverse, international student body, and no matter what your field of interest is, you'll find plenty of resources and a lot of support. Do you know what you're interested in studying, Raina?"

  "Not really," Raina answered, sounding small. She cleared her throat. "Maybe, um, history, or like, sociology or something. So I can figure things out."

  I smiled, knowing that the coaching staff would have no idea what she was talking about. What she meant was that she wanted to figure out why people acted like they did; why things turned out the way they had; why everything in our city and country and world was the way it was.

  "Fine," Coach Sharp said, after a moment of silence. "But whatever you decide to pursue, you should know that at USC you are a student first. Remember, 'student' is the first half of 'student-athlete.'"

  I just knew Claudia would jump in here, and she did. "What are the graduation rates for your . . . student-athletes?"

  That was a good question. There were a whole lot of jocks at USC, I knew, who never got their degrees.

  "I don't have the exact figures," Coach Sharp answered, "but I can assure you that the graduation rates for women's basketball players are comparable to those for the university at large. And some of our players have outstanding academic records. Cheryl Miller, for example, did very well."

  Just then a helicopter passed overhead. Its propeller whirred so loudly that conversation was impossible. When it became clear that it was circling and wasn't going to leave right away, my father got up and replenished everyone's drink. A few minutes later it moved on and headed south, toward 7-Eleven, toward the park.

  "What do you do to make sure that the players keep up with their schoolwork?" Claudia asked when things had finally quieted down. I could almost see her sitting with her elbow in her palm and three fingers pressed to the back of her jaw, which was the position she always assumed when she was skeptical of what she was hearing.

  "We have an academic advisor for the team," Coach Sharp said. "And, if necessary, we set the players up with private tutors."

  The academic talk went on for another fifteen minutes or so, with Claudia asking all of the questions. There was no way she was going to let Raina play for a school that wasn't strong on academics. Claudia had only gone to college for two years before her parents' money had run out; she'd then started taking classes at night while holding a full-time job. After she'd married Raina's father, though, and Raina had come along, she no longer had the time to go to school. Claudia had wanted to be a reporter, but without a degree, the closest she could get to the news was circulation. She had a lot of responsibility within her department—from what I heard, she practically ran the place—but because she hadn't received a BA, there was only so far they'd promote her. And since she'd never finished college, the idea of Raina getting a degree was very important to her; she wanted to ensure that her daughter started out at a place which cared about whether she finished. This was why she was giving the USC coaches the third degree that night—she'd do this to all the coaches who came through the house.

  When the academic talk was over, one of the assistants played a videotape, and at one point I recognized the TV broadcast of SC's second national championship game. I'd gone to that game with some AAU friends—it had been at UCLA's Pauley Pavilion—and now, as I sat in the hallway, it took a big effort to keep from running downstairs to watch. After the tape ended, the coaches talked a little more and then asked Raina if she had any questions. It occurred to me that she had only spoken once throughout the entire presentation, and then only because she'd been addressed. Now, she had just one question. "When do I have to let you know?"

  They told her as soon as possible, please—that night would be great. She said she couldn't do that, and Coach Sharp said fine, let us know when you're ready, just remember that most top players sign as soon as they can and that your spot might be grabbed by someone else. Everyone stood up and shook hands all around; then Raina showed the coaches to the door.

  The next night, it was my turn, with UCLA. Like Raina, I'd scheduled my first visit with a school I wasn't thrilled about. Two years before I'd felt differently—I'd gone to all the Bruins' home games, and had idolized Jackie Joyner, the future Olympic heptathlete who'd been a forward on that team. It seemed back then like UCLA was the place I'd end up, especially since they'd signed Stephanie Uchida, the great guard from North Torrance who was two years older than me, and who I'd played with in the Gardena Japanese league when we were both in junior high. I was often compared to her, even though she was a guard, because we were the only blue-chip Japanese-American players that anyone could remember. But now I had two AAU friends at UCLA who were very disillusioned, and they'd warned me to stay away. By the time I'd agreed to let coach Billie Moore and her staff come argue their case, it was almost as if I were doing it for old times' sake; it was as if I were saying yes to someone I no longer desired simply because I'd once wanted her so much.

  If anyone was excited about the visit, it was my father, who'd been a student at UCLA when John Wooden was the coach and the Bruins ruled the NCAA. He asked more questions of Coach Moore than I did, and also recounted, in great detail, some of the games he'd seen in the sixties. He beamed when she said she'd been following my career for three years, and mentioned that he'd seen her assistant coach at a couple of my games. I did not enjoy his performance. The only thing that saved me from utter embarrassment was that the visit was not important to me. I wasn't trying to impress the coaches, and so I just sat back and took in what they said. Coach Moore talked in more specific terms than Coach Sharp had, and seemed much more intense about her pitch. This made sense—her program was good, but had a lot less to show for its efforts; UCLA hadn't won a national championship since Ann Meyers was there in the seventies. I could see, though, that Claudia preferred Coach Moore to Coach Sharp. Billie Moore was a direct, no-nonsense type of person while Coach Sharp had been smoother, and UCLA was a better school. Both Claudia and my father were impressed, too, when the coaches talked about what some of their recent graduates were doing. A couple of them were playing pro ball in Europe and Japan, several were in graduate school, and the rest of the former Bruins seemed to have good, secure jobs. I listened to all of this patiently, but it didn't sway me. Just before they left, Coach Moore invited me to make an official campus visit over one of the upcoming weekends, and I told her I'd get back to her on that. We were only allowed five of those campus visits and I wanted to choose my schools carefully.

  When they were gone, I went upstairs and found Raina sitting at the top of the staircase, in the exact same spot I'd been the night before. It was strange to think about her spying on me; I felt like a photographer who'd been dragged out from behind the camera and suddenly thrust in front of it. She smiled up at me without a trace of guilt.

  "What you doin up here?" I asked.

  She scratched her neck and as I followed the movement of her hand, my eyes fell upon her right earlobe. I imagined slipping it into my mouth and rolling it on my tongue, like a smooth piece of butterscotch candy. "Same thing you were doin last night," she said. "Hey, maybe if you don't wanna sign with UCLA, they'll take your dad instead."

  I laughed. "I know, huh? He really wants me to go."

  "Well, maybe he could pass as you if he shaved more often and curled his hair. Y'all do have similar faces, I guess, although he's not as good-looking as you."

  I didn't answer—my tongue was stuck, even though I knew she hadn't meant anything. She'd been matter-of-fact, the way that people are when they'r
e indifferent and have nothing at stake. I wondered if she was upset that UCLA wasn't recruiting her anymore—they'd already gotten a verbal commitment from an All-State guard—but she didn't seem troubled by their visit.

  "But where do you wanna go?" she asked now.

  I looked down at Ann, who was at my feet, so that I wouldn't have to look at Raina. "I don't know, girl. And I don't wanna think about it."

  Now it was Raina's turn to laugh. "Yeah, well these coaches sure want you to think about it. They want you to think about it all the time."

  She wasn't kidding. In the next two weeks, I saw, among others, Oregon, Berkeley, Georgia, Old Dominion, Tennessee, UNLV, and Arizona. All of these coaches promised that their schools were the place for me, that I'd get plenty of playing time, that they were going to win the national championship. All of them were very eager to get their points across, and it gave me a new appreciation for the relatively low-key approaches of Coach Sharp and Coach Moore—both local coaches who realized that no matter what their programs' faults or merits might be, at least we already knew a lot about them. Some of these other coaches had styles which disoriented me. There was the one who placed a letter of intent on the table before he'd even introduced himself, as if just seeing it would make me trip all over myself in my haste to sign; and the one who said I shouldn't have to hear any more about her school than I wanted to and then proceeded to sit silently until I asked her some questions. Several coaches did mental double takes when they laid eyes on our parents—you could see their eyebrows begin to lift, and then reverse themselves, as the coaches realized it wouldn't help their cause to express surprise at the couple in front of them. But the essential message from all of them was the same—come play for us, we'll make you happy, you'll leave us not just a star athlete but a well-rounded person who will go out and succeed in the world.

  Raina was hearing the same crap. One night, while entertaining the coaches of a school she was no longer interested in, she came into the kitchen to get some coffee. I was standing at the counter making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and although my back was to the door, I could feel her presence. I was always conscious of where Raina was, as if she were an energy source which gave off light and heat. When I turned around, she looked tired and impatient.