More Than Rivals

by Ken Abraham

  Before they even stepped through the gate, Bo and Eddie heard the pounding of tennis shoes on the asphalt court. Some older white boys were playing a game of four-on-four on half of the court, and another group of high school–aged boys were playing three-on-three on the other side. Bo stopped on the sidelines, hoping that someone in either game might want to come out for a rest. Eddie practiced his dribbling, bouncing the ball back and forth between his legs, never losing control.

  Eddie studied the much taller and muscular players while he continued dribbling. He didn’t need anyone to teach him how to shoot—he was a natural—but he enjoyed trying some of the shots he saw the older boys executing. Whatever he saw them do, he attempted, mimicking their moves on the court and even shooting his basketball at an imaginary basket on the side of the asphalt. One of the high school guys reminded Eddie of his uncle Bob, known around Cleveland as “Boog” Sherlin.

  Uncle Bob was Eddie’s first role model when it came to sports. He had been a star basketball player for Cleveland’s Bradley Central High School, going on to excel at Lee University. Another standout on that Bradley Central team was Steve Sloan, a Christian who later became Eddie’s hero.

  In 1960, Boog Sherlin and Steve Sloan played on Bradley Central’s team for the state championship at Vanderbilt University’s Memorial Gymnasium. Eddie and his dad had traveled several hours by car from Cleveland to Nashville to attend that game. From the moment Eddie stepped inside the cavernous gymnasium—built in 1952 to accommodate eight thousand fans and eventually expanded to seat more than fourteen thousand people—he was hooked. The smell of popcorn wafting through the gym, the cheerleaders bouncing in vivacious cheers, the players warming up under the weird glow of the halogen overhead lights—all of the sights and sounds coalesced to captivate Eddie. This is what I want to do, he thought.

  “Hey, Eddie.” Bo’s voice brought Eddie back to real life in Gallatin. “Let’s go. Time to go home.” Bo was already moving toward the park exit, along with Delilah, Debbie, and several of Bo’s pals.

  “I’ll be right behind you, Bo,” Eddie called over his shoulder. He watched the action on the court for another few seconds before reluctantly turning away. When the group reached the street separating the white and colored sections of town, Bo stretched out his arms, stopping them just as he had done earlier that morning. The quickest way to get home was crossing through the black neighborhood, but Bo still wanted to step cautiously. He looked in every direction.

  “Hold on,” he said. His friends must have noticed the pensive tone in his voice.

  “What’s up?” one asked.

  Bo nodded down the street toward four black teenagers in the distance.

  “I thought they crossed over by the railroad tracks on Blythe Street,” another friend said.

  “Not all of ’em.” Bo’s eyes never left the colored teens. “Wait just a minute.” He stared down the street, making sure they were not moving to a position in which his sisters, his friends, Eddie, or he might have to confront them. He waited until they crossed the street and appeared to be going in the opposite direction. “Okay,” Bo said. “Go. Go now!”

  The group raced across the street and into the black neighborhood, glancing around constantly as they hurried toward Morrison Street. When they crossed over Morrison Street without confronting any black people, everyone breathed a little easier. The girls were giggling and Bo and his buddies were joking, making sarcastic comments to one another. Nobody noticed that Eddie was not with them.

  Eddie, while hurrying through the black section of town near the corner of South Boyers Street and East Bledsoe, became distracted by the familiar sound of a dribbling basketball. Then he heard the muffled clunk of a ball bouncing off a backboard. He stopped to listen as Bo and the rest of the group continued down the street. There it was again—the unmistakable thump of a basketball banking off the backboard and through the rim.

  Curious, Eddie crept behind some bushes and peeked through to see what was going on. Fear leapt into his mind. Should I get out of here before I get in trouble? Eddie heard some kids’ voices, and he was sure they were playing basketball. It was too tempting to pass by. Sure, I’m afraid, but some things are worth the risk. Sometimes a boy has to face his fears head-on.

  Eddie tucked his basketball under his arm and peeked around the corner of the hedge. Through the bush, he spotted some black legs and arms moving in an open space. Like a Vietnam commando, Eddie moved stealthily forward and hid himself behind a large tree on the edge of the corner lot. Holding on to the tree with his suddenly very white hands, Eddie stretched his neck to the right so he could see. Sure enough, there they were—six colored boys that Eddie guessed to be around his age were playing basketball on a hardpacked dirt court. The goal was attached to a lopsided, partial sheet of plywood nailed to a pole, similar to the backboard Eddie and Bo had erected behind their house. This rim, however, was rusty and didn’t have a net.

  A good-looking, skinny boy seemed to be the leader, chiding his fellow players when they missed a shot or slapping his teammate on the back in the three-on-three competition. Loquacious to the point of being obnoxious, the skinny kid kept up a constant play-by-play commentary, as though he were describing the action for a radio audience.

  “Ligon has the ball on the right side of the court,” the talker said. “It looks like no one can stop him. Surely not the pitiful excuse for a team he sees in front of him.” The “commentator” dribbled toward the basket as though he was driving for a layup, but instead of shooting, he drove right under the bucket and back out to what would have been the top of the key on a regular basketball court. And he was still blabbering.

  “Come on, Bill,” the stocky boy guarding him groused disgustedly. “Play ball. We don’t have all day. The sun will be going down before long.”

  Bill paid no attention and continued jabbering. “Ligon pumps, fakes, goes up, shoots!” Bill lofted a jump shot, and the ball glided through the air, piercing the center of the rim so well it was almost hard to see whether the ball went through.

  But Bill knew it had. “Ligon scores!” he said with a whoop. “Unbelievable! Incredible! Ligon is amazing.”

  Watching from behind the tree, Eddie smiled and spun his basketball in his hands. He was impressed—he recognized that the skinny kid had some talent. He had good moves and a good shot. Not as good as Eddie’s, but not bad either.

  Just then, Bill heard a woman’s voice calling from someplace down the street. “Leroy! Leroy White. You get on home!”

  The stocky black boy who had been guarding Bill stood up straight and cocked his ear in the direction of the woman’s voice.

  “Leroy White! Where you at?” the female voice called again.

  “That’s my mama,” Leroy said. “I gotta go.”

  “Aw, man!” Bill looked at Leroy with an irritated expression on his face. “We’re right in the middle of the game here. Come on, can’t you stay a little longer?”

  “Sorry, Bill. You know Mama. Just like yours. When she calls, I gots to go.” Leroy looked around at the other players. “Sorry, guys. Catch ya tomorrow.” Leroy took off running toward his house.

  Clearly annoyed, Bill put his hands on his hips and grunted. “What are we gonna do now?” He paused and looked around at the remaining four boys. “Okay, let’s go three-on-two.” He nodded toward his teammate. “Walter and I are so good, we’ll whup you anyhow.” Bill bounced the ball hard on the dirt.

  “I can play, Bill,” a young boy called from the porch of a nearby house just beyond the basketball court.

  Bill spotted his eight-year-old brother, Tyree, waving his arms and standing on the porch steps of a one-story home owned by their distant cousin Ella Lee Rutledge and her husband, Glen.

  “Yeah, thanks, Ty,” Bill called to his brother. “But I don’t see that you’ve grown eight inches since you asked to play fifteen minutes ago. Your day will come, brother. Don’t you worry. But your day is not today.”

  Tyree
sighed and slumped down on the steps to watch the older boys play.

  Just then, Eddie shuffled his basketball from one hand to another and stepped out from behind the tree where he had been hiding. “Can I play?” he ventured, his throat dry.

  Bill and the other boys spun around to look at Eddie. For several seconds, nobody said a word.

  “It’s a white boy!” Bill whispered to Walter as he stared at the light-haired, light-skinned kid standing there holding a basketball. “What on God’s good earth is a white boy doing here in our neighborhood? And asking to play basketball, no less!” Bill’s friends stood with their hands on their hips, as though they were thinking much the same thing.

  Eddie stood silently while the five black boys stared at him as though he were a visitor from another planet. And in some ways, he was.

  Several more seconds passed in silence, magnifying Eddie’s fears. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He slowly moved his eyes from one tense black face to another, none of them showing any welcoming signs.

  Finally, Bill broke the silence. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Eddie. Eddie Sherlin.”

  “What are you doin’ on our street?”

  “Just watching. I live right over there.” Eddie nodded toward Morrison Street. “Can I play?”

  Bill eyed the basketball in Eddie’s hands. It wasn’t new, but it was a far better ball than he had. He studied Eddie, sizing up his height and slim frame to be a few inches shorter and lighter than his own. He glanced at Walter Lee, Leslie Gurley, and the other two boys, noted their blank expressions and then looked back at Eddie. Bill made a quick decision. “If you can shoot, you can play.” His tone carried a challenge.

  That dispelled Eddie’s fears instantly. “Oh, I can shoot.” I’ll show you how I can shoot, he said to himself, mentally accepting Bill’s challenge.

  “Well, good. Get in here, then,” Bill said.

  It wasn’t the most gracious of invitations, but Bill had long since learned that he couldn’t be too forward with a white person, even a white person who looked to be about his same age. He looked over at Leroy’s former teammates. “John and Simon, you take the new guy. I’ll take Walter and Leslie.”

  John, who was standing under the basket, drawing designs on the dirt with his sneaker, looked up and fired back at Bill. “I don’t want no white boy on my team,” he said bitterly. “Why don’t he go over to the white-boy park?” John pointed to the fenced-in park across the way.

  Bill nodded, enviously noting the new nets on the basketball goals where the white kids were playing. He understood John’s sentiments all too well. After all, Bill and his family lived in the small house adjacent to the gates of the whites-only park. Bill could look out the window and see the white kids playing basketball just a few feet away, yet he was not permitted to step foot on the asphalt court, much less play basketball on the smooth, flat, well-marked surface equipped with the top-quality metal backboards. That’s why Bill walked over to the corner lot near Cousin Ella Lee’s house every day to play ball. He dreamed of playing in the whites’ park, but that’s what it was—just a dream.

  “Aw, come on, John.” He turned his back to Eddie and spoke in a quiet but forceful tone. “I don’t care if the kid is orange. If he can play, we need another guy.”

  John wrinkled his face, as though he was going to say something snide, but Bill ignored him. He turned back to Eddie. “Let’s go. Our ball out.” He grabbed the basketball and stepped to the back of the court. He fired a sharp pass to his teammate Walter, who bounce passed it to Leslie Gurley, their third guy. The game was on.

  It was that simple. For the first time in his life, Eddie Sherlin was playing basketball with colored people. And Bill Ligon and his friends were allowing a “cracker” to join them on their home court, on their territory, and on their terms. Things like that just didn’t happen in Gallatin in 1963.

  The game quickly grew heated, as all six boys—competitive by nature—fought hard to win. Early on, Bill, Walter, and Leslie tried to intimidate Eddie by bumping into him harder than necessary, setting picks so Eddie was bound to slam into one of them and get jostled. It was obvious that the boys didn’t want Eddie to get the better of them, and Eddie was certainly not backing down. He was not about to let the colored players get the best of him either. But it wasn’t about color; Eddie and Bill were fierce competitors, and they were much more interested in basketball than any personal battles.

  Eddie’s teammates, John and Simon, slowly warmed to him. They were reluctant to give Eddie the ball at first, until Eddie snagged a blocked shot that ricocheted to the backcourt. He spun and hit a jump shot from nearly twenty feet out.

  John and Simon quickly changed their tune. “The white boy can shoot!” Simon said under his breath to John as he retrieved the ball and bounced it to Leslie after Eddie sank another long one from the corner.

  Before long, they were feeding the ball to Eddie on the outside every time they got tangled up on the inside. And more often than not, Eddie sent the ball through the hoop.

  The game continued into late afternoon. The boys were so absorbed in playing that they failed to keep score, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the score. It wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about the game.

  Dinnertime was approaching, and one by one, the boys were called home, slowly breaking up the game.

  “Hey, Eddie, good playin’ with you,” Walter said, as he slapped Eddie on his sweat-soaked back. “Catch ya again sometime.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Sure will,” Eddie responded.

  Even John reluctantly gave Eddie a superficial nod before heading off for supper. Finally, only Bill and Eddie remained on the court, playing one-on-one.

  Fascinated by the unusual sight of a white boy playing on their court, Bill’s brother, Tyree, walked over and watched from the side as Bill and Eddie traded shots, one after another, with most of them going in. Bill recognized that Eddie was the better player, but that didn’t keep him from putting on the pressure.

  Nor did it reduce his rhetoric.

  “Oh, yeah, ladies and gentleman, this is the game. They’re pullin’ out all the stops now. The light-haired Bob Cousy has his set shot working for the Celtics today, but he can’t stop the Pistons’ Willie Jones. Oh, watch out! Jones is heading for the basket! The crowd is on its feet as Willie plays keep-away for the final seconds of the game, and Cousy can’t do a thing about it!”

  Bill suddenly made a move for the basket, and Eddie backed up and quickly moved to the side to block him. Bill didn’t slow down but rammed into Eddie full force, sending him flying. He hit the dirt and slid awkwardly on his knees. It was a powerful blow and would have been a clear-cut offensive foul for charging had they been playing a real game with a referee. Bill continued his layup over top of Eddie, banking the shot off the board and through the hoop.

  Tyree cringed when the two boys collided. This could be bad news. He was almost certain that the white boy wasn’t accustomed to playing that rough. Eddie could be hurt. Or it might turn into a fistfight. Tyree wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

  “Willie Jones scores and the crowd goes wild,” Bill yelled, whipping his arms in the air as though hyping the crowd.

  Eddie lay on the ground grimacing. His knee was badly scraped and bleeding, although it was more of a floor burn than a cut.

  Bill grabbed the ball as it bounced on the ground below the hoop. He stepped back and looked down condescendingly at Eddie while Eddie glared back at him.

  Tyree inched forward so he could see and hear, and so he could be ready to run for help if a fight broke out. That burn on Eddie’s knee must have hurt. Bad.

  “Come on, man,” Bill chided Eddie. “You’re not hurt. Get off the ground.”

  Eddie brushed a film of blood and dirt off his knee and looked up at Bill. Anger surged through him at Bill’s obvious foul. He was ready to get up and let Bill have a piece of his mind and more, when Bill did something totally unexpected. He reac
hed down his hand in Eddie’s direction.

  For a long, awkward moment, Eddie simply stared at Bill’s black hand. As Bill continued to extend his hand, Eddie’s eyes darted back and forth, from the pinkish-white skin on Bill’s palm to the almost identical color of skin on Eddie’s own palm. He finally reached out and grabbed Bill’s hand.

  Bill firmly grasped Eddie’s hand and yanked him up off the dirt.

  Off court, Tyree looked on in amazement and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Eddie stood and looked Bill directly in the eyes. “Thanks. Bucket’s no good. Charging, on you.” He took the ball from Bill’s hands and dribbled to the backcourt, where they picked up where they had left off and started the game all over again.

  Bill and Eddie played until dusk. By the time they quit, they had developed a strong respect for each other. “You got a nice shot there,” Bill said as he wiped the perspiration off his brow.

  “Thanks,” Eddie said. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  “I enjoyed playin’ with ya,” Bill said. “I’m not that good, but the guys here don’t give me much competition. I sure had some today.” Bill smiled broadly.

  “Hey, me too,” Eddie said with a laugh as he brushed off his bruised knee. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

  “Okay, let’s.” Bill paused. “But you know I can’t come over to your court.” He glanced at the whites-only park just across the way.

  “Yeah, I know,” Eddie said sadly. “Never have understood all that.”

  “You mind coming back over here?”

  “Naw, I don’t mind at all. The ball bounces the same here as it does over there.” Eddie nodded toward the park. “I’ll be back. But I’d better get goin’ now, or I’ll be in for a whippin.”

  “Yeah, same here,” Bill said. “My mama is little, but she sure is mighty.” He twirled the basketball around his back as though it were a hula hoop, wrapping the ball under his shoulder and around his body and back to his chest.