by Ken Abraham
“Cool trick,” Eddie said. “See ya.”
“Okay. Hey, what’s your name again?”
“Eddie Sherlin.”
“Got it. Bill. Bill Ligon. Keep that name in mind,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re gonna see me on the court with the greats one of these days.”
“Okay, Bill. I’ll look forward to that.” Eddie waved good-bye and headed over to Morrison Street, a short distance but an entirely different world away.
When Eddie arrived at home, his mom was already preparing dinner. He opened the kitchen door but didn’t go in. “I’m home, Mom. I’m just going to shoot for a while until supper’s ready.”
“All right,” Betty said. “It won’t be too long.” Betty had been out all day long trying to sell encyclopedias, and Jim wasn’t coming home until late, so she was not in the mood to prepare much of a dinner. A little ground beef, some fried potatoes, and a vegetable if she could rustle up one.
With a single work light from the back porch as the only illumination on his basketball court, Eddie continued practicing his shots. Swish! One after another sliced through the net. Even in the dark, Eddie could tell he was hitting the center of the goal. Between shots, Eddie kept trying to twirl the basketball around his back, as he had seen Bill do. He dropped the ball on a few attempts, but before long, Eddie was wrapping the ball around his back like a member of the Harlem Globetrotters. Just wait till Bill sees this! He whipped the basketball around his back again just as Bo came out the back door.
“Hey, fancy move,” Bo said. “Where’d you learn that?”
Eddie hesitated. “Oh, I saw some guy doing it this afternoon, so I decided to try it.”
“Yeah, where’d you go this afternoon? You were right behind us and then when we got home, you were nowhere to be found. Did you stop to talk to some pretty girl or something? Mom was not happy that you weren’t here when she got home from work so late. I covered for you, but where’d you get to?”
“Oh, I just stopped to play some ball.”
“Did you go back to the park?”
“No . . .” Eddie bounced the basketball to Bo in an effort to divert his attention from his questions. Bo caught the ball and took a shot, but the ball bumped the rim and bounced off. Bo grabbed the rebound and dribbled back to where Eddie was standing.
“Where were you? I might have wanted to play too. Were you playing at a friend’s house?”
“No, not exactly . . .”
“Not exactly? What are you talking about, Eddie? There ain’t no basketball courts between here and the park.”
“Yeah . . . there is—”
“Don’t tell me you were playin’ basketball over on the colored side of town!”
“Yeah, I was—”
“Eddie! Are you crazy? You can’t be doing that. If Dad knew you were over there, he’d whip you.” Bo snapped a hard pass at Eddie, almost catching Eddie by surprise in the dim light. He raised his hands just in time to catch the ball.
“Why not? We were just playing some three-on-three.”
“With darkies?”
“Color don’t matter none to me,” Eddie said. “Don’t you remember what we learned in church? Jesus loves ’em all: red and yellow, black and white. They’re all precious in his sight.” Eddie nonchalantly took a shot. The ball swished through the goal, and Bo picked it up.
“Yes, I remember. But Jesus wasn’t playing basketball with a bunch of darkies!”
“It’s not about dark or light, Bo. It’s about basketball. We were playing basketball, and I had a good time. That’s all there is to it.”
“Not smart, Eddie. That is not smart. Haven’t you heard about the bad things goin’ on down in Birmingham? That Martin Luther King fella stirrin’ stuff up? People rioting in the streets? And it could be downright dangerous in this town too. You should know better.” Bo fired another hard pass to his brother and stomped toward the house.
“But, Bo—”
Bo raised his hand, shook his head, and kept moving toward the back door. “You shouldn’t be over there, Eddie. If I were you, I’d stay away from the dark side.”
Bo slammed the back door as he went inside the house.
Eddie shrugged and went back to shooting. He didn’t understand why Bo was so upset.
Eddie continued shooting for another half hour before he heard the back door open. In his peripheral vision, he saw Delilah stick her head out while holding the door slightly open. “Eddie! Come on! It’s suppertime. Mama said it’s hamburger Friday, and if you don’t get in here soon, we’re gonna eat it all up without you!”
“Y’all go ahead. I’ll be there in just a few minutes.”
Delilah went back inside the house and Eddie continued shooting. Some things are more important than eating.
A lonely train whistle sounded in the distance, reminding Eddie that it was nearly nine o’clock. He took one last long shot and nailed it. Swish.
6
“EDDIE! BE CAREFUL!” Bill Ligon called out to his new friend as quietly as possible. Today was Bill’s turn to hide behind a tree, along with his younger brother, Tyree, who crouched behind him. They nervously glanced around in every direction, watching for approaching cars or even early rising pedestrians who might be passing by the white Gallatin Junior High School just after sunup on a Saturday morning. From their safe distance in the shadows, Bill and Tyree watched Eddie slowly climb up the outside wall of the school gymnasium, using the strong vines that grew alongside the brick walls for footing and something to grasp.
Every time Eddie’s foot slipped from a vine, Bill’s heart jumped to his throat. He could envision the headlines already: “White Boy Falls to His Death,” with the additional tag line: “Two Negroes Jailed for Encouraging Him to Climb Wall.” Bill’s imaginary headlines weren’t far-fetched. That’s the way the justice system worked in the South in the early 1960s. If a black person was involved in an incident, it was their fault.
Fortunately, Eddie didn’t fall. He climbed to an upper window that had been left unlocked, pulled it open, and crawled over the windowsill. A few moments later, he was in! He turned and waved to Bill and Tyree. The Ligon brothers raced to the gymnasium’s front door, where Eddie met them and let them inside the school.
All three boys ran onto the basketball court and stopped short, gawking in wonder. Eddie had been to the school to watch some junior high basketball games, but he had never before played on this court. Bill and Tyree had never been inside the building.
All three of them stood awestruck as their eyes swept the spacious gym.
“This must be what heaven looks like,” Tyree quipped.
The court was replete with brightly shining hardwood flooring. It had real Plexiglas backboards, straight orange rims, and new nets. Even for Eddie, who was accustomed to practicing behind his house, this was a treat.
“You did it, Eddie! Way to go,” Bill said. “I was worried when you slipped on those vines out there. But you did it!”
“I just did what you said,” Eddie replied with an “Aw, shucks” expression. “After the junior high game yesterday afternoon, while there were still a bunch of people on the bleachers, I went up and unlocked the window. Nobody noticed. I was just hoping Mr. Evans, the janitor, didn’t come around and check the windows after I left.”
Bill laughed. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know a white boy could be so devious.”
“Oh, I can be devious,” Eddie said seriously. “My heart is as black as yours. Er, uh . . . well, you know what I mean.”
Bill slapped Eddie on the back. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Let’s shoot some ball.” The boys bounce passed the ball back and forth as they crossed center court, and then Bill took it the rest of the way to the top of the key, where he launched a long jump shot. Swish! “Oh, what a beautiful sound!” Bill yelled. “We don’t hear that sound over at Cousin Ella’s court.”
He bounced the ball to Eddie, who sank a long shot from the far side of the gym.
&nbs
p; Tyree ran up alongside Bill. “Are we gonna get in trouble for being in here, Bill?”
“Nah, we’re with Eddie,” Bill said as he retrieved a rebound. “Besides, there ain’t nobody else playing basketball this early on Saturday morning. Not whites or coloreds. We can play for several hours before anyone else shows up around here.” Bill passed the ball to Tyree. “Let’s see whatcha got.”
Tyree dribbled back to a position just behind the foul line and executed a perfect set shot. “Whoooweee!” All three boys whooped it up, enjoying the echo of their voices in the large gymnasium. They played for more than an hour and got so caught up in shooting, rebounding, and shooting again that they never heard the door open. They didn’t see the imposing figure standing with his hands on his hips, a gun on his right side, and a billy club on his left.
For a moment, Officer Howard Barton, a longtime member of Gallatin’s police force, watched the boys totally immersed in playing basketball, oblivious to his presence. He shook his head and almost grinned, but then he straightened and yelled, “Hey!”
Eddie was shooting a jump shot. He seemed to stop, suspended momentarily in midair. Bill was watching the net, ready to retrieve the ball as soon as it ripped through, and Tyree had his back to the officer. All three boys froze.
“Uh-oh,” Tyree said under his breath.
“What are you boys doing in here?” Barton bellowed, his voice echoing off the bare walls of the gymnasium.
Silly question. It was quite obvious what the boys were doing. The real question was how they got into the gym without supervision. And who had the audacity to let two black kids into a white school? “Get over here, now!” he barked, pointing at a spot in front of him. “And bring that basketball too.”
The boys dutifully obeyed Officer Barton’s commands. Eddie scooped up the basketball and joined Bill and Tyree, who stood in front of Barton. Bill and Tyree looked at the floor; Eddie stared at the policeman’s gun.
“What are your names?” Officer Barton asked. “You first.” He pointed at Eddie.
“Eddie Sherlin, sir.”
“And what about you?” He nudged Bill on the shoulder. “Look at me, boy.”
“Ligon,” Bill said quietly. “Bill Ligon. My mama is Anna Ligon, the schoolteacher,” he added, hoping the officer would recognize his mom’s name and be aware of her sterling reputation in town.
“And I’m Tyree,” the younger brother chirped.
Bill elbowed Tyree, as though to say, “Shut up!”
Officer Barton ignored Tyree and glared at Bill. “And how did you get in here?” There was no question in his mind about who was at fault. Clearly, this black kid had broken into the building.
Bill appeared to weigh his words carefully. “The window was open, sir.” He raised his hand slowly and pointed to a window above the bleachers, the same window Eddie had crawled through from the outside wall.
“Hmmph.” He looked at the high window and grunted again. “Where do you live, son?” He addressed his question to Eddie.
“Morrison Street, sir. Over behind the railroad tracks.”
“Okay. Let’s go. Come with me.” He nodded toward the exit doors, and the three frightened basketball players moved in that direction. Barton followed closely behind, making sure the gym doors locked behind them. Once outside, Officer Barton nodded toward his black-and-white patrol car parked in front of the school. “Get in,” he said, pointing at the car. He looked at Bill and Tyree. “You two get in the back. You get in the front seat with me,” he instructed Eddie. The boys quickly followed his orders.
Officer Barton locked the car doors and pulled out. Bill and Tyree sat silently in the backseat, staring out the windows. The officer looked over at Eddie when they stopped at the traffic light downtown. “What’s your daddy’s name?”
“Jimmy Sherlin.”
“Jimmy Sherlin, the fella who leads the church choir over at First Assembly?”
“Yes, sir. That’s my father.”
Barton nodded, thinking Eddie was going to be in much more trouble with his dad than he was right now. “And is your mama home?”
“Yes, sir. She was when I left this morning.”
Officer Barton cast a sidelong glance at Eddie and raised his eyebrows. “And apparently you left rather early this morning.”
“Yes, sir. I did.”
They drove on in silence and arrived at Eddie’s home in minutes. Barton pulled the squad car into the gravel driveway and turned off the engine. “Let’s go.” He turned to Bill and Tyree in the backseat. “You two stay right here. Don’t move a muscle.”
“Yes, sir,” both boys mumbled.
Officer Barton got out of the car and marched Eddie to the front porch. The officer looked over at the double-seat swing tucked on the right side of the small porch, in front of the double windows. Then he rapped on the door. Eddie stood at his side as they waited for someone to answer the knock.
Betty Sherlin clutched her heart when she opened the door and saw Eddie standing next to the policeman. “Eddie!” she blurted. “What’s going on?”
“Mrs. Sherlin?” Officer Barton ignored her outburst.
“Yes. Yes, I am.” Betty opened the door wider. “Come in.”
“No, thank you, ma’am. We can talk right here. As you might have guessed already, we’ve had a bit of a problem this morning.”
“We have?” Betty looked at him and then at Eddie, who immediately dropped his gaze to the porch floor.
“Yes, ma’am, we have. Seems your son and those two colored boys broke into the school this morning.” Barton nodded toward the backseat of his patrol car, where Bill and Tyree sat motionless.
“Eddie?” Betty Sherlin’s surprise was genuine. Clearly she was shocked her son would do such a thing.
“Yes, Eddie,” the officer said. “Is Mr. Sherlin home?”
“No, he already left to make some rounds. He’s an insurance man, and he usually does some collections on Saturday that he can’t get to through the week because folks are working, and—”
Barton raised his hand. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.” He turned toward Eddie. “Son, I want to speak to your mother privately. You get on inside. And I don’t want to see you in my car ever again. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Obvious relief swept over Eddie.
“You stay out of trouble,” the officer said gruffly. “And stay away from those colored boys, ya hear?”
“Ah, yes, sir.” Eddie said quietly as he slipped behind his mother and went inside the house, far enough to get out of Officer Barton’s sight but probably close enough to still hear what he was saying to his mom.
With Eddie gone, the officer’s facial expression and tone softened. “They were just playing basketball, ma’am. They weren’t doing anything bad. But they did not have permission to be in the gym. And then there’s the matter of those two.” He nodded toward Bill and Tyree. “That is trouble just waiting to happen.”
“I’m so sorry,” Betty Sherlin said. “That isn’t like Eddie to get into trouble. He’s a good boy.”
“I’m sure he is, ma’am.” Officer Barton pushed back his hat. “Let’s hope he stays that way. I’m not arresting him. But I expect that you and Mr. Sherlin will handle this matter.”
“Oh, yes, sir, officer. I assure you that Mr. Sherlin, I mean Jim, will apply the rod of instruction. I’d do it myself right now, but I’m certain Eddie’s daddy will want to address it with him.”
“All right, that’s fine. You have a good day, ma’am.” The officer raised his index and middle fingers to his hat in an informal salute. “I have another matter to attend to.” He looked toward the backseat of the car.
The officer stiffened and strode to his vehicle. He opened the door and peered at Bill. “And where do you two live?”
“Right over there.” Bill pointed out the rear window, toward a small brown house on the edge of the whites-only park.
“Over by the church?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” Bill said. “Thank you, sir.” He and Tyree bounded out of the backseat and away from the patrol car as quickly as they could.
That night Eddie was in his tiny bedroom when Jim Sherlin returned home from work. He could hear loud voices in the kitchen and knew his mother was informing his dad about Officer Barton’s visit. He cringed as the voices escalated in intensity. He hated it when his parents argued—especially when it involved him. Eddie knew his dad would not respond well to his breaking into the school, and he might be especially upset about his playing basketball with two colored boys.
A short while later, Eddie heard the familiar strains of George Beverly Shea singing “Amazing Grace” on the family phonograph. That meant that whatever the conversation between his mom and dad had been, it was now over and his mom was immersing herself in the Bible, trying to find absolution, if not forgiveness, for all the nasty things she had said to her husband.
Jim Sherlin reached inside the coat closet. He moved aside some coats and found what he was looking for—a three-foot-long smooth stick, about the thickness of a thin drumstick, made from hickory wood. Jim ran his hand over the smooth wood and tapped it against his thigh. While the stick rendered less damage and pain than Jim’s hand, it could deliver a serious welt.
Delilah was drying the supper dishes near the sink and Debbie was doing her homework at the kitchen table when their dad, with his mouth set in a firm line and his shoulders squared, walked through the kitchen carrying the hickory stick. Neither girl said a word, and each pretended not to notice, but both feared what was about to happen.
