by Ken Abraham
He moved to the lectern and adjusted the microphone, speaking softly at first and then increasing in volume and intensity. “I will hear no more talk about going backward. This is one of the last school districts in America to desegregate. It is time to start doing things right.
“You folks in Gallatin have been dragging your feet for far too long—ever since the Brown v. Board of Education court decision in 1954. Ladies and gentlemen, desegregation is the law of the land, whether or not you like it. If Gallatin fails—if you fail to make this work—your schools will be either put in receivership and administrated by the federal government or shut down completely. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
Pepper waited for a response. Blank faces stared back at him. The silence in the room was his only indication that the audience had understood his strong words. He took that as a plus.
“Good. Now we will move on. Most of you know Mrs. Wertheimer from the state social services office. She will now address how we can most sensitively communicate these transitions to our students.”
Expressions of disgust and a few slight smiles flitted across the faces in the auditorium. The outbursts had shown them that they hadn’t figured things out themselves.
As Mrs. Wertheimer stood to begin, Principal Malone caught the eye of Principal Herron and motioned for him to meet in the hallway. The two principals stepped outside the auditorium, where Herron guided Malone into a nearby unoccupied classroom. Herron closed the door and each of the two men momentarily sized up the other in light of what they had just experienced.
“Have a seat,” Principal Herron offered his counterpart. “What are your first impressions?”
Malone shook his head sadly. “Dan, I believe what we just saw and heard was the tip of the iceberg. There are a whole lot of cold, slippery, precarious crevasses lying just below the surface. We are going to have to step carefully. I’m not sure we are ready for all of this.”
Herron nodded. “Well, we knew it was coming. Frankly, I’m not surprised. It is difficult to legislate good conduct.” The stern military man sighed. “At least we have the rest of the school year and over the summer to ease into things, and to help get ready and organized.”
“Maybe not,” Principal Malone replied.
Principal Herron looked at him quizzically. “Really? What do you mean?”
Malone rubbed his chin pensively. “Are your boys going to beat Springfield in the district semifinals on Wednesday evening?”
“Well, I hope so. We beat them handily during regular season play. But what does that—oh, no.” Concern rippled across Herron’s strong face. “I see where you are headed. And Union is most likely going to beat Westmoreland . . . oh my. Union has never played Gallatin. The Negro school pitted against the Caucasian school that the Negro school is being forced by law to merge with. Nothing like this has happened before in these parts.”
Principal Malone nodded. “I hate to say it, but I have been living in denial too.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been trying to ignore the obvious. Or at least put it out of mind for the past few weeks.” Malone took a deep breath and stood, slowly pacing the room.
Herron watched Malone pace in silence.
“But it is happening,” Malone finally said quietly.
“Yes, it is,” Herron agreed. “And tonight’s display has lit a fire under the pressure cooker and placed it on the front burner.”
“That’s for sure.”
“And there’s not a thing in the world we can do to change things.”
“No, sir,” Principal Malone said. “The championship will be on the line, with both the white community and the colored community wanting to show what they’re made of . . .”
Herron let out a low, soft whistle.
Principal Malone finished his statement. “This will be the first time they play . . . and the last.”
17
BILL PULLED OUT A COCA-COLA from the refrigerator. “Bill, honey,” Anna Ligon said, looking up from a stack of test papers on the kitchen table. “Would you please take my car and go pick up Tyree? It’s almost time for him to get off work.”
“Sure thing, Mama. Is it okay if I pick up Joe Malone and Roy Jackson and take them with me?”
“Yes, that’s fine. Just don’t be late for Tyree.”
“I’ll be on time, Mama.” Bill retrieved the car keys from the rack hanging on the wall by the door. “Be back soon,” he called over his shoulder. Bill loved driving the family station wagon, even if it was only a short drive over to the Oakes Drive-In, where Tyree worked. It also happened to be his favorite hangout. He picked up Joe and Roy and headed over to the Drive-In, or as Ty referred to it: “One of the most happenin’ places in Gallatin.”
Bill eased the car into the parking area, being careful to park straight ahead, facing the windows so he could see inside the glass-fronted, classic drive-in restaurant that featured great burgers and ice cream, as well as plenty of Southern fried favorites. Although it was a weeknight, the place was buzzing with activity. Music from radio station WLAC in Nashville blared from a cheap sound system inside the restaurant with a few broken-down speakers mounted outside under the eaves of the restaurant. A half dozen cute, young Negro waitresses and waiters raced between the cooking area inside and the cars outside, where they took orders or attached trays loaded with food to customers’ car doors or windows.
On the other side of the lot, several Negro teenage boys leaned against old cars, while a group of young black teens talked and laughed at the outdoor picnic tables. A few other colored boys hung out their car windows, calling back and forth to the kids at the tables. At one table sat a group of Vietnam veterans, back from the war but still fighting it in their minds every day and night. One of the vets was missing a leg and leaning heavily on crutches. A few dating couples sat together in cars, eating or simply talking. There were no white folks at the Oakes Drive-In. This was a Negro teen hangout in Gallatin. Whites had their own ice cream stand, Dari Delite, on the other side of town.
A car with three pretty teenage girls was parked next to Bill’s. A cute girl with a short bob and a stunning smile sat in the passenger’s seat with the window open. She spotted Bill. “Hi, boys,” she called dreamily to Bill, Joe, and Roy.
“Hey.” Bill and Joe waved nonchalantly.
“Did you guys come to make a date to take us to the movies on Friday night?”
Bill smiled. “I don’t think so.”
“There’s a double feature at the Palace Theater for only a dollar,” the cute girl added.
“That’s nice,” Bill said. “I haven’t been to the Palace in a long time. Are they still making the coloreds sit upstairs in the balcony?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so. I’ve never tried to sit downstairs,” the girl replied. “But it’s more fun in the balcony anyhow.”
“Not for me,” Bill said.
“Okay, but you don’t know what you’re missin’,” the cute girl tried one last time.
“Yeah, I do,” Bill answered.
The girls waved as they drove off, and Bill settled back in the driver’s seat to wait for Tyree’s shift to be done. He pulled out a copy of the book he was reading, Black Reconstruction in America by W. E. B. Du Bois, a Harvard-educated Negro journalist who was instrumental in the founding of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.
Joe sat in the front passenger seat, patting his hands on the dashboard to the beat of the music playing on the outdoor speakers. In the backseat, Roy Jackson worked on his math homework—not that he was happy about that for a second, but Bill had insisted.
“Hi, Bill!” called Kim, one of the most popular waitresses at Oakes. She finished serving a customer and stopped in front of Bill’s car window. “Anything you’d like?” she asked.
“No, thanks, Kim. I’m just waiting on Tyree to finish up.” He nodded toward his brother, who was delivering a meal and some drinks at another car.
“Okay, j
ust let me know if you need something,” Kim said cheerily. “How about you, Joe?”
“Nah, I just ate supper a while ago. Thanks, Kim.”
“And how ’bout the genius in the backseat there?” Kim chirped.
Roy grunted.
“Don’t mind him,” Bill said with a grin. “He’s fine. Unless you’ve got a secret formula that will help him learn how to do equations.”
Kim gave Bill a funny look, then waved good-bye.
Roy muttered something under his breath and slapped down his math homework on the car seat. “There, I’m done with that.”
“Let’s see.” Bill turned around and picked up Roy’s homework. “You ain’t done, Roy!” He laughed. “There are three pages in that assignment. You’ve only done one so far. Check it out.”
“Whaaa? What are you talking about?” Roy grabbed the papers out of Bill’s hand and read the instructions. Bill was right. Flustered and irritated, Roy said, “What good are all these equations? Doesn’t help me figure out how much money I can spend or how much I need to save to buy a car. What good is it?”
Bill flashed a sly smile. “The good of it is if you don’t do it and you don’t graduate, you get a one-way ticket to Southeast Asia, where you can join that new fraternity known as Mekong Delta. I hear their initiation program is pretty tough.”
“Yeah, and if you’re lucky enough to dodge all the bullets while you’re there,” Joe added as he nodded toward the vets sitting at the picnic table, “you get a front row seat at the world-famous Oakes Drive-In, right there with James and the boys.” Joe paused long enough to watch one of the vets pass around a small bottle of liquor. The guys at the table were only a few years older than Joe, Roy, or Bill, but they looked much older. They appeared worn and haggard, having experienced life far beyond their years.
“And every night for the rest of your life, Roy,” Joe continued, “you can come out here and swap horror stories. Or, if you still have your arms and your legs, you might be able to get a minimum-wage job over at the shoe factory.”
“Or if you are messed up in the head,” Bill added sadly, “like Bernie there, maybe you can get a disability check from the government and sit around the park all day, looking at birds—”
“Oh, all right, I hear ya.” Roy pouted a moment. “Gimme that book. I’ll get the assignment done.”
“I thought you’d see the light,” Bill quipped.
Across town and equipped with a better stereo system and a full repertoire of Elvis Presley albums, the white counterpart to the Oakes Drive-In, known simply as the Dari Delite, was also hoppin’. The shop was located just off the main drag, so cars whizzed by in a constant stream, many of which were driven by teenage and young-adult drivers wanting to show off their cars and strut their stuff. The Dari Delite was the most popular hangout in town for the white kids. It also boasted the best burgers and malts for miles around, so when they could put up with the loud Elvis music, even white adults stopped by. But the clientele was mostly teenagers flirting with other teenagers.
Bo Sherlin sat in his wheelchair, holding court as he often did at the Dari Delite. His dad had dropped him off earlier in the evening, helping him get situated in the wheelchair near a favorite table where some of his friends usually congregated. “I’ll have Eddie pick you up after practice later tonight,” Jim Sherlin told his son.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll see you later,” he added, although he knew he probably wouldn’t—especially if some of his older buddies bought some beer. But Bo didn’t go to the Dari Delite to get drunk. Mostly he went so he could brag about Eddie.
“Do you remember that game a couple weeks ago when Eddie scored about twenty points by halftime?” Bo asked a couple of his post–high school buddies. “The team was behind by ten points, but Eddie saw one of the cheerleaders crying and worrying about losing. So he told me later, ‘Bo, I just could not stand to see that pretty girl so upset, so I knew I had to do something extra special.’ Eddie went out and scored fifty-five points that night!”
The dropouts slapped their knees. “That’s plumb amazin’, Bo!” one of them said.
Many of Bo’s stories about Eddie came with a good measure of exaggeration, but Eddie’s athletic abilities were so widely known, even some of Bo’s most outlandish tales of Eddie’s exploits were not out of the realm of possibility.
“Yep!” Bo said. “Broke the state scoring record, and the Green Wave won by twenty points!”
The dropouts surrounding Bo stomped their feet and cheered as though they were on the bleachers at Gallatin High. Jim Scanlin, the manager of the Dari Delite, walked over to the table and scowled at them. “Can you guys keep it down a little? You’re scaring off some of our best customers and aggravating others.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Bo said much too loudly. “We’ll cool it a bit. Sorry, boss. I forgot for a second that I am Bo Sherlin not Eddie. If Eddie were in here, he could hoot and holler till the cows came home and nobody would care.” Bo paused and eyed the dropouts. “Because . . . we all know why, don’t we?”
“Sure do,” one dolt said.
“We do?” another asked.
“Of course nobody would care,” Bo boomed, “because he is Eddie Sherlin, superstar of Gallatin High!”
“Okay, Bo,” the manager said. “But I’d appreciate it if you could tone it down a little.”
“Of course!” Bo nearly yelled.
The manager shook his head. No use causing more of a spectacle. Everyone knew that Bo had been impossible to control since the accident. And everyone felt awful about Bo’s inability to play sports or do the things other guys his age took for granted. Most people, the manager included, cut Bo some slack for as long as they could. But there were times . . .
Just then, in his peripheral vision, Mr. Scanlin saw Eddie’s car pull in to the parking lot. Eddie got out of the car and spotted Bo inside the restaurant before making his way to the entrance. Mr. Scanlin slipped away from Bo and his buddies and stepped outside to intercept Eddie.
“Evenin’,” Mr. Scanlin said casually.
“Good evening.”
Mr. Scanlin looked back toward the inside of the restaurant where Bo and his friends were still causing a ruckus. “He’s not doing so well tonight.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry. Did they break anything?”
“No, just making a lot of noise. New folks who come inside aren’t used to Bo and his buddies, so they don’t understand why I don’t throw them out.”
“I’m so sorry—”
“No, I’m the one who is sorry, Eddie. I wish there was something I could do—or something anyone could do.”
“Well, thanks for not calling the cops on him. That’s something right there.”
“I wouldn’t do that to poor old Bo,” Mr. Scanlin said, shaking his head sadly. He and Eddie both looked inside at Bo, who was even more animated than earlier. “I used to see all of Bo’s games when he played Little League—back, you know—before the accident. He could really play ball.”
Eddie pursed his lips, as though reminiscing about his early years playing ball with Bo. “Yes, he could,” he said slowly. “I’d better go get him. Thanks again.”
“No problem, Eddie. Anytime.”
Eddie and Mr. Scanlin walked inside the Dari Delite together. Customers immediately recognized Eddie and waved to him. Several called out to him, saying, “Hey, Eddie!” “Good to see ya!” “You gonna whip those Springfield fellers?”
He responded as best he could, but his eyes were fixed on Bo.
“Hey! There he is!” Bo hollered when he saw Eddie. “Why, there’s number 22 himself, ladies and gentlemen. Playing guard for the Green Wave and averaging thirty-three points per game . . . from the great state of Tennessee, it’s Gallatin’s own . . .” Bo paused and raised his eyes toward the ceiling, as he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Eddie! Eddie Sherlin!”
A few of Bo’s dropout buddies applauded Bo’s outburst; others looked on in shock, while still others turned t
heir heads away, almost as though they were embarrassed for Eddie.
Eddie stepped over to Bo and gently placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder while still exerting a firm pressure. “Thanks, Bo. Thanks for those kind words.” He patted Bo’s shoulder and then grasped his arm. “Did you get enough to eat? All finished?” Eddie knew that Bo probably hadn’t eaten a thing, but he continued on. “Okay, great. Let’s go. Come on, pal. Time to go home.”
“Home? No way,” Bo said. “I still have a bunch of stories to tell the boys, here. I promised I’d tell the folks about how we fell in love with the game of basketball. You remember that, Eddie? How we dragged that huge pallet for several miles to build a backboard.”
“Yeah, Bo. I remember. Maybe some other time.” Eddie reached for Bo’s wheelchair to diplomatically get him out of the Dari Delite without further disruptions.
Bo ignored Eddie and continued speaking loudly, as though doing a speech for all the other customers. “We went to Vandy when we were just kids—Dad and Eddie and me—to see our uncle play. We’d never been to a real gymnasium before. We’d never been to downtown Nashville. But me and Dad and Eddie . . . walking into that place, you know, it is so enormous in there. I never saw anything like it. And the cheerleaders! Oh my . . . those cheerleaders in their tight little outfits . . . and the crowd and the noise . . . and the sound of the ball going through the hoops—swish! Swish! Right, Eddie?” Bo looked up at his brother standing nearby. “Eddie loves that sound. Oooh, and the popcorn smell? That did it. We both decided, right there on the spot. We’re gonna play—” Bo stopped and slammed his fist on the table so hard that the violent vibration sent a ketchup bottle careening off the table and shattering on the floor.
“All right, Bo. Let’s go!” Eddie grabbed the handles of Bo’s wheelchair and turned him around, wheeling him toward the door. Eddie looked at Mr. Scanlin and nodded toward the mess of glass and ketchup on the floor and mouthed, “I’ll pay you for that.”
The manager waved his hands and shook his head, communicating, “Don’t worry about it.”
