More Than Rivals

by Ken Abraham

  Bill nodded.

  “Well, they’re talking downtown like they might have to do something like that again. They don’t want no more of those Molotov cocktails being tossed around.”

  “That’s crazy!” Bill said. “It’s a basketball game.”

  Joe shook his head. “I know that. And you know that. But those KKK-lovin’ maniacs are mad that we’re even going to be in the same gymnasium with all them white folks. Can you believe that—in 1970?”

  Bill nodded pensively. “Yes, it’s 1970, but here in the South it might as well be 1870.”

  The teams tried to prepare for the big matchup as though it were just another basketball game—an important one, but simply a game nonetheless. However, feelings of racial tension slipped in, even on the practice court. As Eddie and the other Green Wave players scrimmaged one late afternoon, Eddie took a shot and missed. A second-stringer rebounded the ball right in front of starter Joey Graves. The second-team guy whipped the ball outside to another sub, who took an easy shot for two points.

  Alton Rourke, Gallatin’s center, was furious. “Come on, Joey,” he yelled. “You gotta box out the defenders under the boards. Keep ’em away from the basket. If you don’t, those big gorillas from Union are gonna run all over you.”

  Alton turned to Eddie for support but found none. The expression on Eddie’s face clearly revealed that Eddie was annoyed by Alton’s gorilla remark. “What?” Alton railed.

  Just then, Coach Vradenburg walked into the gym and blew his whistle.

  “Okay, guys,” he called. “That’s it for today. Hit the foul lines, and as soon as you sink fifty, come on over. I want to talk with you.”

  When the boys all gathered around, Coach Vradenburg motioned for them to sit on the gym floor. The team sat in a semicircle around their coach, who stood, looking down at his players. “First, I want you to know right up front that I am proud of you. We have had a great year, and I congratulate you. You have handled your success with grace and humility. Character matters, and you boys have it.” He paused and looked around the semicircle of players.

  “This game isn’t about Negroes and whites. We’re simply playing another tournament game. A big one, for sure. A good team? Oh, yes. Absolutely. But we’re going to play them like any other team. We’re going to play tough. We’re going to play hard. We’re going to play fair. But we’re gonna play to win!”

  Coach Vradenburg stopped and made eye contact with each of his players. “Does everyone understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” several of the boys responded.

  “Okay, that’s good. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right. Hit the showers and dream tonight about that ball going through the net.”

  About the same time, Coach Martin called the Union team off the old court across town. The team gathered around their coach.

  “We have a big test ahead of us on Saturday night,” he began.

  “Don’t worry, Coach,” Roy Jackson jumped in. “We’re takin’ those white boys down.”

  The coach raised his hand, indicating for Roy to pipe down. “I’m not worried about the white boys,” Coach Martin said coolly. “I’m concerned about us—our team, our school.” He paused and looked at his players, wondering if they really understood the significance of this game. “There’s going to be a lot of talk between now and the game—not all of it good. You’re gonna hear some things you don’t want to hear, maybe things you’ve never heard before. People might call you names or make derogatory statements about your mother or your lineage. None of that matters.”

  The coach slowly moved his gaze to meet the eyes of each young man on his team. “What I expect from you . . . no, let me say it differently. What I demand from you is your best, on and off the court, and that you show sophistication and class.”

  The Union players listened intently, admiration and respect shining in their eyes.

  Coach Martin continued. “Now, folks are talkin’ about this game far and wide. A lot of eyes are going to be on you boys. Not only are you representing your school, you are representing a whole lot more—and I don’t think I need to spell that out for you. How you handle yourselves will be noted, either positively or negatively. We didn’t choose this road, but we are going to run down it, and we won’t be backing off. We’re going to play hard, and if we do what we do best, we’re going to win this game. We’re going to win the big one for Union! But let me tell you something, fellows. Win or lose, the way you conduct yourselves on and off the court is more important than the final score. Everybody got it?”

  The players responded with positive enthusiasm.

  “All right, let’s call it a night. Get some rest.”

  Roy and Joe and Bill exchanged looks as they headed to the locker room. “Obviously, this game goes far beyond Gallatin,” Joe said.

  “You got that right,” Roy replied. “Thank you, guys, for making me stick to my math.” He looked at Bill. “I know I wasn’t exactly a willing student. But I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this for anything.”

  26

  RADIO STATIONS AROUND GALLATIN were buzzing even more as the weekend approached. Everyone wanted to talk about the big game. People kept the radio on wherever they went just so they could hear the latest opinion or prognostication.

  On Friday afternoon, Betty Sherlin went to the beauty parlor downtown. It wasn’t Betty’s custom to have her hair professionally styled, at least not more than once a year. Ordinarily, she did it herself or had one of her daughters trim her hair when necessary. But Sister Althea Jones from church had arranged for Betty to have her hair done before the big basketball game as a special present to her.

  “Lots of people are going to be looking at you, Betty,” Sister Althea said. “After all, you are Eddie Sherlin’s mother.”

  Althea’s remark made Betty feel as though she was really special.

  “Why, who knows?” Althea gushed. “They might even take a picture of you and put it in the newspaper!”

  Betty wasn’t sure she liked all that attention, but with Althea’s promptings, as well as her willingness to pay for the appointment as a way of expressing her appreciation for all she did at the church, she acquiesced and accepted the gift.

  Now, as she walked into the beauty parlor, she wasn’t certain she had made a good decision. The place was packed with women getting their hair done in large bouffant styles, as though they were planning to attend the Kentucky Derby. Betty checked in at the front counter and was ushered past a line of large hair dryer chairs occupied by well-dressed women. While Betty was fascinated by the hustle and bustle of the hair salon, decorated mostly in pink, she couldn’t help but hear the incessant chatter of voices on the radio that was blaring above the drone of the hair dryers.

  A caller was arguing with the radio host. “Gallatin has been just plain chicken all these years. They haven’t wanted to play Union because they were too good for ’em. They know they’re gonna get beat, and they don’t want no colored team showin’ them up.”

  The radio host quickly moved on to another caller, but the women in the beauty parlor picked up on the conversation. In polite conversation, the white women of Gallatin most often expressed a condescending but tacit acceptance of the black people in town, but here in the beauty parlor, the women lowered all façades of civility.

  “I will not allow my child to go anywhere near that gymnasium on Saturday,” said one woman who was having her hair trimmed. “There’s bound to be trouble. Why, you just know there’s going to be trouble!”

  “That’s right,” another woman said, pulling her head out from under one of the dryers. “You saw what those coloreds did after the Martin Luther King killin’, how they burned down that barn at the tobacco company.”

  “Burned it right down!” another woman exclaimed. “All the way to the ground. Destroyed a year’s worth of crops too.”

  An older prissy woman added, “And the judge gave those boys a reduced sentence beca
use they said they were sorry. Sent them off to military service instead of prison. Can you believe that? Well, pardon me, but does that teach a lesson? I don’t think so!”

  “And what if Gallatin wins and Union loses this basketball game?” asked a gray-haired woman. “Are the coloreds going to burn down the gymnasium too? Or maybe town hall? Who knows what those animals are likely to do?”

  Betty Sherlin took her seat at one of the styling stations. She lowered her gaze to the floor, refusing to look at anyone. Troubled by the conversation she was hearing, she really didn’t want to be there, and she didn’t want anyone to notice her.

  Sitting in Eddie’s car in the Gallatin High School parking lot, Eddie and Buddy were tuned in to the radio talk show as well. They cracked up laughing at some of the comments and others almost made Eddie blush.

  “Ain’t no team, white or colored, goin’ to beat Eddie Sherlin and the Green Wave,” one caller said. “I don’t care who they’ve got on their roster.”

  Buddy nudged Eddie’s arm. “How ’bout that, brother? That boy knows what’s happenin’.”

  Eddie, who was intently watching the front entrance of the school, smiled but didn’t encourage Buddy.

  The caller on the radio rambled on. “They could put Lew Alcindor of the Milwaukee Bucks and all the rest of those NBA coloreds on the court, and they still couldn’t beat Gallatin!”

  Buddy recognized that the caller’s voice sounded a lot like one of their classmates. He looked at Eddie in surprise. “Was that Dewey?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Afraid so. Sure sounded like him.” He kept his eyes on the front entrance, searching.

  “What an idiot!” Buddy said.

  The radio announcer seemed to concur with Buddy’s appraisal. “Well, on that point, I’d have to disagree with you, caller, but I appreciate your loyalty to your school. Next caller.”

  Buddy and Eddie laughed at the announcer’s quick brush-off of Dewey.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Buddy said, sitting up in his seat. “Look. There she is, right over there.” Buddy pointed across the parking lot.

  Eddie spotted Missy walking through the parked cars. “Great! Thanks, Buddy. Catch ya later.” Eddie popped out of the car and headed in Missy’s direction.

  Buddy just shook his head. “Poor love-struck fool,” he said to himself as he watched Eddie weave through the cars in his attempt to catch up to Missy.

  “Hey, Missy!” Eddie called. “Hang on a second. I want to talk to you.”

  Missy stopped, turned, and glared. “Hello, Eddie,” she said coldly. “Were you speaking to me?”

  “Yeah, I sure was,” Eddie said as he bounded up next to Missy. “Listen, I wanted to tell you. I mean, I’m sorry about the other night. I felt really bad that I left you there in the car. But Buddy was in some real trouble. You know he’s been my best friend since junior high, and he’s been like a brother to me. Sometimes he does stupid things, and he’s got a bad temper, but inside he’s a good boy. He just needs someone to watch after him sometimes.”

  Missy stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her head cocked slightly to the left, as though she were bored with Eddie’s explanation.

  “So the other night, when all those guys from Springfield were coming after him, I couldn’t turn my back on my friend.”

  “But you could turn your back on me.”

  “No, no, no, that’s not it at all. That’s just the point. I didn’t want to turn my back on you, but Buddy needed me.”

  “And I didn’t?”

  Eddie stumbled over his words. “No, I mean . . . you know what I mean, Missy. Anyhow, so I want to tell you that I’m sorry, and I’m asking you to forgive me.” Eddie reached into his pocket and pulled out his class ring and the new gold chain. “And I was hoping you would take this back.” He held the ring and chain out to Missy.

  Missy didn’t move. She simply stared at the ring and chain and then back at Eddie, without saying a word.

  A loud honk from a car horn broke the silence. Simultaneously, Missy and Eddie looked toward the street in front of the school, the direction from which the sound had come. There, in a shiny, new blue Mustang, was one of the college guys who had been flirting with Missy at her birthday party. He stepped out of the car, smiled, and waved at Missy. He blew the Mustang’s horn again and motioned for Missy to join him.

  Missy seemed flustered. She stared for a moment at the college boy and then looked back to Eddie. “Look, Eddie, I don’t know what I was thinking all this time. Me playing second fiddle to a basketball? It just isn’t proper. You’re a nice guy, and you’re all right to look at too. But you aren’t any movie star, and you don’t have a lot going for yourself other than sports. Oh, sure, you can get your picture in the newspapers for throwing a touchdown or tossing a ball through a hoop. Who knows? You might even make something of yourself someday.” Missy paused, observing the hurt in Eddie’s eyes, before looking away.

  “But Saturday night when you left me sitting in the car all by myself, I finally realized something about you, Eddie Sherlin . . .” Missy hesitated and then looked Eddie in the eyes. “You and I are cut from different cloth. We have different values, goals, and ambitions. You and I, Eddie, are living in the same town but in different worlds. All you are ever gonna be is just a good country boy.” She stopped for a second and then almost spat out her final words. “And that’s just not good enough for me.”

  Missy shook her head, turned on her heel, and walked toward the Mustang, leaving Eddie standing there holding his ring and the gold chain.

  “Missy!” he called after her, heartbroken.

  But she did not answer. She didn’t even turn around. She got into the Mustang, and the college man drove away with her.

  Eddie stood for a long moment, looking down the road to where the Mustang had headed. Dejected and disappointed, he slowly took his ring off the chain, put it back on his finger, and stuffed the chain in his pocket. He continued staring down the road until he sensed Buddy standing next to him.

  “Are you okay?” Buddy asked him in an unusual moment of tenderness between the two of them.

  “Yeah, I guess so. I guess I have to be okay. Maybe she’s right, Buddy. Maybe we do live in different worlds, with different values. But I can’t compromise what I know is right.”

  Buddy looked at his friend. “She doesn’t deserve you, Eddie,” he said softly.

  Eddie shrugged. “Thanks, Buddy.”

  The sentimental moment passed, and Buddy broke the magic. “Hey, do you want me to knock that college boy out?”

  “Aw, shut up,” Eddie said, walking away.

  “What?” Buddy yelled. “What did I do?”

  27

  IT SEEMED EVERYONE IN GALLATIN knew exactly how the championship game should be played, what each team needed to do on offense, and how to stop the opposition. The players couldn’t get away from it. Walking down the street, Bill and Tyree stopped when a car whipped to the curb in front of them and slammed on the brakes. “Hey, hold on there,” a man in the car called out to them.

  Tyree and Bill looked at the man. The brothers could hear the usual sports talk on the radio in the car.

  “How you feeling about that game tomorrow night?” the driver asked Bill.

  “Feelin’ okay, sir.”

  “You beat those white boys good, ya hear me?” The man revved the engine, put the car back in gear, and drove off.

  “Yes, sir!” Bill said, chuckling as he waved good-bye.

  “Who was that guy?” Tyree asked.

  “I have no idea. Just someone else livin’ out their fantasies or frustrations through a basketball game, I guess.”

  Farther down the street, the boys were accosted by a group of older Negro men sitting outside the coloreds’ barbershop. They too had the sports show on a portable radio that was sitting on a window ledge. “That’s Ligon,” one of the men said to the rest. “Hey, Bill. Get on in here. Come here, son.”

  “Sorry, guys. We gotta get hom
e.”

  “Oh, just come in and set a spell, son,” said one of the older men. “Just a couple of minutes. We want to talk to you.”

  “Yeah,” another man said. “We got some things to say about this here game.”

  Bill looked at Tyree and shrugged. There was no escaping these old men without being rude, so the two teenagers followed the old codgers into the barbershop.

  “Here, get on up in the chair, there, Bill,” the barber Roscoe Robinson said. “I’ll give you a quick trim while the boys have their say.”

  Bill looked to Tyree for help, but Tyree simply shrugged and sat down in a large stuffed chair. He was looking around at all the short haircuts on the men in the barbershop. Bill had more hair in his Afro than all the men combined had on top of their heads. “Yeah,” Tyree said with a chuckle. “He needs a touch-up before the big game.”

  Bill shot his brother a dirty look as he took a seat in the large barber’s chair.

  Fortunately, Mr. Robinson was more interested in talking basketball than he was in cutting Bill’s hair. “Now, here’s whatcha gotta do,” he said. “That Sherlin boy is the one you gotta watch out for. Put your fastest man on him all the time.”

  One of the older men agreed. “Joe Malone is a good defensive player. You keep him in Sherlin’s face all night, and there ain’t no way that white boy is gonna score no thirty points.”

  “No, that’s plumb nonsense.” Another old man jumped into the conversation, talking over the others. “Not Malone. You want someone who will rough him up a little. Someone who will play a physical game. Knock Sherlin off balance a little. Roy is your man.”

  Bill didn’t say a word. He was more concerned about his hair, so he, glancing frequently into the large mirror, kept a close watch on Mr. Robinson’s scissors.

  “That ain’t right!” another man said. “Roy’s too slow. The white boy will dribble right around Jackson. You need someone strong, but someone quick too.”