More Than Rivals

by Ken Abraham

  The elderly men went back and forth for several minutes, arguing among themselves about who ought to guard Eddie. Finally, Mr. Robinson put a lid on the discussion. “I don’t care who you put on Sherlin. The important thing is that you win this game!”

  “Dat’s the truth right there,” one of the older gentlemen crooned. “We gotta win this game. This one isn’t just for you, son.” He pinned Bill with a look. “It’s for us too.”

  “And ain’t we gonna strut down Main Street after Union wins!” one of the old men shouted. “Yes, sir, the Union band is gonna be playing in downtown Gallatin, and it won’t even be Christmas season! I can’t wait to see the looks on all those white faces when we come by with that big trophy.” The entire room full of old men laughed and whooped it up. Tyree was laughing too.

  Bill sighed. “Thanks for the haircut, Mr. Robinson. We’d better be goin’ now. Mama’s gonna be worried that we aren’t home yet.”

  “My pleasure, son,” Mr. Robinson replied. “You boys stop in any time, and we’ll take care of ya.”

  Bill and Tyree said their good-byes and stepped out onto the sidewalk, closing the door to the barbershop behind them.

  “Nice haircut,” Tyree said as he doubled over laughing.

  “Yeah, thanks. You were no help at all.” Bill fluffed his hair with the hair pick he carried in his back pocket, hoping that Roscoe Robinson hadn’t destroyed his Afro too badly.

  Eddie couldn’t escape the hubbub either. He was walking downtown by the city square on his way to Don Savage’s pawn shop when a mailman fell into step with him. He walked with Eddie the length of the street, offering his advice along the way. “One more thing, Eddie, and then I’ll let you go. The big guy at Union. Not the center, that other boy. You watch out for him, because he swings his elbows around like a gorilla.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eddie said. He had no idea which player the mailman was talking about, but it didn’t matter.

  Don had the radio behind the counter blaring so customers could keep up with the latest basketball talk when Eddie arrived at the pawn shop.

  “Hey, Eddie, come on in,” Don called out when he spotted him. “How’s that necklace working for you?” He smiled and winked.

  “Hi, Mr. Savage,” Eddie said. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. I guess I won’t be needing the chain after all. We kinda broke up.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Eddie.” Don paused barely a second or two. “Well, it’s probably for the best anyhow right now, with the big game and all. You know I was thinkin’ that you boys don’t wanna try to outrun those colored boys. You might want to think about slowing things down a bit. You had great success in other games when you played ball control and slowed the pace of the game. You took your time to set up rather than shooting every time you got your hands on the ball. You know those coloreds, they’re quick and they’re shifty, so if I was you—”

  “Thanks, Mr. Savage,” Eddie said, placing the gold chain on the countertop. “I appreciate your advice.”

  Mr. Savage nodded and kindly returned the ten-dollar deposit Eddie had put down for the necklace.

  “See ya later,” Eddie said as he quickly left the store.

  He fielded advice from several more well-wishers as he walked back down the street to his parked car. Everybody in Gallatin seemed to have a stake in the game, and everyone was more than willing to offer their advice. It was all too much for Eddie.

  He slipped behind the wheel and drove the short distance home. He pulled into the driveway and was about to go into the house when the next door neighbor called out to him. “Hey, Eddie!”

  Eddie waved to the neighbor. “Hi, Mr. Nelson.”

  Mr. Nelson jogged across the driveway. “Well, good luck tomorrow night.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Ya know, I’ve been thinkin’ about some stuff.” Mr. Nelson scratched his head. “I got me an idea how you can stop that Ligon boy.”

  “Gotta go, Mr. Nelson! Nice to see you.” Eddie then hustled into the house and exhaled a huge sigh of relief. He made his way to the kitchen and heard the radio. “That Union caller should just shut his mouth,” someone said. “He don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  Eddie walked over and turned off the radio. He opened the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of cold milk. Finally, he thought, I can relax a minute or two without the constant blabber about the basketball game. He took a big swig of milk. “Ahhhh. Tastes good. Like a glass of milk should.” Eddie chuckled at his play on a popular cigarette commercial he had heard on television.

  He was about to prop his feet up in the living room and enjoy the rest of his milk when he heard some noise. It sounded as though it was coming from one of the bedrooms.

  “Hey, Bo? Is that you?” he called. No answer.

  Eddie placed his glass on the coffee table and headed down the hall to his bedroom. “Bo? You home?”

  He noticed the door to his bedroom was open. That wasn’t unusual, but when he peeked his head inside the room, the spectacle he encountered took him by surprise. Delilah and Debbie were showing Peggy Sue Herron and several other freshman girls his bedroom. The girls were oohing and aahhhing over all the trophies and photos on Eddie’s dresser, while his sisters sounded like tour guides at an art gallery. “And this trophy was presented to Eddie Sherlin for being the most valuable player in last summer’s baseball league,” Delilah said, carefully pointing to the trophy. “And there is his all-county award for football this year and last year. As you can see, ladies, Eddie Sherlin is a superstar in several sports. And on your left . . .”

  The girls were so enamored with Eddie’s sports paraphernalia that they didn’t see the hero himself as he looked in on them. Debbie continued the tour, leading them around the edge of Eddie’s bed. “Now, ladies, if you will follow me to this corner of the Eddie Sherlin exhibition, you will find on display the actual gym shorts worn in practice by our star—”

  One of the freshman girls spied Eddie and squealed with glee. The other girls followed suit. “Oh, it’s him!” one gushed, giddily folding her hands in front of her mouth. The other girls began jumping up and down in the bedroom.

  “Uh-oh,” Debbie said under her breath.

  Eddie glared at her. He sent an equally firm expression to Delilah. “Out,” he said.

  “Oh, just a couple more minutes, Eddie,” Delilah protested. “The tour is almost over.”

  “It’s over now. Out!”

  Delilah and Debbie pursed their lips, clearly peeved at Eddie’s insolent interruption, but they took his opposition in stride. Maintaining their professional decorum, Delilah continued the tour as they exited the bedroom. “If you will walk this way, ladies, we will show you the exact chair in which Eddie Sherlin sits as he eats his oatmeal every morning . . .” Delilah and Debbie brushed past their brother, followed by the freshman girls, who were still giggling and blushing.

  As the girls filed past Eddie on their way to the kitchen, he closed the bedroom door and flopped down onto the bed. Oh, no! he thought. I left my milk in the living room. Who knows what Delilah and Debbie will do with that!

  The Drive-In was hopping even more than usual on a Friday night. Car radios were tuned in to Jesse and Al’s “Sports Talk” show on WLAC, the music station broadcast out of Nashville and targeted predominantly to black people. Kids leaned out of cars, yelling back and forth as waiters and waitresses delivered orders as fast as the kitchen could churn them out. Between the radios and the kids yelling, the sounds created a sheer cacophony.

  Several Union High cheerleaders gathered around a pay telephone mounted near the restaurant’s entrance. Olivia held her hands around the phone’s mouthpiece in an attempt to filter out the extraneous noise.

  Over the restaurant speaker system, everyone heard Jesse’s voice. “We have a caller from the Oakes Drive-In. What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Shhh! Quiet! It’s my turn,” she said, holding the phone away from her as she shushed the girls a
round her. Then she turned around and spoke into the mouthpiece. “My name is Olivia.” Her voice echoed through the restaurant speaker system, evoking cheers and laughs. Her fellow cheerleaders whooped it up behind her.

  She tried to quiet the girls by waving her hand toward the ground, but her efforts were in vain. Everyone was having too much fun.

  “Well, I just want to say”—she held out the phone for all the cheerleaders to yell into it—“the Union Devils are going to smash that Green Wave! Go Union!” The girls let out a loud cheer, much to the amusement of Jesse and Al.

  Meanwhile, Bill’s station wagon was surrounded by a crowd of teenage admirers. After all, three of Union’s biggest stars were sitting in the car—Bill, Joe, and Roy. Person after person leaned in the open car windows and offered words of encouragement, hype, or downright nonsense. “Show those crackers once and for all that Union always has been and always will be better than them,” a man in his early thirties said. More than a few urged the Union stars to “put those white boys in their place.”

  It was fun at first, but after a while, Bill grew annoyed. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Roy and Joe. He turned the ignition key and cranked up the car’s motor.

  “What about Tyree?” Joe asked. “Don’t you have to pick him up after work?”

  “Yeah, I do,” said Bill. “Hold on, I’m going to go tell him we will be back later.” Bill got out of the car and waded through the crowd of people. He greeted a few well-wishers, sidestepped others who wanted to engage him in conversation about the game, and pressed on inside the Drive-In till he found Tyree serving some customers.

  Bill patiently waited until Tyree finished delivering the order before he tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Tyree.”

  “Hey, Bill. Whatcha doin’? It’s wild in here tonight.”

  “Yeah, I know. This place is nuts. Roy and Joe and I are going to go on down the road. I’ll be back to pick you up when you get off work.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right here,” Tyree said. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere without ya.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “See ya in a while.”

  Bill weaved through the crowd of admirers toward his car. Just as he started across the parking lot, he heard a shrill whistle. Bill looked to his left and saw the group of hardened Negro Vietnam vets hanging out at their favorite table. One of the guys motioned for him to come over. “Hey, Ligon! Come here a minute.”

  Yeah, right, Bill thought to himself, knowing these guys had no concept of time. A minute could easily stretch to ten minutes or even an hour. It was all the same to them. They weren’t going anywhere. But out of respect for their courage and the price they had paid in battle, Bill hid his reluctance and ambled to the table. “What’s going on, guys?”

  The leader of the group, James, an older vet—at least older than the other guys since he had just turned thirty-one—patted a seat next to him. James wore a leather bomber jacket and a bandanna around his head, setting off his curly hair. His face was scarred, but nobody knew whether it was from the war or from gang fights he had been in during his younger years. And nobody asked. Everyone knew that James simply was not to be messed with.

  “Ligon, my man. Have a seat,” James said, again patting the spot next to him.

  “Thanks, but I’m about to take off. My buddies are in the car waiting. I gotta—”

  “Have a seat,” James ordered.

  Bill studied James and made the smart decision. He sat down with the group of vets on the picnic table.

  “Ah, that’s good,” James said. “Now we can talk.” He thumped Bill on the shoulder.

  “Are you boys ready for this game tomorrow?”

  “We’re as ready as we can be.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I think so. It’s hard to tell, since we’ve never played them before, but from what I saw the other night in Springfield during the semifinals, I’d say we can take them.”

  “That’s good,” James said. “Because what I been hearing about you boys and your scholarships and your Ivy League schools, I get worried that maybe you aren’t hungry anymore.” All the vets stared at Bill.

  Bill looked James right in the eyes. “We’re hungry.”

  For a long moment, nobody said anything as James looked Bill over from head to toe. “Well, all right then. That’s what I like to hear. See, I been hearing some other rumors. People saying things like you boys are gonna roll over and play dead for those crackers—just to keep the peace and all.” He laughed and spit, then continued. “Yeah. ’Cause we all know how important it is that we keep the peace and all. We boys here know all about makin’ sure that everybody’s free.” A sneer crept across his face. “We know about freedom, don’t we, boys?”

  “Uh-huh, sure do,” one vet answered.

  “But some of those white folks seem to think it’s still 1950 and we ‘African Americans,’” he said sardonically, “well, they just think we’re still easy pickin’s, like in the good old days. But we all know the good old days weren’t so good for coloreds. And nowadays, we ain’t about the nonviolent thing, singin’ ‘We Shall Overcome’ and that sort of nonsense. So me and the guys will be there tomorrow night. And if any of those white boys start anything . . .”

  A growl seemed to emerge from the group all at once. James laughed deviously. “Let’s just say that if they start anything, we’ll be there to finish it. So tell your boys, Brother Bill, tell ’em not to worry. Because me and my boys will be watchin’. You just play your game, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

  Bill forced an uncomfortable smile. “Ah, thanks, guys. Hey, I really do have to go. See you tomorrow night.” He slipped off the picnic table and headed back to his station wagon, hoping that the veterans were too drunk or drugged up to remember the conversation by this time tomorrow night.

  Over at the Dari Delite, the restaurant was packed with a similar revved-up crowd. Automobiles whizzed by the establishment, with kids honking the horns and yelling out the windows. Radios blared. Every sort of music could be heard—from rock and roll to country and western. An assortment of cars and pickup trucks dotted the property, and kids were everywhere, all talking about how Gallatin High was going to whip Union on Saturday night. Every so often, a cheer went up, “Go Green Wave!”

  Eddie pulled in and found a place to park. He spotted a friend and called to him. “Hey, Barry. Have you seen my brother, Bo?”

  “I haven’t seen him, but he might be around inside. Somebody said he’s here,” Barry answered.

  “Okay, thanks.” Eddie stepped into the crowded restaurant and was immediately surrounded by well-wishers. His senses were assaulted by the loud noise coming from the talk radio blaring and the jukebox in the corner playing full blast. Eddie scanned the crowded room looking for Bo and barely noticed Terry Poster and his friends stagger into the restaurant.

  “Hey, Sherlin!” Terry yelled.

  Eddie took one look at Terry and could tell instantly that Terry was high on something—booze, drugs, or his own testosterone on overload. In any case, he wanted nothing to do with him. Eddie tried to ignore him, but the guy would not be put off.

  “Hey, Sherlin!” Terry hollered again. “Over here.” Poster and his pals pushed their way across the restaurant and positioned themselves around Eddie, with Terry directly in front of him, face-to-face.

  “Hello, Terry,” Eddie said quietly. “What can I do for you?”

  “What can you do for me? Why, Sherlin, I’ll tell you what you can do for me. It might get hot around here tomorrow night, if you know what I mean.” Terry laughed, but there was no merriment in it, only menace. “Right, boys?” The guys with Terry, all with short haircuts and wearing white T-shirts, nodded in agreement. “Anyhow, we just want you to know we’re countin’ on you. And we’re gonna be there to help should anything go wrong. So you can beat Union tomorrow night, ya hear? I don’t mean win. I mean beat ’em up bad.”

  “Yeah, Terry. I hear ya,” Eddie said. “Isn’t i
t time that you and your buddies head for home?”

  “Yeah, I’m goin’. But I’ll tell you one thing, Sherlin. You’d better win tomorrow, because if you don’t, you are going to be known forever in this town as the stupid white boy who lost to a bunch of coloreds.”

  With that, Terry’s friends nudged him to the car and helped him into the backseat. The driver revved the engine, slammed the car into gear, and peeled out of the Dari Delite parking lot, burning rubber and screeching tires as the car careened out onto the main drag.

  As Eddie watched the thugs go, he said a quiet prayer. “God, help them not to kill themselves or anyone else tonight.”

  “Hey, li’l brother.”

  Eddie heard Bo before he saw him. He turned and saw his brother wheeling toward him.

  “Those boys bothering ya?” Bo asked.

  “Nah, they’re just a sad lot,” Eddie replied. “I don’t know whether to get mad at them or feel sorry for them—or both.”

  “Are you going or coming?” Bo nodded toward an open table.

  “Neither. I was checking to see if you need a ride.”

  “I just got here a while ago. I think I’ll hang around a bit longer. The whole town’s here. I’ve never seen folks so excited about a game.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Eddie gave a hint of a smile as he waved to enthusiastic young fans watching him from across the restaurant. “I’ve had a full day. If you’re okay, I think I’ll head on home.”

  Bo wheeled his chair up next to Eddie’s knees. He leaned as far forward as his body allowed him. “Hey, Eddie. Buddy told me about Missy. I know it’s not easy to swallow something like that. But forget it, bro. After tomorrow night, you can have any girl in Gallatin—and their mamas and grandmas too.”

  Bo laughed, and Eddie cracked a smile. He knew Bo was trying his best to cheer him up. “Thanks, Bo. I think I’ll stick to basketball and baseball for a while. They are much more predictable than women.”

  “Now yer talkin’,” Bo said. “Come on, stick around. You haven’t done a Friday night here in a long time. The word is that you’re getting stuck up, getting above your raisin’, thanks to all your success.”