Offside Trap

by A. J. Stewart

  “Not every team wins gold,” I said. “Doesn’t mean all the others are losers.”

  She sipped her drink and put it down, and then took a deep breath.

  “You misunderstand. For these kids, it’s not about medals, trophies. Sure, shooting for those things is crucial, but in any given sport they are not the pick of the crop. Not the pro material, or the Olympians. You don’t play lower division sports if you are good enough to go pro. So for these kids, winning or losing, it isn’t so much in the trophies, as in the mindset. If they leave here believing they are winners, understanding the hard work, the sacrifice that is required to win, then they win. They can take that mindset and apply it to anything. Talent for sport, any sport, is fleeting. But that mindset is for life.”

  I nodded. I had to admit there was something in what she said. I played college football knowing I would never be good enough to make the draft. But I learned to face down hard work like I was in jail and it held the key. I was drafted by the A’s and played six years of minor-league baseball, and I didn’t throw a pitch in the majors. But I developed a work ethic that still served me well. I learned how to stay on the field, stay healthy. To analyze people, to solve problems. I never threw a pitch in The Show. Winner? Loser? I was comfortable with where I was.

  “So you think if Millet kills sports, those kids will lose the chance to develop those skills.”

  “Not just those kids. All kids. These are not big dumb jocks who can’t do anything but block or tackle. Stats show that successful athletes at lower divisions are also better students. They know how to win. It’s transferable.”

  “You’re turning them into A-type personalities.”

  “People always say that with a snigger. Oh yeah, she’s an A-type. But they snigger because they’re not, and it’s the A-types who work harder, it’s the A-types who win.”

  “You’re saying win at all costs?”

  “Yes. No. Not all costs. Every game has rules. Even life. But those who work hardest, those who ask more of themselves are the winners. In sports. In life.”

  “What if they push too far, cross boundaries?”

  “You mean performance-enhancing drugs?” In my home, with half a bottle of Sav Blanc under her belt, she didn’t whisper it. I nodded.

  “I was wrong before. I shouldn’t have said there was no PED use on the campus. You’re right, I can’t know that. There might be some bad apples. But I’m confident there is no systematic program of drug use. You can understand why you might hear otherwise. Coaches, staff, they’re just saying what they think Millet wants to hear.”

  I wasn’t convinced on that front yet, but decided to let it slide until I knew more.

  “Why would Millet want to hear that? Drug use on campus is not a great selling point for him. He’s actively trying to cover up Jake Turner’s death.”

  “Jake’s death wasn’t sports-related. Yes he was an athlete, but he got into something else. The drug that killed him wasn’t a PED, right?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “So that does look bad for Millet’s recruitment pitch. But framing a systematic performance-enhancing drug program? That’s just ammunition to kill off the athletics program.”

  “But why? In this whole thing, I don’t get why.”

  “He wants to focus on academics.”

  “I know that,” I said. “He wants to be the Caltech of the Southeast. His words. But here’s the thing. Even Caltech has an athletics program. They’re called the Beavers. NCAA Division III. So there’s no athletic scholarships. The athletes have to gain admission to the school first, and then they can play sports. Lots of schools are like that. Hell, all the Ivy League is like that. So what I don’t get is why Millet doesn’t do that. Drop down to Division III, no scholarships for athletics. No need to get rid of athletics.”

  “They’re a financial drain he doesn’t want.”

  “Everything in a not-for-profit college is a financial drain. The courses don’t make money, the lectures don’t make money. Sports either. It’s about providing a well-rounded package, so you get the best students. The best students produce the best research, which leads to research dollars. Athletics isn’t core, but it is part of the puzzle. And if you’re not offering scholarships, or big-budget sports, how much money do you really save by killing off athletics altogether?”

  “Maybe he hates sports.”

  “I think we can take that as read. The man’s about as athletic as Pee Wee Herman,” I said. “But have you ever seen a sporty-looking college president? Me either. Yet they’re not all trying to kill athletics. Just Millet, and I don’t get why.”

  Kim smiled. “But you’re going to find out, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You don’t know what I’ll find.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You’ve just proven my point, is all. You’re one of the winners. You don’t give up. That’s why I came to you. And I’m glad I did.” She finished her wine and smiled. Then she slapped her hands on her tight thighs.

  “Well, if I have another glass of wine I won’t be able to drive.” She stood and I walked her out. The old wooden door was open, letting the breeze blow through the house. She put her hands on my shoulders, and I thought she was going to kiss me. But she didn’t. She gave me a hug that felt like something you might get from a business associate. I felt her balled fist pump my back.

  “Thanks for everything. Really.” She flashed a smile and then strode to her car. I closed the door as she pulled away, then I took what was left of the wine out to the patio and watched the lights play on the water until I fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  TED’S JAZZ AND Social Club was behind a strip mall off West Sunrise Boulevard in Lauderhill. The area was like landing in Jamaica. The green, yellow and black of the Jamaican flag hung from every surface. A street sign pointed to a cricket ground. I could smell jerk chicken on the air as I parked in front of a nameless convenience store. A dark alley split the convenience store from a nail salon and the rest of the stores in the strip mall. As directed by Buzz, we walked down the alley until we reached the building with the sofa sitting outside it. Two old guys with matching white hair and brown faces sat in the sofa. They both broke out into huge toothy grins. They weren’t smiling at me. Danielle stood beside me making a million dollars look like a buck and a half. She wore a tight black dress that ended mid-thigh and showed every curve mother nature gave her. While the old guys smiled their approval, I checked a piece of rusted iron that hung on the stucco wall. It read Ted’s Jazz and Social Club, as Buzz Weeks had said it would. I looked at one of the old guys.

  “Buzz Weeks?” I said.

  He smiled. “Inside, son. Inside.”

  We stepped into the dark room. A big guy who I recognized as a former linebacker for University of Miami sat just inside the door, next to a cash tray. He looked me up and down. I wore a blue shirt with surfboards and station wagons on it, and chinos. Danielle felt a fedora was going to be a touch too much. The big guy looked at the saxophone case in my hand.

  “Buzz be in the back,” he said.

  The interior was dimly lit and simple. A dark painted stage that swallowed light like a black hole. Plain, round pine tables that sat up to four. Further from the stage a couple rows of plastic folding chairs. Behind that a small crowd of people laughed and yammered over the recorded music. They flocked around a small bar. No neon, no lava lamps. Beers and rum and lemonade. The whole space was the size of a large living room, but the thirty or so people seemed intimate rather than squeezed. We were the only white people in the room. Hell, we were probably the only white people in the suburb. A woman in a blue dress with large white polka-dots and an immaculate hairdo like something out of a 1920s speakeasy saw us and swept over. I noted that everyone was just as well dressed, as if they had all left their church clothes on. The woman spoke to Danielle.

  “Darlin’, you are looking fine.�
��

  “Thank you,” said Danielle.

  “Come, Martell is mixing the most amazing fruit daiquiris. You must try one.”

  Danielle smiled. “Count me in.” The two women locked arms and walked away, leaving me standing there like a dandelion in the wind. The woman looked back over her shoulder.

  “Buzz is in the back, honey.” I watched them saunter to the bar, where they were consumed by the gathering. I took the hint and walked away. Two young guys, in shirts and neckties, smiled and nodded. I reciprocated and headed for the stage.

  A door to the right of the stage was the only way to go. I walked down a short hallway to another door. Behind the second door was a dressing room. It was my ideal of a jazz club green room. There were ten men in the room, sitting on a mishmash of sofas, lawn chairs and bar stools. Musical instruments were positioned around the room. Saxes, trumpets, trombones, guitars, drums. A double bass leaned against a refrigerator. A fog of cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling and the smell of reefer hung in the air like perfume. Every eye in the room turned to the white guy. The faces were neither welcoming nor hostile, as if an alien had just landed and they were waiting to see if they were dealing with ET or Mars Attacks. A guy in a black shirt and white tie spoke from deep in a sofa.

  “What the hell you wearing?”

  “This is classic sixties social surf wear.”

  “You got some balls, brother.”

  I smiled. “Good taste is eternal. Me, I wear a black shirt and white tie if I want to go to Halloween dressed as a freeway.”

  Buzz Weeks popped up from the refrigerator.

  “He’s cool,” said Buzz.

  “If you say so,” said the guy in the sofa, laughing and slapping high fives to the guys around him.

  “Miami Jones, meet the band. Band, meet Miami Jones.” I nodded to the gaggle of hey’s and hi’s. Buzz waved me over and sat me on a stool next to his chair.

  “Let’s see it,” he said. I put the case on the arm of the sofa and clicked it open. I was aware that every eye was on me.

  “You don’t got a machine gun in there, do you, man?” More laughs.

  I took out a sling from a small compartment and put it around my neck. I was thankful I had watched a video online about how to put the saxophone together. I took the main section out and clipped it to the sling.

  “Now don’t hurt yourself there, son.”

  “Hurt hisself? Forget him. Don’t you hurt that fine-looking horn.” More laughs. I put the neck into the main section, and then tightened the wing nut that held it together. Then I took out the mouthpiece. The sax was gleaming bronze, the mouthpiece black Bakelite.

  “You go to Leonard’s?” said Buzz.

  “Yep.” I pulled a plastic box from the compartment and handed it to Buzz. He flipped open a section of the plastic lid like a tackle box. From it he took a small piece of wood. It looked like shaved bamboo. He turned it over and nodded.

  “Number two, okay.” He looked at me. Everyone else looked at me.

  “This is the reed. You put this on the mouthpiece and when you blow, it vibrates and makes the sound that travels through the horn.”

  “Okay, sounds simple enough.”

  “It ain’t. You see, the heavier the reed, the sweeter the sound. But a heavy reed is also harder to play. So we start with this one. It’s a number two.”

  “Okay.”

  Buzz took the mouthpiece and strapped the reed to it. Then he pushed the mouthpiece onto the corked end of the neck.

  “Now, the most important thing with any horn, woodwind or brass, is the embouchure. That’s how your mouth is positioned around the mouthpiece.”

  “You can’t play with teeny white boy lips like that,” came a call from across the room. Buzz ignored it. I smiled. These guys could talk some smack, but this was a picnic compared to a football field. Buzz continued.

  “You need to practice keeping your mouth tight around the piece. If it’s not tight enough, air will escape and the horn won’t play right.”

  “Like skinning cats, brother,” said a guy blowing spit out the end of a trumpet.

  “But you hold it too tight, you gonna get cramps in your mouth.”

  “Like a cat’s backside,” said the guy in the white tie.

  Buzz looked at me. “Well, go on. Play.” I put my hands on the instrument.

  “Don’t touch nothing with your hands. Just blow.”

  I put the plastic piece in my mouth. I blew. Nothing happened but the sound of air rushing through pipes. It must have been funnier than Carson because the room broke out like hyenas.

  “Don’t mind them,” said Buzz. “Moisten the reed. Lay your tongue on it for a bit. Soften it up. Then try again.” I followed his direction and felt the wood soften on my tongue. Then I blew again. More air. More laughs.

  “Tighten your embouchure—don’t let the air escape.” I clamped my lips down and blew. A sound! Something like the screech of a vampire bat, but a sound nevertheless.

  “There goes them cats.”

  I tried again. More cats. Then, out of nowhere, the screeching stopped and for a scarce second, a sound almost musical in nature. No laughter.

  “Now, on your top hand here, put your three fingers down.” Buzz placed my fingers on three mother-of-pearl pads.

  “That’s the position for G. The note you mostly tune an alto with. You try it.”

  I blew through my lips to relax, and then took the mouthpiece. Tightened my mouth, but not too tight. My fingers down. I don’t know why but I closed my eyes. And blew. The sound that came out was as if it emanated from somewhere else, someone else. Like the perfect fairway iron, where thought is banished and swing is natural and harmonious and the connection so pure that you don’t feel it, you just lift your eyes to watch the ball fly long and straight and true and onto the green, as if hit by Tiger himself. I blew a note that was low and tender, a sound full of melancholy and history, as if the sax were telling its life story, exposing its soul, explaining its raison d’être. It was a singular note, nothing spectacular. Not Coltrane or Charlie Parker. Yet something very special. Audible tenderness. I let the air die and the sound fade. There was a hollowness to the silence that enveloped the room. I opened my eyes. No laughs. Every head in the room was nodding. Most had knowing smiles. The guy in the black shirt and white tie stood and crossed to me. He put his hand on my shoulder. I waited for the less than witty retort.

  “Mmm,” was what he said.

  Everyone began collecting their instruments. Cleaning, constructing and tuning. Buzz Weeks showed me fingerings for the eight notes of the mid-octave in the key of C. I played it. Eight notes, three musical, five high-pitched squeaks. No laughs. The musicians were getting busy for the show, but they still had ears. It was as if I had crossed the line, been offered associate membership in the fraternity. Buzz handed me a workbook he said belonged to his uncle. Told me to read it, practice it. Scales and arpeggios. Boring, he said, but focus on the sounds, not the repetition. He left me blowing bad notes and picked up his own saxophone. It was bigger than mine. Tenor sax, if I recalled. He ripped a few riffs to get his head in the game, and then the band shuffled out, one by one. I packed my instrument away and heard the crowd clapping as the band made their way on stage. By the time I walked out, they were into it. They reminded me of baseball players. All jokes and pranks in the dugout but dead serious on the field. I found Danielle at a four cover, with the woman in the polka-dot dress and her man. I was introduced to him but didn’t catch his name over the music. Danielle handed me a beer, which she must have ordered as the band came out because it was still moist on the bottle and snowflake cold. The band played. Mostly upbeat, lots of free styling. The crowd tapped along and drank their drinks and listened to master craftsmen ply their trade. The set lasted forty-five minutes and two beers. When they took their break they didn’t return to the green room sanctuary, rather mingling with the audience and accepting drinks and cigarettes. Buzz Weeks came over to me with a rye
whiskey in his hand.

  “You wanna meet a guy?” he said into my ear. I nodded and told Danielle I’d be a moment. She was keeping company with a large, red fruity drink. Buzz led me back into the green room. A big guy, who looked just like the linebacker on the door except this one had no hair, was standing guard. He let us in. The only guy inside wore a short ponytail and a suit. It was my understanding that the seventies were big all over again, and this guy had embraced the trend wholeheartedly. His suit was pure burgundy velvet, and the white puffy shirt underneath looked to have been previously owned by a pirate. He wore a scraggly goatee that looked like the garden of someone recently deceased.

  “What the hell are you, honky? The Beach Brothers?” Clearly his vocabulary had also been borrowed from the seventies.

  “The Beach Boys,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Is that surfboards on there?” He swayed as he spoke, as if there was a rhythm in his head.

  “Does the Scarlet Pimpernel know you raid his wardrobe?”

  “What?”

  “Forget it.”

  “What you bringing me here, Buzz?”

  “He’s okay, Cool-aid.”

  “He ain’t okay.”

  “Cool-aid? Really?”

  “Yeah, man. You got it. What’s yo name? Bruce?”

  “Miami Jones.”

  “Say what?”

  I pulled the baggy with the Maxx tab in it from my pocket and threw it to Cool-aid. He caught better than he dressed. He scrunched his brow as he surveyed it, which made him look like a peanut shell.