The Squared Circle

by JAMES W. BENNETT

  “I can’t picture you playing football, Youngblood.”

  “Not after the eighth grade, not after I discovered hoops.”

  “So what happened? Did you take it all the way?”

  “Not hardly. It was too scary, because it was too unexpected. By the time I got across the fifty, I could feel my legs start to shake. I knew there was a guy chasing me from behind, and I didn’t want to get tackled by someone I couldn’t even see. I started stumbling at about the forty, but it took at least ten yards before I went down completely. I was flat on my face, and nobody touched me.”

  “You didn’t fumble, though?”

  “No. I probably would have, but I landed right on top of the ball.” Sonny listened to his own words resonating remote, like an unfamiliar echo.

  “That’s losing your nerve,” said Warner. “I think it’s called the fear of success.”

  “Okay, Mr. Psych.”

  “What does your cousin tell you?” Warner asked.

  Sonny looked him in the eye. “Do you know my cousin Erika?”

  “I know of her.”

  “Then you don’t know her,” Sonny declared. “Let me ask you a question, Warner. In your articles, you keep saying that the NCAA has got the goods.”

  “Is that the question?”

  “The question is, how do you know?”

  “I know from gathering information. From talking to lots and lots of people, then putting two and two together.”

  “You know more than you’re saying, then. Right?”

  Warner smiled and answered, “Doesn’t everybody? Sonny, when they interviewed you, did it seem like they were on a fishing expedition?”

  Sonny thought of Yates and Brosky and their intentional questions. “No. It seemed like they already knew a lot of stuff, which made me feel like I was gettin’ jerked around.”

  “Exactly. They do have a lot of stuff; they may have more stuff than they need.”

  “They asked me so many questions about my uncle Seth.”

  Warner’s head was bobbing. “What they’re doing at this point in time is gathering additional information to corroborate the charges they’re planning to bring against the program. You could say they’re strengthening their case. Just one man’s opinion, of course, and I could be wrong.”

  Sonny doubted if Warner was wrong. “Are you saying they’re going to put us on probation? Are you saying it’s already decided?”

  This time Warner shook his head. “Nobody knows what penalties the committee on infractions will impose, but there will be some. No doubt the NCAA has a prepared list of allegations; in my opinion, they have the goods to make the allegations stick.”

  “And what if they don’t?”

  “I don’t think it matters. It’s their game, and their rules. If they want to stick you, there’s nothing to stop them.”

  “Terrific.” Sonny glanced around to see if there was anyone within hearing distance before he said quietly, “Robert Lee says they’re going to get Luther for using steroids.”

  “Is that what Robert Lee says?”

  “Yeah. He also says that Luther’s transcript from junior college was doctored.” Sonny watched Warner’s face to see if there was any reaction, but the sports-writer was simply using his tie to clean his glasses. “You know all of this, don’t you?”

  “I know a few things, and I’ve heard a lot more things. You can’t really know about a transcript unless you’ve seen it.”

  More impatient, Sonny said, “Okay, what can you tell me?”

  “What can I tell you for sure? I can tell you this, Sonny: Get yourself a good attorney.”

  His heart sank. “We have Ernst.”

  “I don’t mean the university attorneys. I mean your own personal attorney. The last thing I want to do is alarm you right before a tournament game, but you asked what I can tell you. Get yourself a good lawyer.”

  The first-round game, against Texas A&M, was a blowout after eight minutes. Weak as Sonny felt, he scored comfortably from the perimeter against a sagging 1-2-2 zone. His three-pointers were effortless smart bombs. It was junior high P.E. Under no duress, he scored 19 points, then spent most of the second half on the bench with the other starters.

  But the second-round game was scary, and not just to Sonny. Matched against the intelligent efficiency of Princeton, the Salukis were missing shots and losing composure. They lost composure on the defensive end mostly, where Princeton’s methodical passing game ran as much clock as possible. A crew-cut guard named Applegate was swishing threes, and Sonny was too shaky to stay with him. The Tigers had a six-eight grunt player as well, who used his body skillfully to get Luther into foul trouble.

  The lead at halftime was only three points, and to make matters worse, Luther would have to sit out much of the second half. “At least you don’t have any fouls,” Workman said to Sonny.

  Sonny might have told him, I’m too weak to foul anybody, but he didn’t. When Workman asked him if he was feeling okay, Sonny replied, “I’ll be fine.” With a stomach that felt like it housed a shotput.

  His shakes got so bad in the second half that Sonny started faking it and grabbing onto his shorts. For only the second time all season, SIU was behind in the second half. Most of the neutral fans cheered even louder for the underdog Princeton Tigers, while the lethargy of the large SIU contingent testified to a condition of shock.

  Sonny’s frustration brought tears to his eyes. The body that refused to do what he commanded. When C.J. Moore shook the ball loose in a corner trap, Sonny snatched it and drove straight to the hole. He cocked the ball behind his head, preparing to slam it, but the takeoff in his knees was weak as pudding. It devastated him in his airborne impotence to realize that he was going to come up short.

  When a Princeton forward collided with him from the side to knock him from the end of the court, he almost felt relieved. He hit the floor with a thud that hushed the crowd, then lay still on his back. Even though his collision with the floor was a shock, Sonny knew at once he wasn’t injured. Neither did he feel the urge to get up. Inexplicably at peace, he stared into the huge circle of ceiling lights and watched them coalesce like distant traffic. But surely he must have heard the shower of boos pouring forth from the SIU section to remind the Princeton culprit of his sin.

  “Are you hurt, Sonny?” It was either Workman or the trainer; they were both crouched over him.

  “I’m not hurt.”

  “Don’t get up in a hurry, just lay still.”

  Sonny wasn’t in a hurry at all; just the opposite. He felt numb but relieved, like someone just pulled the plug. A burning line of sweat entered the corner of his eye from the bridge of his nose. With the back of his hand, he wiped it clean.

  “I’m not hurt,” he repeated.

  It was a long time before they finally got him to his feet to lead him to the bench. When they did, the roaring crowd’s approval was distant and muffled. He slumped on the bench as the game resumed. The trainer looked into his eyes, then Dr. Kelso did the same thing, except with the small flashlight. Gentry checked Sonny briefly before asking Kelso, “Can we put him back in the game?”

  “We need to hold him out. I’m going to have to examine him tomorrow. Couple of X rays probably, just to play it safe.”

  Without a word, Gentry returned to his seat. He sent Luther back in to play with four fouls.

  Dr. Kelso asked Sonny if he felt well enough to stay on the bench or if he needed to go to the locker room. Without looking up: “I’m fine right here.” He used the towel to sop some of the sweat from his face.

  “I know how disappointed you are, Youngblood.”

  Sonny nodded but didn’t speak; disappointment was the farthest thing from his mind. The only feeling he still had was the relief. Luther and C.J. led a comeback that won the game, 81–74, in overtime.

  Naturally, whenever the ball bounded off the court and into the ditch, the job of retrieving it was Sonny’s. Under clear skies, the temperature reached into
the fifties; it was only in the low-lying ditch with the northern exposure where traces of slush clung stubbornly. Sonny palmed up the ball, then used his sweatshirt to wipe the dirty ice crystals from its pebbled surface.

  Even while in the prone position, Willie Joe could make chest shots from out near the free throw line. Sonny could do it, too, but with the added advantage of leg whip for extra leverage.

  “I could play, you know,” said Willie Joe. “Once upon a time.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen the rotation on your shot,” Sonny answered.

  Willie Joe made another ten-footer. The pinned overalls twitched ever so slightly when he released the ball. Sonny returned it to him by means of a soft bounce pass. Willie Joe said, “I played with Charlie Vaughn. Can you top that?”

  Sonny laughed. “I play with Luther Cobb.”

  “We’ll see about Luther. Charlie played eight years in the NBA; give Luther a little time, then we’ll see. I didn’t actually play with Charlie, I played against him. But we were friends.”

  “Charlie Vaughn scored thirty-six hundred points in high school,” said Sonny absently.

  “How you know that?”

  “I just know,” Sonny replied. He could have added, Because he’s the only player in the state who ever scored more points than me. But he didn’t. He remembered a conversation he once had with Brother Rice, when the coach underscored for him the supreme importance of Charlie Vaughn’s place in the cosmos.

  Before he took his next shot, Willie Joe said, “They’re gonna retire your number, huh, Sonny?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Jesus Christ, think of that.”

  “Come on, Willie Joe, stop it.” This was embarrassing.

  “They gonna retire your number and y’all ain’t even black. Jesus.”

  It gave Sonny a chance to laugh, which reduced the embarrassment. Willie Joe returned to the Charlie Vaughn agenda: “Charlie could play, no doubt about that.”

  Sonny sat down beside him. “You could play, too, before you lost your legs. You must have regrets, big time.”

  “Sure,” said Willie Joe with a shrug. He had out a tin of Kodiak smokeless tobacco, evergreen scent. The offer he made to Sonny was only out of politeness. Sonny shook his head. “Sure I have regrets.”

  “You can tell me if I’m being too personal.”

  “No problem. It was one of those things. You try all kind of bodacious things when you’re young, even goin’ up against a train.”

  “You wouldn’t do it again though, right?”

  “Hell no. But losing out on basketball ain’t the end of the world. I’ve got a good life mostly. Millions of people a lot worse off than me.”

  “You find other things.”

  “You do find other things. Ain’t no use cryin’ over the piss that misses the pot.”

  “You find other things,” Sonny repeated, this time while staring down the railroad tracks to watch them disappear in the heavy timber of Giant City State Park.

  Sissy was wearing a skirt. “You want to put one up, Sissy Sue?” Willie Joe asked her.

  “Put one up what? Is this a code?”

  “I’m asking you if you want a shot.”

  “What if I told you that shooting your basketball was very low on my list of priorities?”

  Willie Joe laughed loud and long. Sissy thanked him for the use of his workshop. “You’ve been uncommonly generous with your space. Now we’ll be out of your hair.”

  “You ever heard me complain?”

  “No, but I have breeding and manners, so I thank you.” Then she said, “You should see how toasty our studio is, now that the wingman keeps the woodbox full. He splits logs like Abe Lincoln.”

  They lingered in the clinic coffee shop while Sissy drank her coffee. She said to him, “The first time we bumped into each other was here.”

  “Mhmm.”

  “Did they make you piss in a bottle, Sonny?”

  “That, too. What they didn’t do would be more like it.”

  Elbows on the table, Sissy gripped her coffee cup with both hands. She wore her hair pulled back in a ponytail, which made the gray more evident. “Could they give you any results?”

  “Not yet. Kelso is supposed to tell me all about it in a couple of days.”

  “It seems such a shame, poor Liebchen. Poked and probed while your teammates bask in the limelight of nationwide media attention.”

  Sonny made a face. “Maybe that would be a bigger pain in the ass. There’s nothing wrong with me, not physically, anyway.”

  “Maybe there’s nothing wrong with you at all.”

  He was impatient. “Can we go now?”

  “What about my coffee, Dear One?”

  “You want a cigarette worse. Besides, it’s not every day they retire your number.”

  “Fair enough, but you have to drive.”

  A light rain was starting, so Sonny turned on the wipers. Just enough moisture to make them squeak. She lit up while he thought to himself, I feel great. There is nothing wrong with me. It was dusk, so he turned on the headlights. They were a mile out of town when he asked her, “Did you ever have an EKG?”

  “A couple of times. Most recently at the end of last summer, when I had my surgery.”

  “You never told me what the surgery was.”

  “And you never asked.”

  “Maybe I thought it might be nosy.”

  “Maybe you did. I had other people in my life for that kind of sharing. You and I were just getting acquainted.” She rolled down the window far enough to toss out her cigarette butt. “Do you want me to tell you about it?”

  “I guess I do.”

  “Okay then, I had a complete hysterectomy. They took out every reproductive organ in my body.”

  Her tone of voice provoked Sonny to glance in her direction, to see her expression. But it was too dark. All he could see clearly was her profile. She went on, “They weren’t going to take my ovaries but the surgeon decided it would be risky not to.”

  This information subdued him. He wondered why he’d never asked. “It makes you sad,” he said.

  “After the operation I was depressed. I suppose it was the full realization that I would never be a mother. It was grieving over loss.”

  He knew she was looking at him now, but he kept his eyes on the road. “I never knew you wanted to be a mother; it seems out of character.”

  “It was never a conscious goal of mine to be a mother, but when the door is closed, when the possibility is utterly excluded …” Sissy stopped talking long enough to take a Kleenex from her bag and blow her nose. “I wasn’t prepared for my own reaction.”

  “Are you okay?” Sonny asked her.

  “I’m fine.”

  “We don’t have to talk about this.”

  “Talking about feelings is good, Sonny. You should try it yourself.”

  “What would I try it on?”

  “How about your current condition, the thing you call the float?”

  “What could I say about it?”

  “Tell me what it’s like.”

  Impatiently: “I think you already know what it’s like. When I play in a game, I’m losin’ it. I get this like sickness. I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on, but I either have to fake it or take myself out of the game. Never in practice though, so maybe Warner’s right.”

  “Who is Warner?”

  “He’s a sportswriter. You should see the NCAA investigation. They treat you like a criminal. All I wanta do is play.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t know shit about doctored transcripts or drugs or money changing hands. All I want to do is play, but now whenever we have a game I end up gettin’ sick. You tell me.”

  “No, Sonny, you tell me. What do you think is wrong?”

  The only answer he could think of, he hated to say out loud. When he did speak, he didn’t look in her direction. “I think it’s in my he
ad.”

  “In your head?”

  “Yes,” he growled. They were approaching the city limits of Anna. “I think it’s psychological.”

  “Let me ask you something, Cousin.”

  “Go ahead. Ask me something.”

  “When was the last time basketball was fun?”

  “Fun?” It really did sound preposterous.

  “That’s the question.”

  “Basketball fun? When was the last time it was fun?” Then he thought to add, “When was it ever fun?”

  In the parking lot at the Clyde L. Choate Mental Health and Developmental Center, Sonny left the engine idling. The flower beds were bare, but he had seen them red and white with bloom many times. Even in the dark, even with naked sycamore limbs and wet pavement, he knew how attractive and serene the spread-out grounds of the hospital seemed.

  “Are we waiting for something?” Sissy inquired.

  “I was just thinking. It looks like such a beautiful place but all the lives inside are so fucked-up.”

  “I think that’s called appearance versus reality. There seems to be a lot of it going around.”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem to be.”

  “Let’s go inside, Sonny.”

  Clad in pale green hospital garb and accompanied by a nurse, his mother landed in her usual chair by the picture window of the sitting room. Stared like stone into the dark great beyond on the other side of the glass. When it was plain that neither Sonny nor Sissy had medical questions, the nurse left.

  If it was possible, his mother looked thinner. But then, didn’t he always think that? The skin on her hands and wrists, where the prominent veins snaked in high relief, was white as china. Glazed like pottery baked in a kiln. If you squeezed her fingers, would they break like china?

  Sissy took a brush and comb from her carpetbag. Standing behind his mother, she began brushing out her long hair, which reached to the middle of her back. It seemed like his mother’s reddish hair was gone completely to gray and pale yellow. Sonny might have felt the urgency to get to the Abydos gym for the ceremony, but Sissy’s brushing, slow and measured, tripped his memory to a time four or five years earlier.

  It brought to mind a November evening when he sat on the balcony of their apartment listening to the distant ringing of One Gram’s basketball as it spanked on the concrete of the alleyway. Sonny thought to himself, if he knocked on his mother’s bedroom door she would be tired. I don’t have any plans for supper, she would say. I seem to be so tired all the time, she would say.