LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
chapter 4
Where am I? There are noises down here, somewhere, that much I'm dead sure about, but right now I can't make them out. As hard as I try - and believe me, I focus with every ounce of my being, to the point of complete and utter exhaustion - I can't figure out whether the distant sounds belong to people, machines or both. I'm disoriented. Unbalanced. Empty. I'm all of these things and more. Everything is cocooned in a haze, a deep, dark haze, only I'm too weak to fight my way through its fabric and come out on the other side, no matter how hard I try.
And yet I'm making progress. I can feel it.
What had there been before? Darkness? Solid darkness? Blackness? Nothingness? At what point did I become aware of my existence? At what point did my thoughts form and the sounds stir?
Progress...
I can sense light and warmth - both are out there beyond the darkness, somewhere just out of reach. There is something else - something much closer to me. It's not present all of the time, and not always with the same intensity, but when it washes over me I need no help with the introductions. I know pain when I feel it. Like the time I raced Tyrone Terrell down Franklin Street, two eight-year-olds sprinting in the August heat to see who was the fastest homeboy on the block. I had Ty beat until I'd tripped, skinning the hide off of my right knee and raking both palms raw. The fall itself had hurt badly, but the pain was nothing compared to the seconds immediately after I stood up and the sweat kicked in, setting those pink, silver dollar-sized abrasions on fire. And now, down here? The pain is different but it still sneaks up and grabs me like it did that day on Franklin Street, stinging and throbbing angrily in more than one place at a time, except that down here I have no idea where these places are or exactly how I'm connected to them. All I know is that I hurt until the pain becomes unbearable, and then I feel myself being pulled backward, deeper into the haze, my thoughts slipping away and the sounds vanishing as quickly as they had come, as if they never were.
~ ~ ~
The football sails over my head. I jump up, arms extended, but it's another six feet beyond my reach. It hits the snow-covered ice blanketing Hunting Creek Lake, bouncing twice before skidding to a stop on the frozen surface. Groans go up all around. Everyone looks at Robbie Walker. It's his fault. Our Redskins-Cowboys sandlot game has just come to a grinding halt because of Robbie's errant throw deep down the sideline. So much for his bold proclamations about being the next Roger Staubach. And then, collectively, it hits us: Our Sunday afternoon of pickup football is about to go up in smoke.
Go get it, someone demands.
I'm not going out there, Robbie shoots back. He points at me. You go get it. It's you're ball, Frosty.
That's all it takes - the chants of 'Frosty' start up, and soon everyone is standing around me, chanting and clapping, daring me to go out on the ice after the ball. I know better. My parents warned me to stay away from the lake, no matter what, and this single stipulation was key in getting permission to play with my friends on this day. So I make the promise - but standing here now, on the bank, I also realize what losing that football would mean. It's a brand new ball, a birthday gift from my father, and he warned me not to come home without it. Don't leave your ball laying around unattended, he had barked as I walked out the front door. Don't go loaning it to any of your friends. Don't let them con you out of it. Don't let them bully you out of it. And now here I stand, surrounded by nine of my homeboys on a cold, mid-December afternoon, my authentic Wilson NFL football resting fifteen feet beyond the edge of Hunting Creek Lake.
Frosty! Frosty! Frosty!
The sun is out but the air is cold, the sky a brilliant winter blue. Large, puffy white clouds float slowly against the blue background, barely moving. Part of me screams leave the ball there, accept whatever punishment comes with it and move on. Another part - a much bigger part - wants to show the other boys that I'm not afraid to go out on the ice. I'm twelve. Robbie is fourteen. So is Charlie White. And Paul Hammond. They are always acting like they're big time. Big dogs. I'm younger so I look up to them. Maybe I can impress them by going out on that ice and doing what everyone else is afraid to do. Maybe I can be a big dog, too.
So that's exactly what I decide to do. The chants are quickly replaced by whooping and laughter, and then everyone gathers around the edge of the lake in silence. I put a foot out to test the ice. The snow crunches under my weight, but the ice itself feels solid enough, thanks to fifteen straight days of sub-freezing temperatures. I add more pressure. The ice gives slightly but doesn't splinter. I step out on it, my heart pounding, my eyes the size of saucers. The football is fifteen feet away, the threads grinning back at me, daring me to come after it. Fifteen feet. It might as well have landed on the moon.
I take another step. And then another. Crunch, crunch. My eyes are watering. My nose is running. Plumes of cold air shoot from my mouth with every shaking breath. It feels like an hour passes before I'm even halfway there. Don't look down, I hear myself think at one point, and I imagine those trapeze artists who walk the circus high wire. Just keep moving forward, keep your eyes on the ball. Another step. I begin to think I have a chance at this. My boys are lined up on the bank behind me, cheering me on, chanting at the top of their lungs, jumping up and down excitedly. Come on, Frosty! You're almost there! You can do this, homeboy!
I reach the football to my own amazement, but that's only part of the trick. Now I have to pick it up. I've taken my gloves off and shoved them in the pockets of my winter jacket. I stand there for the longest time, staring at the large NFL stamp below the Wilson logo, Commissioner Pete Rozelle's signature flanking it in cursive. My homies renew their chants of Frosty. I go after it stiff-legged, bending at the waist, afraid to squat, clutching the football with only my fingertips before finally pulling it into my chest. I imagine one of those claw crane machines at the local Pizza Hut, and all the times I'd tried to win the stuffed animal only to watched it fall back into the pile. Not this time. This time the prize is safely in hand. As I rise back up I think about my father, sitting at home watching TV, completely unaware of what's going on at the park just down the road. If he only knew. Losing my new football is one thing. I'm grounded for two weeks. But this...I'm grounded for a month, maybe more, but not before he takes the belt to my backside and whips me until his arm falls off.
Frosty - the ball!
Out of the blue I think about the water under the ice, and how cold it is. How deep it is. The fact that I can't swim. Not a lick. I've done a pretty good job of fending off my fear until now. Now my mind is playing tricks on me. It's racing in directions I don't want it to go, and my heart begins to pick up speed.
Frosty, throw the ball!
I turn around where I'm standing. Robbie is on the bank, hands held out toward me.
Come on, we don't have all day! Throw the ball!
My panic subsides. I take a step toward him and widen my stance. I'm holding the ball with both hands, gripping it like a quarterback. The fingers on my right hand caress the threads. Chill out, I scream back. Here, catch! I twist my torso and fire the ball in his direction. It's a perfect spiral. The ball hits him in the chest, between the numbers, a perfectly thrown pass. Take that, Robbie Walker! Who's the real Roger Staubach now?
Great throw, homeboy!
I swell with pride at Robbie Walker's compliment. I'm grinning ear-to-ear when the ice cracks open beneath my feet and Hunting Creek Lake swallows me whole.
