LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
"What about me being me again?" I ask, staring at the white arms folded in my lap. "What about that?"
"That brings us to the second part of the evaluation," Alice says. She opens her leather folio, pulls out a report skims over the first page. "Jason, you have no memory of your life prior to the accident. You don't remember events from your childhood, time spent in school, your wedding, family members, or friends. And yet you recall in great detail things about another person's life - the life of someone named Leonard Kevin Bias."
"That's who I am. I'm Len Bias."
"I've spent the past three days researching your statements in great detail. As you have said, Len Bias was an All-American basketball player, but he died from a cocaine overdose twenty-five years ago. June 19, 1986."
"No, that's ridiculous. This is 1986."
"Today is July 8, 2011."
"No, you're lying to me."
"No she's not," Emily says quickly. "This is 2011. 1986 was a long time ago."
Dr. Smithson enters the room, flanked by two nurses. Two orderlies stand outside the doorway. Smithson smiles casually, almost too casually. You're a part of this, too, I hear myself think. You're all in this together.
"What are you doing here?" I snap.
"We're here to assist Dr. Reynolds with her evaluation," Dr. Smithson says. "Mr. Schuler, you've come a long way in a very short period of time. We don't want to jeopardize that progress, so we have to monitor your condition very closely."
"Come on already, I'm not Mr. Schuler. I've played your games and answered your questions. I want to see my family."
"I know this is difficult," Alice says. "Your mind is convinced that you are someone else, and we think that the accident was the trigger point."
"What trigger point? There is no trigger point - I'm not this person, this isn't my body. I'm Len Bias and I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be in Landover, Maryland. I've already told you that. I'm supposed to be getting ready for rookie camp."
"None of that is real," Emily says blankly. "Jason, you're not Len Bias. You're my husband."
"Cut the crap, Emily. I know who I am."
Alice reaches into a large manila folder and returns with a magazine. She hands it over to me. It's a copy of Sports Illustrated, dated June 30, 1986. The cover is a heavy blue. DEATH OF A DREAM is set in large, orange type, and separated from the magazine title by a think black line. Below that is a large picture of me, shot from the waist up. I'm wearing my Maryland uniform, the home whites with MARYLAND across the chest and my number 34 directly below. I'm gripping the basketball with my fingertips, holding it up at head level, my eyes focused on the rim. A blurred-out player stands behind me in the distance, waiting. I'm shooting a foul shot. I know that stance anywhere. Below the picture is a sub-heading, white letters set against that blue background. LEN BIAS 1963-1986.
I feel my heart miss a beat. It picks up speed. I stare at the cover for what seems like days, my life literally flashing before me. Emily says something but I don't hear her. Alice, too. I can only stare at the cover, which has the feel of an obituary.
Can't be happening...
"Jason, honey..."
Emily's voice trails away. I finally open the magazine. Hands shaking, I fumble past the table of contents and the familiar Scorecard section, past an article on Roger Clemons and another on Carl Lewis, crinkling pages anxiously until I find the cover story. THE CRUELEST THING EVER, by Jack McCallum.
The pictures chill me to the bone. There's a photo of me at the NBA Draft, that green Celtics cap on my head, the credentials still clipped to my suit pocket. I'm at the Celtics table. There's a Boston Celtics logo printed on a white square of cardboard, a placard held upright by a silver ringlet stand on the table. I'm holding onto the corner of the placard, posing for the picture. I remember the photographer who took it, a skinny white guy in blue jeans and plaid shirt. He had taken the picture and asked for an autograph. I had signed a napkin for him. He'd promised to send me a copy of the photo and had asked for my home address. Another no name looking for an angle. Thanks but no thanks, I had said. I can't give out that kind of information. Maybe next time.
My eyes go to the second photo, a stark black-and-white picture taken from ground level beside my friend Michael Dorsey. He's squatting down on the sidewalk, a few feet away from the ER entrance at Leland Memorial. He's wearing sunglasses, a white T-shirt and dark shorts, and a pair of adidas basketball shoes. The doors to the emergency room are open, and a body is being rolled out on a gurney.
My body...
My eyes jump to the third paragraph in the Jack McCallum story: "It feels good to be a Celtic," Bias said as the cameras clicked and the the people applauded and the future spread out before him like a long, smooth, golden expressway. What's wrong with this picture? Nothing that anybody could see.
It's then, reading these words, that I notice the musty smell of the magazine, and the condition of the aged and yellowing paper it was printed on. It feels decades-old.
