LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
An upright piano sits in the corner, and framed photos stand across the top of it; Jason and Emily's wedding picture, a photo of Marcellus, an action shot of a young Jason Schuler in his Wooster uniform. There's a 2010-11 Waynedale High School team basketball photo; Jason stands in the back row beside the tall black kid who looks like a man among boys. His chest fills out his Golden Bears jersey, and his thickly-muscled arms are cut and toned from hours in the weight room. He's smiling, but I recognize the attitude in that look immediately. It's all gangster, ghetto, straight from the street. His presence in the photo is impossible to ignore; he's the only black kid on the team, a six-eight man-child on a team full of 5'-11" skinny white kids who look like they should be playing soccer or tennis instead.
"That's your team," Emily says. "Waynedale was runner-up in the OSHAA Division III state tournament last season. You lost by 8 points to Taft High School out of Cincinnati, 68-60, but it was a close game from start to finish. Your guys played hard for you."
"Who's he?"
"That's Reggie Fitzgerald. He's the kid everyone is calling the next LeBron James, although LeBron's name is a dirty word in these parts now that he's playing for the Miami Heat."
"He looks out of place."
"Reggie grew up in Cleveland. His father is doing thirty years for selling drugs, and his mother is a heroin addict. Reggie has lived with his grandparents for the past five years - they're great , wonderful people who've known my family forever. They wanted you to coach Reggie."
"Okay, this ought to be good. Why me?"
"Well, let's just say that Reggie's not the easiest kid to raise, especially when you're as old as his grandparents."
"How so?"
"Poor grades, bad attitude, skips school, has a problem with authority figures. There have been rumors of Reggie smoking weed at school."
"And I'm supposed to be his babysitter?"
"They fought their daughter for custody and brought him to Apple Creek to get him away from the gangs and the drugs. Earl and Gloria need all of the help they can get."
"Look, I didn't mean it the way it sounded."
"Reggie's not happy about being here in the first place, so it hasn't been easy. His first year was a awful. He rebelled against having to leave Cleveland, but he's made some progress over the past two years. You've had a lot to do with that."
There's a mirror on the dining room wall; I go to it and study the stranger staring back at me. There he is, Reggie Fitzgerald's babysitter. Six-four, brown hair, athletic, not bad looking for a white guy. He's 36 but could easily pass for 30. Still, he's much older and whiter than I had ever hoped to be, a country-fide cowboy with an affinity for flannel shirts, big belt buckles and, worst of all, redneck music. It's enough to trigger an unplanned but welcomed flash of gallows humor - Maybe this is what hell looks like, Frosty. Amish buggies everywhere, you trapped in a middle aged Caucasian body with no hops, a low-paying job coaching high school basketball, corn as far as the eye can see and Johnny Cash playing on the radio.
I smile weakly at this thought, relieved that my biting sense of humor is still intact. Emily starts talking about how great the community has been throughout the accident, about how they've taken turns keeping the yard up, caring for the animals, picking up the mail, keeping an eye on the place. The names mean nothing to me. Strangers all, just like this man in the mirror.
We move to the kitchen, where I can see a large deck through the back window. There's a hot tub in one corner, and a metallic silver gas grill in the other. A shrub-lined paver pathway leads from the deck to an in-ground swimming pool; an ornate wrought iron fence stands sentry around the perimeter, the black picket finials sporting a trident design on top. I can see the horse stables off in the distance to the right, a corral outside of the front entrance, and a massive cornfield straight back behind the tree line.
"Wow. The pictures in your journal don't do this place justice."
"There was a large settlement after your mother passed away. The house has been completely redone since we moved in four years ago. New siding and windows, a new roof, the interior gutted and rebuilt. The pool was finished the week before you went to St. Louis. It's still waiting for us to christen it."
"I don't think I remember how to swim."
She sidles up beside me at the window and puts her arm around my shoulder. Her breast presses against my left arm, and my stomach flutters. The scent of her perfume grabs me next, followed by the fragrance of her shampoo. For an instant I feel something I've never felt before, neither in this life nor the last, and then it flies away as quickly as it had come, replaced by thoughts of that cold winter day at Hunting Creek Lake.
"Don't worry," she says, smiling. "It's like riding a bike. I'll put on that yellow bikini and I think you'll figure it out."
~ ~ ~
