LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
I unlock the back door and walk out on the deck. The air is muggy, and heavy. The late-afternoon sun beats down, relentless. I stand there and soak it in, eyes closed, and think back to how hot it had been in New York the day before the draft. The concrete jungle trapping all of that heat, baking us as we walked from Times Square to Central Park to Madison Square Garden, cameras in hand, five young black tourists on the verge of becoming NBA multimillionaires, our futures as bright as all of those lights on Broadway.
It was Dwayne "Pearl" Washington who had worked up the excursion. He was a Brooklyn guy, a New York playground legend, the hotshot guard who took his signature "shake and bake" move with him to Syracuse University. On this day he wanted a posse to run though Gotham with him, so that people would talk and reporters would write and the paparazzi would snap photos to their heart's content. Anything that might provide Pearl with an eleventh hour boost to his draft day stock. Brad Daugherty had passed on the invitation. He was a country boy who was more comfortable under the hood of a '57 Chevy than in a crowd of people. Chuck Person and Kenny "Sky" Walker didn't have to be asked twice. Neither did John Salley, the talkative seven-footer from Georgia Tech. His mouth didn't stop moving the whole time we were together. He kept us laughing, kept us lose, kept our mind off of the draft. I came away from that day convinced that we'd be rivals on the court and friends for life away from it. Standing here now I can't help but wonder about all of those guys - how their NBA careers went, how many rings they won, what they did after their basketball careers were over. If they ever think about that day before the draft, when the world was still uncomplicated and the future seemed endless.
Sweating, I go back inside and pour myself a glass of water. My mind drifts back to Jay. My heart breaks. No matter what I do I can't stop thinking about my little brother. I sit down at the kitchen table. I cry. I scream out in agony and pound the tabletop until my hand goes numb.
~ ~ ~
Emily calls to check on me. It's 4:45PM. I tell her that I'm fine, even though I'm not. It's such a tangled mess this story. I have barely survived to this point but I'm still not sure I want to live, even if this is all a part of God's plan. Not to wake day after day, only to be tortured like this.
~ ~ ~
The front door opens twenty minutes later. Emily finds me on the couch, leg propped up, smartphone in my left hand, the remote in my right. Just like old times, she says, laughing. I smile. It looks as if I haven't moved. She asks me if I'd like Chinese for dinner. Chinese, in the middle of Amish country? Sure, she says. It's the best in Wayne County, and they deliver all the way out here.
~ ~~
I'm standing on my crutches in the study when the doorbell rings. I hear Emily open the door, followed by a flurry of hugs and greetings, and then she calls my name. I move around the corner and down the hall. Emily is standing in the foyer with a young couple - younger than who I am now, at least. And so it begins, I hear myself think, the first of many awkward meetings with people who think they know me but don't. Close encounters of the strange kind.
"Jason, this is Jim and Rita Wilson. They're good friends of ours."
I hold up a hand and semi-wave.
"Jason, it's great to see you!" The woman standing in front of me is beaming. "Em, I know this will completely go against doctor's orders but I'm going to give your husband a hug."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
I shrug. "It's okay, don't worry about it."
Rita hugs me. I rock back on my crutches. Get used to it Len, this won't be the last time you're mauled by strangers. Jim steps forward and shakes my hand, the one I'd pounded the tabletop with. It throbs angrily in protest.
"Good to see you back on your feet," Jim says. "Glad to have you back with us."
"How do I know you?"
"Jim and Rita go to church with us," Emily says. She reaches for the doorknob. "They brought you a surprise."
She opens the door and a golden retriever pushes its way in, tail wagging wildly back and forth. It barks loudly and happily, then whines and whimpers, and then barks some more. It acknowledges Emily just long enough rub its face against her hand, and then it makes its way over to me, crying for long stretches and barking in between. It circles me, rubbing its strong frame against my good leg, nearly knocking me off-balance.
"Someone's happy to see you," Emily says.
"He's moped around our place for weeks," Jim replies. "But he started barking as soon as we turned in the drive. I thought that tail was going to knock a window out of our minivan. Ain't that right, Marcellus?"
I reach down and pet the dog, trying to keep from falling over. Strangely the deep cloud of depression lifts, if only for a moment, and I feel a long-dormant happiness come back to life. It's as if I'm rediscovering the emotion, which in many ways I am. How many people leave this world and come back twenty-five years later? Day by day, uncharted territory.
~ ~ ~
