Monday, May 24, 2010


            Reason to Believe

            The aroma of barbecue pork wafts through the glass double doors. At this eatery, every dish comes with a side of coleslaw and the real locals drink RC Cola rather than Coke or Pepsi. The walls are adorned in quintessential Piedmont fashion: occasional steer-heads, license plates from adjoining states displayed like hard-earned prizes, and tokens of bygone years—black and white photos of state-championship high school football teams, veteran’s caps—all hang quaintly from the warm oak wall. The only thing in the restaurant that indicates the year as closer to 2000 than 1950 is a large widescreen television which envelopes nearly the whole back wall; indeed, the set stands out not only for its size but for its modern garishness. It seems to be intruding on the sanctity of the cozy little place; when I scan the scene, my eyes skim over the dirty dishes stacked in the sink, the John Deere salesman making a pitch over a plate of grits, and the wizened old black men at their daily spots on the bar stools, and swivel back to the out-of-place television.
* * * * *
            His teammates are anything but a portrait of composure in the face of difficulty. In the locker room minutes before tip, one is retching in the bathroom. Another hides from the suspicious glares of thousands of fans, his hip-hop shielding him from their jeers. Still another is arguing with an assistant coach, pleading for a different defensive assignment. Yet the coach does not waver; it is his job not to waver. One player sits on the bench, removed from the hype of today’s game only by the degree of his mental capacity. That is not to say he is not concentrating on the game--he is concentrating very hard, harder than any of his teammates. Not on anything in particular; yet his is the most solemn silence. Before lacing up his sneakers for the final time, he says a silent prayer. Not for victory but for effort—to do his best.
* * * * *
            A shortish brunette waitress accompanies my smoldering pulled-pork sandwich on its journey to my table. But really, the television is the centerpiece of today‘s meal, not the food, and is the reason such a congregation has gathered. The seasonal pilgrimage to watch the conference basketball tournament is underway. A Wake Forest man, strangely familiar and dressed in a black windbreaker a size too small for his overflowing body, its gold trim matching his impish blonde beard, turns to me in despair.
            “We never get a break. Really, truly, can a Wake fan get a break in this world? Chris Paul could have won it all by his lonesome-- all his talent for naught. Golden Boy. We haven’t a chance without him. Abandoned. Like Caesar--wasn’t that Caesar? Stabbed by his own men, you know. Famous play, Shakespeare or something. Only here, Chris Paul is our Brutus. Fulfills only half his commitment, leaves as a sophomore, after handing us our most disappointing season in memory. Eric Williams, now there was a fighter. He stayed through trial and tribulation, and he always got the job done. We’ve got some gritty guys even now. They just can’t get a break.”
* * * * *
            As of halftime, the number fifty-two jersey hasn’t left the bench all game. A fifth-year senior, his typical assignment consists of guarding the opponent’s best shooter or ball handler. Yet today’s game is too important to allow his offensive ineptitude onto the court; the liability of allowing fifty-two to handle the ball is too great. On defense he is graceful but fierce, product of twenty years of dedication. Announcers call him a shadow, a blanket, a stopper. But when the ball reverses and his team commences to attack, fifty-two can’t catch a pass, or throw a proper one, for that matter. His shooting has become merely mediocre, an improvement over horrendous past years. Despite his perseverance, the offensive situation has never improved, from AAU up to his job as a role-player under Skip Prosser at Wake. He has always been thankful to a fault: Prosser had been the only major coach willing to offer a scholarship to a player whose natural skills were so suspect. He chose Wake on Commitment Day over Georgia Southern and Eastern Carolina, where he had been guaranteed a starter’s spot. Wake had the best educational reputation. He was studying as a double major, Communications and English, and studying hard. Figured if he couldn’t play basketball he might be able to report on it as a job, if he was lucky, for ESPN or something..
* * * * *
            I turned away from the Wake man as his homily ran out of gas. I hadn’t a clue what had happened in the semis before his rant, but I could certainly guess now that it hadn’t been pretty for the Deacons. The man was disappointed, sure, but he had never been disillusioned about the nature of the game. I recalled now meeting him the past November, his attitude effervescent and enthusiastic. He’d told me with childlike glee how his father had walked on at Wake Forest in the Thirties, and how he had followed his father to his alma mater. That night he had proceeded down the nostalgic path all the way to present day, and promised an improvement for the struggling Deacons. At that time he had been willing to forgive young star Chris Paul for leaving after his sophomore year for the bright lights of the NBA—dismissed his treason as youthful ignorance.
* * * * *
            Number fifty-two walks to the foul line with admirable poise. The play had not been called for him; in the chaos of last-second bedlam the leathern sphere chanced upon his hands, and he had taken the moment by the throat—attacked the rim and was fouled, with scarcely a second to spare. His team was down by two; two free-throws were awarded per regulation. Fifty-two receives the ball from the referee, sweat dripping from his days-old goatee. He gives the ball two bounces and a spin, one bounce each for his dead brother and one for his girlfriend. The spin has no significance. His mind simultaneously, paradoxically, devoid and swirling, he cocks his wrist and extends his elbow. The first attempt is good as gold and he proceeds to the second, a blue-collar everyman in his workmanship, oblivious to the pressure and expectation and emotion and tension and strain and burden that permeate the moment.
* * * * *
            My attention swung back towards the television. The broadcast of the NC State- Georgia Tech game for which I had come to see was interrupted. A recap of the day’s events was in order. CBS sports anchor Greg Gumbel introduced us to the Wake man’s plight. Wake had turned things around midway through the second half, begun approximately when the starting small forward came out with four fouls in favor of a defensive specialist. The specialist enjoyed an unexpected offensive outburst late in the game, and held up a stifling defense to keep the game close. In the closing moments fate had called upon the senior player, a number fifty-two, as he was inexplicably fouled, Gumbel narrated. His first shot fell neatly through the nylon—his second try not nearly so, as I had correctly guessed from the Wake man’s tone. It was too bad. Yet I knew I would meet the Wake man again the next fall, or someone very much like him, whose outlook would shift to optimism with the onset of fall just as surely as the oak tree would bear its autumnal gold. The amazing thing is how in this game, at the end of every hard-fought season, people find some reason to believe.

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