23.
Jay and Herman made a grander entrance than intended when they walked into the Gettysburg YMCA. The gym door closed behind him with a reverberating thud that stopped the game in progress. Men of the street never let anyone take them out of their game. They trash-talked on the court but expected total silence or cheers from the fans and bystanders. Unwelcome distractions were greeted by cold stares designed to make the unwelcome leave. However, they recognized Herman, an old friend, and made an exception, pounding him on the back and shoulders.
“Big Herm!” shouted Harrell Bullock, a six-eight muscular Black man with a well-trimmed goatee and a slightly overhanging stomach, in a deep booming voice. “Been too long, old man! Who’s your friend?”
“Guys, meet Jay Siler. He’s coaching Bonita’s team for the rest of the season. He needs a favor.”
Hands on hips, basketballs under feet, the men nodded respectfully. Herman was the only one who had a daughter on the team, but Jay was sure that everyone knew that Bonita could play with anyone in that gym.
Harrell fist-bumped Herman, then offered Jay a high five. Jay would not dare try more; a chest bump would have sent him flying into the wall. The big man lifted Jay off his feet, draped his lithe body over his shoulder and carried him around the gym like a sack of gravel from the job site.
“Please, you’re making me nauseous,” Jay moaned.
“Put him down, big guy,” said Herman. “We’ve got business to discuss.”
Harrell eased Jay down gently. “You okay?” he asked, as he rubbed Jay’s shoulders like a cut man preparing a boxer for a title bout.
“Just a second.” Jay raised his hand while he caught his bearings and his breath.
“Okay, take your time, speak nice and slow,” said Harrell.
“I need an assistant coach, someone who can coach our jayvees, help me help our varsity win. We’re one and four when we could’ve been four and one.”
Harrell folded his arms and stared him down. He burst into deep laughter and slapped his knees. The others laughed along as he pointed at Jay. “You look like a quiet little dude. Not a hell-raisin’ coach.”
“Girl’s game’s different,” spoke a voice from the crowd. “Too slow.”
“Aww c’mon man,” said Herman “Ball is ball. I’ll bet Bonita could beat any of you. One-on-one, H-O-R-S-E, whatever.”
“You play college ball, like Herman?” asked another voice from the back.
“Yes and no. Yes, I played in college,” Jay replied. “Right here at Gettysburg. No, I did not get a shot at the pros like Herman.”
Jay held his own against guys like this in summer leagues. Almost always the smallest man on the court, he needed the bigger men to protect him in a rough game. Prepping in the summer leagues enabled Jay to go full tilt during the college season as well as the pick-up games he played later in life.
“Ok, I’ll take a look at your team,” shouted another voice from the back. Vic “Mr. Slick” Alston, the smallest man in the room after Jay, stepped forward. “I know what Bonita’s got. I’d like to see what she’s got around her.” Vic had four- five inches and considerable muscle over Jay, who shook as they shook hands. Vic’s shiny bald dome and well-groomed mustache reminded Jay of a movie caricature of a highly ranked boxer.
“Okay, you got your coach.” Harrell cast down his eyes, as if to politely ask Jay to leave. Then he stuck out his fist and broke into a wide grin. Jay dropped his fist down on top of the big man’s.
“Stick around my man. I’m gonna show these lil’ boogers how to play.” Harrell said cheerfully, twirling a ball on the tip of his index finger. But Jay and Herman had to excuse themselves to get up for work.
“Come back any time, Coach. You might learn something.” Harrell’s bright smile reminded Jay of Shaquille O’Neill, the big ex-NBA mega-star hawking cruise trips, car insurance, and pizzas on TV. He could picture Harrell chowing down the biggest Shaq-a-Roni pie by himself over beers, not feeling a thing the next morning.
Jay smiled. “No doubt I will.” He looked around and saw men who appeared larger and stronger, though not quite as imposing as Harrell. Then he and Herman waved good-bye and turned to leave the gym.
“What’s Vic’s story?” Jay asked after they reached Herman’s car.
“He’s the best ballplayer to come out of this county. Smart guy, too. Got loads of offers, played at Pitt ‘til he got hurt. Vic was lucky that Pitt’s coach was a good guy, honored his scholarship. My man’s got a degree in civil engineering, has his own firm. They subcontract on projects for the state, Maryland, too.
“Is he too busy to help me? Sounds like he’s got a lot on his plate.”
“If he said yes, take his commitment to the bank, so to speak.” Herman grinned. “Vic’s a great judge of character; really tries to hire folks he can trust when he’s not around. You need someone who’s got experience at team building. From what Bonita tells me your team’s chemistry is lousy. But now, you’ve got your coaching staff. No excuses. Right?”
“Yeah. But I have to get more advice.”
24.
Jay rushed down to Reisterstown the next day after he found appropriate ritual flowers. The last arrangement had withered. The new one would probably be the last until spring. Jay dropped to one knee and looked square at the inscription of her name.
“I couldn’t let Coach Hughes hurt Stefani like Coach McNally hurt you. Hughes was worse, sis. He cares only about himself; survived as long as he did what a few parents asked. Sucked up to them and humiliated a player who could’ve helped them a lot more if he was patient, gave her a chance. It was worse than when you played because the parents and the team are so divided. You, Coach Dunphy, and Grandpa taught me what a coach is supposed to do: get the best from my team. I’ll do that, Dana, I promise. No matter their record, I’ll make these girls into something better than they are. Even Stefani.”