Herbert Burkholz - Brain Damage

Preston 's office was a cubbyhole next to the head coach's office. Both rooms opened onto the locker area, the training center, and the showers. The locker room was hot and damp, and those players who had finished with their showers looked up curiously as Vince and Preston passed through. Preston closed his office door, and motioned Vince to a chair. He was still frowning.

"There's something you have to understand," he said. "You're probably used to schools like Indiana, and UCLA, and DePaul-you know, the basketball factories where the teams are half pro already. Maybe you don't know what it's like down here in Division Two. These kids of mine, that's all they are, just kids. They're good athletes, and they know how to play the game, but, let's face it, they're never going to play pro ball. Not in the NBA, not in the Continental, not even for some European team. They're just not good enough. When they leave here they go straight into the real world, nothing glitzy like the pros, and… my point is, I don't want them getting any kind of a swelled head because the man from Hoops is here. You understand?"

Vince nodded. "I'll go easy on them."

"Another thing. We both know how it works at some of those factories-athletes who never graduate, play four years and they're out on their ass with nothing to show for it. That doesn't happen here. Overall, Polk graduates ninety-two percent of its athletes. On this team, the average is even higher."

"Impressive."

"Let me give you a couple of examples. Take our starting five. As guards we have Willy Holmes and Jack Clancy. Holmes is the point guard, and he'll be in med school next year. Clancy's the shooting guard, and he's a Marketing major with a three-point-seven average. Center is Dion Devereaux, an English major, and the editor of the yearbook. He writes poetry and nobody makes jokes about it. The power forward is Jerry Jefferson who's doing Engineering, and the small forward is Ted Melton, and all I can say about Melton is that he's doing a double major in French and Economics with honors. Those are the starters, and the other seven men aren't all that different. No Phys Ed majors, no courses in Leisure Alternatives, you know? I'm not saying that we've got a bunch of geniuses here, 'cause we don't, but they're not just a bunch of jocks, either. I'd like you to remember that when you write about them."

Vince, who had no intention of writing anything at all, said solemnly, "I promise you that."

"Fair enough."

They went out to the locker area. Preston banged on a table for attention, and twelve heads turned their way, curious eyes appraising the stranger.

"Listen up," said Preston. "This gentleman is Mister Vincent Bonepart from Hoops magazine…"

Low murmurs. Someone whistled softly.

"… and he's here to do a story on the team. Why Hoops would want to bother with us is a mystery to me, but the man is here and I want you to give him your respectful attention. Answer his questions, and try not to sound too stupid." He turned to Vince. "They're all yours."

Vince spent the next hour chatting with twelve young men in varying stages of dress, making notes that he would never use. He spoke to some of them individually, and some in small groups. He kept the conversation light and easy, and after a while he found that he was enjoying himself. He spoke French with Ted Melton, and talked about T.S. Eliot with Dion Devereaux. Willy Holmes was interested in orthopedic medicine, but agreed that it was too early to think about specialties. Jerry Jefferson wanted to build bridges, and Jack Clancy already had his first million figured out. Those were the starting five, and it went on that way with the other members of the team. As a group, they were bright, sober, interesting people, and definitely not a bunch of jocks. At the end of the hour he was glowing with good will.

Then he tapped them, and the glow disappeared. It didn't take long, he was in and out. He was looking for larceny, for a driving greed, for a hidden shame, and he found all of that. He found it twice. Willy Holmes, who was headed for med school, and Dion Devereaux, the poet. Twenty-five thousand dollars each to throw the game with Van Buren; half paid in advance, and half on delivery.

Preston, beside him, said, "Something wrong?"

It must have shown on his face, the anger boiling within him. He throttled it down, and composed his features, "just my stomach. I can never get used to that airline food. Look, you've got a great bunch of kids here."

Preston beamed. "Thank you for saying so. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, you've done fine," said Vince, a sour taste in his mouth. The boiling anger had been replaced by a feeling of disgust and betrayal. "Thanks for your help. I have to get going now."

"Well, you come back anytime. You'll be welcome."

Vince got out of Polk as quickly as he could, and the sour taste remained in his mouth during the flight to New York. He called the Center from LaGuardia airport, and told Sammy what he had found.

"What are you going to do?" Sammy asked.

"I know what I'd like to do, I'd like to strangle the bastards. Two kids with every advantage, and they're screwing it up."

"You sound involved."

"I feel like your grandmother."

"Don't let it mess up your head. What are you doing in New York?"

"Got some people I want to see."

Sammy knew better than to ask. "It's your deal, you play it whichever way you want."

"We're still agreed? No law?"

"That's understood." Sammy hung up.

Vince went through two bourbon Manhattans and half a bowl of peanuts while he worked on his approach, and then he made another call. Ida Whitney answered, and he said his name.

"Good Lord," she said. "Out of the blue."

"Yeah. I'm sorry to have to do it this way, but I have to see Lewis."

"What kind of a hello is that? We don't hear from you for years, and that's all you have to say?"

"I said I was sorry. Is he home?"

"You mean you want to see him now? Right now?"

"Why not?"

"Because he's dressing, and we're about to go out, that's why not."

"I'm at LaGuardia. I can be at your place in less than an hour."

"Impossible, we're due at the borough president's reception."

"Screw the borough president. This is important, Ida."

"To whom?"

"To me. Maybe to Lewis, maybe to you."

"More important than the BP?"

"More important than one more political cocktail party. Don't go out. Wait for me."

"Just a minute, let me ask Lewis."

"Don't bother, I'm on my way."

Going against the traffic flow, it took twenty minutes from the airport to Sutton Place South. Lewis and Ida Whitney lived in an apartment building that looked, felt, and smelled like old money. Not that the Whitney money was old; it was so new it squeaked, and Vince could remember when there had been no Whitney money at all. That had been back in the days of the South Harlem Rescue Committee when Ida and Lewis had lived on crackers and cheese for weeks on end. The SHRC, a storefront legal advocacy group, aimed at aiding young black kids caught up in the criminal justice system of an uncaring city, with Lewis fresh out of law school and Ida the unpaid legal aide. It had been a time of hope, of promise, of unstained idealism, and it also had been a time of hectic eighteen-hour days, with crackers and cheese to keep them going.

Not any more, thought Vince as he rode up in the elevator. Maybe stone-ground wafers and Brie, but no more rat cheese and saltines with a jug of Kool-Aid to wash it down. No more penniless, idealistic lawyer, either. Hotshot attorney with corporation clients plugged into the political power structure. Plugged into more than that, they say. We'll see how much more.

"It's an interesting story," said Lewis Whitney, "but I don't see what it has to do with me."