Tom Wolfe - I Am Charlotte Simmons

Still out there beyond the three-point line…bounced the orange ball. Dashorn passed it to André, who bent at the waist, holding the ball low with both hands about knee level, swinging it to this side and that, looking for a way to fake his man out and drive around him—gave up and passed it back to Dashorn, while Jamal Perkins was trying to get inside Jojo’s head.

“Wuz all ’at wiggling yo’ token white ass, Token? The bitch coming out? Hunnh?—the bitch coming out, Token? Four at home and five on the road—shit, you ain’t gonna last five minutes in this game. This game rightcheer, right now! Old Buster gon’ yank yo’ white ass and put in Congers! Oh yeah, yank yo’ flat-footed white ass and put Congers—”

Jojo was stunned. How did a Cincinnati player like Jamal Perkins know about his Vernon Congers problem? And if he knew, then the rest of the Cincinnati squad knew it, and if they knew it, then every team on the schedule knew it—

—and Jamal Perkins had now done it. He had gotten inside his head. He was messing up his mind…and now all the trash he’d been talking began to sting. Not that Perkins was some unknown black monster from the deep. Jojo played against him last year—played against him in the AAU leagues and at the shoe-company camps before that—but now this big bastard had gotten inside his head, and he couldn’t remove him—which meant that now he couldn’t let the bastard get away with talking about the bitch coming out, could he, since that was exactly the same as calling him a faggot, wasn’t it, a faggot, and—that bastard!—you couldn’t just take shit like that, could you.

Jojo blurted back over his shoulder in desperation, “Yeah, and outcho momma’s ass, too, Jay maulll. Why she be calling you Jaymaulllll? Yo’ daddy a fucking Ay-rab? Or you even know, Jaymaulll? Where yo’ daddy at Jaymaulll, out butt-fucking camels—Jaymaullll?”

Jamal Perkins went silent, as if his breath had been knocked out :::::::::: STATIC::::::::::STATIC:::::::::: then a seething whisper: “Just keep on talking, you gray motherfucker. You got ass-rape on your fucking mind? We gon’see who’s gonna get fucking ass-raped!” He dug the heel of his left hand into Jojo’s left kidney.

A trill of delight! The black giant had wedged his way into Jojo’s head, but now Jojo was inside of Jay maulll’s head, way inside, and that dumb fuck was never—but how did he know about Congers?

At that moment, Dashorn, dribbling with his right hand out beyond the three-point line, looked at Jojo and put his left hand up in the air. Then he turned his head toward André Walker, also out beyond the line, stopped dribbling, and held the ball in both hands. They had practiced this so often that Jojo didn’t even have to think about it in any sequential way. He thrust himself back harder into Jamal Perkins’s midsection in order to have the big man back on his heels when the ball came.

Dashorn faked a pass to André and, without looking, threw the ball inside to Jojo. The orange core of the world—Jojo had it in his hands in the ::::::::::STATIC:::::::::: of fourteen thousand cheering souls. Jojo’s part was to pivot away, jump as if he were about to try a short jump shot, and instead pass off to André, who would come driving straight down the lane toward the basket—or to Treyshawn, who was to muscle his way around his man and drive toward the basket from over along the baseline.

Jojo jumped—both hands on the ball, Jamal Perkins up with him on top of him—André not in the lane—pick hadn’t worked?—Treyshawn ramming his way to the basket, his man all over him but a fighting chance, Jojo lowers his arm to dish off to Treyshawn—now!—whack, Perkins chops Jojo’s forearm, the ball pops out at a crazy angle, Jojo lands off balance on his back looking up at the LumeNex lights in the ::::::::::STATIC:::::::::: melee over the ball ::::::::::STATIC

:::::::::: Perkins bulls his way in got it dismayed ::::::::::STATIC:::::::::: beaten! ::::::::::STATIC:::::::::: Jojo rolls over ::::::::::STATIC:::::::::: striped shirt referee’s over him blowing his whistle swinging his arms in a scissor fashion to halt play ::::::::::STATIC:::::::::: calls a foul on Perkins. Jojo will shoot two.

STATIC:::::::::: dies down…He’d won…He’d gotten inside the big fuck’s head and provoked him into a blatant foul…He wanted some way to announce it to the crowd…give them the whole trash-talking dialogue…explain how he obliterated the big fuck’s delusion of domination…said unspeakable things to him…out-niggered him!…Yo! And you think it was just two big men fighting over a ball!

As he approached the free-throw line, a girl’s voice shrieked, “Go go, Jojo!” A swell of cheers from all the cliffsides…Jojo tried to pick her out…The cry came from…over there…near the floor…but no luck, even though he could pick out individual faces now—

He’d never been calmer at the free-throw line in his life. He’d already won—if only everybody could know the truth of it. The others were lining up on either side of the lane. Treyshawn was giving him a big, goofy grin from down near the basket…In a falsetto voice: “Go go, Jojo!” Falsetto…Treyshawn knew how he’d won…Jojo could feel this confirmation by Treyshawn The Man…feel it, even though he wouldn’t have dared explain it out loud to a living soul.

He sank the first shot just like that, without thinking about it. The noise of the crowd swelled…André walked up the lane toward him…Jojo met him, and they touched fists in the congratulatory way—

“Twenty-four! Twenty-four!” A girl’s voice, again from courtside. A couple of beats before Jojo realized that was his number…He stared at the first courtside section of seats…You couldn’t miss her…standing, beaming, red faced, miles of blond hair…Some sort of white thing…cardboard?…began to rise up in front of her until it covered her face…a poster with amateurish, inelegant, big, thick, unmistakable hand lettering: 24! I’LL BE YOUR WHORE! Great whoops from the other side of the arena, from those who could see it. The poster began to descend, and when it reached the floor of the stands—poof!—the girl was gone. More whoops, laughter, and mock but lusty cheers. A ribald buzz rose in the Buster Bowl, and heads were craning this way and that. 24! I’LL BE YOUR WHORE!

That warrior, Number 24, returned to the free-throw line, and the referee tossed the ten-inch orange core of the world to him. Jojo had never felt looser at the free-throw line than he did right now. The buzz had scarcely abated. The Buster Bowl moaned from the girl’s salacious proffer. Jojo bounced the ball four times, held it in a crouch, then rose to almost his full height before releasing it. The Buster Bowl went dead silent as the ball reached the apogee of its arc toward the basket…Whisk…It snapped the strings of the net, so clean was the trajectory and so steep the descent.

A roar—immediately rose to STATIC:::::::::::: of stupendous intensity. It hummed in Jojo’s very hide as he ran down to the Cincinnati end to play defense. He had to fight off the desire to smile for the crowd’s benefit. As he passed the Dupont bench, in peripheral vision he could see Coach on his feet. Buster Roth in the tan gabardine suit, the shirt and tie he wore for games. The shirts were always white, custom-made, with some kind of go-to-hell high roll in the collar, and he always wore a Dupont tie, Dupont mauve with a print of golden basketballs emblazoned with small mauve versions of the Dupont D. Coach had his own unsmiling, clench-jawed look of triumph on his face and was leaning forward toward Jojo and yelling something to him. Whatever it was, Jojo wished he could hear it. His first name wouldn’t be Fucking. Coach never used Fuck Patois in approval or triumph.