Prison Ball

We looked good and we knew it. Our edge ups were on point, our collars crisp, our pants pressed, and our Tims fresh.

“Alright, Natedogg!” people said throughout the day. “We see you look’n fly. Y’all best play as well as you look. Y’all best to represent.”

“Oh we will,” I said again and again. “You know how we do.”

***

Coach had been working us hard. “Don’t expect me to take it easy on you,” he told us. “Our opponents won’t, and it’s my job to get you ready. Can’t be soft in this world. You got to push yourselves each day, each drill. Now let’s go. On the line! You’re doing wind-sprints until I get tired of watching.”

We knew Coach was right. And because he loved us, we pushed ourselves each day and each drill. He had our backs, would fight for us when the time came, and wanted us ready for Hillsborough.

***

As we boarded the bus for Hillsborough, I braced for the change in scenery. The further away we got from Franklin High School, the wealthier the neighborhoods would be. Luxurious condos in gated communities replaced ramshackle apartments in the Grove; fixer-uppers gave way to recently finished McMansions seated on land purchased from farmers. It was another world. And it was just down the road.

***

Pulling into the parking lot, we were surprised to see so many people awaiting our arrival. Usually the opposing school’s fans waited to greet us in the gym. These people deemed it necessary to meet us on the sidewalk separating the school building from the parking lot. They were border patrol.

And we heard their patriotic song as soon as our bus door opened.

“You niggers get back on that bus and go back to the prison you came from! Stupid niggers! You’ll leave if you know what’s good for you.”

Coach stepped out first. He always did. “Come on, fellas, “I heard him call over the jeering crowd. “We’ve a game to play.”

***

I wasn’t good enough nor tall enough to be a starter. I was second string. So as the game started, I had a perfect view of the court and was in earshot of the parents who had migrated from the sidewalk to the seats behind us.

“Don’t let these niggers beat you,” a parent yelled. “Don’t disappoint me, son!”

“Foul if you have to. Niggers don’t feel pain!”

***

Their sons did foul us—over and over again. Limbs became bully sticks as they clubbed us. Hands morphed into cuffs as they grabbed our wrists, then morphed again as they reached for our crotch. It wasn’t safe to drive in the lane. I learned this the hard way.

I also learned that the refs came to do the locals’ bidding. Like corrupt watchtower guards, they kept silent, swallowing their whistles as a race riot broke out upon our bodies. Of course, they weren’t lawless officers. They were enforcing law-and-order, just like the border agents now occupying the stands.

***

Despite the odds, we won. And as Franklin High School parents screamed “I never want our boys playing here again,” Coach told us to line up and shake hands.

“Be sure to look them in the eye and say ‘Good game,’” Coach instructed. “Let’s put salt in their wound.”

Their coach said little to ours. Wardens don’t like Brothers bucking the system.

***

Coach had yelled on our behalf the entire game. Now he sat exhausted, barely able to hold his smile.

I wished he would talk. We all did. Our partying on the bus couldn’t hide our wounds any more than our disheveled appearance. The clothes we’d arrived in had acquired wrinkles and a new smell. We needed wisdom about dealing with the things we carried. We needed pastoral counsel. It never came.

There are limits to what a coach can do. Coaches may train you for a game or a season, but what about life? What about a life lived within lands teeming with prisons? What happens when those you represent are constantly policed? What drills should you practice to survive that? And who should be your scrimmage partners?

***

Three years ago I was playing pick-up basketball with young boys whose fathers live behind barbed wire. One boy came up to me, and after looking at my tattoo asked: “You play ball in the pen?”

“Yes and no,” I said. “But if you want, we can talk about prison.”