Chapter Twenty-Seven
REJECTED GESTURE
Grace Gresham-Nelson re-scanned the sea of adolescent faces scattered before her on the bleachers. She was right: Tracy Sullivan had not shown up for tryouts. Grace glanced at her watch. Two minutes to four. She nipped the inside of her mouth with her teeth and was thoughtful. Sullivan had also not been in class sixth period and, it turned out, had been absent altogether from school today. Grace ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. Was Sullivan sick? Had something horrible happened to her over the holiday weekend? Probably not, or Herbert would have announced it this morning. So where was the girl? Grace pursed her lips and felt anger biting at the edges of her composure. She had made it clear to Sullivan on Friday that a student had to attend every day of tryouts in order to be considered for the team. Had gone against her custom to give the girl a personal invitation! So where the hell was she?
Grace drummed her fingers on the table-desk, looked in the direction of the main gym doors. No tall pretty girl striding across the floor, late and dressed in an abominably yellow shirt. Grace felt tension in the back of her neck and squeezed it. Tension!—when she had just that morning enjoyed the hour-long pampering of Avadel’s therapeutic fingers. The weekly massage, which she left campus to receive, always left her feeling wonderfully disembodied and relaxed for at least two days. But now, not even five hours later—tightness! It was this child, this Tracy Sullivan, who had caused it. Grace glanced at her watch again and noted with regret that it was, indeed, four o’clock. Damn. Bound by her own law. Grace looked at the first row of bleachers, where six females of college age sat, watching her with the confidence that comes with familiarity. “Sarah,” she called to one of them. “Go lock the door, please.”
A six-foot-five-inch Caucasian girl with a lanky body and blonde hair unfolded from the bleachers to obey the order. Grace regarded the girl briefly. Sarah Trendenburg, from the first season, and the best player she had ever coached. Grace looked at three of the girls Sarah left behind. Gail Neal, Tamara Jones, and Nikki Justin, also former Beck players and current college athletes who had dedicated themselves to her service between the hours of four and seven p.m. this week. All four girls had endured three years of the Grace Method and so understood what her tryouts entailed. When she had contacted them by phone this summer, all readily agreed to act as trainers during tryouts week—would consider it an honor, each said. And though all insisted they didn’t want payment for the services, she insisted on offering her standard fee: four hundred dollars to each at the end of the week. She knew they could use the money. Neal and Jones were freshmen at Georgia Tech; Justin was a sophomore at Georgia State; Trendenburg was a junior at UGA.
Grace’s attention shifted from the four trainers to a couple that also sat on the first row, Ronnie Richardson and Monica Martin, the best friends who seemed always to enjoy each other even though they were as different as mud wrestling and ice skating. Ronnie was slender and quiet and gentle, and laughed appreciably at anyone’s humor, while Monica was plump and loud and bold, and offered numerous opportunities for laughter. Like the four trainers, Ronnie and Monica were Beck alumnae, but they were now also part-time employees of the school. Neither were athletes but had always been content to serve in supportive roles in the athletic department—Monica especially in administrative matters, and Ronnie in the role of mother hen. Both were seniors at Spelman College, and while Monica majored in business administration, Ronnie was a music major who played the violin. Each was efficient and readily obeyed orders, and Grace was not sure how she would have gotten along without their assistance.
Also seated on the bottom row of the bleachers was another pair, Evelyn Dent and Patricia Butler, and Grace noticed that, in keeping with their status as underlings, they were careful not to sit abruptly next to the older college girls. Instead, the space of a body or two separated the two high-school seniors from the six collegians. It pleased Grace to see Dent and Pat together, for she had plans for them. Dent had served effectively as co-captain last year, so Grace planned to make her lead captain this year. Dent didn’t have Pat’s flair and articulation, but she had a good attitude and people respected her. She also listened to directions, was open to criticism, and kept a level head during tense moments. And despite her awkward proportions and large frame she was an agile, quick-moving player who made shrewd passes and reliable shots. The girls on last year’s team sometimes looked to Dent, then a junior, when they wanted an arbiter, so making her captain this year would be a wise move. If she passed tryouts. Summer vacation had a strange way of altering a player’s ability, Grace had learned, and so she never made a final decision about anyone until she had seen a performance during tryouts. Right now, Dent slouched on the bleachers and, black eyes twinkling with amusement, leaned over and whispered something into Pat’s ear. Pat laughed quietly. She did not have, as Dent did not, the petite and delicate features Grace had once envisioned for her Dream Team, but instead Pat possessed thick hips and thighs, eyes that bulged slightly from their sockets, and full lips. But she was a stylish dresser, always well-groomed, and exuded confidence, and these assets helped make her attractive. Pat would be co-captain this year, if she survived tryouts, and so it was important that she and Dent get along. Evidence from years past, as well as their behavior right now, suggested that they would. Besides, while Pat could hardly be called nonchalant, she was nevertheless an easy person to work with. She was at once as earthy and approachable as a caring big sister and as shrewd and sharp-tongued as a street woman. Often, it was Pat’s wit that had kept them laughing during tough moments last year. Yes, if Pat proved herself this week, she would assist Dent in leading the 1990-91 Lady Lions to another national championship.
Championship.
Grace glanced at the main doors. Too late to still hope for Tracy Sullivan.
She quickly scanned the rest of the girls sitting on the bleachers. Yes, there they were. The seniors Sandra Butler and Toni Christian, and the juniors Wanda Carver, Karla Head, Deidre Lowry and Dana McGavin, the other six players from last season who had returned this year. Altogether, she guessed there were forty girls who had shown up to try out, all with faces she recognized from past and current classes. Staring at her hopefully and exhibiting silent obedience, as if deference would influence her decision to choose them. But what had happened to Tracy Sullivan?
Sarah Trendenburg returned to the bleachers, having locked the entry doors, and folded her gangling frame onto the wooden perch. Grace thanked her and walked out from behind the table-desk to stand before the bleachers. A rush of energy swept through her body and left her encouraged. This was good. Dent, Pat. Great support from Sarah and the others. She, feeling confident that she looked the part. That morning at home, she had selected crimson sweat pants, a jet-black sweatshirt and, of course, bright white tennis shoes, because the colors startled and intimidated—the colors of the Third Reich. During tryouts in the past, when her hair was black and bone-straight, she would use styling gel to slick it back into a tight ponytail because it gave her a grim, severe look. Now, because of Eugène’s wavy tresses, the most she could do was push the hair away from her face with a red headband. She wore no lipstick, and around her neck was Tip’s shiny aluminum whistle on a beaded chain. In her hand was Tip’s black rod. She would swing it by her side and slap it against her palm as she lectured. Some, but not all, of the girls would recognize that what she was about to say was a variation of a speech she had created and committed to memory three seasons ago.
“We are here today for one purpose: to give you a chance to prove to me that you are worthy of being a member of my ball team. That is not an easy thing to do. Ask any of the girls who played for me last year, and they will tell you I expect the best. That is a standard by which I lived when I played ball for the U.S. Team and when I ran in the Olympics, and it is a standard I impose upon anyone I coach.”
Grace hesitated long enough to listen for sounds of someone knocking at the gym d
oors. There were none. That damn Sullivan would probably try to come straggling in, late and full of excuses. Or, worse: Full of no excuses because she would be too tongue-tied to speak.
“I’m sure all of you know that my basketball girls have had an absolutely perfect record, not a single loss at the local and regional levels, for the past three years. There is no other athletic organization in the country—boys or girls, high-school, college or NBA—that can say that. Beck is the only one. On top of that, we’ve been national champions two years in a row, and I fully intend to make it three. So if you are allowed to play for me, you will become part of a history-making organization. But such a distinction does not come easy. It takes hard work. It takes coming to practice on Saturdays for a month-and-a-half. So if you have a problem with that—if for any reason you know you can’t attend Saturday sessions—you should speak up now.”
She hesitated. No one moved. Apparently, no committed Seventh-day Adventists in the bunch.
“Now, you have three days to show me what you’re made of, and everyone is held to the same standard. If you played ball for me before, that gives you no advantage here. All of you must prove yourselves these three days. Does everyone understand that?”
“Yes, ma’am!” they said.
She hesitated. Even if Sullivan did come, she could not let the girl in because it was after four. That had been her policy since she came to Beck—absolutely no one is admitted into tryouts after four—and she could not change it now. Not even for someone she suspected was a winner.
“I also expect you to dress appropriately. If you read the signs that were posted in the corridors last week, you should be meeting that standard right now. Believe it or not, I once had a girl come in wearing heels and dress slacks—she thought the first day of tryouts did not include physical activity. So: Sneakers. Shorts. A comfortable shirt. I want you to be able to move. I see some of you have on the P.E. uniforms, and that’s fine. It’s not required during my tryouts, but it’s fine.”
Grace paused. What was the next part of this goddamn speech? Oh, yes—the vests. She walked back to her table and picked up two thin cotton vests, one burgundy, the other beige. Grace slipped her forearms through the armholes of the vests and held her arms out to her sides, so that she looked like a fashionable scarecrow, with a garment hanging from each arm. On the back of each vest, plainly visible to the audience, was a large white latex number that had been seared into the fabric.
“There are sixty of these vests, each with its own number, and they are very important. They will be your identity for the next three days. Which means you will wear the same vest, the same number, all three days. When I note your performances today and the rest of the week, I am not going to be looking at faces or names—just at the number you are wearing on your back. And when I decide who has made the team, it will be your numbers that I will post on the bulletin board at the main entrance of this building. So what that means is you must choose the same vest every day that you choose today. Write your name and vest number on this sheet of paper on my desk, and the trainers will verify your selection. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am!” they said.
She placed the beige vest on the table, kept the burgundy one, and ordered, “Wanda Carver, come here!”
From the midst of the girls rose Wanda, five-feet-zero-inches of mischief and wisecracks. A likeable little person, but of all the returning Grace Girls, Grace felt Wanda least fit the ideal of the type of athlete Grace wanted to bear her name. A raging tomboy, pigeon-toed and hyperactive, Wanda wore her hair in a short dry afro and was always winded and exhilarated and disheveled, like a little boy at the end of an adventurous day. Grace had mixed emotions about this latter quality of Wanda’s, for although she knew Wanda lived with four brothers and a father—and no mother—and so was understandably boyish, Grace’s secret aversion to masculine females made her reluctant to place any on her team, and certainly not at the forefront, where it looked like Wanda might end up this year. And then there was the blemish. A beige splotch around Wanda’s right eye. A birthmark. A defect. It had shocked Grace the first time she saw it, but gradually its presence became less of a distraction and even, oddly, contributed to the little girl’s charm—as did Wanda’s athletic ability. Besides being a tireless sprinter, Wanda made better steals than anyone else on last year’s team. And when she was hot she could nail a shot from anywhere on court. But only when she was hot. For that reason—and for the fact that Grace sincerely wanted a completely girlish starting line-up—she planned to make Wanda starting shooting guard only if she didn’t discover someone better suited for the position.
Tracy might have been better suited. Damn it.
Grace focused on the activity at hand. As Wanda descended the bleachers, she recoiled out of the reach of someone who threw her a playful congratulatory hit on the arm—congratulations, Grace understood, for having been singled out by Miz Grace. Seconds later, Wanda stood beside the table-desk, little chest heaving with expectation. Grace held the vest in a manner that indicated she wanted the girl to put it on. “Hold out your arm,” she instructed.
Wanda obeyed, slipping an arm into the proper opening and allowing the coach to place the garment on her little body. The loose-fitting vest was secured in front by two cloth strips. Like a mother dressing a child, Grace bent forward to tie the strips into a knot. In doing so, her knuckles brushed against the abdomen of the teen. She rarely touched a student, or stood as close to one as she was to Wanda at that moment, so a current of awareness passed between her and the girl. The acknowledgment said, We both know I’m giving you a privilege. Wanda blushed and Grace almost smiled; she knew Wanda had what Wanda thought was a secret crush on Miz Grace. When the knot was tied, Grace grabbed Wanda lightly by the shoulders and urged her to face the audience.
“You are to wear the vests this way, tied securely, but please undo the knots at the end of the day—don’t just slip the vests off over your heads and leave them for the trainers to untie.” Grace again touched Wanda’s shoulders and urged, “Turn around, please.”
Wanda obeyed, standing with her back to the audience and trying not to break into laughter.
“As I said earlier, the vests have numbers, so do wear one if you want your efforts to go noticed and noted. They are light and made of a breathable fabric, so you should not get hot wearing them. And don’t worry—if they need it, we will have them laundered before the next session.”
Grace hesitated. The demonstration was clearly over but Wanda remained standing with her back to the audience. Some of the girls in the audience snickered, then laughed outright when Grace looked at Wanda with an expression loaded with expectancy. A glimpse of Wanda’s profile told Grace the playful Grace Girl knew what she was doing. “Carver, sit down,” Grace ordered, trying to sound annoyed even though she also found the girl’s actions amusing. More laughs, and Wanda obeyed. “Thank you for your help,” Grace said, to which Wanda glanced back and touched her forehead comically in a salute that meant, Not a problem. More giggles, and then the room grew quiet as Grace stepped back into gravity. She remembered the final part of her speech and delivered it.
“Now, today I will assess your strength and agility. That means you will perform a variety of calisthenics, movements, and repetitions using weights. Tomorrow, I will test your endurance, so you will run a great deal and engage in a cardiovascular workout. Also on tomorrow and Thursday—for those of you who haven’t dropped out by then—I will assess your ability to do what you think you already know how to do: play basketball. Now, let’s get to work.”