Chapter 15: The game
When Jared exits the Circle most any winter night, it will be to lace up for some roundball. At the first preseason practice, he made the team simply by being there—he’s the tallest CO around. His height is welcomed, even though his moral stature casts a pygmy shadow.
Basketball. It could be his middle name, “Jared Basketball Jennings.” For his first dozen years, he was quite short, a tyke next to his gangly schoolmates. But he loved the bounce, even if it came eye-high. What he lacked in height he made up with quickness. He came to find great pleasure in bouncing the roundball and floating it skyward.
He was delighted when he jumped into gigantism, returning for his sophomore year a foot taller and with the sinewy muscles of a mustang. That year he mastered a fall-away jump shot that no one could stop—it was simply unblockable. Each time, as he launched himself up and backwards, laid back and floated the shot into the rim, an irrepressible smile licked across his face as all the times he’d been blocked, whacked and humiliated by taller guys flashed through his mind. His shot was a talent conjured, prayed for by a once-upon-a-time playground shrimp.
It’s not lost on him how much B-ball means to him. Swishing it! He loves it, and it’s always been that way. Before and after the Sem, in the Sem, during and after the trial, while traveling, he always laced up his sneakers and donned his one permanent indulgence, a set of high-end sports glasses. These he got on the commissary’s approved items list, at the first chance. Possibly, only really good sex can match the Game—protracted foreplay with pump-till-you’re-exhausted screwing, possibly. The net slapping and yielding Dunk! bested her hushed surrendered Yes! But sex isn’t as reliable a high. B-ball just never lets me down. So, as he laces up tonight, his eagerness to play overcomes any other concerns.
It doesn’t take a genius to quickly scope that nothing Inside is like anything Outside. Things Inside are clearer, have their edges tidied up. More than ever, Inside sports is a racial and sexual contest. Until Jared’s arrival a black team has been the undisputed champion of the caged court. It’s as much a testimony to the skill of the blacks as it is to the disarray of the whites. Socioeconomics being what they are in America only certain white classes get tracked into the joint. While many black cons are also up-and-coming athletes on the Outside, few college-trained white athletes are available for the Big House’s seasonal draft. The emergence of COs on the prison hardwood changed that.
At first the COs just brought some competition. It juiced the black-white tension even more because the blacks gloated over their close victories. Considered their occasional losses just flukes. They liked the feeling of dominance. Before the COs arrived it was usually a no-contest blowout. Now with Jared’s appearance the traditional balance soon becomes indelicate.
In the first game Jared starts by making all the mistakes someone out of shape often does. He hesitates and walks too often, fouls too clumsily, and throws up eight combinations of air balls and rim kissers before he sinks his first shot. Only at the start of the second half does he begin to hit his heralded stride. He bangs the boards, dunks and swishes himself to twenty points. Dig it! The air begins to buzz and stir. When the COs go up by five, the razz from the black section increases, moving towards “No way!”
Word spreads fast, especially the word of racial revenge. “Yo! There’s a white dude over there bangin’ the stinky shit outta the niggas!” It couldn’t have been more electrifying if they’d announced, “The gates are open, everyone can go home free!” In an instant, the gym becomes standing room only.
Jared’s lost in the fun and release—sweating profusely, heart hammering, and just feeling great when time-out is called.
“You’re a one-man whirligig!” Harley praises Jared but then pauses. Something at the black bench catches his eye. “Fucking-A, it’s Moses.”
Jared is sprawled on the lower bleachers, sucking water and biting a towel. Harley’s comment draws his eyes across the floor. A tall, thin tower of deep coal blackness, possibly two or three inches taller than Jared, is flipping off his sweatshirt and doing knee bends and stretches.
Jared immediately knows the guy’s M.O. He’s a dancer, a smooth flash. What he lacks in body weight—which lessens his height advantage—he compensates for by being a shadow. Jared imagines Moses’ swishes raining down, snapping and whipping the net.
Harley surveys the gym and makes a quick judgment. “Jared, sit out for about five. We’ve got a lead. Okay?” He says the “Okay” with a “Sit down!” tone. Almost Jared’s equal in physique but not in talent, Harley is a better coach than player. He appears to be the leader of the COs, if leader is the right word to use among a bunch of anarchists and outlaws. Jared will get to know Harley as the Influencer. He’s one of those guys who believes in process. He makes a big deal about getting everyone involved—then gets them to make his decision!
Jared doesn’t mind the break. He’s a bit more than rubber-belly winded. So he totally misses Harley’s motive.
Quickly Moses leads his team to the Promised Land. He’s much better than Jared had thought. What he learns later is that he started at Howard for three years and was in contention for all-American status when he took a fall for cocaine dealing. Jared will come to know him as a legend among the Joint’s B-ballers.
Moses is staring down the final two years of a seven-year hitch. He’s played his way around the Federal Pen circuit and arrived last year at Millston to instant fame and status. Now he’s putting on a show, blue-ribbon and first-class.
Moses’ first five baskets are of the in your face! variety. He also converts three shots with extra foul points. The only weakness, and the one Jared has exploited before on the school grounds of Bayonne, is the lack of team play. Moses is a prima donna, a thoroughbred. He touches the ball every time he’s down court, and he shoots regardless of coverage. In almost comic contrast, the COs are plodders. Despite the mocked “white man’s disease,” they move the ball around well and end up with a lot of easy shots.
“Put the Big Man back in!” A chant begins, leading to hoots and hollers from a gaggle of rednecks at the top of the bleachers. In no time, it’s a rant. They’ve been taking bets and are not at all happy about the change in the score.
“Big Man! Big Man!” the chant goes round. Guys take off their belts and start whipping the wooden bleachers, stomping their feet. The noise is working itself towards frenzy. Harley senses the trap. How can he finesse this?
The black side has been jumping and high-fiving and juicing ever since Moses walked in. Taunts now fly. “Oooooee, white boys, yo’ mommas ain’t safe now!”
At first Jared enjoys the jive. Its rhythm and heat take him out of the Joint, back onto schoolyard asphalt. He’s been a target before in tournaments and on the city blacktop. “C’mon, man,” he flicks his towel at Harley, “let me back in. I can take Moses down.”
Harley’s face registers mild shock, then drops to a gape. He’s amazed at Jared’s genuine athletic arrogance. “Okay. Sure. You can go back in. But don’t be too bold with Moses. He’ll eat you alive. He’s just been toying with us out there.”
As Jared reenters the game, ten guards stealthily slide into riot positions. They glide in with a disciplined motion. They’re hooked into the prison grapevine and are prepared for the worst. Few others notice them. All are focused on Jared and Moses.
Jared catches up with Moses as he comes down court to set up. He instinctively maneuvers him into body contact. Under the circumstances it’s a dumb, inflammatory move but he’s playing basketball, not being diplomatic. He takes Moses’ weight and gives him a shoulder. It states, “I’m ready. Make your move.”
Moses reads Jared’s intention and as the ball floats towards him, he dips and fakes, goes left, pushes back right and leaves Jared waving his arms in the air like the guy flagging airplanes to dock. The black side roars and renewed scatological taunts flood the floor. “Up your ass, bitch!” “Suck my big black dick, honkey!” Ass ch
eeks are spread and rectal kisses bestowed from all corners. Tensely, the white section is closely watching, waiting to see how Jared responds.
Unlike the blacks, the COs don’t rely solely on Jared—although they should! So even though he calls for the ball, it goes around to Sean who is the athletic sum and essence of everything Jared is not. He’s not only small, verging on petite, but graceless—a great wrestler but he can’t dance. When he shoots it’s a hopeless brick that twangs the rim and rockets straight back up. Moses’ fingers touch the ball before it plunges down towards the rim, but as he brings it to his waist Jared rips it out of his hands. With equal astonishment, Moses finds himself holding air, looking like a man who’s just dropped his pants. Jared bounds back up and dunks, plops the ball in with gentle ease.
The gym rocks and rolls, both sides wildly cranking it up. Even the guards are watching the gladiators now more than the crowd. For the rest of the quarter it yo-yos back and forth, the score rising one way, then the other. Smartly, every time they set up, the ball gets into Jared’s hands. He passes it off now and then but only Harley has a half-decent shot. The rest, like hapless Sean—“Wrestlers suck!” he yells at his bud after his third air ball—are simply out of gas. So it’s Big Man time!
It’s Jared fading away for “Two!” And Jared juking and dipping and just bowling over three defenders for “Another two!” It goes on. Moses is matching him point for point but he’s not half as winded—Moses just doesn’t bother to play defense. But not so for the COs—they need Jared’s long arms and barroom bouncer defensive moves. Winded, he still has to hustle back and go manic in the paint just to keep things even. He blocks a jumper. He swats away a layup. It takes its toll—he’s just flat-ass pooped.
Time-out is called with three minutes left. Jared is about to black out. He’s dizzy and half-conscious. The time in County and the suspension in Seg are taking their toll. He wants to sit out for a few. Can I go home now?
“Sit out?!” The team freaks with a common voice and gesture. “This place will blow if you sit out. Man, you gotta ride it out now.”
It’s at this moment that Jared first scents the meanness in the air. Hot and getting hotter. The windows are steam-clouded, some beading sweat as the gym’s temperature rises. An ugly vileness wafts up and down the bleachers.
Once Jared got into a push and shove match with a black way back on St. Vincent’s playground. But it was the posturing bravado of youth. Here he sees, for the first time, the jerky wildness of caged eyes. They want blood. It doesn’t matter whether it’s white or black, just blood. They want nothing less than a duel to the death. What the fuck should I do? He wants someone else to answer.
Harley evidently can read Jared’s mind. “Just play hard and play fair. Don’t give up. Don’t give in. But don’t lose control.”
Then he speaks the truth. “There’s no way we can win tonight. Win or lose, we lose. This is not about basketball. But if we lose control, we’ll lose whatever gains we’ve made as a group.”
Jared doesn’t quite understand all Harley’s getting at but he thinks he gets his drift. With that, his sole focus shifts back to the Game.
As the story gets told later both sides won. It depends on who’s doing the telling.
Moses’ speed and gracefulness account for much laughter as he jukes Jared time and again. No one on either side can touch Moses’ skillfulness. He’s clearly the most exciting one-on-one player around. But the COs win the game by a point—a point made by Jared at the foul line.
There is no controversy but a lot of heated death threats made around the call. Jared was brutally and maliciously clotheslined. No one would deny that! Fortunately, the guy’s forearm cushioned much of the blow but it put Jared hard-ass on the floor, looking like a kid who’d just had his lollipop swiped.
The foul appeared to be unintentional but it’s all that the crazies on both sides needed. Even before Jared could respond by not slapping back at his attacker, a cluster of fist-waving, “Mother-fuckin’ niggers!” white guys show up at half court. Their gesture is met by equal venom from the other side. More spit and feigned violence flies than actual blows because everyone’s acutely aware of the guns aimed at and now moving towards center court.
Just as quickly as the inmates, the guards are there, whistles screeching, billy clubs waving. It’s enough to do the trick. This isn’t a planned riot, just a rehearsal. Nonetheless, the anger jumps and jives. “Watch yo’ white boy!” “Betta protect yo’ white boy!” as the blacks interpret the guards’ presence as shielding their great white hope!
More wildly than before, all versions of the great scatological gesture and its flatulent verbal formulations roar back and forth across the gym. A swarm of fuck you! finger-flickings. Italian forearmed gestures of up yours! Hand signals that shriek, Bend over and I’ll fuck you in the ass, you pussy! “Eat me!” “Suck this!” “You’re mine, bitch!” It takes another five full minutes to settle things down.
Jared welcomes the release and this informal time-out. The energy of the exchange doesn’t scare him. It’s not unlike what he learned from the ’68 Chicago Democratic Convention. From that outrage, he became familiar with the smell of bloodlust. Back then, he took home a lesson about reading eye-messages. Right now, he’s not picking up any “hunting for fucking niggers” or “hunting for fucking hippies” energy from the guards. This flash of understanding comes then evaporates as he approaches the foul line.
As Jared tells it, the real story was Moses. As he steps to the foul line, Jared catches Moses’ eye. All night Moses has successfully avoided Jared’s stare. He knew that Jared wanted to psych him out. But Moses is smart about white folks; he knows their tricks.
Moses, ebony elegant and polished by sweat, upright and at full height, lifts his head high and turns just enough to look Jared straight in the eye, boldly. Jared can’t figure it out—what? Then Moses grins, full but not broad—not toothy or the racist watermelon smile, definitely not that. It’s a genuine gesture of acknowledgment, a controlled and sly smile that says, “We’ve been a good show. I like your style.”
Moses won: As the swish tells the tale of the scoreboard, Moses is in front of Jared. With that slink of speed that justifies calling him Shadow, he shakes Jared’s hand. Not a pump, not a high five but that introductory shake, the type both sides could only interpret as friendly. A “Welcome to the neighborhood” shake.
Doors pops open and the gym deflates like a stabbed roundball, sszzzz . . . ssshhh! Humans stream out like crazed air molecules. Soon the Yard fills. The once inflamed mob slowly subsides into the chatter of small groups. Everyone’s waiting for the day’s last Lock-up and Count.
But this is Inside and what must be told is that hatred intensified with every bounce of the ball. Jared was being watched. The Black Muslims, for one, are certain that the increasing population of COs means something bad for them. Although certain Black Power advocates welcome the alliance with the white radical Resisters, the Muslims only see “white intelligence” as the mind of the slave master. They watched Jared and interpreted his Seg antics as a sign that he’s trying to cover up something and create a false identity. They’re suspicious of his radical posture and his reputation as an ally of the Black Panthers. True, they know that he helped ferry several brothers into Canada, but again they read this as the development of a tight, deep-cover radical bio, as an effort at misdirection.
As they heard it—or were quick to mine from every fragment of rumor—some with Chicago connections to Fred Hampton’s former Black Panther group had tagged Jared not as an ally and a trusted source but as the informant, the one who set him up with a hippie chick, the overdose of Seconal—and Daley’s death squad!
Tonight was just the sign they needed. Jared is a fuse on a powder keg. Why else, they argue, would they send a honkey jock to the same joint as Moses? Can’t the other brothers see this? Isn’t it clear? How much deeper and tighter can the cover get? “He’s a white intellectual, a teacher.
A white radical, a preacher. A white jock, a hero. What else but a white spy? Can he be anything but trouble?”
From this game on, they keep a tightly peeled eye on him noon and night. They augur even the most trivial of details. Above all, they devise an exit plan for him.
Other eyes watch him too. Eyes not even the Warden knows are present. These eyes are quite pleased by Jared’s ability to incite as well as by his ability not to lose his cool. His stock, this night, has skyrocketed among J. Edgar Hoover’s undercover agents—the ones Agent Brown admired but wouldn’t join. For them, the ogling of the Black Muslims is not unnoticed. For the misinformation on Jared that he slipped to his brothers, Supply Line will certainly have to be greased, once again.