My neighbors were an odd couple. They were a seemingly indigent pair that lived on the first floor of a three family unit across the street from me. Neither the wife or boyfriend/husband were particularly friendly--especially the wife (Milly). She was a middle aged white woman who looked like she never got the note that the 1980s had come and gone. The few times I said hello, Milly didn't respond or even make eye contact to acknowledge me. Eventually I concluded that she didn't like black folks. After all, Milly and her husband (who was also white) fit the "trailer park" stereotype to a tee. I was surprised there wasn't a Confederate flag draped on their porch.
The year was 2006. The car Milly drove was a late 1980s model Crown Victoria. She also sported a Farrah Fawcett doo, but it lacked the bounce and glamour of the late great 80s icon. Milly and I usually left around the same time in the morning. Based on her attire (blue jeans, sneakers, and a white tee) I concluded that she was a waitress somewhere. On the other hand, it seemed like her guy was a homebody. When I got home from work, he was always on his porch smoking a cigarette or pounding a can of beer.
Milly's guy wasn't a man of many words. He also didn't have much in the form of threads either, as he generally wore blue jeans and a wife beater in the summer (or blue jeans and a hoodie when it was cooler out). It became clear after awhile that the couple was in dire straits financially. I concluded this when they put on a yard sale that featured everything from old records to bedroom pillows.
The summer after their yard sale I noticed that Milly's hubby didn't hang out on the porch anymore. As a matter of fact, I didn't see him on the block at all. I didn't care to find out what happened to him until Betty, the unofficial neighborhood watchwoman, offered a report of his whereabouts while sharing news about some recent criminal activity on our street (re: Cocksure).
Betty: The cops been on this street like crazy lately. Everything's happenin' at the same time, it seems!
Me: I never see the cops, though. I feel left out. Haha.
Betty: That's cuz you're at work, baby. You're missing out on all the drama.
Me: Yeh. Seriously.
(As we were talking, Milly walked out of her pad.)
Betty: That poor woman. I can't even imagine. Three kids and all. Such a shame.
Me: What's a shame?
Betty: Boy, you really don't know what's going on, do you?
Me: I'm not even pretending. Did something happen to the kids?
Betty: Naw. That man who lived with them ain't there no more. I'll tell you that much.
Me: Was he in on the cock fights?
Betty: No. He was beatin' Milly like a tambourine. Couldn't you tell? She was always bruised up!
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Cocksure
I've lived in a few shady neighborhoods. As a result, it has been more common for me to see used condoms on the sidewalk than a beautiful garden in a neighbor's yard. The sound of police and ambulance sirens are far more familiar to me than birds chirping. Shopping carriages, for instance, are more useful to my neighbors than lawn mowers. After all, the latter can't be used to haul loads of empty beer and soda cans.
Betty's "buggy" (southern colloquialism for shopping carriage) was parked next to my apartment building, away from the cars that aligned our sprawling street. It was her lifeline. In the buggy were bags of empty soda cans Betty redeemed on a regular basis since the son she lived with stole her welfare check that came in once a month (re: Welfare Check). Aside from collecting cans in the neighborhood, Betty (a native of the countryside in Louisiana) had nothing else to do but mind the business of everybody else on our street.
Betty's eyes and ears were always open. She was my source of information for all that was going on even though I never asked for a report. When I moved to the neighborhood, a manly-looking woman greeted me who lived directly across the street. She had rough looking hands and wore a ton of make-up. I saw her regularly around the neighborhood until she suddenly disappeared. Awhile later, Betty told me that the woman (who was formerly a man) died of AIDS.
That wasn't the only drama to jolt the neighborhood. A year after moving into my apartment, I thought I was losing my mind. In addition to the weekday nights that Betty's son decided to blare his music, I often heard the sound of a rooster crowing around 5 a.m. It was weird to me since there wasn't a farm around for miles. I hesitated to tell anybody until Betty randomly brought it up during one of her updates.
Betty: Oh my goodness. Somebody finally did something about that rooster!
Me: (relieved) What are you talking about?
Betty: Don't tell me you didn't hear that rooster crowing!
Me: You know, I didn't know for sure if it was a rooster, but I'd hear something crow then it would stop real quick. I thought it was my imagination all along!
Betty: Uh huh. Baby, see, I'm from the deep south. I know a rooster when I hear one. That was definitely a rooster!
Me: So what's the story with that?
Betty: Well, between me and you, the cops done found out about them roosters so now we'll be able to sleep!
Me: Where were the roosters?
Betty: You ain't know? Those people right there in that house were having cock fights in the basement!
Betty's "buggy" (southern colloquialism for shopping carriage) was parked next to my apartment building, away from the cars that aligned our sprawling street. It was her lifeline. In the buggy were bags of empty soda cans Betty redeemed on a regular basis since the son she lived with stole her welfare check that came in once a month (re: Welfare Check). Aside from collecting cans in the neighborhood, Betty (a native of the countryside in Louisiana) had nothing else to do but mind the business of everybody else on our street.
Betty's eyes and ears were always open. She was my source of information for all that was going on even though I never asked for a report. When I moved to the neighborhood, a manly-looking woman greeted me who lived directly across the street. She had rough looking hands and wore a ton of make-up. I saw her regularly around the neighborhood until she suddenly disappeared. Awhile later, Betty told me that the woman (who was formerly a man) died of AIDS.
That wasn't the only drama to jolt the neighborhood. A year after moving into my apartment, I thought I was losing my mind. In addition to the weekday nights that Betty's son decided to blare his music, I often heard the sound of a rooster crowing around 5 a.m. It was weird to me since there wasn't a farm around for miles. I hesitated to tell anybody until Betty randomly brought it up during one of her updates.
Betty: Oh my goodness. Somebody finally did something about that rooster!
Me: (relieved) What are you talking about?
Betty: Don't tell me you didn't hear that rooster crowing!
Me: You know, I didn't know for sure if it was a rooster, but I'd hear something crow then it would stop real quick. I thought it was my imagination all along!
Betty: Uh huh. Baby, see, I'm from the deep south. I know a rooster when I hear one. That was definitely a rooster!
Me: So what's the story with that?
Betty: Well, between me and you, the cops done found out about them roosters so now we'll be able to sleep!
Me: Where were the roosters?
Betty: You ain't know? Those people right there in that house were having cock fights in the basement!
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Welfare Check
My neighbor was an asshole. Gonja lived a level above me, and had no regard for anybody but himself. When I moved in initially, we didn't have any issues. I often saw Gonja going into his spot while I chilled out front on the stoop, and we'd greet each other every time. He was an older black male, probably in his late 30s, who appeared to have his stuff together. He had a pimped out silver Audi with chrome rims and tinted windows. The woman who seemed to be his girlfriend often wore scrubs, so I assumed she was working in the medical field. I had no reason to think anything less of Gonja.
For the first few months of my occupancy, I had no issues with him. Once the winter months rolled around, however, my living situation wasn't quite as cool. A few times I was awoken around 3 a.m. on weekday nights by the thumping that was caused by his stupid ass stereo. The frustrating part about it is that he never responded to my knocking at the door. I had to throw snowballs at the windows to get his attention. He actually had the nerve to cop an attitude about the snow balls once.
Aside from the stereo situation, I had an issue with the smell of weed that would seep through the floor regularly. Gonja and his boys seemed to light up at least every other hour. After some time, it became event that Gonja was selling from his apartment. The stream of customers didn't bother me until one guy knocked on my door at 2 a.m. looking to buy some trees.
Things really got weird once his mom, Betty, moved in. Betty was an older black woman with a thick southern accent. She was real "country." Even though Gonja looked fresh as ever in his attire, Betty would rummage through garbage in the neighborhood for soda cans. On a couple of occasions, she even asked me for quarters. As time passed, I became cool with Gonja's mom. Eventually, she even started filling me in on what was going down in the neighborhood (story forthcoming in a future post).
One afternoon after work, I found Betty waiting on the stoop. I knew she was waiting for me. When I pulled up, she propped up immediately and walked to my car. Something was up.
Betty: Can I use your phone, please? I need to call my daughter.
Me: Sure. You okay?
Betty: No. Not at all. I need to get the hell out of here. He's a fuckin asshole!
Me: Who?
Betty: Gonja. I've had enough of him.
Me: (thinking he hit her) Is he home? What's up? Do you need a ride somewhere?
Betty: (crying) Maybe. I just need to see if my daughter can pick me up. I can't take this anymore! He treats me so bad!
Me: I'm sorry.
Betty: (hysterical)I don't know what I ever did to that boy. I'm sittin here broke, collecting cans. Do you know every month he steals my welfare check from me?!?!
For the first few months of my occupancy, I had no issues with him. Once the winter months rolled around, however, my living situation wasn't quite as cool. A few times I was awoken around 3 a.m. on weekday nights by the thumping that was caused by his stupid ass stereo. The frustrating part about it is that he never responded to my knocking at the door. I had to throw snowballs at the windows to get his attention. He actually had the nerve to cop an attitude about the snow balls once.
Aside from the stereo situation, I had an issue with the smell of weed that would seep through the floor regularly. Gonja and his boys seemed to light up at least every other hour. After some time, it became event that Gonja was selling from his apartment. The stream of customers didn't bother me until one guy knocked on my door at 2 a.m. looking to buy some trees.
Things really got weird once his mom, Betty, moved in. Betty was an older black woman with a thick southern accent. She was real "country." Even though Gonja looked fresh as ever in his attire, Betty would rummage through garbage in the neighborhood for soda cans. On a couple of occasions, she even asked me for quarters. As time passed, I became cool with Gonja's mom. Eventually, she even started filling me in on what was going down in the neighborhood (story forthcoming in a future post).
One afternoon after work, I found Betty waiting on the stoop. I knew she was waiting for me. When I pulled up, she propped up immediately and walked to my car. Something was up.
Betty: Can I use your phone, please? I need to call my daughter.
Me: Sure. You okay?
Betty: No. Not at all. I need to get the hell out of here. He's a fuckin asshole!
Me: Who?
Betty: Gonja. I've had enough of him.
Me: (thinking he hit her) Is he home? What's up? Do you need a ride somewhere?
Betty: (crying) Maybe. I just need to see if my daughter can pick me up. I can't take this anymore! He treats me so bad!
Me: I'm sorry.
Betty: (hysterical)I don't know what I ever did to that boy. I'm sittin here broke, collecting cans. Do you know every month he steals my welfare check from me?!?!
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Man of Steal
Length can't keep himself out of trouble. Seven years ago, he was a legitimate Division I basketball prospect as a high school sophomore. Length had all the ingredients that were necessary to get to that level. He was 6'5 with long arms and ridiculous athleticism. The boy could fly. He could also handle the ball pretty well at his size. Length had one major barrier facing him, however; he wasn't very bright.
By all accounts, he was a brick in the classroom. Somehow he had gotten to the tenth grade without being able to read, or complete any sort of writing assignment. The basketball thing ultimately fell through because he couldn't maintain a 70 grade point average to play. It wasn't long before Length dropped out of school altogether.
I ran into Length many years later at the mall. He had gotten a job at Olympia Sports. We spoke about the possibility of him playing for me, and he expressed an interest in doing so. The only problem was that he couldn't pass the GED exam. With that obstacle standing in the way, Length resigned himself to being a sales clerk at Olympia.
After that conversation, I connected with some people in the GED prep world to see if I could help Length get over that hump. One of the local GED preparation programs had an open seat. All Length needed to do was call my contact and he was good to go. Prior to passing on the information, I decided to run a Google search on Length to see if he had been involved in any funny business. I didn't want to recommend somebody who would ultimately cause problems. Sadly, my search turned up a disturbing trend of arrests for larceny.
I decided to talk to Length about everything rather than just write him off. It seemed unfair for me to pull the plug on him without a conversation. After work one night, I decided to drop by Olympia so we could talk. I approached one of the sales representatives, who happened to be a former student at my alma mater, to ask for Length.
Me: Is Length working tonight?
Clerk: No. He doesn't work here anymore.
Me: What? Since when?
Clerk: Like last week.
Me: Did he quit? I'm trying to get a hold of him about something important.
Clerk: No. He didn't quit. He got caught stealing.
By all accounts, he was a brick in the classroom. Somehow he had gotten to the tenth grade without being able to read, or complete any sort of writing assignment. The basketball thing ultimately fell through because he couldn't maintain a 70 grade point average to play. It wasn't long before Length dropped out of school altogether.
I ran into Length many years later at the mall. He had gotten a job at Olympia Sports. We spoke about the possibility of him playing for me, and he expressed an interest in doing so. The only problem was that he couldn't pass the GED exam. With that obstacle standing in the way, Length resigned himself to being a sales clerk at Olympia.
After that conversation, I connected with some people in the GED prep world to see if I could help Length get over that hump. One of the local GED preparation programs had an open seat. All Length needed to do was call my contact and he was good to go. Prior to passing on the information, I decided to run a Google search on Length to see if he had been involved in any funny business. I didn't want to recommend somebody who would ultimately cause problems. Sadly, my search turned up a disturbing trend of arrests for larceny.
I decided to talk to Length about everything rather than just write him off. It seemed unfair for me to pull the plug on him without a conversation. After work one night, I decided to drop by Olympia so we could talk. I approached one of the sales representatives, who happened to be a former student at my alma mater, to ask for Length.
Me: Is Length working tonight?
Clerk: No. He doesn't work here anymore.
Me: What? Since when?
Clerk: Like last week.
Me: Did he quit? I'm trying to get a hold of him about something important.
Clerk: No. He didn't quit. He got caught stealing.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Gun Play
Action had a brush with death. He woke up in the morning fully expecting to go about his regular business (work, school, basketball practice), as we all do, without interruption. Sadly, he was mistaken. Before he could even get to school and basketball practice, Action was sitting at a police station trying to make sense of everything that had happened to him.
Most of the guys I coach have lived through very traumatic experiences. I often draw comparisons between basketball and real life with the hope that they'll carry the same mental toughness they display in one realm of life into the other. Some of the challenges they've overcome I regard as being borderline insurmountable. One guy, for example, started finding his own meals at the tender age of five because his mom was often too strung out to make sure the fridge was full.
Action had been out of school for two years before he decided to give college a shot. He was recommended to me by a former player who played in a men's league with him. Action's story was typical. He moved to a different area (an hour away from home) hoping to escape the negative influences that threatened to throw his life completely off course. In so doing, Action got a job at the local "Family Dollar" (a mid-sized, convenience store chain)as a store clerk and decided to live with his girlfriend who he referred to as a calming influence.
Action's decision to leave his hood was paying major dividends. Because of Action's financial hardship, he received a full Pell Grant from the federal government to cover the cost of school and his books. Despite some glaring academic deficiencies (which will be touched upon in a subsequent post), Action had at least a C or better in all of his classes. Things were going pretty well for Action until that near fateful day.
An hour before practice, my cell phone rang. I saw Action's name on the screen and picked up.
Me: What's up, man?
Action: I don't think I'ma make it to practice today, Coach.
Me: Why not?
Action: Some stuff went down, man. Crazy.
Me: Are you okay?
Action: Yeh. I'm cool. I'm just at the police station.
Me: What did you do?
Action: I ain't do nothin.
Me: Then why are you talking to the cops?
Action: This morning some dude rolled into my store and held the place up. I had a gun in my face at 8 a.m. this morning, coach.
Most of the guys I coach have lived through very traumatic experiences. I often draw comparisons between basketball and real life with the hope that they'll carry the same mental toughness they display in one realm of life into the other. Some of the challenges they've overcome I regard as being borderline insurmountable. One guy, for example, started finding his own meals at the tender age of five because his mom was often too strung out to make sure the fridge was full.
Action had been out of school for two years before he decided to give college a shot. He was recommended to me by a former player who played in a men's league with him. Action's story was typical. He moved to a different area (an hour away from home) hoping to escape the negative influences that threatened to throw his life completely off course. In so doing, Action got a job at the local "Family Dollar" (a mid-sized, convenience store chain)as a store clerk and decided to live with his girlfriend who he referred to as a calming influence.
Action's decision to leave his hood was paying major dividends. Because of Action's financial hardship, he received a full Pell Grant from the federal government to cover the cost of school and his books. Despite some glaring academic deficiencies (which will be touched upon in a subsequent post), Action had at least a C or better in all of his classes. Things were going pretty well for Action until that near fateful day.
An hour before practice, my cell phone rang. I saw Action's name on the screen and picked up.
Me: What's up, man?
Action: I don't think I'ma make it to practice today, Coach.
Me: Why not?
Action: Some stuff went down, man. Crazy.
Me: Are you okay?
Action: Yeh. I'm cool. I'm just at the police station.
Me: What did you do?
Action: I ain't do nothin.
Me: Then why are you talking to the cops?
Action: This morning some dude rolled into my store and held the place up. I had a gun in my face at 8 a.m. this morning, coach.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Massachusetts Most Wanted
I almost coached a registered sex offender. Splash was a regular during our summer workouts but stopped showing up once Campus Police declared that they had to post a picture of him on campus since he was convicted of statutory rape (re: Say Cheese!). As with the countless other situations I've encountered as the Head Coach, that matter caught me completely off guard. For awhile, I thought I was the only coach dealing with the craziness until a colleague from another college called me with his own dilemma.
Within the first month of each season, I've found myself wanting to resign because of the daily dose of drama that comes my way. By nature, I don't have a ton of patience. I also really dislike confrontation. For better or worse, coaching has required me to deal with these personal shortcomings regularly. One of the ways I've dealt with my rougher days has been by venting to colleagues at other colleges who are often experiencing the same noneense, or worse.
One coach told me that he caught his players passing a pint of Hennessy on the team bus after a game. Another lamented about his purported star player who was jailed two games into the preseason for stealing a car. The most disturbing tale was one that threw me for a complete loop. A veteran colleague called to get my take on how he should proceed with a situation.
Coach: Hey Coach, what's happenin'?
Me: Same old, man. Just trying to deal with the daily craziness. You know how it is.
Coach: Well, I got a brain teaser for you. It's kind of a complex situation. These fuckin guys... There's always something.
Me: If you're calling me, then it must be serious.
Coach: Well, yeh. I have a sense of how I'm going to deal with it but I just wanted your take on the matter.
Me: Shoot.
Coach: I got a call from somebody in the community telling me that one of my guys is on the Massachusetts Most Wanted website.
Me: Really? Did you check it out?
Coach: Yup. I went to the site and there he was.
Me: Damn, man. What are you gonna do?
Coach: Well, I'm obviously gonna talk to him about it. From there, we'll see. I just don't get how a kid on the Massachusetts Most Wanted list gets accepted at a state college without any alert going off. It's not like he's hiding out. The kid has been coming to school and going to practice for months!
Within the first month of each season, I've found myself wanting to resign because of the daily dose of drama that comes my way. By nature, I don't have a ton of patience. I also really dislike confrontation. For better or worse, coaching has required me to deal with these personal shortcomings regularly. One of the ways I've dealt with my rougher days has been by venting to colleagues at other colleges who are often experiencing the same noneense, or worse.
One coach told me that he caught his players passing a pint of Hennessy on the team bus after a game. Another lamented about his purported star player who was jailed two games into the preseason for stealing a car. The most disturbing tale was one that threw me for a complete loop. A veteran colleague called to get my take on how he should proceed with a situation.
Coach: Hey Coach, what's happenin'?
Me: Same old, man. Just trying to deal with the daily craziness. You know how it is.
Coach: Well, I got a brain teaser for you. It's kind of a complex situation. These fuckin guys... There's always something.
Me: If you're calling me, then it must be serious.
Coach: Well, yeh. I have a sense of how I'm going to deal with it but I just wanted your take on the matter.
Me: Shoot.
Coach: I got a call from somebody in the community telling me that one of my guys is on the Massachusetts Most Wanted website.
Me: Really? Did you check it out?
Coach: Yup. I went to the site and there he was.
Me: Damn, man. What are you gonna do?
Coach: Well, I'm obviously gonna talk to him about it. From there, we'll see. I just don't get how a kid on the Massachusetts Most Wanted list gets accepted at a state college without any alert going off. It's not like he's hiding out. The kid has been coming to school and going to practice for months!
Friday, March 9, 2012
Nut Job
I made the mistake of trusting a Bubblee's judgment. Flash told me that Bubba was a solid guy, and I believed him. Initially, Bubba didn't give me a reason to have pause about offering him a spot on the team. He was 6'6 with a solid frame and great hands. Although Bubba didn't like to get physical inside, he could make outside shots and take opponents off the dribble. It seemed to me that I had struck gold--or at least silver.
Things went downhill after I watched Bubba work out. I didn't expect that at all since we had a great meeting before he left campus. He was well spoken, and seemed like a nice guy who relished the opportunity to play college ball after essentially doing nothing since graduating from high school two years prior. For months afterwards, he didn't return my phone calls or texts. After awhile, I figured Bubba got cold feet and decided to just keep idling in the hood.
Three months later, Bubba got back to me. He apologized for falling off the map and noted that some "stuff was going on" in his life. After that phone call, once again, he vanished--only to reappear two weeks before school started. He sounded remorseful, but by then the red flags were too apparent to ignore. I told him to go somewhere else. At that point, his boy (Flash) jumped in to save the day. Flash had played one year for me and was my leading scorer. He begged me to give Bubba another chance.
Bubba ended up enrolling. Within a month, he was failing every class. He even skipped preseason workouts. After I received an email from a professor about his frequent trips to the bathroom, I let him have it. Out of frustration, I put him on blast in front of some teammates and told him to write "I will stop acting like a 10 year old" 100 times.
He completed the assignment, but asked me for an apology since I had scolded him in front of the guys. I told Bubba to take a hike instead. He didn't even make it to the first exhibition game. It wasn't long before Bubba disappeared altogether. After some time, Flash delivered some news to me that I didn't expect.
Flash: Sorry things didn't work out with Bubba, Coach. I really thought he was serious. He's been my boy for a minute. I never expected this.
Me: Your boy was a mess. Thank you for that recommendation.
Flash: My fault. I guess you never really know dudes. The news keeps getting worse with him.
Me: What happened?
Flash: First off, he told my girl that I was cheating on her. He's supposed to be my ace! We grew up together, Coach! When I checked him on it, he denied it but I know my girl ain't lyin because of what she said. Feel me?
Me: Yeh. Where is he now, anyway?
Flash: He must've lost it or something after his girl broke up with him. I heard he's up in a nut house now.
Things went downhill after I watched Bubba work out. I didn't expect that at all since we had a great meeting before he left campus. He was well spoken, and seemed like a nice guy who relished the opportunity to play college ball after essentially doing nothing since graduating from high school two years prior. For months afterwards, he didn't return my phone calls or texts. After awhile, I figured Bubba got cold feet and decided to just keep idling in the hood.
Three months later, Bubba got back to me. He apologized for falling off the map and noted that some "stuff was going on" in his life. After that phone call, once again, he vanished--only to reappear two weeks before school started. He sounded remorseful, but by then the red flags were too apparent to ignore. I told him to go somewhere else. At that point, his boy (Flash) jumped in to save the day. Flash had played one year for me and was my leading scorer. He begged me to give Bubba another chance.
Bubba ended up enrolling. Within a month, he was failing every class. He even skipped preseason workouts. After I received an email from a professor about his frequent trips to the bathroom, I let him have it. Out of frustration, I put him on blast in front of some teammates and told him to write "I will stop acting like a 10 year old" 100 times.
He completed the assignment, but asked me for an apology since I had scolded him in front of the guys. I told Bubba to take a hike instead. He didn't even make it to the first exhibition game. It wasn't long before Bubba disappeared altogether. After some time, Flash delivered some news to me that I didn't expect.
Flash: Sorry things didn't work out with Bubba, Coach. I really thought he was serious. He's been my boy for a minute. I never expected this.
Me: Your boy was a mess. Thank you for that recommendation.
Flash: My fault. I guess you never really know dudes. The news keeps getting worse with him.
Me: What happened?
Flash: First off, he told my girl that I was cheating on her. He's supposed to be my ace! We grew up together, Coach! When I checked him on it, he denied it but I know my girl ain't lyin because of what she said. Feel me?
Me: Yeh. Where is he now, anyway?
Flash: He must've lost it or something after his girl broke up with him. I heard he's up in a nut house now.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Traffic Violation
My older brother surrounds himself with sketchy people. This has been the case for many years now. Sadly, his inability to extract himself from questionable company is largely the reason he has been incarcerated multiple times. I've attempted to warn him about many of these seedy individuals, but he has trouble recruiting solid people into his circle.
On a hot summer afternoon, my brother randomly decided to stop by my apartment. I was happy to see him, but had reservations about one of the guys who accompanied him. This dude, Sticky, had a really bad aura about him. Even though I didn't own anything expensive, I found myself keeping an eye on his homeboy the entire time. He didn't end up taking anything, nor did he say much to confirm my feelings, but I still felt the need to warn my brother about Sticky.
Like my mother, I'm able to sense something "more" with people. It's rare that my intuition fails me. Somehow, even though my brother is very similar to my mom in character, he didn't pick up her ability to detect shady people. The funny (but sad) part about it is that he continually gets burned by these guys. A few years ago, for example, some dude he met at a park stole $500 off of his kitchen table after he invited him over to chill.
Gradually, my brother has come to the realization that he could trust my judgment of people. Reality seemed to set in after Sticky got in some serious trouble that caught my brother off guard.
Bro: Yo, you remember that cat Sticky I came by your crib with that you felt a certain way about?
Me: Yeh. Why?
Bro: Dude was on some shit, man.
Me: What do you mean?
Bro: This nigga got arrested for beating his shit (translation: jerking off) at a red light in his car.
Me: What the fuck? How'd he get caught?
Bro: He pulled up in his car next to some lady and her daughter to show them what he was doing and they called the cops on him.
On a hot summer afternoon, my brother randomly decided to stop by my apartment. I was happy to see him, but had reservations about one of the guys who accompanied him. This dude, Sticky, had a really bad aura about him. Even though I didn't own anything expensive, I found myself keeping an eye on his homeboy the entire time. He didn't end up taking anything, nor did he say much to confirm my feelings, but I still felt the need to warn my brother about Sticky.
Like my mother, I'm able to sense something "more" with people. It's rare that my intuition fails me. Somehow, even though my brother is very similar to my mom in character, he didn't pick up her ability to detect shady people. The funny (but sad) part about it is that he continually gets burned by these guys. A few years ago, for example, some dude he met at a park stole $500 off of his kitchen table after he invited him over to chill.
Gradually, my brother has come to the realization that he could trust my judgment of people. Reality seemed to set in after Sticky got in some serious trouble that caught my brother off guard.
Bro: Yo, you remember that cat Sticky I came by your crib with that you felt a certain way about?
Me: Yeh. Why?
Bro: Dude was on some shit, man.
Me: What do you mean?
Bro: This nigga got arrested for beating his shit (translation: jerking off) at a red light in his car.
Me: What the fuck? How'd he get caught?
Bro: He pulled up in his car next to some lady and her daughter to show them what he was doing and they called the cops on him.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
CSI: Boonies
Lefty was recommended to me as a troubled teen. I had a lengthy conversation with Lefty's Guidance Counselor about the baggage he could be bringing to my basketball program. Sadly, I wasn't taken aback by Lefty's tough home life since his story was an all too familiar tale: his father wasn't around and the mother struggled to make ends meet. As a result, Lefty felt like he had to do some shady things in order to provide for himself.
In his late teens, Lefty turned a corner. He went from barely passing all of his classes as a freshman and sophomore to earning "Bs and Cs" as an upperclassman. His Guidance Counselor recommended that he enroll at a Community College to improve his grades and develop his game. As a high school senior, he had posted multiple 20 point games and almost singlehandedly lead his team to a championship.
Prior to my meeting with the Guidance Counselor, I had never heard of Lefty even though he was tearing it up in his league. The league he played in didn't have a track record of producing big time college players so I never went to any of those games. I didn't get to see Lefty play in an official game, but we had a chance to meet at his high school. Much to my surprise, it went well. He was articulate, sincere, and polite. I took his information and told him that I'd be in touch once our season was over.
I finally got to see Lefty play a few months later on our campus. I invited a bunch of guys to play some pick-up games on a Saturday and he showed up. Lefty was tall, athletic, and agile but he wasn't very skilled. I chalked up his success in high school to his size (6'2, 165) and quickness. Since I had some better guys coming in at his position, I opted to pass on Lefty. Sadly, he decided not to enroll in school that fall...
During a visit to Lefty's high school three years later, I asked his Guidance Counselor about him. Unfortunately, the news wasn't good.
Me: How's Lefty doing? I'm thinking about taking a second look at him.
Counselor: That would be good for him, but I think he's caught up in some stuff right now.
Me: Oh no. What kind of trouble?
Counselor: From what I've heard, he has been knocking off homes.
Me: Did he get caught?
Counselor: Yeh. (laughs) He kind of did himself in during a break in.
Me: How so?
Counselor: He dropped his driver's license in the garage of one of the homes he robbed.
In his late teens, Lefty turned a corner. He went from barely passing all of his classes as a freshman and sophomore to earning "Bs and Cs" as an upperclassman. His Guidance Counselor recommended that he enroll at a Community College to improve his grades and develop his game. As a high school senior, he had posted multiple 20 point games and almost singlehandedly lead his team to a championship.
Prior to my meeting with the Guidance Counselor, I had never heard of Lefty even though he was tearing it up in his league. The league he played in didn't have a track record of producing big time college players so I never went to any of those games. I didn't get to see Lefty play in an official game, but we had a chance to meet at his high school. Much to my surprise, it went well. He was articulate, sincere, and polite. I took his information and told him that I'd be in touch once our season was over.
I finally got to see Lefty play a few months later on our campus. I invited a bunch of guys to play some pick-up games on a Saturday and he showed up. Lefty was tall, athletic, and agile but he wasn't very skilled. I chalked up his success in high school to his size (6'2, 165) and quickness. Since I had some better guys coming in at his position, I opted to pass on Lefty. Sadly, he decided not to enroll in school that fall...
During a visit to Lefty's high school three years later, I asked his Guidance Counselor about him. Unfortunately, the news wasn't good.
Me: How's Lefty doing? I'm thinking about taking a second look at him.
Counselor: That would be good for him, but I think he's caught up in some stuff right now.
Me: Oh no. What kind of trouble?
Counselor: From what I've heard, he has been knocking off homes.
Me: Did he get caught?
Counselor: Yeh. (laughs) He kind of did himself in during a break in.
Me: How so?
Counselor: He dropped his driver's license in the garage of one of the homes he robbed.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Death Wish
Cuervo threw the group for a loop with his confession. I was chocked up after he spoke. As the facilitator of this men's group, I was shocked by the morbid past these college students shared in common. I didn't expect to be confronted with such dark stories on a 4-year college campus.
As a recruiter at a community college, I've become accustomed to seeing the effects of trauma on young people. The bad grades that I typically see on transcripts are generally symptomatic of larger issues. In contrast, when I worked in the 4-year world years ago, I wasn't confronted with bad grades and family turmoil. That's why I was thrown for a loop during this particular session.
Mookie and Bleek set the stage for Cuervo to open up when they decided to share stories from their tragic pasts. Bleek really silenced the room when he talked about his father's admission of loving crack more than he loved his kids. As I contemplated how to proceed while Bleek wrapped up, I saw Cuervo's hand go up.
Me: Bleek, that was deep. Thank you for sharing that with us.
Bleek: These are my brothas, man. It ain't nothin.
Me: Cuervo, you wanna speak?
Cuervo: Yeh.
Me: So, who's the positive male role model in your life?
Cuervo: I guess you could say my dad, but he wasn't really around the first twelve years of my life. He said he couldn't get along with my mom. She made him a bad person so he stayed away from us.
Me: Do you have a relationship with him now?
Cuervo: Yeh.
Me: How'd that come about?
Cuervo: Before I left for school.. I was 12 at the time.. my mother told me her face would always be in the sky looking over me. I didn't know what she meant til I came home.
Me: What happened?
Cuervo: When I got home she was lying on the floor, and she wasn't moving. After about forty five minutes, I called my pops to tell him what was going on. I was in shock.
Me: How'd she die?
Cuervo: She overdosed on drugs.
As a recruiter at a community college, I've become accustomed to seeing the effects of trauma on young people. The bad grades that I typically see on transcripts are generally symptomatic of larger issues. In contrast, when I worked in the 4-year world years ago, I wasn't confronted with bad grades and family turmoil. That's why I was thrown for a loop during this particular session.
Mookie and Bleek set the stage for Cuervo to open up when they decided to share stories from their tragic pasts. Bleek really silenced the room when he talked about his father's admission of loving crack more than he loved his kids. As I contemplated how to proceed while Bleek wrapped up, I saw Cuervo's hand go up.
Me: Bleek, that was deep. Thank you for sharing that with us.
Bleek: These are my brothas, man. It ain't nothin.
Me: Cuervo, you wanna speak?
Cuervo: Yeh.
Me: So, who's the positive male role model in your life?
Cuervo: I guess you could say my dad, but he wasn't really around the first twelve years of my life. He said he couldn't get along with my mom. She made him a bad person so he stayed away from us.
Me: Do you have a relationship with him now?
Cuervo: Yeh.
Me: How'd that come about?
Cuervo: Before I left for school.. I was 12 at the time.. my mother told me her face would always be in the sky looking over me. I didn't know what she meant til I came home.
Me: What happened?
Cuervo: When I got home she was lying on the floor, and she wasn't moving. After about forty five minutes, I called my pops to tell him what was going on. I was in shock.
Me: How'd she die?
Cuervo: She overdosed on drugs.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)