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there, checking out their future stars. Slimy
street agents lurked around. Bobby G. was a fixture at this
tournament. Not only did he help fund Jamal’s team by sponsoring
T.J. Battle, he worked the crowd like a well-schooled Chicago
politician. Tournaments like this were a great way to conduct
research and build relationships. He hustled this weekend, planting
seeds for future moneymaking opportunities.
    While his team was loosening up in their pre-game
layup line, Coach Battle approached one of the referees assigned to
the game. They had known each other for several years. The referee
had worked some games back when Battle’s sons played high school
ball, and more recently, he ran into him at NAU games around the
city and suburbs.
    Coach Battle smiled and said, “Hey Rechter, have you
worked any games at Garfield Park lately?”
    “You’re never going to let me live that down, are
you T.J.?” the referee said laughing.
    “Neither will the guy who’s walking towards us!”
    A well-dressed man approached. Billy Rechter
recognized the face.
    “Hey Ref. What ‘sup, Coach. How’s the team lookin’?”
asked the man.
    “I owe you one, Bobby G. The Imari kid is a budding
basketball prodigy. He’s developed so quickly… my best player by
far.”
    “No prob, Jeeves. I owed his pops a favor. I just
ran into him a few minutes ago and he genuinely thanked me for
hookin’ up the two of y’all.”
    “Hey Ref, you should’ve stuck around at Garfield.
The game was the bomb.”
    Shaking his head, Billy Rechter replied, “You guys
are crazy. I would never work a game like that. Did you win?”
    “I always win, Holmes. C’mon.”
    ***
    By the end of eighth grade, Jamal had become T.J.
Battle’s basketball phenom. Several coaches from parochial schools
recruited him in an attempt to get him to enroll and play at
various places around the city. Jamal and his dad had discussed
this decision at length; ultimately, he decided to play at the
local, public suburban high school in East End. He disappointed
many parochial school recruiters, but certainly pleased one lucky
coach.
    After the last NAU game under Battle’s tutelage,
Jamal and Marcus were at a loss of words to express their sincere
thoughts:
    “T.J., I can’t thank you enough for taking Jamal
under your wing and teaching him the correct way to play
basketball. He is not done learning or growing, and I think he will
continue to get better, but without your help he would be an
awkward and tall, uncoordinated freshman in the fall. You were
great for him.”
    “Marcus, it was a labor of joy to help with his
development. Jamal, you have unlimited potential – you are on a
short list of elite players that I have been lucky enough to coach.
Don’t mess it up kid.”
    “I won’t Coach,” Jamal responded. “Thanks for all
you’ve done for me and our team. We had a great run, right?”
    “Sure we did. You have the trophies to prove it. But
your run is not over…you can really accomplish stuff on the court
and off.”
    “Beside the trophies and metals, I’ve also got the
sore muscles from those crazy drills too, Sir!” Jamal respectfully
joked back.
    “T.J., will we see you again?” asked Marcus.
    “That could happen in a few ways….one, if I need to
arrest you.” He laughed. “Two, I moonlight as the onsite officer
for a few high schools in Chicago and in the ‘burbs during events,
and three, when I can I’ll drop in on your high school games every
now and then.”
    “I’ll make you proud, Coach.”
    “Jamal, you already have. Stay out of trouble, get
good grades, and for the Love of God, keep your elbow up on your
jump shots or it’s back in the pool!” he kidded before shaking
hands and hugging the player and his dad.

Chapter Nine. The Whistle Blower

    William (Billy) Rechter was born forty-five years
earlier in the near south side section of Chicago named Bridgeport,
famous for including the homes of the father and son duo Mayor
Daleys. Mostly