Brothers.”
Ellis said to Richie, practically screaming, “Take the service road behind the library. Cut back up that little dirt road next to the soccer field.” He was turned around in the front seat, looking back at the reporters, somehow feeling like they were chasing them with ropes and torches. “Get me the fuck inside that gym.”
Richie slowed down, let two girls pass. The first one, with real short black hair and a nice body on her, waved at Richie like she knew him.
Ellis said, “Not now, man. Shit.” He turned around again. There was a TV reporter and his cameraman, on the dead run, maybe a hundred yards behind them. “Fuck it,” Ellis said. “I ain’t practicing today, I can’t deal with this shit. Tell Gary I’m having some of that tendinitis behind my knees again.”
Richie didn’t say anything back. Sometimes he could position Ellis, they both knew it, get Ellis to do something he didn’t want to do. But Richie also knew there were times when you shouldn’t push. Richie knew better than anyone: Push too hard and you couldn’t move Ellis Adair in a million fucking years.
Richie understood something else along the same lines, dealing with how hard-ass Ellis could get when he had to: Guys didn’t get out of Booker T. just because they were some asshole who could jump.
Most white guys, sportswriters especially, made that mistake all the time with black ballplayers. Ellis explained it to Richie one time when they were both still in high school, and Richie never forgot it. Ellis told him there were a lot of guys who could play, play just about as well as him, but who never got out of the projects or off the corner. Never got off the playground. Ellis had said, “I call them Idas.”
Richie had said to him, “Now what the fuck is an Ida?”
Ellis smiled and said, “Idas are the bitches always telling you whatthey
coulda
been if they’d just applied themselves. ‘If Ida done this, I could have made the NBA.’ ‘If Ida done that, I’d be the one making three million dollars a year.’ Idas, Rich. Those bitches are on every street corner in Jersey City.”
In the front seat now, Richie said, “If Ida done somethin’ wrong, I’d listen to you. But we didn’t do anything, we’re not going to act guilty. And if you don’t show at practice today, that’s what these little TV cocksuckers are going to say, that Fresh was afraid to show, maybe he’s got something to hide.”
He was driving through campus now a little slower than he usually did, like he was buying time, trying to settle Ellis down.
“Wasn’t talking about guilty or innocent,” Ellis said, “just about not being able to deal with this shit yet.”
“Listen to me,” Richie said. They were passing the registrar’s building, coming up alongside the quad, all green in the sun. “It’s like I told you yesterday. We don’t even
address
any of this shit.”
Gary Lenz had fucked the reporters yesterday, giving Ellis and Richie the day off, even though it was the first week of camp. But then Donnie Fuchs, their agent, had thrown a shit fit, saying he didn’t want it to look like they were hiding. So now here they were, Ellis more upset than Richie that they were being chased to practice by a goddamn posse.
Richie took a right after the quad, going down the tree-lined street with some of the frat houses on it. He’d lost the reporters, now there was just this one Taurus behind him, making the same turns he was making.
“You just let me do all the talking when we get to the gym. Look at me, Fresh.” Richie talked sharp to him sometimes, cracked the whip, never doing it unless it was something important and he needed for Ellis to listen up. “Just say something like, ‘If you want to talk about anything except basketball, talk to Mr. Collins.’ Don’t smile or act like what the woman’s saying is just jive because that’ll piss off women. Don’t come across like some smiley-boy homey. Just give them that
Ellis said to Richie, practically screaming, “Take the service road behind the library. Cut back up that little dirt road next to the soccer field.” He was turned around in the front seat, looking back at the reporters, somehow feeling like they were chasing them with ropes and torches. “Get me the fuck inside that gym.”
Richie slowed down, let two girls pass. The first one, with real short black hair and a nice body on her, waved at Richie like she knew him.
Ellis said, “Not now, man. Shit.” He turned around again. There was a TV reporter and his cameraman, on the dead run, maybe a hundred yards behind them. “Fuck it,” Ellis said. “I ain’t practicing today, I can’t deal with this shit. Tell Gary I’m having some of that tendinitis behind my knees again.”
Richie didn’t say anything back. Sometimes he could position Ellis, they both knew it, get Ellis to do something he didn’t want to do. But Richie also knew there were times when you shouldn’t push. Richie knew better than anyone: Push too hard and you couldn’t move Ellis Adair in a million fucking years.
Richie understood something else along the same lines, dealing with how hard-ass Ellis could get when he had to: Guys didn’t get out of Booker T. just because they were some asshole who could jump.
Most white guys, sportswriters especially, made that mistake all the time with black ballplayers. Ellis explained it to Richie one time when they were both still in high school, and Richie never forgot it. Ellis told him there were a lot of guys who could play, play just about as well as him, but who never got out of the projects or off the corner. Never got off the playground. Ellis had said, “I call them Idas.”
Richie had said to him, “Now what the fuck is an Ida?”
Ellis smiled and said, “Idas are the bitches always telling you whatthey
coulda
been if they’d just applied themselves. ‘If Ida done this, I could have made the NBA.’ ‘If Ida done that, I’d be the one making three million dollars a year.’ Idas, Rich. Those bitches are on every street corner in Jersey City.”
In the front seat now, Richie said, “If Ida done somethin’ wrong, I’d listen to you. But we didn’t do anything, we’re not going to act guilty. And if you don’t show at practice today, that’s what these little TV cocksuckers are going to say, that Fresh was afraid to show, maybe he’s got something to hide.”
He was driving through campus now a little slower than he usually did, like he was buying time, trying to settle Ellis down.
“Wasn’t talking about guilty or innocent,” Ellis said, “just about not being able to deal with this shit yet.”
“Listen to me,” Richie said. They were passing the registrar’s building, coming up alongside the quad, all green in the sun. “It’s like I told you yesterday. We don’t even
address
any of this shit.”
Gary Lenz had fucked the reporters yesterday, giving Ellis and Richie the day off, even though it was the first week of camp. But then Donnie Fuchs, their agent, had thrown a shit fit, saying he didn’t want it to look like they were hiding. So now here they were, Ellis more upset than Richie that they were being chased to practice by a goddamn posse.
Richie took a right after the quad, going down the tree-lined street with some of the frat houses on it. He’d lost the reporters, now there was just this one Taurus behind him, making the same turns he was making.
“You just let me do all the talking when we get to the gym. Look at me, Fresh.” Richie talked sharp to him sometimes, cracked the whip, never doing it unless it was something important and he needed for Ellis to listen up. “Just say something like, ‘If you want to talk about anything except basketball, talk to Mr. Collins.’ Don’t smile or act like what the woman’s saying is just jive because that’ll piss off women. Don’t come across like some smiley-boy homey. Just give them that
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