Read Online The Case Against William by Mark Gimenez - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Gimenez
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Tucker was born to do?
"You
ever been wrong, Sam? About a boy?"
"Sure.
There was a boy named Montana. Skinny, slow, couldn't throw a football fifty
yards. You wouldn't pick him for your high school team. But he had ice water
running through his veins. He won a national championship at Notre Dame and
four Super Bowls."
"I
mean, on the downside. A boy you knew would make it, but didn't."
Sam
nodded. "Many times. You can never be sure what's inside a boy. The
heart and guts thing. Whether they'll thrive on pressure or fall apart. And
there's always the injury factor. One injury and a promising career can be
over."
"What
if you're wrong about William? You want him to give up a great education at
the Academy and the Ivy League for football? What if he doesn't make it?"
"Plan
B."
"Which
is?"
"His
rich daddy. He can go back to college, maybe law school. No worries for
William. It's the black kids, the ones without a Plan B, they're the ones I
lose sleep over. Football's their only way out of the 'hood, it's all or
nothing. A lot of them end up with nothing." Sam stared at the field.
"But I'm not wrong about William."
"So
I'm supposed to make a major life decision for my son based upon your
appraisal?"
Sam
held his hands up as if in surrender.
"Hey,
you're his dad. I'm just a scout."
Sam
chuckled then took a long drag on the cigar and blew out smoke.
"Frank,
when you were a kid, did you dream of being a pro athlete? You sure as hell
didn't dream of being a lawyer."
Frank
nodded. "Golfer."
"Did
you love the game?"
"I did."
"Were
you any good?"
"Not
good enough."
"What
if you had been? And not just good, but great. How would that have felt?
Would you have chased your dream? Would you have been mad if your dad had
denied you that chance?"
Sam
Jenkins answered his own question.
"You
would've hated him. And William will hate you."
Sam
waved the cigar at the teams on the field.
"That's
his dream, right out there. You gonna take that dream away from your son,
Frank?"
A
good father wouldn't take his son's dream away, would he?
William's
team was losing. Again. He had scored five touchdowns, but the other team had
scored nine. His team ran off the field. The linemen bowled over Ray and
knocked him to the ground. All the water bottles he carried in his little
carry rack went flying. Ray was now the team manager, aka, the water boy.
William stopped and helped his friend up. He then picked up the plastic
Gatorade bottles and replaced them in Ray's carry rack. It looked like an
old-time milkman's carry rack, except Ray carried bottles of Gatorade not milk.
"You
okay, Ray?"
"Yeah.
Thanks, William." He nodded at the other players. "They've got no
respect for water boys."
William
stuck a fist out. "Knucks."
As
in "knuckles." They fist-bumped.
Sam
Jenkins had left, and Frank stood at the fence pondering the scout's advice
when his cell phone rang. He checked the readout. It was an Austin number.
He answered.
"Frank
Tucker."
"Frank.
Scooter and Billy."
Scooter
McKnight was the athletic director at UT. Billy Hayes was the head
basketball coach. They were on a speakerphone. Frank had a feeling they
weren't calling to offer game tickets.
"Can
we talk?" Scooter said.
"Shoot."
"Not
on the phone. Can you come to Austin? Tomorrow?"
"Can't."
"Saturday?"
"Scooter,
I told my son we'd play golf—"
"It's
important, Frank."
Scooter
was not given to drama. So Frank and William would play Sunday instead.
"All
right. At your office in the stadium?"
"At
the jail."
"The jail ?"
Scooter
sighed into the phone. "Watch the news."
Frank
disconnected and wondered what the meeting would be about. More specifically,
whom it would be about. Frank had handled some high-profile matters for the
athletic department, which is to say, he had represented athletes who had found
themselves on the wrong side of the law. Most were just young and stupid and
bulletproof, or so they had thought. They were living in those gap years, with
bodies
"You
ever been wrong, Sam? About a boy?"
"Sure.
There was a boy named Montana. Skinny, slow, couldn't throw a football fifty
yards. You wouldn't pick him for your high school team. But he had ice water
running through his veins. He won a national championship at Notre Dame and
four Super Bowls."
"I
mean, on the downside. A boy you knew would make it, but didn't."
Sam
nodded. "Many times. You can never be sure what's inside a boy. The
heart and guts thing. Whether they'll thrive on pressure or fall apart. And
there's always the injury factor. One injury and a promising career can be
over."
"What
if you're wrong about William? You want him to give up a great education at
the Academy and the Ivy League for football? What if he doesn't make it?"
"Plan
B."
"Which
is?"
"His
rich daddy. He can go back to college, maybe law school. No worries for
William. It's the black kids, the ones without a Plan B, they're the ones I
lose sleep over. Football's their only way out of the 'hood, it's all or
nothing. A lot of them end up with nothing." Sam stared at the field.
"But I'm not wrong about William."
"So
I'm supposed to make a major life decision for my son based upon your
appraisal?"
Sam
held his hands up as if in surrender.
"Hey,
you're his dad. I'm just a scout."
Sam
chuckled then took a long drag on the cigar and blew out smoke.
"Frank,
when you were a kid, did you dream of being a pro athlete? You sure as hell
didn't dream of being a lawyer."
Frank
nodded. "Golfer."
"Did
you love the game?"
"I did."
"Were
you any good?"
"Not
good enough."
"What
if you had been? And not just good, but great. How would that have felt?
Would you have chased your dream? Would you have been mad if your dad had
denied you that chance?"
Sam
Jenkins answered his own question.
"You
would've hated him. And William will hate you."
Sam
waved the cigar at the teams on the field.
"That's
his dream, right out there. You gonna take that dream away from your son,
Frank?"
A
good father wouldn't take his son's dream away, would he?
William's
team was losing. Again. He had scored five touchdowns, but the other team had
scored nine. His team ran off the field. The linemen bowled over Ray and
knocked him to the ground. All the water bottles he carried in his little
carry rack went flying. Ray was now the team manager, aka, the water boy.
William stopped and helped his friend up. He then picked up the plastic
Gatorade bottles and replaced them in Ray's carry rack. It looked like an
old-time milkman's carry rack, except Ray carried bottles of Gatorade not milk.
"You
okay, Ray?"
"Yeah.
Thanks, William." He nodded at the other players. "They've got no
respect for water boys."
William
stuck a fist out. "Knucks."
As
in "knuckles." They fist-bumped.
Sam
Jenkins had left, and Frank stood at the fence pondering the scout's advice
when his cell phone rang. He checked the readout. It was an Austin number.
He answered.
"Frank
Tucker."
"Frank.
Scooter and Billy."
Scooter
McKnight was the athletic director at UT. Billy Hayes was the head
basketball coach. They were on a speakerphone. Frank had a feeling they
weren't calling to offer game tickets.
"Can
we talk?" Scooter said.
"Shoot."
"Not
on the phone. Can you come to Austin? Tomorrow?"
"Can't."
"Saturday?"
"Scooter,
I told my son we'd play golf—"
"It's
important, Frank."
Scooter
was not given to drama. So Frank and William would play Sunday instead.
"All
right. At your office in the stadium?"
"At
the jail."
"The jail ?"
Scooter
sighed into the phone. "Watch the news."
Frank
disconnected and wondered what the meeting would be about. More specifically,
whom it would be about. Frank had handled some high-profile matters for the
athletic department, which is to say, he had represented athletes who had found
themselves on the wrong side of the law. Most were just young and stupid and
bulletproof, or so they had thought. They were living in those gap years, with
bodies
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