How About It?

The following is an excerpt from Galen DeKemper’s short story titled:

An Evening in Black & White

The Bulldogs’ coach wants a full-length time-out so I make my way over to the scorer’s table with a minute to kill before blowing my whistle and getting things moving again. I scan the crowd as I walk over, looking at all of the parents. I see mothers rummaging through purses and fathers with salt and pepper hair like mine, but the difference is that they have kids while I don’t. My ex-wife and I divorced before we could have any, and now the only way any parents would trust a forty year old single man with the well-being of their middle-schooler is dependent upon my donning this striped referee’s uniform. I really do try my best though, and refereeing helps me maintain an appreciation for the complexities of the game that a casual spectator could easily miss. The Bulldogs’ Athletic Director, an old friend of mine named Charlie Nichols, is also the announcer, and he is shaking his head in bemusement as I approach.

“That Rodney Mbembe sure is making me remember his name. Next time I come across one like that I’ll ask the coach how to say it before I make a fool of myself.”

Rodney Mbembe is the name of the New Albany point guard who won my errant tip off and has scored the first four points. When Charlie was doing the player introductions, breezing through the visiting team in his SAT proctor monotone, he stumbled over Rodney’s last name until the only black lady in the stands, presumably Rodney’s mother, yelled out the phonetic pronunciation. “M-BIM-BAY.”

*****

By all accounts the block was clean, and this is of course what the spectators see. The whole Jefferson crowd jumps up, clapping and yelling. All of the players begin to scramble for the loose ball until my whistle halts the action. Eyes turn to me and I signal for a foul. The whole Jefferson side groans, feeling awkward as I expose their unfounded happiness. I walk over to the scorer’s table and signal to show that the center made contact with Mbembe’s body. Everyone begrudges me the possibility of this, and I hope that Mbembe realizes I am showing my appreciation of his move rather than calling an actual foul. I want him to know that I understand him.

I hand Mbembe the ball as he lines up for the free throws I have given him. I expect to see the eye contact I gave him reciprocated, two kindred spirits in mutual appreciation.

“I can take care of this on my own.”

He says it so silently, nearly under his breath, that I am sure I am the only one who heard. I make a puzzled expression as if I didn’t quite hear what he said, but I feel my face getting red. So he does know what I tried to do, but he doesn’t want the help I have to offer. He spins the ball out in front of him and then when it returns, he dribbles three times. Then he pauses for three seconds and shoots it. Swish. He repeats the procedure again with the same result. 42-40. Most of these good black kids are flashy but can’t shoot free throws. He is the real deal.

Full length version available later this winter in a negotiable compilation of young writing. Send any submissions or questions to barakaat@tmo.blackberry.net and I’ll get back to you promptly.

Thanks Galen!

2008 © PostHood