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  But that wasn’t working because Curtis, with his proud and hardheaded self, kept hemmin’ and hawin’ about the offer. He was just plain scared and punkin’ out over letting his grandmother, Lamont Green’s aunt Queen Esther, and their girls pray over him and the team. What did he think was going to happen—that he was going to hop up and start prophesying and speaking in tongues to the crowd during the halftime show at a game?

  Those prayers were going to help the team. It wasn’t something that could be seen, or explained, or proven. It just was. Carnal thinking was a trip and there were times when Curtis Parker, with his excessively carnal-thinking self, practically drove Maurice crazy.

  Maurice sighed heavily and said, “Jesus, what us gone do?”

  “It can’t be that bad, can it, dawg?” Curtis asked, now concerned about his best friend and most valuable coach for the team. There were three assistant coaches working with the basketball team—Maurice Fountain, Kordell Bivens, and Castilleo Palmer, who’d just earned his master’s degree in sports administration from Eva T. But as far as Curtis was concerned, there was only one real assistant coach. Those other two really didn’t need to be on the payroll, sucking up precious resources and doing absolutely nothing but getting on everybody’s (including the players’) nerves.

  Kordell Bivens was the kind of negro who was fiercely loyal to those he considered a friend—namely his boy and partner in crime Rico Sneed, who was around the basketball team way too much lately. Other than that, Kordell could not be depended on to do what was right and honorable—especially where Curtis and the team were concerned. He was dishonest to a fault. And he hid it behind a solemn, silent demeanor that made most people think he was just personality challenged and weird. Kordell Bivens was the type of negro who could be a guest in a person’s house and turn around and bite them with betrayal like a rabid dog, as his own special way of saying “thank you.”

  And then there was Castilleo Palmer—a wannabe player with the erroneous assumption that he was a gift to behold. Castilleo acted like he had the capacity to add something worth anything to the lives of the women he was involved with. About the only thing Castilleo ever did that was worthwhile was to break it off with his nicest girlfriends. And he couldn’t even do that right. The boy was so mean and ugly-acting when he broke off from a woman that she never wanted to have another thing to do with him. In fact, once one of Castilleo’s exceptionally beautiful ex-girlfriends was standing beside a flat tire at the Southpoint Mall parking lot in a thunderstorm. When he offered to help, she said, “No thank you. I’d prefer to be assisted by that man over there.”

  She then proceeded to point to a man who was standing at the bus stop singing the theme song from the 1970s version of the movie Shaft, dancing like Michael Jackson on one of his best songs from the famed Off the Wall album, and picking and eating boogers, when he appeared a tad bit tired and famished.

  Castilleo Palmer and Kordell Bivens—the assistant coaches from the pit of Hell—with their ever-present, annoying, and so unnecessary sidekick, Rico Sneed. Curtis had inherited those two jokers from his predecessor when he became the head coach of the basketball team. And the only reason he had not chased those two jokers out of his department with a sawed-off shotgun was that he had needed to hire Maurice. Curtis knew that firing Kordell and Castilleo would make his boss, Gilead Jackson, mad, and make it hard to get Maurice on staff at the right salary.

  It had seemed like a good plan at the time. But now, having to deal with all the stress, drama, and backstabbing that came with having Kordell and Castilleo as employees let him know he had not exercised any kind of good judgment concerning this matter. He wished he would have followed Gran Gran’s admonishment to trust God, fire those two, and let the chips fall where they may.

  Maurice’s eyes were closed and his lips were moving in a silent prayer. Curtis asked him again.

  “Man, is it really that bad?”

  “Worse,” Maurice answered.

  “So, what do we do about June Bug Washington and DeMarcus Brown?”

  “Bench ’em, Curtis. They are nothing but trouble, and I’m tired of fooling with those two spoiled, bratty pimp daddies just because Bishop Sonny Washington’s son is one’s pappy, and Reverend Marcel Brown sired the other.”

  Curtis started laughing. “Dawg, you make old boy sound like a rutting stag. Sire? If that ain’t some old school mess from what century?”

  “Well, it’s true, ain’t it,” Maurice said with a chuckle. “Heck, you and I both know that DeMarcus’s daddy is still pimpin’ and he what … seventy-nine, eighty?”

  “I think Reverend Brown is seventy-seven,” Curtis said. “Reverend Harris told me that her dad, Bishop Simmons, was seventy-five, and I think Reverend Brown is a couple of years older than Sharon Simmons-Harris’s father.”

  Maurice looked toward the back door to make sure Trina wasn’t in earshot in the kitchen before he said, “Sharon is fine.”

  “Yes, Lawd,” Curtis said and held out his fist for some dap. “Umph, umph, umph. And Lawd knows I shouldn’t be talking like this about a preacher. But baby girl is tight—chocolate, tall, slender, with those hips and that butt.” Curtis curved his hands as if he was drawing the shape of Reverend Harris’s butt in the air.

  “I know,” Maurice said, taking care to keep an eye on the door. “And those legs? Where did that sistah get those legs?”

  “She got ’em from her mama,” Curtis answered, grinning. “You know Mother Simmons is fine and has some big, pretty legs. Lawd knows Bishop Simmons has his hands full keeping negroes off those two.”

  “Three,” Maurice corrected.

  “Three what?”

  “Those three. You said two. It’s three.”

  “Well,” Curtis said, “who is number three? I know that Sharon has a younger brother, Theo Jr.”

  “She has a younger sister, too. Linda Simmons Bradley.”

  Curtis rubbed his chin. The only Linda Bradley he knew of lived in Atlanta, and other than being short and red, she did look a whole lot like Sharon Harris. He said, “Reverend Bradley’s wife, Linda, is Sharon’s sister? Reverend Bradley, the pastor of River of Life Gospel United Church in Atlanta?”

  “Yep,” Maurice answered.

  “Small world. But you know she and Sharon favor a lot—especially those legs.”

  “Yep,” Maurice answered. “Linda Bradley has a set of legs on her, too. I’ve heard that Reverend Bradley has had to roll up on more than a few negroes about his wife—especially when they go to the Annual Conferences.”

  “I can understand why that would be the case, Maurice.”

  Maurice nodded. His baby Trina was fine and he didn’t know what he’d have to do if he had to deal with fine-woman issues as a preacher. At least folks expected coaches to cuss and fight and act crazy. But preachers were another story. He didn’t envy them—not one bit.

  “Curtis, hurry and do something about June Bug and DeMarcus because I don’t want to be bothered with them this year. They need to sit out until they bring those grades up and quit ho-hoppin’ in the dorms. I know that June Bug has had two pregnancy scares since school started. And DeMarcus came this close”—Maurice held up his hand with his thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart—“this close to getting pistol-whipped by Mr. Chandler, the head of the mail center on campus, for being at his house with his wife when he wasn’t home.”

  “Why was that boy over at Dave Chandler’s house like that? Is he taking a class with Pauline?”

  “Yeah. And the dummy is failing it with flying colors. That’s why he was over there—getting some tutoring. At least that is what he told Dave right before he got tossed out of the front door without his new 250-dollar shoes.”

  “What is wrong with Pauline Chandler?” Curtis asked, agitated. “You know one of Kordell’s campus women, Prudence Baylor, told her not to marry Dave Chandler when she started chasing him five months after his wife died. Prudence said that spending a night with Dave was worse than
standing in a long line at Wal-Mart on Black Friday. Whatever he thought he was doing took forever and got on your nerves something terrible.”

  Maurice started laughing. Real life at an HBCU could give any reality TV show a good run for its money—and that included his favorite reality show, Flavor of Love.

  Curtis said, “We have more problems than we need because DeMarcus decided to help Pauline get out of the Wal-Mart line.”

  “Yeah. That is part one of our problems,” Maurice went on. “There’s a part two. Dr. Redmond will not override Gilead Jackson’s refusal to let LeDarius Johnson, Earl Paxton Jr., Sherron Grey, Mario Lincoln, and Kaylo Bailey get cleared to serve as the starting lineup for upcoming games.”

  Curtis ran his hands over the stubble of his close-cut hair and banged his hand on the deck railing. “Do Dr. Redmond and Gilead Jackson want to win any games this season? Heck, with a starting lineup like that, we have a chance to take the conference title—even with the losses we’ve already sustained. Those brothers are the best players on the team, and the only ones, in spite of June Bug and DeMarcus’s talent, with a chance of being scouted for the NBA. Maurice, when was the last time Eva T. sent anybody to the NBA?”

  “Nineteen-ninety-three.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “Nope. And it’s not because we haven’t had any NBA-quality players. But they all transferred to bigger schools, with better basketball programs, and more television coverage when it became clear that the last coach wasn’t going to play them right.”

  “WHY?” Curtis practically shouted, and then calmed down. This was almost criminal. If this wasn’t his own team, he would have reported them to the NCAA for unethical practices.

  “Not quite sure. But I know that some of the players that were allowed to start had parents with pockets deep enough to buy their non-basketball-playing sons a prime spot on the team. Or Gilead is sleeping with somebody’s mama and has to do something to pacify the girl and keep her from acting crazy on campus, or worse, going and telling his wife.”

  “Are you telling me that Delores doesn’t know what her husband is doing? Gilead ain’t got that kinda play in him.”

  “You ain’t never lied, dawg,” Maurice said with a smile spreading across his face. “Gilead doesn’t strike me as the type of brother who can run with boo and then come home and tighten up everything all right and good with wifey.”

  “Naah, Maurice. He ain’t coming home doing nothin’ but lyin’. Gilead don’t have that kind of stamina. You’ve seen how the brother has to walk with those old bad and stiff knees. Give him a few rounds with one of his women, and a blue tablet wouldn’t even be able to help that negro.”

  Maurice shook his head in disgust. He was all man—a guy’s guy if there ever was one. But he never had and never would cheat on Trina. For one, the loving was just too dang good. And two, he’d better sleep with one eye open, if she found out. Because she’d do some serious damage to his person, not to mention his body parts.

  Thirdly, he wanted to set a good example for his two sons, even if they never ever saw him tipping out. He’d read enough books on spiritual warfare to know better than to do anything that could give the enemy a reason to attack his home because the head had gone weak and left a crack in the wall for the Devil to wreak havoc in their lives. Cheating on your wife was just wrong—there was no excuse for it. The Word made that clear in no uncertain terms. And Maurice wasn’t doing anything that would interfere with his prayers being answered. 1 Peter 3:7 shot straight from the hip when it stated, “In the same way, you husbands must give honor to your wives. Treat her with understanding as you live together. She may be weaker than you are, but she is your equal partner in God’s gift of new life. If you don’t treat her as you should, your prayers will not be heard.”

  Maurice loved Peter. He was a trip—just as crazy, impetuous, and gangsta as he could be. But Peter loved him some Jesus. And Maurice did, too. Plus, Maurice wanted to see the team win the conference title. He didn’t have time to be out there laying up with some trash and not getting his prayers answered. And it wasn’t because he didn’t have any offers. Women threw coochie offers at him all the time. Maurice Fountain was definitely easy on the eyes—six-five, built like a diesel truck, honey complexion, and dark, curly mingled gray hair—a welcome sight for the women who admired him from afar on campus.

  “And I’m beginning to get concerned that there is another hidden reason, Curtis. But what I keep thinking is just as crazy.”

  “Aren’t you the one always telling me that the Devil is just as crazy?”

  Maurice smiled and nodded. That was one of his famous Mauriceisms: “The Devil is just as crazy.” He said, “Sam Redmond and Gilead Jackson want a new coach. And it’s something about this coach that is going to get them a whole lot of money—not money for the department. This is change they’ll drop right into their pockets.”

  “Winning the conference title and playing your way to a seat at the dance during March Madness is a sure way to boost revenues, and even raise salaries,” Curtis told him.

  “I know. But it goes further than that. That’s all I know right now.”

  “That’s enough, man. I see why you stay on your knees. If I kept getting info from Jesus like that, I’d be on my knees, too. That’s scary, man. Something that has better revenues than a straight-up conference win.”

  “It is scary, Curtis, if you don’t have the Lord on your side. But with God, none of these weapons formed against us—no matter how big, sinister, and well-planned—can and will prosper. That’s why you have got to quit playing and get your life straight. I mean it, man. You are the key.”

  Curtis didn’t want to hear that. He knew Maurice was right but was having a hard time receiving that truth to his heart. He said, “Man, I will work hard, make whatever sacrifices—”

  “This is about obedience and submission, not sacrifice, Curtis. God prefers obedience any day over sacrifice.”

  Maurice stopped talking and took a deep breath. Why couldn’t this negro just admit that he couldn’t handle this by himself? Pride—nothing but pride. Curtis wanted to get all of the credit for putting this thing right. But that wasn’t going to happen—not this time.

  Help this boy, Jesus, Maurice thought. He trusted the Lord. But trusting God while going through struggle was very hard to do—especially when it involved your mortgage, the light bill, the car note, and everything else where money, a job, and a steady source of income were the prerequisites to making this all work. And when you added in food to the equation—especially the way his two boys could plow through a meal—he might as well throw in the towel.

  FIVE

  Trina scooped the last piece of fish out of the deep fryer and began putting all the food on the table. She tapped on the window for Maurice and Curtis to put out those cigars, gather up the corn, and come in and eat.

  “Yvonne, look down in that cabinet and get out my good paper plates.”

  Yvonne smiled. Leave it to Trina to have a section in her cabinet for the “good paper plates.”

  Trina opened the door so that the aroma of the food would lure Maurice and Curtis into the house. It worked. Maurice plopped the corn on a platter and the two of them came back in the house smelling like Fuente Hemingway cigars. Trina inhaled deeply when Maurice passed by her. She loved the mixture of his Cubans and Eternity for Men cologne. She picked up a paper towel and tried to convert it into a decent fan.

  “Hot flashes,” Trina told Yvonne.

  “Yeah … right,” was all Yvonne said.

  “I do, too, have hot flashes. You know I’m going through this menopause thing.”

  “You having a hot something but it ain’t got a thing to do with a flash,” Yvonne said, and took a long sip of the iced tea Trina had just put on the table.

  “Go on and tell us what has you flashing heat all over the place,” Maurice said, grinning, delighted that all of this heat talk had everything to do with him. He knew that Trina always h
ad a “flash” when she smelled his cigar intermingled with the scent of his cologne. This was definitely turning out to be a good evening. Maurice couldn’t wait for the finale after everybody went home.

  “Boy, please. Nobody thinking about you” was all Trina said.

  “Maurice,” Yvonne said, “when is the next game? Trina gave me the schedule but you all made some changes after it was printed up and the games aren’t posted on the website, either.”

  Curtis raised an eyebrow, knowing full well that Maurice was holding on to that new schedule. He said, “Our next game is with Bouclair College.”

  “Well then, that explains it all,” Trina said. “My baby hates it when y’all have to play Bouclair College.”

  Maurice shook his head in exasperation at just the thought of having to deal with those thugs in basketball uniforms. Playing Bouclair College set his teeth on edge. Bouclair was next to impossible to beat. Few teams in the league managed to pull off a win against that school. Most of the players were thugs, and their head coach, Sonny Todd Kilpatrick, always managed to buy off a few referees to guarantee a win.

  “We win the game or we win the fight—you choose,” Yvonne said.

  “Huh?” Curtis said.

  “Lawd, ha’ mercy, Curtis Parker,” she told him. “I cannot believe that you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “Then school me, baby. School me good,” Curtis told her with just a taste of tight lingering around the edges of his voice.

  Oh no he didn’t, Yvonne thought. She said, “I know you have to know Bouclair College’s off-the-record motto. They’ve had it ever since Coach Kilpatrick took over as head coach. And they mean every word of that motto because they are nothing but a bunch of criminals dressed up in some basketball uniforms. “I don’t know how that coach gets away with so much cheating, bullying, and mess.”