This archive document contains both parts of this story, which ran on November 27, 1992 and December 4, 1992.
For an instant he eyed the bench. His coach and teammates were standing, their expressions an odd mix of anguish and hope. Behind them stood a clump of fans–young blacks and older Jews–Pookie, Weiss, Arnie, Montrell . . . and me. I too was standing, my eyes half covered, almost afraid to look. I had been watching the team since tryouts, following them through injuries and illnesses, fights and fallouts, heartbreaking losses, disciplinary suspensions, and countless incredibly boneheaded teenage mistakes. And now, to tell you the truth, I was hooked. In love with the kids, their coach, the whole history of Roosevelt High.
It was funny. The season’s so long. It stretches from November to March. There are so many games, so many practices, so many afternoons and evenings in a gym. When you’re young and in high school, the days pass slowly. You’re often bored and usually restless. You never think of endings. But this–this was different. Everything came down to this . . .
Manny Weincord was in his office, his ear to a black rotary phone, talking to some guy named Arnie.
Manny met me in the front lobby and walked me to his office, through hallways and up stairs worn by thousands of feet.
“And I can sit on the bench?”
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Ten people attended the game against Wells. The Rough Riders won, thanks to Sylvester Turner–skinny, gawky, freckle-faced Sylvester, one of the kids who made no impression on me during those first days of practice (which shows how much I know). Sylvester came off the bench, hit six straight points, ending up with 18, and brought the Rough Riders rooters (Montrell, Tommie, and Pookie, that is) to their feet. I’m still not sure how he did it. He had the strangest release–more like a shot-putter’s heave.
