“Jojo, you’re so—”
“My situation is the same! Okay, I’m starting, but Coach dud’n think of me as a real player. Treyshawn, André, Dashorn, Curtis, the black players, they’re the real players. He comes right out and tells me. He dud’n want me taking shots. I’m not out there to score points. If I try anything other than a dunk or a little bank from two feet out or a tap-in or something, he holds it against me, even if I make it! A jumper from fifteen feet away? Dud’n wanna know about it. He comes right out and tells me! I’m out there to set picks, set screens, block shots, rebound, and feed the ball to Treyshawn, André, and Curtis, the real players.”
“What’s so unreal about that?” said Mike. “You think you’re the only one? What about that guy Fox at Michigan State or Janisovich at Duke? You don’t think they’re real players? I sure as hell do.”
“They’re real players, but coaches don’t think of them as real players. The only real players are black players. You and me, we just play a role. You’re the team microwave. Why? Because Coach can’t believe the best shooting guard in college basketball isn’t black.”
“Jojo,” said Mike, “stop thinking so hard.”
“You don’t have to think. You only have to use your eyes.”
“You’re straining your brain, Jojo. I don’t know why the fuck you’re feeling so neglected. I heard them in there. Go go, Jojo. It id’n as if nobody knows you’re on the fucking court.”
Now it was Jojo’s turn to feel good despite himself. That was true. Go go, Jojo. Mike hadn’t been able to hide his pleasure over “Microwave.” Jojo, all six feet ten inches, 250 pounds of him, was just as transparent. Go go, Jojo.
Mike was eager to go meet this afternoon’s love of his life and soon departed the Buster Bowl. Jojo finished dressing. He was putting on his khaki pants when he noticed an unusual weight in the right-hand pocket. Odd—but in the next moment it didn’t seem odd at all. He knew what it would be, but he didn’t know exactly what kind it would be. He didn’t want to exaggerate the possibilities…On the other hand, he had been power forward for the national champions last season…That gave him a Christmas sort of excitement. He didn’t want to spoil the surprise by looking right away. He stepped inside his locker to fetch his T-shirt, which had sleeves not likely to deny the public a look at the density of his upper arms. Inside the locker, the oak walls had not been stained or polyurethaned but, rather, left natural and polished and oiled. At this moment they gave off a rich smell, those walls, and Jojo treated himself to a huge lungful. He was as excited as a child, and everything seemed especially wonderful, even the inside of his locker.
He walked all the way down the hall to the players’ entrance to the arena…and still managed to fight off the impulse to look at what precisely was in that pocket, which now seemed to create heat and vibration along with the drag of its weight. He swung open one of the double doors—and there—right in front of him—there it was!—poised against a backdrop of chestnut trees and maples, which in turn looked luxuriant against the ultimate backdrop, a flawless summer afternoon sky—oh shit, it was too good to be true, but there in a no-parking zone of the arena drive: a brand-new Chrysler Annihilator SUV pickup…white, gleaming in the sun, massive, perfect for a six-foot-ten, 250-pound national champion power forward, a four-door SUV with a five-foot pickup truck-bed extension covered by a sleek white lid. And oh shit oh shit, there were chromed Sprewell spinners on the wheels! It was the most magnificent object Jojo had ever laid eyes on, a monster, but a luxurious monster, with 425 horsepower and every extra known to American automobile manufacturing. Jojo stood still on the sidewalk about fifteen feet away from this awesome manifestation of beauty and power and slowly withdrew from his right-hand pocket…sure enough, a set of keys on a ring that also bore a little black remote-controlled transmitter and an inch-long, lozenge-shaped tab with a piece of white enameled metal—just like the car’s—on one side and a license plate number on the other.
Jojo pushed the unlock button and heard the rat-tat-tat of the four SUV doors unlocking. He pushed the pickup button, and the sleek white lid of the truck bed rose silently. He closed it, then opened the driver’s door, stepped way up—the roof of this monster was almost as high as his head—and slid behind the wheel. Tan leather seats…the smell! It was even richer than the smell of the lockers, just this side of intoxicating. On the passenger seat was what looked like a small white leather album, no bigger than a wallet. And inside…but he really already knew: the vehicle’s registration and insurance cards in the name of his father, David Johanssen. It was no doubt the same arrangement they—the booster club, known as Charlie’s Round-table—had made for the Dodge Durango he had, in fact, driven over to the Buster Bowl this afternoon. The monthly leasing bills came to his father, but the boosters paid them in an under-the-Round-table way Jojo didn’t particularly want to know about. Jojo liked the Durango. It was a great SUV. But this! The Annihilator, pure white, gleamed before his very eyes and gleamed and gleamed some more. It was bigger and more powerful than an Escalade or a Navigator.
He loved it. It was like a dream. He felt as if he were in a control tower overlooking…the world. The instrument panel looked like what he imagined an F-18 fighter plane’s looked like. He turned the ignition key, and the monster came to life with a deep, highly muffled roar. Jojo thought of an underground nuclear test. The ultimate power. He loved it. On top of the dashboard was a four-inch-square card embedded in plastic. In the middle of it were two bold capital letters, AD, for Athletic Department, in the center of a corn-yellow circle, around which was a ring of black against a mauve background. That was all it said, AD…aside from a small black ID number in one corner. It was the most coveted parking permit on campus. It allowed you to park practically anywhere, anytime.
Basketball players seldom walked through the campus. They drove, as Jojo did now. All the boys preferred SUVs. Subconsciously, they maintained the height advantage and muscular advantage they enjoyed in life on the ground. Whether by design or not, it was one more thing that isolated them from ordinary students and ordinary mortals generally.
But sometimes you developed a craving for all those earthlings to get a load of your astonishing physical presence up close. And so it was to be with Jojo on this lovely, in fact enchanting, late summer afternoon.
He tooled around on the campus drives a bit, so that people could envy him for his great 32-valve behemoth; but shit, there was almost nobody around, and too few of those who were seemed sufficiently staggered by the sight, not even with the chrome Sprewell spinners playing tricks on their eyes. He didn’t even spot any of the other guys’ SUVs. They had had to walk over to the parking lot to get them. Come to think of it, he’d have to go back to the lot himself to retrieve the Durango and return it to the Chrysler/Dodge dealership.
Yet the sense of added magnificence the Annihilator provided him remained strong. He was heading back to his suite in Crowninshield, and cruising along past the Great Yard on Gillette Way, looking down upon the world, when on an impulse he pulled over to the side and parked—in a no-parking zone, but what did that matter? He got out, stretched his big frame, and began strolling along a path that cut across the Great Yard on a diagonal. Go go, Jojo. He was feeling triumphant and in a mood to be noticed, although he told himself he just needed some fresh air and sun. Go go, Jojo. There were no students to be seen, only some old people, tourists or whatever they were, walking around and looking at the buildings.